Judgemental

Are you mental if you judge people?  (I can tell you are judging me already: "You can't use the word mental!")

 I ask because I think I have a problem.  I want to be kind and fair and believe that everyone has their own way of doing things but I keep judging.  

I don't think I'm alone.  We all judge, don't we?  

The number of pushy parents I meet who tell me about another parent who is, "so pushy, she'll put her child off," is quite remarkable.  Obviously, I'm trying not to judge the pushy parent - oh dear, too late I've already judged them as pushy.  I will say that I'm a great fan of pushy parents because no one would ever learn a musical instrument without a pushy parent and obviously I am a pushy parent too.  

If you think you don't judge then I don't believe you.  See, I'm judging you.  You can't be perfect.  You have to be as bad as me.  

In the last few days I've judged complete strangers.  The woman on her phone with the loud voice in the park, discussing her holiday of too much red wine and pasta or the old man walking his dog who drooled after a long-legged teenage girl in micro shorts or the woman who waved her teenage daughter off for a week's trip with the words, "And come back a nicer person!" or the parent who screamed at their toddler in the supermarket or the man swimming too slowly in the pool or the woman wearing socks with sandals and a skirt have all been victims of my silent judgement.  I haven't confined my judgements to strangers, either.  Should I confess to judging my friends, colleagues and family?  I don't think I will but just to let you know I am probably silently judging what you say, what you eat, what you wear and how you behave.  However, you mustn't feel bad about this because you are judging me too, unless I am perfect after all.

Black Hats and White Hats

When we were children we would play the politically incorrect game of Cowboys and Indians and no one really wanted to be an Indian because that meant that you were the baddie and you had to lose.

Life was simple as a child. You knew where you stood. The game was well defined and had clear rules, even going as far as to define which type of children could be cast in each particular role. As a nerdy, bookish girl I was inevitably an Indian. If you tried to give your character redeeming qualities then you were told in no uncertain terms that you weren't playing properly, "No, you're an Indian. Indians can't help an injured Cowboy. You're a baddie. You have to die!"

The Rolf Harris verdict has reminded me that life isn't a childhood game but so many people wish it still was. The shock around the verdict is still reverberating. People can't believe it of him; he wore a white hat; he was a good guy; part of our childhood, where good guys never did anything bad. And then Vanessa Feltz (the baddie: fat female and gobby) dared to write an article describing the moment when he got his hand in her pants live on TV and much of the world nailed their colours to the mast. As the baddie, it was her fault and anyway no one really believed it because the good guy would have had more taste, SURELY? The article received some seriously disturbing comments and Twitter filled itself with Ukip supporters who thought they had a duty to remind us of the rules of the game.

This weekend I also finished reading The Goldfinch. I loved this book until I got to the last few pages. It was confusing. How could something I'd loved for so long disappoint me so much at the end? (Just how people feel about Rolf) But I have come to terms with it. Whilst I haven't forgiven it for lecturing me about what I should think I do understand that the clues were there all the way through. 

The author had told me how to view the painting, she had described in minute detail what the brushstrokes should make me feel. It was inevitable that she would want to control how I viewed her art. I was also a little encouraged. It was one of those books that I read with jaw-dropping admiration. The prose was beautiful, the plot lines were full of twists that kept me on the edge of sanity, there was a real understanding of character and it all made me a bit depressed.

Sometimes I delude myself by thinking that one day I will write a novel. I keep telling myself that it's not too late because Mary Wesley had the first of her 10 best selling novels published when she was 71 but then you read a book like the Goldfinch and think, "I could never do that!" However, the ending encouraged me. I've never been any good at endings either.

Dutifully, I logged onto Goodreads to write a review because despite being cast as an Indian I have always been a Goody-Goody and I'm still a bit scared of Mrs Thaine, who would hit you with a ruler if you didn't review a book after you'd read it. I was surprised at other reviews. I didn't expect everyone to love it - it is but I was shocked that people didn't like it because there was quite a lot of 'bad' in the central character. That was against the rules of the game. The central character has to be a white hat wearing hero. You have to love them all the time, so they can win at the end, without your world view being tainted.

One of the reasons I like the Goldfinch is that the characters are realistic; not like anyone I know (thankfully) but they are complex. I particularly liked Boris (who would terrify me in real life) because he constantly surprised me. I was torn by both wanting the shadowy figure seen outside the shop to be him and not to be him and he's voice sounded like the Meercat from the TV advert in my head. It's how I feel about real people. So when I shouted, "Oh go away!" when the doorbell rang yesterday and my daughter pointed out that the window was open and whoever was at the door would have heard me, I was still really glad to see my neighbour and the spanner they had borrowed. (This is why I could never write a novel - suspense, intrigue and spanners!)

As I'm so bad at endings I just wanted to show you a note book I've bought for planning a trip.

It's got a section for each day of the trip with folders and a zip up wallet. I find that stationary is the only constant; the thing that never disappoints. A notebook is always the good guy.

When the Kids leave home.....

Ever since our children were born the Long Suffering Husband and I have joked that we live lives like the couple in the little German weather house.  We take it in turns to be out of the house or in charge of the children.

If we were in together it was always with the children and there was some freak weather pattern that made golf or music making impossible.

This week both children have been away and we've found ourselves in the house on our own.  The LSH was quite looking forward to it.  He'd made a mental list of things he'd like to do.  He thought it would be fun to be like newlyweds again and I think he even said, "We could walk around the house naked."  We thought the house would stay tidy, we wouldn't have to do any nagging and no one would say, "What's for dinner?"  We thought that we'd talk over an adult meal about our day and be able to discuss things we might not say in front of the children and we thought there would be no arguments over the TV and it might even stay off for a lot of the evening.

It seems, however, that we have no one to blame but ourselves.  We have still been out making music and playing golf (not together).  We haven't discussed our day because, well quite frankly, it's a bit boring isn't it.  The house hasn't stayed tidy because we've both been in too much of a rush and we just both asked each other what we were going to have for dinner. We've kept our clothes on because it would really be a bit gross to wander around with it all hanging out. There haven't been any arguments about the telly but that's only because I'm reading a good book and falling asleep on the sofa every evening.

Empty nest syndrome is not something we need to fear - nothing is going to change for us.

Lonely Old Cat Lady

When you have been married for as long as we have the conversation sometimes turns to the thorny question of whether you would try to find someone else if you were no longer together. This is a discussion we seem to have had with greater frequency of late, probably because the Long Suffering Husband needs to fantasise about sharing his bed with a more energetic, less grumpy woman who actually sleeps.

We met at an open air disco after the town carnival and again at a friend's 16th Birthday party. I wore a ra-ra skirt and leg warmers (in different colours) and he wore a dark blue shirt with a thin white satin tie. We talked all evening about nothing exciting enough to remember and everything engrossing enough to make us feel as though we were the only two people. Some time later we went to the cinema and it was as easy as that. Now that we are old, it might not be quite so easy to meet someone.

"It's all about technology now," I explained to the LSH as we were walking the dog. "You won't be able to find someone if you never answer your mobile and don't learn how to text!" Listening to friends and colleagues it's clear that you need an online dating profile, Facebook, Twitter, Whatsap, Instagram, Tinder and most importantly, snapchat, so you can share pictures of your private parts. It's now illegal to have a relationship with someone unless you have seen a photo of their genitals and had lengthy 30 character chats with them. The LSH was beginning to get a little worried about ever finding someone else and so made me promise to let him die first, which is something that could be arranged if the World Cup telly hogging doesn't stop soon.

Man and dog watching football

I told him that I would have to write an honest dating profile, which probably wouldn't help me find someone. I wrote an honest dating profile for a recently divorced friend and although she says she loves it I suspect she won't be using it.

"You'll be alright, though," he said, "You don't need anyone." And while I agree with him the next sentence stung a little. "I can see you as one of those crazy old single women surrounded by books and cats."

By the time we got back from our walk I was still feeling misrepresented, so I indignantly told the children what he had said, expecting them to leap to my defence. However, an uncomfortably long pause was followed by an explanation of how it's only because I'm anti-social and really don't like people. No, no, they didn't mean that, it's just that they know I like to be on my own. It's not like it's a bad thing. 

It might be time to do something about this reputation I'm getting. It's time to start accepting invitations to things; to actually go for coffee rather than just keep saying, "we must go for coffee,", or actually drop round and see the new house, or actually go to the party rather than think of excuses. 

Yes, that's what I'll do, I'll be more sociable.

 A party invitation! How lovely! Jugs of Pimms and a fork buffet! Great! I'm there! .......... But Saturday night.....it'll be late....I'll have to leave my book at home....I don't even drink Pimms ......and who wants to eat forks?????

Better get myself a cat then - or could I have pigs instead? 

Two Types of People

There are two types of people in the world: normal people and musicians.

Normal people get paid for working. Musicians do it because they are crazy.

Normal people don't practise their work skills in their spare time.

Normal people go to their friends weddings and enjoy the ceremony. Musicians work (for free).

Normal people can use one side of their brain at a time. Musicians have to use both at once. In fact musicians just don't have normal brains. http://musicpsychology.co.uk/musicians-brains-locked-in-from-the-start/

Normal people can say they've had a better offer and go to a party. Musicians can't because they are working (for free)

Normal people don't say their G-string is loose with a straight face.

Normal people have nice smooth skin and fingers where all the joints bend in the right direction. Musicians have callouses and clicky backwards bending joints. 

Normal people (women) can have long fingernails and nice manicures. Musicians clip their nails short.

Normal people have coloured clothes in their wardrobe. Musicians always have a variety of clothes to choose from for  a funeral. (which they will probably be working at -for free)

Normal people wouldn't dare practise their fingering in public. Musicians practise it everywhere; coffee shops, restaurants, on the bus, at long boring meetings etc.

Normal people think about hiring someone to move their furniture when they move house. Musicians consider asking their friends to help them push their piano up the hill. (While one person plays it and another lies on top dressed in drag like Shirley Bassey)

Normal people can listen to music without their fingers moving. Musicians fingers can remember how the music goes even when their brains can't.

Normal people can read someone's Facebook status and smile. Musician have to comment with a song.

Normal people read words made with letters. Musicians can read this:

Normal people go to Italy and either understand the language or don't. Musicians can understand any conversation about speed.

Normal people use the bathroom for washing. Musicians know it has the best acoustic and so is the best place to practise.

There is something wrong with me

I have always accused the Long Suffering Husband of being a hoarder. Yes, it's him that keeps a nail, screw or washer just in case. Not me. Oh no, definitely not me. I am efficient with my possessions. I only keep what I need. I shun clutter.

Except......

We had some furniture delivered and as I sorted the packaging into recycling I kept thinking, "This must be useful for something!"

I could make a new compost bin or a raised bed.

Cardboard.  You can always do something exciting with cardboard.  Not quite sure what but something would come to me.......and that sheeting stuff would be great for protecting early seedlings and keeping the ground warm.

And look, that polystyrene!  If you build it up you could make a rock.  It would make a great prop to hide a Beetle underneath for a class assembly or some silly musical game that I could invent.

Luckily, the LSH saved me from myself and took it all to the tip, ignoring my protests.

Except......

I've just found some of the wood in the garage and I feel so relieved that we might be able to make something.

Some thoughts on being precocious

At the end of the school summer music concert I said to a parent, "You must be so proud, wasn't your daughter brilliant?" Of course the parent was pleased but was worried that his child might become precocious.  Since then I've been thinking about the word.

Precocious sounds like such an insult but all it really means is that someone is doing something a bit early.  As I've got older I've become a precocious waker; 3am is a good time for me to wake up.  My daughter was a precocious talker; almost from the moment she was born she started and hasn't stopped since. My son was a precocious counter; he counted everything.  I expect if we think hard enough we can all say that we appeared to be precocious in something.  I use the word 'appeared' because it is only a relative term.  You do something earlier than most other people around you and you are precocious but what if everyone around you is a bit slow?

It worries me that we've all become so obsessed with being 'average'.  We measure children for everything and strive to make them all the same.  We move the goal posts to make the average average for the group of children we are looking at.    

I heard Pharell Williams on the radio being interviewed and he was asked, "I understand you were a bit precocious in music, a bit a of child prodigy,"  He strongly denied it and so the interviewer said, "but you were in a marching band," and he said that everyone was in the marching band, it's just what they did in their school.

Not wanting to upset any of the parents of the children at the summer concert I am going to say that they have nothing to fear.  Their children aren't in danger of becoming precocious at music.  Instead they are brave and brilliant and hardworking and unique an I love working with brave, brilliant and unique children. Precociousness is for brats.