writer's moll

The PM and the showgirl

2009-06-22T03:36:00.000-07:00

What’s the connection between Gordon Brown and a bunny girl? No, sorry, I haven’t discovered another of Gordon’s weaknesses, but they do have something in common. When he told The Guardian how much we’ve hurt his feelings and how it’s not his fault that he’s not very good at communication or political manoeuvring, it reminded me of a story years ago, when the Playboy Club dispensed with the services of bunny girl Greta because her neck had become crepey. She too was hurt and wanted to make a fight of it.

Whilst there may not be an exact job description for either a bunny girl or a prime minister, it’s not unreasonable to suppose that a bunny girl’s main purpose was to persuade rich men that her youth and beauty was worth parting with an indecent amount of cash for; and a prime minister's to persuade rich and poor that his communication skills and ability to pick the right people for the right jobs was worth parting with their vote for.

Now don’t think me lacking in compassion, but both Gordon and Greta seem somewhat deluded if they think it's mean to criticise them just because they don't have those particular qualities, when they’re still talented, lovable people. What, just like the ones who didn’t get the job.

Back with a snapshot but no photo

2009-05-11T08:55:00.000-07:00

Bad idea back in March to say I’d write something every day, however small, or rubbishy. After the first flush of enthusiastic posts, my inspiration died under the pressure. Nothing I saw, heard or did seemed blog-worthy. But, as is the way sometimes, once you accept that you’ve failed and nobody cares anyway, you wake up one morning and there’s a tiny bud on that dead branch. Hallelujah.

“What a great photo that would make” I say stopping to watch a group of French workman dig up the road. While one man operates the vehicle breaking up the concrete, six fellow workers stand in a motionless, silent semi-circle, transfixed by the road disintegrating before them and unconcerned that, even taking into account the French custom of having as many men observing the work as actually doing it, they might have a rather disproportionate ratio of observers to workers. Sadly, I can’t post that photo because there was a problem with the camera and by the time we sorted it out, the traffic lights changed and the moment was gone.

I consider myself an un-competitive sort of person - someone who regularly lost at tennis without ever throwing a racquet, who never feels the need to outdo anyone’s anecdote, cooking or even wii-ing prowess - but the other day I completely lost my cool when I was losing at Scrabble and am feeling rather ashamed. In my defence, my loved one, though I accept it wasn’t his intention, managed to push all my buttons by daring to think himself hard done by when he was winning. I was feeling fine about my three Us, two As, and two Os as he went ahead with his Q, X, C, K and two Ss until he complained that I’d put my one-pointer tiles where he'd intended to make a brilliant word. I can’t remember exactly what I said, but ungentlemanly behaviour may have been mentioned somewhere in my tirade, which led to the game being finished in a somewhat frosty atmosphere. If I don't get a grip or some counselling, I'm in danger of being red-carded and branded the Joey Barton of Scrabble.

A tall story?

2009-04-03T08:54:00.000-07:00

I’d like to do some creative writing, but the problem is that I’m rubbish at continuity. I have my heroine tripping across town in an elegant silk blouse, having forgotten that the story opened with her complaining that this was the harshest winter she could remember, so everything must stop while I go back to change her wardrobe. Or I realise that my stalker is waiting for a bus half a page after he’s parked his car.

But even trickier than continuity is a credible story-line. We forgive the ludicrous plots our favourite well-known authors sometimes come up with because they’re entertainingly written, but you can’t start out in fiction with a story-line that has a nun trying to infiltrate a gun-running gang to raise a few bob for her convent. (Please don’t tell me you know one, who did just that).

Suitable names for your heroes and heroines are important too. Whilst I’m sure a Gerald or an Enid is perfectly fanciable and kissable in the real world, in fiction, they play the dependable or expendable roles only.

I’ve been mulling over a story recently about obsession, something I’m more familiar with than I’d like to be. Its most worrying characteristic is its ability, no matter what you’re doing, to find the ‘override’ button and replace anything sensible presently occupying your brain, with the rubbish this monster loves. After my son Rob died, I was obsessively preoccupied with the idea that it was all the fault of the surgeon. If we’d had more time, we’d have found a better surgeon, if the surgeon had paid more attention to Rob than to his ego, he’d have done a better job, if he hadn’t needlessly ripped out the root of the tongue, Rob would have been able to swallow again and if he’d had better aftercare he would have survived. Obviously, when I got ‘better’ I could see that nothing and no one could have saved Rob.

So, a story about obsession leading to madness and murder – haven’t I seen that somewhere before?

What's in a name

2009-04-01T03:52:00.000-07:00

There’s a slot on the English speaking radio station on the Riviera taken up with a round-up of the lighter news stories in the English newspapers and I really enjoyed one from yesterday about an English guy, recently graduated from a Welsh university, who applied by e-mail for some horticultural jobs in Wales. Unfortunately he forgot to change his current e-mail address: atleastI’mnotwelsh. Unsurprisingly, instead of the anticipated offer of an interview, one reply contained some advice for improving his chances of getting one. He was reportedly feeling rather foolish.

Crime and Stupidity

2009-03-27T09:36:00.000-07:00

It’s always disappointing when the perpetrator of a crime is caught by their own stupidity rather than the meticulous police work that TV crime shows suggest. Are they stupid beforehand do you suppose, or does crime addle their brain? I always wonder why killers bury the body of their victim under the floorboards for instance. They may be in a panic, but doesn’t it cross their mind that when the neighbours notice a funny smell, they’ll probably report it to the police?

And this week, the staggering corruption of an American judge has been revealed, equalled only by the stupidity that exposed him. He’d been handing down hundreds of custodial sentences for children as young as 14 for the heinous offences of stealing a $4 jar of nutmeg and creating a satirical MySpace page of their headteacher. But, as he said in an interview with the Guardian last month, he was only doing it because he wanted to help the kids straighten out their lives. It obviously didn’t occur to him that his somewhat unusual sentencing policy might raise a few eyebrows as well as questions. And when it did, the resulting investigation found that he and another senior juvenile judge, had earned themselves a neat little $2.6m (£1.78m) in kickbacks from the co-owner and builder of a private detention centre in return for a steady flow of children.

Isn't this supposed to happen only in third world countries?

If only...

2009-03-26T06:43:00.001-07:00

We’re due out in an hour and off to a ‘do’
The dress that I grab's embellished with stew
We jump in the car, but don’t know the route
I study the map while my loved one stays mute
If only I’d checked them beforehand.

I break all the rules when cooking for guests,
Refusing to do the dish I know best
I’m still not decided, I’ve got just one day more
Last minute schlepping and panic galore
If only I’d planned it beforehand.

It’s time for our holiday, I’ve made a list
Sadly what’s written are things that I’ve missed
Now we’ve no sun cream, make-up or drops
Must get to the airport with time for the shops
If only I’d realised beforehand.

There are some who plan weekends months in advance
Never leave Christmas or birthdays to chance
Know where their bills are, their fridge never bare
All RSVPs are sent back with care
If only I knew how they did that

A quiz for you

2009-03-24T03:40:00.000-07:00

Which one of the following will get you into the least trouble with the catholic church?

a) striking the pope with a custard pie
b) raping and making your nine year old stepdaughter pregnant
c) procuring or carrying out an abortion of the twins that result from that rape.

Yes, the answer’s b). For that you’ll be expected to recite some Hail Marys. The other two will get you excommunicated.

In which my mothering skills earn me nul points

2009-03-20T07:39:00.000-07:00

I seem to have lost the habit of tucking away in the back of my mind anything I come across that might be useful for my blog, so lately I've had nothing to say. I’ve decided the way back is to try and write something every day – however small, however rubbishy. So, I apologise to my readers in advance if it sounds slightly bonkers and assure you I’m just practicing, but rather than a new pen, I’m breaking in my new mindset.

I’ve recently blotted my copybook in the good motherhood department, thereby depleting the store of goodwill I’d built up. So if you don’t want to end up a Bad Mother like me, here are a few golden rules to remember:

Rule i
When one of your children gives you the heartbreaking news that his marriage is over and he has to leave the marital home, don’t make the mistake of thinking an offer of accommodation will soften the landing of his fall. When he describes the unendurable deprivation and humiliation that living with you entails, you may not recognise the house as yours - just accept that it is.

Rule ii
Don’t expect his talking about the problem necessarily to prove therapeutic. It can be as addictive as heroin and just as useless, so however many hours you spend in supportive and sympathetic listening, it will count for nothing once you suggest a change of conversation topic.

Rule iii
When you think his perspective is becoming somewhat skewed and his attitude to his wife increasingly extreme, don’t even think of trying to present another viewpoint. This is treachery pure and simple and will be punished by ex-communication.

Rule iv
And the most important: if you’ve had a few drinks when he wants to discuss ‘what’s right’, feign an appointment and go out. Otherwise when he tells you how disappointed he is that the family are still in contact with his wife, you may feel obliged to point out that if he weren’t so bent on punishing her, he’d realise our priority is their four year old daughter, and should be his too.

Ah motherhood - if only you could pack it in and take up something else when you made a mess of it.

Tortured in Tangier

2009-02-10T04:23:00.000-08:00

‘Why not relax on the balcony and enjoy a glass of wine and a spectacular view of the sea’ says the blurb on the apartment we’re renting in Tangier. I’ll tell you why not - because there is no balcony, there aren’t any bloody wine glasses and the sea is obscured by torrential rain and gale force winds. “No wonder we’re freezing” I say excitedly, “the window’s open” but my triumph is short lived when I find that sliding it shut only forces open a similar gap on the next window. They are right about it being a spacious apartment though – it’s so big in fact that the one tiny heater in the bedroom doesn’t make the slightest impression on the icy temperature.

It does at least keep its promise on accommodating four people as far as beds and seats go, but they’ll need to take it in turns to hang up clothes and stir coffee. Fortunately, there being only two of us, we have the luxury of all six coat hangers, two teaspoons and three towels, but it looks as though we’ll have to give up crunching our breakfast toast in bed, since a change of bed linen hasn’t been provided for our three-week stay.

I walk into the kitchen, where a picturesque spray of water from a leak in the boiler above the sink is falling gently onto the crockery that’s been left to drain. The landlord sends a man round, who quickly fixes the leak, but the moment he turns the water back on, the boiler springs another leak and this time a less gentle spray is directed onto the floor. Our ‘plumber’ turns the water off again and promises to return with a suitable replacement part.

It’s evening, we’re still waiting for our plumber and a sudden power cut plunges the whole neighbourhood into darkness and we abandon any hope of water for today. But to our overwhelming joy and astonishment, a little miracle occurs in the shape of our plumber standing at the door, bathed in candlelight and clutching the vital part to fix the leak.

We’re three days into our stay and the rain and wind are relentless. There’s a constant pool of water under the leaking windows, the dust from the damaged ceiling plaster in the kitchen covers the cooker and the writing my loved one planned on doing proves impossible because our only priority now is getting warm. Tangier doesn’t seem quite as interesting and cosmopolitan as Paul Bowles and his pals found it – it’s time to cut our losses and move further south. The landlord very honourably refunds two thirds of the rent and we buy tickets for the five hour train ride to Rabat the following day.

Only there is no train to Rabat the next day. Overnight the railway lines have been flooded and there are no trains running, but we can apparently catch a bus. As we pile into a taxi to take us to the bus station, my loved one’s patience with lugging luggage has worn a bit thin and he tells me that if anyone tries to make off with it I’m to let them. So I do. Well, it’s pandemonium with hundreds of people and dozens of buses milling about and we seem to be the only ones who don’t know the rules, so when a man in an official looking jacket grabs our luggage, asks where we’re going and makes off at a run, the only sensible thing seems to be to follow him. A few minutes later we’re off. We look at each other and say together “did you see any sign of where this bus is going?” Neither of us did, but at this point we agree that we don’t care.

An early Christmas gift

2008-12-09T09:05:00.000-08:00

My groanometer tells me that Christmas is getting closer. And, valiantly as ever, we’re beavering away at our tried and tested recipe for a good time. The one that always turns out slightly tasteless, so will need even more extravagant ingredients next year, the one that makes us slightly queasy and glad when it’s gone.

Christmas really is the ultimate triumph of hope over experience. So why do we do it? What’s happened to our inventiveness? We didn’t sit for long in smoke-filled caves before someone came up with the bright idea of a chimney, or endure many seasons growing strawberries that the birds ate before it struck us that a little bit of netting would solve the problem, so why is it beyond us to find a way to have a Christmas we actually like?

So ran a discussion recently, but when it came to exactly what it is that makes and mars Christmas, there was no consensus at all. My loved one recalled blissful Christmases spent with a bunch of friends and a picnic on the beach when he lived in New Zealand, although I doubt if even his optimistic nature would welcome the prospect of a re-run of that on a near-freezing beach in England.

Freedom to do as you like, a stroll down the pub for convivial conversation with friends by a log fire were all mentioned wistfully, while resentment at the hours spent shopping and chopping of food, the noise, the chaos and worst of all, the head-breaking task of finding the right presents for everyone were reasons to be cheerless.

But, obviously there is a common thread - responsibility and that’s what’s so irksome. The years we liked were when we did all the fun stuff and someone else did all the worrying: about what to buy for whom, whether there was enough money to pay for it, the queues in the supermarket and whether Aunt Gwen could be persuaded to bury the hatchet with Uncle Bill long enough to get through Christmas lunch.

So we should take a deep breath and acknowledge that the old Christmas is dead, finished, gone for ever. Things are different - global warming has put paid to the snow, the environment to the real tree, the TV to the carol services, our year-round gluttony to the turkey and presents and cheap booze to our restraint in holding our tongue when Aunt Gwen won’t shut up.

But don’t panic, we can rebuild it, make it nicer, cheaper and fit for heroes. Well, I’ve done my bit - given you a blank sheet to say how you'd really like to spend Christmas.

"Is you is, or is you ain't my baby"

2008-12-04T09:06:00.000-08:00

A news story in Cannes has become more fascinating for what isn’t revealed than for what is. A woman is suing a maternity clinic because she believes her baby was switched at birth. Nothing new there then - we already know that it’s what most mothers suspect when their little darlings turn into monsters.

Clearly the reporter sent to cover the story is no Philip Marlow. He doesn’t have a whole lot of information to impart and zero hunches. The woman is his only source and there’s not a word from the neighbours - what sort of a reporter can’t even get them to blab?

All we know is:

* mother gives birth to baby girl fourteen years ago, who is transferred to special care unit suffering from jaundice

* takes baby home a week later and expresses surprise that baby has more hair than at birth but is told it’s normal

* also notes that baby looks of mixed race, but puts it down to her own Spanish origins.

* ten years and two more children later, husband demands DNA test on first baby, which proves he‘s not the father

* woman takes DNA test which proves that neither is she the mother

* decides only possible explanation is that babies have been switched at birth

* finds her real daughter, with whom she has a happy reunion but afterwards struggles to know what her role is, since her daughter already has a mother

Isn’t the reporter remotely curious to know whether she saw the baby in between giving birth and taking her home, or notice that it looked of mixed race when she first saw it?

Didn’t he ask why the husband demanded a DNA test after ten years, whether he suspected the baby wasn’t his from the start or only when the possibility of divorce and child maintenance approached? And who suggested that the mother should take a DNA test herself?

And how did she find her daughter? There’s no comment from the clinic, which has in any case changed ownership, even though the woman is going public with the claim that they’ve never recognised their mistake, apologised or shown any sign of compassion.

The mother tells us that after the DNA test, her ‘daughter’ was shocked and afraid and needed reassurance that it didn’t change anything between them, although adds that, paradoxically, the ties between them have since become stronger, but what about her real daughter - don’t they see each other any more?

But above all, I want to know what the other mother and father involved think about it all - are they champion swimmers who’ve long wondered why their daughter is water phobic, or are they disappointed that just as life was going along pretty well, this little skeleton should jump out of the cupboard?

The reporter may have asked for interviews from the others and been refused, but come on, isn’t that an intriguing part of the story too?

Oh Rats!

2008-11-24T04:30:00.000-08:00

If you wanted to find the most depressing workplace in the world, you wouldn’t need to look further than the stinking, rat-infested sewers of a big city. But the article I’m reading reveals a rat catcher from Rentokil, who, though confessing to once being “bloody girly” about rats, is willing to descend into hell to fight the cause with bags of anticoagulant poison and a newspaper reporter (who must be really grateful to his editor for this assignment) for a 4 am guided tour of the sewers of Leeds.

Wondering how there can possibly be room for the 60 to 80 million rats in Britain has me squirming and wishing I didn‘t feel compelled to read on. I’d also rather not know that they can run faster than humans and jump up to six feet, although you’re not likely to witness this athletic prowess because they’re nocturnal.

So you won’t see the copulating that they do roughly twenty times a day either, sometimes mating until their partner dies of exhaustion, or notice that they don’t like peaches, but do like dog faeces. You might however hear them ‘laughing‘ (a high chirruping sound) one night when you can’t sleep, which they make when they’re amused or tickled.

They’re also cannibals and when feeding on another, they open the head and start with the brain. I can’t stop the repellent thought that it may be the cannibalism that amuses them and they‘re smacking their lips after their tasty meal and giggling like evil little Hannibal Lecters.

Mr Rentokil gives us more frightening and astonishing facts and warns that he is fighting a losing battle and that we should prepare ourselves for a plague of super rats which are rapidly evolving, stronger, more intelligent and longer-living. But at the end of the interview, he admits that if he weren’t paid to kill them he probably wouldn’t. You have to admire a man who, despite knowing all their disgusting habits, can still find rats fascinating.

Sex wars

2008-10-29T10:46:00.000-07:00

I know the opening of this post may sound a bit sexist, but it’s not meant to be.

It’s just that I’m mystified why women take so long to work out that men don’t care about housework. Oh I know that we complain that they don’t do enough of it, but we still go on believing that they would really prefer a nice clean house if only they weren’t so lazy. The truth is that if we weren’t there, they probably wouldn’t do it, but we still feel we’ve done them a favour when we do it and expect them to be grateful.

Men do housework for several reasons: they’ll be nagged silly if they don’t; they can’t stand the guilt that hearing scrubbing noises gives them while they’re doing something more interesting, or because they have an unusually well developed sense of justice. But, they never do it because they’re ashamed of how dirty the windows look, because they’ve noticed the sheets are less than spotless or that someone’s just written their name in the dust on the furniture. They’re really not that bothered whether the house ‘looks nice’ or not.

So when I watch my teenage granddaughter getting her knickers in a twist because her older brother isn’t as appalled as she is by the state of the house when the grown ups are out, I just wish that she and every other young girl could learn the plain truth about boys early. You can make them do the housework, but you can’t make them care about it.

She’s recently added to her ‘it’s not fair’ list the fact that her brother is a slob. They each have a minimal quota of household chores, plus clearing up after themselves and their friends, but she says she’s forced to do his share to stop the house becoming a tip and what’s worse, he doesn‘t even appreciate what she‘s done for him.

But do you think she’ll believe that the reason he can’t appreciate it is because, since he hasn’t even noticed that the house is a mess, still less care, he can’t see that she’s done anything for him? And will she believe that the answer is just to do her share and stop worrying about his because he‘ll do that when his Mum reminds him of the consequences of not doing it? Yes, it’s no to both.

God bothering

2008-10-24T12:19:00.000-07:00

Cliff's post on the atheist bus has reminded me of how often I’ve wanted to write about religion.

I don’t like saying I’m an atheist because it implies that I’m actively engaged in something, but I haven’t philosophised my way there, I just can’t believe God exists and I don’t remember a time when I ever could. There’s someone who sees and hears each and every one of us? I just think about that number, 6.7 billion, divided into the number of seconds in a month say, and that gives 0.0004 of a second each - that's if we all get equal shares, and well…. But not believing in God doesn’t stop me loving hymns, carol services or nativity plays. Only my over-emotional blubbing does that.

I always hoped for a Damascene moment, but it didn’t come and so I was never able to see the Church in spiritual terms - just as a powerful organisation with a bloody history, clergy who seemed anything but holy, preaching the wrath of God for our sins, especially ones of the flesh, which always seemed to take up a lot more of the clergy’s time than the others.

But perversely, I don’t really enjoy meeting fellow non-believers. I often find them irritatingly smug, as though they’ve discovered a truth that the other poor suckers have yet to.

And strangely, I’m not a fan of Richard Dawkins either. He may have made a convincing case that God doesn’t exist, but that’s the easy bit. Now let him explain the more interesting questions of why so many people desperately need to believe he does; how God has inspired so many great works of art, acts of kindness, sacrifice and compassion; why people find it so difficult to accept that this life could be all they get and that death is the end, or why little old ladies in Italy get up at some ungodly hour to sit on a hard pew in a church every day (I’m not sure if there is an ungodly hour in church?)

Philosophers argue that people have only to look at science and nature to find all the wonder, beauty and spirituality they could need. So why don’t they? Why don’t they find the same sense of security and indestructibility, sanctuary, sense of community or rallying point in times of national joy and tragedy that they find in the church?

So, whilst I never got a sudden, blinding flash of light type conversion, a slow and gradual process has converted me to the idea that on balance, religion has shaped society for the better.

There are people who can never be prevailed upon to act decently and it was religion, or the Church at least, that kept their most ignoble urges in check in a way that the Law never could. They could imagine what a spell in jail would be like and make a judgement on whether to risk it, but God’s punishment was an unknown and therefore to be feared much more.

And whilst it may not have been difficult to persuade people that murder or robbery was wrong, the sexual urge is so strong and instinctive, that it needed God's disapproval of unmarried sex to encourage abstinence, or at least caution, but in doing so it went a long way towards protecting young women from sexual predators and other miseries.

So it seems I was wrong, the Church is a good guy after all.

But that doesn’t mean I’m going to let go of all my grudges. If the Pope weren’t quite so eager for more little Catholics, he might be persuaded to promote birth control and save a few million children from being born into poverty every year. He could lift the requirement for celibacy for priests, and allow them the option of a wholesome married life instead of lusting after choir boys. And he might even rethink the idea that homosexuals are perverts that can be cured and allow them to enjoy a life without guilt and secrecy. And I’m sorry, but I can never, ever, forgive them for Joan of Arc.

Give us a clue

2008-10-22T05:07:00.000-07:00

I glance idly down at the Sunday paper, turned to the cryptic crossword page. Oh no, I’m not being drawn into that rubbish, 10 minutes reading through all the clues and not able to answer a single one, waste of time, boring. But then I’m intrigued by the bits that my loved one has filled in and find myself staring at: Random examination a teenager might make? I’ve got one, I’ve got one, I shout and excitedly fill in spot-check. And then: Worker’s to run off with horny type. I see it begins with an A - ant, antler? ANTELOPE, yippee. I drag my loved one back into it and over the next couple of days obsess about it until we complete all but two of the clues.

I’m hooked and looking forward to next Sunday’s paper. Now I don’t want anyone spoiling my fun by reminding me that there are people out there who regularly complete this crossword in 12 minutes. I know that and I also know that some clues will remain a mystery even when the answers are provided, as in: Duck went fast, reportedly, back to juicy snack. I can see by the letters already in place that the answer’s orange, but why? Yes, duck goes with orange and orange is a juicy snack, but what’s going fast all about?

So now I have another distraction to keep me away from writing about Chicago, my heartbroken son and the annoying French school kids, as well as a bar in Turin where they pour the biggest gin and tonic and Jack Daniels I’ve ever seen.

I am after all, just an Eeyore

2008-10-12T05:20:00.000-07:00

"Mostly sunny day, to some, can look a lot like partly gray."

"After all, what are birthdays? Here today and gone tomorrow."

"Why, what's the matter?" "Nothing Pooh Bear, nothing. We can't all, and some of us don't. That's all there is to it" "Can't all what?" said Pooh, rubbing his nose. "Gaiety. Song-and-dance. Here we go round the mulberry bush." "Oh!" said Pooh. He thought for a long time, and then asked, "What mulberry bush is that?" "Bon-hommy," went on Eeyore gloomily. "French word for meaning bonhommy," he explained. "I'm not complaining, but There It Is?"

I haven’t posted for nearly two months. I’m not short of subject matter - I’ve been to Chicago, one of my family is heartbroken and homeless and there’s the mystery of why French school kids are so much more irritating than our own.

Any of these topics would normally be worth a few words, but however feverishly I try to nail them down, they skip away like will-o-the-wisps, and I find myself indulging my negative mood in pointless exercises like: if I were part of a small group of survivors of a plane crash in a remote region of the world, what would be my contribution to our survival?

The guide perhaps? My orientation skills cannot be described as excellent, so it’s unlikely that I’ll be the one who knows that going south will lead us to safety, or indeed which way south is without a giant sun as a clue and of course it would be raining. My suggestion would probably lead us straight into the cooking pots of the last surviving tribe of cannibals.

Fire raiser? Doubtful, as you can bet that while I’m still racking my brains to remember how Ray Mears lit a fire without two sticks to rub together, the little upstart stockbroker, who’s never even heard of Ray Mears, will have started a bonfire-size blaze with some fiendishly cunning new government bonds.

Pull a rabbit out of my hat with a vast supply of cereal bars, chocolate and a 3 litre box of wine? Of course not, because at the last minute I’ll have taken them out of the suitcase to make room for the tennis racquets, flippers and snorkel or they’d have been catapulted, along with any handy bits of string and cutting implements, into a nearby ravine upon impact.

First-aider? sorry, all I remember is don’t put keys down the back of a nosebleed sufferer; calming influence? you must be joking with all those terrifying noises coming from every tree; story-teller? I’ll be suffering from a cold and just lost my voice; morale raiser? nope, too busy trying to find a knife sharp enough to slit my wrists.

Well how about I rustle up a nourishing soup with the mushrooms my eagle eye has spotted? Oh yes, I could do that. Well thank you very much. I see, you think that because that's my contribution at home, it's all I can do - back room stuff. So, there's to be no heroics for me eh? Just get out there and make sure those mushrooms aren't the variety that make your tongue swell up and turn black, and keep us fed while we all get on with the important work. Oh no, hang on, it's ok, no need to do a thing, we have our very own Crocodile Dundee, who's just leaned languidly over a tree stump and charmed a giant snake into the pot.

Tagging behind

2008-08-21T11:11:00.000-07:00

It's such a long time since I posted that I'm going for an easy re-entry into blogland, with the meme that Cliff tagged everyone with. Of course, everyone else has already done it, so I'm not only lazy, but late as well.

1. My uncle once: was sent to prison for bigamy. It was sad really because he was nice and he and his ‘wife’ really loved each other and had a child together. He begged her to wait for him, but her mother considered his crime unforgiveable and persuaded her to abandon him and later, to marry a ‘respectable’ man whom she didn’t love.

2. Never in my life: have I come face to face with a lion, but I dream about them often – the last time, one crept silently into the room and bit a chunk out of my loved one's knee.

3. When I was five: I walked the mile to school on my own and nobody thought it odd.

4. High school was: non-existent, but my English equivalent was a vale of tears.

5. I will never forget: being found lost and bawling on holiday in London when I was about nine and taken to Hammersmith Police Station, where, because I didn’t know the address where I was staying, had to wait to be claimed hours and hours later by my uncle and the whole family laughed at me when he brought me back.

6. Once I met: Bill Clinton and, sleezeball though I knew he was, when he shook my hand and beamed that smile right into my eyes, I just couldn’t help myself – I was dazzled, (but I’d recovered by the next day).

7. There’s this girl I know: who thinks she has to meet a wealthy man to achieve her ambition of being rich, but doesn’t realise she has the ability to do it on her own.

8. Once, at a bar: I seriously questioned the sanity of my first (and only) date with a man who told me about his new sewing machine and his project to turn his long-sleeved shirts into short-sleeved ones.

9. By noon, I’m usually: wondering where the morning’s gone.

10. Last night: I broke my rule not to drink during the week because I thought it would be nice to watch the England match with a nice glass of wine - wrong.

11. If only I had: been more assertive and decisive. Oh yes, and learned to dance.

12. Next time I go to church: it will probably be to look at the architecture.

13. What worries me most: If I got my atheist genes from my grandmother and mother, am I also destined to do as they both did and change my mind on my death bed and start praying. I’m leaving instructions that I be bound and gagged the moment someone spots my hands moving together.

14. When I turn my head left I see: stars, because my neck hurts like hell when I turn left.

15. When I turn my head right I see: that I was right to keep looking right.

16. You know I’m lying when: I protest my innocence in the death of the person lying at my feet and I’ve forgotten to put down the knife.

17. What I miss most about the Eighties is: the clothes with the big shoulders – a godsend for women with none of their own.

18. If I were a character in Shakespeare I’d be: Ophelia.

19. By this time next year: I’ll be pounds and pounds lighter, will have thrown away all my comfortable i.e. shapeless clothes, and be speaking French like a native.

20. A better name for me would be: Jezebel, Cunégonde, anything other than Joan, which I hate, despite Joan of Arc being one of my heroines.

21. I have a hard time understanding: why people nag. Since they usually preface it with ‘how many times do I have to tell you to/not to’ you'd think they might have noticed that it's not working. (When the men on Captain Cook’s ship refused to eat the pickled cabbage he’d brought on board to prevent scurvy, he didn’t resort to nagging with tongue or whip, but, together with his fellow officers, ate the cabbage with gusto in front of them, thus persuading the contrary little b’stards that it must be good if the top brass were eating it.)

22. If I ever go back to school, I’ll: be pleasantly surprised if the days still go on and on and on.

23. You know I like you if: you make me laugh, occasionally ask me what I think and remember the stories you’ve already told me, except sometimes, when you’re forgiven.

24. If I ever won an award, the first person I would thank would be: my loved one, because he’s bound to have been responsible in some way, directly or indirectly.

25. Take my advice, never: leave a box of things destined for the charity shop in the middle of your bedroom floor on a hot night, because when you leap up to fetch a cool drink, you'll forget it's there and fall over it, cracking a bone and tearing the ligaments of your left elbow in the process.

26. My ideal breakfast is: a taste of absolutely everything – fresh fruit, bacon, eggs, sausage, baked beans, hash browns, mushrooms, tomatoes, fresh bread, butter, Danish pastry and almond cake.

27. A song I love but do not have is: any from the album Trio with Emmy-lou Harris, Dolly Parton and Linda Rondstadt. I used to have it but it got lost in a move.

28. If you visit my hometown, I suggest you: don’t go between the ages of 13 and 18 or you’ll die of boredom.

29. Why won’t people: even try to see the other person’s point of view when they have a dispute?

30. If you spend a night at my house: Virginia Woolf’s comment may pop into my head: ‘like it when they come, love it when they go’. No, seriously, you’d have to stay more than a week for me to think that.

31. I’d stop my wedding for: someone who asked me very nicely for a very good reason – nah on second thoughts no-one.

32. The world could do without: dinosaurs and dodos, obviously.

33. I’d rather lick the belly of a cockroach than: watch Big Brother.

34. My favourite blonde(s) is/are: can't think of any - at the moment all my favourites are brunette.

35. Paper clips are more useful than: Frank Lampard and most of the English football squad.

36. If I do anything well it’s: say sorry.

37. I can’t help but: brood over lost: loved ones, opportunities and spectacles.

38. I usually cry: at the drop of a hat and when I read or see stories about the First World War.

39. My advice to my child/nephew/niece: would be pointless. By the time they’re ready to listen to it, they’ll be adults.

40. And by the way: I am not accident prone.

Edinburgh

I have a New Best Friend. We met for the first time last week and I hope we’ll stay friends for a long time. She’s called the Edinburgh Festival and now I’m like a small child with um… a new best friend – you know, always desperate to tell anyone who’ll listen what a character she is, how she shares everything with you, and how much more fun she is than any of her other friends. If they’re unkind enough to point out her faults, well naturally I declare I hadn’t noticed them and in any case they’re of no importance whatever. Who cares if she comes with rain, pricey hotels and food that’s not great, she’s still the best friend I could have and furthermore, I’d rather be friends with her than the Great Barrier Reef, London or even the Great Wall of China.

I can’t imagine how long it will take to get to know her properly because she's huge - hundreds and hundreds of venues dotted all over the city from church halls, public buildings, pubs, clubs and cellars. You could spend an entire day with your head in the inch thick programme choosing what to see, so after we'd spent a quarter of the day with our heads in the programme choosing what to see, we settled for the shows we’d been handed leaflets on and of the five shows we saw, all were totally memorable. And then there's Edinburgh’s Golden Mile - a vibrant, noisy, musician–strewn parade of free street entertainment with original and funny performers.

We use the Scots in general as our stereotype for miserliness, so it was funny to hear a man in a clock and watch repair shop in Edinburgh make it a regional thing when talking about a customer who had just left the shop. We commented that he seemed to be trying to talk himself out of a sale by advising his customer to go back to the watch manufacturer and offering him the number. "well", he said, "he's from Aberdeen and they're no fond of parting with their money there."

Day 9

2008-07-04T04:56:00.000-07:00

"I can recommend a nice little Israeli wine from the Golan Heights" says our waiter in the old Jewish quarter of Krakow. Does he mean the same Golan Heights that used to be in Syria we wonder? Wow, so faith really can move mountains. Is that what the wine buffs mean when they talk about a cheeky little wine? We settle on a nice bottle of South African, but we do go with his recommendation for Jewish dumplings as a starter, which turns out to be a very good one.

Talking of alcohol, which is all I'm allowed to do with it now on weekdays, it's Day 9 of The Plan and it's going something like this:

Positives:
I've kept to the rules and drunk only the amount allowed on the days allowed.

My loved one is dead impressed and has cut down his own drinking, which is also good for him (we stopped off at our local bar last night and had a coffee).

I've lost three pounds.

Negatives:
Only 1, but it's a big one. The you will have no desire for a drink goal that seemed so easy at the start is now swaying hazily in the distance. When the hypnotist told me to savour my wine, I think she had in mind the glass in my hand that I'm allowed, rather than the imagined one in my head that I'm not, but, like forbidden fruit, is always tantalisingly near.

And still on our recent trip to Krakow, we were in a restaurant with a large party of Portuguese at one end of the room who'd hired a group of folk dancers to entertain them, so we got a free floor show. Why is it that no matter what instruments the group's playing, what they're wearing or how high or fast girls and sticks are twirled, from black waistcoated gypsy girls and pink-striped pyjama bottomed men in Poland to bell-kneed Morris dancers in England, after five minutes they all look and sound exactly the same and the fleeting delight you experience from such merriment quickly turns into a sincere desire for it to stop - right now?

Look into my eyes, look into my eyes.......

2008-07-01T05:43:00.000-07:00

“……and now I’m going to count up from 10. When I say three you will open your eyes. When I reach one, you will be wide awake. You will wake with a feeling of well-being. You will wake with confidence that you will have no desire to drink to excess. Nor will you have any desire to drink during the week. At the weekend, you will enjoy a few glasses of wine. You will savour them, but you will have no desire to drink more.”

Listening to the hypnotist intone the days of the week on which I've vowed not to drink - enunciating Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday slowly and precisely - is quite giggle-inducing, but once I get control of that, stop thinking about the itch behind my left shoulder and how many bottles of wine l'll need to give up to cover the cost of the £60 an hour fee, I relax and feel myself floating off and totally receptive to her words.

And you know what, it might just work! It's been less than a week since my session, but I've had just one tiny slip and that was a few glasses of wine yesterday (a Monday) to celebrate the reunion with my loved one in Villefranche after a week apart, but as that comes under the heading of special occasions, it doesn't count. So, until Friday, not a drop will pass my lips, although my loved one, who so far has only my word that I felt no desire for a drink, is worried that we may still be in for a few whine filled evenings.

A somewhat drastic course of action you may think, but when you put out your empties and the neighbours congratulate you on holding such a quiet party, it’s time to re-think your drinking habits, which isn’t easy when all your associations with alcohol have been nice ones. When I was growing up, the fun times in our house came only a few times a year, when my rather serious parents became mellow after a few drinks and as an unconfident teenager, I loved the feeling of liberation it gave me. It didn't figure much in my life whilst bringing up the children, but since I’ve been free of those responsibilities, it’s become a very enjoyable, but increasing, habit – there's nothing nicer than good company and a nice bottle of wine. Except it isn’t a bottle any more – there’s the six o’clock aperitif, followed by a bottle over dinner and then a couple more glasses over a game of Scrabble or Match of the Day and at the weekend, a few more glasses over lunch.

The hypnotist assures me she’s had a lot of success with drinking and eating excesses, but then she would say that wouldn't she? I'll keep you posted on whether she's still my new best friend in a while. In the meantime, I'm thinking of any other bad habits we could get rid of - my loved one mentioned chocolate, but I don't think he's remotely serious, but I wonder if she could do anything about an obssessive compulsive desire to abolish the monarchy every time I hear Prince Charles speak.

A relaxing bus ride

2008-05-13T04:58:00.000-07:00

You can always rely on the French to provide a bit of theatre when dealing with life’s little difficulties, and however corny the plot, the acting’s always great.

So when we’re bundled off our Italy-bound train at the French border town of Menton because of a strike by Italian train drivers, we find ourselves reluctant bit players in a one act drama.

We’re told that if we catch a bus to the end of town and do a fifteen minute walk across the border, there might be a bus to Ventimiglia, from where we might find a train to Milan when the strike ends mid-afternoon.

In England, a bus is full when the driver says it is: in France, in true revolutionary style, the passengers decide. My loved one and I exchange looks of disbelief as the driver continues to accept fares from anyone who can get a toehold on the platform and an arm far enough in to hand over their money.

Finally, when no amount of jostling will admit another passenger or permit the doors to close either, a stillness descends upon the bus and an expression of calm acceptance on the faces around me suggests that they expect the problem to be solved by divine intervention.

The minutes tick by in silence. It’s obvious something has to give, but what or who isn’t clear, until suddenly the driver, who’s looking through his window as though he’s not part of any of this, has an idea. But it’s not a great one - he just urges us all to move further down the bus.

This ought to mean that those already on the platform can move in far enough to allow the doors to close, but unfortunately, it’s a signal for those not lucky enough to have made it the first time, to launch a fresh attempt on the platform, and for a few resourceful others to try their luck through the back doors.

It’s at this point that all patience and passivity evaporate. Someone’s gone too far and it’s the driver, who, in attempting to close the doors, has apparently hurt someone, and now finds himself on the receiving end of the passengers' abuse. The poor man shouts back in his defence that it wasn’t his fault, but ours.

Now that everyone seems agreed that action is what’s needed, a man, who’s just squeezed aboard by the skin of his teeth, puts on his Napoleon hat and berates someone attempting to get on after him. A murmur of approval from inside the bus and a small chorus of abuse persuades the man to abandon his attempt.

Flushed with success and still deploring the foolishness of the ousted passenger, Napoleon heaves the passengers on the platform a few inches further in, instructs the driver to close the doors and we’re off.

We did get to Milan eventually, but there wasn’t a bus on the Italian side of the border - the bus drivers had joined the strike - so it was a 5 kilometre hike to the nearest town before we could pick up a taxi to Ventimiglia. Apart from that, it was a great weekend.

Cowardice in the face of the enemy

2008-05-08T06:26:00.000-07:00

Oh the shame! My loved one and I cowering in the bedroom, under siege, afraid to answer the door and face the consequences of our hastily fired off e-mail. The buzzer sounds again, long and insistent - clearly our visitors are not going to give up easily. I jump up in panic as I realise that if another resident lets them through the gate we could be forced to face our enemy through our open glass-panelled door. I scuttle through the apartment, secure the locks and I’m back cowering safely in the bedroom.

No, the two people outside are not mafia heavies demanding that we cough up our unpaid debts, neighbours complaining about late night revelry, or even Mormons looking for converts. They’re just a couple of innocent-looking estate agents who want to sell our apartment.

And yes, we asked them to. But we didn’t know when we walked through their office doors that we were entering shark-infested waters and that once we were in the jaws of these two mighty creatures, they weren’t likely to spit us out until they’d given us a good chewing over and tasted blood.

“We haven’t definitely decided” we told them. “We don’t want to sell until we’ve got somewhere else lined up” we told them. “We’d just like you to have a look and tell us what you think” we told them. They nodded and smiled and came a day earlier than agreed.

If the French speak any English they like to prove that it’s better than your French, so a little tug-of-tongue bi-lingual battle ensues until one or other concedes defeat. This time however, the only thing our two French estate agents were interested in proving was that they could strike a deal without the need for anything except our signature.

A relentless barrage of promises and assurances gushed forth. If one of them showed signs of flagging, the other took up the cause, airily brushing aside any concerns we raised. But, we would have to sign up with them now (memories of that scene in The Godfather, when it's pointed out that either his brains or his signature will be on the piece of paper spring to mind), give them exclusivity and put the apartment up for sale immediately - wait another month and we’d be too late! On and on until resistance became useless and we were buried under the avalanche of words.

When we’d recovered from the shock and marvelled at the stupidity of some salespeople, but not wanting to get into another conversation with them, that evening we sent a very polite thanks but no thanks e-mail. So why are they outside the gate a few hours later ready to do battle again? If words haven’t worked, is it now to be sticks and stones?

To B (blog that is) or not to B

2008-04-22T07:51:00.000-07:00

An unusual attack of introspection from A.A.Gill in this week’s TV review column has him trying to work out why he has such an ‘utterly phobic’ reaction to Newsnight Review ('it makes me want to poke my eyes out with a rusty boy scout and wander rural Shropshire humming Benjamin Britten’s English folk songs in falsetto') and though he admits it’s totally irrational, he cringes with embarrassment at the preening opinions aired on the programme. He concludes that it’s because it’s too close to what he does and who he is. You hate what you fear.

Yes, well spotted, which reminds me of something else that a lot of people are quite phobic about, which is blogging - obviously not you, dear generous readers of this blog. But opinions never fly thicker or faster than when someone ‘confesses’ to being a ‘blogger’ (though admittedly I don’t mix in the sort of circles that casually throw in topics like whether you swing as serious contenders for heated debates). And they all say the same thing: ‘I just don’t get blogging’. Well I don’t get stamp collecting or watching Grand Prix racing, but I’m happy for those who do to charge round the countryside looking for a glimpse of a Penny Black or a Lewis Hamilton.

A lot of the things I do could be considered pretty pointless - chatting over a glass of wine, playing Scrabble, watching TV to name a few - but blogging comes into a different category altogether. Reaction to it is something akin to dying your hair blonde. You can dye your hair red, brown, black or even pink and that’s just a bit of fun or a necessary adjustment to ageing. Dye it blonde and you're suffering delusions of glamour.

And so it is with blogging: 'why d’you think anyone’s interested in what you're doing?'; ‘I think it’s a bit sad communicating with strangers when you could be talking to real friends'; ‘why would you want to write for free?' are some of the questions people ask.

A Times columnist, who ‘didn’t get it’ either, started her own blog to see what all the fuss was about and began with a post about what she was making for supper that night. Doesn't that say it all? When already there's not a single meal whose name everyone can agree on, apart from breakfast and even that’s brunch sometimes - with lunch for some being dinner for others, who then have tea which the other lot call dinner - she throws in supper, which seems to be posh for dinner, rather than the cheese on toast or Weetabix of my childhood supper, but still eaten at home, since restaurants never serve supper, except perhaps a nightcap, which has, I think, to be liquid.

So the journalist remained a non-believer, complaining that, despite posting another five times (including a riveting account of watching the protest at the Olympic torch relay) she got zero comments and so pulled the plug.

So if anyone has any ideas about why blogging gets up so many people's noses, I'd love to have them.

A Quiet Revolution

2008-04-14T07:14:00.000-07:00

The French are funny about food. Well, ok, they’re funny about all sorts of things (except comedy), but they’re especially funny about food. They regard their place as leaders of the culinary world as an inalienable right and the rest of the world’s place as nowhere. They look neither to the left (we’re not talking politics here) or to the right to see what’s cooking yonder and spout the good old clichés of ex President Chirac’s that France’s food is best and only one country has worse than England and that’s Finland, although I’d challenge M. Chirac to remember when he last popped into a restaurant in England, or Finland for that matter.

On one of our French trips, we were watched like a couple of zoo exhibits to see how we reacted to ‘real’ food, as a woman declared with smiling satisfaction ‘ah, you don’t eat like that in England do you?’ Well not exactly like that no, but just as well. Not as routinely as in France it’s true, although we’ve had our share of average and some below average meals there, but while the French have been smugly unconcerned with innovation and are content to serve up the same old faithfuls, we’ve been moving quietly onwards and upwards.

While the Brits and the rest of the world have been creating wonderfully innovative menus and producing more and more Michelin starred restaurants (Tokyo now has more than any other city in the world) France seems to have stood still. They still don’t do spicy for example (our local supermarket doesn't sell chillies) and if you’re unwise enough to ask for a curry in a restaurant, you’ll be rewarded with the thinnest, blandest sauce ever to come out of a kitchen. In the supermarket recently, I put back some chorizo labelled ‘very hot’, in favour of the simply 'hot' variety, forgetting that what they call hot is most assuredly not and sure enough, it was mild enough for a baby. I’m not knocking French food - I love it, especially the fact that it's kept its peasant roots, while we‘ve abandoned ours, but you pretty much know what to expect, which won't be a surprise.

I’m reminded of this because my daughter is about to come for a visit and we’re going to have to confess our little act of treachery. When she came a few years ago, she was not only vegetarian, but a very fussy one. After trudging round the local restaurants inspecting all the menus outside to find something she could eat, we realised that a French vegetarian was an oxymoron, so, finding nothing, we finally decided on one of our regulars, with a view to ordering ‘normal’ for us and asking them to cook an omelette for her. They refused. I don’t know if they thought this was the thin edge of the wedge and it would encourage all sorts of flesh-hating weirdos into the restaurant, but we left, vowing never to return. But, time moves on, the restaurant has a nice atmosphere, does great food and so we shrugged our shoulders and went back. So much for principles. The irony is that the restaurant now does veggie food and she’s given up being a veggie. So yes, France gets a few points for moving forward a bit where veggie food is concerned.

Ha ha, I’ve just got my comeuppance for my criticism. Three weeks ago my loved one was promised a dermatology appointment and it’s just arrived in the post - 1st OCTOBER. Yes, the French may be funny about food, but they’re not a bit funny about their Health Service, although they'd laugh their heads off if they were asked to wait that long for an appointment.

Guten Tag

2008-03-06T04:49:00.000-08:00

Being tagged by Cliff means having to reveal one of my many odd habits. I confess that whereas my loved one spends hours sensibly researching our next trip abroad, I leave home knowing virtually nothing about our destination. I know I'll be envious of the head start he'll have when we arrive, but I can't touch a country until it touches me. This means I'll be reading on the homeward flight what he'll have read on the outbound flight. All this is to explain why I'm often reading a book about a country that isn't the one I'm in and why I'm sitting in the sunshine in Morocco this week reading a book called In Siberia. But, a country can touch me through its personalities and Russia weaved its magic on me while reading about some of the most famous and infamous of them.

So, sentences six, seven and eight of page 123 of In Siberia reads:

During the fourth night, at some sad village, a Polish priest embarked. He was the first Westerner I had seen for a month: an elderly man, lean and self-sure. He sat in a vestibule on the lower deck, where passengers loitered to watch him, and rifled through a portfolio of papers oblivious to them.

You may not think that's terribly interesting but wait till you read the extract from my next book. Now that I've been in Morocco long enough to be touched by it, I've started to read a library book called Morocco. It's as dry and dusty as the nearby desert and the writer must have worked really hard to produce such a boring book from such rich material. Still, it's perfect bedtime reading - guaranteed to send you to sleep after only three sentences.

Some became consular agents, except for countries that had very little or virtually no trade at all. Some even naturalised as Europeans, to claim extra-territorial rights permanently and pass those rights on to their children. Yet others took service with the flood of European merchants and then claimed extra territorial rights on their own behalf.

Wake up! There's still one to go.

This is from Letters Home by Fergal Keane - reflecting on the last violent years of our century with articles and broadcasts about Rwanda, Bosnia and Sierra Leone. We heard him speak at the Hay Festival and he comes across as someone not only committed to fair and accurate reporting but who's been genuinely affected by the horror of all he's seen.

That night in my bedroom in the Ibis Hotel I listen to one of those great Rwandan rainstorms and afterwards the chorus of the tree frogs and crickets. They reach a crescendo just before dawn, a sound from a million years ago, full of swamp and fecundity. It is the sound of the world beginning.

Minted in Morocco

2008-03-03T08:20:00.000-08:00

I like mint. It’s a versatile little plant and you can do a lot of nice things with it – wrap it in thick dark chocolate for an after dinner treat, mix it with chocolate chips and churn it into ice-cream for an even nicer one, whizz it into a sauce to jazz up your lamb chop, suck it in peppermint form afterwards to get rid of the smell of said lamb chop, scatter it on salads or even frost it and use as a decoration – but stuffing it into a pot with half a pound of sugar and some boiling water and calling it tea, is not one of them. But mint tea isn’t just the national drink of Morocco, it’s an obligatory ritual. They don’t ask if you’d like some – it’s an essential part of a welcome, so that when we arrive at our riad in Fès we’re obliged to play our part. It wouldn’t be so bad if the recipe weren’t invariable, but there’s no point trying to catch the eye of your hostess before she brings it in to ask her to go easy on the sugar – it comes like it comes - teeth-meltingly sweet and it takes all my concentration, under the watchful eye of the staff, who appear to outnumber the guests, to control my shudders as the vile little potion slams into my tongue with an electrifying jolt.

As we’re walking through the Medina the following morning, I recoil as a man is belting the life out of his donkey with a stick. The donkey is protesting at either the weight he’s being asked to carry or the direction he’s being forced to go and I start to say to my loved one “still, you have to remember that it’s not our culture” when he interrupts with “yes, you have to remember that it’s not our donkey”. They may have taken the lad out of Liverpool but they couldn’t take the Scouse out of the lad.

There’s an organization devoted to improving conditions for donkeys in Morocco where you can report mistreatment of them. In Fès they rely on them almost exclusively to transport nearly everything – even the global giant Coca Cola gets its pound of flesh from the poor beasts with specially constructed panniers crammed full of its bottles and emblazoned with the famous logo. But when the cheapest thing in Morocco seems to be labour - a talented craftsman sits on the floor all day for two months to turn out one exquisite mosaic table top and a man sells two kilos of his freshly-picked oranges for less than an imported tin of tomatoes - it’s hardly surprising that the donkey’s welfare isn’t top of their agenda.

If it looks as though I don’t like Morocco, it’s simply that it’s more fun to write about the things that go wrong on a visit to somewhere new, rather than because I’m not having a good time. I’m especially enjoying people-watching here. They don’t smile a lot so, quite illogically I know, I’m surprised by their kindness – someone will always lend a hand with whatever you’re struggling with (not just us, but they all help each other), people frequently give to the poor on the streets, though they often look no better off themselves and they’re remarkably passive at unfolding street scenes: a group of kids baited a tiny dog with imitation barking and bystanders smiled as indulgently as we do watching our toddlers chase pigeons; two rival shoe shiners approached the same customer together and looked set to provoke an ugly scene, but the customer (who didn’t get his shoes cleaned by either in the end) and everyone else in the bar relaxed, knowing that it would lead to exactly what it did - an exchange of insults, the old guy taking off his coat and squaring up to the young guy, who walked off laughing, with the old guy striding after him in a manner borrowed from John Cleese’s ministry of funny walks, clutching his crotch in both hands as a Moroccan version of the hand signal we use to indicate uselessness. But best of all is the exhilarating sight of the beach on Sundays. It doesn’t remotely resemble a beach in England or France – they’re not there to lie in the sun or splash in the water. There are virtually no horizontal figures to be seen and you can almost feel the swaying movement of a continuously moving vertical tide of thousands of people playing either serious or some mini version of football and it’s quite mesmerising.

An ode to an oud

2008-02-24T13:38:00.000-08:00

A recent discovery made my heart sing
A pot-bellied, wonky-necked beautiful thing
But it's not on its beauty I'm keen to expound
Or even its strings with their delicate sound
It's simply a chronically Scrabble-obsessed nerd
Has found an exciting new three letter word

The Rough Guide to Morocco tells me that if I eat in a local cafe or am invited to a meal in someone's home where the food is eaten with the hands, using bread as a scoop, I should do as they do and use my right hand because the left one is used for going to the toilet. Please. Whilst it's fascinating to know the origins of why people do what they do, it implies that despite modern living conditions they're still eating with their right hand because they haven't washed their left and if that's the case, I don't want to eat anything with either right or left hand. How many chefs do you see preparing your meal with their left hand behind their back? My immunity to such things has long since been eroded by my over zealous adherence to sell-by dates and instructions in public toilets everywhere to 'NOW wash your hands'. So I wish the book had simply said that it's traditional.

We're trying not to be taken for tourist mugs and have succeeded and failed in about equal measure. Sitting in a bar I accepted a shoe shine, but when I asked how much, the guy just smiled and shrugged. That was one of the failures of course because I'm not going to risk insulting him by offering too little, so I gave him ten dirhams (about 70 pence) and afterwards found that the going rate seems to be one or two.

To balance the score sheet: I suppose the least surprising person to take you for a ride ought to be a taxi driver, but we were still astonished at the cheek of one of them. Hundreds of these petits-taxis buzz around in the evening like little fireflies, so we hailed one just before 7 o'clock to go to a restaurant. He charged us ten dirhams When we came out of the restaurant about two hours later he was there again so we hopped back in but noticed that the meter wasn't on. "That's right" he said, "it'll cost 40 dirhams". But we know that he knows that we know he's just charged us a quarter of that for the same journey. We jump out as he's shouting after us that he'll do it for 30. I'm not sure which is greater - his greed or his stupidity.

A less critical view

2008-02-16T03:09:00.000-08:00

"See" says my loved one midway across the road, indicating the two cars that have just screeched to a halt a yard in front of us, "they won't actually run you over". Naturally I'm thrilled that his experiment has been a success, but somewhat reluctant to continue with it to find out just how many lives we have left.

But, okay I'll admit it. I've been hasty, harsh even, about Casablanca. Now that the smog's gone there's blue sky and even some real grass if you walk far enough; we've seen some lovely art deco architecture, the grand mosque and the rolling waves of the Atlantic; eaten a tagine in a local restauant where I was the only woman amongst a hundred men and no one took any notice, (spoilt only by the accompanying glass of water).

And besides, we're leaving tomorrow for a few days in Rabat - always willing to make the best of things that's me.

Casablanca but not as we know it

2008-02-14T07:42:00.000-08:00

I’m woken by pain that makes my head, neck and elbows throb. A full orchestra tunes up in the street under our window and the discordant sounds make me wince. The realisation comes slowly that the pain is caused by nothing more serious than a virus and the noise by the deafening and continuous honking of horns and barking of dogs.

I draw the curtains and discover that the sights are no more harmonious than the sounds - dirt and smog and rubbish bins spilling over, craters and other traps for the unwary pedestrian on the pavements. This is Casablanca and it dawns on me that the reason we’ve found it so hard to pick up tourist literature is the obvious reluctance of the tourist board to inform you that it’s the arse end of Morocco. We learn later that King Hassan II planned his great mosque here in an attempt to entice tourists, and he succeeded, but he couldn’t persuade them to stay. As soon as they’ve seen it, they rush off to Marrakesh, Fez or just about any other town in Morocco but this one.

It looks as though the French were midway through a giant reconstruction programme when they left in 1956, and took all the architects’ and engineers’ plans with them, leaving what looks like a half-demolished city. The pavements are not for walking on - lorries load and unload on them, shops spill out their machinery and wrought iron on to them, tyres and all manner of car parts are hosed and mended on them and the pedestrians, without any apparent trace of resentment, abandon them, put their lives in the hands of Allah and jaywalk into five lanes of speeding, screeching traffic.

But ever willing to hone our survival skills, we quickly learn that the most important thing you need here is flexibility. Distances for instance are a matter of individual interpretation. Three people told us the railway station was ‘just down that road - not far at all, but then half an hour’s walk to a lot of people, may seem just that. The apartment we found on line assured us that the landlord lived in the neighbourhood should we need help and advice. He lives more than 200 kilometres away. I had vowed that on no account would a glass of mint tea pass my lips but our landlord met us at the airport, took us to the apartment, where his wife had prepared it for us, so of course there was nothing for it but to put all thoughts of sheep’s eyeballs out of my mind and pronounce it quite delicious. We order coffee and croissants for our first breakfast and receive a tray of orange juice and pain au chocolat. Is there a problem our waiter’s quizzical look seems to say? No, no, that’s just lovely. Later we hop in a taxi only to find it hailed again a few minutes later by a woman who gets in casually, smiles and says hello, but hey now that is green. And of course, for a ride costing about 50 pence, we’re certainly not complaining. Oh, and I should also mention that you need to feel confident of your partner’s desire for you to live, otherwise when he suddenly shoves you into the chaotic traffic to cross the road, you could be forgiven for suspecting that a new life insurance policy has just been taken out.

And you must be flexible about your usual alcohol purchases. The cafes and bars sell only non-alcohol drinks and upon enquiry at the supermarket, they’ll tell you that they don’t sell it, but if you’d like to go round the corner, through the unmarked door, up the stone staircase, you can buy it. They’ll wrap it in black plastic bags, but since that’s the only purpose the bags seem to have, you may as well carry a neon flashing arrow proclaiming alcohol.

You also realise why the Moroccans lead a rather more laid-back lifestyle than us. If you were called to prayer five times a day beginning and ending at sunrise and sunset, you’d probably feel a bit short on sleep and want to conserve your energy.

How not to say I Do

2008-02-08T01:35:00.000-08:00

Now I’m as ready as the next person to ooh and aah over a beautiful bride as she glides from the church, but I’m not quite as keen on her during the year leading up to it. The tyrannical stamping of pre-satined feet makes some African dictatorships look positively benign as families and friends are bullied into bowing to the bride-to-be’s all-consuming desire for her ‘perfect day’. Look love, it’s just a wedding, life goes on afterwards and then it’s called a marriage, which you don’t seem to find half as appealing.

Is it just me who thinks that this fantasy wedding, pursued so relentlessly by brides-to-be, is a bit – well – silly? Already every high street has three bridal shops catering for their every whim, some so exclusive that you can’t just waltz in off the street, but must make an appointment before you get to try on that ‘perfect dress’ that will transform you into a fairytale princess.

But now apparently, the bride-to-be has come up with yet another plan to increase the chances of her getting her perfect day. It’s a pre-nuptial agreement for the bridesmaids. So, if you’re likely to be asked to act as one in the near future, not only will the bride-to-be expect you to squeeze into a pink taffeta monstrosity, manage the tantrums of the pageboy, but she also wants you to promise not to get fat, change your hairstyle or get a tan that leaves unsightly strap marks.

A few months back, it was reported that the groom-to-be got so fed up with his fiancée’s escalating demands for her perfect day that he called the wedding off. But was she bovvered? Not a bit of it, she went ahead without him and declared it a complete success.

There's nothing wrong with a bit of fantasy - it gives a little sparkle to some of life’s duller moments. I do it all the time: I win millions of pounds and found, not an ordinary old-fashioned orphanage, but one with an infallible, innovative way of detecting paedophiles and sadists, and at the same time attracting caring, vocational staff and turning out happy, well-adjusted children and hey presto, I solve the problem of suitable homes for deprived children.

But, I know it’s a fantasy - I can’t even organise our various hospital appointments without one or other of us turning up at the wrong time or the wrong hospital.

Or, I fantasise that I’m the heroine of that recent newspaper article describing a stand-off situation between a woman and a tiger – the woman stares at the tiger with a ballpoint pen in her hand; the tiger returns the stare with her husband’s head in his mouth. She obeys the muffled instructions from her husband to stab the tiger in the eye with the pen, does so, which persuades the tiger that though he could likely hold on to this dinner, a one-eyed hunter might not get another quite so easily and so releases the head and skulks off.

Again, I know that the stand-off situation I’ll actually be in will be with a flock of sheep. They’ll look at me, decide that this strange two-legged creature is a pushover and impudently surround me and try to crush me to death; I’ll look at them more than a little perplexed about what to do, until someone comes along and says boo.

So I reckon it’s about time brides-to-be to stopped confusing show biz fantasy with real romance – by the time you’ve finished arguing about canapés or sausage rolls, four or six bridesmaids, a Mauritius or Madrid honeymoon, pink or green balloons you’ll have strangled any last bit of romance out of the occasion and become boring tyrants into the bargain.

That perfect day just ain’t gonna happen, or at least not in the way you’re planning on. One or more of the guests will get horribly drunk and let on just what they think of your sister, or criticise your catering, your venue, or your guest list. So it would be nice if you could stop for a moment and realise that it’s not just about you – most of the others turning up for your wedding aren’t all that interested in the story of how you came to choose a sweetheart neckline over the halter. Give them a bit of fun and they’ll happily ooh and aah over your dress.

Tagged

2008-01-21T06:56:00.000-08:00

If you’ve all moved on too far with the media meme, please feel free to skip this post, if not here’s my media consumption for last week.

What I read:

Newspapers - the Saturday and Sunday Times – always the film and play reviews, although I’ll have forgotten all the ‘must-sees’ by Tuesday, book reviews ditto and AA Gill’s entertaining restaurant review. I love his writing, but sometimes his conceit and cruelty are horrible. Here he is at his most vicious on another columnist’s breakthrough diet:

What struck me as particularly poignant about this modern odyssey is that it was the clothes that X felt she’d let down[…] There was no sense of sprawling, dimpled, adipose guilt for her husband, as her fatted, sweaty bulk schlepped across the marital bed, extinguishing all thoughts of carnality.

How ridiculously pitiful and dysfunctional all this is, how utterly pathetic, how self-pitying and snivellingly vain it is to try to impress your trouser suits [...]

Well, all recipes work, if you know how to cook. The Kama Sutra works, if you know how to shag. It’s not diets that fail, it’s you, you miserable, spineless, sticky-fingered fridge magnet.

When he got to the review bit, the restaurant - Alain Ducasse at the Dorchester - didn’t fare any better, but in spite of myself, I laughed.

A slice of media I consumed a few weeks back has been giving me indigestion since. It was a letter from someone writing in with the fascinating news that since President Chavez had put the clocks back half an hour, it’s now possible to know exactly what time it is in Venezuela by turning your watch upside down. God, I wish I hadn’t read that because I’m always doing it. Go on, bet you can’t resist checking it.

Books :

La cuisine des paresseuses (the lazy woman’s cookbook)

I’m enjoying this because it’s also the lazy woman’s way to read French – a sort of token, low-brow French lesson, interspersed with some nice easy recipes and of course it gives me an excuse not to venture out onto those scary streets where I’d have to actually speak it.

The Time Traveler’s Wife

A really unusual and intriguing story where six year old Claire gets to meet her future husband for the first time when he time-travels from his 36th year. He whooshes naked in and out of her life for the next fourteen years as he time-travels at various ages, until they finally meet in the present when she’s 20 and he’s 28. Of course she knows him at once, but because he hasn’t yet reached the age of his first time-travel meeting with her, he has no idea who she is. Yeah, I know, but trust me, it’s brilliant. The great thing about being given books as gifts (this was given to me by Cliff) is that you get to read stuff you’d never choose for yourself. I thought I didn’t like fantasy, until a while ago, when I was given The Testament of Gideon Mack, which I started reading out of politeness and ended up loving, so now I’m a convert.

What I watched:

A documentary DVD called Hearts and Minds on the Vietnam war, which should be compulsory viewing for all megalomaniac presidents and prime ministers. An interview with General Westmoreland showed him urging us to understand that the Vietnamese are not like us – life is cheap to them and they don’t value it. We saw an occupying army making virtually no attempt to understand the culture of the people, chaos caused by indiscriminate and wanton destruction of homes and livelihoods, an absence of planning for the future and the insistence that the aim was simply to establish democracy, but of course any comparison between Vietnam and Iraq is nonsense.

What I surfed:

My usual blogroll, answers to the crossword and some really good food blogs I’ve just discovered. It’s amazing the trouble some people go to to cook and photograph fantastic food. But by the time I’ve gone through them all, there’s only time to make a salad.

Pills - anti-sickness, anti-depressant, anti-stupidity?

2008-01-17T08:32:00.000-08:00

I’ve been tagged by Cliff to reveal what I've consumed media wise, which is nice, but because I’ll feel a fraud if I write only about the sensible things I’ve done and also because I’m a compulsive confessor of my weaknesses and mistakes, I feel I should mention first the incredibly stupid thing that I’ve also done.

How do you deal with the cringing embarrassment of doing something really, really stupid? An immediate and total sense of humour failure, followed by a good dose of self-flagellation is a pretty standard way for me and yesterday I excelled myself.

We’re in France at the moment and I was out shopping and looking for a cash machine. One miraculously appeared, so I popped in my card. Sadly, there was to be no satisfying little drum role before the machine released my money. Nothing happened and panicking, I stabbed repeatedly at the cancel button, but my card had been eaten. This, it turned out, was not surprising since I had not put my card into a cash machine at all. I had been bewitched by desire and in my head it had simply morphed into what I wanted it to be.

My loved one said nothing, although it would have been easier to bear if he’d shouted that I was a silly cow. At least then I could have taken on the martyrdom of the oppressed and reminded him of the unhelpfulness of name calling.

While I guarded the machine, he went in search of help. It came in the shape of a very grumpy man, impervious to my apologies, who opened the machine, declared that he couldn’t find the card and with a Gallic shrug, closed it back up and abandoned us.

While I remounted guard, my loved one went to a nearby chemist and bought tweezers. These are not the implement of choice for removing credit cards from narrow openings and it was while I was poking around with them that it occurred to me how dumb I would sound if the police suddenly wanted to know what was going on:

Them: So, tell me again why you put your credit card in a parking ticket machine.

Me: I needed some cash

Them: But wasn’t this machine painted the same bright yellow as all the other parking ticket machines?

Me: Well, yes, but…

Them: But did it have the same display of debit and credit cards that cash machines have?

Me: Well, no, but …

Them: So, in what way exactly did it resemble a cash machine?

Me: Um …it had an inviting, credit card shaped slot.

Fortunately, when I rang the bank to cancel the card they weren’t interested in how I’d lost it.

Now there's no time left for the tagging post, so I'll do that next time.

The new me

2008-01-11T04:44:00.000-08:00

Two of my nearest and dearest announce they’re taking a break from blogging and a tiny bit more of the inclination to post my own blog evaporates. Apathy, boredom, depression and emptiness – the blogging blues look set to stay. But then, just as I resign myself to life without a blog, the lovely Wendy sends some persuasive comments and motivation returns. My head is so easily turned!

I know it’s way too late for Christmas stuff, but, as all good politicians say “can I just say …” then go ahead and say it anyway. So, those round robin Christmas cards. I’ve always thought there’s something odd about the people who write them, referring to themselves in the third person, recounting dreary, humourless lists of family achievements, but conveniently leaving out the only interesting bit about Uncle Arthur’s prosecution for an incident on Clapham Common. This extract from one of ours made me laugh: last winter we had to shorten our vacation because of the sudden death of A’s brother in December. But we were compensated in March with beautiful weather and excellent snow conditions. He sounds perfect for that Samaritans job.

I’m a compulsive list maker and always have huge To Do lists on the go and deal with them something like this: now, what shall I do first, send back the dud parcel from Amazon and take it to the post office, which will mean rummaging round for suitable packaging, or order that new food processor? – hmm, difficult one that. So, my new year resolution is to stop deluding myself - face it, you ain’t ever gonna send back that parcel while there’s a choice, so no more than two things go on the list and nothing gets added until they’re both done. How difficult does that sound?

My only other resolution is to cut down on alcohol. A while ago I was leaving my daughter’s house when she thrust a book into my hands. “What is this? Alcoholics Anonymous - you think I’m…you think your mother is an alcoholic? are you crazy?” And then she wanted to know how long it was since I’d had a day without a drink. I couldn’t remember, although I know it wasn’t the day I had a hysterectomy 6 years ago – “but… but… it’s only wine at mealtimes, I never get drunk and besides, I don’t have a health problem, apart from a neck that creaks a bit when I turn my head - but then I’ve done nothing that requires me to keep looking over my shoulder - and a little trouble sleeping." My loved one's going to keep me company, but I'm not sure how successful it will be if his face, when he drank a glass of orange juice recently is anything to go by.

A ten month rental of a cottage in the country results in a mammoth session of packing up, cleaning and finding space for the tons of extra stuff we’ve accumulated. We spend the first hour and a half back home tearing the house apart looking for the bag with the bits that go with the TV, only to find that I’ve already unpacked them and put them in a ‘safe’ place.

I reorganise the contents of kitchen cupboards. They're full of duplicate bottles of chilli, Worcester and pizza sauces in varying stages of congealing goo. I decide to put things into spare storage jars, but I’ve miscalculated the capacity, and now I have to find room for a storage jar and a quarter box of salt. I notice that another storage jar contains some exotic lain flour because I couldn't find my glasses when I was writing the label and hadn’t noticed that the p belonged to the bit that didn’t peel off.

To hell with it, I’m going back to my disorganised ways. Happy New Year to everyone.

Monologues

2007-12-05T07:28:00.000-08:00

I blame Alan Bennett. Ever since the success of his TV monologues, I’ve been meeting people who appear to have persuaded themselves that conversation is now passé and monologues are the communicator of choice. We went to my loved one’s writers’ group ‘do’ at the weekend and, not for the first time, I found myself next to someone who was clearly a big fan of this format. She knew the rule that says only one voice is needed for the performance, but had forgotten the equally important one of having something to say that the listener wants to hear. It hadn’t occurred to her that demanding the floor to yourself gives the audience the right to demand to be entertained. If her goal was to hold court unopposed for the entire meal, without once showing the least interest in what anyone else on the table might have to say (a bit like that gameshow thing where you have to eat a doughnut without licking your lips), she must have been very pleased with herself for scoring a whopping 100%. She’d just dumped her dowdy (according to her) husband and brought along her dishy (according to her) new lover (pity she’d been struck blind and not dumb). They’ve only been together a couple of weeks but, fast worker that she was, had her photo album at the ready to show: ‘me and Steve swimming in Benidorm, me and Steve looking over a balcony in Benidorm, me and Steve looking gormless on a housing estate.' For God’s sake I’m sitting next to her and Steve, how much more of them does she think I need to see? But what about me you may well ask? Am I such a wimp that I can’t come up with a single strategy to stop her: a note from the waiter telling her she’s wanted outside by someone from the Big Brother production team, a glass of wine over her dress which, in my haste to clean up, results in my accidentally knocking over her chair, her hitting her head, and everyone’s insistence on a hospital check-up, or even a temporary halt with a teeny fish bone slipped into her potato? No, no and no, I just sat there with my smile glued on. The frustrating bit was, that after the meal I had just a few moments to talk to the woman opposite who’d also been rendered speechless by the deluge. She was writing a memoir on her childhood in Ireland, where she’d spent three years in a hospital run by nuns after contracting TB – cruelty, censored reading material, a mother who didn’t visit and the discovery on her return home to find a surprise new baby and a less than warm welcome, were some of the things she mentioned. Now there’s a monologue I’d have been glad to listen to.

Big Issues

2007-11-28T02:39:00.001-08:00

It’s not only comedians who need good timing - it's pretty useful to scrabbledians too. Sadly, mine goes awry too often, as it did the other evening when I was looking at an available Z on the scrabble board, but had only one O and nothing else of use. The next day we meet some friends and get chatting about scrabble and I learn about a zo - a sort of Tibetan yak. If only those two evenings had happened in reverse. Yes, I know I could buy a scrabble dictionary and learn all those useful two-letter words, but that’s hardly in the spirit of the game is it? Now there are those who think scrabble‘s only a game - as trivial as poker or monopoly, or even arm-wrestling - but it so isn’t - it‘s as serious as it gets. Anyway, these friends said “oh we must get together for a game”. I was enthusiastic until one of them mentioned that their games usually last about 45 minutes and while waiting for her turn, she reads her book! What? I like a bit of healthy competition, but I’m not up for a total hammering. Our games last an hour and a half and the in-between-turns bit is taken up with unconcealed jealousy when my loved one places, consecutively and to great advantage, his X, Z, and W (consecutive turns that is, not letters, or it would be Polish scrabble) and anger at the injustice of holding a Q, I, C, and K with no available U. The other day I was holding four Ns and three other letters each worth one when my loved one begged for sympathy at his rough luck. He had champio and all he needed to give him his bonus for a 7 letter word was an available N. He was disappointed with my level of sympathy and not a bit grateful for my offer of a swap. Funny how much more cheerful I was the next time we played and I got basque on a triple.

When the second lot of artichokes I’d bought caught only the briefest glimpse of my kitchen on their way to the bin, after festering in the fridge for two weeks, I decided it was time to admit I needed a little help on the motivation and inspiration fronts. So I went on a day‘s cookery course http://www.petitsfarcis.com/ and it worked - well almost. Our tutor took us round the local market to buy what we needed for a great lunch, giving us a lot of useful tips, one of which - about the shape of the dots on aubergines' bottoms indicating whether they'll have seeds in or not - I passed on to a friend. She gave me one in return, which sounds just as unbelievable, so before I try it, I want to know if it's just an April fool's joke: when using only half an avocado, take out the stone, cover it with water and wherever you put the other half of the avocado, it won't discolour - well, I guess she doesn't mean wherever you put it. My new enthusiasm worked until last night that is, when I stayed too long on the computer and just didn't have the energy to do anything but rummage in the fridge, where I found a five-day-old packet of fresh ravioli and against all common sense, cooked it anyway. It's amazing how delicious bread and cheese tastes after that.

I'm often amused at the different reasons women give for dismissing someone as a potential partner. Two of my favourites are: I could never marry anyone who wasn’t a Catholic and from an American : I could never have sex with anyone who hadn’t been circumcised. My own, which makes no more sense, is: I could never be interested in anyone who couldn‘t spell. (fool that I am not to have realised that if I’d married someone who couldn’t spell, I could win every scrabble game) What we really mean is we haven’t been asked by a non-Catholic, uncircumcised or dyslexic and if and when we are, the only really important question we ask ourselves is: ‘do I fancy him?’

If only I were a bit more ... or less

2007-10-23T05:38:00.000-07:00

A recent post of Wendy’s (cursed with an okay memory) really struck a cord with me when she said that she‘d like to be a bit cleverer, or a bit less clever so she wouldn‘t care.

I so know what she means. I’d rather be cleverer obviously, but otherwise I’d like a self-defence mechanism - like deteriorating eye-sight, which puts a nice soft focus on wrinkles - that made me completely unaware that I wasn’t as clever as other people. Her post reminded me of something I started ages ago after reading Dorothy Parker and feeling depressed that I’d never write anything that good. So I started a limerick about this yearning to be cleverer, trying to incorporate the witty retort she sent to her editor who was chasing her for copy while she was on her honeymoon: Too fucking busy and vice versa. A week later, I was still staring vacantly at my pathetic two lines: Oh I wish I were Dorothy Parker/Though the differences couldn’t be starker…

I went to pottery classes once, but I didn’t want to make the stupid little mug with a finger and thumb patterned rim that the tutor recommended - if I couldn’t make a Grecian urn I wasn’t making anything, but I couldn’t, so I didn‘t.

I know someone who deals with his inadequacy by not only comparing himself with less intelligent, less clever people, but actually seeking out their company just to make himself look good. I tried that but I couldn’t find any. No, I compare myself with gifted people and consequently am doomed to a permanent feeling of inadequacy.

Here are a few more gems from Dorothy Parker’s repertoire that I wish I'd written , although it wasn‘t just her one-liners that I liked. She also wrote some very sad short stories:

on being challenged to use the word horticulture in a sentence:
You can drag a horticulture, but you can't make her think.

I'd rather have a bottle in front of me, than a frontal lobotomy.”

Beauty is only skin deep, but ugly goes clean to the bone

I dream of a rural life - raising cheques.

Salary is no object; I want only enough to keep body and soul apart.

Plus jamais

2007-10-19T03:13:00.000-07:00

Uh oh, we’ve attracted the attention of the nutter in the group. We‘re trying to keep a low profile, but we’re doomed the minute we open our mouths in reply to the lone traveller opposite and she realises we’re English. She wants us to know that she hopes England will beat France in the world cup rugby semi-final the next day and whispers conspiratorially that she’ll tell us why later - when we’re alone. Sssh, we’re trying to blend in on our coach trip to Bordeaux, not incite French xenophobia.

I can see I’ve been deluding myself. I am easily fazed after all, as I had been the previous day by my loved one’s helpfulness. I was looking for reassurance that we were getting out at the right station because there were no signs anywhere, so as we step off the train I say anxiously "I've never seen that before; I've never seen a station that isn't signposted, have you ever seen that before?" “Oh yeah,” he says, raising his chilled-out state to correspond with my panicked one, “during the war, they took down all the station names so that if the Germans arrived, they wouldn't know where they were.” Hmm, right.

The coach makes a pit stop and, as threatened, we’re taken aside to learn why Sonja wants England to win. She has suffered at the hands of the French. She had Russian parents and their name condemned her to a childhood of abuse. I ask if that isn’t kids everywhere - exploiting a difference, but she’s having none of it, saying they called her a dirty Russian even after she left school. As far as she’s concerned the French are arrogant racists. Oh well done les Anglais. Now we're no longer Billy No-mates, but have been adopted by the outsider who’s come to bury, not to praise. Fat chance I’ve got of improving my awful French if no one speaks to me.

Back on the coach, she playfully punches my loved one’s arm at frequent intervals to announce an ever-increasing rugby score, until by the end of the journey she’s predicting a 40 - 0 win for us. My loved one begs me to change places with him, but it's every man for himself and I’m staying put.

Dinner is where it’s supposed to happen - nice people, good food and plenty of wine. I don’t believe it! It’s like being dropped into a Glaswegian pub just before turning out time. They’re all from Marseille and I can’t understand a word - well just one actually, which comes from the large lady opposite, who talks a lot about what she likes to mange, but she pronounces it like the disease dogs get. If only Sonja were on our table. She’s spent a lifetime proving she’s as good as anyone else, so she speaks posh and pronounces every word slowly and precisely. I resolve to ask questions, get in first, throw in a few ah bons and I’ll be home and dry and no one will know I haven’t the faintest idea what’s going on. I can see that the lady I address is thinking “what the …. language is that“, but her politeness allows only her eyebrows to express it. And what's with all this water? An ocean of wine on the doorstep and they’re drinking water.

I’m doing no better the next day when a woman thinks I’m suggesting her ducks are sick when I ask if they're mallards, or when we visit an underground 4th century church. While my loved one is engaged in taking photos, I adopt a stance designed to repel all boarders to protect me from passing conversationalists. It doesn’t work and, though I haven’t picked up exactly what, someone is asking me what I think of something and from his expression it seems to be about how amazing everything is. While my brain is scrabbling round for some vocabulary that might be appropriate to a 4th century underground church, my mouth has decided that I‘ll never live that long, opens of its own accord and says simply “yes”. If this continues I’ll be known as the woman who can’t say no.

But lunchtime brings a stroke of luck, when I sit next to the only other foreigner on the tour - an Israeli - whom I can actually understand. He comes to France for his holidays to escape the rockets at home but apparently they’re nothing compared to the salvos that Sonja fired at him on a previous trip so he’s been enjoying watching her pick on us this time.

We're on a tour of a wine factory and Sonja scents oppression and sets to work to sniff it out and find out how the workers are exploited. Like a hungry lion, she spots the slowest impala, isolates her victim from the rest of the herd, pounces on him and demands to know if he gets the minimum wage. But she‘s somewhat confounded when he tells her he’s well paid.

“Well?” says my loved one on the way home. “It’s been great” I tell him - "the people were lovely - generous about our rugby win and patient with our French and by the end of the tour we were beginning to get tuned in to the accent. But I’m still never doing it again”. “That’s what you said last time” he tells me. “So, you mean that after all that, it’s not my French, but my memory that needs improving”?

Domestic misunderstandings

2007-09-28T04:51:00.000-07:00

Sometimes it’s a mistake to imagine your cosy coupledom means you understand each other. You establish your own special little euphemisms, but just when you think you know exactly what the other one means, the rules change and you’re thrown into confusion. It happened the other day when my loved one came home after meeting an acquaintance at a lunch and we had this bizarre conversation:

Him: Ann’s husband’s a banker
Me: Oh, why?
Him: I don’t know
Me: Well, why didn’t you like him, what did he do to annoy you?
Him: Nothing, I did like him
Me: So why is a wanker
Him: He’s not, he’s a banker, really.

Hold the halo

2007-09-21T04:50:00.000-07:00

A man goes into a motorway service station and orders 2 cups of tea, a sandwich and a scone and says “I‘m sorry, I‘ve only got a £20 note”. The assistant says “don‘t worry, just put back the scone“. That was a joke until I spent a few days travelling on the motorways and realised that it now needs to be a £50 note to be funny.

Our trip up north to bring back Mary, an elderly relative who's taken to falling over quite a lot lately and Billy, her middle-aged autistic son could hardly be touted as the holiday of a lifetime: experience the thrills of congestion-dodging on the M6 motorway as it takes you on your 200 mile journey north, savour the exciting regional cuisine in the picturesque motorway restaurants, marvel at how your money magically disappears without trace and after a well-earned rest, complete the 800 mile round trip with the exhilarating journey in reverse 5 days later - but it still brought on a particularly virulent strain of some kind of -itis, characterised by boredom and general champing at the bit to get on and do something and although it was touch and go at times, with even a short spell on the critical list, I survived.

We’ve done this trip a few times and we know that Billy gets anxious if we don’t stop half a dozen times for a pee and has a phobia about dogs so must always be within running distance of the open car, but this trip proved what I already knew - I’m not cut out for sainthood. It isn’t the looking after that drove me mad - the behind the scenes stuff of making up beds, preparing meals, or even specific requests, is easy - but the uncertainty of what’s expected of you, the hanging about not quite knowing what to do. Are you allowed to sneak off for a quick read, phone call or blog entry or are you doomed to keep them company on the settee or the lawn with your scintillating conversation, which becomes anything but? And if they’re not very responsive to gestures, should you be doing more? And what to do when they get carried away with the minutiae of a story, especially as I’ve never had the courage not to listen when people go on and on, because I’m too scared I’ll be caught out with a test question at the end. My loved one has no such difficulty and having more tricks than a circus pony, managed to snatch a few minutes reverie and cunningly escape detection by answering, when asked “haven’t you noticed that’s what he does?” “ah well, he has an unusual way of looking at things.“ I’d have labelled myself a pessimist until we took a trip out and I put two hours on the parking meter. Our walk lasted 10 minutes, as I should have known it would, as Mary stepped onto the cricket-pitch smooth field and complained that the grass was too uneven for her to walk on and Billy saw a dog (on a lead and heading in the opposite direction). So we went home where Billy could indulge in his compulsive repetitive action of opening and banging shut the door every few minutes, although at night when the front door is locked, he transfers the activity upstairs, when I suspect he waits for the sound of steady breathing to show that sleep is almost upon us to go to the bathroom, banging the door both on his way in and out. One day I met my loved one on the stairs saying he was just popping out to the shop to buy something Mary had asked for. “Give me the car keys” I hissed, “I’ll go, you went out yesterday”. He looked hurt and replied “yes, but it was only to post a letter and I took Billy with me” and pulled another brilliant trick out of his bag by announcing that he ought to go in any case as he’d loaded the garden waste into the car and he was taking it to the tip. Why does he take all the best jobs for himself? Mostly, it’s impossible to tell what’s going on in Billy’s head, except when alcohol or ice-cream are involved, which brings on a broad smile. Although he doesn’t like to communicate, always speaking in a whisper, when asked a question, especially “what do you say?” he answers endearingly “more beer please” and we sometimes forget that he takes everything literally so a request to put an empty wine bottle in the kitchen results in it being placed plumb in the middle of the floor. But when we got back Mary rang and thanked us charmingly, saying “it was more than I dreamed of”. Oh the guilt.

Not quite Casualty

2007-08-16T04:16:00.000-07:00

An awfully small adventure has finally jolted me out of my blog apathy and got me writing this post. At 5 o’clock this morning, for no reason I can think of, I suddenly remember that we haven’t got round to paying our council tax and without meaning to do it aloud, say “oh crikey”. This wakes my loved one, which triggers his automatic response to go for a pee and the next thing I hear is a crunch as something, which turns out to be his head, hits the wall. I run into the bathroom just in time to catch him as he’s about to fall and we land in the bidet. Now whenever I get a shock, my stomach is the first bit of me to react so I spend the next few seconds hoping that I won’t actually be sick. A little thing to remember if you lose consciousness in the middle of a pee is that you’ll also lose interest in where you’re peeing, so I’m holding him on my lap with his foot trapping mine, realising that I’ve somehow got to manoeuvre 75 kilos of dead weight into the recovery position, avoiding the little puddle on the floor, while pulling down a towel from the rail to put under his head. By this time his eyes are closed and he’s making a strange snoring noise so it’s going to have to be a 999 job. I say I think my husband’s having a heart attack and wonder afterwards why I said that because I actually think it might be a stroke, but it’s too late now because as far as the guy on the other end of the phone is concerned, he’s helping me to deal with a heart attack. “Bare his chest” he tells me and I have an utterly blank moment when my brain can’t make the connection between the word and its meaning. “What his chest?” I ask and he has to say it a couple more times before I realise that I'm not familiar with bare used as a verb. Then he says “place the heel of your hand on his chest and put the other one on top of it” but I can’t do that because I’m holding the phone with the other one and it’s one of those tiny phones that are too small to tuck under my chin. All sorts of juggling and instructions ensue and I say “yes, he’s breathing, hang on, no he isn’t,” so he tells me to open his mouth and it’s while I’m trying to prise his teeth apart that he wakes up and says “it’s ok I’m fine". And in the short time I’ve been on the phone, the paramedic has arrived but before I run downstairs to open the door I think that maybe I ought to spare a thought for my loved one’s dignity and struggle his unresisting legs into a pair of boxer shorts. The paramedic runs up the stairs with 3 heavy bags of kit, including a defibrillator, to find my loved one looking faintly bemused and unable to remember anything much of what’s just happened. The paramedic declares that’s he’s fainted, does various tests just in case - blood pressure, reflexes and asks him his name - and I apologise and say I feel a bit foolish calling an ambulance for a fainting fit, but it did honestly seem a lot more serious than that. He’s lovely and reassures me that “no, he collapsed from an unknown cause and you were quite right to call us”, which makes me feel a lot better. Normally my loved one and I take it in turns to get breakfast, but I'm wondering if I should take a few extra turns if he’s going to go to such obvious attention-seeking extremes, or if it really is adventure he's after, I'd be a lot less anxious if he took up white water rafting.

The peasant and the pea

2007-06-27T04:43:00.000-07:00

On Monday I joined the nation’s other masochists to watch our very own Tim on centre court for another roller coaster ride at Wimbledon – heads in our hands when he cocks up a shot, hands in the air when he makes a great one. He starts really well and gives us some exciting tennis, but when rain stops play and looks set to stay for the rest of the day, I decide it’s a good time to try out a new recipe. Unexpectedly, the sun comes back and so does Tim, but it’s too late for me because the oven’s hot and eggs have been broken and beaten. Now I like cooking, but one of my rules for recipe testing is doing it when there’s plenty of time so it’s relaxing and stress-free (the other one is not trying it out on unsuspecting guests but I break that all the time) so now I’m dashing between the kitchen (where the tele doesn’t work and is now only for catching fat splashes) and the other room where it does, to see how Tim’s doing and starting to feel anything but relaxed. Then there’s the recipe itself. A pea and mint torte might seem a strange thing to want to make anyway, so I should say that it wasn’t just the peas that attracted me - it had ricotta and eggs and spring onions and mint and basil and parmesan in it too and looked all gorgeous and golden in the photo next to it. But it called for 5 kg of fresh peas (3kg shelled weight). Yes, 3 kilos of peas. That’s one hell of a pile of peas and as it's supposed to serve 6, that means half a kilo each – more than one pound of peas each. Not even a black hole can eat a pound of peas, so now decision-making has entered the equation. What should I do? My loved one says helpfully “yes that does seem an awful lot of peas”. Dithering between the two rooms I decide to go with my instincts and cut the quantity of peas by half, but there’s the mint still to pick and, what’s this: put half in a food processor – damn now I’ve got to find and assemble that and I can hear the wild applause in the next room. Finally my loved one ambles into the kitchen and says “you haven’t forgotten I’m going out tonight have you?” The kitchen’s a mess, and I’m eating the tart (which tastes plenty pea-y enough actually) alone on its own because I'm too fed up to make anything to go with it, but Tim’s doing well so I suppose two out of three isn’t bad. At 9.20 bad light stops play and our Tim lives to fight another day.

Beware if you’re the chosen one

2007-06-22T07:44:00.000-07:00

One of the speakers we saw at Hay was AC Grayling, who talked about how strange it was that people were prepared to spend an inordinate amount of time thinking about their choice of TV, mobile phone and other gadgets but almost none on why we do and feel what we do and gave a nice little quote from Bertrand Russell: “people would rather die before they think and most do”. Well I tried it recently and I didn’t much like what I came up with. It started with a conversation with my nephew, whose third marriage also looks set to end in divorce, and I thought about how and why couples get together - the reasons seem a lot more complicated than why they split up, which are often simply that having married someone for what they are, we divorce them for what they’re not. When I asked my nephew if there was a common factor in his marriages, he thought not in the wives themselves, who are all completely different, but yes in that they all chose him because he was too shy to approach girls and was flattered by their interest in him. Blimey, does that mean that we’re not as in charge of our destiny as we like to think? I hoped it was mutual attraction and instant recognition of a soul mate that brings us together with both partners being equally enamoured with the other. Of course it must work like that for plenty of people who subsequently get divorced, so I’m not suggesting that being the chosen one spells doom, but when I looked within my own circle of friends and family, the chosen ones didn’t score too highly. Damn, wish I’d spotted that first time round when I was 16, knew nothing, unconfident and malleable - perfect for the control freak who picked me.

Food, glorious food

2007-06-11T14:53:00.000-07:00

It’s 2.30 in the afternoon in Vienna and we’re whisked onto the train, feeling lively, a little pinched in the waistband department after 5 days holiday but, having had a very early, meagre breakfast, hungry. Hooray, it’s lunchtime and as the train scythes its way through the Austrian countryside, we scythe ours through a pastry & vegetable thingy, fish, quail’s egg on spinach, caramel pudding and a bottle of wine. 5.30 and we’re about to see München and be munchin’ afternoon tea – we know we’re going to eat dinner so we really shouldn’t but … 9 o’clock and though the train zips on at a cracking pace, my skirt zip's well and truly stuck – I’ll have to keep my jacket on for dinner despite the heat, although on the positive side the heat has made my feet swell, which means my matching shoes, which normally fall off, stay firmly put. 9.30 and we’re eating smoked salmon, veal, potatoes, veg, cheese, peaches in liqueur, coffee, and drinking another bottle of wine. An image pops into my mind from that Roald Dahl film Matilda, where the wicked headmistress catches a boy stealing chocolate cake and orders him to eat the whole thing and every time he thinks he can’t manage another slice, the rest of the kids in the school gather round and chant “Come on, you can do it” and he does and so do we, but now I can’t wait to get back to the compartment where some wonderful elasticated-waist trousers await me. The train carries on towards Paris but we must pause for a light sleep until 7.30 when it’s time for breakfast - fresh fruit, rolls, croissants, and pastries – no damn it, I can’t, I won’t. But of course I do, but it’s OK because elasticated-waist trousers are fine today and with a loose shirt over the top, no one will ever know. 12.30 and Arras and brunch approach with more smoked salmon and scrambled eggs, lobster, whirly potatoes, tarte tartin and more wine. Another image pops into my head – ducks and geese being force-fed with funnels to make foie gras. 3.30 and we’ve crossed the Channel and it’s time for champagne, strawberries and cream, warm scones with more cream, sandwiches and delicious little cakes. It’s 5 o’clock in the afternoon and we’re disgorged from the train - they’ve done their job, we’re nicely fattened for Christmas, need no more care and can pick up our own luggage now. God, it’s Murder on the Orient Express.

Hay Fever

2007-06-02T16:17:00.000-07:00

It’s weird how they always come together
Bank holiday weekends and shitty weather
Making festival fields in Hay-on-Wye
Tailor-made for hippopotami

It’s weird when you try to be effective
Reduce your carbon, be more selective
When the size of that footprint can’t compare
With your dirty great muddy ones everywhere

BUT, once you’ve rally-driven your car through the quagmire, parked and squelched your way to the marquees you will have a good time.

I love the Hay Festival, although as it gets bigger every year it loses some of its cosiness - this year the artists had their own entrance and chilling-out area – and now we can’t mingle with thingy, you know, the one in that TV programme, what’s it called? Of course, they’re all there to flog their books and a few are clearly not cut out as speakers, but most are enthusiastic and passionate about their subject. Up in the town itself are the dozens of bookshops, where, among the dusty shelves, I bought a couple of those little blue Teach Yourself books. Quite when I’ll get round to teaching myself Welsh I’m not sure, but the possibility of being able to break what seems like a secret code was irresistible and I couldn't do without the Teach Yourself to Think book! And a snippet from another purchase by Sebastian Faulkes under a section on spoof adverts – this one from Jane Eyre: Married woman, 32, recently certified, seeks loft conversion specialist.

So, there we are, queuing for one of the sessions, when a small group of people go straight to the entrance of the venue. A woman rushes up and says in her best Cheltenham accent “excuse me, I wonder if you can tell me why you think it’s all right to sail past all these people to the front of the queue.” They all look slightly bemused and one says, pointing to another “because … he’s the speaker and we’re taking him to the stage”.

It’s hard to convey just how funny stand-up comedy is – as the saying goes you had to have been there – when so much depends on timing and facial expressions, but if you get the chance to see Sarah Kendall, take it. A young Australian girl did the Saturday evening slot - more of a typhoon than breath of fresh air - starting her routine saying she’d just met the famous speaker Eric Hobsbawm in the bar and gushed to him that she’d studied him at uni. “Oh, really” he responded, “and what did you learn”? “Errm”. And, describing her first visit to Scotland, when the friend she was staying with said that as it was 6 o’clock they ought to go inside because the midges would soon be out, thought he’d said midgets and imagining a troupe of dwarfs tumbling around doing tricks asked “why, what do they do”? “Oh, they just bite you – I had a couple in bed with me this morning”…..and on and on – trust me, it was funny.

And salesperson of the year award goes to our B & B landlady who, when asked about providing dinner as advertised on her website, wrinkled her nose and said “well, yes, but there are so many good places you can eat round here …”

A few of my least favourite things

2007-05-18T05:15:00.000-07:00

I stopped mid sentence the other day saying “if there’s one thing that drives me mad, it’s…” because I realised there isn’t one – others include:

1. Packaging – it has the tenacity of a bit bull terrier, repulsing all attempts to break in with nails, teeth and brute force and yields only when you’ve fetched a knife and inflicted grievous bodily harm; it’s four times the size of the contents: beribboned boxes with fancy writing don’t reduce the disappointment of finding 6 measly chocolates sitting brazenly inside, or the irritation of vitamin pills barely covering the bottom of the container; the sheer quantity of it is absurd – a printer already swaddled in polystyrene by Amazon is then bubble wrapped and re-boxed by the courier, all of which ends up in the garage, making the possibility of ever using it (the garage that is) to house the car even more remote; and I hate those infuriatingly shaped grip-resistant shampoo and household cleaner containers – you just want a quick splodge of Cif to deal with the stain on the floor but as you bend down it slips from your grasp and the splodge is neatly diverted to your clothes.

2. Skinny girls who delight in ostentatiously stuffing their faces when they’re out, while declaring they can eat absolutely anything and not put on an ounce, when in truth they don’t eat breakfast, rarely lunch and starve themselves for three days if they do put on an ounce. Why would they rather be thought lucky than take the credit for working their socks off for such a result?

3. Interviewers who allow their interviewees, especially politicians, to sidestep their questions with mealy-mouthed replies like “before I answer that I’d just like to say” and then go on to make the speech they’d planned on making from the beginning. It seems so feeble not to be able to shut them up and insist they answer the question – isn’t that their job?

4. People who say “to cut a long story short” and then don’t. Or those whose generosity knows no bounds in providing you with every detail of the background to their story, including their own checking references to prove that something couldn’t have happened on the Tuesday as they first told you, or the Monday in fact, because they’ve just remembered that Mrs Marsh was visiting her daughter when it happened, so it must have been Wednesday, because that’s the day she always visits. Honestly, you don’t have to go to so much trouble for me, really.

4. Elusive pens. How is it possible to buy pens in fours or fives, every couple of months and still have days when the house can’t throw up a single one. Sure there are any number of crappy ones - the free or abandoned ones – they sit obediently in the holders dotted about the house and never go missing, or even attempt to hide as a sort of test to see if I might just miss them - yesterday I had to use just such a one to write a birthday card - but all the good ones, the carefully chosen for their fine writing ones, are nowhere to be seen. I’m not accusing anyone of course, but I do wonder if my loved one has the same problem.

5. Calling from another room. When the kids were young and forever asking or telling me something from somewhere else, I automatically responded with “don’t call from another room”, but having told my loved one this rule, he now uses it against me – now hang on, it’s my rule for others, it doesn’t mean I can’t do it.

6. Instructions which, to save manufacturers from printing in 27 different languages, consist of a fuzzy little drawing with arrows pointing in vague directions. One word is worth a thousand pictures to me. I like sensible instructions like: ‘take the first left after the big white house, turn right at the wiggly shaped roundabout, and keep going till you come to the traffic warden dishing out parking tickets…’.

I’m tagging Riviera Writer and Gillie B to tell us what drives them mad.

Happy birthday!

2007-05-10T12:21:00.000-07:00

It would have been Rob's birthday today and I was feeling fine - a few reflections on how such a sunny natured little boy, who would enter into the spirit of the game so wholeheartedly when I coaxed him into doing something through his teddy bear that I sometimes used to wonder who was kidding who, managed to turn into such a stresshead, but nice thoughts, when wham, I got a text from his father reminding me that last year Rob spent his birthday at the Royal Marsden hospital in London. Oh yeah, the prognosis from his local hospital was hopeless so we asked for a second opinion and the appointment was for the 10th May. We had a marvellous reception from smiley doctors, who talked about the wonderful possibilities - radioactive wires in his neck, operations and the like and did lots of tests. Rob came out on such a high, talking about a cure and the following week we got the results - the tumours were embedded in the voicebox and blood vessels - yeah, thanks for the reminder - pass the bottle someone.

It's really not my fault

2007-05-08T11:52:00.000-07:00

My post was pipped yesterday by Cliff writing about whether we should feel guilty for the slave trade. I’d been mulling over a blog about generational responsibility after chatting to American friends who, describing their trip to Ireland, told us how much the Irish hate us because of all the terrible things we did to them, especially allowing them to starve during the potato famine (actually, if that’s true they disguise it very well, but maybe they think the Americans expect a bit of Brit bashing and don’t want to disappoint).

For years I’ve tended to metaphorically hang my head in shame or silently squirm with embarrassment as various nationalities have accused me personally of the most heinous crimes against their people, but some of the rubbish being broadcast during the anniversary of the abolition of slavery celebrations has brought me, far too late I know, to the realisation that I don’t have to accept responsibility for what others have done.

It’s interesting that the most vociferous campaigners for justice often have their own agenda which has nothing to do with human rights, as I saw in an interview recently when a descendant of a slave was demanding compensation from the government, but when asked about the slave trade currently flourishing in Africa and carried on by fellow blacks, she retorted angrily that as far as she was concerned, the African slave trade was not an issue that needed addressing - the obvious conclusion being that it wasn’t so much the principle of the slave trade she was raging against but her own personal loss of culture and the fact that she carried an English name, so tough luck for the thousands of people still caught up in slavery.

And yes, the British Government’s treatment of the Irish was appalling but it can’t be judged by today’s standards. It’s likely that most people had only the vaguest notion of what was happening and there was no Bob Geldoff demanding ‘give me your fucking money’ to help.
But exploitation isn’t confined to race. It happens whenever there are people in positions of power with no laws to control them. As well as the slave trade, plenty of men got rich on child labour, child prostitution was rife in Victorian England, men could beat their wives with impunity, take their goods and deprive of them of their children just because there was no law to stop them.

And if in 50 years’ time the Iraqis feel justified in accusing an American or English person they meet of destroying their country, they’ll never know that a million people protested on the streets of London against the invasion and that Joe Public didn’t have much of a say in what his government did.

Incidentally, the couple mentioned above also suffer their fair share of American bashing. They are the gentlest people you could hope to meet, have lived a simple life on the Riviera for more than thirty years, constantly turn down offers from developers for any or all of their land in order to preserve the environment, but they’re often harangued by people who seem to think they are personally responsible for America’s carbon emissions.

The Taming of the Wild Ones

2007-05-07T03:48:00.000-07:00

It’s bad enough that students are so well fed and kitted out these days that they no longer have any appetite for protest - political or otherwise, that Germaine Greer has matured into a rational debater, saying a lot of what she wrote in her youth was tosh and that David Frost, one of those responsible for that great sixties satire programme That was the week that was is now a Sir and has become the epitome of Establishment, doing grovelling interviews with the likes of the Prime Minister, but now our sports firebrands of yesteryear have tamed their tempers and are willing to sip champagne with anyone who cares to pay the asking price of a lunch with them. So if you’ve got a bit of hero worship going for John McEnroe, Pat Cash and Boris Becker, the newspapers are currently offering you the chance to get up close and personal with them. I feel a bit queasy about both the 'stars' who’d sell such a package and those who’d buy it. Sure it’s fun to meet someone famous by chance and maybe get to know something about them not generally known or bask in their reflected glory for a few minutes but what are the chances of that when you’re sharing the experience with a hundred others and they’re totally on their guard against awkward questions. It may not have been a pretty sight seeing John snarling and spitting at umpires and fans, Pat clambering over the heads of the sedate Centre Court crowd to get to his camp after winning the Wimbledon final or Boris bonking in the broom cupboard, but that’s who they were. Of course maturity brings a dampening down of the fire of battle, but can’t they do it quietly at home in their armchairs? It’s like learning that Arthur Scargill has become an admirer of Margaret Thatcher – I don’t want to know!

The joys of the countryside

2007-04-11T14:32:00.000-07:00

Blinking rapidly as my eyes adjust to the light, I take a peep outside the burrow to see if it’s safe to come out and hey presto, spring’s arrived. Above ground is definitely the place to be.

We’re renting a cottage for a while in a beautiful, peaceful area of Wiltshire, where, my loved one hopes, surrounded by fields of new-born lambs and not much else, he’ll be able to write without interruption. Apart from there being no shop, garage or pub in the village, it’s perfect. Oh, and the fact that the upstairs floorboards creak louder than those in Jamaica Inn, the kitchen isn’t exactly new-age and there’s no central heating. But there are compensations. No really, there are. We can toast our toes by a roaring fire and a community shop (which I think means it’s run by a team of volunteers) in the next village – a mere four miles away - sells groceries, local eggs and vegetables.

Of course being a community shop, community issues take priority, so you might have to wait while these are being discussed, or an extra five minutes while they add up your bill, but when it’s your turn, you too get value for money. They give you free information like where to buy your wood and who’ll cut your grass. You learn that our village used to have a train station until Mr Beeching took his axe to it along with many thousands of other stations in the sixties to control the spiralling cost of the railways, but that you can still catch a train from Pewsey, a town 15 minutes away and get to London in an hour and a half. There’s the Wiggly Bus that goes all round the villages once a day – well you wouldn’t want to go anywhere more than once a day would you? And most scarily of all, you can become a bit of a twitcher and get yourself a book on birds as we’ve done and exclaim excitedly when you spot a yellow hammer, firecrest or skylark. But the icing on the cottage loaf is the large collection of books left for the tenants. Left in the 1940s it’s true, but, nestling among the biographies, classics and novels (just enjoyed one by a previously unknown to me author, Eric Ambler – Britain’s answer to Raymond Chandler apparently), there’s a feast of exotica such as Memoirs of a Bengal Civilian, History of the Behar Light Horse Volunteers, Gas in the Next War (written after the first world war by Major-General Sir Henry Fleetwood Thuillier – who has the same unusual surname as our landlady, but maybe extolling the virtues of gas didn’t endear him to his family and his book got consigned to the servants’ quarters), Tirhoot and its Inhabitants of the Past (published Calcutta 1903) and Shoes of the Fisherman. Would you let your little treasures be taken to bed by any passing stranger?

From the cottage you can see in the distance a white horse carved into the hillside, which seemed the ideal spot to take our Easter visitors when a ‘place of interest involving a walk’ was called for. There are quite a few of these horses around the country and I don’t know if a definitive explanation for them has ever been given. Are they megalomaniac territorial claims of old, guiding points, or just someone with no other outlet for his artistic temperament thinking “here, I could carve something out of this here chalk and everyone for miles around will know that a brilliant artist lives here”? An ordnance survey map showed us the way – the circuitous way that is, which my loved one claimed was chosen by my family and therefore, being a gentleman, he couldn’t dispute and insist on the more direct route. So we tramp up the hill, opening and closing gates to the various fields, negotiating styles and finally find ourselves eyeball to eyeball with the horse, but of course it’s the distance that makes it distinguishable as a horse - from such close quarters it’s just mottled scrubland where even the chalk has lost its dazzling white quality. So, a trifle underwhelmed, we make our way down again via a very long winding, circular path and at the bottom, look up exhausted and, perspective restored, say “wow, isn’t that amazing”.

Blogging Blues

2007-03-19T02:11:00.000-07:00

I’ve been feeling so blue recently that I’ve been unable to keep up my blog. No matter how far down the well I lower the bucket, it comes back empty – not a single thought to quench my parched brain. So my loved one’s shut me in the office and says I’m not allowed out until I’ve written something – anything, so I’m sorry this is only a blog about not being able to write one. For some reason a silly kids’ rhyme is going round in my head, which somehow seems symbolic.

Caw, caw said the rook, high up in the tree
See my fine nest, don’t you envy me?
But the little brown rabbit said who wants a nest?
Why everyone knows that burrows are best.

I think I’ve turned into the little brown rabbit, but burrows aren’t best. Yes, it’s cosy, warm and safe down there, but you get a dark and narrow view of the world. Whereas up in the trees you’ve got perspective, you can see the whole landscape before you, feel the warmth of the sun, with space to spread your wings. I’m quitting this burrow just as soon as I can.

I suppose everyone has their own way of looking for reassurance in moments of insecurity and when mine is about lacking talent or not being very knowledgeable, one of the fun ways I sometimes use is to compose a quiz in my head as I’m going about my tasks, including of course all those obscure facts just gleaned from who knows where and guess what? Yep, I get all the answers right – I’m not so dumb. But it didn’t work this time. No, up pops the uninvited question what’s the capital of Chad?

We’re walking along the road and see this middle-aged man, well dressed, sitting on the steps of a building crying so hard that it looked as though he were holding his chest just to stop his heart falling out. It nearly broke mine.

Just another manic Monday

2007-02-26T13:42:00.000-08:00

I know rants are rubbish - people stop listening when you rant, so rants are wrong, right? But I’m feeling so ranty that I’m going to indulge myself with just a teeny one, because I need to get it off my chest. A few months back Stanfords were advertising The Ultimate New York Sticker book - perfect for two young grandchildren going to New York, but when the books hadn’t arrived after six weeks, I phoned Standfords, who said they were out of stock and not expecting any more in. Well thanks for telling me. Never mind, there’s always good old Amazon, but I didn’t get the choice that usually pops up of used or new – only one used book was available, but as the condition was described as good I ordered it. It was waiting for me when I got back from holiday and ALL THE STICKERS WERE ALREADY STUCK IN. Ok, it did say used, but surely we don't have to deliberate on how used do we? A used cookbook with tomato sauce spilt on the lasagne page doesn’t mean you can’t make lasagne again, but a set of puzzle books with the puzzles all completed, or a DIY book with the diagrams missing? Why would a child want a sticker book if he doesn’t get to stick the stickers in? And in any case, who on earth would sell a sticker book, especially a really, really thin one, which costs £3.99 new, for £14.35, (including shipping costs) without the stickers? But you know the most frustrating thing? I can’t decide what to do about it. I want to complain, but you know that old customer services trick of letting you rant your heart out and then explaining very politely that unfortunately they didn’t quite catch what you said, so would you mind repeating it, knowing full well you can’t summon up that amount of energy again. Well that's what's happend to me - I've blogged away my anger and now I feel I can’t do it again. But if I don’t, they’ll think I’m enjoying the book and that they’ve done me a favour.

Yes I know I promised just the one rant, but this a BOGOF (buy one get one free). Why do companies or banks make you complete yards of information online before they tell you, on the very last click, that you can’t do whatever it is you’re trying to do? So there I was trying to give some money to someone. It’s my money after all – well sort of – Rob left it to me to pass on to a friend – so I only needed the bank to honour the cheque I was sending, but it was returned with some incomprehensible reason given for being refused, as was the second one. So I tried an online transfer, patiently entering my details, the recipient’s details, codes, passwords, my favourite dessert etc. each entry accepted and inviting me to click ‘next’ – until the final one, when up popped a notice telling me that in order to protect me from fraud it wouldn’t allow me to do this. It turns out that the amount exceeded the limit, for a single transaction, but the bank knew right from the beginning that they weren’t going to authorise a cheque or an online transfer for that amount, so why didn’t they tell me that to begin with? Well why would they when it’s much more fun having their clients visit their local branch begging for their own money.

Addictions

2007-02-15T08:36:00.003-08:00

Like most addictions, this one began innocently enough. You know, just a little, out of curiosity, a couple of times a week, just to see what all the fuss was about. And we liked it - it really helped. Suddenly we could communicate easier, a whole new world of exotica opened up before us and my loved one even claimed it was helpful to his writing.

And then, in no time at all, we were hooked - happy to pay top prices for poor delivery just as long as our craving could be satisfied. And that´s when the big boys stepped in; recognising how many more potential addicts were out there, they delivered a purer drug - faster and cheaper. So now we´re officially registered Broadband addicts.

So what´s the problem you may wonder, if there´s a plentiful supply? Well, we´re on holiday and the island we´re staying on, though only partly a desert - a few dunes and some cantankerous camels - is miserly with its access points. And the withdrawal symptoms are awful. Yes, we´ve got sunshine, bougainvillia cascading everywhere and colourful birds, but I´m sorry this doesn´t cut it. We need our fix so we´re off on the prowl. "Psst, over there, am I imagining it, or does that say Cyber cafe"? We follow the signs, but they lead us back to where we started. The oasis has vanished - it was just a mirage.

And then the cavalry arrive - well the lost battalions of ageing Hitler Youth to be more exact. There are hoardes of them, striding purposefully around on sturdy legs, with walking sticks like Nordic ski poles, in and out of their holiday sites. And where there are Germans, there´s order. And an orderly German holiday development would have Internet, right? Into reception, where Heidi informs us "of course ve haf it. It vill cost 1 Euro for fifteen minutes, but you must not take more zan fifteen minutes ven someone is vaiting". No problem, plenty of time.

I pop my Euro into the slot and the screen springs to life. Now this won´t take a jiffy. Oh dear, I didn´t realise it would take so long to get my blog up only 6 minutes left and here we go just a short post today oh no screen´s flashing a warning that my time´s almost up and it will just cut out, so there´s just time to say

Choices

2007-02-02T01:22:00.000-08:00

When is a result not a result? Answer: when it adds up to less than you thought it would. The mouse problem had to be solved, so my loved one set a trap with a Hershey kiss, but seeing the furry bundle lying dead the next morning it felt more like a Judas kiss. Poor little thing, and next day, another poor little thing, but even worse was this morning’s find – what looked like baby come looking for his mum. Now when we bought the trap there was an option of a device that would drive the mouse away, but since that would probably have been into next door’s house, it didn’t seem a very neighbourly thing to do, so we chose the trap, but I didn’t expect to feel this bad about it.

It's been such a trial

2007-02-01T07:38:00.000-08:00

It’s all over – my jury service that is. I’ve been fired, turned out onto the streets, surplus to requirements. They want a new face, a new point of view, so someone else is using my locker, sitting in my chair, drinking shitty coffee from my cup. Yes, I know, there was a lot of commuting, extortionate parking fees, a lot of hanging about while counsels discussed points of law, but damn it, it was my job and I loved it and I’m going to miss it. And besides, I never got answers to all my questions. The man on trial had nine charges against him ranging from kidnap and rape to intimidation, but he wasn’t some knife-wielding maniac dragging off a stranger, but a pathetic loser and the whole case had an air of tragedy about it. Romeo and Juliet it wasn’t – there were no pretty speeches between love-struck teenagers, just the ugly street lingo of “yeah” and “right” interspersing every other word; no warring families tearing them apart, only a man’s obsession, jealousy and control freakery, which escalated out of control. The victim, a 17 year old, vulnerable girl, whose responses in cross examination tried the patience of everyone in court, took three days to give her evidence, as she chewed her lip, looked at the ceiling with tear filled eyes, contradicted her original statements and when asked why she had or hadn’t done things simply said “I can’t remember” or “I don’t know”. But despite this, or maybe because of this, we all believed her story, which began in the normal way of things: girl meets boy, they go out for a couple of months, she decides she doesn’t like him any more and wants to end the relationship. Sadly for this timid girl, who wasn’t very bright or well educated, she wasn’t allowed to end it and suffered a series of humiliating and terrifying experiences before desperation drove her to tell someone. She told of incidents where the man routinely dumped her out of his car and made her walk home when she refused to have sex; snatched her phone as she stood outside the car and when she put her arm inside the window to retrieve it, trapped it and drove off, making her walk beside the car, telling her “this is what happens when you say no”; and how his friend had helped to kidnap her from her house as she answered the door, bundled her into the car, driven off and raped her. Even then she had not complained to the police, because she blamed herself for what had happened and was too scared to tell her parents. But when the man continued to harass her and on two subsequent occasions sexually assaulted her, she buckled and confessed everything to her father, who called the police. It would need a Miss Marple to solve the mystery of why, when arrested, he told the police that he knew the girl only by sight, had no idea where she lived or worked, she’d never been in his car and he’d never had sex with her. Why did he say that, when it would have been much more difficult to convict him on the rape charge if he’d said the sex had been consensual – giving him no reason to have to scrap his car the day after his arrest? He then made two attempts to intimidate her, threatening harm to her and her young brother if she didn’t drop the charges. He declined the opportunity to take the witness stand or to offer an alibi for the night of the rape and brought no witnesses in his defence. I learned the next day, quite coincidentally, that the figure for rape convictions is less than 6%, so it was remarkable that we did return guilty verdicts, given the unreliability of some of the girl's evidence. Throughout the hearing, we jurors had established a very friendly relationship with lots of shared jokes, biscuits and buns and though there was a huge variation in age, background and character, it was nice to see how everyone listened respectfully to another's point of view, although two of the young lads gave us way too much information on the mechanics of sex in the back of a Peugot 106 (the car used in the rape)! It was all such an interesting experience, even though I was champing at the bit to get back to all the other jobs waiting for me, that I didn’t want it to end. But they couldn’t get rid of me that easily. I left my phone in the locker, so the next day when I went to collect it, I was able to get one last glimpse of the justice system in action.

A late showing

2007-01-17T10:11:00.000-08:00

I was tagged by Cliff on 5 things people don't know about me.

1. I'm a bit slow on the uptake (oh crikey, perhaps people do know). This was on 7th January and it's taken me until now to realise what it meant. Oh, you mean tagged, oh, right, like now you're it, I get it.

2. I like reggae - With a first husband who was really sniffy about music that wasn't opera or classical, I'm ashamed to say that I never admitted liking it, but once I was free I went on my own to Poland and I remember the joyous feeling of stepping off the bus in Cracow and hearing UB40 playing Red Red Wine.

3. I have an irrational fear of getting lost. Once, when I was about 10, on a visit to my Grandmother in London, I lost my way home from the park. I thought I recognised a row of houses, but of course it was just one of hundreds of similar rows of houses. I began to walk quicker, broke into a run and finally weeping hysterically, was stopped by someone and taken to the police station. But most humiliating of all was that I didn’t know my Granmother’s address, so I had to stay at the police station until I was claimed, and when I finally walked into her house many hours later, it was to merciless teasing from the whole family. So now I fantasise about leaving a trail of breadcrumbs to guide me back home, Hansel and Gretal style, but as that’s not very practical, when I go somewhere new, I spend the journey memorising landmarks. If I do get lost, I never quite control the sweaty palms and pounding heart.

4. I did go to Machu Pichu, but I never actually saw it, because my loved one developed altitude sickness and threw up the whole of the train journey, including all over the railway tracks. He tried to insist that I went on without him but somehow the magnificence of the site kind of faded in importance, but one day I hope to give it another go.

5. I get really passionate about bread. I hate that horrible white sliced pap they sell in supermarkets. It doesn't have to be wholemeal, but it has to have some real texture, preferably with bits of grain or nuts in and enough bite to test the roots of your teeth and above all, dense - or as they say in the country - it weighs 'eavy.

My third week of jury service, a new trial and the courtroom's freezing. The judge says "ladies and gentlemen of the jury, I apologise for the room being so cold. If you're cold tomorrow ..." yes, go on your Honour, you'll fix it? "please feel free to add extra layers of clothes". Strange that he can order a man to prison for the rest of his life, but can't order another log on the fire.

Objection, your Honour

2007-01-15T12:28:00.000-08:00

A nephew of mine once went to Court to give evidence for the defence, causing his step-father to comment that with defence witnesses like that, there was no need for a prosecution. The memory popped into my mind again as I started my stint of jury service last week, not because the defence was bad, just that the police and the prosecution lawyer looked a whole lot dodgier than the defendant. The prosecution lawyer, looking about 18, with a wig and gown from a dressing-up box, constantly misplaced things and had to ask the defence lawyer for copies of documents and managed to make laboratory rhyme with lavatory every time he said it. Observing fellow jurors is as interesting as the trial itself, from our youngest member - a beautiful girl with a porcelain complexion, who provided a little glamour and drama, draping herself seductively around the radiator whilst the rest of us sat round the table enthusing about how much we were looking forward to this duty, by declaring languidly that she’d had to turn down film work to do this, so it certainly wasn’t a joy for her and disputing the randomness of the selection process, because 3 weeks earlier her father had been called, a week later, her mother and now her; to the chronically shy man who didn’t say a single word – not even his verdict, which he wrote on a piece of paper. It’s all very friendly and helpful with a little talk beforehand on what we should do (tell if anyone approached us about the case we were trying, or if we recognised anyone, write a note if we wanted to go to the toilet or felt ill) and shouldn’t do (talk to the judge, loiter on the front steps - that was for the lawyers, take our phone into court – not because it might go off and disturb proceedings, but it’s for the 12 jurors only to consider the evidence and a mobile phone represents the rest of the world) and what expenses we could claim (sadly, not my £14 town centre parking fee). It took an age for things to swing into action on the first day and it was almost one o’clock before the jury was selected and sworn in, when we were promptly sent to lunch. Back at 2 pm and at 3 pm the judge said he was going to be merciful – to the jury that is – and spare us any more technical analysis of black plastic bags and gave us a 15 minute break. At 3.45 he sent us home for the day to rest our over-stretched brains – with less than a 2 hour working day, no wonder the law is such a popular profession! There was a bizarre little ceremony for 3 days of a clerk calling out my name to check if I’d arrived, rather than pointing out on the first day that ticking off your name on the list at reception wasn’t an optional extra. I hadn’t spotted this list, being a rather unobservant sort, but keep wondering if he'd have done that every day for the remainder of my jury service if I hadn’t made enquiries as to why I was being ‘picked on’. Two surprising new changes in the law were both relevant to the case I was on – that of a guy charged with possession of heroin with intent to supply. Firstly, the jury can now be told about previous convictions, in this case three, for possession only and secondly, the police are now eligible for jury service and we had a policeman on our jury. I’m almost ok with the first one, but not at all comfortable with the second – especially as the defence’s main argument centred around whether the police, in testing only one of the heroin bags for DNA (the heroin wasn’t found at his house), had done a thorough enough job. As you can imagine, our policeman was keen to emphasise the effort the police would have gone to to secure a successful prosecution, so no surprise that he found the defendant “guilty as sin”! But since so many cases rely on police testimony, I’m not convinced that another policeman can be totally impartial.

We're out and about and see a cute dog or cat and no matter that their paws, jaws and bums have been in contact with all sorts of things, we're happy to stroke them and make a fuss of them; we have a little terracotta pot on our patio with a terracotta mouse eating a piece of terracotta cheese - ah, that's so cute. Yet I go to the cleaning cupboard yesterday, where I find evidence of a mouse's recent visit and what do I do - I freak out, take everything out, throw out anything that's obviously been nibbled (for God's sake it's only disinfectant impregnanted floor cloths), scrub, bleach and my loved one comes back with a mouse trap. I think I have a problem with perspective here.

an ugly picture from my scrap book

2007-01-07T16:01:00.000-08:00

A truly shocking, gut-wrenching, unbelievable thing happened yesterday. I had a fight. Ok, not a slugging it out in a bar-room sort of brawl, but plenty of cardigan pulling, wrist wrenching and loud, loud shouting in the street. It's never happened to me before and now I’m cried-out, shell-shocked and incredulous that the normally non-confrontational person that I am could have been involved in such an exhibition with someone with whom I’m generally on the friendliest of terms. I can’t excuse it because I shouldn’t need to respond to everything that frustrates me, especially when the other one’s having a tough time. I can’t really explain it either, except to say that once I’d made the decision to speak up, I became a terrier and couldn’t let go. So when a remark on the usual subject of the hurt she believes has been done to her came up, an inner voice asked if I was going to be a gutless wimp again and let it go unchallenged. So I challenged it. And she stormed out. I should have let her go, I know I should have let her go and then there would have been no fight. I don't know whether it was an act of vanity or insanity that persuaded me I could sort everything out if I could just stop her stomping off. So I followed her and for half a mile we were engaged in what seemed like a life and death struggle to win - for me the time to tell her that her obsession had made her blind to the hurt she'd inflicted on others, for her the right to refuse to listen. I lost the fight and I lost the right to claim to be a rational person. Because of an overwhelming frustration at constantly being accused of a bias that isn't there, at seeing a good looking woman with charm and energy look on everything in life so negatively and of remembering Rob’s uncomplaining fight for life, when he’d have sold his soul for just one of those days she sees as pointless, I lost control and that makes me feel very, very depressed.

Resolutions for 2007

2007-01-02T12:26:00.000-08:00

1. Yes, that old hardy perennial - lose weight. I started fantasising about how it would feel to be back to my lowest ever weight, and remembered Gary Linekar’s quip when asked what was the least he’d ever weighed and he said 7 pounds, so no, not that low. But I’ve just tried to reckon up how many times I’ve lost 10 pounds and I can’t, but I’m obviously losing the same 10 pounds, otherwise I would weigh 7 pounds. I’m not actually that much overweight – If I were melted down and re-distributed I’d be quite happy.
2. Stop wasting food. This isn’t one of those minor adjustments to daily life sort of resolution, but a really life-changing one, because my problem isn’t waste, but indecision - I’m the most indecisive person I know (I think) - so it doesn’t mean eating that extra slice of quiche instead of throwing it away – the sin is in buying it in the first place. If I stopped wasting food I’d have to plan and that’s not something that comes easily to me. Do I fancy chicken or pork, roasted vegetables, salad or broccoli? – tell you what let’s buy it all and I’ll sort it out later but then I find I didn’t buy the oranges to make that pork thingy, so have to make something else instead, which means half the ingredients I did buy are wasted. What should I get for the guests we’re expecting? I could make one of my yummy fish pies because I know David loves fish, but then again Mary doesn’t, so should I make a meaty pie too? And our little Johnny doesn’t like spicy stuff, so should I get something bland as well, and ooh yes, should I get ice-cream, for those unhealthy ones who don’t like fresh fruit too – peaches, pineapple or pears? – not sure, better take them all - oh and what sort of snacky things to eat before the meal? FOR CHRIST’S SAKE, SIT DOWN - THINK ABOUT IT FOR A WHILE – THEN MAKE A LIST. Now that’s something I’m excellent at, there are more lists (oh you know, DIY jobs, people to write to, bills to pay, trips to plan etc) in our house than items of cutlery. So how hard can it be?
3. Change my reading habits. I start with a feast of books, a little notebook by my side to jot down memorable things and a determination that this time it will be different – I will not only r-e-a-d s-l-o-w-l-y, but have several books on the go at once for different moods and times. But instead of genteel bite-size pieces - admiring the presentation as I go, savouring every morsel - once I’ve decided on the tastiest one, I shovel it in like a ravenous peasant, devouring as much as possible in one sitting, choking on the last few crumbs – with the occasional burp as a reminder of the flavour. Then, to know what it really tasted like, I’ve got to read it all again. This new book Previous Convictions is helping me because each chapter is a separate topic, so there’s a natural stopping point, but when it’s gone, I’ll have to go solo.
4. To blog more regularly – I've recently added a couple more blogs to my favourites - Everything is Electric, Wenders and Little Red Boat and I feel really disappointed when I look in and there isn’t a new entry. It made me realise that if you want your readers to stick with you, you have to make it worth their while clicking on to your site.

So, I'm not going to mention how long my New Year resolutions usually last - this year will be different.

Last Post

2006-12-31T11:05:00.000-08:00

for 2006 that is. Can’t let the year slip away without saying thank you to my few loyal readers. I started almost a year ago to give me a bit of confidence to express an opinion (any opinion actually, since the worst insult I ever had was from a relative who described me as harmless) and I said I didn’t care if no one read it. But I lied. It is fun writing it, but that’s as nothing compared to the thrill I get when you, dear reader, bother to take the time and trouble to leave a comment – up yours is acceptable too - well, almost!

Although our recent dismal performance in the Ashes was a bit embarrassing, if winning celebrations have to include the repellent gloating that the Aussies have just indulged in along with the endless jokes about what a useless bunch the other team are, I think I’d rather we carry right on being losers. Besides, they can’t have it both ways – either they won because they’re geniuses, or because we were hopeless – which is it?

I’m a big fan of AA Gill and am often helpless with laughter at his very funny, if somewhat cruel, restaurant reviews (firm but fair is his view), but it’s his more serious pieces that really show what a marvellous writer he is. Mr & Mrs Cliff gave me Gill’s latest book Previous Convictions for Christmas – a collection of his articles on people and places - and I’m caught up in alternating waves of delight and despondency with it – delight at such a great read, but despondent when, though the same is true for any other writer I care to compare myself with, I realise that I couldn’t write even one sentence as good as he fills every page with (see, as if to confirm it, I’ve committed the sin of ending that one with a preposition). Even in the Foreword there’s an entertainingly told account of his dismay, on the day he received the proof of his book, at finding that the title had been used before, by none other than his first wife’s famous father Cyril Connolly, which he describes as follows: there is no pain in the literary world as masochistically, self-despisingly painful as title envy. All authors have a secret list, a buried hoard of sure-fire, brilliant, memorable, posterity-guaranteeing titles – if only they could come up with the small inconvenience of a book to act as a plinth. He rang his ex wife to explain that he had no idea her father had used it previously (I must find out the dates involved in that story, as you wonder why he wouldn’t follow the fortunes of a famous ex relative), but she persuaded him that he should use such a good title and keep it in the family. And if the rest of the book is as good as the first chapter - discovering his hidden hippie at Glastonbury - I’ll be well pleased.

Finally got round to picking up Rob’s personal possessions and one of the most poignant was a book by Brandon Bays on her successful fight against cancer, that he used to take on all his day-long treatment sessions. It made me smile because we’d arrive at the hospital, he’d pull out his book but he could never stop talking long enough to read more than half a page. Maybe if he had …

Liked the following snippet of family conversation:

J to S: ‘what are you up to tomorrow?’

S (with a groan): ‘gotta babysit Ella’.

Nothing wrong with not enjoying the prospect of babysitting, but isn’t it a bit odd when it’s your own baby?

Happy New Year.

Crime and Punishment

2006-12-19T13:43:00.000-08:00

There’s nothing like an unticked Christmas To Do list to push the mind’s panic button into finding a handy escape route and indulging in contemplation of total irrelevancies, such as the subject of punishment. Not the straightforward domestic, grounding the kids sort, or even the manacling of the town’s maniacs variety, but the sort we secretly reserve for those we believe have wronged us and the punishment we think ‘fits the crime’. Most of us like to believe that ‘what goes around, comes around’ but if that’s true, why doesn’t the greedy opportunist who treads on anyone to get what he wants end up penniless in a damp bedsit and the mean-spirited person, alone and friendless, instead of escaping scot-free? Well just maybe, these people get a much harsher punishment than anything we dream up for them, because they spend their entire lives never understanding the effect their actions have on others, or why they receive less than they think they deserve and bitter that respect and admiration always fall short of what they regard as their right.

Fascinating little piece of history and psychology rolled into one today on breakfast TV. The voice of the Speaking Clock has been changed – the cut glass accents of the females and the one of the authoritative Shakespearean male have gradually given way to this latest, much warmer, friendlier version. I don’t recall ever ringing the Speaking Clock and wondered who on earth did, but some research showed that it’s at two minutes to five in the afternoon, when all those office workers are preparing to clock off, that the largest number of calls are clocked up, making sure that no one has to take a long call before 5 0’clock ticks round.

Funny thing about blogs - my loved one noted that a blogger we know wrote better than he spoke! Of course, isn’t that one of the reasons for doing it?

Look what the wind blew in

2006-12-08T11:14:00.000-08:00

Listening to the reporter from Sky News asking witnesses to the tornado that hit London yesterday, to describe their area and how they felt about the terrible damage that had been wreaked upon it, I wondered what would have happened if such questions had been asked in a courtroom. I can’t help feeling that before they could respond that they were “agog” and “aghast” that a tornado had struck their “very nice area, with a real mix of people” (as if tornados usually strike only nasty places that deserve it) someone would have jumped up and said “objection your Honour, she’s leading the witness”. A consoling factor of this unusual phenomenon apparently, was that it had brought the residents together as a community, including a lady who hadn’t been out of her house for two years, who’d finally seen the light of day when her roof was blown off

New York, New York

2006-12-07T08:38:00.000-08:00

Yes, it really is a wonderful town – the buzz it gives you is like no other, swivelling your head fast and furious to scuttle across roads safely, take in skyscraper marvels, watch convoys of siren screeching NYPD cop cars racing by, all the while being entertained with snatches of local speak that sound straight out of a TV sitcom. We also got to eat a delicious steak and see a Broadway show – a slick, fast and funny version of The Producers, with flawless performances from every member of the cast. On my list of Must Do recommendations would be a guided tour arranged by Apple Greeters - an organisation with the great idea of employing volunteers to show you around whatever part of New York you want. Our Greeter was a delight, her inspiring motive for volunteering simply wanting everyone to love New York as she did. She showed us Greenwich Village with infectious enthusiasm, regaling us with amusing anecdotes about her conversion from Irish Catholic to Jew, a sermon by her Rabbi on the dangers of condensing a story into a single sound bite, such as the “blue dress” in the Monica Lewinsky affair, not knowing that Monica was in the congregation, and the many protests against the war in Iraq in Union Square which go unreported in the press. Her view of President Bush as an ignorant man whom she was embarrassed to have representing her, contrasted sharply with that of a taxi driver, who thought him a good and intelligent man. On my What Not To Do list would be don’t kid yourself the trip is a money-saving exercise. Ok, the pound now buys almost two dollars and some things are cheaper, but with the tax on your purchases, the cost of the flight and the skyscraper cost of hotel rooms, you’ll need to spend a heck of a lot to save anything, so just enjoy the New York experience. What I love best about the city is the stunning art deco architecture. It may sound a bit wet, but Grand Central Station made me cry – it really is beautiful and buying train tickets seems almost incidental in a setting of such grandeur, tranquillity (yes, I know it’s crowded but it was somehow tranquil) and eating lunch to an awe inspiring light show played to the music of The Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairy. And the Empire State building - one of the few places that doesn’t look better lit up at night. Someone once said they always took their lunch under the Eiffel Tower because it was the only place in Paris where he didn’t have to look at the damn thing but I didn’t want to go to the top of the Empire State Building precisely because it’d be the only place I couldn’t see it. And on our last night, dinner in Little Italy – as good a meal as I’ve ever eaten in Italy itself but with the added bonus of some New York humour thrown in.

A Tribute

2006-11-21T10:23:00.000-08:00

Life has sometimes felt a bit sunless since Rob died, but then along come acts of kindness, like the one that happened on Sunday, which lift the shutters on your heart and throw a few sunbeams your way. A couple of Rob’s friends, who have a place way out in the country with enough land and generosity to have allowed him to bring his friends and race around like kids firing air rifles at inanimate objects, generously organised a tree planting tribute to him. It was a touching little ceremony – I got to cut the ribbon round the tree, Rob’s friends said warm words about him and explained that they’d chosen a Russet apple as the most appropriate tree to commemorate Rob’s life because of its crisp and nutty flavour, with blossom in May (Rob’s birthday) and fruit in September (the month he died). Rob had often spoken admiringly of their house, which dates back to Oliver Cromwell’s time and it was easy to understand his fascination with it – great fireplaces, exposed wooden beams, tiny staircases on different levels and frequent smacks on the head for anyone who forgot to duck when entering a room. When his friends first rented it (at 50p a week), it was about to be demolished, but they liked it so much they restored it at their own expense and then applied to buy it. But the local authority turned out to be somewhat duplicitous, contending that because the house had been restored so authentically, it was now a listed building and so increased its valuation to include not only the improvements already done, but a newly thatched roof put on while buying negotiations were under way. But unlike Oliver Cromwell, who had plenty of people to point the way as he rode round the country gathering support for his army, we had only our mobile phones when we got lost and they showed ‘no network coverage’ when we tried to ring for directions. It’s obviously time Vodafone came out of their time warp, or maybe they think them country folk don’t talk to each other.

Who started it?

2006-11-14T02:19:00.000-08:00

Chatting with some friends over a sunny Sunday lunch brought on a discussion about the most common triggers of domestic disputes and they seem to divide by gender. We know that women complain that men won't express their feelings (they do actually, they just haven’t got our stamina for it - bored after a mere half an hour)! But apparently men are driven mad by the equally maddening and almost exclusively female habit of refusing an offer of a chocolate bar say, when you've stopped at the garage for petrol, or an ice-cream when you're on a trip somewhere, but almost before they can take a bite, we want some – “just a bite, no, no, not that much, just a bite; well I didn’t ask for one because I didn’t want a whole one, just a measly couple of bites of yours”. When guests are expected, women are at a loss to understand why, when there are newspapers strewn over the floor and the loo needs cleaning, men decide that the top priority is painting the window sill. And who’s ever heard a man say “we’re obviously lost, let’s stop and ask the way”? It infuriates them that women give up so easily, when with a bit of patience it’s easy enough to‘re-orient’ themselves via the sun/stars/map/compass. But an argument that can be started by either sex, where there's an equal amount of spleen vented, is on the subject of how to spend your money - at Christmas time especially. I’m sure there must be couples out there who have no problem agreeing spending priorities and who love discussing what present to buy for whom, shopping for it, showing it off and covering it in a frothy film of artwork, but judging by the number of times you hear the well worn phrase “all I said …” during the run up to Christmas, suggest there can’t be too many of them.

I'm reading Vernon God Little and love the colourful way Vernon's feelings are described. I thought you could only crane your neck but what about this: 'when the rubbing of her thighs has faded, I crane my nostrils for any vague comfort, a whiff of toast, a spearmint breath. But all I whiff, over the sweat and the barbeque sauce, is school - the kind of pulse bullyboys give off when they spot a quiet one, a wordsmith, in a corner. The scent of lumber being cut for a f..... cross'. Aren't you just right there with him?

Literary Mating

2006-11-03T02:20:00.000-08:00

You’d need a GSOH – a Scouse one as it happened – to launch a lonely hearts column with a first entry that reads: ‘67-year old disaffiliated flaneur picking my toothless way through the urban sprawl, self-destructive, sliding towards pathos, jacked up on Viagra and on the lookout for a contortionist who plays the trumpet’. But David Rose, the Liverpudlian advertising director for the London Review of Books (the biggest selling literary magazine in Europe) accepted the ad 8 years ago and his baby has developed into a unique column, attracting an increasing number of admirers. That they appear like so many nutters, competing like peacocks to attract a mate with elaborate displays of silliness and eccentricity can be seen as refreshingly different or a smidgeon scary depending on whether you want to read something more interesting than the clichéd GSOH who WLTM their alter egos, or the darker sort such as: ‘Don’t let distance come between us. Or metal bars. Or restricted access. Or the magic sweeties that make the night terrors go away. Write now to bubbly (others say “Maximum Security” but what do they know?) F, 34, before the clowns tell her to do things the clowns shouldn’t do.’ It’s not only funny, but clever too, because the contributors get to hide their fear of rejection behind the pretence that it’s just a game, although at 80p a word, it looks as though the man behind the idea has the most fun. Mr Rose says that he does get some complaints from people who tell him the magazine’s rubbish because they didn’t receive a single response, but you’d have to be the ultimate optimist to expect a reply to this one: ‘Must all the women in my life take the witness stand? Serial embezzler, gangster, fly-tipper and – crucially for the prosecution against an otherwise watertight defence – bigamist (M, 48) WLTM easy-going, dizzy fems to 50 who don’t ask too many questions (it’s a busy trip – I’ll be back on Tuesday)’, or the one that captures a stereotypical image with simply: ‘I am an accountant’. But the one that most intrigues me is: ‘Indifferent Woman – blah, blah, blah, go ahead and write – like I care’. Being married to a Scouser, I know what clever blokes they are, so I’m sure Mr Rose knows there’ll be a response even if it’s not to the advertiser. Will more people buy the magazine for the high-minded literary content or the adverts? - like he cares. And a bonus is a new book called They Call Me Naughty Lola containing the best of the adverts.

A Senior Moment

2006-10-29T14:18:00.000-08:00

If you’ve ever boarded a plane and wondered why, after the usual half hour’s feverish activity of seat finding, stuffing of overhead lockers and fastening of seat belts, the plane still doesn’t take off and when the pilot explains that the reason for the delay is that a couple of passengers have failed to show up for the flight so their luggage has to be unloaded, you’ve then wondered what sort of idiots could be so stupid and irresponsible, I can tell you. It’s people like me – apparently sensible, responsible citizens, who arrive at the airport in plenty of time, check the board regularly for information, but who, for some unknown reason, believe their flight is the one that leaves an hour later than the one they have tickets for and so remain blissfully unaware that a couple of hundred passengers are sitting on the runway wishing them all sorts of mischief and when they present themselves at the departure gate for the flight they think they’re on, stare gormlessly in disbelief at being told they’ve missed their flight. You have to hand it to British Airways though, they let us on the flight and even put our luggage on a later one and delivered it to the apartment the next day.

still on the change

2006-10-20T00:40:00.000-07:00

About that change of car I mentioned – we’d just concluded the deal when up steps a guy who wants to sell us extended warranty and insurance to cover the insurance, but he starts the conversation with “congratulations”. I ring our own insurance company to amend the policy details and the customer service lady begins with “congratulations”. Hang on a minute, we haven’t won the car, all we did was part with hard earned cash – if congratulations are in order at all, it’s ours to them for getting us to part with more money than we intended.

Demonic Mnemonics

2006-10-19T01:18:00.000-07:00

Had another one of those sleepless nights when the mind hosts open house for anything that cares to drop by and like the guest who just won’t leave, what dropped by also outstayed its welcome. And all because a change of car prompted a search for a mnemonic for the number plate MKU.

men’s kinky underwear
marriage knot untied
my kleptomaniac uncle
man’s known universe
meningitis kills us
mouldy kitchen unit
manic knife user
mad king usurper
my kitchen’s unclean
no no, Madge’s kitchen’s unclean
money’s kinda useful
memory’s kinda useless
magic kid’s umbrella
Mr Kipling understands
minty kit-kats underwhelm
midget killer unmasked
monkey keeper unhinged
mangled kitty’s urt

That's not much to show for a shift that lasted from 4 til 7am but I'm sure it's enough for you and I hope it'll be enough for me to remember the number plate, so don’t feel you have to send in more suggestions.

Oh for a re-wind button

2006-10-18T05:25:00.000-07:00

It’s reassuring when you confess to a particularly neurotic habit or complex and someone says “oh yeah, I do that”. But one I rarely admit to because it sounds just too paranoid, is the pointless exercise of lying in bed and reliving a recent conversation that I’ve made a mess of. But it seems I’m not alone. I read recently that a newspaper columnist suffers from the same syndrome and she described her disastrous chance encounter with her boss at an opening of an exhibition when, with an orchard full of juicy fruit topics to choose from to impress or charm him, she picked the crab apple. She was mortified that she wasted her precious five minutes with the boss, not on the subject of work or his tennis injury, even though she played tennis and knew loads about it, but blurted out “have you ever heard of Wegener’s disease?”. But worse was that even noting his confusion and subsequent glazing over of his eyes, she simply couldn’t stop but became ever more determined to save the situation. But none of mine have been as hilariously awful as the conversation I had last week at the funeral parlour that dealt with Rob’s death. My daughter and I were chatting to the assistant who’d washed Rob’s hair and she told us how she’d got into the job and why she enjoyed it: “well the thing is, you can’t mess it up can you? I mean, nothing worse can happen to them can it?” My daughter and I looked at each and fell about laughing but, just like the journalist, the more the poor woman tried to dig herself out of the hole, the deeper she got. Now I’ve got enough of my own conversations to re-hash, so why am I still squirming with embarrassment at someone else’s?

Jury service

2006-10-17T12:29:00.000-07:00

For the second time in 8 years, I’ve been summoned for jury service, much to the envy of both a friend, who suspects he and his wife have been deprived of this ‘privilege’ because earlier political activities have got them onto some sort of trouble makers list, and my loved one, who’s sorely miffed at never having had the chance to reprise the Henry Fonda role in Twelve Angry Men. The last time filled me with dread and I was desperate to find an exemption category that I qualified for. I considered ticking the box that said my boss couldn’t do without me, but what would that do for my confidence if he said he could easily spare me, or the one declaring I was suffering from mental health problems, but freaking out when the saucepans are put back in the wrong place probably wouldn’t count either, so as a last resort, maybe a defendant would successfully challenge my inclusion. Nothing doing, but to my amazement, I loved the experience, although that bit about the democratic selection of a foreman didn’t happen. I popped out to the loo and when I came back they’d already chosen one - so they’d spotted my lack of leadership qualities that soon eh? And rumours of the apathy of jurors, more concerned with a quick getaway on a Friday afternoon than seeing justice done, weren’t true either, though the defence lawyer did have to use her frostiest glare when noting someone in the back row nodding off during her summing up, with the suggestion that, difficult though it might be, we should try to give this little matter our full attention. But in weighing up the facts, every jury member seemed anxious to reach a just verdict based only on admissible evidence. It wasn’t exactly a juicy case - two young guys charged with small time forgery, nor did it have the drama of the Henry Fonda film where lone man doggedly sets about converting the rest of the jury. Opinion on ours was divided roughly equally and persuasive arguments on both sides won a few converts but we finally had to admit defeat and inform the judge that there was no hope of us reaching the required majority verdict and we were discharged. Now I can’t wait for another chance and maybe hit the big time with a salacious crime of passion trial, but sod’s law says that it’ll be one of those tedious fraud trials that are so complicated even the police don’t understand it, or this time the defendants will decide they don’t like the look of me and I’ll be left hanging around in the corridor like the unpicked swat for the netball team. January 8th is the big day – see you in court.

Coming to a town near you

2006-10-15T10:23:00.000-07:00

Christmas is coming, what treats there are in store
Ten hour family visits, not just the usual four
If you haven’t got the money, a credit card will do
If you haven’t got a credit card, God bless you

Christmas is coming, how lavishly we’ll dine
Turkey, sausage, trifle, and special offer wine
If you haven’t got the know-how, a supermart will do
If you haven’t got a supermart, God bless you

Christmas is coming, it’s present time again
What to give our loved ones, especially the men
If you haven’t got an inkling, a catalogue will do
If you haven’t got a catalogue, God bless you.

Christmas is coming, shops are all a glitter
Frantic hunts for gifts can make us that much fitter
If you haven’t got the time though, the internet will do
If you haven’t got the internet, God bless you

Christmas is coming, the office party’s near
A glass or two of wine will make the bosses more sincere
If you haven’t got an office, a club or pub will do
If you haven’t got a club or pub, God bless you

Christmas is going, we’re stuffed and want no more
All those unloved presents stacked up behind the door
If you don’t know where to put them, a charity will do
If you haven’t got a charity, God bless you

Memorable words

2006-10-10T02:47:00.000-07:00

Apologies to my few loyal readers, who may be thinking, correctly, that I’m obsessing about death at the moment, but our endless discussions do have a lighter side to them. Thinking about the last words people facing death have said gave us the idea of picking some for ourselves. Clearly a bit of rehearsal’s not a bad idea if you want to leave the more profound sort that Isaac Newton left "… to myself I seem to have been only like a boy playing on the sea-shore, and diverting myself in now and then finding a smoother pebble or a prettier shell than ordinary, whilst the great ocean of truth lay all undiscovered before me", rather than the funny, though probably apocryphal, ones of Oscar Wilde’s “either that wallpaper goes, or I do; or avoid your golden nugget of philosophy or wit drifting into the wasteword basket because you uttered them with your last gasp to the deaf side of your bedside confidant. My loved one felt that the most apt for him would be Cecil Rhodes’s “so little done, so much to do” while my own favourite is the French Grammarian’s “I am dying, or I am about to die, either is correct.” But since I could think of nothing inspiring, witty, profound or even bittersweet of my own, perhaps I’m destined to follow my Dad and whisper the bleedin’ obvious “I’m dying”. Rob had no last treasured words but he did leave behind some nice expressions, one of which was hidying up – meaning someone had tidied up something which he now couldn’t find.

And we also pondered the sorting out of your stuff if you were given a short time to live. Because Rob never accepted he was going to die, he did nothing – even his most intimate love letters, text messages and computer files remained for anyone who cared to look at them, as well as the mountains of electronic junk, personal possessions and vast collection of music bursting from his house. So apart from obvious ones like removing old cheese sandwiches from under the bed lest family and friends see what a slut you were, we had some fun listing what the other should throw out if we hadn't had time ourselves. Anyone want a collection of 'useful pots to put things in' or a garage full of vinyl records?

Picking up the Threads

2006-10-06T00:32:00.000-07:00

Now that we’ve been made redundant from our night watchman’s job, we’re back in Villefranche preparing ourselves for re-entry into the real world. On the terrace watching the boats in the bay, we chew over all the issues that Rob’s dying and death have raised. Grief’s a bitch because there’s no recovery slope that takes you from the bottom to the top in a given timescale, just a constant see-saw– the heavy sack of anger, sadness and guilt weighing you down one day and the hot air balloon of fond memories and daily happenings swinging you up the next – it’s just a matter of waiting for that perfectly weighted balance of remembrance and grief that will rock you gently between the two. And there’s no knowing what will trigger the highs or lows, so out of the blue, a game of scrabble spells out the word sedation (and he even had the cheek to win 50 points extra for using up all his 7 letters), or eating my favourite food, immediately produces an image of a dying Rob – and tears.

I know it seems mad reading such a depressing book as Upton Sinclair’s The Jungle at a time like this, but it’s the first chance I’ve had since I bought it a couple of months ago after hearing a radio programme on its importance. I’d never heard of it before then, although my loved one tells me he read it over 40 years ago. At the heart of the story is a Lithuanian family and it tells of the brutal conditions of exploitation, corruption and filth that eastern European immigrants worked in in the Chicago stockyards in 1905. Sinclair’s exposé of the meatpacking industry got results, although it’s a shame that it was the public’s fear of the chemicals, diseased meat and rodent excrement in their morning sausages that brought about the reforms, rather than sympathy for the working conditions of the immigrants. At the time Sinclair was writing, the genre was known as muck-raking and often given a pretty harsh reception, but the power of words can change our perception and now we call it whistle blowing and it earns praise for the brave person with a social conscience who’s maybe risked the loss of his job or his friends. Laws change too and thankfully there’ll never be such extreme conditions again in the civilised world. But what doesn’t change is the exploitation of those seeking a way out of poverty and a chance of a better life elsewhere. When we Brits emigrated in our thousands to Australia, New Zealand and Canada, we used terms like pioneers, adventurers, people with drive, but now that we’re on the receiving end, we use asylum seekers, economic migrants or other pejorative terms to describe the poor old eastern Europeans for doing the same thing. But is it their fault that there are people with vested interests in selling them the dream of golden opportunities and welcome that await them? And when they do arrive? You can hardly find a pub outside of London now that isn’t staffed by Eastern Europeans, who’re accused of taking our jobs and houses, but does anyone suppose they’re being employed for any other reason than that greedy business men and women can pay them less than they would have to pay the the rest of us?

Goodbye Rob

2006-09-20T15:46:00.000-07:00

If I should go before the rest of you
Break not a flower nor inscribe a stone.
Nor when I’m gone speak in a Sunday voice
But be the usual selves that I have known.
Weep if you must,
Parting is hell,
But life goes on,
So sing as well.

We lost our beloved Rob last week. Emerging from the parallel universe that we’ve lived in for the past month – a small room next to his with a sofa bed, 24/7 care, shared by the family in shifts - feels weird. I wanted to write about him but could gather together no more than a few scrappy thoughts because my head resembles a cupboard crammed so full that it’s impossible to open the door to sort the gold from the dross, so I’m adding some stuff from his step-Dad’s funeral tribute.

I’ve mentioned before people’s idealised versions of dying and one of them is deathbed declarations. His younger sister was distraught that Rob had none – no confidences to impart, no promises to extract. He died one day short of the first anniversary of his operation to remove his tongue and out of those 364 days there was just one, 10 days before the end, when he appeared to accept the game was up. He remained silent, with a slightly surprised expression, then asked for his medication to be reduced enough to give him a clear head and gave orders to write or do this or that, or phone this or that person. He never mentioned death again.

He was mad about gadgetry from the very beginning – at 15 he proudly demonstrated a gadget he’d made to open and close his curtains without getting out of bed – to the end when his house was awash with electronic wizardry. His butterfly brain never had fewer than five projects on the go at any one time. But his family and friends also benefited from his expertise – his last job was restoring the sound on his step-Dad’s laptop.

No one would ever say he was an undemanding patient – he could easily keep 3 people busy at the same time. He liked a particular brand of wipes which proved difficult to find and he didn’t like the first, second or third substitutes I bought. So, when a while later he’d run out and asked for more we asked what kind he said “oh anything, I’m not fussy about stuff like that” and looked all hurt and puzzled when his sister and I exploded with laughter, saying “what? what’s funny?” The amazing thing was he never complained about the big things – he suffered them with fortitude. But the little things that were fixable he wanted fixed. During chemotherapy sessions it got on his nerves when his IV machine bleeped to indicate a fault, and much to the exasperation of the nurses, would mischievously fix it himself instead of waiting for them. He was too impatient to feed himself through his stomach tube (PEG) with the normal syringe and invented a pump which would do it 3 times faster.

Though he weighed less than 6 stone (84 pounds) at the end, he never lost his vanity – essential items always included his deodorant, aftershave and Calvin Klein underpants – or his hope for a miracle. 10 days before he died, his PEG failed and the doctor, having just told him how short a time he had left, added that a new one would not work. Rob asked for a pad and drew a cross section of his stomach and the PEG to show where he believed the fault lay, with a plea at the top of the page “I want to feed – I want to live”. He got his new PEG.

He was afraid of sedation and despite frequent advice to accept it, refused it to the end. I promised him that I’d never let them give him anything he didn’t want, but just before he went into a coma he had a panic attack – his pulse racing at 140 - and the nursing sister persuaded me that it was cruel not to sedate him. I agreed and now they’ll always be that lingering doubt that his last thought may have been “my Mum betrayed me”.

I’ve often moaned about our NHS but I don’t know how we’d ever have managed without the exceptional love and care of the nursing staff at the hospice where he died. It’s rumoured that funding for the Rainbow Rooms for the terminally ill will be withdrawn in a couple of years’ time and will have to rely on donations. If this is true, the community will be the poorer.

I’ll let Rob have the last word. This is a text message he sent to his father:

It has been great how everyone has pulled together – a shame that it couldn’t have been something nicer to cause it like a family BBQ. I feel loved by everyone and it makes me see how important life really is. I am not going down without a fight. Love, your son Rob.”

Me Stressed?

2006-08-03T08:34:00.000-07:00

If you had a visit from a doctor, district and MacMillan nurse to discuss a possible catastrophic outcome of an illness, with a 5 day timeframe, and to advise you on what to do in the event, would you:

a) find it jolly useful and reassuring.
b) cover your ears because you know you'll lose your perspective on life.

I’m referring to Rob of course and before it happened a) would have seemed the obvious choice, but live it and the answer's b). He had a small bleed from his tumour recently, which could be a 'herald' bleed, meaning that in 6 to 10 days the carotid artery will rupture. If that happens, whoever’s with him should stem the blood flow as much as possible (with dark coloured towels prepared in advance and kept discreetly out of sight – or perhaps round your shoulders under the pretext that you’re feeling a chill), inject a sedative (kept in a place known and easily accessible to all and not under last night’s leftovers in the fridge), hold Rob's hand whilst talking calmly and reassuringly to him and call the ambulance. The rupture would of course be fatal, but the object of this exercise is to “make Rob’s last moments as stress-free as possible”, although for those who have any difficulty at all with multi-tasking, memory or anxiety, it's not hard to imagine the stress levels involved dealing with all those instructions. I know a great deal of thought has gone into this, and I’d love to know of anyone who has done this successfully, but I have a few problems with it. Firstly, Rob will not accept he’s going to die and the visit only served to annoy and give him stress and put him and us on a countdown. Then there’s the time factor. It can’t take more than a few minutes to die from a rupture of that sort, so even if you take the best scenario - that you’re in the same room with him, the towels and the injection when the artery bursts, you grab the towels, fetch the syringe, fill and inject quickly (barring any handshaking), hold his hand and call for the ambulance on the mobile phone glued to your side – it’d be pretty difficult. Now imagine the much more likely scenario that you’re making tea, taking a shower or answering the door, none of which will be in the same room as Rob, and you really now need two people. So the regular hospital visit that I make with Rob, this time has me conjuring up images of being blinded on the motorway by arterial blood and causing a major pile-up so I ask my loved one to drive while I sit in the back, hand placed casually on a towel, staring at his tumour. I take a shower and whisper “you’re on call”. As Rob gets irritated with his Dad if he asks if he’s ok when he gets up in the night, when it’s our turn to stay overnight we resolve to lie still and quiet when we hear him, but as that's at least half a dozen times there’s no possibility of sleep. So instead of chilling out together with cooking, videos or chat, I’m surreptitiously doing mental checklists of nearest towel, mobile, syringe and watching for any of the subtle changes that could indicate the rupture is imminent. A quick run through of the exercise has convinced me that it’s not really possible to do all that in the time available, and in view of the fact that this might not be a 'herald' bleed, is it really a good idea to turn the whole family into nervous wrecks for the sake of a good last five minutes? We’re almost at the end of the critical period, so I’m looking forward to getting back to ‘normal’ stress levels.

No, don't give me sunshine

2006-07-17T02:42:00.000-07:00

I’m so not a summer person. As the temperature rises, so do the number of stranded-in-the-desert fantasies that float into my mind – unbearable heat, flies, pain and thirst. No, if I’m to suffer temperature extremes I’d rather it be on an icy mountainside where I’d simply curl up in a ball and drift gently off to sleep unaware of anything. So on a recent trip to Budapest the searing heat makes me rethink the sightseeing criteria. We can still visit the art galleries and museums on our list because they’ll be nice and cool, and what about having a look round that building over there – but it’s a thimble museum – yes but it’s air conditioned, it’ll be fascinating. Whereas that hot dusty Heroes’ Square that looked so interesting in the guide book with its statues and columns, suddenly seems a touch over-hyped - seen one statue…. and in any case, wouldn’t the view be better from that nice air conditioned bar up there. And later, I feel a little surge of joy when we go on a city tour and great drops of cooling rain begin to fall. As it becomes heavier our guide says “eef you have umbrella you are lucky, eef you don’t, you are unlucky, which makes me realise how funny language is – you think mastering it is all about the words but it’s also about capturing the sense of humour. That probably sounded funny in Hungarian, but said with slightly narrowed eyes, it has just a touch of menace in it. Something always on the list is trying out the public transport system, which is not that easy when the language has no similarities at all to your own and you have to get your tongue round four consecutive consonants before a vowel gets a look in, and with so many names looking so much like each other, a few u-turns on the metro are inevitable, but it’s fun - it still has an old world air of grandeur about it with lots of oak panelling at the stations. Another constant is my gullibility. My loved one always makes our destination seem a mere hop, skip and a jump away and I always believe him. So whilst we trek across scrubland then climb the 500 steps to Castle Hill, hugging walls and trees for the scant bit of shade available, I think “you’ve fallen for it again haven’t you” but we get to the top and he smiles and tells me it only took eleven and a half minutes and I think “ok just this once, but next time”! It’s also strange seeing a city in transition. Yes Budapest has a smart clean airport, and even a huge shopping mall (although it’s still the same few brands making all the money), but most of the streets have small shops and one, a few yards from our hotel, has me mesmerised every time we pass. It’s one of those old fashioned shops that sell everything and I mean everything. The window is crammed to bursting point with cleaning products, cosmetics, blank videos, toys, a fondue set and its centrepiece is a large flat basket containing coffee products and splayed out on either side of it two model legs display black fishnet stockings. Yes Budapest is definitely worth a return visit, but I’m thinking December, January time when it has sensible temperatures and we can take sensible clothes like overcoats, hats and gloves.

So much still to learn.

2006-07-06T04:48:00.000-07:00

Rob’s illness has brought a surprising revelation - an obvious one if you think about it, as most of life’s big issues usually are - that just as we often find the way others choose to live incomprehensible, it’s as true of the way they choose to die. Rob copes by denial which I find baffling so I have to remind myself that he has the right to deal with it any way he chooses. Of course he can see that his head and neck movement is becoming restricted, that his pain has to be controlled by opiates and that poisonous gunge now oozes from his tumour, but he keeps up a stream of optimistic chatter on how well the chemotherapy is working and continues to make long term plans. So we discuss all his treatment but never the implications of his illness. A McMillan nurse (they provide support for the terminally ill and their families) who visited my daughter and me says that after twenty years in the job she’s found that people have an idealised version of dying which exists only in films or in our heads. There is no normal, the dying don’t ask awkward questions when you’re ready, but when they are, families can be greedy and selfish, they don’t always ‘pull together’ and are often overcome with feelings of guilt for wishing that it were over. And the most difficult of all to accept is that illness doesn’t change your character and suddenly give you a spiritual dimension if it wasn’t there in the first place. So it’s ridiculous to expect Rob to start thinking about ‘important things’ when nerdy stuff, flash cars and gadgets are the important things to him, the same as they’ve always been.

Shakespeare does it again

2006-07-05T01:13:00.000-07:00

It’s only football! Yes I know and I’d have said no more about it but for an article in the sports section of the Sunday newspaper, which showed that whatever observation a writer wants to make on the human condition, Shakespeare got there first. So even Hugh Mcllvanney, who probably reckons he can make a point as poetically as anyone, still had to dip into one of Shakespeare’s sonnets to recount the fall from grace of Thierry Henry by his horrible playacting to win a free kick in France’s match against Spain last week. Lilies that fester smell far worse than weeds couldn’t describe more perfectly the disappointment you feel when someone as exquisitely gifted as Henry cheats.

Summer nights

2006-07-03T07:33:00.000-07:00

Hot nights are here, sleep’s elusive and at 5 am I wonder if thinking about something really dreary – like Tony Blair’s desperate search for populist causes to polish up his image – will send me to sleep. He’s picked a good one this time by lending his support to that boring old hardy perennial, the Wimbledon women’s demand for equal pay. Well I suppose it’s a lot easier than using his influence to help the thousands of enslaved women around the world who would like any rights never mind equal.

It’s not a comfortable feeling being on the same side as the ‘blazered buffoons’ of the All England Club, who, despite the vast amounts of money they receive every year from the championships, still seem unable to develop a strategy to find a future British champion. But I agree with their decision not to award equal pay and can’t understand why some people find it so difficult to grasp that it has nothing whatever to do with sexism and everything to do with market forces. If the women’s game drew a bigger crowd, I’ve no doubt at all they’d be the ones with the extra dosh. Rugby players work just as hard as footballers, opera singers as pop singers, but don’t receive anything like the same money for the simple reason that football and pop are more popular.

Wimbledon has given its reasons that women don’t get the same prize money (a measly £625,000 compared with £655,000 for the men) as:
- Corporate hospitality packages for the Wimbledon men’s final sell at £2,750 compared with £1,750 for the women’s.
- A survey taken along the Wimbledon queue found that 50% prefer to watch men’s matches and 19% women’s matches.
- The Australian and US Opens cannot sell a women’s only day and now split the quarter and semi-finals to ensure at least one men’s single match each day.

I’d add another one to that which is that men also give us more for our money by playing five sets to the three the women play, so as far as I’m concerned, it’s game, set and match to the All England Club.

But the girls are appealing against the decision and there are even mutterings about strike action unless Wimbledon coughs up. Well, sorry girls, make sure you’ve made contingency plans or you might find yourselves match point down with no one to cheer you on.

None of this brings me any nearer sleep. What finally does the trick is the alarm clock. Within minutes of it going off, that delicious, sweet sleep of morning steals over me and I’m gone.

I'm thinking about joining AA

2006-06-27T06:00:00.000-07:00

Oh dear. My woeful knowledge of the bible has been exposed by the comment on my last post. Although I guessed the message, I had to google Matthew 14.31 to find not only that the quote wasn’t, as I’d always thought, o ye but o thou of little faith, but also the beginning and end to those five well-used words. This set me thinking that maybe it’s time I enrolled at Atheists Anonymous and took the floor to admit that yes, I’m an atheist, but no, I’m not unwilling to accept the importance of such an influential book. And while I’m at it, I might even get round to putting aside my grievances against the church for the role it’s played in the miseries of the world and accept the enormous contribution it’s made to the world’s great works of art. Without it, we may have spent our holiday craning our necks at something much more prosaic than the magnificent Sistine Chapel. And do we know or care whether Michelangelo was inspired by God or the size of his commission to paint it? So, whilst I may never ‘drink from the bottle’ I should at least endeavour to examine the contents, learn its origins and marvel at its complexity. You never know, I might be able to persuade the local book club to adopt the bible as its book of the week.

I love the Italians. Whenever you go to Italy you just can’t help smiling – They’ve got such flair, gaiety, drama, style. To watch them on their evening stroll is a feast of sights and sounds: the clothes - who but an Italian guy could wear a brown corduroy suit and look great? Even the elderly are impeccably dressed in fabulous shirts and skirts with not a crimpline dress in sight; the young - all with the obligatory motor scooter and mobile phone, gesturing theatrically whilst chattering at lightening speed in that wonderfully musical language; and the restaurants - delicious food and wine served on red checked tablecloths. BUT, last night, Italy’s world cup match against Australia wiped the smile off my face. Totti’s blatant dive to win a penalty made even me wish a defeat on them in the next round.

The joys of our dear old NHS

2006-06-20T06:12:00.000-07:00

It’s been a while since I was a regular at the A & E department of our local hospital explaining the causes of the kids’ broken or bleeding bodies as well as the inexplicable - the swallowing of a co2 bottle from a soda siphon, but last weekend I’m reminded of what bizarre places they are. My step-daughter has an emergency gynaecological problem, so off we drive to our nearest A & E. We know immediately that this won’t be a short visit when we see an ominous flashing notice saying that patients will be seen in order of priority, not arrival. Okay, heart attacks or severed arteries aside, that’s a pretty subjective judgement to make – A kid’s incessant screaming might get most people’s vote but it’s not necessarily the right one. So we know there’ll be none of the usual satisfaction of seeing the queue being whittled down. In the post office I cope by counting the number of customers and giving them each a minute and amuse myself watching the clock and the queue to see how accurate I am, but with a system like this, we’ve no idea how long we’ll be there. It turns out to be over 3 hours. The only certainty seems that anyone approaching the receptionist will receive the same resentful vibes – no bump is big enough, no blood loss extreme enough or limb at acute enough angle to soften that baleful mask. I try for a drink from the machine next to her desk but my bottle wobbles teasingly on the edge of the ledge for a few seconds and there it stays. I make eye contact with her and ask if she’s in charge of the machine, she snaps ‘no’ and when I ask who is, tells me she’s ‘dealing with a patient’, then as punishment for interrupting her sends me on a wild goose chase to track down who is in charge. The answer of course is no one. Then there’s the rebuke for disobeying the notice three feet in front of the desk. It reminds me of a poll the BBC are doing to find the worst building in Britain – not the ugliest but the one that just doesn’t work. Among the nominations is a bus station which has been cleverly and thoughtfully designed with walk ways all around it, but ignores the basic principle that people always choose the shortest route to where they’re going, so little old ladies risk their lives darting between buses, but on paper that probably looked a fabulous bus station. And so it is with this notice, which is actually two notices, but all you register is the one in red saying that if you’re having breathing difficulties let the staff know immediately. The one neither we, nor anyone else seems to see, says ‘queue here’ so each of us go up to the desk and are asked to get back behind the notice. Now it’s possible that someone may have brought up the fact at the team meeting that either everyone who comes in is illiterate, they’re anarchists or they’re not registering the notice, but then again, if the receptionist is in charge, perhaps no one dares mention it.

This story has a frustrating postscript to it which might make this sound like an NHS bashing blog but honestly, it isn’t. I’ve the greatest respect for the skill of the surgeons, doctors and nurses who actually treat the patients. It’s just the administration that sucks. My stepdaughter is finally admitted at 4 o’clock and after an hour, with nothing happening and not having had lunch, eats a sandwich. At 6 o’clock the doctor arrives and says if she hadn’t eaten it she could have had the op tonight! So, on Monday she’s prepared for her op , allowed nothing to eat or drink all day and at 9 o’clock that evening, is told that they can’t fit her in for that day either. So now we must pass today trying to judge the urgency level of incoming patients but fearing that the patient arriving by ambulance pushes her further down the queue.

Fever Pitch

2006-06-09T06:21:00.000-07:00

I don’t know whether ‘football’s coming home’, but I do know that a football revolution is under way. Normally during world cups, women bemoaned the loss of their blokes to beer and tele for the next month, phoned friends, relatives and long lost acquaintances in an effort to avoid the noise levels in the next room going off the scale with screams of ecstasy or abuse whenever a goal was scored. Everyone knew that women couldn’t enjoy football since they didn’t even know the offside rule. Now, everywhere you go you can hear them discussing the merits of all the players, whether the famous metatarsal of Rooney will be healed, whether Eriksson will play the 4.4.2 formation. But we still can’t win. Now we’re being accused of bluffing our way into the boys’ territory and the real football fans demand more proof that we’re really there for the game and not to ogle the gorgeous body of David Beckham. A discussion on the radio had some pundit giving advice on the dos and don’ts of being a proper fan. Do: support a little team, like Grimsby, don’t: ask why Freddie Flintoff isn’t in the squad.

But a Scottish MP has come out to say that he won’t be supporting England in the world cup. Why do the Scots have such a chip on their shoulder about the English? I know we chopped off Mary Queen of Scots’s head, but for God’s sake that was over 400 years ago and we’ve been trying to make it up to them ever since by giving them all the plum jobs at the BBC and Tony has even promised to give his own job to a Scot. We support them when they play against the rest of the world, we buy their shortbread biscuits, drink their whisky, applaud politely when they blow their bagpipes in our faces and marvel at their record at engineering. Come on you jocks, fair's fair – let’s have a bit of support.

One of the most excruciating aspects of the build up to the world cup is the constant re-playing of England’s victory in 1966. 1966, that’s 40 years ago and if I see Geoff Hurst’s final goal one more time … it’s embarrassing watching these ‘old’ men being wheeled out every other day to recall what it felt like to be there. Obviously I’d love England to win, if for no other reason than to have a change of faces for the re-run in four year's time.

Making Hay while the sun doesn't shine

2006-06-07T09:27:00.000-07:00

It’s nice to be blogging again after the weeks just spent looking for alternative cancer treatments for Rob. His tumour continues its relentless invasion of his neck, its sinister tentacles now wrapping themselves round his muscles and voice box. He hasn’t responded to the first two sessions of his new chemotherapy course, and I’m disappointed and puzzled that conventional treatment sits so uncomfortably alongside any alternatives. His last blood count was 11 (normal is 16 or 17) but there’s been no attempt to try anything new, not even a mention of nutritional supplements. He decided to take a simple iron supplement, plus a hefty daily dose of Himalayan Goji juice, and whilst I’m not talking about a cure, in two weeks he’s put on half a stone, his blood count has gone up to 11.8 and his normally chalk-white complexion has some colour in it. With that encouragement, I’ve now ordered him some more ‘magic potions’, which of course brings up the moral dilemma, which is that if the people selling this stuff are charlatans, buying one of their products encourages the exploitation of vulnerable people. But can I afford not to take a chance?

I know my loved one has written about the rain during Festival week at Hay-on-Wye so I’ll only add that I was born in Wales and every time I go there I remember that my Dad took us back to England because it never stopped bloody raining. You’ll always hear the local joke that if you can see a particular distant hill, it’s going to rain, if you can’t, it is raining. But it is still a small price to pay for the special buzz you get at the Festival. One of the most endearing things about it is also the most infuriating, namely the peculiarly English amateurishness of it. It’s held in a large field and the marquees, loos, eating places etc. are nicely laid out, but for those without 20/20 vision the signposting can be somewhat taxing, and only the English could come up with a system of getting the thousands of people in and out of the site via a box office designed to hold no more than the local Women’s Institute’s weekly meeting and the cunning plan for controlling the traffic flow is to put arrows on the floor indicating the way in and out, which can only be seen when the box office is virtually empty. BUT, when we arrived for our first session my loved one and I looked at each other and said 'who's got the tickets' and chorused 'you have'. Yes, all £290 worth of them sitting back home. A charming volunteer at the ticket office sympathised, telling her own disaster story of planning a 17 week tour of Africa. She’d been in charge of organising the itinerary, which she’d produced and copied in duplicate and her husband was in charge of the paperwork, but somehow the packing of the itinerary had fallen between the two job descriptions and they arrived with no idea of where they were going. We all had a laugh and she gave us duplicate tickets. Now that’s the good side of amateurishness.

Although this was our eighth year and we should have known better, we went to 7 sessions one day, the first at 9 am, the last at 9 pm, ignoring the obvious fact that you’ll end up completely knackered if you go to more than 5 in a day, and if you have an early morning session, for God’s sake don’t book a late night one as well. Nul points for that then.

Less than 2 weeks in and I can feel a criticism coming on

2006-04-21T03:07:00.000-07:00

I’m treading around my loved one carefully today, as yesterday he caught me ‘wasting’ his precious cheddar cheese on a recipe for a lunchtime guest. His bottom lip positively trembled, but he manfully pulled himself together and by the end of the day was almost himself again.

When my son Rob was diagnosed with cancer and had to have his tongue taken out last September, it felt like a stalker had come into his life. He’s fought off the first attack but now he'll always be on the run - once a stalker takes an interest in you, he doesn’t give up easily and though you may move house, you're always waiting for that knock on the door that says he’s found you again. Well, he has. New symptoms have meant PET and MRI scans this week for Rob and now we must wait while the doctors assess them and come up with a strategy which might put this loathsome creature away for life.

When someone says “I love them to bits”, like a grammar rule, it must always be followed by BUT – well this is no different. So, those French, love them to bits, BUT oh those public servants, who have their jobs for life… We went to the railway station in Nice to book a trip to Rome for a few days. At one end is a large reservation hall where a woman at the front gives you a numbered ticket and you wait for one of the dozen or so information windows to become available, but she said 'no more tickets', nothing more, just 'no more tickets'. Like obedient children we walk away and then say ‘hang on, what are we supposed to do then’, so go back and this time she tells us the important bit and sends us to the ticket desk at the other end of the station, where we find a notice telling us that this is only for trains leaving that day. Back to the reservation hall where the woman repeats the instruction as though you were a new customer - no extra help, no apology so back again where we spend 20 minutes in a queue and the woman at the window doesn’t bat an eyelid at our request. Oh so it isn’t just for trains that day? – it would have been nice to know that earlier. But this is par for the course apparently – if you want a permit for something, you might need documents A and B which you produce, only to be told that you haven’t got document C. You protest that you weren’t told you needed document C which gets you a shrug as a response plus the repeated demand for said document. You bring back document C and are told you haven’t got document D …..

A to Z in Sixty (final part)

2006-04-15T09:56:00.000-07:00

Water – love looking at it, love reading about it – tales of shipwrecks or unfortunates cast adrift on any old ocean float my boat, but please don’t make me get in it. Once in Mexico, my husband persuaded me that it was worth putting aside my fear for the reward of snorkelling among shoals of gloriously coloured fish, but unfortunately it didn't turn out to be the gentle wade from the beach into the water I'd imagined. We were taken out in a boat and told to swim over to a distant rock. I won’t go into my humiliation that day – just let’s say I panicked (it’s absurd to expect you to breathe, worry about your snorkelling mask and try not to drown at the same time) and had to be towed back to the boat by the young guy in charge of the party. When I was telling someone later how I had jumped off the boat and gone down, down, down, my husband looked amazed and said “no you didn’t, you plopped gently over the side of the boat and bobbed straight back up” – well that's not what it felt like to me and perception is everything.

Words – There’s this giant word warehouse called the English language, the entire contents there for the taking. Some people are content to take out the bare minimum to express themselves, some, not knowing what to do with them, wrestle them into shape like a child using his fists to hammer together an ill-fitting jigsaw puzzle. Others trawl it with skill, or even genius, choosing just the right ones, in just the right quantity and weave them into a masterpiece. But with the right timing and the right celebrity name, you usually only need the most basic language to make the best-seller list.

X-rated films – We had two cinemas in our town when I was young, and as long as one of them was showing a U film there was no problem and not much of one if it was an A – you simply found a sympathetic looking adult, rattled your money so they knew you weren’t looking for a freebie and said “please would you take us in”, but if an X film was showing in both cinemas you were stuffed and went home completely miserable. Looking back, I’ve no idea why we didn’t try to find out what was showing before we went into town.

Youth – Years ago an Italian friend told me a lovely saying they had that sums up the gap between old and young: the young have teeth but no bread and the old, bread but no teeth.

Zealous – why does that word never seem to come along without his mate over? No one is ever under zealous, and rarely just zealous.

Zeugma – meaning the last straw. Okay, it doesn’t, but it was for me when I came across it in a book by William F Buckley Jnr. I was already a bit fed up, after only a couple of chapters, with what seemed like contrived situations just to show off some obscure word he wanted to use (or are they only showing off if you don’t know the word?) and then he hit me with zeugma. I looked it up and found it's: a figure of speech in which a word is used to modify or govern two or more words although appropriate to only one of them or making a different sense with each, as in the sentence Mr Pickwick took his hat and his leave. It’s not really the sort of word you can throw casually into a conversation is it?

A to Z in Sixty (Part 4)

2006-04-13T12:49:00.000-07:00

Things:
I regret: not finding out more about my Dad’s secret disgrace. I know only that he ran away to Canada when he was 14, illegally entered the United States via Niagara Falls sometime later, worked in New York (at what I don’t know, but he was given a tip by David Niven), and that he was discovered and deported. Now of course we’d think it was a bit of a laugh and commendable initiative, but back then, it was the family’s shameful secret. I probably could have asked him about it before he died, but a subject that had been taboo for so long seemed impossible to broach.

that compensate for getting old: sharing the Sunday papers in bed with my husband without feeling guilty for neglecting the housework or the kids; being free to spend a big chunk of time each year in the beautiful little town of Villefranche, just outside Nice, with boats in the bay, perpetual blue skies, lemons by the bucket-load and, as of yesterday, sea bream, normally too expensive in England, on ‘special’ at the local supermarket. If it weren’t for that damn French cheese, dieting here would be a breeze.

I like: wind machines – a blot on the landscape to some, but to me graceful arms spinning straw into gold; ice – frozen ponds or puddles for kids to slide on, vast glaciers and intense blue ice-floes sparkling in the river below and the delicious tinkle of chunks of it in a glass of gin and tonic; open fires – comforting, hypnotic, therapeutic and irresistible.

that drive me mad: people who say “to cut a long story short” and then proceed to tell you the long version.

that I dread: apart from the obvious one of ending up dribbling in an old-people’s home or worse still, not knowing I’m there (oh I don’t know, perhaps that’s better), being called 'spry'. It’s used exclusively for the old and even then, you know they’ve scraped the barrel to come up with the only positive thing they can say about you.

I’m glad I did: have children and experience those heart-bursting feelings of love and enjoy all the funny things they did and said. The family still say my six year old daughter’s gem: “Mummy, which came first, the Romans or the sixties?”

Unattractive Sights – I know we had skirts in the sixties so short as to be practically obscene (tights were invented then to introduce a bit of decency), flares, perms and side burns in the seventies, but could anything look more unflattering than today’s fashion of hipster trousers and crop tops on those with bulging bellies and unlovely ‘love handles’.

Ve haf vays of making you – take your medicine. Yes, the Government plans to compulsorily medicate us all by putting folic acid in our bread to eliminate the few hundred cases of spina bifida that occur every year caused by the lack of it. What happens if a few hundred people die from an allergy to folic acid?

Vietnam – All through the sixties increasing numbers of U.S. troops were sent to prevent South Vietnam from being taken over by the communist North. More than a decade of news stories fed us the daily statistics of killings and bombing raids. Conscientious objectors and cowards alike dodged the draft, students protested and finally in 1973 Nixon kept his promise in exchange for votes and pulled out the U.S. troops, leaving behind chaos, betrayal and their countless children. 30 years on, our reminders of the war are the Washington memorial; the iconic pictures of the naked girl fleeing a napalm attack and the Vietcong prisoner being summarily executed by an officer for the benefit of the cameras; and the unspeakable My Lai massacre, when U.S. troops killed over a hundred men, women and children. So what have we learned: Vietnam is now united, under communism, and the world hasn’t fallen apart, but the U.S. government hasn’t questioned its belief that a government other than the one they support must be removed.

A to Z in Sixty (Part 3)

2006-04-09T13:53:00.000-07:00

I’ve just been attacked by Ps - in the kitchen, out driving or trying to write something else, they just kept popping into my head.

Parlour, parsley sauce, parsimony (sauce without the parsley), priests, perverts, (sorry, same thing), pastry (what you eat), pasty (what you look if you eat too many), petunia (posh pink), pixel, pixie (a baby one), peter (the great and out), pontification (the making of a pope) GO AWAY.
plagiarise (you shouldn’t), penury (what you live in if you do), pimp, pomp, pompous; platitudes (don’t like ‘em), potatoes (love ‘em), pets (don’t want ‘em),
ENOUGH

I’m better now – here’s the perfectly sensible one that I wrote before all that started.

Porridge – My Dad ruined it for me. No, not by forcing me to eat it, but by making it inseparable in my mind from a yukky story he liked to tell. He was brought up in an orphanage around 1908 and, having often gone hungry, couldn’t stand to see us kids turn our noses up at anything. When we did, he would drag out his stories of boys fighting over apple cores and such like, but his favourite, guaranteed to produce revulsion (though not the desired gratitude for whatever we’d just turned down), was about one of the boys in the orphanage who found the porridge particularly vile one day, so scooped it into his sock. He was discovered of course and made to turn it out and eat it.

Prohibition – So you think it’s long gone? Try going to Nantucket, where a notice on the ferry warned us that only one alcoholic drink per customer was permitted and on the island itself, our restaurant delivered us from temptation with the same rule.

Quicksand – So all those old films showing terrified victims being sucked to their death in it are rubbish, according to one of those myth busting programmes. Apparently, not only is quicksand rarely more than a few feet deep, but because it’s denser than the human body, you’d float in it and furthermore, you’d have to make a deliberate effort to sink below the surface, as you’re much more buoyant in quicksand than in water and the sand's higher density would gradually push you upward. Of course I believe it and would be quite happy to demonstrate the correct way to get out of it without panicking one little bit.

Royalty – After it was reported that Prince Harry celebrated his passing out parade at Sandhurst by going to a lap dancing club, some wag commented that it must be the first time that a man had been seen stuffing pictures of his grandmother down a girl’s G-string.

Speed-Dating – The only speed thing I knew was speed-writing – a course advertised on the underground, where you whiled away your journey working out the message written in it. But if the dating sort had been available earlier, it could have saved me a lot of evenings sitting through weird dates, like the blind one set up by my ‘friend’ with her work colleague who began the unloading of his emotional baggage by telling me how his wife had undressed at the top of the stairs and screamed “what’s wrong with my body”, and then continued with his experiences with prostitutes; or the man who’d just bought a sewing machine so he could convert his long sleeved shirts into short sleeved ones. So, with this new speed-dating, you spend about five minutes with someone (easily long enough to tell if you fancy them enough to want more) and then, no excuses, no embarrassment - it’s the rule – you move on. Not very romantic? Yeah, well you can’t have everything. Actually, my husband’s just reminded me that we did have a sort of speed-dating – it was called ballroom dancing. A look, a twirl round the dance floor and then back for more if you wanted the chance to walk her home afterwards – not such a good deal for the girl as it wasn’t really the done thing for her to do the asking. So this speed-dating thing is just the modern, minimalist version.

At to Z in Sixty (Part 2)

2006-04-03T03:12:00.000-07:00

Indifference – I hate it, but though I take an interest in what’s going on in the world and send my contribution to the current disaster fund, I don’t get off my bum to drive a lorry load of aid through a war zone, knock doors, rattle tins to raise money, or spend a little time with the lonely pensioner in the street, so it’s not a whole lot of comfort to any of those homeless, helpless, friendless souls to know that I’m not indifferent to their plight.

Jazz – When I first met my husband and told him I liked it, I meant the melodic, mellow stuff of Nina Simone, Sarah Vaughan, and Ella Fitzgerald, but he meant the crazy cacophony of improvised jazz, where a soloist can bend the rules and your ear for 15 minutes at a stretch, although you are free to applaud at will (not to be confused with the Proms where it’s bad form before the end). But anyway, he was so excited at the prospect of a fellow enthusiast to share his passion that he took me along to hear one of his favourites, McCoy Tyner, who was playing in a small town in northern France. Neither of us has ever recovered from that evening. Me, because I thought I’d been transported back to war-time occupied France where, suspected of spying activities, I was being forced to sit in a hall for six hours (oh I know the programme said two but you know how those time-distortion tricks are a favourite with torturers) while Mr Tyner, using his piano as his chosen instrument of torture, sent a million screeching, grating sound waves to disrupt my brainwave patterns in order to extract my confession. My husband, because he simply could not believe that I’d found the performance anything other than sublime and the look of hurt and bewilderment on his face is something I’ll never forget. Incidentally, I'm sure that all the other ‘suspects’ in the hall had confessed early on in the proceedings and weren’t receiving the sounds on the same frequency as me, because they all sat through the performance looking completely untroubled.

Know-alls – I would love to have thought up a gem like this: I wish I were as cocksure of anything as Tom Macaulay is of everything.

Loyalty – I do try to be loyal to my Everton supporting husband, but the problem is that I was introduced to football in the 90’s by a Liverpool supporter and the team was winning everything at the time, so football and Liverpool became synonymous for me. Now I’ve done the Alpha course, and I’m ready to commit wholeheartedly to Everton, but I just can’t help myself – the ugly face of disloyalty shows itself whenever Liverpool play and I find myself instinctively rooting for them.

Myths – When my country-living mother-in-law told me that the best way to stop babies crying was to rub their lips with rabbit’s brains, I thought she was wacko – thank goodness my generation didn’t believe in such nonsense, but it’s surprising how many of those myths are still flying around. I still hear the one about sucking a dummy or thumb over a long period being responsible for extra large lips (for pouty lips, I’d suck a dummy permanently) or cutting a child’s hair makes it grow back thicker – hasn’t anyone noticed the dummy-sucking thin-lipped among us or the frequently cut, wispy-thin haired kids.

My Mum – When I was a kid, I mistook my Mum’s chronic shyness for indifference and it frustrated the hell out of me that she didn’t do the things that other mums did: kiss and cuddle, chat with other mums at the school gates or go to school functions. What a selfish cow I was not to have realised that it wasn’t a lot of fun for her either being locked out of the world, no matter that she’d turned the key herself.

Nostalgia – I’m not affected much by nostalgia – shops and restaurants closed on Sundays, The Archers for entertainment on a weekday, The Black and White Minstrel Show on Sunday evening, waiting patiently in the little local shop while Mrs Caddy gossiped with the shopkeeper, boiling nappies on the gas stove (yes, I know a lot of my contemporaries did use disposables, but I thought that meant you were a bad mother at the time) – no thanks. But some things I do miss are: hedgerows, once teeming with birds and flowers, now almost all cut down to make ploughing easier; kids playing in the street; the freedom to roam, often without another soul in sight, on ‘unheritaged’ sites such as Stonehenge or Lands End, without being forced into orderly queues, through officially designated entrances and exits; and the thrill of festivals and holidays where you got to eat and do things out of bounds for the rest of the year, and now available at any time.

Opinions – Don’t you just hate it when your favourite columnist, whose opinions you respect, dismisses someone contemptuously with things like: “they’re the sort of people who have an avocado bathroom suite” or some other similarly naff thing that you have or do and then you have to spend the next ten minutes either justifying it, convincing yourself that in your case it’s more complex than it appears, or vowing to change your newspaper.

A to Z in Sixty (Part 1)

2006-03-22T06:34:00.000-08:00

Blimey, I just reached sixty and can’t believe how quickly I got there. A random selection of stuff, alphabetically arranged, goes something like this:

Angst, anger, alcohol and adverbs – First two have decreased, whilst consumption of the third has increased. As to the last one, I’ve belatedly, though grudgingly, completely accepted that I use too many, but I can't go cold turkey and give them up altogether.

Books - I could never have got through the entertainment-free zone of my childhood, the boring bits of child-rearing, good days, rainy days or bouts of melancholia without them. I still love my long time favourite Wuthering Heights but have found another desert island choice with the recent discovery of Maurice Paléologue’s An Ambassador’s Memoirs, which gives a wonderfully intimate account of his time as the last French Ambassador in St. Petersburg. Somehow, whether describing his meetings with the Tsar, confiding the gossip from the royal drawing rooms, or on Rasputin and his cronies or reporting the horrors of the war front, he gives the book an almost thriller like quality. I’ve read it three times already.

Clichés - I’ve become a spotter of them (it’s warmer than train spotting and you don’t have to wear an anorak) so I now avoid them like the plague, because at the end of the day, the bottom line is, that it’s not rocket science to be able to make your point without using them.

Duty –On a scale of 1 to 10 I don’t suppose my sense of duty would register higher than 5 at a push. I may berate myself, as I did recently for failing to visit my dying brother often enough in hospital, but I still choose guilt over the pain of doing something I don’t want to do – in this case watch a once forceful man whither away to a wordless skeleton. Though I know it was wrong, the truth is that given the situation again, I’d probably do the same.

Eyesight – It used to be excellent and I showed off by offering to thread the smallest needle for anyone. Now I can’t see the needle, but who cares, I don’t like sewing any more anyway.

Education – When I got a second husband, I also got a second, better education. He introduced me to art, architecture, Open University and that formerly exclusive and for me, unthinkable destination, the Mediterranean, encouraged me to write, where previously I'd been so inhibited that even my doodles were done as inconspicuously as possible in the corner of the page and taught me, in his delightfully subtle manner, how less can be more.

French - My schoolgirl flirtation with it became a full blown love affair, although hopes of mastering it are just as distant. I don’t really need a French tutor, but a psychotherapist – verre de vin, schmerre de vin - no problem, but I’m shy and unconfident, so I shop at the supermarket and that way I don’t have to talk to anyone. But now that I spend so much time in France, I get to criticise it in the same way that you’re allowed to criticise your kids – because they’re part of you and you love them.

Guilt –Dame Edna Everidge reckons that the English never go out without their haversack of guilt. The funny thing is that every time you acquire a new source, none of the old stuff falls out the bottom, so why isn’t there a point when entry is blocked by a notice saying “sorry, full up"? So, for all the terrible things you may have done to your children, your guilt lies festering, like non-biodegradable nappies, until you die.

Grudges - Ha, got a positive here cos I have stopped holding them - life really is too short.

Health – Luck seems to play a part in what kind you get, and despite having had my fair share of illness and surgery, I still feel lucky that I’ve always recovered quickly and feel fit and well. My poor, non-smoking, scarcely drinking, 34 year old son has not been so lucky and last year made the grim discovery that a persistent ulcer was cancer and needed the removal of his tongue.

Happiness – I visualise the set of things needed to make us happy rather like those graphs you get showing election results – hollow blocks that fill up with blue, red, yellow, green or other colour according to the percentages that each political party has won. Except that here, it's the more difficult to define ingredients of personal relationships, job satisfaction, creative fulfilment or acquisitiveness that fill up the blocks, but each block can only hold its own characteristic, so when full, can’t spill over to make up a shortfall in another. If you're lucky enough to have blocks with the right combination and proportions for you, happy days! I've still got some topping up to do on some of mine.

Gene pool reflections

2006-03-20T11:55:00.000-08:00

Eyes, noses, mouths, cheeks, chins and hair. Poring over our photographs, marvelling at family likenesses, we readily acknowledge the contributors to our gene pool. But accepting just how many of the other myriad characteristics that make us what we are may have been forced upon us by these same contributors is a lot scarier.

We take delivery of our beautiful baby, believing that we can mould that soft helpless bundle into the child we desire. Full of good intentions and some loving guidance, we surely can’t fail to turn out a happy, honest, well-adjusted, hard working adult. And then we have another because we believe that an only child will be spoilt and never learn to share.

And then the straightforward bit ends. What’s happened to my nurturing when my four children leave home with such different values and quantities of ambition, drive and confidence, though I meant them to have the same? Two spend as much money as possible, one as little and the fourth somewhere in between and one rejects my advice on the clothes that flatter her most, in favour of the flashier taste of her grandmother. And has anyone done a survey to show whether an only child is more selfish, or that one with siblings less selfish?

I remarry and notice that, although my husband and his son are separated in age by more than 40 years and by as wide a gap in upbringing, they exhibit many identical personality traits. They’re not only bored by the same things, but in the time it takes to say boredom threshold they’ve reached it. Though they have a fascination and talent with words, they have difficulty at times understanding the simplest of them when they concern domestic trivia and how weird is that, that they both spell that word wierd. They also have the same unusual appreciation of the technical aspects of music and share the same shy nature that prevents them making too much eye contact.

So here I am, on the eve of my sixtieth birthday thinking that it may be a pretty small role we play in influencing the way our children turn out. Of course, the parents who produce the sweet tempered, well-adjusted and successful adult remain convinced that their brand of nurturing, rather than any similarity to their own character is responsible for their success, whereas those, whose dream ends in tears and bewilderment, begin to wonder if they were handicapped from the start.

Customer Disservice

2006-03-08T08:34:00.000-08:00

About nine months ago I rang the mobile phone company O2.

Me: Can you tell me why I haven’t received a bill for the last two months, even though my bank statement shows that you’re taking money out by direct debit?

O2: Can I take your details……… oh, the address doesn’t tie up, it’s the wrong address.

Me: Well, apart from the last 2 months, I’ve been receiving bills for 2 years and as I don’t have the facility to change my details on your database, I think it’s likely that something’s gone wrong at your end.

O2: I’m sorry I’m not authorised to discuss this account with you as it’s a different address.

Eh! Is it me?

In desperation, I took my sanity in my hands a couple of months ago and tried again. I asked if there wasn’t someone ringing in, a little puzzled at regularly receiving my bills, but they couldn’t tell me, presumably because if they discovered that the name and phone number didn’t tie up, they’d have to tell the caller they weren’t authorised to discuss the account.

It took a while to find someone to agree that this wasn’t the most sensible way forward, but finally the address was changed and I was promised that I would now get my monthly bills. But what she wouldn’t agree to do was send me copies of the missing bills, because O2 didn’t provide that service. I asked if she’d describe sending me something she should already have sent me as an extra service, but she could only repeat the rule that they didn’t do that. I wasn’t capable of haggling any more so came off the phone relieved that at least I would now get my bills.

I received a bill yesterday - and I'm not making this up - it had the wrong name on it.

Some of life's little puzzles

2006-02-14T09:41:00.000-08:00

Walking back from buying the newspaper on Sunday, it struck me as odd that, in general, newsagents seem to be grumpy, but milkmen are usually cheerful, though both have their alarm clocks set for roughly the same time. Is it to do with their products – the newsagent has a breakfast of gloomy news and the milkman a mood boosting drink? Then I started thinking about some of life’s other little puzzles.

Why for instance, can they put a man on the moon but they can’t make a broom with a handle that doesn’t need a piece of rag wedged in to keep it in place.

Why do women give fear of loneliness as the reason they can't leave their unloved and unloving husbands, yet continue to lie next to him as emotionally isolated as any desert island castaway.

Why, when you suggest to your children that they might like to take their junk from your loft or garage to their own family home, do they look so surprised and hurt that not only are you expecting them to use their own valuable storage space, but have reneged on the unwritten agreement that the space was on permanent loan.

Why is it so much easier to manage other people’s money than our own.

Why did I buy a dictionary that's so large it breaks my wrist to lift it, so have to resort to the silly little one rejected in its favour in the first place.

A blue note on the red hearts

2006-02-11T00:54:00.000-08:00

The annual Valentine’s Day rip-off is here again and I’m feeling nostalgic for the time when it was just a bit of fun, a mystery to be solved, a chance to indulge in a little fantasy of lust or love about someone you fancied. It was simple: you sent a card, leaving as few clues as possible to your identity and the object of your affection enjoyed guessing who the person with such impeccable taste was. Now it’s serious business. No time for fun or mystery. No point doing good by stealth. Your partner needs proof of your love. Time to take up Tesco’s offer of a free half bottle of champagne with every two dozen red roses. But if marketing doesn’t hook you, guilt will. My hairdresser told me she’d made it clear that she'd be very disappointed not only if she didn’t receive an impressive display of red roses, but if they weren’t delivered to her salon, where her colleagues and clients could see what a romantic husband she had.

But whilst I can’t join in that sort of daylight robbery, I would be up for re-enacting the St. Valentine’s Day massacre, with me playing Jack McGurn and Mr Tesco as Bugs Moran. The seven gangsters to be bumped off could be chosen from an all star line-up of high street marketeers, who would then be lured to a garage, with an irresistible offer, not of cheap Canadian whiskey, but a lorry-load of hearts, chocolates, flowers, teddies and bottles of champagne. Me and my five cohorts would then turn up in our stolen police van (ok we might have to compromise on that), order all the gear to be lined up on the wall, and with a pyrotechnic display of automatic paintball machine guns we’d splatter the lot until not one green bottle was left hanging on the wall.

I think I’m married to a fantastic man, but I won’t be expecting a Valentine’s Day gift from him. But I don’t mind because I much prefer the totally unexpected, no special occasion gift he gave me recently–a little book by one of my favourite authors, left on the bedside table. Now that’s romantic.

...to see ourselves as others see us

2006-02-07T04:40:00.001-08:00

It’s funny when you’re having a conversation and the other person starts to criticise someone else, and in listing all their character defects, manages to pretty much describe themselves.

At a family gathering recently, a woman, who can in the course of recounting the minutiae of hers, her family’s and acquaintance’s lives, make you lose the will to live, told me about a former long time friend of hers, who had mysteriously stopped talking to her. When I asked if she missed this friendship, she told me she didn’t really because she was very snobbish, talked only about her own family and constantly bragged about their achievements.

Oh for the cool headed, quick thinking talent of Jane Austin to deliver the deliciously ironic ripostes that Elizabeth Bennett uses on the insufferable rector Mr Collins in Pride & Prejudice. Sadly, all my killer blows were struck much later in the comfort of my sitting room.

But the next time I’m tempted to criticise someone, I must remember that I too could simply be transferring my own unattractive characteristics on to my target.

First Step

2006-01-27T07:01:00.000-08:00

There's no excuse for giving up on a New Year resolution in January and one of mine - to overcome my shopping aversion - has been pushed to the top of the list by a friend, bemoaning the forthcoming closure of one of her favourite shops, saying "ah, but you don't care cos you don't like shopping". Now I like nice things as well as the next person, but to get those magical goodies, I must cross the Forest of Fear, battling the paralysis of indecision to escape its evil clutches, drink from the Pool of Truth to see my real size and shape and meet the scornful challenge of the Wicked Witch of the North observing my imperfections. So, it's not that I don't like shopping, I just can't do it. It's much easier to convince myself that I don't do it because it's boring, materialistic and self-indulgent. There, I've taken the first step - admitted the truth - and it wasn't actually that hard, so I'm off to the shops to buy a fantastic pair of boots - just as soon as I've had a cup of coffee, polished the silver and practiced conjugating some French verbs.