A bulge with questionable sauces

The annual battle of who has the biggest bulge took place this week and it was a truly bizarre experience.

I never really understand meetings. I don't understand the point of sitting round talking about the things you have done, probably to the people that did them with you or knew that you did them and weren't interested when you did them. I don't understand the people who enjoy spending their time in this way. 

One Christmas my Dad and my neighbour had a 'who can be Britain's biggest bore' competition. It is one of the defining moments of my childhood and I've always wondered who would win it, if there really were such a competition. 

Sometimes at these meetings you are treated to presentations by Gold Medalists.

  At this meeting we had three amazing talks about the Maldon Burgh (or lump, as I thought of it), the Bloomers, who could be an offshoot of the Flower Arranging and Gun Violence Club and the Tie Stroking Appreciation Society.

The Man of the year was Father Christmas, who did actually get a framed certificate, rather than the empty brown envelope that I was presented with two years ago because they 'didn't know what to get a woman.' Father Christmas was quite lovely, as you'd expect and blamed his wife, who he said, "arranged everything."

There is a long historical problem with women at meetings. Mary Beard spoke wonderfully about it.  http://www.lrb.co.uk/v36/n06/mary-beard/the-public-voice-of-women     It is therefore difficult for women to ever feel fully part of democratic processes. They could chose, like the Mayor's wife, to take the supportive role, flitting about with trays of sandwiches and cups of tea, beaming, while telling everyone that they are having, "a simply splendid time," but looking like unpaid caterers or like Mrs Christmas doing all the organising while her husband gets the recognition. Women who try to take part can be ignored and people get irritated with their speaking much sooner. I noticed that there was a lot more chair shuffling for the women in Bloomers than there was for the man with the lump that was derived from -(according to my Time Lord friend)- questionable sources 

Sexism and Misogyny still run our local town council. 

There are two women on the committee that (I was told privately by a councillor) no one likes but the rest are back patting, weird handshaking men, who love themselves and each other. In a conversation with one of these men he actually turned his back on me and directed his answer to one of the men I was with. These councillors were parading around the hall, dressed in suits and their special ties with  a fur and lace trimmed dress over the top. They were particularly proud of their ties, stoking them frequently, and the Mayor assured us that he was wearing his underneath his ruffle, which I managed not to inappropriately touch this year. 

The third talk was about the tie. It is blue to represent the sea, with white to represent the sky and has gold stripes on it to represent just how important these men think they are. The men will wear them so that people around the town know they are very important council members and the men will stroke their tie more than is appropriate in public.

"Isn't it wonderful?" they said,"Everyone will look smart and the whole council will be easily identified."

I looked at the two women and wondered where their ties were. The local paper informs me that the women are to get a broach. A BROACH! What era are we living in?

If I were made of stronger stuff I would join the council and insist on a tie, which I would wear tied around my head, Rambo style and I would talk. A lot. I would talk all the time, clearly, concisely, sussinctly. I wouldn't make tea for anyone and I'd get things done. The problem is I'm not made of that stuff. During the meeting I said nothing about the sexist ties, I didn't call out the man who turned his back on me and the last thing I want to do with my evenings is go to mutual back slapping parties.

Laughing Woods

It's been quite a week. A week of amazing highs and terrible lows. Great performances, Birthday celebrations for the Queen and deaths. 

I'm usually quite phlegmatic about celebrity deaths.  I think that they have had a good life and will always be remembered by their work but today I wore black. There was so much Victoria Wood could have written about being a normal woman growing older. She would have been so funny. She was always so funny. I wanted to be her when I grew up, which might have been possible if I'd managed to grow up. Like many people, I was surprised at she wasn't in her fifties. My first memory of her on TV was when I was a teenager. She didn't look much older than me and I thought she was brilliant.

My mum didn't agree. "Oh, I don't like her. She's probably a..." and then she mouthed a word that I thought was Lesley Ann.

During my morning dog walk I was running some of my favourite Victoria Wood jokes in my head when I saw one of the little old men, pockets stuffed with treats, that my dog loves. 

"Hello darling," he said.

Overly friendly, I thought and then I realised he was talking to the dog. His dog was playing with a fox and I regretted not having my phone for video evidence. Another woman and her three dogs (11 legs) joined us and we stood and we all walked together.

He saw his friend with a tubby dog, who ran up for his special 'diet' treats.

"Thank goodness you've come along. You can protect me. I thought these two ladies might drag me into the woods and do things to me."

His friend rolled his eyes, "That's just wishful thinking, mate," and winked at us, "he'd be fit for nothing if you got him in there."

The two friends went off in the other direction discussing their prostates and us predatory women carried on together.

"I love this town and it's funny little old men."

"They're unique," she agreed, "Woody is particularly funny. You know him don't you?"

"Oh yes, I hit him with a tennis ball when the dog was a puppy. I haven't tried throwing a ball since."

Woody. I was reminded of another Wood that made me laugh. I wondered how he was. I would like to tell you all about him but this evening I found out that he passed away at the weekend and I find I have sat here for the last hour typing and deleting, with tears in my eyes. So all I can say is that Woods make me laugh and Denis will always be the inspiration for my sitcom (that I might finish one day).  

Why I'll never be a proper teacher

I am an unmittigating failure.

I can't do any of the things that proper teachers do without laughing. 

After an Easter break, where children have been allowed to talk whenever they like it is the teacher's duty to train them to put their hand up and wait their turn. A teacher must do this for their own sanity, their vocal health and to stop the quiet children being constantly drowned out by the bellowing voices. To achieve this the teacher has to adopt a hands-on-hips stance, employ the eyebrow to full withering effect and say things like, "I think you've all forgotten how to behave. You can't just talk whenever you want to." When I do this I always get the urge to snigger. I have to turn my face away from them and have a private chuckle to myself at how ridiculous I sound. Sometimes, I don't stop them. Sometimes I like to hear their enthusiasm as they all shout out answers, trying to outdo each other with their loudness, cleverness or silliness. I know that doesn't help other teachers and I'm sorry.

Walking is another thing that teachers must re-train children to do after a holiday. Children never walk anywhere in holidays. They run, skip, jog but never walk and they certainly wouldn't chose to walk in a straight line in complete silence but these are the things Ofsted look for (I know because a school I worked in was criticised for children entering assembly not in complete silence in the week before Christmas when it was snowing), so teachers must train this behaviour into their children. After play the children bundled in, chatting, laughing and fist pumping at the thought of having music and I knew it was my duty to retrain. When my dog is over-excitable around other dogs, I keep his attention by holding a treat to his nose as he walks in a straight line but you are not allowed to tease children with chocolate (or dog treats) in school. Instead, I thought I would try practise. 

"That was a bit noisy," I said, hands on hips, eyebrow waggling, "You've all forgotten how to walk. Let's try it again."

With slumped shoulders they lined up again and shuffled in and out of the room. The sight of them and the image of myself as the stern teacher gave me the giggles.

Sometimes, after a holiday, there will be children who have extended their vocabulary in ways that shouldn't be spread to the whole school population. Proper teachers remind children that, "these are words we don't use in school," without even a hint of a 

smile. I find rude words funny. I probably need to grow up. Children's idea of what is a rude word is often very different from mine. "Miss, he said I was silly." 

"Oh Mm. Naughty. He said shut up." 

This week, in one class we were naming the instruments of a symphony orchestra and putting them in the correct 

sections. The class were very excited to show how much they knew. 

"Didgereedoo.....woodwind"

"Great. Definitely woodwind but not in a symphony orchestra."

"What's that thing they play in heaven in the string section?...A heart."

"Harp. Yes. Well done."

"Triangle. Percussion."

"Ting!"

"The thing that E plays at orchestra.  A baboon."

"Bassoon. What section?"

"Woodwind."

"Ooh, ooh, I know French Horn bras."

The class dissolved into puddles of laughter.

"Yes. Good. Brass section."

She blushed slightly but pushed her hand into the air so high she almost touched the ceiling (quite impressive for the shortest girl in the class)

"Ooh, ooh, the stretched out one...the trombone is in the bras too."

"Yes it is. The brasssssss."

She tried.

"B...b...br...braaaaaaaaa......bras."

By this time children were cupping their imaginary breasts, pouting and wiggling."

It was tricky but I resisted asking her where she kept her trumpet and I couldn't help the Gotta Have a Gimmick song from Gypsy, entering my mind.

At the end of the lesson I made the shortest girl in the class my music star of the week. 

"But Miss you can't give it to her, she said a rude word."

I'll never be a proper teacher!

Where are all the women?

After a very lovely day in London, I have been putting off writing this blog. I've put it off because it is going to make me sound like a tub-thumping grumpy old feminist. I know that you know that already and you may be fooled into thinking that I don't care what people think of me but I have been brought up well enough to know that 'nice girls' don't bang on about things that don't really matter. I mean, look at how that woman who got Jane Austen onto a bank note was treated although that was no surprise because she was an ugly lesbian that no man would want to sleep with anyway. She probably deserved it for getting so worked up about something that didn't matter; who actually cares about Jane Austen, anyway?

But it does matter, doesn't it? It matters that girls grow up with role models. It matters that women are commemorated not just as men's sexual playthings but for their own contribution to the world. It matters that we don't just see men on banknotes. It matters that girls know they can grow up to be important other than by being the Queen, which is unattainable for everyone living in the country today (unless Charlotte plans a fatal accident for her brother)

I left my son, who was having an interview for a summer job and walked up Whitehall. There were lots of statues and I started taking pictures.

I didn't recognise many of the names but their statues made me want to know more about them.

They were all men. "Of course they are," I told myself, "they're all military leaders, there weren't women. They didn't exist then."

In fact, all the women disappeared at war time and just left their clothes behind, so that they could appear naked on the edges of buildings.

There were lots of men on horses. I understand now. Horses make great statues and women and horses don't go together at all. Never once has a little girl devoted her whole life to her pony or ridden in any kind of event, the horses all make it perfectly clear: they will only be ridden by men.

Then I found one.

but on closer inspection it turned out to be a pretty Roman, with exceptionally nice legs.

I looked up. Was that a woman?

Don't be silly. The highest and most important statue in the whole of London is, of course Nelson. I was beginning to get a bit grumpy about the whole thing.

Even the lions are male.

I made it my mission to find statues of women. There have to be some that are worthy enough for bronze or marble. 

I started in theatreland, thinking that as women have always excelled in the arts there would at least be a Nell Gwynn or Sarah Siddons somewhere. I found this captivating dancer outside the Royal Opera/Ballet House.

However, she has no name. 

I found Oscar Wilde, Charlie Chaplin and Shakespeare, in  fact I think I found several Shakespeares.

I had walked all morning, I was tired and my son was soon to finish his half day interview (jobs are hard to get these days, even if they are only for 6 weeks), so I walked back up Whitehall to sit by the Thames for a few moments. 

There she was: Mrs Emmeline Pankhurst, tucked in the corner of Victoria Park, next to Westminster, quiet and unassuming with a gesture that said, "What did you expect? This is how it is. Say something if you don't like it."

Thinking that only Queens could be famous, we made our way to Buckingham Palace. The Queen Victoria memorial statue is a good one. It has balance. Victoria looks regal and never has to squint into the sun.

She is surrounded by balance. Where there is a man as a warrior, there is a woman. There are both  male and female farmers and there are no nipples on display. 

Behind Victoria is a memorial to women as mothers.

I liked this. Being able to grow a foetus into a baby and then nourish it to toddlerhood is nothing to be ashamed of.  I think it's part of a woman's magic and why men are so scared of us.  If we can do that, we can do anything.

I discussed the whole statue problem with my son. We decided that on our walk we had seen more statues of animals than we had of women. He told me that it didn't make sense as only 42% of the U.K. population is male.

Then we found one more making my statue count 3% female 97% male, I'm so pleased that we live in such a representative society. (Just in case you hadn't noticed: this blog contains a lot of sarcasm)

Phenomenon

The Archers has become a thing.

It's being reported on the news, Woman's Hour are devoting a daily slot to it and top political opinion writers are finding that the copy they file won't even be considered unless it mentions an everyday story of country folk.

Everyone is listening to the Archers and it's odd. 

It's like being that child in the playground who was quite happy playing shops with the things from trees on his own until the cool kids decided to make it their game too. The poor thing then has to decide whether to stop playing, join the cool kids, or carry on his own game. Those choices aren't all valid, though, because the cool kids won't let him play and once everyone else has discovered his game it never feels the same again. 

I'm pleased for the writers and actors of The Archers, of course I am. They deserve the praise. The Helen and Rob storyline has been beautifully played out and they have  brought domestic abuse into everyday discussion. 

I'm not one of those listeners that the press are writing about who are cross that their nice fantasy of 1950s country living has been destroyed because I'm not sure they exist or they haven't been listening properly. What about Grace Archer,who burnt to death in 1955 (I'm not old enough to have been listening since then but her ghost returned recently),Brian Aldridge, who was kicked in the head by a cow with BSE in 1989 and suffered from epilepsy for a while, John Archer, who fell off the Fergie (it's a tractor) and died on the day my son was born in 1998, (giving me an excuse for a huge cry during the Omnibus - nothing to do with milk coming in and cracked nipples, honestly!) ,  Kathy Perks, who was raped by Wilmot-Brown (I could be confusing soaps) in 2004, Nigel Pargeter who fell off the roof (don't ask - he was always an idiot), and many more? Helen, herself, hasn't had an entirely blameless life. Her brother was John (death by tractor), she lived with a grumpy gamekeeper who killed himself, became anorexic, had a son by AI (not unusual in the country - it's how all the cows do it), makes cheese and ran a village shop with her best friend until her brother (not the dead one) ditched the friend at the alter and the friend decided not to speak to her again. 

I want to point out to everyone that is getting upset about what they consider to be unrealistic sensational story lines that IT'S JUST A STORY.

Honestly, you would think that writers have a duty to only write the truth. Nobody writes the whole truth. EVER. It would be boring. And parts of the story are probably truth for some people. 

I like radio drama. It's only one step away from reading. I like the way it lets you picture things and I'm very upset about articles that show photos of the actress playing Helen. She doesn't look like that in my head. I like the way it stretches and grows over time. I am always so impressed with The Archers scriptwriters who seem to remember every earlier detail, even those that someone else wrote.

It's not for everyone, though. Just because something dramatic is happening that reflects a very important and under talked about part of every day life that doesn't mean that the Archers should suddenly become required listening.  Soon, this story will be over and people who don't like listening to Lynda Snell complain (using the best long words ever) that she can't find a man (for her play), or Ruth laughing about the stock cube in the shower joke (No, I don't understand it either), or Jim and Robert in a bird watching war (quite a difficult thing on the radio), or the gentle sound of mooing from the sheep (Ambridge is the only place that you can hear sheep moo)  will be very disappointed.

I'm quite happy not being one of the cool kids. I started listening to the Archers before I knew what it was and made a conscious choice to listen on a Sunday morning, while my mum made lunch, when I was in my early teens. Sunday was a ritual day.  I would go to the local shop on my bike and be allowed to spend the change from buying the paper on some sweets.  When I got back, instead of doing the usual teenage thing of disappearing, I sat at the table with the paper, writing articles that I would never send (always been a poor finisher) for the Young Observer Reporter's Club.  I was a proper member with a battered card that went everywhere with me as I thought it would give me the access of Nancy Drew if I ever saw a murder (which I didn't).  When I went to college I continued to listen on a Sunday morning.  I don't think this made me very popular: 10am on a Sunday morning was always a little early for most students to be woken with the sound of Barwick Green dum de dumming along the corridor.  The Archers on a Sunday morning has been my religion.  Once I was asked to sing with a good choir and had to turn them down because part of the agreement was to sing on Sunday morning in church.  "I can't," I said, "I have a prior committment."
"Oh, I hope you don't mind me being nosy but what do you do on a Sunday morning that you can't get out of?"
I did mind and made some excuse about the allotment and being so busy all week.  It just wouldn't have been cool for a woman in her early thirties to confess to listening to the Archers, although I'm not sure that being an allotment owner was any better.

Now that I am nearly at the age where it would be fine to be an Archer's listener (average age 52) it's not something that needs to be kept a secret.  The cool kids are doing it. Will they still let me play?  Will they have changed the game forever?

I think I'll be OK though.  I think the cool kids will stop playing before they destroy the game.  Most are only reluctantly listening anyway and are, quite frankly, rude.

Suzanne Moore in the Guardian

Why is it that the cool kids always think they know what us weedy little things are thinking? I do not think 'actual soaps' are beneath me.  I'm not sure what an actual soap is.  I  currently have a regular appointment at Holby and have watched Eastenders, Coronation Street, Emmerdale, Brookside, Neighbours, Home and Away, Doctors, the Flying Doctors and Hollyoaks.  I like stories.  I like people, of all classes (what is class dyslexia?).  The Archers has endured.  I didn't grow out of it when I stopped being a teenager and it was no longer relevant to me.  It didn't stop when not enough people were listening to it.

Long live the Archers, even when it stops being a phenomenon.

Nell Gwynn and other famous actresses

Yesterday, I managed to get day seats (£15 front row - shhh don't tell anyone - it's our little secret) for the musical Nell Gwynn at the Appollo theatre, Shafetsebury Avenue.

I had seen Gemma Arterton talking about it on the Graham Norton show and told the Long Suffering Husband I probably wouldn't want to go and see it, as I'm not a huge fan of Ms Arterton (because of her fake posh/pretending to be Cockney accent that would be so much better if she spoke as she had as a child) and I worry about any show that has to rely on a big name. 

Walking to the theatre district I was struck by the all-male statues (another blog to follow) and I wanted to see some history about a woman. By the evening there were signs on every wall saying that Gemma Arterton was indisposed and the roll of Nell Gwynn would be played by Paige Carter. The ushers were apologising and the rage and irritation were palpable throughout the whole theatre.

"What? What do you mean," blustered a man in an expensive suit and great coat behind me.

His wife patted him on the arm, "She's sick, darling."

"They can't do that to us. They should have at least sent us an email. I will write a strongly worded letter. I might even get the lawyers onto it."

In the theatre's defence they might not have known of Ms Arterton's 'indisposition' soon enough. They certainly didn't know at 10am when I bought my tickets. Her voice may have disappeared halfway through rehearsals, she might have tripped over the A-frame outside the theatre and be stuck in A&E waiting for an X-Ray, she might have had a dodgy prawn sandwich for lunch, or she might have been unwell, as in 'Jeffrey Bernard is unwell.'

It was an ironic twist to a play about how one woman's celebrity was so important to the survival of the Playhouse.

Poor Paige must have felt the audience hostility as she delivered her lines. Truthfully, she wasn't the strongest actress on that stage but in a cast of brilliant women even Gemma Arterton would have found that claim tough. She settled into it by the second half and stopped trying to do Gemma pouting impressions, which was a huge relief to me. 

This is a brilliantly funny, feminist play that shouldn't need a pretty named star to make people go and see it. It is written by Jessica Swale  with a take on history that gives women modern day characteristics of being funny, wily and intelligent. The older woman is perfectly written and performed sublimely by Michele  Dotrice. Sasha Wadell, Sarah Woodyard, Anneika Rose were all brilliant. Obviously, though the woman to go and see it for was Greg Haiste, if only because he "got his tits out" and what a beautifully sewn pair of tits they were. He might have been right when he said, "No woman can play a woman like I can play a woman."

It's probably not a musical that you would go to for the music, as it's authentically Renaissance in style, with lutes, recorders and simple bawdy music hall ditties. (Yes, I was in my element)

Whether you are a fan of the recorder or not I guarantee you will leave the theatre singing, "I can dance and I can sing and I am good at either and I can do the other thing..."

And if you need one more reason to see it (regardless of who is in the lead role) then go for the very cute, waving, King Charles Spaniel.