13. Learn kickboxing.
14. Do a 10K run.
15. Eat tripe.
16. Do an oil painting.
Friday, August 05, 2011
Wednesday, August 03, 2011
50 at 50
On September 19th I'm 50. I'm completely cool about this fact. My approach to ageing is similar to Woody Allen's, in that I can't help feeling that it's infinitely preferable to the only feasible alternative.
I've decided to come up with a list of small challenges to tick off over the course of my 51st year on this earth. Some of them will involve more effort than others. I'm going to start compiling that list now, with the first few things which sprung to mind as I walked Apollo this morning.
1. Stay alive.
2. Stay within 2lbs of 9 stone 9.
3. Pass my Spanish GCSE.
4. Complete book 3.
5. Sell one of my books.
6. Perfect a cheese souffle.
7. Go to flamenco classes. (God I do sound like an old bird, don't I?)
8. Start doing an activity with my husband.
9. Start doing an activity with my daughter.
10. Start doing an activity with my son.
11. Write in my blog every day. Maybe this blog, maybe another.
12. Spend more time with my friends. (I'll have to sharpen this one up a bit.)
I'll come back to this. Sensible suggestions welcome.
Monday, July 11, 2011
If you drop litter you stay at school until 6pm...
... and the same applies if you don't wear uniform properly or you fail to complete your homework properly. In return, teachers work hard to provide appropriate teaching for every child in their charge and assessment and feedback is careful and targeted. The children come from Hackney primary schools, where many of them were failing before they arrived at secondary school. Last year 10 of their sixth form left in possession of offers from Cambridge University.
In a world where the most stubborn educational statistic to shake, more so than differences in race or gender, has proven to be the social background of a child, this is a cheering story. This is Mossbourne Academy under the leadership of Michael Wilshaw, much beloved of Michael Gove.
Check out the video on this website: www.mossbourne.hackney.sch.uk
Being something of a zero tolerance teacher, I think this is great. I was taught very early in my teacher training that hildren live up OR DOWN to their teachers' expectations of them. It is the first rule of my classroom practice. People think that the idea of imposing strict rules to achieve ends is a right-wing attitude, and I feel uncomfortable sometimes espousing that notion, but if the end goal is that the child's life chances should be enhanced, then surely that is the over-riding consideration. I'm sure that a lot of sneering goes on when Mossbourne is mentioned, but quietly I wonder how many people would like to give their model a whirl.
Sunday, July 10, 2011
Oh, no, Shane. No, Shane, no, Shane; NO!
What have you let her do to you, Shane? Weird chestnut hair, taut uber-polished skin around clear dead eyes, eyebrows belonging on a camp waiter... Do you look in the mirror and think "Man, you look young?" Or do you gaze at yourself in fear and horror, the dawning realisation of something beyond your control crystallising in your head? Is that glazed expression really masking blind panic, a 'how do I get myself out of this?' white haze?
You've got to worry about Liz Hurley, mind. I once had respect for her. She was bright, articulate, a bit of a party animal. And then she started believing her own hype. This erstwhile 'most beautiful girl in London' I read about in the early 90s has morphed into some kind of sniffy, over-cooked, age and looks-obsessed celebrity hag who has so far lost touch with what real people (or 'civilians' as she once so memorably dismissed us as being) look like when they haven't made use of the dubious gifts of assorted surgeons, needle-wielders, chemical-peelers, star hairdressers and eyebrow-shapers. You can't look a bit rough and characterful in that world. If you put someone in a shell like that I bet character and humour suffocates and dies. Does she really think she's improved him??? Really?
Well, Shane. I don't think you ever were or ever will be much of an oil painting but you did have bags of character in your face and your over-highlighted hair. I honour THAT Shane.
Oh, and one last thing, Shane...
RUN.
Sunday, June 19, 2011
Iain McCallum 1929-2005
Dad died just over six years ago now. I won't pretend that I think of him every single day, because I don't think I do. My mother does think him every day; probably every hour. Everything in her life reminds her of something to do with him. Every month holds a dozen anniversaires; every day a thousand tiny micro jolts of memory.
So no, I don't think of him like that. I don't even, as I used to, see something, read something, hear something and think "I must ask Daddy about that". I do, however, often reflect on things he said, habits he had, aphorisms of his and wonder at how wise he was. (Most of the time; occasionally he got it spectacularly wrong!) I've passed many of his nuggets to my children. Among them:
- Never trust any group who gesture en masse above their heads with a hand shaped like a fist or a slap. Mass violence shows itself.
- Try as hard as you like, but never LOOK as though you're trying. It smacks of desperation and scares people.
- Swear to release pressure. Don't swear AT people. It's unattractive and violent.
- Be nice to every single person you ever meet. It's good breeding. Only ill-mannered oafs feel that there are people of lower status than they, and they can be unpleasant to them.
- If something's worth doing, it's worth doing well. If it's not worth doing, don't do it at all.
- Be yourself. If you try and be someone else, you'll be uncomfortable and you'll always get found out.
- Your body is ony a vessel to carry around your brain. It's nice to have a pretty box, but the present is more important.
Happy Father's Day, everyone.
So no, I don't think of him like that. I don't even, as I used to, see something, read something, hear something and think "I must ask Daddy about that". I do, however, often reflect on things he said, habits he had, aphorisms of his and wonder at how wise he was. (Most of the time; occasionally he got it spectacularly wrong!) I've passed many of his nuggets to my children. Among them:
- Never trust any group who gesture en masse above their heads with a hand shaped like a fist or a slap. Mass violence shows itself.
- Try as hard as you like, but never LOOK as though you're trying. It smacks of desperation and scares people.
- Swear to release pressure. Don't swear AT people. It's unattractive and violent.
- Be nice to every single person you ever meet. It's good breeding. Only ill-mannered oafs feel that there are people of lower status than they, and they can be unpleasant to them.
- If something's worth doing, it's worth doing well. If it's not worth doing, don't do it at all.
- Be yourself. If you try and be someone else, you'll be uncomfortable and you'll always get found out.
- Your body is ony a vessel to carry around your brain. It's nice to have a pretty box, but the present is more important.
Happy Father's Day, everyone.
Tuesday, June 07, 2011
Sarah Palin. Oh Dear, I seem to be on about her a lot...
She wants to be President.
...
...sorry, I have to go and lie down in a dark room until it gets better.
...
...sorry, I have to go and lie down in a dark room until it gets better.
I'm just going to come out and say it...
I LOVE teenagers. They're funny, sweet, sulky, endearing, infuriating but above all interesting. They speak their minds, don't smarm you (because they haven't learned how to yet) and make you splutter with laughter when they come out with gauche or ill-judged comments which, if you had no sense of humour, would make you give them a detention and register a formal complaint with the authorities.
They get a bad press because there are a small minority who, probably because of circumstances which pre-existed their ability to make a decision, have no idea of, or respect for, the rules of living in a society. If the logic which says 'some teenagers are feral and dangerous, therefore I will avoid them, especially when in groups," were in the ascendant, men would be avoided by all women. Women would be avoided by most women. Dogs would cower and hide from humans. Cats... well, you get my drift.
The ruth remains that the vast majority are hard-working, thoughtful, kind and funny. They love their mothers, but listen to their friends more. And they mostly turn into lovely adults.
So, I'm a teacher and a mother of teenagers, and I say "Up with teenagers!" They make the world a more interesting place to be.
Thursday, June 02, 2011
Another reason to loathe Tesco
You wouldn't think there were many more reasons to detest the giant conglomerate stealthily taking control of this country by spreading like a giant slug and suffocating small business wherever it goes, soaking up all objections to its progress and inexplicably leading councils, boroughs and government to gently push away piles of protests from men and women in the street, signing all permissions without demur, precisely as requested, and then rolling over and asking Tesco to slime their tummies.
But no. Apparently it is not enough to take £1 in every £11 spent in the UK. Now it is essential that no one should derive free benefit from its products, EVEN IF THEY HAVE BEEN THROWN AWAY. Tesco has decided to prosecute some poor woman who took a large quantity of ham from a Tesco bin. Apparently the fact of throwing something away does not mean that you relinquish ownerhip of it. Apparently.
Now, I don't know about you, but it is normally precisely in order to relinquish ownership of something that I put it in a bin. The bin is there to facilitate my relinquishing ownership of it. Because otherwise I would be living in an environment which would lead documentary makers specialising in films about mentally ill people who can't throw anything away and live in their own filth to come knocking on my door. If someone else can find a use for my waste, so much the better. The Freegan movement is well-established and I think performs a useful function, keeping down the tide of waste and utilising that for which most of society has no use.
What I see here is the biggest, fattest, most revolting dog I've ever observed in a manger, growling with aggression while cradling piles of past-sell-date ham.
I personally find the concept of Freeganism far less repulsive than this vile, vile giant slug of a corporation.
Thursday, May 05, 2011
Sarah Palin shoots her mouth off again
Apparently, according to the Great Gob that is Sarah Palin, Barack Obama's White House should publish the gruesome pictures of a mutilated Osama Bin Laden because it will "serve as a warning to America's enemies".
Yeah right, Sarah. That should do it. A man leads a worldwide terror campaign using suicide bombers, but the fact that after ten years of sending volunteers to their deaths to further the cause of the Jihad, because his followers see pictures of his dead, mutilated body, shot by members of the US armed forces, they will all cower behind the sofa whimpering and decide to take up stamp collecting instead. All the nasty men will go away and fluffy bunnies will have their tummies tickled on the streets of New York.
Absolutely no chance that this will stoke the fires of terrorism and inflame the sense that America is even more of an enemy then?
Do you think she understands the meaning of the word 'sensitive'? Oh no, I forgot. She likes pictures of dead things, doesn't she? Used a couple of pictures of herself and her poor kid surrounded by dead things in her campaign as I recall. Silly me.
Thank God Obama won that election - that's all I can say. Thank God the USA has a President who understands cause and effect in foreign affairs...
Monday, May 02, 2011
The right person, not the right party.
With the prospect of local elections on Thursday I'd like to bang on another one of my drums.
What place does party politics have in local government? What does it add to what we end up with?
You'll probably guess that I think the answers to those questions are a) none and b) nothing. I think party politics represents a massive, costly and irrelevant distraction to the business of running a town, borough, county or city. We have MPs whom we elect on party lines, understandably, as that election goes towards deciding which set of ideals and policies the nation has chosen to dictate how it is run over the next few years.
But those are largely, if not totally, irrelevant when you're talking about your worries about that dangerous crossing outside your children's primary school, the ugliness of the new street lamps in the park replacing the old Victorian ones, or the fact that fortnightly rubbish collections are a health hazard when the sun shines.
Party politics is lazy electoral shorthand to which we all subscribe. I vote Labour/Liberal/Conservative and therefore I bin, without reading, all the other leaflets as they come through the door and then go out like an obedient sheep on Thursday and put my cross in the appropriate box. I may not even read the leaflet from my chosen candidate - why should I? I know who I'm going to vote for. The candidates don't even have to have any convictions. They don't have to DO anything, because, unless they mess up spectacularly, voters will choose them or fail to choose them according to decisions made in Westminster.
Local politics is where ambitious young politicians cut their teeth. It is in the main a proving ground for tomorrows MPs and MEPs, somewhere they can be spotted and elevated to considerations for Westminster. In the same way as many local journalists are working hard to be spotted for BBC or ITN, young politicians are aiming at somewhere a long way away from their council wards. There are some who are committed to their local area, of course, and they must be utterly frustrated by the status quo.
In fact the party political element of the council inhibits its efficient running. In Bristol, my home town, the council is more often than labelled as "no overall control". The councillors squabble like children, largely unaware of the appalling impression they're making to their electorate. The Conservatives shout a lot and get people on their side so that Labour initiatives don't get through; the Labour concillors get in a huddle and complain that the Liberals aren't talking to them; the Liberals sulk and turn their back on everybody. And all this on issues which matter to the voters and have nothing to do with what's happening nationally.
If it were up to me I'd ban all overt political affiliation in council elections and get everybody to compete as individuals with reference to local issues. They'd have to work harder and we'd have to work harder to select our preferred candidate. The council would have to work harder to sort things out with reasoned and issue-based debate, and the work of our MPs would continue without distractions because parties of dignitaries would no longer need to be shipped out to bolster support in 'marginal' councils and wards.
If Dave would like to give me a call, I'll help him organise the change. But they why would they, when the status quo is so lazily convenient for them, if not for us?
Sunday, May 01, 2011
My profile picture
Have you noticed that I haven't changed my profile picture? In about five years? I don't look like that any more. Now I look like this:
Well, that was the plan. This is Mariella Fostrup who, like Joan Bakewell in her day, is 'the thinking man's crumpet'. Not a bad epithet, I think. People used to tell me I looked like her, but she didn't put on a shed-load of weight and start to resemble a slightly run-down semi. She also didn't just have the worst haircut since monks decided it might be a good idea to shave a circle of scalp in the back of their heads.
Dukan diet and a visit to Hobbs and I might one day change that profile picture. Mariella is the only thing keeping me eating protein.
Incidentally here is my idea of the thinking WOMAN's crumpet.
Neil Oliver, historian; looks of Braveheart and a voice like warm Scottish heather honey. Yum.
Well, that was the plan. This is Mariella Fostrup who, like Joan Bakewell in her day, is 'the thinking man's crumpet'. Not a bad epithet, I think. People used to tell me I looked like her, but she didn't put on a shed-load of weight and start to resemble a slightly run-down semi. She also didn't just have the worst haircut since monks decided it might be a good idea to shave a circle of scalp in the back of their heads.
Dukan diet and a visit to Hobbs and I might one day change that profile picture. Mariella is the only thing keeping me eating protein.
Incidentally here is my idea of the thinking WOMAN's crumpet.
Neil Oliver, historian; looks of Braveheart and a voice like warm Scottish heather honey. Yum.
The monarchy
Funnily enough, the existence of the monarchy is one of the very few subjects about which I do not have strong feelings. To anyone who knows me or who reads me, this will seem odd, given that so many other people can get so incredibly worked up about it.
Generally I look at the Royal family and for some reason, for all their weaknesses, they make me feel pleasantly British, part of something. I can't put my finger on why, because from a logical perspective there's not really much solid argument for monarchy. But I suppose the flip side of that is that republican sentiment, especially when virulently expressed, comes across as so joyless, mean-spirited and cross. It's like people who berate fashion, get annoyed by good news stories becase they're distracting from the serious problems of the day, or complain about those who spend lots of money on their pets. They sound as if they would call the police if they saw someone getting beaten up rather than wading in with their fists and shouting obscenities loudly at the attacker (which is the tactic I have planned, should I ever find myself in that position).
As I explained at probably tedious length here www.stuffstillhappens.blogspot.com/2006/06/democracy-has-its-limits.html , I have a bit of an issue with untempered democracy. I think people have been sold a pup with the whole thing. I don't want to see every position of responsibility and/or power in my country filled with beady-eyed, ambitious, power-hungry people who, once in a post, spend too much of their time holding onto their power and position rather than doing the job we pay them for.
I quite like the Queen and I'm glad she's not a President with an eye on the next election and therefore hungry for popularity. I quite like the fact that she doesn't really have to try, if I'm honest. She has to accept popularity or lack of it and carry on doing her job. If the monarchy looks like it's losing the battle she'll smile, shake hands limply, ask people if they've come far, cut ribbons and wave as if nothing at all is happening.
My generation; Charles, Anne, Andrew and Edward; were a bit worthy and dull and then three quarters of them went and mildly astonished us by being interesting enough to have extra-marital affairs and/or ditch their other halves, and the fourth quarter raised eyebrows by turning out probably not to be gay. Who knew? The other slightly limiting factor in my enthusiasm for them as I grew up was that they were sadly plain, however much people tried to convince themselves that Andrew was a looker.
Charles has turned out to be less eccentric than he seemed in earlier life, his talking to plants probably having had more to do with the fact that he and his wildly popular wife couldn't stand each other than any deep-seated pottiness; Anne outgrew her reputation for being rude and difficult, turned out to be quite good at something in her own right, took part in the Olympics and is now the 'hardest-working Royal'; 'handsome' Andrew, well, he has continued being a bit of a buffoon and that's starting to look embarrassing as he continues to exhibit poor judgement into his late forties and fifties, and his ex-wife worse; Edward, bless him, seems... how shall I put this politely?... solid. But they smile and ask people how far they've come and cut ribbons and wave and brighten a lot of people's lives. And frankly I can't think of a job I'd like less, but they didn't really have the option to opt out and for that reason I'm grateful to them.
I suppose I have to mention Diana. She was born at almost exactly the same time as me and I felt great pity for her from the moment she started to be pursued by paparazzi from the nursery where she worked. I wasn't a great admirer of Diana's. I didn't buy in AT ALL to the whole Diana cult, seeing her as a nice and conscientious but rather dim and ordinary woman and, although pretty, not the great beauty she was billed as (bit of Emperor's new clothes going on there, I thought). However, she did a good job as a Princess, especially considering that life at home must have been miserable in the extreme. She was also a good mother and had the backbone to bring up her young sons to be modern royals. I was sad for them when she died, but found the slightly Stalinist demands that we should all bare our souls and make mawkish declarations of personal grief unpleasant and at times threatening. I didn't know her after all.
The next generation seem like a better fit for the future. William and Harry are DOERS. Yes, they are born to a life of privilege but it's a life I wouldn't wish on any young person. They have superficial freedom to pursue a career but then they are reminded that they are not normal joes and there are walls around those freedoms. Harry's frustration at not being able to serve as a soldier with his men on the front line being a prime example. The others are generally likeable and reasonably normal, given the circumstances.
The wedding on Friday was a great spectacle - a chance to get out the heraldry, dust down the carriages, wave a billion plastic Union Jacks and have a massive knees-up. It was about unity and goodwill and FUN.
Electoral events are about discord and disagreement. When they work out how to make the whole country want to party, THEN we'll talk.
Sunday, March 27, 2011
Sums
I know that UK PLC is a little bit in debt, that it's overspent this month and is hiding in the bathroom with the music turned up so that it won't hear the phone call from the bank. I know that Dave is looking at panicking a bit.
I can see that it looks like a good idea to lay off tens of thousands of public sector workers. No employees for government to pay = no pay bill = joy all round, right? Looks attractive. That'll sort stuff out right? More dosh to cut that overdraft. Excellent.
What I can't quite understand is why, given that we quite a lot of people working in the Treasury, no one's looked at the other side of that equation. To whit no employees = (hefty redundancy + benefits bill) + (inability to spend non-existent pay in UK shops and businesses) = layoffs in private sector + second increase in benefits bill.
Very rarely is public policy as simple as it seems. That's why we need to elect really clever people to run the country.
Which is, as I think I've argued before, the problem.
I can see that it looks like a good idea to lay off tens of thousands of public sector workers. No employees for government to pay = no pay bill = joy all round, right? Looks attractive. That'll sort stuff out right? More dosh to cut that overdraft. Excellent.
What I can't quite understand is why, given that we quite a lot of people working in the Treasury, no one's looked at the other side of that equation. To whit no employees = (hefty redundancy + benefits bill) + (inability to spend non-existent pay in UK shops and businesses) = layoffs in private sector + second increase in benefits bill.
Very rarely is public policy as simple as it seems. That's why we need to elect really clever people to run the country.
Which is, as I think I've argued before, the problem.
Saturday, January 08, 2011
Trolls
Got stuck into a snit with some vile, right-wing, probably BNP idiots on the Telegraph website. I do this about once a year and it all makes me feel shaky with anger. Can't bear the kind of mindless, baseless assertions they come out with. Did you know that the far left encourage immigration as a means of destabilising "the system"? Or that Hitler was a far left-wing socialist (clue: Nazi = National SOCIALIST party?) Stupid, stupid people....
They probably feel the same about me, though.
But I'm right. Obv.
They probably feel the same about me, though.
But I'm right. Obv.
Why Stephanie Owen
This was a story I wrote a while back which was published somewhere on the web - can't now remember where - I suppose I should really keep a track of these things somewhere. It was written by an anecdote a friend told me, but I suspect happens every day.
Why Stephanie Owen
That girl was so badly behaved at school. If you wanted to find Stephanie Owen, you knew where to look. Just hop along to Miss Collins’ study and there she’d be, waiting for the latest telling off. In fact, on one occasion I was the one sending her.
It was in the fifth year and I was one of the prefects. Stephanie used to go on about how she thought the ‘whole prefect thing’ was ‘an anachronism’, but she was just jealous. She was so immature. I can remember once when I was overseeing prep in the library and the second years were all behaving themselves and Stephanie and her friend Sarah were sitting in a corner and giggling. I had to maintain order, so after a couple of warnings I sent her out.
“Right, Stephanie. That’s it. I’m afraid I’m going to have to send you to Miss Collins.”
She laughed out loud.
“You are joking, Polly, aren’t you?”
“No – I’m not. Please get your things and go to Miss Collins.”
She and Sarah exchanged looks and screeched with laughter. Honestly, just like a pair of alley cats.
All the second years looked up at Stephanie, shaking her head and trying to speak.
“Oh, Polly Minter. You are just so funny...”
She was still almost crying with laughter as she went out of the door. Which wasn’t the reaction I was expecting. The second years all looked back at me.
“Well get on with it,” I said, “And the next person who opens their mouth will be writing 500 words on ‘listening to the grass grow’.” (I was good at those. My favourite was ‘watching the paint dry’.)
As I went back at my own revision I had the idea that they were laughing, but I couldn’t look up fast enough to catch anyone.
Stephanie and her little gang used to roam the school, talking too loudly, as if anybody could be remotely interested in their self-consciously left-wing opinions. I mean, really! How could anyone come to a school like the Charlotte Asprey and profess left-wing views? To prove their point, they’d be clad in skirts that were too short, jerseys that were too tight, shirts with three buttons undone and ties undone sufficiently to show their hoiked-up breasts. Presumably socialists can’t dress themselves properly. They would wear their hair loose around their shoulders and try and find excuses to come to school without their regulation shoes. Stephanie was the worst. “Sorry, Miss Plumley – my lace broke”, “Sorry Miss Plumley – Mum accidentally put them in with the washing”, “Sorry Miss Plumley, I was late and didn’t want to miss the start of school.” And Miss Plumley, who was ridiculously wet, would smile and let her get away with it. And as she teetered to the back of the class on her black platforms, chewing on the gum she’d temporarily stowed behind her molars, Stephanie would wink at me. These days you can’t use the word, but let’s face it - she was common as muck. God, I loathed her.
Stephanie was a scholarship girl who utterly abused the privileges afforded her by the generosity of the Governors. She never acquired the manners which characterise a Charlotte Asprey girl. She never really understood the standards expected by the school, the responsibility which a position in society demands. Or perhaps, as I sometimes suspect, she did understand, but simply chose not to conform . But then that’s breeding, I suppose. You’ve either got it or you haven’t. Someone like Stephanie, poor thing, was confused. She’d been taken out of her normal environment so of course she wasn’t going to fit in. Oh, she had that odd, rebellious little gang, of course, but she didn’t fit in properly.
She would talk to anyone. ANYONE. I saw her once on the bus laughing and smoking with some oik from the local comp. He was practically drooling into her chest. I wasn’t on the bus, of course. Mummy was driving me to maths coaching – I just happened to glance up. And she and her lot used to drink cider in the park in school uniform. In fact I once went and had a discreet word with Miss Collins about it. After all, it was a suspension offence. But nothing happened. In my opinion, she didn’t take it seriously enough.
In the sixth form mock election Stephanie stood for Labour. Helena Cumming stood for the Conservatives and polled 647 votes. Stephanie polled 22. Which was as it should be. She laughed and said she supposed that that was what she got for standing on a socialist ticket in a school where they gave out deportment badges. I couldn’t see what that had to do with anything.
After she and I both left to go to university I forgot about her. Well, you would, wouldn’t you? We weren’t exactly moving in the same circles. I met Rupert at university and we married the year after we graduated and had Henry and Jemima within a few years. After Rupert came out of the army he took over his father’s successful bathroom fittings company. We have a very nice life together. Henry’s busy, of course, and so am I, but we make time to play golf together. Henry’s doing Media Studies at university. Jemima, who’ll make a lovely little mother, goes to the Charlotte Asprey where I’m one of the Parent Governors. In fact, between ourselves, I’m under some pressure to take up the Chair next year, which is a real honour when you consider that the outgoing Chair is none other than Lady Olive Portland, the famous biographer.
Now I’m not one for politics and all that. Rupert and I vote Tory. What else is there to say? How people can go on and on beats me. It just causes friction at dinner parties, as far as I’m concerned. Or it would if I didn’t skilfully change the subject whenever we’re in danger of veering into that sort of territory. So when Lady Olive approached me in the run-up to Founders Day I was caught entirely off-guard.
“Polly! You never told me that you were in the same year as Stephanie Owen!”
“Who?”
“Stephanie Owen!”
“Oh! Yes, yes... Yes, I was.”
“Well, don’t you think that she’d be the ideal choice to speak to the girls at Founders’ Day? A terrific role model, I should say!”
“Well...”
“I can’t believe that you didn’t mention her when we were discussing the matter at the last Governors’ meeting!”
“Well...”
“Recently appointed Parliamentary Under-Secretary for International Aid? I’ve heard she’s tipped for a cabinet position. Extraordinary achievement for an old CA girl! Was she always such a crusading firebrand at school?”
She was smiling lightly, waiting for a reply, but I couldn’t speak. When I recovered myself I croaked.
“She drank cider in the park in school uniform.”
Lady Olive looked momentarily confused, then burst into laughter.
“Did she really? What a character!”
I laughed along uncertainly.
“She probably smoked behind the bike sheds as well,” she volunteered.
“Yes, she did.”
Lady Olive shook her head merrily as she composed herself.
“Anyway, Polly, I think you’d be the appropriate person to write to her and invite her to speak at Founders’ Day. Stress how much of an inspiration she’d be to the girls. You know the sort of thing...”
“I don’t know her address.”
“Oh Polly, you are funny! Stephanie Owen MP, House of Commons, of course! Actually, Right Honourable Stephanie Owen MP.”
“She never married, then .”
“Polly Fanshawe! Don’t you ever read the papers? She’s married to Nick Martin; you know, the union chief – can’t remember which one... health, I think. You don’t get left-wing dynamos like her using taking their husbands’ names!”
She tinkled that by now rather annoying laugh. As if it wasn’t a ridiculous idea. As if it wasn’t a silly bit of left-wing nonsense. As if it wasn’t MOST un-Charlotte Asprey. Why bother getting married, for heavens’ sake, if you weren’t going to have the same name as your children?
“Actually, you’re right, you know. Writing to her would be silly. Why don’t you just call the House directly? I’ll get her number from Bernard.”
“Oh, you don’t need to trouble Sir Bernard!”
“Nonsense, dear. No trouble. I’m sure he spends most of his time in Westminster fast asleep... He only wakes up when one of the younger lady MPs comes into the tea room. And you know how all these old men go on about buxom ‘Ms’ Owen and her, how shall we put this... her feminine credentials!”
No, actually. I didn’t. And I didn’t want to. But as Lady Olive made her excuses and moved away it looked as though there was no way of preventing the reestablishment of my acquaintance with Stephanie Owen.
So a few days later I braced myself, picked up the phone and dialled.
“Hello, may I speak to Stephanie Owen, please?”
“May I ask who’s calling?”
“My name is Polly Fanshawe.”
“And what are you calling in connection with, Ms Fanshawe?”
“Mrs.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“It’s MRS Fanshawe.”
“Oh. Sorry.”
“I’m calling with an invitation for ...Ms Owen.”
“I’m her PA. Perhaps you can give me the details and I’ll see if she can make it.”
“No, I’d rather speak to her directly. We were at school together.”
“Oh, I see. What was the name again?”
”Polly Fanshawe.. Minter as was.”
“Just one moment Ms...Mrs Fanshawe.”
She put me on hold. I nearly hung up. But then...
“Polly! How are you?”
“Stephanie! I’m fine. Fine.”
“Good, good. Well... Goodness me, this is strange!”
“And you?”
“Yes., fine, fine. What are you up to these days?”
“Oh, you know... the usual. Husband, children, dogs, school...”
“That sounds nice.”
God, what a pointless waste of time. What was wrong with a nice little letter on headed notepaper from Lady Olive Portland in her capacity as Chair of the Governors? Why did I have to endure this excruciating conversation with a ghastly woman I hadn’t seen since she was a ghastly girl and whom I’d have been happy not to see for the remainder of my natural life?
“What can I do for you?”
”Well, the Governors of the school have asked me to invite you...”
“The Governors? Are you one?”
“Yes. They’ve asked me to invite you to speak at Founders’ Day.”
There was a silence at the other end of the line. I had the distinct impression of suppressed laughter, but I’m probably just being paranoid.
“Really? They want me to come back and speak at the CA? Aren’t they nervous about what I’ll say?”
“I think you’ll find that the Charlotte Asprey is a very open and modern school.”
“It’s changed quite a bit, then?”
There it was again, that slightly breathy sound. I had to bite my lip, I can tell you. Where would she have been without the benefit of an education from my old school? Working in Woolworths, I shouldn’t wonder.
“What date is Founders’ Day?”
“July 12th.”
“July 12th... let me see...”
Oh for heavens’ sake.
“Let me see... Oh dear. No Polly, I’m so sorry, but as I suspected, I can’t make it. I’m going to be in Belize on the Tuesday and Wednesday.”
“I’m sorry – did you say you’re not coming?”
“I can’t, I’m afraid.”
“Well...”
“Look, I’ll tell you what - I’d really like to visit. Why don’t you talk to my PA and see if you could get a reservation in my diary for next year? Do you have the date?”
Was she really saying no? The greatest honour that her old school could accord her – and Stephanie Owen, a gum-chewing reprobate who practically had her own naughty chair in the Headmistress’s study, was turning down the chance to address the girls? The cheek of it took my breath away.
“I don’t have the date.”
“What a pity. Well, what can I say? I’m really sorry, but you know how it is. In this job I’m discovering that my diary gets booked up unbelievably rapidly.”
“Yes, well, we all have busy lives.”
Miss bloody High and Mighty.
“Of course, of course. Well. I’m afraid I’m going to have to go, Polly. I’m late for a meeting.
Thank you for calling. Perhaps we’ll speak again.”
“Perhaps.”
Over my dead body.
“Bye then, Polly. All the best. Give my love to the school.”
“Will do. Good bye.”
I hung up and for a moment I felt faint with anger and frustration. Why, of all the wonderful girls in our school, all the fabulous, friends in our year, why had greatness been thrust upon the likes of Stephanie Owen?
Lady Olive was terribly disappointed. I couldn’t understand why. The question of a Founders’ Day speaker was not a problem – there was that rather nice girl from two years below me who’d had a book of chocolate recipes published. But Lady Olive immediately busied herself setting a date for next year’s Founders’ Day with the current headmistress, specifically in order to be able to book Stephanie Owen, which I thought was over-keen.
For days afterwards I felt unsettled and most unlike myself until Rupert, recognising my malaise, presented me with a Hermes handbag, which made me feel a great deal better.
It was in the fifth year and I was one of the prefects. Stephanie used to go on about how she thought the ‘whole prefect thing’ was ‘an anachronism’, but she was just jealous. She was so immature. I can remember once when I was overseeing prep in the library and the second years were all behaving themselves and Stephanie and her friend Sarah were sitting in a corner and giggling. I had to maintain order, so after a couple of warnings I sent her out.
“Right, Stephanie. That’s it. I’m afraid I’m going to have to send you to Miss Collins.”
She laughed out loud.
“You are joking, Polly, aren’t you?”
“No – I’m not. Please get your things and go to Miss Collins.”
She and Sarah exchanged looks and screeched with laughter. Honestly, just like a pair of alley cats.
All the second years looked up at Stephanie, shaking her head and trying to speak.
“Oh, Polly Minter. You are just so funny...”
She was still almost crying with laughter as she went out of the door. Which wasn’t the reaction I was expecting. The second years all looked back at me.
“Well get on with it,” I said, “And the next person who opens their mouth will be writing 500 words on ‘listening to the grass grow’.” (I was good at those. My favourite was ‘watching the paint dry’.)
As I went back at my own revision I had the idea that they were laughing, but I couldn’t look up fast enough to catch anyone.
Stephanie and her little gang used to roam the school, talking too loudly, as if anybody could be remotely interested in their self-consciously left-wing opinions. I mean, really! How could anyone come to a school like the Charlotte Asprey and profess left-wing views? To prove their point, they’d be clad in skirts that were too short, jerseys that were too tight, shirts with three buttons undone and ties undone sufficiently to show their hoiked-up breasts. Presumably socialists can’t dress themselves properly. They would wear their hair loose around their shoulders and try and find excuses to come to school without their regulation shoes. Stephanie was the worst. “Sorry, Miss Plumley – my lace broke”, “Sorry Miss Plumley – Mum accidentally put them in with the washing”, “Sorry Miss Plumley, I was late and didn’t want to miss the start of school.” And Miss Plumley, who was ridiculously wet, would smile and let her get away with it. And as she teetered to the back of the class on her black platforms, chewing on the gum she’d temporarily stowed behind her molars, Stephanie would wink at me. These days you can’t use the word, but let’s face it - she was common as muck. God, I loathed her.
Stephanie was a scholarship girl who utterly abused the privileges afforded her by the generosity of the Governors. She never acquired the manners which characterise a Charlotte Asprey girl. She never really understood the standards expected by the school, the responsibility which a position in society demands. Or perhaps, as I sometimes suspect, she did understand, but simply chose not to conform . But then that’s breeding, I suppose. You’ve either got it or you haven’t. Someone like Stephanie, poor thing, was confused. She’d been taken out of her normal environment so of course she wasn’t going to fit in. Oh, she had that odd, rebellious little gang, of course, but she didn’t fit in properly.
She would talk to anyone. ANYONE. I saw her once on the bus laughing and smoking with some oik from the local comp. He was practically drooling into her chest. I wasn’t on the bus, of course. Mummy was driving me to maths coaching – I just happened to glance up. And she and her lot used to drink cider in the park in school uniform. In fact I once went and had a discreet word with Miss Collins about it. After all, it was a suspension offence. But nothing happened. In my opinion, she didn’t take it seriously enough.
In the sixth form mock election Stephanie stood for Labour. Helena Cumming stood for the Conservatives and polled 647 votes. Stephanie polled 22. Which was as it should be. She laughed and said she supposed that that was what she got for standing on a socialist ticket in a school where they gave out deportment badges. I couldn’t see what that had to do with anything.
After she and I both left to go to university I forgot about her. Well, you would, wouldn’t you? We weren’t exactly moving in the same circles. I met Rupert at university and we married the year after we graduated and had Henry and Jemima within a few years. After Rupert came out of the army he took over his father’s successful bathroom fittings company. We have a very nice life together. Henry’s busy, of course, and so am I, but we make time to play golf together. Henry’s doing Media Studies at university. Jemima, who’ll make a lovely little mother, goes to the Charlotte Asprey where I’m one of the Parent Governors. In fact, between ourselves, I’m under some pressure to take up the Chair next year, which is a real honour when you consider that the outgoing Chair is none other than Lady Olive Portland, the famous biographer.
Now I’m not one for politics and all that. Rupert and I vote Tory. What else is there to say? How people can go on and on beats me. It just causes friction at dinner parties, as far as I’m concerned. Or it would if I didn’t skilfully change the subject whenever we’re in danger of veering into that sort of territory. So when Lady Olive approached me in the run-up to Founders Day I was caught entirely off-guard.
“Polly! You never told me that you were in the same year as Stephanie Owen!”
“Who?”
“Stephanie Owen!”
“Oh! Yes, yes... Yes, I was.”
“Well, don’t you think that she’d be the ideal choice to speak to the girls at Founders’ Day? A terrific role model, I should say!”
“Well...”
“I can’t believe that you didn’t mention her when we were discussing the matter at the last Governors’ meeting!”
“Well...”
“Recently appointed Parliamentary Under-Secretary for International Aid? I’ve heard she’s tipped for a cabinet position. Extraordinary achievement for an old CA girl! Was she always such a crusading firebrand at school?”
She was smiling lightly, waiting for a reply, but I couldn’t speak. When I recovered myself I croaked.
“She drank cider in the park in school uniform.”
Lady Olive looked momentarily confused, then burst into laughter.
“Did she really? What a character!”
I laughed along uncertainly.
“She probably smoked behind the bike sheds as well,” she volunteered.
“Yes, she did.”
Lady Olive shook her head merrily as she composed herself.
“Anyway, Polly, I think you’d be the appropriate person to write to her and invite her to speak at Founders’ Day. Stress how much of an inspiration she’d be to the girls. You know the sort of thing...”
“I don’t know her address.”
“Oh Polly, you are funny! Stephanie Owen MP, House of Commons, of course! Actually, Right Honourable Stephanie Owen MP.”
“She never married, then .”
“Polly Fanshawe! Don’t you ever read the papers? She’s married to Nick Martin; you know, the union chief – can’t remember which one... health, I think. You don’t get left-wing dynamos like her using taking their husbands’ names!”
She tinkled that by now rather annoying laugh. As if it wasn’t a ridiculous idea. As if it wasn’t a silly bit of left-wing nonsense. As if it wasn’t MOST un-Charlotte Asprey. Why bother getting married, for heavens’ sake, if you weren’t going to have the same name as your children?
“Actually, you’re right, you know. Writing to her would be silly. Why don’t you just call the House directly? I’ll get her number from Bernard.”
“Oh, you don’t need to trouble Sir Bernard!”
“Nonsense, dear. No trouble. I’m sure he spends most of his time in Westminster fast asleep... He only wakes up when one of the younger lady MPs comes into the tea room. And you know how all these old men go on about buxom ‘Ms’ Owen and her, how shall we put this... her feminine credentials!”
No, actually. I didn’t. And I didn’t want to. But as Lady Olive made her excuses and moved away it looked as though there was no way of preventing the reestablishment of my acquaintance with Stephanie Owen.
So a few days later I braced myself, picked up the phone and dialled.
“Hello, may I speak to Stephanie Owen, please?”
“May I ask who’s calling?”
“My name is Polly Fanshawe.”
“And what are you calling in connection with, Ms Fanshawe?”
“Mrs.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“It’s MRS Fanshawe.”
“Oh. Sorry.”
“I’m calling with an invitation for ...Ms Owen.”
“I’m her PA. Perhaps you can give me the details and I’ll see if she can make it.”
“No, I’d rather speak to her directly. We were at school together.”
“Oh, I see. What was the name again?”
”Polly Fanshawe.. Minter as was.”
“Just one moment Ms...Mrs Fanshawe.”
She put me on hold. I nearly hung up. But then...
“Polly! How are you?”
“Stephanie! I’m fine. Fine.”
“Good, good. Well... Goodness me, this is strange!”
“And you?”
“Yes., fine, fine. What are you up to these days?”
“Oh, you know... the usual. Husband, children, dogs, school...”
“That sounds nice.”
God, what a pointless waste of time. What was wrong with a nice little letter on headed notepaper from Lady Olive Portland in her capacity as Chair of the Governors? Why did I have to endure this excruciating conversation with a ghastly woman I hadn’t seen since she was a ghastly girl and whom I’d have been happy not to see for the remainder of my natural life?
“What can I do for you?”
”Well, the Governors of the school have asked me to invite you...”
“The Governors? Are you one?”
“Yes. They’ve asked me to invite you to speak at Founders’ Day.”
There was a silence at the other end of the line. I had the distinct impression of suppressed laughter, but I’m probably just being paranoid.
“Really? They want me to come back and speak at the CA? Aren’t they nervous about what I’ll say?”
“I think you’ll find that the Charlotte Asprey is a very open and modern school.”
“It’s changed quite a bit, then?”
There it was again, that slightly breathy sound. I had to bite my lip, I can tell you. Where would she have been without the benefit of an education from my old school? Working in Woolworths, I shouldn’t wonder.
“What date is Founders’ Day?”
“July 12th.”
“July 12th... let me see...”
Oh for heavens’ sake.
“Let me see... Oh dear. No Polly, I’m so sorry, but as I suspected, I can’t make it. I’m going to be in Belize on the Tuesday and Wednesday.”
“I’m sorry – did you say you’re not coming?”
“I can’t, I’m afraid.”
“Well...”
“Look, I’ll tell you what - I’d really like to visit. Why don’t you talk to my PA and see if you could get a reservation in my diary for next year? Do you have the date?”
Was she really saying no? The greatest honour that her old school could accord her – and Stephanie Owen, a gum-chewing reprobate who practically had her own naughty chair in the Headmistress’s study, was turning down the chance to address the girls? The cheek of it took my breath away.
“I don’t have the date.”
“What a pity. Well, what can I say? I’m really sorry, but you know how it is. In this job I’m discovering that my diary gets booked up unbelievably rapidly.”
“Yes, well, we all have busy lives.”
Miss bloody High and Mighty.
“Of course, of course. Well. I’m afraid I’m going to have to go, Polly. I’m late for a meeting.
Thank you for calling. Perhaps we’ll speak again.”
“Perhaps.”
Over my dead body.
“Bye then, Polly. All the best. Give my love to the school.”
“Will do. Good bye.”
I hung up and for a moment I felt faint with anger and frustration. Why, of all the wonderful girls in our school, all the fabulous, friends in our year, why had greatness been thrust upon the likes of Stephanie Owen?
Lady Olive was terribly disappointed. I couldn’t understand why. The question of a Founders’ Day speaker was not a problem – there was that rather nice girl from two years below me who’d had a book of chocolate recipes published. But Lady Olive immediately busied herself setting a date for next year’s Founders’ Day with the current headmistress, specifically in order to be able to book Stephanie Owen, which I thought was over-keen.
For days afterwards I felt unsettled and most unlike myself until Rupert, recognising my malaise, presented me with a Hermes handbag, which made me feel a great deal better.
Friday, August 27, 2010
Bye, Mum
I wrote this in response to a radio interview I heard.
Bye Mum
As I reach out to open the car I pause.
I feel nothing.
I am aware of the cold air on my face, the chill of icy metal under my hand. In fact I am aware of every individual cell in my body and I know absolutely that there is not one which feels anything at all.
I hear noise. Traffic; the hum of engines and the soft hissing crunch of tyres on wet roads, the squeaks of windscreen wipers. A distant siren. People laughing, chatting; stories tumbling out amidst torrents of giggles. It is all as if filtered through cotton wool. I turn uncomprehendingly to look at these alien beings in a newly alien world.
When I start the ignition, music rings out; a jolly familiar tune from a decade ago, played so often over so many years that it sickens me to hear it. And even though it was a favourite, I will never want to hear it again after tonight. I reach over and turn the dial down to mute. The overwhelming roar of silence invades my head so that my ears ring.
Earlier, only a few hours ago though it seems like weeks, I manhandled the box of Christmas decorations down from the loft while the boys were out. I dusted down the lights, the wreath, the crib; Mary and Joseph and the tiny baby Jesus, whose halo was chipped years back when clumsy little hands played too roughly with him; the three whole sheep and the two-legged one who has to be propped up against a wall of the stable. The angel hair, the tinsel, the tiny Santas, reindeer, Christmas trees, stars; the huge red glitter-moulting baubles and a few tasteful glass ones, left over from the pre-children days when taste was still something we aspired to; the sugar-paper and cotton wool angel with doily wings made by a small boy when we'd given up all such aspirations. The rattan star with gold lights which spent every December propped in the skylight above the door, declaring to passers-by: “Happy people live here''. We love Christmas.
We loved Christmas.
In the city centre there are still people around. Couples arm in arm and loud, jolly groups wander on and off the roads, shoulders hunched against the cold, chins tucked into scarves, warm breath acting as heating, confident of their right to roam - the optimism of youth. And on the roads cars and vans edge through carefully, though one impatient motorist leans on the horn, only to be greeted with a shout of ribaldry. My heartbeat hurts as I edge forward to draw even with the van-driver, a weasly-looking man in a baseball cap who scowls back in response to my curious gaze. “Was it you?" He is unfazed by my stare. He chews steadily, turns and roars off.
I think of ordinary things.
Because I had to leave suddenly I haven't taken the washing out of the machine. After all these hours it'll be creased beyond belief. Rather than take it all out and iron it, hoping to crush out the creases, I'll just run it through another cycle. And then there are the cards. Still on the kitchen table. Only those destined for America and Australia are already stamped and addressed. Everyone else might have to miss out on the card from the Millers this year. Christmas cards are such a nonsense anyway. “Hasn't time flown? It seems only yesterday we were wishing you a happy 2006! We really must get together in 2007!'' I am embarrassed by my own exclamation marks. I've been writing the same thing to the same people for years. I can barely even remember what some of them look like, or I've aged them in my head, probably inaccurately. Every year, as I write their names, it occurs to me that I couldn't care less whether I see these people in 2006, or 2007 or ever again. The people I really want to see I see every day.
An average December 1st.
Outside the house I turn off the ignition and sit for a moment, realising that the silence before hasn't been real silence. This is real silence, but even now I have an inkling that the silence will deepen over the coming days and weeks. And months and years. I turn to look at the house. Ablaze with light, every window a beacon, it mocks me. And yet it has still to afford a welcome. I check my watch. Tom will be home soon. Tom will need a welcome. Tom will still need a welcome.
I open the door and swing my legs out. They are heavy but I force them to convey me to the door, I coerce my hands into turning the key in the lock, cajole my body into the house. And then in the hall I stand and look around me at the normality I left behind - the boot-printed flyers for taxis and pizzas and exercise classes and decorators I should have picked up days ago are still on the mat; clothes are drying on the radiator, mud-encrusted wellies are strewn around, the recycling box hasn't been put away, and there are piles of things to go upstairs on the bottom step. And then there are the Christmas lights. Technicolor normality, as fake and lurid and off-key now as fifties comedy.
A faint bitter scent alerts me to the brisket I forgot about. I remove the neat smoking charcoal block from the oven and put it, still in its pan, in the back garden. I fan the back door open and shut for a while in a vain attempt to expel the smoke and sourness.
Looking around, I see what my life was like four hours ago. Just four hours ago.
Six hours ago I was in the bath when Josh called from the hall.
“Bye Mum! I'll be back before twelve!''
Now the clock shows ten past one and he isn't back. He won't be coming back. I know that, but at the same time I can't know it, because it is preposterous. It is all a horrible mistake. Everyone has been quite mistaken, and any minute now he'll walk through that door and say:
“Bloody Hell, Mum! What have you been incinerating this time?''
And I'll say:
“Oi you, less lip! I've been here slaving over a hot stove while you've been swanning about with your mates. You don't know how lucky you are, having a mum who still cooks every evening and makes spare for all the waifs and strays you bring home.''
And he'll say:
“Cooking? Is that what it's called?''
And I'll try not to smile and I'll say:
“Watch it, you! You're not too big to put over my lap, you know!''
And he'll come over, all six foot of him, and he'll hold me like a wrestler and ruffle my hair really, really hard so it actually hurts and he'll say through a smile:
“I'd like to see you try.''
And then he'll kiss the top of my head and let me go, and he'll amble into the kitchen.
“Well, I suppose Chef Josh had better take over. As usual. Where's the tin opener then?''
And I'll look at him and be unable not to smile because he's such a loveable big old lummox and because he still, after nineteen years on this earth, hasn't learned to brush his own long, brown, wavy, beautiful hair.
And he'll wave me away with French chef gestures and I'll pick up my paper and a glass of wine and I'll go and sit in that sofa over there and put on my glasses while he tells me about the gig he's just been to, about how brilliant it was and how many encores the band came on for and where he and Kit went for a drink afterwards. Probably to the Shakespeare, because they show the football highlights there and he'll have missed the match. And we'll have a good old chat.
Except we won't, I tell myself, because he never even made it to the hall, because some evil fucker in a white van didn't make allowances for the fact that there was a big gig on and crowds of people, kids, my kid, were all heading in the same direction, in the rain, their hoods up, and some of them wandered into the road. And this vile, vile thing leant on his horn and accelerated and ran over my boy. So I know Josh won't be preparing beans on toast any time in the future because I've just seen his still perfect body laid out in the ridiculously and pretentiously named Chapel of Rest at the hospital. As if he's just having a little lie-down as he did when he was a toddler, and he'll get up in his own good time and stretch and clench his toes and come to find me.
Although stranger things have happened. You hear about it. All I saw was a big maroon bruise on his side. No blood, no gore. He was just a little pale.
No. He's not coming back.
But Tom is. I must ready the house for Tom. Things must be normal. Seem normal. Tom's probably bidding Sophie a long, long, long goodbye, his arms clenched around her waist and his lips superglued to hers. And before long he'll come in shamefacedly, waiting for the taunts from his big brother:
“Tom and Sophie sitting in a tree, B-O-N-K-I-N-G.''
To which Tom says:
“Oh bugger off, Josh''
And I say:
“Leave him alone, you horrible thing. Just because you haven't the moral fibre to commit to one girl.''
And Josh laughs and says:
“One day, Mum. One day. Don't rush me. For the moment, it wouldn't be fair to the laydeez.''
And then I hit him with a tea-towel or whatever comes to hand.
And while all this is happening Tom skulks upstairs to think about Sophie and listen to his music.
But we won't be teasing Tom when he gets in. I'm not sure what we'll be saying. And I'm fairly sure that by the time Tom finally goes to bed, he'll feel that he'd give anything in the world, even his signed Nickelback CDs, his Cup Final programme or his Diesel leather jacket, to get a load of abuse from his big brother.
There's no point thinking about it. I can't plan anything. God knows I can't plan anything. Or he would if I believed in him. Oh, I wish I believed in him. I'll know what to say to Tom when he gets here.
I go and fetch the laundry out of the machine. Every item is crinkled and wound as taut as rope and after I've pulled out two pairs of men's jeans and a rugby shirt I decide I can't face it and I push everything back in and turn the dial to set the machine going again. I wait for the click which sets the cycle in motion and then I move away.
Standing in the middle of my domestic haven I think that I will never feel again, but I must. I must for my other son. I must because his father is halfway around the world changing a new baby's nappies and cannot help, and I am all my son has left. And he is all I have left. So I must go with him to football matches which I can't stand. I'll learn to love football, because if he goes alone he will remember that his brother isn't there to go with him, and if he goes with friends he will be reminded that his brother should have been there. I can't go with him to clubs, but I will pick him up outside them, even if I have to see him so drunk that he vomits in the car, because I don't want him to stumble in the street. In the past I have tactfully taken to my bed when the boys are out together, knowing that I won't like seeing them slack and shiny-lipped with drink, realising that I'll turn into that pursed-lipped judgmental harridan who lurks inside me, conveniently forgetting that in my youth I drank until I could no longer move.
And here they are - the first stirrings of guilt lap at me. In the weeks and months to come I will find many things to reproach myself with. So will Tom. I must be strong.
I stiffen suddenly as I hear the key turn in the lock. I look to the door as my younger boy shuffles in.
“Hi Mum.'' he waves, embarrassed to have a mother, and then his demeanour changes. “What's the matter?''
I didn't even know I was crying.
Bye Mum
As I reach out to open the car I pause.
I feel nothing.
I am aware of the cold air on my face, the chill of icy metal under my hand. In fact I am aware of every individual cell in my body and I know absolutely that there is not one which feels anything at all.
I hear noise. Traffic; the hum of engines and the soft hissing crunch of tyres on wet roads, the squeaks of windscreen wipers. A distant siren. People laughing, chatting; stories tumbling out amidst torrents of giggles. It is all as if filtered through cotton wool. I turn uncomprehendingly to look at these alien beings in a newly alien world.
When I start the ignition, music rings out; a jolly familiar tune from a decade ago, played so often over so many years that it sickens me to hear it. And even though it was a favourite, I will never want to hear it again after tonight. I reach over and turn the dial down to mute. The overwhelming roar of silence invades my head so that my ears ring.
Earlier, only a few hours ago though it seems like weeks, I manhandled the box of Christmas decorations down from the loft while the boys were out. I dusted down the lights, the wreath, the crib; Mary and Joseph and the tiny baby Jesus, whose halo was chipped years back when clumsy little hands played too roughly with him; the three whole sheep and the two-legged one who has to be propped up against a wall of the stable. The angel hair, the tinsel, the tiny Santas, reindeer, Christmas trees, stars; the huge red glitter-moulting baubles and a few tasteful glass ones, left over from the pre-children days when taste was still something we aspired to; the sugar-paper and cotton wool angel with doily wings made by a small boy when we'd given up all such aspirations. The rattan star with gold lights which spent every December propped in the skylight above the door, declaring to passers-by: “Happy people live here''. We love Christmas.
We loved Christmas.
In the city centre there are still people around. Couples arm in arm and loud, jolly groups wander on and off the roads, shoulders hunched against the cold, chins tucked into scarves, warm breath acting as heating, confident of their right to roam - the optimism of youth. And on the roads cars and vans edge through carefully, though one impatient motorist leans on the horn, only to be greeted with a shout of ribaldry. My heartbeat hurts as I edge forward to draw even with the van-driver, a weasly-looking man in a baseball cap who scowls back in response to my curious gaze. “Was it you?" He is unfazed by my stare. He chews steadily, turns and roars off.
I think of ordinary things.
Because I had to leave suddenly I haven't taken the washing out of the machine. After all these hours it'll be creased beyond belief. Rather than take it all out and iron it, hoping to crush out the creases, I'll just run it through another cycle. And then there are the cards. Still on the kitchen table. Only those destined for America and Australia are already stamped and addressed. Everyone else might have to miss out on the card from the Millers this year. Christmas cards are such a nonsense anyway. “Hasn't time flown? It seems only yesterday we were wishing you a happy 2006! We really must get together in 2007!'' I am embarrassed by my own exclamation marks. I've been writing the same thing to the same people for years. I can barely even remember what some of them look like, or I've aged them in my head, probably inaccurately. Every year, as I write their names, it occurs to me that I couldn't care less whether I see these people in 2006, or 2007 or ever again. The people I really want to see I see every day.
An average December 1st.
Outside the house I turn off the ignition and sit for a moment, realising that the silence before hasn't been real silence. This is real silence, but even now I have an inkling that the silence will deepen over the coming days and weeks. And months and years. I turn to look at the house. Ablaze with light, every window a beacon, it mocks me. And yet it has still to afford a welcome. I check my watch. Tom will be home soon. Tom will need a welcome. Tom will still need a welcome.
I open the door and swing my legs out. They are heavy but I force them to convey me to the door, I coerce my hands into turning the key in the lock, cajole my body into the house. And then in the hall I stand and look around me at the normality I left behind - the boot-printed flyers for taxis and pizzas and exercise classes and decorators I should have picked up days ago are still on the mat; clothes are drying on the radiator, mud-encrusted wellies are strewn around, the recycling box hasn't been put away, and there are piles of things to go upstairs on the bottom step. And then there are the Christmas lights. Technicolor normality, as fake and lurid and off-key now as fifties comedy.
A faint bitter scent alerts me to the brisket I forgot about. I remove the neat smoking charcoal block from the oven and put it, still in its pan, in the back garden. I fan the back door open and shut for a while in a vain attempt to expel the smoke and sourness.
Looking around, I see what my life was like four hours ago. Just four hours ago.
Six hours ago I was in the bath when Josh called from the hall.
“Bye Mum! I'll be back before twelve!''
Now the clock shows ten past one and he isn't back. He won't be coming back. I know that, but at the same time I can't know it, because it is preposterous. It is all a horrible mistake. Everyone has been quite mistaken, and any minute now he'll walk through that door and say:
“Bloody Hell, Mum! What have you been incinerating this time?''
And I'll say:
“Oi you, less lip! I've been here slaving over a hot stove while you've been swanning about with your mates. You don't know how lucky you are, having a mum who still cooks every evening and makes spare for all the waifs and strays you bring home.''
And he'll say:
“Cooking? Is that what it's called?''
And I'll try not to smile and I'll say:
“Watch it, you! You're not too big to put over my lap, you know!''
And he'll come over, all six foot of him, and he'll hold me like a wrestler and ruffle my hair really, really hard so it actually hurts and he'll say through a smile:
“I'd like to see you try.''
And then he'll kiss the top of my head and let me go, and he'll amble into the kitchen.
“Well, I suppose Chef Josh had better take over. As usual. Where's the tin opener then?''
And I'll look at him and be unable not to smile because he's such a loveable big old lummox and because he still, after nineteen years on this earth, hasn't learned to brush his own long, brown, wavy, beautiful hair.
And he'll wave me away with French chef gestures and I'll pick up my paper and a glass of wine and I'll go and sit in that sofa over there and put on my glasses while he tells me about the gig he's just been to, about how brilliant it was and how many encores the band came on for and where he and Kit went for a drink afterwards. Probably to the Shakespeare, because they show the football highlights there and he'll have missed the match. And we'll have a good old chat.
Except we won't, I tell myself, because he never even made it to the hall, because some evil fucker in a white van didn't make allowances for the fact that there was a big gig on and crowds of people, kids, my kid, were all heading in the same direction, in the rain, their hoods up, and some of them wandered into the road. And this vile, vile thing leant on his horn and accelerated and ran over my boy. So I know Josh won't be preparing beans on toast any time in the future because I've just seen his still perfect body laid out in the ridiculously and pretentiously named Chapel of Rest at the hospital. As if he's just having a little lie-down as he did when he was a toddler, and he'll get up in his own good time and stretch and clench his toes and come to find me.
Although stranger things have happened. You hear about it. All I saw was a big maroon bruise on his side. No blood, no gore. He was just a little pale.
No. He's not coming back.
But Tom is. I must ready the house for Tom. Things must be normal. Seem normal. Tom's probably bidding Sophie a long, long, long goodbye, his arms clenched around her waist and his lips superglued to hers. And before long he'll come in shamefacedly, waiting for the taunts from his big brother:
“Tom and Sophie sitting in a tree, B-O-N-K-I-N-G.''
To which Tom says:
“Oh bugger off, Josh''
And I say:
“Leave him alone, you horrible thing. Just because you haven't the moral fibre to commit to one girl.''
And Josh laughs and says:
“One day, Mum. One day. Don't rush me. For the moment, it wouldn't be fair to the laydeez.''
And then I hit him with a tea-towel or whatever comes to hand.
And while all this is happening Tom skulks upstairs to think about Sophie and listen to his music.
But we won't be teasing Tom when he gets in. I'm not sure what we'll be saying. And I'm fairly sure that by the time Tom finally goes to bed, he'll feel that he'd give anything in the world, even his signed Nickelback CDs, his Cup Final programme or his Diesel leather jacket, to get a load of abuse from his big brother.
There's no point thinking about it. I can't plan anything. God knows I can't plan anything. Or he would if I believed in him. Oh, I wish I believed in him. I'll know what to say to Tom when he gets here.
I go and fetch the laundry out of the machine. Every item is crinkled and wound as taut as rope and after I've pulled out two pairs of men's jeans and a rugby shirt I decide I can't face it and I push everything back in and turn the dial to set the machine going again. I wait for the click which sets the cycle in motion and then I move away.
Standing in the middle of my domestic haven I think that I will never feel again, but I must. I must for my other son. I must because his father is halfway around the world changing a new baby's nappies and cannot help, and I am all my son has left. And he is all I have left. So I must go with him to football matches which I can't stand. I'll learn to love football, because if he goes alone he will remember that his brother isn't there to go with him, and if he goes with friends he will be reminded that his brother should have been there. I can't go with him to clubs, but I will pick him up outside them, even if I have to see him so drunk that he vomits in the car, because I don't want him to stumble in the street. In the past I have tactfully taken to my bed when the boys are out together, knowing that I won't like seeing them slack and shiny-lipped with drink, realising that I'll turn into that pursed-lipped judgmental harridan who lurks inside me, conveniently forgetting that in my youth I drank until I could no longer move.
And here they are - the first stirrings of guilt lap at me. In the weeks and months to come I will find many things to reproach myself with. So will Tom. I must be strong.
I stiffen suddenly as I hear the key turn in the lock. I look to the door as my younger boy shuffles in.
“Hi Mum.'' he waves, embarrassed to have a mother, and then his demeanour changes. “What's the matter?''
I didn't even know I was crying.
My Cube
I am in a cell of my own making. The curious thing is that although I know, intellectually, that I am in a cell of my own making, for some reason I don’t seem to be able to unmake it. I seem unable to acknowledge that I made the cell, constructed it laboriously, plane by plane, into a cube, a hollow cube with six equal faces bonded indissolubly with six almost invisible seams of glue. In my dreams, I am free. In my dreams, I laugh. In my dreams I run through a cornfield situated improbably on a cliff overlooking a glistening sea. I call gaily to a dog I do not own. I spin dizzyingly and I fall, crushing cornstalks, splaying them in a not quite symmetrical circle. I look down on myself, happy and free, unconcerned by the damage I have wrought, unworried about the dry brown spike which has grazed my thigh, a thin lace of blood stopping an inch from the wound. In my dreams, I roam, I soar, I rise above the everyday worries. I laugh in the face of those minor tribulations which bring down the unliberated. I do not, in conversation with the bright, casual, sparkling individuals I see all around me, retire in search of another can of lager, wondering why I came out when I would have been more comfortable sitting at home, curtains drawn, watching another rerun of The Blue Planet. I laugh my tinkling laugh. I make some insouciant retort to the wholly unintentional conversational barb which has not floored me, has not reddened my face or made me long for my cell. For my cube. For those identical, predictable, blank faces. For those benevolent seals of translucent glue. For the ability to block out the world, to remain unseen within. For imprisonment for my own sake. No, not for imprisonment - for protection. I try not to think about the decision I made, the decision to surrender to him. I try not to think that for a while I thought about what other people would do faced with the possibility of a connection with someone, berated myself, allowed myself to be lured out of safety and into the uncertain open terrain of emotional nakedness. I try not to think that for a while I actually thought that I could do this; that for a while I felt something, something warm and animal and primitive. I try to forget that I surrendered to that feeling, ventured out of my anaesthetising chill to thaw in the aura of a man. I try to forget that I melted. I try to forget how difficult it was, when it all went wrong, to summon back all that molten self and reassemble it, recompose and rearrange it and make it whole again. Fool. What’s important is to know who you are. What’s important is to learn to deal with the hand which life has dealt you. What’s important is not to expose yourself. Life can be wonderful, I know. I’ve seen enough television dramas to know that life can be wonderful, exciting, exhilarating, dizzying. Dangerous. But what’s important is to understand the boundaries, understand how distant a horizon you can cope with. You, yourself, personally. Not other people. And in my case, the boundaries I can cope with are not very far away. I have four horizons, six if I turn, shift, look around. I change position, I look around and I see a different perspective. My cube is reassuring. I can expand or contract it at will. I can change its shape. I can lie down. If I lie down it changes; if I lie down, sleep, dream, some of the borders of my world become utterly different. Utterly. It’s a cube no longer although it’s still... cuboid. |
Male attendant
Most of the time I feel like I'm a fairly easy-going sort of person, except when I'm screaming and purple with rage, flecks of my saliva settling on distant objects.... However, I am struck that there are certain things which bother me which don't seem to bother other people AT ALL.
One of these is public loos. Not the loos themselves; I recognise that they are an important adjunct to our existence as fast moving tea and coffee drinking entities. A loo in a service station or an airport is an important place. Not only somewhere to relieve yourself, it's also somewhere to freshen up, restore your make-up, check that you don't have something clinging to the inside of a nostril or staining your teeth. In other words it's somewhere to do things which you don't want other people seeing. It's private. The basins can have a row of women at them grooming themselves, adjusting their clothing, putting things right.
I object therefore quite strongly to the sign that says "Male attendant in attendance". I don't want a male attendant in attendance. I want those idiots who run the establishment to recognise that a women's loo is a WOMEN's place. If someone comes in to clean and sort things out, that person should be a woman. I don't want to be sitting on the loo and hear a man's voice calling out "Hello!" to indicate that he's there. (And he always sounds as if there is nowhere on God's earth he'd like to be less than pushing a mop and bucket around a place where women do their business, and where he knows women might be doing their business while he's there.) It's uncomfortable, and what you don't want in a women's loo is to feel uncomfortable.
Don't tell me that these organisations don't make enough money to be able to a male attendant and a female attendant. Every tine I see the sign I want to go and have an argument with someone. But I'm always on the way somewhere else so I don't have the time...
Thursday, March 11, 2010
Don't say sorry.
It's been a while. It's been a year, actually. I got a bit fed up and couldn't be bothered. Might keep my rants a bit shorter this time. It's not that I'm not interested in current affairs or that I've suddenly become tolerant and placid and entered a Zen state of serenity. Trust me on that one.
It's also not the computer-generated spam comments, notifications of which clutter up my inbox on a regular basis, though they have reminded me that this place exists.
But for whatever reason I thought I'd come back and express my irritation and disquiet at the phenomenon that is the celebrity apology. Or actually any public apology.
We were in the US when the Tiger Woods apology was broadcast, all thirteen grovelling undignified minutes of it. It was trailed extensively: why were questions not to be allowed? Was this an infringement of the public's right to know? TOday I see that Mark Owen of Take That has apologised for being unfaithful to his now wife before their marriage.
Infidelity is a matter to be discussed between a husband and wife, surely. He doesn't have millions of wives; millions of people are not entitled to an interest. Maybe Elin wouldn't welcome her husband's infidelity being flagged up to a prurient audience for twelve minutes. Maybe she would prefer not to be depicted as a victim. If I was her or Mrs Mark Owen I certainly wouldn't. Either way, in both cases it's no one's business apart from hers and his.
Just because people like watching one man play golf and think he's a great sportsman, or enjoy the odd Take That album, why are they entitled to think that the object of their admiration owes them aything other than making the effort to play golf/sing as well as they can. They are not letting us down by being imperfect in their private lives. That has no bearing on their abilily, that which they are known for. In the same way I think that John Terry's loss of the England football captaincy is wrong.
It's invidious and it smacks of hypocrisy and schadenfreude. It also means that there is an expectation that the public can demand of anyone who does anything in the public eye that they be plaster saints. Apply that criterion to great figures of history and you'd lose a lot. We'd have no NHS because Lloyd George was well known as an old goat. We'd have lost a lot of politicians who had dodgy domestic arrangements. Art and literature would go out of the window. In fact we'd end up with the likes of, well, let's see, Cameron, Blair and Brown. Nauseatingly moral to a man, but none of the elan and brilliance of some of their flawed forebears.
So shut up and don't grovel. And the rest of us should stop demanding a pound of flesh for misdeeds which are none of our business.
Rant over.
It's also not the computer-generated spam comments, notifications of which clutter up my inbox on a regular basis, though they have reminded me that this place exists.
But for whatever reason I thought I'd come back and express my irritation and disquiet at the phenomenon that is the celebrity apology. Or actually any public apology.
We were in the US when the Tiger Woods apology was broadcast, all thirteen grovelling undignified minutes of it. It was trailed extensively: why were questions not to be allowed? Was this an infringement of the public's right to know? TOday I see that Mark Owen of Take That has apologised for being unfaithful to his now wife before their marriage.
Infidelity is a matter to be discussed between a husband and wife, surely. He doesn't have millions of wives; millions of people are not entitled to an interest. Maybe Elin wouldn't welcome her husband's infidelity being flagged up to a prurient audience for twelve minutes. Maybe she would prefer not to be depicted as a victim. If I was her or Mrs Mark Owen I certainly wouldn't. Either way, in both cases it's no one's business apart from hers and his.
Just because people like watching one man play golf and think he's a great sportsman, or enjoy the odd Take That album, why are they entitled to think that the object of their admiration owes them aything other than making the effort to play golf/sing as well as they can. They are not letting us down by being imperfect in their private lives. That has no bearing on their abilily, that which they are known for. In the same way I think that John Terry's loss of the England football captaincy is wrong.
It's invidious and it smacks of hypocrisy and schadenfreude. It also means that there is an expectation that the public can demand of anyone who does anything in the public eye that they be plaster saints. Apply that criterion to great figures of history and you'd lose a lot. We'd have no NHS because Lloyd George was well known as an old goat. We'd have lost a lot of politicians who had dodgy domestic arrangements. Art and literature would go out of the window. In fact we'd end up with the likes of, well, let's see, Cameron, Blair and Brown. Nauseatingly moral to a man, but none of the elan and brilliance of some of their flawed forebears.
So shut up and don't grovel. And the rest of us should stop demanding a pound of flesh for misdeeds which are none of our business.
Rant over.
Saturday, March 21, 2009
Subversion
A new piece of street art has cropped up in a doorway on my way to work. Here in Bristol, home of Banksy, we have a lot of very wonderful street art, most of it banksyesque, whether it be by himself or something of an homage.
I noticed one which got the cogs whirring earlier than they would normally. It featured the Queen wearing a tiara and a grey hoodie with a Banksy image on it. The original image is above, and I think in itself that it conjures up all sorts of questions. I read it as someone who is perceived as a hooligan and a danger to society fighting back with beauty: an assertion of the creative power of a society which is not the art establishment. So a bit of a pat on his own back really!
So this new version has the ultimate authority figure, arguably therefore Britain itself, espousing and demonstrating its enthusiasm for street culture. That's my take anyway. I think street art holds up and interesting reflection of what's happening in British culture. The more the better, I think. The additional, more pragmatic, benefit is that walls adorned with graffiti art tend not to get tagged by eejits with spray cans.
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