Dobby was wrong

I’m bang on trend here. It’s currently very fashionable to be against JK Rowling. This has been a shock for those who thought the Harry Potter books ‘saw’ them. The tribe was built. The books contained a lot of metaphorical truths (especially about death) and people felt she was speaking to them and for them. Then they found out that she was against self-ID for trans people. How was that possible? She was the supreme ruler of the tribe. God can’t be wrong. Personally, I think she’s misunderstanding the law, seeing it as the erosion of women’s rights and safety and has ended up looking bigoted and cruel. We could have trans rights and also double down on women’s rights and safety. Let’s not forget that we are 99.9% alike and that human rights are what we need. 

That was not what I intended to write about. 

It was clothes.

Dobby thought that clothes made you free. He was wrong. Clothes really restrict your freedom. Just ask my dog. 

Even the bible knew this. One fig leaf and sudden expulsion from the garden of Eden into a world of responsibility and restriction.

My dog is currently depressed. We thought it might be because he’s been castrated. We wondered if he was sore or missing testosterone or just cross with us for the indignity. Maybe he’d watched the news (1/3 of Pakistan is under water!) Then we removed the babygrow-dog-pyjamas that they use instead of the cone of shame and hey presto, the wild-happy-leaping off tall buildings-mad ball of fur is back. Clothes were curtailing his freedom.

‘A leaf on my nose, you say? Who cares!’

Clothes do give protection and I’m definitely not advocating public nudity but I wonder if we need to think more about the protective nature of our clothes than imagining that they give us individualism and freedom. 

Unfortunately for the dog, his freedom does need to be curtailed for a bit longer. Just a few more days of protection, which, unfortunately coincides with the amount of freedom I have left before I need to get back in my school shoes. It’s been a great summer.

Economics

 There is much that I don’t understand. 

I do my best. I read and try but occasionally there are things I will never get my head round. Usually, even if I don’t understand, I can see the other side. Not so with economics. 

In senior school, some of us were picked out as an advanced group, who would take our O Levels early. We were an experiment. Supposedly, we would bring glory upon the school and we would go on to change the world. I doubt this happened, even to those that understood economics. One of the difficulties of this experiment was that with only one class we all had to take the same subjects. Economics (and no music) made me quit the project.

I remember having to draw graphs about supply and demand that made no sense. 

“But why would it be like that?” I asked.“Why don’t people charge less for their product when more people want it? They don’t need to charge as much to make what they need?”

My friend, with the fake tan and a desire to be very rich said, “You don’t understand. They can charge more. Why wouldn’t they? Who doesn’t want to be rich?”

“But not everyone can be rich. Doesn’t that mean you make more people poorer?”

She shrugged and accused me of inverse snobbery.

Later on, I took banking exams, in an act of supreme stupidity, where I was again confused by why full employment wouldn’t be a good thing. I also, apparently, wilfully, refused to understand ‘trickle down economics’

“But if you have enough, you’ll just put it in the bank. If you haven’t then you’ll buy shoes for the kids.”

“Are you a communist?” A colleague, who had just bought a new RS something car in bright orange, asked.

“I don’t think so,” I said, “But I do think economics might be made up to keep the poor in their place.”

I’m reminded of this today, when the news is full of the Energy Price Cap.

I do not understand this.

A price cap, surely has been put in place, for an essential item to stop the rich killing the poor. However, this price cap is being reported as being responsible for the energy price rises. If there wasn’t a price cap then surely the companies and market forces would apply the laws of supply and demand and as prices rise, people would use less and the price would come down. You see, I don’t understand. 

How to make a tribe

 When I haven’t written a blog for a while I find I’m overwhelmed by knowing where to start. So much and yet nothing has happened, all at the same time.

I could write about the books I’ve read this holiday (lots), the words I’ve written (not enough), the Long Suffering Husband’s birthday, a visit to the British Library, the tidying intentions that failed to materialise, a musical I wouldn’t recommend, politics (particularly that Liz Truss is claiming she can’t wait to ‘follow through’) or the weather (the Maldon umbrella is working too well). However, like most of you, I’ve spent far too much time on social media, so I’m going to talk about something I’ve noticed.

You would think that with all the information at our fingertips we would be enfranchised to make our own decisions. If you’re not sure how to put up a shelf, you can check it out on YouTube; get tips on cleaning from TikTok; join a group on Facebook to support you with parenting decisions or get dog training tips from Instagram. Easy, right? You never, again, have to learn from your costly mistakes. You don’t have to wait for the library to open; don’t even need to read; just click and watch a short video (which is now called a reel). 

This is great, right?

Except.

Humans are stupidly tribal.

And we love the negative.

The successful groups or accounts spend quite a lot of time telling you about all the idiots that do it wrong. Lucky you, you’ve picked the right tribe, you are going to learn how to be on the right side because god forbid you make the wrong choice. It will be the end of the world if you use bicarbonate of soda to clean your shower, rather than white vinegar. And if you think that’s bad, can you imagine the horrors of picking the wrong tribe and ending up with a child that doesn’t know the complete works of Shakespeare before they are 5? Or you have a dog that knows it’s doing the right thing because you say ‘good’ rather than ‘yes’ or use a clicker.

Maybe you’ve picked a tribe because you agreed with one thing. Maybe you wanted to pluck your eyebrows a certain way. Then before you know it, you are feeling uncomfortable because you use a razor to shave your legs. Now, you are one of the stupid people that your tribe are laughing at. What do you do? 

You could change your habits or keep quiet and pretend you are using the electronic pumice stone that your tribe swear by. Whatever you do, though, don’t tell anyone that you are going to do it a different way, unless you are prepared to start a new tribe and waste most of your life criticising everyone else.

I say all this as someone who nearly fell into a dog training cult and it nearly pushed me over the edge. Anxiety through the roof. Twitching at every little thing the dog did. Was it all my fault? What had I done wrong? I became a Nazi with the LSH. He wasn’t in my tribe, so I could treat him badly. 

“You can’t do that. Don’t throw a ball. What did you do that for? Don’t you know anything? If only you watched the videos then you’d know!” My eyes rolled so hard that I had a constant headache.

 Luckily for the LSH but not so for the dog, who got bored of humping cushions and took a liking to short fat female dogs, this particular tribe was against castration. Ousted for my desire not to produce accidental puppies I started to feel less anxious. 

I have suddenly remembered that we don’t need to make tribes. As Maya Angelou said, “We are more alike, my friends , than we were unalike.”

Hector’s Holibobs

 She said that she didn’t want to write her blog on holiday. That suited me. There’s nothing more tedious than having to wait for a walk, while she writes drivel. I keep telling her that she shouldn’t waste so much time on it; Instagram is quicker. But I thought I’d give it a go. You never know it might be fun.

Saturday: Up early for a nice (calming, she said) walk before leaving.  I saw runners and a bent over lamppost, so was already a bit twitchy. Then into the car for a very long time. Luckily they put the boy in the back with me and he let me out of the straight jacket and let me sit on his lap. When we stopped I waited outside Tesco in the sun while he and the boy went inside. I heard her remind him about sausages, so I was happy. They came out with the girl and her boy. (I wasn’t interested in him, which made him a bit sad). We got back in the car and went to a house. The girl and her boy arrived. That was a surprise. We went for a walk on the beach. I like the beach.

Sunday: I like having lots of people in the house. She got up when I squeaked and took me for a walk. There’s no garden, so whenever I need a wee I get a walk. THE NOISES! There are so many strange noises here. She said one was a cockerel but I think it might be a devil. We saw llamas. I’ve never seen llamas before but I didn’t mind them because they were quiet. Back at the house, I sat in the kitchen with her and got a bit scared and barked at the clock. She said that clocks are meant to tick but I’ve never seen a ticking one before. Everyone got up and they went to the harbour to catch crabs. We went to the pub for dinner and I had a lovely sleep under the table. 

Monday: We went to St David’s for ice cream, spent a long time getting a family selfie and then sat in a graveyard. Back at the house, everyone was really happy, playing games. I like it when everyone is together and happy. 

Tuesday: After my morning walk, where I found a scary rubber tyre swinging from a rope we all squeezed into one car to see visit some nice people. He took the man out to play golf and we walked down to the beach. 

Wednesday - Went to beach. Did digging. I sat in shade next to big rock and they threw my ball. Tried swimming. Didn’t like it. Tired. This writing stuff is boring. 

Thursday - Too hot. Went in the car. Walked in a wood by the river and rolled in lots of mud.

Friday - Walked to the mill and back through a big field and a wood. They were all feeling sad because it was their last day. They say that the house is a bit special and they might not be able to go back again because it’s being sold. They have been going every year since their last dog was a puppy. I met him. He was nice.

Child abduction and murder

Life is pretty good to most of us but if you are an obsessive reader that can be easy to forget. You start to see murder and trauma on every corner.

No one writes books or newspaper stories about real life. It would be too boring. Except Sarah Winman’s Still Life, which is a beautifully written novel where nothing really happens and isn’t boring.

Even in my boring blog I rarely write my mundane every day experience. I don’t give you a blow by blow account of my life, only pick out the things I find funny.

However, if you want to be a writer who is as clever as Sarah Winman (and I do) you have to learn to sit with the details of every day life and observe. 

I’ve been lazy with my writing lately (or maybe too busy with paid work) but now that it’s the holidays I’m back at it. A small amount of words on a page every day and lots of boring sitting, watching and thinking about how to describe what I see. 

There’s a small pond near where I live, which I am using to drown a child. I’ve been making notes (or waxing lyrical, as my dad would have accused) about the beauty of this small body of water and how it looks in July. I’m sure I won’t use any of it because why would you notice when you are holding an annoying three year old that has ruined your life under water with your boot? 

This pond has a family of coots living on it. Swimming in figures of eight and saying ‘peep’ occasionally, the parents have just produced 4 delightful balls of fluff that ‘peep’ more often and in a slightly higher pitch. The high reeds around the pond give them a sense of security, purple flowered thistles, turning to teasles too soon in this early hot Autumn nature thinks we are having. Browning leaves float down from the oak tree above, making a chick start as one gently drops on the water beside her. Idyllic. 

Bam.

A huge pterodactyl (sorry, I mean heron) swooped down and took a fluffy ball.

Figures of eight became tight panicked circles and the ‘peeping’ resembled a car alarm. 

There was the emotion I wanted to write about. That’s what it feels like for a child to be murdered in a pond.

I was so excited, I texted my daughter.

“I’ve just witnessed a murder!”

I knew she’d understand. 

Except.

I just texted the last number that has texted me. It is always her. Always. Except that day it was my workaholic head teacher, who was making the most of the summer holidays to sort out samba kits and glockenspiels in his other school but didn’t really know what he was looking at. 

As lovely as he is, he wouldn’t have been my first choice of someone to message if I had just witnessed a murder. But before I could explain he replied. I’d terrified him. Where was I? Was I ok? It was quite embarrassing and took some of my excitement away. 

I do feel I owe him an apology. I did witness a murder or more accurately a child abduction and it was horrible but I loved it and I’m sorry that I scared him. 

Never read the comments

 I’ve been obsessive over the Archie Battersbee case. It’s not the actual story, so much, as people’s reactions to it.

In a world where our philosophy of life no longer has a philosophy of death, where hospitals are stretched to breaking point, medicine compartmentalises a person by organ, rather than treating them holistically but can also do things that probably should be impossible, cases like this are inevitable. The parents have used the courts because the relationship with the hospital has broken down. If you’ve ever had a loved one in hospital then you will know how tenuous the relationship is in the first place. So many things go unexplained. I still laugh at the time when I was sitting with my dad waiting for him to be admitted to a cardiac ward (not unusual) and a nurse walked in and without saying a single word put a thermometer in his ear and walked out again. I laugh because I was shocked at the lack of communication. I can only imagine how much less has been said to this boy’s parents. Especially as they have to talk about death, which goes against everything they stand for. 

I know that newspaper editors are torn. The story is getting read. It’s doing very well for them in terms of numbers but they know that’s not helping. There’s  no serious discussion of the issues. They can only ‘report’ what was said and there are strict rules on reporting suicide so that the word ligature can be reframed as an online challenge and switching off a machine of a brain dead child is reported as ‘planned execution of a disabled person.’

The courts need to be available because hospitals do sometimes get things wrong. We all do. But when the majority of people agree there comes a time when you might just have to accept the facts. All this back and forth is just causing whiplash. 

But what has fascinated me more than anything are the Facebook comments. Interestingly, there are no comments when the articles are posted on Twitter (although Twitter doesn’t need a news article to say what it thinks) The comments on the newspapers websites are few but bizarre. (I can’t get a doctors appointment. Can anyone advise me what to do about my piles) However, all human life is on Facebook.

Every opinion is laid bare. The juxtaposition of those who believe in ‘mirakuls’ (some words are difficult to spell) with those who comment, “And we feed paedos in prison,” is rife. There’s a tribal nature to the comments. People are forced to pick a side, so that everything they write sounds heartless.  People who can’t take a side feel forced to comment, “Unusually for me I have no opinion on whether the machines should be turned off.” God is mentioned often, which doesn’t surprise me, as one of the main function of the church is to help us deal with death and give a philosophy on the subject. However, even God can’t make up his mind on this one. They blame the newspaper for writing the story that they are enjoying so much they must comment on it. 

There are conversations that need to be had about life and death and the ethics of preserving life where there is no hope of recovery but these should be separate to a family’s personal grief. 

As this is all very depressing I’m going to illustrate today’s blog with a sunflower. 

Death

 I’m not going to publish this post. 

People die. 

I worry that we keep them artificially alive for too long,

I worry that splits their soul.

No wonder all these new people are fucked up.

Good Effort

 I don’t like football and I doubt anything will change my mind on that. It’s just not for me. Too tribal, too noisy, too physical. However, I am pleased for the women’s National football team, who just won something and burst into a news conference, singing and jumping on tables. You could tell that they were really happy. 

I knew it was a big football match because as I sat in the garden with my book, the dog woofed every time there was a collective groan or cheer from the surrounding open windows. 

Before it started a man on the radio said something about how the ‘girls’ needed to win or no one would be interested ever again. Since they won they have been discussing the sad history of women playing football. Finally, the open secret is out there. They were banned from playing when men came back from the First World War because people liked watching them and the men wanted their sport back. 

The win has brought out all the prejudice. And I mean ALL the prejudice.

“Yeah, they did alright but it’s not the same game is it?”

“See, it took a woman to bring it home.”

Please can we stop!

Stop making men and women two separate species that always have to be at war.  Even though I don’t like football I do want it to be available for the girls and women that do. I want men to be happy for them, rather than feeling threatened.

Men: You don’t need to say things like, “It was a good effort, I suppose but let’s not pretend it’s the same game.”

Women: You don’t need to pretend that the games are being played at the same level or have the same support or are even better than the men’s game.

It’s a work in progress. Don’t spoil it now.