Traditionally, this is the time for making New Year’s Resolutions – because of some arbitrary point at which a section of humankind have chosen to use as the end of one designated, numbered solar revolution and the beginning of the next. We can’t even agree as a species on the date – Jewish and Chinese new years are different for a start…
And why January? I can understand using midnight as a dividing point for days because it’s during the hours of darkness when our biology suggests we sleep (not that we always do – and it’s disconcerting to find yourself awake at 4am and realise it’s tomorrow and not worth going to bed now). But the middle of the winter? Why not have New Year’s Day in August, when we can spend the holiday on the beach? OK, given England’s weather, it’s still a risk, but a better one than January,
Anyway, after making plenty of resolutions I’ve kept for precisely the same length of time I kept writing in that lovely new diary I received every Christmas as a child – and often the resolution was to keep the diary – I stopped resolving several years ago, and just decided to make any changes to my life as and when I decided they were needed. For instance: having recognised caffeine-related moods I started replacing coffee with herbal tea. Do that repetitively and it becomes a habit – make a new year’s resolution and it lasts as long as the Christmas tree lights (yes, the new set’s gone wrong again this year…)
I have been asked so many times whether I’m making any New Year’s Resolutions though, that in desperation I have come up with some – ten, in fact. That seems to be the right number for rules you are expected to keep to….
So for 2010 I resolve:
1. Not to take up smoking or drugs
2. Not to join the BNP
3. To refrain from putting tomato ketchup on any of my food (because the stuff makes me feel nauseous).
4. Not to become a lesbian.
Note: this is not in any way meant as a slight on gay people of either gender, just a reflection of the fact that never in my life have I been remotely attracted to anyone nature has not seen fit to bless with testicles.
5. Not to become a member of any established church – especially not the Church of Scientology.
6. To read, and reread the poetry of Keats, TS Eliot, Shakespeare, Byron and any other writer that takes my fancy.
7. To eat chocolate in moderation (but I define – and if necessary redefine – what is meant by moderation).
8. Not to covet – or indeed cover – my neighbour’s ox.*
9. Not to associate with anyone with jam for brains.*
10. Not to put socks in the toaster.*
*I am indebted to St Eddie of Izzard for inspiring these very important resolutions.
Right 2010 – bring it on: I’m ready for you, and I confidently predict that these resolutions will last longer than any I’ve made before….
…..with the possible exception of No 7.
Just off to make some toast now.
Whoops – was that a pair of socks? Sorry – thought it was bread slices…..
Thursday 31 December 2009
Sunday 6 December 2009
It’s beginning to feel a lot like Osirismas….
…or Tammuzmas, Dionysiusmas, Sol Invictusmas – call it what you will, there have been numerous ‘gods’ celebrating December 25 as their birthday. The one notable religious figure who, according to accepted facts, was not born on Christmas Day is…. Jesus Christ. Depending on whose dates you go by, he may have been born in March, September or October – but not December.
The date was borrowed – like nearly all Christmas traditions – from pagan religions based on sun worship, and reflects no more that the visible movement of the sun after the winter solstice (December 21) towards the lengthening of the daylight hours. This in ancient times provided just the excuse everyone needed in the depths of a cold depressing winter with little fresh food, to eat, drink and be merry – just the time to cheer ourselves up with a good old knees-up. Just as we do today, however we dress it up.
I say borrowed – misappropriated might be a better term for what the fledgling Christian church did to the old Yule celebrations, along with plenty of other traditional festivals and customs. For what do holly, mistletoe, ivy, pine trees, Yule logs, mince pies and tinsel have to do with the birth of a child in the Middle East 2000-ish years ago? Even if we accept the Biblical story, the only gifts around were pretty boring: gold myrrh and frankincense, and there would have been no greenery bedecking the manger in the desert. Neither is Joseph recorded as celebrating his son’s birth (OK, stepson then) with a glass of mulled wine and a mince pie.
No – they all relate to the nature worship of our ancestors, when evergreen trees and plants represented continuing life and fertility over the bleakest period of the year. Mistletoe itself was a fertility symbol, used to strew over the beds of newlyweds to ensure children of the marriage – our current tradition of kissing under it is merely a watered down version of this.
As for the Bible story itself: again, many pagan gods were said to have been born of virgins, in stables or other lowly places, had stars foretelling their arrival and to have been visited by wise men.
So maybe what we are all doing this month is exactly what all our forebears did, whatever belief system they had – cheering up the cold winter months with a few parties, family get togethers and enjoying the excuse to ditch the diet.
The date was borrowed – like nearly all Christmas traditions – from pagan religions based on sun worship, and reflects no more that the visible movement of the sun after the winter solstice (December 21) towards the lengthening of the daylight hours. This in ancient times provided just the excuse everyone needed in the depths of a cold depressing winter with little fresh food, to eat, drink and be merry – just the time to cheer ourselves up with a good old knees-up. Just as we do today, however we dress it up.
I say borrowed – misappropriated might be a better term for what the fledgling Christian church did to the old Yule celebrations, along with plenty of other traditional festivals and customs. For what do holly, mistletoe, ivy, pine trees, Yule logs, mince pies and tinsel have to do with the birth of a child in the Middle East 2000-ish years ago? Even if we accept the Biblical story, the only gifts around were pretty boring: gold myrrh and frankincense, and there would have been no greenery bedecking the manger in the desert. Neither is Joseph recorded as celebrating his son’s birth (OK, stepson then) with a glass of mulled wine and a mince pie.
No – they all relate to the nature worship of our ancestors, when evergreen trees and plants represented continuing life and fertility over the bleakest period of the year. Mistletoe itself was a fertility symbol, used to strew over the beds of newlyweds to ensure children of the marriage – our current tradition of kissing under it is merely a watered down version of this.
As for the Bible story itself: again, many pagan gods were said to have been born of virgins, in stables or other lowly places, had stars foretelling their arrival and to have been visited by wise men.
So maybe what we are all doing this month is exactly what all our forebears did, whatever belief system they had – cheering up the cold winter months with a few parties, family get togethers and enjoying the excuse to ditch the diet.
Monday 16 November 2009
Handwriting
Many years ago, at my younger brother’s parents’ evening, excellent reports of his work were given by nearly all staff – he always was a creepy little twerp at school. (Sorry bruv!) The exception was the English teacher who declared that he would never achieve anything in the subject until he improved his handwriting drastically. My father nodded sagely and said that the same had been said of his elder sister (me!) when she was at the school.
‘Really’, said the English teacher. ‘And what’s she doing now?’
‘She’s an English teacher,’ replied Dad.
Nowadays, students tell me that handwriting doesn’t matter – we all communicate via typewritten emails, texts and the like. And the days of having to copy out stupid sentences to improve our cursive script (not that it did me any good, clearly) have long gone. Being brought up in Norfolk, I can remember loudly disputing one of those sentences which stated:
‘Yarmouth is on the Isle of Wight.’
Eventually I had to concede there might be two Yarmouths – but we had the ‘Great’ one, at least!
No one needs worry about clarity of handwriting any more – right?
Wrong. I have pointed out many times that some of the most important texts we ever produce – examination answer papers – are still normally handwritten, and if the examiner misreads, or worse, cannot read, your handwriting, you fail.
Now I have a couple more bullets in my armoury. Gordon Brown’s letter to a mother in distress may well have been – and indeed was, to my thinking – over-played in the media, but it shows the difficulties that can be caused by poor penmanship. I’m not Mr Brown’s greatest fan (assuming he has one) but it is fairly obvious that he meant his letter to bring some shred of comfort to a bereaved mother: there was no malice or even disregard in his mistake.
In more amusing vein, Russell Brand’s latest error of judgement (again, characteristically lacking in malice aforethought) was to use a pen rather than a keyboard to write his contribution to The Sun’s Bizarre column this weekend, resulting in ‘snug’ being interpreted as ‘smug’.
Perhaps both gentlemen could do with a proofreader skilled in interpreting the average standard of handwriting of today’s teenager – or a few hours spent laboriously copying out stupid sentences….
But thanks fellas – telling students that they could get themselves into bother in the media for upsetting someone’s mum or misrepresenting a footballer’s jumper may well sway them more than the possibility of an examiner failing their history GCSE paper because they apparently think that:
Ancient Egyptians wrote in hydraulics, lived in the Sarah Dessert and travelled by Camelot.
The Greeks were a highly sculptured people.
Socrates died from an overdose of wedlock.
Sir Francis Drake circumcised the world with a 100 foot clipper.
But then, if they improve their handwriting we may suddenly realise just how awful their spelling is……
‘Really’, said the English teacher. ‘And what’s she doing now?’
‘She’s an English teacher,’ replied Dad.
Nowadays, students tell me that handwriting doesn’t matter – we all communicate via typewritten emails, texts and the like. And the days of having to copy out stupid sentences to improve our cursive script (not that it did me any good, clearly) have long gone. Being brought up in Norfolk, I can remember loudly disputing one of those sentences which stated:
‘Yarmouth is on the Isle of Wight.’
Eventually I had to concede there might be two Yarmouths – but we had the ‘Great’ one, at least!
No one needs worry about clarity of handwriting any more – right?
Wrong. I have pointed out many times that some of the most important texts we ever produce – examination answer papers – are still normally handwritten, and if the examiner misreads, or worse, cannot read, your handwriting, you fail.
Now I have a couple more bullets in my armoury. Gordon Brown’s letter to a mother in distress may well have been – and indeed was, to my thinking – over-played in the media, but it shows the difficulties that can be caused by poor penmanship. I’m not Mr Brown’s greatest fan (assuming he has one) but it is fairly obvious that he meant his letter to bring some shred of comfort to a bereaved mother: there was no malice or even disregard in his mistake.
In more amusing vein, Russell Brand’s latest error of judgement (again, characteristically lacking in malice aforethought) was to use a pen rather than a keyboard to write his contribution to The Sun’s Bizarre column this weekend, resulting in ‘snug’ being interpreted as ‘smug’.
Perhaps both gentlemen could do with a proofreader skilled in interpreting the average standard of handwriting of today’s teenager – or a few hours spent laboriously copying out stupid sentences….
But thanks fellas – telling students that they could get themselves into bother in the media for upsetting someone’s mum or misrepresenting a footballer’s jumper may well sway them more than the possibility of an examiner failing their history GCSE paper because they apparently think that:
Ancient Egyptians wrote in hydraulics, lived in the Sarah Dessert and travelled by Camelot.
The Greeks were a highly sculptured people.
Socrates died from an overdose of wedlock.
Sir Francis Drake circumcised the world with a 100 foot clipper.
But then, if they improve their handwriting we may suddenly realise just how awful their spelling is……
Friday 23 October 2009
Give him enough rope...
I was one of those who watched Question Time avidly last night – I’m fairly sure the viewing figures must have shown a huge upturn, although I have been guilty of not just watching the programme before but of actually taking an interest in the debates that go on there.
Last night though was, as pointed out by many people, less ‘Question Time’ and more ‘The Nick Griffin Show’. One would have thought the leader of the BNP would have relished the opportunity to publicly explain his real policies and thoughts, and defend himself and his party from the scurrilous things that have been said about them in the media. A media that is, they claim, biased against the BNP because by their own admission they are not part of the mainstream. There is a lot that is not ‘mainstream’ that I like – music, comedy – but right wing non-mainstream politics is rather different.
And Griffin may now be reflecting on his decision to submit himself and his beliefs – past and present (he says unconvincingly that these are two different things) – to public scrutiny. He has had to attempt to defend the indefensible. Which is, of course, impossible.
As for his wonderful take on “English” history, if so much hate and poison did not arise from it, I would have found his views hugely amusing. There are many countries which have identifiable indigenous races – the Maoris, Native American Indians and Aborigines are just three examples. In each of these areas of the world, at a relatively late period of human history, a foreign power marched in and took the land away from that indigenous population, usually violently, by force and with no heed for their cultural history or the thought of compensation for their loss. Although certainly not the only nation to act as usurpers in this way, the British were one of the most notable.
However, if one looks at the history of our own country, the earliest accepted inhabitants were Celts, most of whom fled in the face of wave after wave of foreign conquerors – Saxons, Britons, Norse, Romans: even the Angles, who according to some gave their name to England, were actually Germanic. If there are any true descendants of the Celts left (which I doubt) they would reside in the farthest corners of Cornwall, Wales, Ireland and Scotland. The rest of us, according to the BNP, are all immigrants. And that’s without the Normans, Huguenots – I could go on. I wonder what Mr Griffin’s family background is? But perhaps he would not have a problem with the mix of races above in view of the fact that they all share a similar (but not identical) skin pigmentation. Yet I stand corrected – Griffin declared on the programme that colour is not the issue.
Even I cringed at times as he was loudly (and deservedly) ridiculed for claiming that he couldn’t explain why he had denied the Holocaust nor why he had changed his mind – even when given complete dispensation by Jack Straw! And his declaration that everyone would agree that gay men are ‘creepy’ had to be heard to be believed.
But I thought it was right of the BBC to give him a public platform in this way, and while I respect and understand their motives, I believe those who protested outside the building were misguided and simply gave the BNP more publicity, and of a more sympathetic nature than Griffin achieved. Quite apart from the issue of following their own rules, the BBC would in refusing Griffin a place on Question Time, have created a martyr, allowing the BNP to claim unfair bias against them. And before the programme was aired I believed that if given enough rope, Griffin would publicly hang himself and his party – and I think he effectively did so last night.
Last night though was, as pointed out by many people, less ‘Question Time’ and more ‘The Nick Griffin Show’. One would have thought the leader of the BNP would have relished the opportunity to publicly explain his real policies and thoughts, and defend himself and his party from the scurrilous things that have been said about them in the media. A media that is, they claim, biased against the BNP because by their own admission they are not part of the mainstream. There is a lot that is not ‘mainstream’ that I like – music, comedy – but right wing non-mainstream politics is rather different.
And Griffin may now be reflecting on his decision to submit himself and his beliefs – past and present (he says unconvincingly that these are two different things) – to public scrutiny. He has had to attempt to defend the indefensible. Which is, of course, impossible.
As for his wonderful take on “English” history, if so much hate and poison did not arise from it, I would have found his views hugely amusing. There are many countries which have identifiable indigenous races – the Maoris, Native American Indians and Aborigines are just three examples. In each of these areas of the world, at a relatively late period of human history, a foreign power marched in and took the land away from that indigenous population, usually violently, by force and with no heed for their cultural history or the thought of compensation for their loss. Although certainly not the only nation to act as usurpers in this way, the British were one of the most notable.
However, if one looks at the history of our own country, the earliest accepted inhabitants were Celts, most of whom fled in the face of wave after wave of foreign conquerors – Saxons, Britons, Norse, Romans: even the Angles, who according to some gave their name to England, were actually Germanic. If there are any true descendants of the Celts left (which I doubt) they would reside in the farthest corners of Cornwall, Wales, Ireland and Scotland. The rest of us, according to the BNP, are all immigrants. And that’s without the Normans, Huguenots – I could go on. I wonder what Mr Griffin’s family background is? But perhaps he would not have a problem with the mix of races above in view of the fact that they all share a similar (but not identical) skin pigmentation. Yet I stand corrected – Griffin declared on the programme that colour is not the issue.
Even I cringed at times as he was loudly (and deservedly) ridiculed for claiming that he couldn’t explain why he had denied the Holocaust nor why he had changed his mind – even when given complete dispensation by Jack Straw! And his declaration that everyone would agree that gay men are ‘creepy’ had to be heard to be believed.
But I thought it was right of the BBC to give him a public platform in this way, and while I respect and understand their motives, I believe those who protested outside the building were misguided and simply gave the BNP more publicity, and of a more sympathetic nature than Griffin achieved. Quite apart from the issue of following their own rules, the BBC would in refusing Griffin a place on Question Time, have created a martyr, allowing the BNP to claim unfair bias against them. And before the programme was aired I believed that if given enough rope, Griffin would publicly hang himself and his party – and I think he effectively did so last night.
Friday 18 September 2009
The Ode Re-Travelled
I have recently re-acquainted myself with Stephen Fry’s wonderful opus, ‘The Ode Less Travelled’. As a poetry lover and a longtime admirer of Mr Fry, it comprises almost perfect reading matter for me. But this time round – probably because I wasn’t scurrying around doing Stephen’s bidding (there are lots of enjoyable poetry exercises scattered through the book) – I noticed with some sense of satisfaction that practically all the poems quoted as illustrations of great verse at work are by writers that I number among my favourites.
Part of this satisfaction, if I’m honest, stems from the knowledge that Mr Fry is widely regarded as something of an expert on language and literature, and would be deemed to have excellent taste – if my taste runs parallel to his in some small way, I too must have good taste – yes?
But even more, it confirms the relationship I have enjoyed with Stephen for more than twenty years now. A purely non-reciprocal relationship, I hasten to add: I have never been privileged enough to even meet Mr Fry. But I have loved his work since the eighties when I emerged from my Monty Python-induced comedy blinkers to discover the ‘new’ generation of entertainers, including Dawn French and Jennifer Saunders, Ade Edmondson, Rik Mayall, Ben Elton, Rowan Atkinson, Hugh Laurie – and Stephen Fry.
Stephen stood out for me even then, and even against the backdrop of such talent. Not because he was so obviously so much more talented, no – but because one of the first things I knew about him was that he came from Norfolk, my home county. At that stage, not having read ‘Moab is My Washpot’, I was blissfully ignorant of the fact that Mr Fry was not what we Norfolk folk (or should that be Nor-folk?) would term a native. Not even close. In East Anglia you are only accepted as indigenous if your family has resided in the region for at least four generations. I can proudly boast of a Norfolk heritage (with the odd dash of Suffolk) going back to 1650 or so.
But the Frys actually moved into the area during Stephen’s childhood, making them one of those interloping families my parents complained of. Taking over houses real Norfolk people could have lived in, taking up places at our local schools (although even there Stephen failed me by being sent away to school).
I was educated two miles from the Suffolk borders, meaning that we were a mixed race school – mixed race in this context meaning that the Norfolk boys would challenge the Suffolk boys to challenges such as who could pee higher up the wall. All that changed when a handful of Londoners appeared: suddenly the local boys all became East Anglians, united against the common enemy.
The local girls had a different challenge – biology being what it is we were never going to win the urine-up-the-wall contest anyway – who could be the first to pull a Cockney? Since my husband is from Whitechapel (I met him much later – he wasn’t on offer then) I think that challenge may have had long term consequences for me….
As has the erroneous impression that Stephen Fry is a ‘local boy made good’. He has rectified the situation by choosing to champion Norfolk, I have to admit. But more importantly, Stephen has provided me with hours and hours of entertainment, laughter, thoughtful ponderings and sheer enjoyment through his acting, comedy, presenting, writing…..
So for that, and for sharing my love of Keats, Yeats, Tennyson, Eliot et al, I thank you Stephen.
Part of this satisfaction, if I’m honest, stems from the knowledge that Mr Fry is widely regarded as something of an expert on language and literature, and would be deemed to have excellent taste – if my taste runs parallel to his in some small way, I too must have good taste – yes?
But even more, it confirms the relationship I have enjoyed with Stephen for more than twenty years now. A purely non-reciprocal relationship, I hasten to add: I have never been privileged enough to even meet Mr Fry. But I have loved his work since the eighties when I emerged from my Monty Python-induced comedy blinkers to discover the ‘new’ generation of entertainers, including Dawn French and Jennifer Saunders, Ade Edmondson, Rik Mayall, Ben Elton, Rowan Atkinson, Hugh Laurie – and Stephen Fry.
Stephen stood out for me even then, and even against the backdrop of such talent. Not because he was so obviously so much more talented, no – but because one of the first things I knew about him was that he came from Norfolk, my home county. At that stage, not having read ‘Moab is My Washpot’, I was blissfully ignorant of the fact that Mr Fry was not what we Norfolk folk (or should that be Nor-folk?) would term a native. Not even close. In East Anglia you are only accepted as indigenous if your family has resided in the region for at least four generations. I can proudly boast of a Norfolk heritage (with the odd dash of Suffolk) going back to 1650 or so.
But the Frys actually moved into the area during Stephen’s childhood, making them one of those interloping families my parents complained of. Taking over houses real Norfolk people could have lived in, taking up places at our local schools (although even there Stephen failed me by being sent away to school).
I was educated two miles from the Suffolk borders, meaning that we were a mixed race school – mixed race in this context meaning that the Norfolk boys would challenge the Suffolk boys to challenges such as who could pee higher up the wall. All that changed when a handful of Londoners appeared: suddenly the local boys all became East Anglians, united against the common enemy.
The local girls had a different challenge – biology being what it is we were never going to win the urine-up-the-wall contest anyway – who could be the first to pull a Cockney? Since my husband is from Whitechapel (I met him much later – he wasn’t on offer then) I think that challenge may have had long term consequences for me….
As has the erroneous impression that Stephen Fry is a ‘local boy made good’. He has rectified the situation by choosing to champion Norfolk, I have to admit. But more importantly, Stephen has provided me with hours and hours of entertainment, laughter, thoughtful ponderings and sheer enjoyment through his acting, comedy, presenting, writing…..
So for that, and for sharing my love of Keats, Yeats, Tennyson, Eliot et al, I thank you Stephen.
Monday 10 August 2009
Reasons to forget about death, part 2..
Following on from my last, rather lugubrious, blog, I have been considering ways of taking the mind off the inescapable fact of death, and – in common with other great thinkers I believe – I have come up with a small selection of useful methods: namely: books; sex, chocolate and comedy.
Not all at once, I hasten to add – in fact any combination of the above is risky in some way. Deciding to finish that fantastic novel you were reading in bed while your partner has other ideas conveys at the very least a dissatisfaction with said partner’s technique. As for comedy – laughing at your partner when he strips off is not guaranteed to endear you to him either. Sex and chocolate have already been discussed – if anyone is tempted to mix the two I can only refer them to Ponderland Series 1, topic – Love.
Chocolate and comedy sound a good combination and indeed a recipe for a good evening in – but beware! I have actually laughed so hard I snorted chocolate up into my nasal passages. Painful and unpleasant.
No – I would advocate enjoying these pleasures one at a time – any one, if of high enough quality, should be enough to dispel gloom.
Comedy is useful because – if you like me have a stock of DVDs of your favourite shows and comedians – it is usually readily available, so you don’t have the situation of wanting chocolate to relieve your ennui, yet being too lethargic to actually go out to the shops to buy any – naturally the last time you did get some in you ate it all…
But I find comedy (like sex) can, if you don’t take precautions, have an unexpected and prolonged effect on your life. So before you settle in front of that DVD, please take this as a sort of ‘Safe Comedy’ message.
I can – and do - watch good comedy repeatedly. This means I find myself quoting bits of Blackadder, Bill Bailey or Hancock at opportune (or inopportune) moments, earning me questioning looks from non-addicts.
Worse still, key phrases come into my head in certain situations. My trips to the supermarket, with mental subtext, usually go like this:
Approach shop; see fruit display.
Eddie Izzard: They put fresh fruit there to show this is a fresh shop – everything here is fresh. If they put toilet rolls by the door you’d think, this is a poo shop – everything here is made of poo…..
Go into shop, approach display; do the ‘Squeezy Test’, still with Eddie’s voice doing a running commentary. Look at the Stalinist oranges (decide not to buy – Stalin was a nasty dictator); refuse to buy pears because they wait till you leave the room to turn to mush….
Approach tea display.
Simon Amstell: Which is better, organic or free trade?
Spend two hours on this vexed question before moving on….
Pass bargains screaming – in Russell Brand’s voice – ‘Only a pound, only a pound..’
Make purchases as quickly as possible to avoid giggling in public.
By the checkout there will inevitably be a selection of canvas bags for sale.
Greet checkout assistant, realising that you are audibly singing Tim Minchin’s ‘Canvas Bags’ aloud. Apologise and pack your purchases, girding your loins for the final challenge: the chip and pin machine. If you have seen Russell Brand’s description of chip and pin protocol, and can still manage to get out of the store before you’ve broken into a chorus of ‘Wild Boys’, you know you’ve won.
But if you hear of me having been taken away from the local Tescos in a white van, declaring it’s not my fault – blame Eddie, Russell, Tim, Simon… we ran out of gas….there was an earthquake…IT’S NOT MY FAULT!! - you’ll know why.
Not all at once, I hasten to add – in fact any combination of the above is risky in some way. Deciding to finish that fantastic novel you were reading in bed while your partner has other ideas conveys at the very least a dissatisfaction with said partner’s technique. As for comedy – laughing at your partner when he strips off is not guaranteed to endear you to him either. Sex and chocolate have already been discussed – if anyone is tempted to mix the two I can only refer them to Ponderland Series 1, topic – Love.
Chocolate and comedy sound a good combination and indeed a recipe for a good evening in – but beware! I have actually laughed so hard I snorted chocolate up into my nasal passages. Painful and unpleasant.
No – I would advocate enjoying these pleasures one at a time – any one, if of high enough quality, should be enough to dispel gloom.
Comedy is useful because – if you like me have a stock of DVDs of your favourite shows and comedians – it is usually readily available, so you don’t have the situation of wanting chocolate to relieve your ennui, yet being too lethargic to actually go out to the shops to buy any – naturally the last time you did get some in you ate it all…
But I find comedy (like sex) can, if you don’t take precautions, have an unexpected and prolonged effect on your life. So before you settle in front of that DVD, please take this as a sort of ‘Safe Comedy’ message.
I can – and do - watch good comedy repeatedly. This means I find myself quoting bits of Blackadder, Bill Bailey or Hancock at opportune (or inopportune) moments, earning me questioning looks from non-addicts.
Worse still, key phrases come into my head in certain situations. My trips to the supermarket, with mental subtext, usually go like this:
Approach shop; see fruit display.
Eddie Izzard: They put fresh fruit there to show this is a fresh shop – everything here is fresh. If they put toilet rolls by the door you’d think, this is a poo shop – everything here is made of poo…..
Go into shop, approach display; do the ‘Squeezy Test’, still with Eddie’s voice doing a running commentary. Look at the Stalinist oranges (decide not to buy – Stalin was a nasty dictator); refuse to buy pears because they wait till you leave the room to turn to mush….
Approach tea display.
Simon Amstell: Which is better, organic or free trade?
Spend two hours on this vexed question before moving on….
Pass bargains screaming – in Russell Brand’s voice – ‘Only a pound, only a pound..’
Make purchases as quickly as possible to avoid giggling in public.
By the checkout there will inevitably be a selection of canvas bags for sale.
Greet checkout assistant, realising that you are audibly singing Tim Minchin’s ‘Canvas Bags’ aloud. Apologise and pack your purchases, girding your loins for the final challenge: the chip and pin machine. If you have seen Russell Brand’s description of chip and pin protocol, and can still manage to get out of the store before you’ve broken into a chorus of ‘Wild Boys’, you know you’ve won.
But if you hear of me having been taken away from the local Tescos in a white van, declaring it’s not my fault – blame Eddie, Russell, Tim, Simon… we ran out of gas….there was an earthquake…IT’S NOT MY FAULT!! - you’ll know why.
Sunday 9 August 2009
Existential Angst? Or just a bit fed up?
I’ve been in a strange sort of mood all week – listless, lethargic, without being able to work out why. This culminated yesterday in an unusual feeling for me: complete lack of interest in anything, world weariness, ennui. Shelley’s poem, Ozymadias, kept running through my head:
I met a traveller from an antique land
Who said: "Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desert. Near them on the sand,
Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown
And wrinkled lip and sneer of cold command
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,
The hand that mocked them and the heart that fed.
And on the pedestal these words appear:
`My name is Ozymandias, King of Kings:
Look on my works, ye mighty, and despair!'
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare,
The lone and level sands stretch far away".
I suppose you could sum up my mood thus:
Interviewer: How would you describe your life sir?
Dalai Lama: I’ve had better….
So, as Russell Brand would I’m sure advise, I started to think of ways of taking my mind off the thought that we’re all going to die. I did briefly consider attending an orgy, but since a) I live miles from the nearest tower block; b) I’m sure I’d end up eating the nibbles and c) my husband might object (to the orgy, not the nibbles) I discarded that idea.
My nearest and dearest were no help. When, in response to what I took to be a sympathetic enquiry into my apparent glumness, I said I understood what Nietzsche was on about, hubby grinned and said ‘Oh, I know him – he keeps the Dog and Duck…’
I knew I could change my state of mind – NLP has taught me that. Unfortunately it has also taught me I need to want to change my state, and be prepared to act positively to do so – and I could even be bothered to want to do anything positive. So I did mindless stuff for a while. Then hubby’s male problem-solving approach came to the fore and he suggested a walk to the beach – usually the most relaxing, soothing thing for me. And admittedly, a couple of hours in the sun, swimming in the sea and relaxing on the beach, did alleviate things a bit.
And that was enough to open my mind to the wisdom of ‘Souls of poets dead and gone’ – so when I got home I turned to my old friends Byron, Shelley and Keats. And of course, Keats had it:
But when the melancholy fit shall fall
Sudden from heaven like a weeping cloud,
That fosters the droop-headed flowers all,
And hides the green hill in an April shroud;
Then glut thy sorrow on a morning rose,
Or on the rainbow of the salt sand-wave,
Or on the wealth of globed peonies;
Or if thy mistress some rich anger shows,
Imprison her soft hand, and let her rave,
And feed deep, deep upon her peerless eyes.
She dwells with Beauty -Beauty that must die;
And Joy, whose hand is ever at his lips
Bidding adieu; and aching Pleasure nigh,
Turning to poison while the bee-mouth sips:
Ay, in the very temple of Delight
Veiled Melancholy has her sovran shrine,
Though seen of none save him whose strenuous tongue
Can burst Joy's grape against his palate fine:
His soul shall taste the sadness of her might,
And be among her cloudy trophies hung.
In other words – if you’re not melancholy at times, you won’t appreciate what it is to be happy.
And today, I’m happy – and have realised I was actually reacting to a couple of weeks in which I’ve been physically working hard yet not stretched mentally, and have not read anything challenging – so my brain was demanding intellectual food.
Pass me that volume of poetry……
I met a traveller from an antique land
Who said: "Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desert. Near them on the sand,
Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown
And wrinkled lip and sneer of cold command
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,
The hand that mocked them and the heart that fed.
And on the pedestal these words appear:
`My name is Ozymandias, King of Kings:
Look on my works, ye mighty, and despair!'
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare,
The lone and level sands stretch far away".
I suppose you could sum up my mood thus:
Interviewer: How would you describe your life sir?
Dalai Lama: I’ve had better….
So, as Russell Brand would I’m sure advise, I started to think of ways of taking my mind off the thought that we’re all going to die. I did briefly consider attending an orgy, but since a) I live miles from the nearest tower block; b) I’m sure I’d end up eating the nibbles and c) my husband might object (to the orgy, not the nibbles) I discarded that idea.
My nearest and dearest were no help. When, in response to what I took to be a sympathetic enquiry into my apparent glumness, I said I understood what Nietzsche was on about, hubby grinned and said ‘Oh, I know him – he keeps the Dog and Duck…’
I knew I could change my state of mind – NLP has taught me that. Unfortunately it has also taught me I need to want to change my state, and be prepared to act positively to do so – and I could even be bothered to want to do anything positive. So I did mindless stuff for a while. Then hubby’s male problem-solving approach came to the fore and he suggested a walk to the beach – usually the most relaxing, soothing thing for me. And admittedly, a couple of hours in the sun, swimming in the sea and relaxing on the beach, did alleviate things a bit.
And that was enough to open my mind to the wisdom of ‘Souls of poets dead and gone’ – so when I got home I turned to my old friends Byron, Shelley and Keats. And of course, Keats had it:
But when the melancholy fit shall fall
Sudden from heaven like a weeping cloud,
That fosters the droop-headed flowers all,
And hides the green hill in an April shroud;
Then glut thy sorrow on a morning rose,
Or on the rainbow of the salt sand-wave,
Or on the wealth of globed peonies;
Or if thy mistress some rich anger shows,
Imprison her soft hand, and let her rave,
And feed deep, deep upon her peerless eyes.
She dwells with Beauty -Beauty that must die;
And Joy, whose hand is ever at his lips
Bidding adieu; and aching Pleasure nigh,
Turning to poison while the bee-mouth sips:
Ay, in the very temple of Delight
Veiled Melancholy has her sovran shrine,
Though seen of none save him whose strenuous tongue
Can burst Joy's grape against his palate fine:
His soul shall taste the sadness of her might,
And be among her cloudy trophies hung.
In other words – if you’re not melancholy at times, you won’t appreciate what it is to be happy.
And today, I’m happy – and have realised I was actually reacting to a couple of weeks in which I’ve been physically working hard yet not stretched mentally, and have not read anything challenging – so my brain was demanding intellectual food.
Pass me that volume of poetry……
Wednesday 13 May 2009
Like the back end of a bus??
On Sunday my husband suggested a stroll down to the beach and a pub lunch. Lovely! Till I discovered that one of the reasons he had had such an idea was the presence of an old London bus on the esplanade - one of his interests.....
So hubby goes off to investigate bus and talk sprockets and accumulators (or some such) with its owner, leaving me standing by the bus, watching a regatta on the beach opposite and soaking up the sun.
Along comes one of those men you know instinctively is a) a bus spotter b) still living with his mum even though he's about 45. I would take bets on the fact that his backpack contained a packed lunch she'd made him, a spare jumper she insisted he bring and a pac-a-mac. Oh, and a notebook for taking bus numbers and spare camera.
His actual camera was slung round his neck and poised for action as he approached.
presumably he thought I suspected him of trying to take a sneaky photo of me, because on noticing me standing there he assured me:
'Don't worry love - I'm only interested in the bus.'
I guess I should have been devastated that my womanly charms had been spurned in favour of a vehicle which is older than me - although if preserved vehicles generally are anything to go by, it would have had considerable reconstructive surgery, a route down which I have never felt the need to travel....
....but actually, looking at him, I thought 'Yes - you probably are....'
So hubby goes off to investigate bus and talk sprockets and accumulators (or some such) with its owner, leaving me standing by the bus, watching a regatta on the beach opposite and soaking up the sun.
Along comes one of those men you know instinctively is a) a bus spotter b) still living with his mum even though he's about 45. I would take bets on the fact that his backpack contained a packed lunch she'd made him, a spare jumper she insisted he bring and a pac-a-mac. Oh, and a notebook for taking bus numbers and spare camera.
His actual camera was slung round his neck and poised for action as he approached.
presumably he thought I suspected him of trying to take a sneaky photo of me, because on noticing me standing there he assured me:
'Don't worry love - I'm only interested in the bus.'
I guess I should have been devastated that my womanly charms had been spurned in favour of a vehicle which is older than me - although if preserved vehicles generally are anything to go by, it would have had considerable reconstructive surgery, a route down which I have never felt the need to travel....
....but actually, looking at him, I thought 'Yes - you probably are....'
Tuesday 12 May 2009
Sex and Drugs and Poetry
The main catalyst for this blog is the news story of Derek Walcott withdrawing from the shortlisted candidates for the appointment of the Oxford Professor of Poetry after anonymous allegations of his sexual harassment of students.
I am undecided about this story – especially since no one knows what actually went on except the people involved, and one of the facets of modern society that I abhor is Trial By Media.
On one hand, I have a very strong feeling that a professional must act professionally or take the consequences, especially if s/he is in a position of trust and / or care over younger, more vulnerable people. So if it is true that Mr Walcott used his power over students to lower grades as a 'punishment' for them refusing his advances, then he has done the right thing in withdrawing.
However, if he has been forced to take this action through unfounded allegations, that is sad and unfair. Who knows?
The one thing I do know is that poetry and scandal seem to have co-existed for centuries. It may be that the creative spark that engenders the poetry also engenders a disrespect - healthy or otherwise - for social convention.
If you want sexual scandals, they abound, from the Earl of Rochester's nose dropping off from syphilis, through Shakespeare's aleged relationship with the Earl of Southampton (as well as at least one 'godson' whose birth resulted from something other than an act of God), past Byron and on to Dylan Thomas and Philip Larkin - who would believe the man often portrayed as a dried up librarian had three mistresses simultaneously (that he admitted to...)?
Then - and a recent conversation with a friend about Thomas de Quincey reminded me of this - there are the drug addicts who wrote their best poems whilst under the influence of something more tangible than Calliope or Euterpe: I love the image of Coleridge penning 'Kubla Khan' whilst self-medicating on laudanum, only to be disturbed and find his muse had deserted him along with the hallucinogens.
It must be said there is a very clear differential between behaviour that defies - or more probably just ignores - social mores, and using blackmail - emotional, sexual or financial. If - and it is an 'if' - Mr Walcott is guilty as charged, the above does nothing to excuse such behaviour.
But if we only give out plaudits to creative talents belonging to those whose personal lives are squeaky clean according to the morals of the day, then I fear we have a small pool from which to draw . I enjoy a range of creative output - from the Romantic poets to Freddie Mercury - of people whose private behaviour some parts of society disapprove - but then I don't have to live with them, so it's not my business - I can just admire the poetry, music, for what it is - sheer genius.
I am undecided about this story – especially since no one knows what actually went on except the people involved, and one of the facets of modern society that I abhor is Trial By Media.
On one hand, I have a very strong feeling that a professional must act professionally or take the consequences, especially if s/he is in a position of trust and / or care over younger, more vulnerable people. So if it is true that Mr Walcott used his power over students to lower grades as a 'punishment' for them refusing his advances, then he has done the right thing in withdrawing.
However, if he has been forced to take this action through unfounded allegations, that is sad and unfair. Who knows?
The one thing I do know is that poetry and scandal seem to have co-existed for centuries. It may be that the creative spark that engenders the poetry also engenders a disrespect - healthy or otherwise - for social convention.
If you want sexual scandals, they abound, from the Earl of Rochester's nose dropping off from syphilis, through Shakespeare's aleged relationship with the Earl of Southampton (as well as at least one 'godson' whose birth resulted from something other than an act of God), past Byron and on to Dylan Thomas and Philip Larkin - who would believe the man often portrayed as a dried up librarian had three mistresses simultaneously (that he admitted to...)?
Then - and a recent conversation with a friend about Thomas de Quincey reminded me of this - there are the drug addicts who wrote their best poems whilst under the influence of something more tangible than Calliope or Euterpe: I love the image of Coleridge penning 'Kubla Khan' whilst self-medicating on laudanum, only to be disturbed and find his muse had deserted him along with the hallucinogens.
It must be said there is a very clear differential between behaviour that defies - or more probably just ignores - social mores, and using blackmail - emotional, sexual or financial. If - and it is an 'if' - Mr Walcott is guilty as charged, the above does nothing to excuse such behaviour.
But if we only give out plaudits to creative talents belonging to those whose personal lives are squeaky clean according to the morals of the day, then I fear we have a small pool from which to draw . I enjoy a range of creative output - from the Romantic poets to Freddie Mercury - of people whose private behaviour some parts of society disapprove - but then I don't have to live with them, so it's not my business - I can just admire the poetry, music, for what it is - sheer genius.
Thursday 9 April 2009
Eggs, rabbits, chicks - and a wooden cross??
I've just read a friend's blog in which she laments that Jesus bloke taking over her birthday celebrations, and I have sympathy because my daughter's birthday is very close to Christmas so it happens to her every year. But that Jesus bloke actually has taken over the original spring festivals - I mean, what have the 'traditional' Easter celebration rites - chocolate eggs, Easter bunnies and chicks - got to do with a torturous death by crucifixion and a resurrection three days later?
The answer of course is: nothing! These accoutrements were appropriated by the early Christians from the pagan spring fertility celebrations. As was much else.
Note, I said the early Christians - not Christ himself. Whoever and whatever Jesus was, I absolve him from any guilt in this regard - I can find no Bible verse in which Jesus holds up a chocolate rabbit and exhorts his followers to eat it in remembrance of him (and if I could find a religious excuse for eating chocolate, believe me, I would!) In fact, there is no instruction in the Bible on how Jesus' death and resurrrection should be celebrated at all.
The clue is in the naming of the festival: Easter is actually an updating of Eostre, the Saxon mother goddess repreesenting fertility. It is from the same root we derive oestrogen, the female hormone. The festival of Eostre was originally a fertility rite in her honour, held to celebrate the return of life to the world in spring.
Thus, eggs and chicks represent new life and rebirth, and of course we all know what rabbits are known for, which is why there are so many of them. Admittedly, go for a walk and you won't see too many, because they scent humans and fear them - probably because they know we are the creatures who inhabit those huge metal machines that tend to squash them if they venture on to roads. But go for a horse ride, and magically there is a hopping rabbit carpet over the field. The hare is also the symbol of the moon and the mother goddess, again representing life and fertility.
Eostre was one of a pantheon of mother / fertility goddesses in various traditions (Aphrodite, Ishtar, Astarte, Venus, Cybele) who represented feminine power as the source of life. In stark contrast to the modern pressure on women to be youthful, thin and passive, these goddesses were portrayed as older, maternal, curvaceous and dominant over their younger lovers, who were seen as gorgeous young men devoted to the service of the divine womb.
In later mystery cults this young male consort took on the role of earlier 'green man'-type gods of fertility; he was portrayed as having been born of a virgin, and represented the cycle of the seasons by dying and returning to life around the spring equinox, usually over a three day period starting with Black Friday. Hmm,sound familiar?
Spring celebrations in older times varied in different places and cultures, but they centred on fun, enjoyment - and often, being fertility rites, sex. When the patriarchal religions took hold they repressed this aspect of the festival along with the celebration of the feminine, but left us with such innocent pleasures as decorating eggs and giving fluffy bunnies and chicks. The naugtiest thing we are left with is chocolate, so excuse me now while I go and celebrate the season by indulging myself with a packet of Lindt mini-eggs...
Saturday 4 April 2009
It’s not a competition…
Last week I received what I now view as a compliment, though once it would have filled me with shame, dread and horror. A friend, normally justly confident with her lovely trim body, was preparing to meet up with us for a meal the other day. Her husband commented that, unusually, she had chosen a high necked top. Her reply was: ‘Maureen will be there – I can’t compete with her cleavage’. Love her, love the comment – thank you very much and good night….
But ‘twas not always so.
I was the ‘good girl’ at school. You would find me in a corner of the library, not hanging out with the cool kids. Throughout my schooldays I received plenty of praise from adults for my intelligence and commitment to study, but little recognition from anyone – least of all my schoolmates – for what really matters to a teenage girl – my looks. I was overweight, spotty – and flat-chested. My best friend, tenth in class tests while I felt let down if I slid to second place, was the boy magnet: skinny, bubbly, extrovert, she clinched the deal by possessing two elder sisters to share clothes and makeup tips – how could I compete?
Consequence: my belief system was created. It said ‘You can to be clever to make up for the fact that you’re unfanciable’.
I now know that we choose our beliefs – back then, they chose me and I blindly accepted. So when my chest suddenly decided to act like it had been attached to an airline my reaction was embarrassment – hide them! It took the appreciation of my husband to make me accept – grudgingly – that my body might actually be, well, sort of OK.
But throughout most of my life, I have been able to accept a compliment about my intelligence with equanimity and genuine pleasure, a personal compliment directed at my appearance has immediately triggered a ‘why is this person saying this?’ response. I looked for a subtext: is it a joke? Blatant empty flattery? What is its purpose? This does not accord with my core belief system: does not compute.
I once (only once!) watched ‘What Not To Wear’ and was horrified at the humiliation of the poor subject, being told she couldn’t wear garment after garment because of her figure. In contrast, I love ‘How To Look Good Naked’ in which Gok Wan, while grabbing bits of flesh, contrives to make women feel proud of what they have. This was perhaps one trigger to help me realise I could choose my own reality.
Another was receiving male attention and appreciation, initially at a time when I was feeling very low for several reasons, and which increased the more confident I became in my appearance, and in a couple of cases at least could not be explained away as anything other than genuine, however hard I tried. Reading Dawn French’s autobiography helped too – I fully identify with her feelings about her boobs, and her confidence boosted mine. (my confidence, not my boobs – they, like Dawn’s, need no further boosting, just good scaffolding!)
I can now accept my body as, to quote a Tim Minchin song, Not Perfect, but it’s mine’, make the most of its good bits and take attention away from the things I don’t like so much. I fully realised how much things had changed last Christmas when a (male) friend who I hadn’t seen for a year commented not only on how good I looked, but on my change of style: skinny jeans, fitted low cut top and leather jacket – clothes I wouldn’t have had the confidence to wear at twenty. So I’m writing this in honour of National Cleavage Day yesterday – I can now celebrate! I no longer feel like I have to compete – but I do finally feel like I’m winning.
But ‘twas not always so.
I was the ‘good girl’ at school. You would find me in a corner of the library, not hanging out with the cool kids. Throughout my schooldays I received plenty of praise from adults for my intelligence and commitment to study, but little recognition from anyone – least of all my schoolmates – for what really matters to a teenage girl – my looks. I was overweight, spotty – and flat-chested. My best friend, tenth in class tests while I felt let down if I slid to second place, was the boy magnet: skinny, bubbly, extrovert, she clinched the deal by possessing two elder sisters to share clothes and makeup tips – how could I compete?
Consequence: my belief system was created. It said ‘You can to be clever to make up for the fact that you’re unfanciable’.
I now know that we choose our beliefs – back then, they chose me and I blindly accepted. So when my chest suddenly decided to act like it had been attached to an airline my reaction was embarrassment – hide them! It took the appreciation of my husband to make me accept – grudgingly – that my body might actually be, well, sort of OK.
But throughout most of my life, I have been able to accept a compliment about my intelligence with equanimity and genuine pleasure, a personal compliment directed at my appearance has immediately triggered a ‘why is this person saying this?’ response. I looked for a subtext: is it a joke? Blatant empty flattery? What is its purpose? This does not accord with my core belief system: does not compute.
I once (only once!) watched ‘What Not To Wear’ and was horrified at the humiliation of the poor subject, being told she couldn’t wear garment after garment because of her figure. In contrast, I love ‘How To Look Good Naked’ in which Gok Wan, while grabbing bits of flesh, contrives to make women feel proud of what they have. This was perhaps one trigger to help me realise I could choose my own reality.
Another was receiving male attention and appreciation, initially at a time when I was feeling very low for several reasons, and which increased the more confident I became in my appearance, and in a couple of cases at least could not be explained away as anything other than genuine, however hard I tried. Reading Dawn French’s autobiography helped too – I fully identify with her feelings about her boobs, and her confidence boosted mine. (my confidence, not my boobs – they, like Dawn’s, need no further boosting, just good scaffolding!)
I can now accept my body as, to quote a Tim Minchin song, Not Perfect, but it’s mine’, make the most of its good bits and take attention away from the things I don’t like so much. I fully realised how much things had changed last Christmas when a (male) friend who I hadn’t seen for a year commented not only on how good I looked, but on my change of style: skinny jeans, fitted low cut top and leather jacket – clothes I wouldn’t have had the confidence to wear at twenty. So I’m writing this in honour of National Cleavage Day yesterday – I can now celebrate! I no longer feel like I have to compete – but I do finally feel like I’m winning.
Thursday 2 April 2009
Is it my destiny to be fatalistic?
I was born and raised in the flat wilderness that is East Anglia, and proudly - but inaccurately as it turned out - boasted that my pedigree back to the seventeenth century was pure Norfolk with the occasional dash of Suffolk.
Most of the people around me as a child seemed to have a fatalistic attitude to life. I remember one of my Mum's friends - the sort most of us had as children, who we termed Auntie as a mark of respect but no regard at all for bloodlines - on the way to the doctor's for the results of some test (by the Les Dawson impressions she and Mum were doing, mouthing words I wasn't supposed to understand anyway and hitching up bosoms, I guess it was some gynaecological problem) saying in a resigned tone: 'Oh well, if your number's up, that's it.'
My childish mind, even then, baulked at this notion. Oh no, if the grim reaper was coming after me with his scythe I knew how to run and dodge - you don't catch me that way. But then, I'd never been faced with death, or even its possibility, at that stage.
I have still, thankfully, undergone relatively few bereavements, and those such as one might expect in the normal course of events, but even in my limited experience I have been struck with the different attitudes of people to the prospect of death, and they seem to be heavily influenced by whether the person comes from a rural or urban background.
Rural folk, perhaps beause of a genetic history of living close to the elements, engaged in times gone by in agrarian activities and thus dependent for their very survival on the vagaries of wind and sun, seem to me to take a more fatalistic view of death - and life - than those raised in towns and cities.
My father, on receiving a diagnosis of cancer, remarked without any discernable emotion: 'I'll be gone by Christmas'. True to his word, he died in November. Yet a dear old friend kept a body riddled with cancer, thrombosis and various other ailments going till he was nearly 90, mainly because every time - and this was a regular occurrence - he ended up in hospital 'on his death bed', he remembered a few jobs he had to do before he shuffled off this mortal coil... Yes, a Londoner.
Understanding your background influences is the first step to choosing to control them, and either through this or by replacing my rural family fatalism with that of my London-born husband I don't know - but I believe that any experience can be shaped by my brain so that I can take approach it positively.
But this does not stop me enjoying Greek tragedy - or the fatalistic novels of the very rural Thomas Hardy!
Most of the people around me as a child seemed to have a fatalistic attitude to life. I remember one of my Mum's friends - the sort most of us had as children, who we termed Auntie as a mark of respect but no regard at all for bloodlines - on the way to the doctor's for the results of some test (by the Les Dawson impressions she and Mum were doing, mouthing words I wasn't supposed to understand anyway and hitching up bosoms, I guess it was some gynaecological problem) saying in a resigned tone: 'Oh well, if your number's up, that's it.'
My childish mind, even then, baulked at this notion. Oh no, if the grim reaper was coming after me with his scythe I knew how to run and dodge - you don't catch me that way. But then, I'd never been faced with death, or even its possibility, at that stage.
I have still, thankfully, undergone relatively few bereavements, and those such as one might expect in the normal course of events, but even in my limited experience I have been struck with the different attitudes of people to the prospect of death, and they seem to be heavily influenced by whether the person comes from a rural or urban background.
Rural folk, perhaps beause of a genetic history of living close to the elements, engaged in times gone by in agrarian activities and thus dependent for their very survival on the vagaries of wind and sun, seem to me to take a more fatalistic view of death - and life - than those raised in towns and cities.
My father, on receiving a diagnosis of cancer, remarked without any discernable emotion: 'I'll be gone by Christmas'. True to his word, he died in November. Yet a dear old friend kept a body riddled with cancer, thrombosis and various other ailments going till he was nearly 90, mainly because every time - and this was a regular occurrence - he ended up in hospital 'on his death bed', he remembered a few jobs he had to do before he shuffled off this mortal coil... Yes, a Londoner.
Understanding your background influences is the first step to choosing to control them, and either through this or by replacing my rural family fatalism with that of my London-born husband I don't know - but I believe that any experience can be shaped by my brain so that I can take approach it positively.
But this does not stop me enjoying Greek tragedy - or the fatalistic novels of the very rural Thomas Hardy!
Saturday 28 March 2009
Londinium
I’ve had a long relationship with the capital city of the UK - not quite as long as the title of this blog suggests, I hasten to add: I don’t go back to Roman times, although one of my favourite novels, ‘London’ by Edward Rutherford, does – it traces the history of the city for over a thousand years by following fictional families – thoroughly recommend it.
No, I was virtually unaware of the place except as a name on a map and in history books until I was ten, when our Norfolk primary school thought it would be ‘a good thing’ for us innocent rural souls to widen our experience of life, and arranged a day trip. Not to Camden market, a few high rise flats, a crack den and an underground rave to complete the day, as they could have done, but to the Tower of London and the Science Museum. Relatively tame on reflection, but we were ten – and our mums had to give permission. And I had enough problems trying to convince my mum I would be safe: perhaps the teachers were wise to avoid the crack den after all.
“You might get lost - London’s a big place,” was the first objection. How she could know this I’m not sure – the furthest from home she had ventured was Frinton-on-Sea, in deepest, darkest Essex.
There is an apocryphal tale of a Norfolk lorry driver sent to London with a cargo of wooden planks. He successfully navigated his way as far as Liverpool Street Station, which everyone in East Anglia knows is London, then stopped and accosted a passer by.
‘Excuse me, do you live in London?’
‘Yes mate,’ came the reply.
‘Good,’ said the driver. ‘I’ve got some wood here for a Mr Jones. Can you tell me which house is his please?’
Although I’ve since come to love the Science Museum, my only memory of it is walking time and time again through this new-fangled automatic door contraption – just imagine, some day in the future, we could have a door that opens whenever you approach it! Just like on The Prisoner…. (though I’d not seen that at the time).
My other abiding memory of the day is driving through streets crammed with buildings, people and traffic – more than I’d ever seen in my life. And loving the buzz that emanated from the very tarmac, the vibrancy and the life-giving force. The Tower and its history has been a passion of mine ever since that day, when I dazedly retraced the steps of Elizabeth I on her walkway outside the Bloody Tower, marvelling that I was seeing the same vista as that long ago young princess. London does that – it puts you in touch with history.
Which is why I moved to live near London, and probably partly why I was drawn to and married a Londoner. Not just a Londoner indeed – a genuine ‘Orl roight mate’ Cockney, bless him. I’ve learned to see the Mile End Road as a second home – especially since we found out (after years of me boasting about my pedigree Norfolk breeding) my nan was actually born in Bermondsey.
I was back at the National Portrait Gallery recently to lap up more history – I love to gaze at paintings of my heroes down the ages, pondering on the fact that when the paint touched the canvas, they were actually in the room. Brings them closer, that thought. Paintings seem more personal than photographs; it’s not, as so often quoted, the camera that takes a bit of the subject’s soul – the artist’s brush captures it so much more effectively. And – as Dorian Gray attests – the best paintings portray the artist’s emotions as well as the subject’s.
There are a few favourites I visit every time: the Romantic poets, clustered in one room: Byron looking proud and handsome, Keatshead down, reading, looking simultaneously absorbed and defeated; Wordsworth towards the end of his life, now very much part of the establishment he once railed against. Mary Woolstoncraft and her husband William Godwin look possessively across the room at their daughter and son-in-law.
I also visit John Wilmot posing with his monkey, which sits on a pile of books. I’m told the monkey represents Milton, the laureate, hence the laurel crown held above its head. The image always however symbolises for me the monk and the monkey – psychological terms representing the superego and the id – the highest and lowest thought processes of humans. Which summarises Wilmot’s life and poetry perfectly.
This visit I spent more time than usual with the Shakespeare portraits, intrigued at the possibility of a new one having been discovered. And while perusing that exhibition I was drawn to Ben Jonson. I'd never really looked at him previously and I was struck by the fact that he doesn’t look like I expect a poet and playwright to look: to bluff, too hearty, not sensitive enough. Though yes, the sort of writer who can start a play with ‘I fart at thee’! He reminds me of Tom Baker – not so much as Dr Who but as the legless sailor in Blackadder II. Well, if nothing else, I could now advise on who should play Ben Jonson should anyone decide to make a biopic….
No, I was virtually unaware of the place except as a name on a map and in history books until I was ten, when our Norfolk primary school thought it would be ‘a good thing’ for us innocent rural souls to widen our experience of life, and arranged a day trip. Not to Camden market, a few high rise flats, a crack den and an underground rave to complete the day, as they could have done, but to the Tower of London and the Science Museum. Relatively tame on reflection, but we were ten – and our mums had to give permission. And I had enough problems trying to convince my mum I would be safe: perhaps the teachers were wise to avoid the crack den after all.
“You might get lost - London’s a big place,” was the first objection. How she could know this I’m not sure – the furthest from home she had ventured was Frinton-on-Sea, in deepest, darkest Essex.
There is an apocryphal tale of a Norfolk lorry driver sent to London with a cargo of wooden planks. He successfully navigated his way as far as Liverpool Street Station, which everyone in East Anglia knows is London, then stopped and accosted a passer by.
‘Excuse me, do you live in London?’
‘Yes mate,’ came the reply.
‘Good,’ said the driver. ‘I’ve got some wood here for a Mr Jones. Can you tell me which house is his please?’
Although I’ve since come to love the Science Museum, my only memory of it is walking time and time again through this new-fangled automatic door contraption – just imagine, some day in the future, we could have a door that opens whenever you approach it! Just like on The Prisoner…. (though I’d not seen that at the time).
My other abiding memory of the day is driving through streets crammed with buildings, people and traffic – more than I’d ever seen in my life. And loving the buzz that emanated from the very tarmac, the vibrancy and the life-giving force. The Tower and its history has been a passion of mine ever since that day, when I dazedly retraced the steps of Elizabeth I on her walkway outside the Bloody Tower, marvelling that I was seeing the same vista as that long ago young princess. London does that – it puts you in touch with history.
Which is why I moved to live near London, and probably partly why I was drawn to and married a Londoner. Not just a Londoner indeed – a genuine ‘Orl roight mate’ Cockney, bless him. I’ve learned to see the Mile End Road as a second home – especially since we found out (after years of me boasting about my pedigree Norfolk breeding) my nan was actually born in Bermondsey.
I was back at the National Portrait Gallery recently to lap up more history – I love to gaze at paintings of my heroes down the ages, pondering on the fact that when the paint touched the canvas, they were actually in the room. Brings them closer, that thought. Paintings seem more personal than photographs; it’s not, as so often quoted, the camera that takes a bit of the subject’s soul – the artist’s brush captures it so much more effectively. And – as Dorian Gray attests – the best paintings portray the artist’s emotions as well as the subject’s.
There are a few favourites I visit every time: the Romantic poets, clustered in one room: Byron looking proud and handsome, Keatshead down, reading, looking simultaneously absorbed and defeated; Wordsworth towards the end of his life, now very much part of the establishment he once railed against. Mary Woolstoncraft and her husband William Godwin look possessively across the room at their daughter and son-in-law.
I also visit John Wilmot posing with his monkey, which sits on a pile of books. I’m told the monkey represents Milton, the laureate, hence the laurel crown held above its head. The image always however symbolises for me the monk and the monkey – psychological terms representing the superego and the id – the highest and lowest thought processes of humans. Which summarises Wilmot’s life and poetry perfectly.
This visit I spent more time than usual with the Shakespeare portraits, intrigued at the possibility of a new one having been discovered. And while perusing that exhibition I was drawn to Ben Jonson. I'd never really looked at him previously and I was struck by the fact that he doesn’t look like I expect a poet and playwright to look: to bluff, too hearty, not sensitive enough. Though yes, the sort of writer who can start a play with ‘I fart at thee’! He reminds me of Tom Baker – not so much as Dr Who but as the legless sailor in Blackadder II. Well, if nothing else, I could now advise on who should play Ben Jonson should anyone decide to make a biopic….
Monday 23 March 2009
Time is an ocean, but it ends at the shore
The Bob Dylan quotation I've used as the title for this blog is one of my all-time favourite lyrics, and is very apt for a recent revelation.
Let me take you back in time to the mid-70's. I was studying for my A levels in a very traditional rural grammar school in which every teacher was - to my teenage eyes - at least 90 years old and hopelessly out of touch with modern life - the ladies wore tweeds, the men suits and ties. There were even segregated male/female staffrooms, and us girls were regularly inspected for the length of our skirts and whether blazers were done up properly.
We were waiting for our new English teacher, when an interesting sight mainfested itself in the classroom. In walked a tall, handsome man in his early thirties with a mop of curly dark hair, zapata moustache, intense hazel eyes, open-neck checked shirt and cords. We thought he'd come to mend the radiator - especially when he introduced himself as Roger - no teacher in our school ever revealed their first name.
But our English teacher he was - and the most inspirational teacher of my school career. Because of this one person I encountered and fell in love with the work of Bob Dylan, Jack Kerouac, John Keats and other great writers, and because of him I became an English teacher - I wanted to inspire the same enthusiam for literature in others that he had in me. From the start Roger stood apart from the other staff: he informed us that if we wanted to speak to him we should ask for him in the female staff room as he found the company more congenial in there...by the time I visited the school two years later the outmoded segregation of staffrooms had ended, in no small part I guess because of Roger's maverick refusal to abide by the gender divide.
Towards the end of our course, as we approached our exams, he expressed frustration at being told we would be leaving as soon as we had completed our course of study: he was looking forward to sharing with us 'some more interesting and important stuff' rather than being bound by the requirements of the syllabus. We shared his disappointment, but our consolation was an invitation to a party at his home. If my parents thought this was a civilised taking tea with sir, they were misinformed...
Roger lived in a rambling Elizabethan farmhouse which delighted me - to this day I would love to live in a house like that. For the occasion the huge garden / field at the back had been littered with bean bags and mattresses to sit on and there were huge speakers in the upstairs windows ready to provide the now-familiar strains of Dylan. At 2am he announced to the by now not entirely sober conglomeration of students: 'A couple of miles away there's a lovely thorn bush just like the one in the Wordsworth poem'. There a re very few people who could persuade me, without hesitation, to trek across muddy fields in high heels in the middle of the night in pitch darkness to 'see' a three foot high clump of shrubbery - but Roger was one of them.
As usually happens, I lost contact with Roger after he left the school - I remember being told his leaving gift was a goat, which struck me as entirely appropriate.
A few months ago I was reading a book by Iain Sinclair, which traces a journey round the M25, when I came across a reference to 'the writer, Roger Deakin'. Unusual name - could this be my old mentor? This is where the internet comes into its own - within minutes I was able to establish that this was indeed the same person; that he had gone on to write, broadcast and make films, living in the same moated farmhouse in which he had hosted our party, and sadly that he died about three years ago. But there was a reference in his writing to finding an old chain that had once tethered a goat....
I have bought his books to read so the inspirational teacher I knew all those years ago can continue to teach and influence from beyond the grave - perhaps that's true immortality...
Let me take you back in time to the mid-70's. I was studying for my A levels in a very traditional rural grammar school in which every teacher was - to my teenage eyes - at least 90 years old and hopelessly out of touch with modern life - the ladies wore tweeds, the men suits and ties. There were even segregated male/female staffrooms, and us girls were regularly inspected for the length of our skirts and whether blazers were done up properly.
We were waiting for our new English teacher, when an interesting sight mainfested itself in the classroom. In walked a tall, handsome man in his early thirties with a mop of curly dark hair, zapata moustache, intense hazel eyes, open-neck checked shirt and cords. We thought he'd come to mend the radiator - especially when he introduced himself as Roger - no teacher in our school ever revealed their first name.
But our English teacher he was - and the most inspirational teacher of my school career. Because of this one person I encountered and fell in love with the work of Bob Dylan, Jack Kerouac, John Keats and other great writers, and because of him I became an English teacher - I wanted to inspire the same enthusiam for literature in others that he had in me. From the start Roger stood apart from the other staff: he informed us that if we wanted to speak to him we should ask for him in the female staff room as he found the company more congenial in there...by the time I visited the school two years later the outmoded segregation of staffrooms had ended, in no small part I guess because of Roger's maverick refusal to abide by the gender divide.
Towards the end of our course, as we approached our exams, he expressed frustration at being told we would be leaving as soon as we had completed our course of study: he was looking forward to sharing with us 'some more interesting and important stuff' rather than being bound by the requirements of the syllabus. We shared his disappointment, but our consolation was an invitation to a party at his home. If my parents thought this was a civilised taking tea with sir, they were misinformed...
Roger lived in a rambling Elizabethan farmhouse which delighted me - to this day I would love to live in a house like that. For the occasion the huge garden / field at the back had been littered with bean bags and mattresses to sit on and there were huge speakers in the upstairs windows ready to provide the now-familiar strains of Dylan. At 2am he announced to the by now not entirely sober conglomeration of students: 'A couple of miles away there's a lovely thorn bush just like the one in the Wordsworth poem'. There a re very few people who could persuade me, without hesitation, to trek across muddy fields in high heels in the middle of the night in pitch darkness to 'see' a three foot high clump of shrubbery - but Roger was one of them.
As usually happens, I lost contact with Roger after he left the school - I remember being told his leaving gift was a goat, which struck me as entirely appropriate.
A few months ago I was reading a book by Iain Sinclair, which traces a journey round the M25, when I came across a reference to 'the writer, Roger Deakin'. Unusual name - could this be my old mentor? This is where the internet comes into its own - within minutes I was able to establish that this was indeed the same person; that he had gone on to write, broadcast and make films, living in the same moated farmhouse in which he had hosted our party, and sadly that he died about three years ago. But there was a reference in his writing to finding an old chain that had once tethered a goat....
I have bought his books to read so the inspirational teacher I knew all those years ago can continue to teach and influence from beyond the grave - perhaps that's true immortality...
Sunday 22 March 2009
Distances in Wales are really far apart, aren’t they?
This week I spent a few days travelling in Wales and the Borders. Not the first time I’ve been to the area, and it was a last minute decision, founded on my husband’s need to go to Monmouth for some bus-related reason (to do with his job, though I wouldn’t put it past him to do this just for interest). As I had some time off he threw out that carrot that if I were willing to accompany him and witness this – to my mind decidedly dull – undertaking, we could drive up to Portmeirion via Hay-on-Wye and back via Gloucestershire. A picturesque prospect that played to several of my life’s passions.
The deal was sealed when on phoning to book the advertised off-peak mid-week special offer on hotel accommodation in Portmeirion we were told that sadly the rooms on offer were all taken – all they had spare was the Peacock Suite, which as a late booking they could let us have for just £30 above the standard offer price.
‘Go for it’ I said, not knowing what the Peacock Suite had to offer. Then I looked at the website: luxurious suite overlooking the sea with a sumptuous four poster bed….yes, I thought, I could live with that – as indeed I could – and did!
The downside of the trip was that hubby had to drive a very long way – provoking the remark from him which I had to use as the title for this piece: ‘Distances in Wales are really far apart, aren’t they?’ Umm, yes, grammatically correct sentence but, er – I know what you mean dear….
The payoffs:
En route to Monmouth we passed through the Wye Valley and Tintern Abbey. Yes, we could have gone a different way but suffice to say I was planning the route and navigating. And Tintern is one of the places I keep coming back to. Like Wordsworth, Turner, Cobbett and many others down the centuries I see the magnificence of this ruin as so many things.
There is the historical and geographical perspective: the abbey was built in a remote location to reflect the Cistercian belief in shunning the corruption of society, ironically corruption in which the Catholic church of the time, of which the monastery was a part, played a huge role. Maybe slightly because of this inherent corruption, but mainly because of Henry VIII’s greed, narcissism and insistence on having his own way, the abbey was sacked as part of the dissolution of the monasteries. And rather than gradually falling into disrepair like many buildings, it was deliberately reduced to the ruin it is today to feed the whims of the king.
Then there is the poetic side: Turner’s lovely rendition of the abbey; Wordsworth’s best poem was written about, and in, this place and sitting by the Wye now, reading the poem, I still see ‘theses steep and lofty cliffs, Which on a wild secluded scene impress Thoughts of more deep seclusion.’
Onward to Portmeirion which deserves - and will probably receive – a blog all to itself. Suffice to say that as we turned into the track leading out of Minfford into Portmeirion itself I commented: ‘Prepare to leave the real world behind’ – as anyone who has eve been there will vouch, that is how it feels. The place is a beautiful retreat, and as Jools Holland said after visiting it, the main question in his mind about the TV series ‘The Prisoner’, filmed there, is now why anyone would to leave such a place. The hotel and suite were everything we expected and more, service faultless. It left me realising that I have missed my true vocation in life – I was born to be part of the nobility, surrounded by beautiful architecture, décor and furniture, waited on hand and foot and able to do exactly as I want. Oh well, back to reality….
Our final stop off was at the tiny town of Newent in Gloucestershire, birthplace and resting place of Joe Meek, record producer and entrepreneur of the 1960’s. I navigated us to Newent in the mistaken and deluded belief that once we got there my husband knew where the grave was located. Ha! Some hope! After wandering aimlessly round a churchyard bearing stones dated no later than 1850, he decided we might be in the wrong place – Joe died in 1967.
So we searched the town – even a tiny town is big when you are looking for a gravestone! Finally hubby’s male pride gave way to the necessity of asking for directions. ‘You need to ask in the Tourist Information Centre’ we were told – we had followed signs for that already and not found where they were pointing to. After asking three people we actually found the tourist information centre masquerading as council offices, which were shut for lunch. We peered into the window and spied a worker who was probably incredibly well-informed as to the whereabouts of every grave in the town, busily ignoring us in favour of his packed lunch. Hubby tinkered half-heartedly with the touchscreen information computer in the window but this yielded nothing further than there were over 300 sites of interest locally – we hadn’t the time to go through them all only to find that inexplicably Joe Meek’s grave wasn’t considered of interest.
Hubby then tried local shops – only to find that the only person employed on the high street who was actually a local was so deaf that she tried to show him the way to Joan someone’s grave… Finally we accosted a poor woman at her front door who – with the rider that she wasn’t a local (does anyone born in Newent still actually live there?) volunteered the most helpful information so far – that there is a cemetery the other side of the town. Following her directions we reached it only for hubby to go through the aimless wandering ritual again. On seeking advice from the cemetery lodge we finally reached our goal. I hope Joe, wherever he may be, was looking down on us with a mixture of appreciation for our devotion and amusement at our folly.
The deal was sealed when on phoning to book the advertised off-peak mid-week special offer on hotel accommodation in Portmeirion we were told that sadly the rooms on offer were all taken – all they had spare was the Peacock Suite, which as a late booking they could let us have for just £30 above the standard offer price.
‘Go for it’ I said, not knowing what the Peacock Suite had to offer. Then I looked at the website: luxurious suite overlooking the sea with a sumptuous four poster bed….yes, I thought, I could live with that – as indeed I could – and did!
The downside of the trip was that hubby had to drive a very long way – provoking the remark from him which I had to use as the title for this piece: ‘Distances in Wales are really far apart, aren’t they?’ Umm, yes, grammatically correct sentence but, er – I know what you mean dear….
The payoffs:
En route to Monmouth we passed through the Wye Valley and Tintern Abbey. Yes, we could have gone a different way but suffice to say I was planning the route and navigating. And Tintern is one of the places I keep coming back to. Like Wordsworth, Turner, Cobbett and many others down the centuries I see the magnificence of this ruin as so many things.
There is the historical and geographical perspective: the abbey was built in a remote location to reflect the Cistercian belief in shunning the corruption of society, ironically corruption in which the Catholic church of the time, of which the monastery was a part, played a huge role. Maybe slightly because of this inherent corruption, but mainly because of Henry VIII’s greed, narcissism and insistence on having his own way, the abbey was sacked as part of the dissolution of the monasteries. And rather than gradually falling into disrepair like many buildings, it was deliberately reduced to the ruin it is today to feed the whims of the king.
Then there is the poetic side: Turner’s lovely rendition of the abbey; Wordsworth’s best poem was written about, and in, this place and sitting by the Wye now, reading the poem, I still see ‘theses steep and lofty cliffs, Which on a wild secluded scene impress Thoughts of more deep seclusion.’
Onward to Portmeirion which deserves - and will probably receive – a blog all to itself. Suffice to say that as we turned into the track leading out of Minfford into Portmeirion itself I commented: ‘Prepare to leave the real world behind’ – as anyone who has eve been there will vouch, that is how it feels. The place is a beautiful retreat, and as Jools Holland said after visiting it, the main question in his mind about the TV series ‘The Prisoner’, filmed there, is now why anyone would to leave such a place. The hotel and suite were everything we expected and more, service faultless. It left me realising that I have missed my true vocation in life – I was born to be part of the nobility, surrounded by beautiful architecture, décor and furniture, waited on hand and foot and able to do exactly as I want. Oh well, back to reality….
Our final stop off was at the tiny town of Newent in Gloucestershire, birthplace and resting place of Joe Meek, record producer and entrepreneur of the 1960’s. I navigated us to Newent in the mistaken and deluded belief that once we got there my husband knew where the grave was located. Ha! Some hope! After wandering aimlessly round a churchyard bearing stones dated no later than 1850, he decided we might be in the wrong place – Joe died in 1967.
So we searched the town – even a tiny town is big when you are looking for a gravestone! Finally hubby’s male pride gave way to the necessity of asking for directions. ‘You need to ask in the Tourist Information Centre’ we were told – we had followed signs for that already and not found where they were pointing to. After asking three people we actually found the tourist information centre masquerading as council offices, which were shut for lunch. We peered into the window and spied a worker who was probably incredibly well-informed as to the whereabouts of every grave in the town, busily ignoring us in favour of his packed lunch. Hubby tinkered half-heartedly with the touchscreen information computer in the window but this yielded nothing further than there were over 300 sites of interest locally – we hadn’t the time to go through them all only to find that inexplicably Joe Meek’s grave wasn’t considered of interest.
Hubby then tried local shops – only to find that the only person employed on the high street who was actually a local was so deaf that she tried to show him the way to Joan someone’s grave… Finally we accosted a poor woman at her front door who – with the rider that she wasn’t a local (does anyone born in Newent still actually live there?) volunteered the most helpful information so far – that there is a cemetery the other side of the town. Following her directions we reached it only for hubby to go through the aimless wandering ritual again. On seeking advice from the cemetery lodge we finally reached our goal. I hope Joe, wherever he may be, was looking down on us with a mixture of appreciation for our devotion and amusement at our folly.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
