Getting a bit nippy out isn't it? Time to switch the heating on and raise the temperature in your home to sub-tropical levels? Sissys! It's nearly winter, it's supposed to be cold. What's the matter with you? All this keeping warm nonsense has gone too far. There's nothing wrong with a bit of suffering, and it toughens you up. I fear we're now breeding a generation of little wimps who can't bear to be even the slightest bit chilly and who claim they're 'freezing' if the temperature drops below fifteen degrees. What nonsense!
It's not healthy, in my opinion, all this hermetically sealing ourselves inside our houses, with double glazing and whatnot, and turning up all those radiators so that every vestige of moisture is leeched from our shrivelling bodies. It's not natural.
In my day you never expected to be warm between October and May. You took your blue-lipped, huddled state to be the norm, and got on with it. Back then our homes were not designed for comfort, Quite the opposite, in fact. Every care was taken to inflict as much hardship as possible. Why else cover bedroom floors with that instrument of torture known as linoleum? Cold, hard and slippy underfoot it was the perfect incentive to send us scurrying into the only slightly better territory of our beds. A lumpy, flock-filled mattress covered by a couple of scratchy blankets, and a few old coats for good measure, seemed like bliss compared to a flooring that could strike frostbite into a child's tiny toes. However, we did have the joy of the hot water bottle that instantly set off the sublime chilblain itch. Whatever happened to chilblains? You never hear of them anymore. Kids nowadays don't know what they're missing. The ecstasy of scratching your chilblains to the point of drawing blood is hard to describe to your modern spoiled brat. We made our own fun, back then.
Does anybody now wake to the fascinating sight of their own breath, billowing above them in a plume of moisture, like a thin ectoplasm? And all that breathing, in our overcrowded homes, resulted in a Niagara of condensation that poured down our windows and dripped into puddles on the floor, turning that linoleum into a deathtrap as your slippers found no purchase and you skidded into the wardrobe.
However, if the outside temperature fell below freezing then the problem was solved as our already glacial interiors became even colder and the liquid froze hard on the glass. Even in my own home, the one I raised my children in, we experienced the same thing, lacking as we did that hellish invention known as central heating. And having to survive on a low income meant we couldn't afford to heat every room. I remember trying to explain this phenomenon to my Mexican son-in-law.
Me: So when it got really cold ice formed on the inside of the children's bedroom windows.
Son-in-Law: (Disbelievingly) The inside?!
Me: Yes, the inside.
Son-in-Law: Nooooo!
Me: Yes.
At this point my daughter joined in.
Daughter: I liked it. The ice made beautiful patterns on the glass.
Son-in-Law: On the inside?!
Daughter: Yes.
Son-in-Law: Nooooo!
Daughter: I used to scratch a hole with my fingernail to look through.
Son-in-Law: On the inside?!
Daughter: Yes.
Son-in-Law: Nooooo!
It's done them no harm. They've all grown up knowing the value of a good vest and the pointlessness of complaining.
And then there was the romance of the coal fire, that heated a small radius of two feet in it's immediate vicinity and no further so that, in order gain any benefit, you had to sit so close to it that we all had mottled shins from the scorching. It also meant that Tom, the coalman, came every two weeks and gave me a grimy toffee, so what was not to love? Give me an unsightly shin any day, rather than the aforementioned central heating. Just because you've got it doesn't mean you've got to turn it full up. I loathe stepping into somebody's otherwise delightful home only to be greeted by a wave of heat like a blast furnace. I hate it. It doesn't make me warm and cosy. It renders me overheated and uncomfortable. If you feel a bit cool then put on an extra cardie, don't just reach for the heating dial. Apart from being a spineless pillock you're also doing untold damage to the environment. So think on.
Hot water's another indulgence now taken for granted. We stood in our Siberian bathrooms in front of a basin of tepid water, dabbing at the bits we could bear to expose with a damp flannel. But, generally speaking, children hate getting washed so that was fine, and the bone shaking chattering of our teeth counted as exercise.
As for draughts, our ill-fitting doors and windows created constant movement in our homes, shifting curtains about and whistling round our ankles, dislodging the fluff from under the couch and sending it skittering across the carpet like tumbleweed. Indeed, the gaps round our kitchen door were such that, if the wind was in the right direction, it whipped your hair back as you ate your cornflakes. But it was very refreshing.
I like a bit of comfort as much as the next cantankerous old woman, but I genuinely have some very happy memories of what would now be considered a deprived childhood, but didn't feel a bit like that at the time. And yes, I think that many (not all, of course) modern children are frequently pampered to a ludicrous extent, and probably miss out as a result. Yes, our bedrooms were habitually perishing but, if I was ill, I was indulged with the rare event of a fire in the bedroom grate. There can be few things more comforting to a sick child than lying snug in bed, in a room illuminated by the warm glow of the coals. You don't get that from a radiator.
And here's the paradox. In overheating our homes, offices, shops, etc., we are almost certainly doing terrible, irreversible harm to our delicate atmosphere. So, when the next Ice Age hits, don't come crying to me. I'll be perfectly happy in my cave, fashioning a vest from a bit of goat skin and enjoying not having to wash.
Thanks for reading. Please feel free to share.
Thursday 1 November 2012
Monday 3 September 2012
15. Fifty Shades of Grey Indecision
So here's the thing. I'm getting on a bit. I imagine you're already aware of that if you've read any of my blogs. But I'm now closer to seventy than I am to sixty and that seems like a really big gulf. At sixty you can still just about kid yourself you're in late (albeit very late) middle age, but seventy undeniably comes into the realms of 'old', so time to assess the situation. The wonderful Sir Thomas Beecham once said we should all 'try everything once, except incest and folk dancing', and I'm so with him on that one. But I haven't tried everything. Not by a long chalk. And it's hard to come to terms with the fact that I probably never will now.
Heaven knows, I've given it a decent shot. The point is, have I tried hard enough? There must be lots of things I'd have enjoyed, if only I'd got round to them. On the other hand, there are those things that were just not for me, so I chose to pass them by. I've never tried swinging, for example. And I'm referring here to the habit of sexual experimention amongst bored suburbanites, not the gentle pastime of children. I've done that one and I liked it. But the thought of sitting in somebody's lounge, eating nibbles and making small talk about the bin collections until it's time to indulge in a little light S and M with the man from number thirtyfive holds no attraction. It strikes me as a situation ripe with pitfalls. How do you meet the eye of a chap you last saw in nothing but thigh length pvc boots if you bump into him in the butchers when you're buying a pound of sausages? Though I can see the attraction of all those opportunities to have a good look round other people's houses and judge their taste in headboards. But it's not enough.
There's a current fashion for making a 'Bucket List' of all the things you want to do before falling into the grave's welcoming embrace, but I've never been a list maker, preferring my life to have a more haphazard feel. Regimentation's not attractive to me. But maybe that's my problem and I haven't been organised enough, thus frittering away time when a tighter schedule would have allowed for fitting in more stuff. Then I might have learned to speak Japanese instead of wandering round town with a friend, trying on stupid hats to make each other laugh. Or I could have mastered the art of the souffle in the time I squandered lying in the bath with a fag and a glass of Rioja.
'Did these things make you feel happy and fulfilled?' I hear you ask, doubtfully.
'You bet they did,' I reply, enthusiastically.
But I can hardly trot them out as achievments when in company and other people are going on about how they climbed Kilimanjaro or set up an orphanage in Romania. You see? Not in the same league.
It must have been easier a few generations back when there wasn't so much on offer. When your only choice, as a woman, was obedient domestic drudgery or popping out to march about with placards, singing a catchy tune with all those lovely suffragettes, and hurling bricks through the windows of politicians I'd have gone for the hurling everytime, and now I'd be a sepia tinted legend to my great, great grandchildren. I did once stand outside Tesco's, in a sparse group turning blue with cold, protesting against excess packaging. That was few years back and I'd have to say, on current evidence, it was a futile cause. On the bright side, my then husband was outraged by my behaviour. So not all bad and well worth a mild dose of hypothermia. I just don't think it'll get me a mention in the annals of history.
But now there's so much on offer we're spoilt for choice. Which brings me back to wondering about the things I might like to do before the very last grain of my sands of time falls into the bottom bit of my hourglass of life, apart from boil an egg. I suppose I could go for an extension of the things that I can already do and enjoy. Such as riding my bike. Now don't go getting the idea that I tootle about on a sit-up-and-beg, with a whicker basket on the front, like a character out of a Miss Marple story. Oh no, no, no. I have a snazzy little racer and I take no prisoners. I've covered a fair bit of the British Isles on two wheels in my time, and pedalled in foreign parts, but nowhere that falls into the adventurous category... unless you count Trafalgar Square in the rush hour. So maybe that should go on the list of possibilities.
But please don't spoil it by suggesting it would be even better if I cycled The Great Wall of China, or wherever, to raise money for kittens with sore paws, or some such good cause. That'll just make me cross. I get very fed-up with people who disguise self-indulgence under the cloak of doing good. Not that I'm against charity. That would be silly. But don't try and make out you're doing something altruistic by cycling the Nile, or trekking over the Savannah when you know damned well it's what you'd been dying to do in the first place. The rest of us call that 'taking a holiday.' If you want to benefit a charity then give them some money. Oh, and don't do charity runs in a stupid costume. That's just shouting, 'Look at me, aren't I a great?' and that's not the point. I know, I'm a dreadful old cynic. Rant over.
Or maybe I could re-train to do something useful. It would have to be something where there's a severe shortage at present or a woman of my years won't stand a chance. How about thatching? I'm given to believe there's a scarcity of people capable of performing this once commonplace trade, and it coincides with a re-invigorated interest in the country idyll. Poor Jacinta and Jolyon will be casting about to find an authentic old artisan to put an authentic old roof on the their charmingly quirky oast house, and find themselves on a list that'll have them waiting till the newly born Cosimo is at Eton. Panickykins! And this is where I'd come in. By training up the likes of me, still nippy and in need of additional income, the problem would be solved at a stroke (probably shouldn't mention strokes, could be tempting fate) and the the middle classes could breathe a sigh of relief, and sip their Chablis safe in the security of the roof over their air-filled heads. And I'd get to work alongside horny handed sons of toil, which might be fun.
A friend and I have an idea for a show we'd like to put on at the Edinburgh Fringe, but the cost of being part of the biggest arts festival in the world is phenomenal and we fear destitution would ensue. We've pretty much abandoned the idea, but there's still a part of me saying we should take the plunge and to hell with the consequences. And yes, we'd undoubtedly be performing to a lot of empty seats in a stupid timeslot at a tiny venue, and some bastard of a reviewer would write something on the lines of 'these women are misguided in believeing this show has any merit whatsoever. And one of them is very old.' And yes, the novelty of being part of the thrill of it all would probably wear off and I'd end up punching someone who refused my flyer. And yes, I expect we'd spend the last week on an inevitably rain-soaked Royal Mile trying to give away tickets because the echo of our own voices has started to make us cry. But we'd have done it!
Which brings me back to the start. Time's getting short. Indeed, it's getting shorter as I write this, and I'm no nearer to knowing what it is I really want to do to make these twilight years as sunny as possible. I only know that life is short so if I want to be the oldest ballet dancer in the world, or become a crofter in the Hebrides, I've got to get a move on. I know, I'll run a bath and pour a glass of Rioja. I always think better in the bath. I wonder how long it takes to learn to play the trombone, or....?
Thanks for reading my blog. If you enjoyed it please feel free to share. Thanks.
Heaven knows, I've given it a decent shot. The point is, have I tried hard enough? There must be lots of things I'd have enjoyed, if only I'd got round to them. On the other hand, there are those things that were just not for me, so I chose to pass them by. I've never tried swinging, for example. And I'm referring here to the habit of sexual experimention amongst bored suburbanites, not the gentle pastime of children. I've done that one and I liked it. But the thought of sitting in somebody's lounge, eating nibbles and making small talk about the bin collections until it's time to indulge in a little light S and M with the man from number thirtyfive holds no attraction. It strikes me as a situation ripe with pitfalls. How do you meet the eye of a chap you last saw in nothing but thigh length pvc boots if you bump into him in the butchers when you're buying a pound of sausages? Though I can see the attraction of all those opportunities to have a good look round other people's houses and judge their taste in headboards. But it's not enough.
There's a current fashion for making a 'Bucket List' of all the things you want to do before falling into the grave's welcoming embrace, but I've never been a list maker, preferring my life to have a more haphazard feel. Regimentation's not attractive to me. But maybe that's my problem and I haven't been organised enough, thus frittering away time when a tighter schedule would have allowed for fitting in more stuff. Then I might have learned to speak Japanese instead of wandering round town with a friend, trying on stupid hats to make each other laugh. Or I could have mastered the art of the souffle in the time I squandered lying in the bath with a fag and a glass of Rioja.
'Did these things make you feel happy and fulfilled?' I hear you ask, doubtfully.
'You bet they did,' I reply, enthusiastically.
But I can hardly trot them out as achievments when in company and other people are going on about how they climbed Kilimanjaro or set up an orphanage in Romania. You see? Not in the same league.
It must have been easier a few generations back when there wasn't so much on offer. When your only choice, as a woman, was obedient domestic drudgery or popping out to march about with placards, singing a catchy tune with all those lovely suffragettes, and hurling bricks through the windows of politicians I'd have gone for the hurling everytime, and now I'd be a sepia tinted legend to my great, great grandchildren. I did once stand outside Tesco's, in a sparse group turning blue with cold, protesting against excess packaging. That was few years back and I'd have to say, on current evidence, it was a futile cause. On the bright side, my then husband was outraged by my behaviour. So not all bad and well worth a mild dose of hypothermia. I just don't think it'll get me a mention in the annals of history.
But now there's so much on offer we're spoilt for choice. Which brings me back to wondering about the things I might like to do before the very last grain of my sands of time falls into the bottom bit of my hourglass of life, apart from boil an egg. I suppose I could go for an extension of the things that I can already do and enjoy. Such as riding my bike. Now don't go getting the idea that I tootle about on a sit-up-and-beg, with a whicker basket on the front, like a character out of a Miss Marple story. Oh no, no, no. I have a snazzy little racer and I take no prisoners. I've covered a fair bit of the British Isles on two wheels in my time, and pedalled in foreign parts, but nowhere that falls into the adventurous category... unless you count Trafalgar Square in the rush hour. So maybe that should go on the list of possibilities.
But please don't spoil it by suggesting it would be even better if I cycled The Great Wall of China, or wherever, to raise money for kittens with sore paws, or some such good cause. That'll just make me cross. I get very fed-up with people who disguise self-indulgence under the cloak of doing good. Not that I'm against charity. That would be silly. But don't try and make out you're doing something altruistic by cycling the Nile, or trekking over the Savannah when you know damned well it's what you'd been dying to do in the first place. The rest of us call that 'taking a holiday.' If you want to benefit a charity then give them some money. Oh, and don't do charity runs in a stupid costume. That's just shouting, 'Look at me, aren't I a great?' and that's not the point. I know, I'm a dreadful old cynic. Rant over.
Or maybe I could re-train to do something useful. It would have to be something where there's a severe shortage at present or a woman of my years won't stand a chance. How about thatching? I'm given to believe there's a scarcity of people capable of performing this once commonplace trade, and it coincides with a re-invigorated interest in the country idyll. Poor Jacinta and Jolyon will be casting about to find an authentic old artisan to put an authentic old roof on the their charmingly quirky oast house, and find themselves on a list that'll have them waiting till the newly born Cosimo is at Eton. Panickykins! And this is where I'd come in. By training up the likes of me, still nippy and in need of additional income, the problem would be solved at a stroke (probably shouldn't mention strokes, could be tempting fate) and the the middle classes could breathe a sigh of relief, and sip their Chablis safe in the security of the roof over their air-filled heads. And I'd get to work alongside horny handed sons of toil, which might be fun.
A friend and I have an idea for a show we'd like to put on at the Edinburgh Fringe, but the cost of being part of the biggest arts festival in the world is phenomenal and we fear destitution would ensue. We've pretty much abandoned the idea, but there's still a part of me saying we should take the plunge and to hell with the consequences. And yes, we'd undoubtedly be performing to a lot of empty seats in a stupid timeslot at a tiny venue, and some bastard of a reviewer would write something on the lines of 'these women are misguided in believeing this show has any merit whatsoever. And one of them is very old.' And yes, the novelty of being part of the thrill of it all would probably wear off and I'd end up punching someone who refused my flyer. And yes, I expect we'd spend the last week on an inevitably rain-soaked Royal Mile trying to give away tickets because the echo of our own voices has started to make us cry. But we'd have done it!
Which brings me back to the start. Time's getting short. Indeed, it's getting shorter as I write this, and I'm no nearer to knowing what it is I really want to do to make these twilight years as sunny as possible. I only know that life is short so if I want to be the oldest ballet dancer in the world, or become a crofter in the Hebrides, I've got to get a move on. I know, I'll run a bath and pour a glass of Rioja. I always think better in the bath. I wonder how long it takes to learn to play the trombone, or....?
Thanks for reading my blog. If you enjoyed it please feel free to share. Thanks.
Tuesday 8 May 2012
14. Past, Present and the Weirdo in the Wardrobe.
There seems to be a current obsession, amongst quite a lot of people I know, with tracking down the details of their family tree. Perhaps it's been triggered by those television programmes where we see the likes of Jeremy Paxman reduced to tears on learning the plight of his great, great, great granny who had twenty nine children with only three shoes between them and nothing but the fever of consumption to keep them warm.
But I suspect that most of those who are out there, scouring the parish records or glued to their computers in the dark watches of the night, searching websites in the hope of finding clues to their origins, are just hoping to prove one thing. They want to verify that their suspicions have been right all along, and that, despite appearances to the contrary, blue blood courses threw their veins. Now, as the lower orders have always outnumbered the toffs by a pretty huge proportion the odds are very much against this being the case, but they live in hope. And sadly, even if they do come up with an aristocratic connection, it's most likely to be via Sir. Dastardly-Bastard, up at the big 'ouse, who had his wicked way with poor Nelly, the housemaid, and then cast her from his door when the proof of her shame became visible beneath her tear stained pinny.
No, I think that, by and large, we're wiser to remain ignorant of our ancestors, and I'm sure that most of them would just be a dreadful disappointment in their tedius ordinariness anyway. And if you do happen to unearth anything remarkable about them you could end up like an unfortunate friend of mine who now knows that, back down the line, she had a distant cousin, lots of times removed, who was eventually banged up for drowning every alternative child, born to him and his hapless wife, in the nearby brook and then burying them in his kitchen garden. As a method of birth control it's pretty extreme, even if he did have the best rhubarb in the village. It's not recorded if it was the poor little odds or evens that got dunked but my friend now frets that the homicidal gene still lurks within, just lying dormant. These days she's even reluctant to swat flies in case it triggers a killing spree. Best not to know that stuff in the first place is my advice.
I'm sure that every time I pass my wardrobe there's the sound of a few skeletons rattling away in there, just waiting to be dusted off and dragged into the light of day, but I'm leaving them where they are. I already know a bit about my origins, thanks to a relative who has taken it upon himself to do a spot of delving and, by and large, I'm happy with his findings. Donegal boot makers and a Lancashire mill girl feature in the mix and that suits me nicely. I've always been proud of my working-class roots and feel that, generally speaking, that ilk has behaved rather better than the aristocracy, though it might just be that everyone was too exhausted from working down t'pit, or exercising their whippet to get up to no good on a major scale. Inevitably, there'll be a few bad eggs lurking around, but I'm still content to be a pleb.
Even in the highly unlikely event that you did trace a direct line to royalty it's not going to make a blind bit of difference to your situation now. Don't go imagining that ER is going to welcome you through the palace gates with open arms just because a dodgy website says that in the seventeeth century some frisky female ancestor underwent a secret marriage with the heir apparent and bore him many fine offspring. It's probably not true and it's definitely not going to get you an invite to walk the corgis with Liz, so what's the use?
It would be nice, however, if a few harmless eccentrics showed up, dangling cheerily from the branches of the family tree. I'd be delighted to be told that one of my forbears cycled round his village with a rooster called Cuthbert perched on the handlebars, whilst singing selections from Gilbert and Sullivan. Or that I was descended from a much revered postmistress who offered sexual services behind the counter on half-closing day, drawing an even bigger queue than for pensions. I'd love to uncover something of that sort. And it would be especially nice to find someone who had subverted the usual model and was a high ranking member of the aristocracy who had fallen madly in love with some distant aunt of mine and abandoned wealth for passion, willingly taking on a coal delivery round in Burnley to support them in their back-to-back lovenest. That'd be nice, and might explain my innate love of an open fire.
But this is all idle conjecture as I have no plans to waste my time in pursuit of the past. The present is quite fascinating enough. So I shall ignore those skeletons. They can rattle all they like. I shall concentrate on the living. But I'll admit to a hatching a plan to do something really outrageous before I pop my size three and half clogs so that if, a couple of centuries from now, one of my descendants decides to do a spot of digging, I'll be unearthed as one of the more interesting specimens. Now, what should it be....?
Thank you for reading my blog. If you enjoyed it please feel free to share. Many thanks.
Or follow me on Twitter @wharfwench
But I suspect that most of those who are out there, scouring the parish records or glued to their computers in the dark watches of the night, searching websites in the hope of finding clues to their origins, are just hoping to prove one thing. They want to verify that their suspicions have been right all along, and that, despite appearances to the contrary, blue blood courses threw their veins. Now, as the lower orders have always outnumbered the toffs by a pretty huge proportion the odds are very much against this being the case, but they live in hope. And sadly, even if they do come up with an aristocratic connection, it's most likely to be via Sir. Dastardly-Bastard, up at the big 'ouse, who had his wicked way with poor Nelly, the housemaid, and then cast her from his door when the proof of her shame became visible beneath her tear stained pinny.
No, I think that, by and large, we're wiser to remain ignorant of our ancestors, and I'm sure that most of them would just be a dreadful disappointment in their tedius ordinariness anyway. And if you do happen to unearth anything remarkable about them you could end up like an unfortunate friend of mine who now knows that, back down the line, she had a distant cousin, lots of times removed, who was eventually banged up for drowning every alternative child, born to him and his hapless wife, in the nearby brook and then burying them in his kitchen garden. As a method of birth control it's pretty extreme, even if he did have the best rhubarb in the village. It's not recorded if it was the poor little odds or evens that got dunked but my friend now frets that the homicidal gene still lurks within, just lying dormant. These days she's even reluctant to swat flies in case it triggers a killing spree. Best not to know that stuff in the first place is my advice.
I'm sure that every time I pass my wardrobe there's the sound of a few skeletons rattling away in there, just waiting to be dusted off and dragged into the light of day, but I'm leaving them where they are. I already know a bit about my origins, thanks to a relative who has taken it upon himself to do a spot of delving and, by and large, I'm happy with his findings. Donegal boot makers and a Lancashire mill girl feature in the mix and that suits me nicely. I've always been proud of my working-class roots and feel that, generally speaking, that ilk has behaved rather better than the aristocracy, though it might just be that everyone was too exhausted from working down t'pit, or exercising their whippet to get up to no good on a major scale. Inevitably, there'll be a few bad eggs lurking around, but I'm still content to be a pleb.
Even in the highly unlikely event that you did trace a direct line to royalty it's not going to make a blind bit of difference to your situation now. Don't go imagining that ER is going to welcome you through the palace gates with open arms just because a dodgy website says that in the seventeeth century some frisky female ancestor underwent a secret marriage with the heir apparent and bore him many fine offspring. It's probably not true and it's definitely not going to get you an invite to walk the corgis with Liz, so what's the use?
It would be nice, however, if a few harmless eccentrics showed up, dangling cheerily from the branches of the family tree. I'd be delighted to be told that one of my forbears cycled round his village with a rooster called Cuthbert perched on the handlebars, whilst singing selections from Gilbert and Sullivan. Or that I was descended from a much revered postmistress who offered sexual services behind the counter on half-closing day, drawing an even bigger queue than for pensions. I'd love to uncover something of that sort. And it would be especially nice to find someone who had subverted the usual model and was a high ranking member of the aristocracy who had fallen madly in love with some distant aunt of mine and abandoned wealth for passion, willingly taking on a coal delivery round in Burnley to support them in their back-to-back lovenest. That'd be nice, and might explain my innate love of an open fire.
But this is all idle conjecture as I have no plans to waste my time in pursuit of the past. The present is quite fascinating enough. So I shall ignore those skeletons. They can rattle all they like. I shall concentrate on the living. But I'll admit to a hatching a plan to do something really outrageous before I pop my size three and half clogs so that if, a couple of centuries from now, one of my descendants decides to do a spot of digging, I'll be unearthed as one of the more interesting specimens. Now, what should it be....?
Thank you for reading my blog. If you enjoyed it please feel free to share. Many thanks.
Or follow me on Twitter @wharfwench
Monday 16 April 2012
13. Chariots of Tartan and the Hundred Years Problem
I'm going to tell you something a tiny bit shameful. I've got myself a shopping trolley. I know! You think they're awful don't you? They smack of little old ladies, and they're usually tartan...the trolleys, not the ladies, they're often beige. I bet it's not a look you'd want to aim for. But bear with me, my reasoning's sound.
I live only a short walk from the nearest supermarket. Driving there just seems wrong, on so many levels. It's bad for the environment for one thing and it seems lazy to take the car for such a short distance. Plus it makes the already expensive business of shopping that bit more so. Hence, the despised trolley. Of course, it's fine to trot round there with my re-cycled shopping bags when all I want is a loaf, a bunch of radishes and a packet of lentils...which makes my culinary habits sound a lot more radical than they really are...but it's no good when you need heavy stuff.
For example, I like wine. Quite a lot of wine, actually. And wine is heavy. Especially if you buy it in bulk. Which I do. Tottering home under the weight of a few bottles of a decent Merlot, with maybe a Malbec or Rioja thrown in for good measure, is a beastly business if your fingers are losing all feeling under the over-stretched handles of your bags. Not to mention the humiliation of having to stop and lean against somebody's gatepost whilst you get your second wind. I never actually resorted to swigging out of one of the bottles to lighten the load, but it's a thought.
Roll out the shopping trolley and all is well! You can load up with bottles to your hearts content and then glide serenely home, unfettered by the excessive weight of your stash as it trundles happily behind you. You might rattle a bit along the way, but as far as passers-by are concerned you might just be stocking up on Evian water, or pickled onions. There need be no shame in it. And, of course, it's ideal for all heavy items, not just alcohol. But, if you knew me, you'd be unsurprised that that's what I've focused on here. Thus, what seemed like a reluctant nod in the direction of advancing years has actually turned out to be an enormous boon.
I have eschewed the much mocked, boxy tartan type model and gone for a stylish little number with a rather tasteful, contemporary leaf pattern. I am deeply fond of it. I don't know why everybody doesn't have one, regardless of age or gender. They make perfect sense. In fact, I suspect the environmentalists should latch on to it. Surely, if we all had them and they were widely used, thus losing their image as the being the preserve of us wrinkly old folk, then we might well save the planet. Think of all those emissions we'd avoid (why do 'emissions' always sound rude?) as we stroll to the supermarket, avoiding all that stressful road-rage whilst, at the same time, getting some much needed fresh air and exercise. What's not to love? And, of course, if they were to be embraced by the young fashionistas of the day then I would be hailed as a trend setter and the trolley would lose it's stigma, for stigma there most certainly is.
But why? Pretty much everybody uses a suitcase on wheels, so what's the big difference? We all see the sense of not heaving a great, heavy coffin of a thing around by a handle, so why not do the sensible thing with our shopping? I'll tell you why. Because we connect the shopping trolley with aged females, that's why. And who wants to be associated with them? Nobody, apparently. Hence my innate sense of having somehow given in. And I don't want to feel like that. I shouldn't feel like that.
I think it's all down to pigeon-holing, that current obsession of the government, the media, social services, the NHS and...well...pretty much everybody, it seems to me. Apparently, I am part of an 'ageing population' and we're a damned nuisance. And now, just to make matters worse, more and more of us are going to survive to that once rarely attainable centenary, and nobody's pleased about it. Words such as 'burden' and 'drain on resources' are amongst many such bandied about by the aforementioned groups. Which leaves us with a grim image of a shuffling grey mass, just getting in the way of the thrusting young folk and using up space that they could put to better use.
Well FUCK that! I'm not part of an 'ageing population', I'm part of THE population which, last time I looked, was still made up of a fair old mix of ages and abilities, the good and the bad, some saving, some squandering, some being a nuisance and some been a tremendous boon to the lives of all and sundry, regardless of age. And I'm in there somewhere. Neither burdening nor draining, just getting on with stuff and hoping to do so for a while yet.
However, should I need a bit of health care, or whatever, I don't think I'm any less entitled than somebody a few years younger. And to be frank with you, I don't particularly want to make it to a hundred anyway, not unless I'm still remarkably healthy, have my own teeth, can still ride my bike and am still having a hell of a good time, otherwise I'd really prefer to pop off a bit sooner or I'll just get bored. So you needn't fret that I'll be flopping about, having to be fed gruel and generally using up all those precious resources that, apparently, others deserve more than I do. I'll have made sure I got out before the going was less than fun. Not sure how, but it'd probably involve drugs and plenty of the aforementioned alcohol. Best to go out smiling, I think. Naturally, I'd prefer to just drift off via natural causes, preferably as a result of laughing too hard. We'll see.
In the meantime, help the cause by getting yourself a nifty little shopping trolley and tow it with pride. Little by little they'll be accepted by the population at large and nobody will point and snigger any more. Then we can move on to other things , like persuading people not to treat anybody with a few wrinkles and greying hair as is if they're stupid/ugly/invisible/a waste of space. Then when everybody just views us as the individual human beings that we are we can move on to world peace and the elimination of poverty, but best to start small I think.
To be going on with, I'll be flaunting my beautiful shopping aid in such a way that you'll all think yourselves foolish for not having one. So go get your own, bitches. This baby's mine.
Thank you for reading my blog. I hope you enjoyed it. If you did then please feel free to share.
Many thanks.
I live only a short walk from the nearest supermarket. Driving there just seems wrong, on so many levels. It's bad for the environment for one thing and it seems lazy to take the car for such a short distance. Plus it makes the already expensive business of shopping that bit more so. Hence, the despised trolley. Of course, it's fine to trot round there with my re-cycled shopping bags when all I want is a loaf, a bunch of radishes and a packet of lentils...which makes my culinary habits sound a lot more radical than they really are...but it's no good when you need heavy stuff.
For example, I like wine. Quite a lot of wine, actually. And wine is heavy. Especially if you buy it in bulk. Which I do. Tottering home under the weight of a few bottles of a decent Merlot, with maybe a Malbec or Rioja thrown in for good measure, is a beastly business if your fingers are losing all feeling under the over-stretched handles of your bags. Not to mention the humiliation of having to stop and lean against somebody's gatepost whilst you get your second wind. I never actually resorted to swigging out of one of the bottles to lighten the load, but it's a thought.
Roll out the shopping trolley and all is well! You can load up with bottles to your hearts content and then glide serenely home, unfettered by the excessive weight of your stash as it trundles happily behind you. You might rattle a bit along the way, but as far as passers-by are concerned you might just be stocking up on Evian water, or pickled onions. There need be no shame in it. And, of course, it's ideal for all heavy items, not just alcohol. But, if you knew me, you'd be unsurprised that that's what I've focused on here. Thus, what seemed like a reluctant nod in the direction of advancing years has actually turned out to be an enormous boon.
I have eschewed the much mocked, boxy tartan type model and gone for a stylish little number with a rather tasteful, contemporary leaf pattern. I am deeply fond of it. I don't know why everybody doesn't have one, regardless of age or gender. They make perfect sense. In fact, I suspect the environmentalists should latch on to it. Surely, if we all had them and they were widely used, thus losing their image as the being the preserve of us wrinkly old folk, then we might well save the planet. Think of all those emissions we'd avoid (why do 'emissions' always sound rude?) as we stroll to the supermarket, avoiding all that stressful road-rage whilst, at the same time, getting some much needed fresh air and exercise. What's not to love? And, of course, if they were to be embraced by the young fashionistas of the day then I would be hailed as a trend setter and the trolley would lose it's stigma, for stigma there most certainly is.
But why? Pretty much everybody uses a suitcase on wheels, so what's the big difference? We all see the sense of not heaving a great, heavy coffin of a thing around by a handle, so why not do the sensible thing with our shopping? I'll tell you why. Because we connect the shopping trolley with aged females, that's why. And who wants to be associated with them? Nobody, apparently. Hence my innate sense of having somehow given in. And I don't want to feel like that. I shouldn't feel like that.
I think it's all down to pigeon-holing, that current obsession of the government, the media, social services, the NHS and...well...pretty much everybody, it seems to me. Apparently, I am part of an 'ageing population' and we're a damned nuisance. And now, just to make matters worse, more and more of us are going to survive to that once rarely attainable centenary, and nobody's pleased about it. Words such as 'burden' and 'drain on resources' are amongst many such bandied about by the aforementioned groups. Which leaves us with a grim image of a shuffling grey mass, just getting in the way of the thrusting young folk and using up space that they could put to better use.
Well FUCK that! I'm not part of an 'ageing population', I'm part of THE population which, last time I looked, was still made up of a fair old mix of ages and abilities, the good and the bad, some saving, some squandering, some being a nuisance and some been a tremendous boon to the lives of all and sundry, regardless of age. And I'm in there somewhere. Neither burdening nor draining, just getting on with stuff and hoping to do so for a while yet.
However, should I need a bit of health care, or whatever, I don't think I'm any less entitled than somebody a few years younger. And to be frank with you, I don't particularly want to make it to a hundred anyway, not unless I'm still remarkably healthy, have my own teeth, can still ride my bike and am still having a hell of a good time, otherwise I'd really prefer to pop off a bit sooner or I'll just get bored. So you needn't fret that I'll be flopping about, having to be fed gruel and generally using up all those precious resources that, apparently, others deserve more than I do. I'll have made sure I got out before the going was less than fun. Not sure how, but it'd probably involve drugs and plenty of the aforementioned alcohol. Best to go out smiling, I think. Naturally, I'd prefer to just drift off via natural causes, preferably as a result of laughing too hard. We'll see.
In the meantime, help the cause by getting yourself a nifty little shopping trolley and tow it with pride. Little by little they'll be accepted by the population at large and nobody will point and snigger any more. Then we can move on to other things , like persuading people not to treat anybody with a few wrinkles and greying hair as is if they're stupid/ugly/invisible/a waste of space. Then when everybody just views us as the individual human beings that we are we can move on to world peace and the elimination of poverty, but best to start small I think.
To be going on with, I'll be flaunting my beautiful shopping aid in such a way that you'll all think yourselves foolish for not having one. So go get your own, bitches. This baby's mine.
Thank you for reading my blog. I hope you enjoyed it. If you did then please feel free to share.
Many thanks.
Sunday 18 March 2012
12. Mothers, Marketing and Making a Stand
Happy Mother's Day!! Happy day, or happy mothers? Which does it mean? Anybody know? Whatever it is, I'm not a great fan, despite the fact that I am both a mother and very happy about it. But let's be honest, the whole concept is just a cynical marketing strategy, designed to part one section of society from it's money by persuading it that it's honour bound to spend it on stuff for another section, and I don't hold with it.
That's not to say I'm a total Grinch about it. I still have a box containing the handmade cards and gifts that my daughters produced for me when they were little, and I love them, but they didn't cost anything, and they were urged to produce them by well-meaning playgroup leaders and teachers, which was fine. But being prompted by florists, chocolate manufacturers, card makers and all the rest to buy things for the woman who selfishly chose to have you in the first place strikes me as a rather odd idea. Having a child is surely the most self-indulgent act of them all and I, for one, don't expect to be thanked for it. I'm a lucky woman and my children have all turned out to be thoroughly nice human beings, whose company I enjoy and who all offer me affection, friendship and generosity all year round. What more could I hope for? Well, apparently, a special day when I must be rewarded for doing those things that I willingly, and knowingly, signed up for in the first place. No. I don't need it. Indeed, I sometimes think I should be rewarding them for tolerating my efforts as a mother, because I'm damned sure I often fell short! I was useless at board games, and that's just for starters.
And now I'm going to tell you a secret. I didn't like my mother. There were moments when I hated her. Is that a sharp, collective intake of breath that I hear? Well sorry, I can't change the truth. But it wasn't always so. As a child I adored her. In my teens her flaws began to dawn on me and by adulthood it had become very, very complex. We were two grown up people, with absolutely no values in common and opposing views of the world in general. Now, normally when that sort of situation arises the two adults concerned can simply agree to differ, go their separate ways and never look back. But we were stuck with the ties that bind, or rather I was. Many people, who knew us both well, urged me to save myself the anguish and simply break all contact with her, but it wasn't that simple. Of course it wasn't. For one thing, not seeing her would have made it difficult for me to have contact with others whom I loved deeply, and I couldn't risk that. And my mother, for her part, simply could not, or would not, understand why her words and actions caused me so much grief and expected, nay demanded, that I was the dutiful daughter she expected me to be, regardless of how she chose to treat me. Sadly, she failed to grasp that dutiful does not equate with loving. They are two very different things.
Ok, that's the serious bit dealt with. I could produce a few thousand words, trying to fathom what turned a seemingly reasonable human being into an embittered, racist, homophobic, fascist snob, intent on alienating just about everybody who might had any affection for her, but whilst it might be therapy for me it'd be bloody boring for you, so I wont. It wasn't all her own fault, of course. It's never that simple and our life experiences can bend us out of shape, but that doesn't excuse everything. Anyway, I promised not to bang on about it, didn't I, so this is me stopping and getting back to my main theme of the Mother's Day phenomena.
I'm sure I'm not alone in regarding it all as a bit dubious, and I'm equally sure that there will be plenty more people like me who actually weren't very keen on their mothers, whether they admit to it or not. But people like us aren't catered for. I've spent ages trying to select the card that I was expected to come up with whilst, at the same time, trying not to be a total hypocrite. So many of those over-priced bits of paper bore mawkishly sweet messages of uncritical adoration and expressed emotions that I simply didn't feel and definitely didn't want to be railroaded into professing. I could find nothing with a tasteful picture on the front and something on the lines of, 'Mum, I hope you have a nice day,' inside. That would have covered it. I certainly didn't want to wish a nasty day on her, I'm not that vindictive, but I just couldn't bring myself to give her the usual, 'God made angels and then sent them down to earth to be mothers,' style of crap. I ploughed through so much turgid verse and over-blown prose that I'd leave the shop feeling quite sickly. I reckon somebody's missing a trick. I bet there's a market out there for the non-commital Mother's Day card. They could go under the heading 'Alternative Mother's Day Cards, for the kid with a grudge.' I bet they'd fly off the shelves.
And then there's the flowers. The traditional Mother's Day gift of choice. All those dear little children, handing over their pocket money for a bunch of wilting daffodils, that would have cost half the price the week before, and that'll be dead in a day or two. It makes me cross because it's mean and grasping and exploitative, and terribly disappointing for all concerned...oh, except the flower seller. I'd like to think they sleep ill at nights, but I doubt it. And it's no better when you get older and can afford to go a bit more up-market. The prices still mysteriously rocket during this particular weekend, and the results are definitely not worth it. In fact it seems the less you get the more it costs. You can pay an arm and a leg for a couple of flowers and an aesthetically pleasing twig, held together with a bit of string. They'll tell you it's 'minimalist chic'. It isn't. It's a load of old wank and the florist is laughing all the way to the bank. Don't be fooled. The standard bunch of garage forecourt blooms, in their bit of cellophane, might be much maligned but at least it's honest.
The Mother's Day lunch is the next tradition to rouse my ire. If your children disappear into the kitchen and come back with a slice of lukewarm toast and a cup of greyish tea on a tray adorned with a couple of dandelions from the back garden then all well and good. I have revelled in many such feasts myself, and loved the labour that went into them. But lunchtime, on Mothering Sunday, in the average eating hole is hell. Of course it's nice to have a break from the kitchen, but not at the same time as the rest of seething humanity. Overcrowded restaurants, with over-worked staff, don't make for relaxing eating. And one glance at the faces of the other diners is enough to convince that not many of them think it's a great idea either. Eating is a pleasure. Eating with people you love, in relaxed and harmonious surroundings, is a joy. Why do it any other way? Why do it when it's least likely to be fun? And this is what I keep coming back to. If you love people you'll do nice things with them at times that happen to be mutually agreeable, without being told that you should.
Being a mother is a privilege. So is being loved. It's not a right, it has to be earned, like respect, and I think most people probably know and appreciate that. I'm no paragon of a mother. I'm a very, very long way from it. In fact, if I was granted a super power I'd choose time travel just so I could go back and try to right the wrongs I've committed in my inept mothering. My only saving grace is that, unlike my own mother, I can see and own up to my failings, and apologise for them. And I suppose, oddly enough, that's actually the gift my mum gave to me, and it's a very valuable one. In my attempts not to be like her I might, just might, have avoided at least some of her mistakes...though I've undoubtedly made a few of my own. In the words of the late, great Philip Larkin:
They fuck you up, your mum and dad.
They may not mean to, but they do.
They fill you with the faults they had
And add some extra, just for you.
Which is an awfully gloomy view. But Larkin wasn't a parent himself. If he had been then maybe he'd have lightened up and discovered that it needn't be all bad. Far from it. Like I said at the start, I'm a very happy mother and my children are an endless source of pleasure, pride and so many other good things I can't possibly list them all here. But Mother's Day isn't about the children, it's about the mothers, and how they measure up. In which case, every day is mother's day so what's the fuss about? I don't always see my children on Mother's Day and I don't automatically expect to, not the way my mother did. But when they do come I know it's because they've chosen to, they're here from choice, free will and, hopefully, love. Certainly not duty. It makes the time we spend together a lot more meaningful.
So, mothers of the world unite. Let's stick up a finger at commercialism, and tell them to stuff Mother's Day. We don't need the crappy cards and drooping flowers. It's not necessary to spend money to show love and affection. Words work better, and they come free. So, let's replace it with Children's Day, which wont cost anybody anything, when we'll just ask them to forgive us our shortcomings and then all go down the pub together. You coming?
Please feel free to share or follow me at wharfwench@twitter
That's not to say I'm a total Grinch about it. I still have a box containing the handmade cards and gifts that my daughters produced for me when they were little, and I love them, but they didn't cost anything, and they were urged to produce them by well-meaning playgroup leaders and teachers, which was fine. But being prompted by florists, chocolate manufacturers, card makers and all the rest to buy things for the woman who selfishly chose to have you in the first place strikes me as a rather odd idea. Having a child is surely the most self-indulgent act of them all and I, for one, don't expect to be thanked for it. I'm a lucky woman and my children have all turned out to be thoroughly nice human beings, whose company I enjoy and who all offer me affection, friendship and generosity all year round. What more could I hope for? Well, apparently, a special day when I must be rewarded for doing those things that I willingly, and knowingly, signed up for in the first place. No. I don't need it. Indeed, I sometimes think I should be rewarding them for tolerating my efforts as a mother, because I'm damned sure I often fell short! I was useless at board games, and that's just for starters.
And now I'm going to tell you a secret. I didn't like my mother. There were moments when I hated her. Is that a sharp, collective intake of breath that I hear? Well sorry, I can't change the truth. But it wasn't always so. As a child I adored her. In my teens her flaws began to dawn on me and by adulthood it had become very, very complex. We were two grown up people, with absolutely no values in common and opposing views of the world in general. Now, normally when that sort of situation arises the two adults concerned can simply agree to differ, go their separate ways and never look back. But we were stuck with the ties that bind, or rather I was. Many people, who knew us both well, urged me to save myself the anguish and simply break all contact with her, but it wasn't that simple. Of course it wasn't. For one thing, not seeing her would have made it difficult for me to have contact with others whom I loved deeply, and I couldn't risk that. And my mother, for her part, simply could not, or would not, understand why her words and actions caused me so much grief and expected, nay demanded, that I was the dutiful daughter she expected me to be, regardless of how she chose to treat me. Sadly, she failed to grasp that dutiful does not equate with loving. They are two very different things.
Ok, that's the serious bit dealt with. I could produce a few thousand words, trying to fathom what turned a seemingly reasonable human being into an embittered, racist, homophobic, fascist snob, intent on alienating just about everybody who might had any affection for her, but whilst it might be therapy for me it'd be bloody boring for you, so I wont. It wasn't all her own fault, of course. It's never that simple and our life experiences can bend us out of shape, but that doesn't excuse everything. Anyway, I promised not to bang on about it, didn't I, so this is me stopping and getting back to my main theme of the Mother's Day phenomena.
I'm sure I'm not alone in regarding it all as a bit dubious, and I'm equally sure that there will be plenty more people like me who actually weren't very keen on their mothers, whether they admit to it or not. But people like us aren't catered for. I've spent ages trying to select the card that I was expected to come up with whilst, at the same time, trying not to be a total hypocrite. So many of those over-priced bits of paper bore mawkishly sweet messages of uncritical adoration and expressed emotions that I simply didn't feel and definitely didn't want to be railroaded into professing. I could find nothing with a tasteful picture on the front and something on the lines of, 'Mum, I hope you have a nice day,' inside. That would have covered it. I certainly didn't want to wish a nasty day on her, I'm not that vindictive, but I just couldn't bring myself to give her the usual, 'God made angels and then sent them down to earth to be mothers,' style of crap. I ploughed through so much turgid verse and over-blown prose that I'd leave the shop feeling quite sickly. I reckon somebody's missing a trick. I bet there's a market out there for the non-commital Mother's Day card. They could go under the heading 'Alternative Mother's Day Cards, for the kid with a grudge.' I bet they'd fly off the shelves.
And then there's the flowers. The traditional Mother's Day gift of choice. All those dear little children, handing over their pocket money for a bunch of wilting daffodils, that would have cost half the price the week before, and that'll be dead in a day or two. It makes me cross because it's mean and grasping and exploitative, and terribly disappointing for all concerned...oh, except the flower seller. I'd like to think they sleep ill at nights, but I doubt it. And it's no better when you get older and can afford to go a bit more up-market. The prices still mysteriously rocket during this particular weekend, and the results are definitely not worth it. In fact it seems the less you get the more it costs. You can pay an arm and a leg for a couple of flowers and an aesthetically pleasing twig, held together with a bit of string. They'll tell you it's 'minimalist chic'. It isn't. It's a load of old wank and the florist is laughing all the way to the bank. Don't be fooled. The standard bunch of garage forecourt blooms, in their bit of cellophane, might be much maligned but at least it's honest.
The Mother's Day lunch is the next tradition to rouse my ire. If your children disappear into the kitchen and come back with a slice of lukewarm toast and a cup of greyish tea on a tray adorned with a couple of dandelions from the back garden then all well and good. I have revelled in many such feasts myself, and loved the labour that went into them. But lunchtime, on Mothering Sunday, in the average eating hole is hell. Of course it's nice to have a break from the kitchen, but not at the same time as the rest of seething humanity. Overcrowded restaurants, with over-worked staff, don't make for relaxing eating. And one glance at the faces of the other diners is enough to convince that not many of them think it's a great idea either. Eating is a pleasure. Eating with people you love, in relaxed and harmonious surroundings, is a joy. Why do it any other way? Why do it when it's least likely to be fun? And this is what I keep coming back to. If you love people you'll do nice things with them at times that happen to be mutually agreeable, without being told that you should.
Being a mother is a privilege. So is being loved. It's not a right, it has to be earned, like respect, and I think most people probably know and appreciate that. I'm no paragon of a mother. I'm a very, very long way from it. In fact, if I was granted a super power I'd choose time travel just so I could go back and try to right the wrongs I've committed in my inept mothering. My only saving grace is that, unlike my own mother, I can see and own up to my failings, and apologise for them. And I suppose, oddly enough, that's actually the gift my mum gave to me, and it's a very valuable one. In my attempts not to be like her I might, just might, have avoided at least some of her mistakes...though I've undoubtedly made a few of my own. In the words of the late, great Philip Larkin:
They fuck you up, your mum and dad.
They may not mean to, but they do.
They fill you with the faults they had
And add some extra, just for you.
Which is an awfully gloomy view. But Larkin wasn't a parent himself. If he had been then maybe he'd have lightened up and discovered that it needn't be all bad. Far from it. Like I said at the start, I'm a very happy mother and my children are an endless source of pleasure, pride and so many other good things I can't possibly list them all here. But Mother's Day isn't about the children, it's about the mothers, and how they measure up. In which case, every day is mother's day so what's the fuss about? I don't always see my children on Mother's Day and I don't automatically expect to, not the way my mother did. But when they do come I know it's because they've chosen to, they're here from choice, free will and, hopefully, love. Certainly not duty. It makes the time we spend together a lot more meaningful.
So, mothers of the world unite. Let's stick up a finger at commercialism, and tell them to stuff Mother's Day. We don't need the crappy cards and drooping flowers. It's not necessary to spend money to show love and affection. Words work better, and they come free. So, let's replace it with Children's Day, which wont cost anybody anything, when we'll just ask them to forgive us our shortcomings and then all go down the pub together. You coming?
Please feel free to share or follow me at wharfwench@twitter
Friday 2 March 2012
11. Bankers, Brothels and Fish Pie.
I read today that nearly three million people are currently unemployed, and these are the highest figures for sixteen years. There's a cheery start for you, eh? The problem is, I want a job. Just a little job, maybe two or three days a week. It's the vicious circle syndrome. Because of the recession lots of poor souls have lost their jobs and, because of the recession, I need one. Catch 22.
Along with many, many others, I'm a bit aggrieved by this situation. We're frugal people, hardworking people who saved whenever they could, which wasn't as often as we'd have liked, but we did our best and contributed to pensions that we hoped would at least remove the worry of how we were going to pay for the incontinence pads and packets of Werthers Originals in our declining years. In a nutshell, we did as were told. We were fools! We might just as well have squandered it all on beer and skittles and kicking our legs up for all the good it's done us. The pensions are now akin in value to a packet of Hobnobs (without chocolate) and as for the savings, well they should just about last us for the rest of our lives...as long as we die by next Tuesday.
So here I am, having retired in the happy knowledge that the future was taken care of only to find I've been taken for a ride. I now know, along with everyone else, that those who claimed to know best knew bugger all, and that they care even less, thus the future is the tiniest bit bleak for us poor sods who thought we were doing the right thing. Hence, it would ease the situation if I had an income and I'm more than happy to achieve it by the sweat of my brow, indeed, I find I quite like the idea of returning to a spot of honest labour, but I know full well that I'm not going to get it. Not just because there are a zillion people after every job, but because I have the added disadvantage of being an elderly-ish lady and, despite all those anti-ageist and equal opportunities laws, it's going to count against me. Fact. That's life.
Now of course there are hordes of people in more dire circumstances than mine, and I fully agree that they should get priority. The young folk with mortgages to pay, and children to feed should obviously be top of the list, and there many other categories who should be in there ahead of me, but surely there must be something that they don't want to do and I would. But there's a hitch there too, of course. I'm making it sound as I'd be happy to do any old thing but I know, in my heart of hearts, that I am not. I'm actually quite picky. I know, for example, that B & Q have an exemplary record in employing older people. Sadly, whenever I've been in there, the staff all seem so miserable I don't think it can be much fun. And anyway, I'm not well versed in rawl plugs and plumbing accessories, and I don't think I'd suit the overall, so that's out. I can feel myself losing your sympathy now. You're thinking, 'She says she'd be happy to do most things but she SO isn't.' And you'd be right. I struggle with that. I really want the workplace to be somewhere I'm happy to be. Is that too much to ask? Probably.
Over the course of my working life I've turned my hand to quite a variety of jobs, and acquired a couple of degrees along the way. I've also run a home, raised a family, have a clean driving licence and make a very decent fish pie. This makes me think I should be quite a good prospect as an employee. The downside is that none of the above actually qualifies me to do anything in particular. I can hardly sell myself as a mobile, child friendly fish pie maker. My degrees are in the Arts, therefore useless, and the jobs were so varied that I am left with a plethora of skills but none of which actually add up to a named form of labour.
So, you ask, what sort of job would I actually like to do? What would be my ideal? Now there's a question. I rather fancy the idea of being a Madam in a brothel. I know, as a feminist I shouldn't be furthering the exploitation of women, but I'd be the sort of Madam who'd make sure the exploitation was all one way, and nobody would do anything they didn't want to. I once worked with a team of highly intelligent, attractive young women and on many a dull afternoon, when things were a bit quiet, we would fantasise about giving up the day job and starting our own brothel. I bagged the job of Madam pretty damned smartish. I saw myself behind the desk, clad in decent black, hair in a prim bun, taking the money and muttering darkly about amputation of vital parts if there was any funny business. We thought we might run a teashop as a front for our enterprise, but decided the possibilities for confusion were too high. Some poor devil might pop by, genuinely in search of an Earl Grey and a French Fancy, and end up with more than he'd bargained for, so we abandoned the idea. Anyway, I don't think that's the sort of thing they advertise down the Job Centre.
I suppose there are quite a lot of jobs out there that aren't readily found in the public domain. For example, I recently heard that older women are employed in pole dancing clubs as House Mothers, to keep a maternal eye on the girls and provide them with a bit of wholesome care amidst the sleazy atmosphere of their place of employment. I'd be good at that. And yes, I know, it falls into the politically incorrect arena again, and I agree with you but I'm also assured that most of the girls are only doing it to pay their way through college, and I'd be on hand to keep them all on the straight and narrow, with homely advice and a pot of tea. Mind you, there are quite a few people, who know me well, who'd tell you I'm the last person to take advice from when it comes to lifestyle...or staying on the straight and narrow...but you must dismiss them. I think I'd be great. However, as always, there's a drawback. Apparently, the job involves rubbing through all those G strings, and I draw the line at that, even if they provide the rubber gloves.
Unfortunately, I seem to be tending towards a career in the sex trade, which even comes as a surprise to myself, I can tell you.
It's been suggested to me that I might try self-employment. But what as? A children's entertainer perhaps? I don't think I'm on any registers that would preclude me from the occupation and I like children, I wouldn't mind trying to keep them occupied whilst all the parents huddle in the kitchen, dulling the pain on pints of Chardonnay. Though I wouldn't be good with the balloon animals. I don't have the puff. Don't come to me if you're looking for a giraffe or a funny hat. Something resembling a limp phallus I can just about manage, but I doubt that's suitable for a kids party. You have to think of those registers. And I hate jelly so let's forget that one.
So back to the drawing board. I suppose what I'm in search of is a job in a vibrant, creative atmosphere that involves wandering about, having a nice chat and a laugh with all the other employees and going to the pub at the end of the day. Still not realistic? No, probably not. And you're going to get cross if I don't take this seriously. Well I do. I'd really like to work. But I'm a pragmatist at heart and know it's not going to be easy, and might prove impossible. In which case we'll be ok, which is a lot more than some can say, but I'd like to think there's someone out there just gagging to recruit a woman of mature years with top notch admin skills, who knows her way around a computer keyboard and could give their hair a thoroughly professional trim in the lunch hour whilst quoting speeches from Shakespeare. I could go on...so I will. I've taught adults to read and write, broken up fights between drug-addled psychotics, cared for babies until adoptive families were found for them, balanced profit and loss sheets, given perms, and done more peculiar things to keep professional musicians happy than you could possibly believe. I can cook, I can clean and my way with folding a fitted sheet is second to none. I make all my own curtains. I've stood behind a shop counter, can play the piano, very badly, and the guitar even worse. And there's more. You'd think that somewhere in there there'd be something that somebody wants, but I think it's unlikely. There are oodles of lovely young people who are experts in their field and exactly what an employer is looking for. I'm just saddened that age and experience seem to count for so little. And there's the advantage that I'm unlikely to want time off for maternity leave. But if, at the end of the day, I just have to bite the bullet and get on with washing those G strings then I'll insist on a regular supply of heavyduty Marigolds.
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Many, many thanks for reading it.
Along with many, many others, I'm a bit aggrieved by this situation. We're frugal people, hardworking people who saved whenever they could, which wasn't as often as we'd have liked, but we did our best and contributed to pensions that we hoped would at least remove the worry of how we were going to pay for the incontinence pads and packets of Werthers Originals in our declining years. In a nutshell, we did as were told. We were fools! We might just as well have squandered it all on beer and skittles and kicking our legs up for all the good it's done us. The pensions are now akin in value to a packet of Hobnobs (without chocolate) and as for the savings, well they should just about last us for the rest of our lives...as long as we die by next Tuesday.
So here I am, having retired in the happy knowledge that the future was taken care of only to find I've been taken for a ride. I now know, along with everyone else, that those who claimed to know best knew bugger all, and that they care even less, thus the future is the tiniest bit bleak for us poor sods who thought we were doing the right thing. Hence, it would ease the situation if I had an income and I'm more than happy to achieve it by the sweat of my brow, indeed, I find I quite like the idea of returning to a spot of honest labour, but I know full well that I'm not going to get it. Not just because there are a zillion people after every job, but because I have the added disadvantage of being an elderly-ish lady and, despite all those anti-ageist and equal opportunities laws, it's going to count against me. Fact. That's life.
Now of course there are hordes of people in more dire circumstances than mine, and I fully agree that they should get priority. The young folk with mortgages to pay, and children to feed should obviously be top of the list, and there many other categories who should be in there ahead of me, but surely there must be something that they don't want to do and I would. But there's a hitch there too, of course. I'm making it sound as I'd be happy to do any old thing but I know, in my heart of hearts, that I am not. I'm actually quite picky. I know, for example, that B & Q have an exemplary record in employing older people. Sadly, whenever I've been in there, the staff all seem so miserable I don't think it can be much fun. And anyway, I'm not well versed in rawl plugs and plumbing accessories, and I don't think I'd suit the overall, so that's out. I can feel myself losing your sympathy now. You're thinking, 'She says she'd be happy to do most things but she SO isn't.' And you'd be right. I struggle with that. I really want the workplace to be somewhere I'm happy to be. Is that too much to ask? Probably.
Over the course of my working life I've turned my hand to quite a variety of jobs, and acquired a couple of degrees along the way. I've also run a home, raised a family, have a clean driving licence and make a very decent fish pie. This makes me think I should be quite a good prospect as an employee. The downside is that none of the above actually qualifies me to do anything in particular. I can hardly sell myself as a mobile, child friendly fish pie maker. My degrees are in the Arts, therefore useless, and the jobs were so varied that I am left with a plethora of skills but none of which actually add up to a named form of labour.
So, you ask, what sort of job would I actually like to do? What would be my ideal? Now there's a question. I rather fancy the idea of being a Madam in a brothel. I know, as a feminist I shouldn't be furthering the exploitation of women, but I'd be the sort of Madam who'd make sure the exploitation was all one way, and nobody would do anything they didn't want to. I once worked with a team of highly intelligent, attractive young women and on many a dull afternoon, when things were a bit quiet, we would fantasise about giving up the day job and starting our own brothel. I bagged the job of Madam pretty damned smartish. I saw myself behind the desk, clad in decent black, hair in a prim bun, taking the money and muttering darkly about amputation of vital parts if there was any funny business. We thought we might run a teashop as a front for our enterprise, but decided the possibilities for confusion were too high. Some poor devil might pop by, genuinely in search of an Earl Grey and a French Fancy, and end up with more than he'd bargained for, so we abandoned the idea. Anyway, I don't think that's the sort of thing they advertise down the Job Centre.
I suppose there are quite a lot of jobs out there that aren't readily found in the public domain. For example, I recently heard that older women are employed in pole dancing clubs as House Mothers, to keep a maternal eye on the girls and provide them with a bit of wholesome care amidst the sleazy atmosphere of their place of employment. I'd be good at that. And yes, I know, it falls into the politically incorrect arena again, and I agree with you but I'm also assured that most of the girls are only doing it to pay their way through college, and I'd be on hand to keep them all on the straight and narrow, with homely advice and a pot of tea. Mind you, there are quite a few people, who know me well, who'd tell you I'm the last person to take advice from when it comes to lifestyle...or staying on the straight and narrow...but you must dismiss them. I think I'd be great. However, as always, there's a drawback. Apparently, the job involves rubbing through all those G strings, and I draw the line at that, even if they provide the rubber gloves.
Unfortunately, I seem to be tending towards a career in the sex trade, which even comes as a surprise to myself, I can tell you.
It's been suggested to me that I might try self-employment. But what as? A children's entertainer perhaps? I don't think I'm on any registers that would preclude me from the occupation and I like children, I wouldn't mind trying to keep them occupied whilst all the parents huddle in the kitchen, dulling the pain on pints of Chardonnay. Though I wouldn't be good with the balloon animals. I don't have the puff. Don't come to me if you're looking for a giraffe or a funny hat. Something resembling a limp phallus I can just about manage, but I doubt that's suitable for a kids party. You have to think of those registers. And I hate jelly so let's forget that one.
So back to the drawing board. I suppose what I'm in search of is a job in a vibrant, creative atmosphere that involves wandering about, having a nice chat and a laugh with all the other employees and going to the pub at the end of the day. Still not realistic? No, probably not. And you're going to get cross if I don't take this seriously. Well I do. I'd really like to work. But I'm a pragmatist at heart and know it's not going to be easy, and might prove impossible. In which case we'll be ok, which is a lot more than some can say, but I'd like to think there's someone out there just gagging to recruit a woman of mature years with top notch admin skills, who knows her way around a computer keyboard and could give their hair a thoroughly professional trim in the lunch hour whilst quoting speeches from Shakespeare. I could go on...so I will. I've taught adults to read and write, broken up fights between drug-addled psychotics, cared for babies until adoptive families were found for them, balanced profit and loss sheets, given perms, and done more peculiar things to keep professional musicians happy than you could possibly believe. I can cook, I can clean and my way with folding a fitted sheet is second to none. I make all my own curtains. I've stood behind a shop counter, can play the piano, very badly, and the guitar even worse. And there's more. You'd think that somewhere in there there'd be something that somebody wants, but I think it's unlikely. There are oodles of lovely young people who are experts in their field and exactly what an employer is looking for. I'm just saddened that age and experience seem to count for so little. And there's the advantage that I'm unlikely to want time off for maternity leave. But if, at the end of the day, I just have to bite the bullet and get on with washing those G strings then I'll insist on a regular supply of heavyduty Marigolds.
If you've enjoyed this, and think somebody else might like it too, please feel free to forward it, or press the Share button at the top of the page.
Many, many thanks for reading it.
Tuesday 24 January 2012
10.Choices, Cheeses and Just a Little Bit of Ewan McGregor.
Do you remember that film with Ewan McGregor where he played that adorable little heroin addict and delivered the speech that went on about choosing stuff? I can't remember it verbatim because it was lengthy but I know it ended up on a poster that adorned many a student's wall in the 90s. I do recall it included washing machines and jobs and life. Well that's what I've been thinking about lately. Not Ewan McGregor. Actually I have but that's not relevant here. No, I've been pondering on choice. There's an awful lot of it these days, isn't there? But can you have too much of it? That's the question.
It wasn't like this in my formative years. Oh no. Let's start with vegetables. It's as good a place as any. As a child I'd be sent to toddle off to the local shops, equipped with the special basket reserved for the job, to visit the greengrocer. This was a shop that sold nothing other than fruit and veg. Can you imagine that? Just vegetables and fruit. No, hang on a minute, that's a lie. I've just remembered, on odd occasions there'd be a couple of dead rabbits hung up outside for the discerning shoppers delectation. Mrs. Lacey, an obliging woman and not squeamish, would even skin them for you. Why these bunny corpses fetched up amongst the fruit and veg I have no clue, but back to my theme. Clutched in my hand I would have my mother's shopping list. It would be short. Why? Because there wasn't much in the shop, that's why. Mrs Lacey presided over wooden hoppers filled with potatoes (sometimes there was a dizzying choice of two types!) onions, carrots and turnips. There might also be a few cabbages and cauliflowers, or beans of some sort, but only in season, and sprouts round Christmas time.
The fruit choice was even narrower, confined to apples, nice curly bananas (before those bastards in the EU decided they had to be straight) some pears and maybe a few, small uninspiring oranges. Plums, strawberries and cherries would materialise for just a few thrilling days per year, driving us all into a frenzy of fruit based excitement.
Ah me, how innocent we were back then. We knew nothing of the kumquat and the starfruit. Okra and swiss chard were yet to render us breathless in wonder and if you'd shown my mother an aubergine she'd have screamed and thrown her pinny over her head.
So home I would go, with my basket weighed down not only with the food but the equal weight of soil that was still attached to everything. No pre-washed back then, let alone peeled, sliced and ready to cook. Such a concept would have been viewed as madness and, truth be told, I still rather despise it now. The first time I caught sight of a bag of pre-sliced carrots in my eldest daughter's fridge I died a little inside. Had I failed in my efforts to pass on the ethos of a little drudgery being good for the soul? I began to doubt my fitness to be a mother.
And salad was such a beautifully simple thing in those innocent times. Many people grew their own salad veg and, come Sunday teatime, we'd pop down the garden to pluck up a lettuce, a few radishes (brushing off the slugs with a casual hand) and maybe a spring onion or two, wearing a wide-brimmed straw hat and carrying a trug, fashioned by the calloused hands of a local artisan...no, sorry, got carried away there for a minute. Actually, no hat and a cracked bowl to put the stuff in.
Anyway, add a few tomatoes from the greenhouse and you were home and dry. We knew nought of rocket, lamb's tongue lettuce and avocados. The more sophisticated household might boast a bottle of Salad Cream on the table, but not us, my mother didn't hold with it. It smacked of ostentation and new fangled ways. Our salads went boldly undressed and proud of it.
A neighbour of ours did the unthinkable and ventured beyond our trustworthy British shores to visit a relative in Italy. She defied all my mother's predictions of doom and death and returned safe and well but managed to enforce mum's mistrust of the heathen foreigner with tales of people pouring oil onto their salad. A nation that put grease on an innocent lettuce was clearly not to be trusted. It's a good job nobody said 'radicchio' or she'd have swooned clean away.
And cooking methods were different back then. If it was a vegetable you boiled it. Just boiled it. For hours. And then some more hours. Then when it was rendered completely devoid of all colour, texture and taste it was fit to eat, and not before. Our kitchen had a constant Niagara of condensation pouring down it's windows. With tremendous daring my mother eventually branched out into the exotic world of broccoli. For years I thought this vegetable consisted of just pale, soggy, tasteless stems as the florets had always been cooked to the point of total disintegration.
Years later, at my own dining table, I put a plate of food in front of mother. It included broccoli, complete with little green heads, having been briefly steamed in an inch of water, and some nicely sauteed mushrooms, all firm and golden. It was all declared 'uncooked' and therefore 'indigestible'. In my childhood home indigestible food was ranked alongside an unaired vest as a life threatening risk. She not only refused to eat her own portion but urged my children to reject it as well, on the grounds that, 'you'll not get a wink of sleep tonight with that laying on your stomach.' To my delight they ignored her and scoffed the lot. It might have been then that she decided to cut us all out of her will, but I can't be sure.
I'm all for food that tastes as it should, whilst retaining some nourishment value to boot. But now we have endless celebrity chefs urging us to ever greater heights of cooking experimentation, making us feel inadequate if we don't have one of those little blow torches for browning things or haven't a clue how to make our own pasta. It's the choice thing again. There's too much of it. And I know it gives a lot of men pleasure to watch Nigella sucking her fingers and saying 'spatchcock', but it sometimes makes me hanker for those simpler days, when we wouldn't have known where to find a noodle steamer, let alone what to do with it. Ms Lawson's orgasmic response to squid salad with mint and mizuna...whatever the hell that is...just has me thinking, 'Fuck it, I'm having a cheese and pickle and sandwich.'
So, from the local village grocer, who had a bacon slicer and a marble slab with a wire attached where he'd cut a wedge of cheese to exactly the number of ounces (anyone remember ounces?) you'd asked for, and he knew how to fold the tops of bags so nothing came undone in your basket, and they'd give you a broken biscuit while you waited, to the bloody supermarket with it's miles of aisles stuffed to the rafters, and pre-packaging and everything so full of preservatives that you can keep it for years before it'll give you Salmonella.
And yes, we have choice. Loads and loads of choice. But do we really need it? A simple life can be a joyous thing, and a lot less stressed. I see them in Waitrose, all those lovely young men in their skinny jeans and Paul Smith jumpers, brows furrowed, mobile in hand as they deliver the devastating news, usually on the lines of, 'Jacinta, you're not going to believe this Babes, but they're completely out of the organic yak's milk, hand-turned, extra aged Camembert, moistened with orphan's tears that we wanted for dinner tonight. D'you think Nigel and Semolina will notice if we substitute Brie?'
In my day we had two sorts of cheese. Some that was white and some that was sort of orange. It was enough.
Of course, I've been sucked in, just like everybody else and find myself tutting with irritation when I can't find the exact make of Earl Grey Teabags that I favour. But at least I have the dignity to feel guilty as I recall that I was raised on loose leaf, from a pot, and it came out the colour of mahogany. The introduction of the teabag was greeted with horror and derision, in equal portions, in our house.
'It'll not catch on, you mark my words,' said my mother, defiantly.
'We fought off Hitler and we can deal with this. We just have to keep our nerve.'
But progress marches on and, in the fullness of time, the loathed bag appeared in her kitchen cupboard too. But she did wear mourning from that day forth.
And it isn't just food. It's everything. I grew up with a pair of shoes for 'everyday' wear, and one for 'best'. They were usually black or beige, so as to 'go with everything'. Now we all have serried ranks of the things, in all the colours of the rainbow as you can't possibly leave the house with a foot covering that might be in some way unsuited to your outfit. It's all wrong!
We really shouldn't care so much about these things. We should spend our money on nourishing our souls. Maybe we should go and see a good film. But, 'Ah', I hear you cry. 'Which one?' And you have a point. Long, long ago a film, a single film, would come to town, to the local cinema, which had one screen. It would be shown for a number of weeks, allowing all of us who were so inclined to go and see it. Then that film would go away and it would be replaced by another. I was bit girlie so, if it was a musical or a comedy or something romantic with a good looking bloke in it, then I'd probably go and see it. If it was something a tad more roughty-toughty then, like as not, I wouldn't bother. Unless I had a boyfriend who was keen to see it and then I'd pretend enthusiasm too, but let's not get into my shallow side here.
Now the multi-screen phenomena has arrived, with a dazzling array of films, of hugely varying quality, that are shown for a few, brief days before they disappear to be replaced by the next load of speedily churned out offerings starring pretty people with little discernible charm or talent. You'll notice I'm warming to my persona of embittered old hag here. Blink and you've missed the only film you were remotely interested in.
Going to the cinema used to be an event. It was exciting and the cinema was always packed. Indeed, so enthusiastic was the audience for our local flea-pit that we'd run out of seats and the lady that managed it would go and get her own dining chairs, from her house over the road, and line them up at the back. Now, more often than not, at least half the seats are empty. Why? Too much choice! It stands to reason.
And I could go on. It's everywhere. Absolutely bloody EVERYWHERE! In my day you got what you were given and were grateful. You didn't get a choice. Household interiors were painted in Magnolia. Now paint has names, really stupid names like 'Crushed Pigeon with a Smidgen of Mackerel' or 'Hippo's Breath with Ringworm'. The other day, looking at a colour card, I found 'Fawn's Intestine', it was definitely 'Magnolia'.
And men's haircuts. Once upon a time a man would pop along to the barber, and be given a short back and sides with a parting, because that's what the barber did. A quick smear of Brylcreem and the customer went home happy. Now men have as many cuts to choose from as women. The fact that most of these styles make them look like total wankers is, apparently, neither here nor there.
So don't give me any rubbish about choice being good for us. It patently isn't. It's confusing. It's hard work. It makes our brains hurt. A widely travelled friend once told me that, in her opinion, the people who were the happiest were those who had the least, and I think I probably subscribe to this view. By and large. You'll maybe have noticed the get-out clause in that last sentence. Hmmm?
OK, so I like being able to choose to drink a decent red wine, rather than a bottle of Concorde purchased with the loose change we scavenged from down the sides of cushions and the linings of jackets, back when we were penniless young parents. I quite like those aforementioned teabags. And, given the choice (yes, that word again) I probably prefer my life now to how it was, back then. But that wont stop me wanting me slap Jacinta's irritating, metrosexual other half in Waitrose. And yes I KNOW! I know I could choose to save money in ASDA. Don't judge me. Alright?
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It wasn't like this in my formative years. Oh no. Let's start with vegetables. It's as good a place as any. As a child I'd be sent to toddle off to the local shops, equipped with the special basket reserved for the job, to visit the greengrocer. This was a shop that sold nothing other than fruit and veg. Can you imagine that? Just vegetables and fruit. No, hang on a minute, that's a lie. I've just remembered, on odd occasions there'd be a couple of dead rabbits hung up outside for the discerning shoppers delectation. Mrs. Lacey, an obliging woman and not squeamish, would even skin them for you. Why these bunny corpses fetched up amongst the fruit and veg I have no clue, but back to my theme. Clutched in my hand I would have my mother's shopping list. It would be short. Why? Because there wasn't much in the shop, that's why. Mrs Lacey presided over wooden hoppers filled with potatoes (sometimes there was a dizzying choice of two types!) onions, carrots and turnips. There might also be a few cabbages and cauliflowers, or beans of some sort, but only in season, and sprouts round Christmas time.
The fruit choice was even narrower, confined to apples, nice curly bananas (before those bastards in the EU decided they had to be straight) some pears and maybe a few, small uninspiring oranges. Plums, strawberries and cherries would materialise for just a few thrilling days per year, driving us all into a frenzy of fruit based excitement.
Ah me, how innocent we were back then. We knew nothing of the kumquat and the starfruit. Okra and swiss chard were yet to render us breathless in wonder and if you'd shown my mother an aubergine she'd have screamed and thrown her pinny over her head.
So home I would go, with my basket weighed down not only with the food but the equal weight of soil that was still attached to everything. No pre-washed back then, let alone peeled, sliced and ready to cook. Such a concept would have been viewed as madness and, truth be told, I still rather despise it now. The first time I caught sight of a bag of pre-sliced carrots in my eldest daughter's fridge I died a little inside. Had I failed in my efforts to pass on the ethos of a little drudgery being good for the soul? I began to doubt my fitness to be a mother.
And salad was such a beautifully simple thing in those innocent times. Many people grew their own salad veg and, come Sunday teatime, we'd pop down the garden to pluck up a lettuce, a few radishes (brushing off the slugs with a casual hand) and maybe a spring onion or two, wearing a wide-brimmed straw hat and carrying a trug, fashioned by the calloused hands of a local artisan...no, sorry, got carried away there for a minute. Actually, no hat and a cracked bowl to put the stuff in.
Anyway, add a few tomatoes from the greenhouse and you were home and dry. We knew nought of rocket, lamb's tongue lettuce and avocados. The more sophisticated household might boast a bottle of Salad Cream on the table, but not us, my mother didn't hold with it. It smacked of ostentation and new fangled ways. Our salads went boldly undressed and proud of it.
A neighbour of ours did the unthinkable and ventured beyond our trustworthy British shores to visit a relative in Italy. She defied all my mother's predictions of doom and death and returned safe and well but managed to enforce mum's mistrust of the heathen foreigner with tales of people pouring oil onto their salad. A nation that put grease on an innocent lettuce was clearly not to be trusted. It's a good job nobody said 'radicchio' or she'd have swooned clean away.
And cooking methods were different back then. If it was a vegetable you boiled it. Just boiled it. For hours. And then some more hours. Then when it was rendered completely devoid of all colour, texture and taste it was fit to eat, and not before. Our kitchen had a constant Niagara of condensation pouring down it's windows. With tremendous daring my mother eventually branched out into the exotic world of broccoli. For years I thought this vegetable consisted of just pale, soggy, tasteless stems as the florets had always been cooked to the point of total disintegration.
Years later, at my own dining table, I put a plate of food in front of mother. It included broccoli, complete with little green heads, having been briefly steamed in an inch of water, and some nicely sauteed mushrooms, all firm and golden. It was all declared 'uncooked' and therefore 'indigestible'. In my childhood home indigestible food was ranked alongside an unaired vest as a life threatening risk. She not only refused to eat her own portion but urged my children to reject it as well, on the grounds that, 'you'll not get a wink of sleep tonight with that laying on your stomach.' To my delight they ignored her and scoffed the lot. It might have been then that she decided to cut us all out of her will, but I can't be sure.
I'm all for food that tastes as it should, whilst retaining some nourishment value to boot. But now we have endless celebrity chefs urging us to ever greater heights of cooking experimentation, making us feel inadequate if we don't have one of those little blow torches for browning things or haven't a clue how to make our own pasta. It's the choice thing again. There's too much of it. And I know it gives a lot of men pleasure to watch Nigella sucking her fingers and saying 'spatchcock', but it sometimes makes me hanker for those simpler days, when we wouldn't have known where to find a noodle steamer, let alone what to do with it. Ms Lawson's orgasmic response to squid salad with mint and mizuna...whatever the hell that is...just has me thinking, 'Fuck it, I'm having a cheese and pickle and sandwich.'
So, from the local village grocer, who had a bacon slicer and a marble slab with a wire attached where he'd cut a wedge of cheese to exactly the number of ounces (anyone remember ounces?) you'd asked for, and he knew how to fold the tops of bags so nothing came undone in your basket, and they'd give you a broken biscuit while you waited, to the bloody supermarket with it's miles of aisles stuffed to the rafters, and pre-packaging and everything so full of preservatives that you can keep it for years before it'll give you Salmonella.
And yes, we have choice. Loads and loads of choice. But do we really need it? A simple life can be a joyous thing, and a lot less stressed. I see them in Waitrose, all those lovely young men in their skinny jeans and Paul Smith jumpers, brows furrowed, mobile in hand as they deliver the devastating news, usually on the lines of, 'Jacinta, you're not going to believe this Babes, but they're completely out of the organic yak's milk, hand-turned, extra aged Camembert, moistened with orphan's tears that we wanted for dinner tonight. D'you think Nigel and Semolina will notice if we substitute Brie?'
In my day we had two sorts of cheese. Some that was white and some that was sort of orange. It was enough.
Of course, I've been sucked in, just like everybody else and find myself tutting with irritation when I can't find the exact make of Earl Grey Teabags that I favour. But at least I have the dignity to feel guilty as I recall that I was raised on loose leaf, from a pot, and it came out the colour of mahogany. The introduction of the teabag was greeted with horror and derision, in equal portions, in our house.
'It'll not catch on, you mark my words,' said my mother, defiantly.
'We fought off Hitler and we can deal with this. We just have to keep our nerve.'
But progress marches on and, in the fullness of time, the loathed bag appeared in her kitchen cupboard too. But she did wear mourning from that day forth.
And it isn't just food. It's everything. I grew up with a pair of shoes for 'everyday' wear, and one for 'best'. They were usually black or beige, so as to 'go with everything'. Now we all have serried ranks of the things, in all the colours of the rainbow as you can't possibly leave the house with a foot covering that might be in some way unsuited to your outfit. It's all wrong!
We really shouldn't care so much about these things. We should spend our money on nourishing our souls. Maybe we should go and see a good film. But, 'Ah', I hear you cry. 'Which one?' And you have a point. Long, long ago a film, a single film, would come to town, to the local cinema, which had one screen. It would be shown for a number of weeks, allowing all of us who were so inclined to go and see it. Then that film would go away and it would be replaced by another. I was bit girlie so, if it was a musical or a comedy or something romantic with a good looking bloke in it, then I'd probably go and see it. If it was something a tad more roughty-toughty then, like as not, I wouldn't bother. Unless I had a boyfriend who was keen to see it and then I'd pretend enthusiasm too, but let's not get into my shallow side here.
Now the multi-screen phenomena has arrived, with a dazzling array of films, of hugely varying quality, that are shown for a few, brief days before they disappear to be replaced by the next load of speedily churned out offerings starring pretty people with little discernible charm or talent. You'll notice I'm warming to my persona of embittered old hag here. Blink and you've missed the only film you were remotely interested in.
Going to the cinema used to be an event. It was exciting and the cinema was always packed. Indeed, so enthusiastic was the audience for our local flea-pit that we'd run out of seats and the lady that managed it would go and get her own dining chairs, from her house over the road, and line them up at the back. Now, more often than not, at least half the seats are empty. Why? Too much choice! It stands to reason.
And I could go on. It's everywhere. Absolutely bloody EVERYWHERE! In my day you got what you were given and were grateful. You didn't get a choice. Household interiors were painted in Magnolia. Now paint has names, really stupid names like 'Crushed Pigeon with a Smidgen of Mackerel' or 'Hippo's Breath with Ringworm'. The other day, looking at a colour card, I found 'Fawn's Intestine', it was definitely 'Magnolia'.
And men's haircuts. Once upon a time a man would pop along to the barber, and be given a short back and sides with a parting, because that's what the barber did. A quick smear of Brylcreem and the customer went home happy. Now men have as many cuts to choose from as women. The fact that most of these styles make them look like total wankers is, apparently, neither here nor there.
So don't give me any rubbish about choice being good for us. It patently isn't. It's confusing. It's hard work. It makes our brains hurt. A widely travelled friend once told me that, in her opinion, the people who were the happiest were those who had the least, and I think I probably subscribe to this view. By and large. You'll maybe have noticed the get-out clause in that last sentence. Hmmm?
OK, so I like being able to choose to drink a decent red wine, rather than a bottle of Concorde purchased with the loose change we scavenged from down the sides of cushions and the linings of jackets, back when we were penniless young parents. I quite like those aforementioned teabags. And, given the choice (yes, that word again) I probably prefer my life now to how it was, back then. But that wont stop me wanting me slap Jacinta's irritating, metrosexual other half in Waitrose. And yes I KNOW! I know I could choose to save money in ASDA. Don't judge me. Alright?
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