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?
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Sunday 18 March 2012
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.
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.
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.
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