Morality vs. honesty

And, cowering in the unfaithful husband corner, we have our latest champion, Mark Owen, supported by Kaye, Woods (X2), and Terry at the head of a line that stretches further than Macbeth’s vision of crowned heads: is that Cecil Parkinson I see attempting (and succeeding) concealment behind John Prescott?

And in the general rogues, rakes, rapscallions – or promiscuous libertines if you prefer – is…? Hmm, I suppose Callum is about the – er – Best we can come up with at present. The catalogue of previous Wild Boys is there, but there seems a dearth around at present, although they have always vied with the above for the most salacious tabloid revelations.

But which is naughtier? As Harry Hill would say, there’s only one way to find out: FIGHT!

Ironically, a hundred years or so ago both groups of men were accepted by polite society, as long as they didn’t actually talk about their escapades. It was almost de rigueur for the Victorian gentleman to have a mistress or six tucked away for his personal use, and many young bucks were given their life coaching by prostitutes. Of course, any woman behaving like that – or even becoming pregnant outside marriage – was a lost cause. But don’t get me started on that one….

Nowadays, when society is in practice secular, it seems anachronistic to preach to either group what the Bible says about extramarital sex – especially when one considers what it also says about homosexuality, menstruating women and food preparation. So surely we should base our condemnation or approval on humanistic logic, and that being so, there is a world of difference between the two groups of tabloid fodder: honesty.

Surely, the single man who chooses not to commit himself to an exclusive relationship with any one woman – or man – can live his life as he wishes. As long as he is open about what he expects – and doesn’t expect – from any liaison, fine.

Once there is a partner, to whom a commitment has been made, then his/her feelings and wishes should be taken into account. And if you happen to be (many men would say lucky enough to be) married to or living with a partner who is happy with an ‘open’ relationship and willingly accepts sexual infidelity as part of the deal, fine. Even more so if it works both ways.

But such relationships are rare: most of humanity seem biologically programmed for exclusive mating. There is a biological argument that females need commitment to support child rearing and males are programmed to spread their seed widely, but in practice, and expectation, in today’s society exclusivity is the normal order of the day.

So we come back to honesty: if the Owen/Kaye/Woods(x2) etc spouses knew all along what their men were doing and who with, and were happy to endorse their lifestyle, there would be no problem – and no scandalous tabloid fall-out. And although no celebrity should need to talk publicly about their private life, all the Tiger Woods of this world would have to do in such circumstances is avoid the hypocritical gushing in interviews about his devotion to his family.

Accepted morality, as history shows, is a moveable feast: honesty is a universal virtue.

Anyone for breakfast?

Is it just me, or does everyone change character when they stay in hotels? My attitude to breakfast is a case in point. At home, my idea of dressing for breakfast is dragging on a bathrobe with one hand while putting the kettle on with the other. I wouldn’t bother if it weren’t for my son’s inexplicable distaste for his mother wandering round the kitchen naked. Once the kettle is on I throw a teabag vaguely in the direction of a mug, chuck cereal into a bowl and splash milk around the general vicinity of both. Then consume.

In a hotel I appear for breakfast in full make up (and dressed, of course) with the persona of a 1950’s debutante, and await personal service as if I had been raised in a country mansion where the family select kedgeree, kippers and sausages before a day’s grouse shooting.

Tea? Hmm, perhaps I’ll have lapsang souchong – or possibly Earl Grey. Couldn’t possibly lower myself to drink PG Tips – they advertise it with monkeys you know. How common… And of course you serve it in a pot, n’est-ce pas?

Now, first course: not cornflakes or muesli – can have them at home. All Bran? Would like to spend the day seeing the local sights – not the inside of the local public conveniences thank you. So I settle for fresh fruit compote with a side serving of live yogurt – unless there’s anything that sounds posher of course.

After that, full English breakfast, of course. And I even start to turn my nose up at hotels which ask you to select from a buffet: you mean you expect me to walk all the way over there and put food on my own plate? Oh dear, oh dear, not a very salubrious establishment you’re running here….

Having gorged myself on what is already about five times the amount of food I would have consumed at home, I approach the final course. The only option is toast? Is suppose my disappointment is somewhat assuaged by the offer of honey, even if it isn’t locally produced. But my expectation is the offer of Danish pastries and croissants. Would I consider eating croissants and honey at home for breakfast? No – mainly because I’d have to clean up the sticky, flaky mess. But of course, in a hotel, I can just swan off and leave the minions to do that.

And calories? Everyone knows that food eaten away from home has no calories….. yes, OK, diet starts tomorrow.

Oh - and apologies to anyone reading who works in a hotel restaurant – especially if I’ve stayed at your hotel.

An (Inadvertent) Romantic Pilgrimage

Whan that aprill with his shoures soote
The droghte of march hath perced to the roote, …..

Thanne longen folk to goon on pilgrimages,

In Chaucer's day, as he reports above, people went on pilgrimages in the spring. Those were the days when everyone at least professed to believe in God, and went to places like Canterbury to visit the tomb of Thomas A'Becket.

OK, it's March, not April, but spring is still a good time to travel. And I love to go on pilgrimages - though to places of literary rather than religious significance. Though churches do often feature - mainly because that's the usual resting place of the dead.

Last year I dragged my long-suffering husband to the remote church of St Juliot in Cornwall because that's where Thomas Hardy met his wife; to the church of East Coker to visit TS Eliot's last resting place....

But the other week I promise I wasn't deliberately on a pilgrimage, and it was a place I am relatively familiar with: Bournemouth. My elder son spent three years at University there; a close friend lives in the area and I have visited and stayed there on several occasions.

The purpose of our latest visit was younger son's University interview, and having delivered his nervous form into the auspices of academe, hubby and I wandered into town to pass the time before picking him up again.

In the back of my mind was the story of Shelley's death: he was drowned off the shores of Italy and his body washed up on the shore. Because of the risk of infection he was cremated on the beach, and according to tradition, one of his friends grabbed his heart from the funeral pyre and presented it to his wife Mary, who brought it back to England and kept it for the rest of her life. It was then buried with her - in Bournemouth.

I have to say the idea of removing a heart from a burning body left me sceptical until it was pointed out to me that the heart is an extremely strong, tough muscle, and very resistant to burning.

Looking across the road from where we were walking (from the public loos towards the site of the old Bournemouth Bus Station - blame my hubby's bladder and own interests, respectively) I spotted what looked like a church - could this be the one where Mary (and her husband's heart) were buried? Crossing the road, followed by my resigned hubby, I found that not only was this not the church, it wasn't even a church any more - it was a nightclub!

So on we walked: after all, there must be dozens of churches in the Bournemouth area, most of them out of the town centre. Instead we turned our attention to finding somewhere to have a coffee. Hubby was admiring some of the town's architecture, when across the road appeared another church - well, I had to check it out, right?

And outside was a notice announcing that several famous people worshipped or are buried here - including Mary Shelley! In we went, and - apart from narrowly missing leaving permanent footprints on a newly-polished floor (one sort of immortality I suppose!) - had an uneventful wander round the interior of a colourful and rather lovely church.

Out in the churchyard I was now on the trail of the Shelleys - all I had to do was find the actual irst i inspected a small building in the environs, which proved to be an Orthodox church, which was locked. As I walked away from it, I heard a voice say: 'I sleep there sometimes.'

Looking round, I saw a man sitting on a bench outside the church: tall, mid-thirties and warmly but simply dressed. Intrigued, I chatted to him and was delighted when he said: 'Sometimes I go and sleep with Mary Shelley.' We agreed that she was a great writer - and her husband wasn't bed either! He pointed out the relevant tomb, on which he had placed flowers.

On approaching the tomb I discovered that it contained not only Mary's body and Percy's heart, but her parents' bodies, which were moved from their original burial place at St Pancras; also Mary and Percy's son, also called Percy, and his wife are buried there.

I spent several minutes at the tomb, taking photos and just looking, and afterwards, as we walked back through the churchyard, I saw the man I had spoken to was still sitting on the bench. As we passed, I thanked him for showing me where Mary rests, and said: 'Look after her.' 'I always do,' he replied.

And strange as it may seem, that lovely man keeping vigil at the tomb of a lady he clearly adores, who died more than 150 years ago, is true to the spirit of the Romantic poets.