35. Birds, Bastards and Gin.

 

 

 You'll have heard those bloody annoying little Pollyannas who urge us, "If life gives you lemons make lemonade." Well the problem with that is I don't like lemonade, so it's no help. I like wine, actually. But just lately life seems to have been giving us all a shed load of lemons. Actually, it isn't just lately, is it? It's been going on for a while. 

I blame 2016. That's when the shitstorm started in my opinion. That was the year, you may recall, when you couldn't turn on a TV or radio without hearing of the death of a beloved singer or national treasure. Even an abbreviated list includes, Bowie, Prince, Leonard Cohen, George Michael and Victoria Wood. It made you paranoid, wondering who'd go next. Then came the EU Referendum. It'll be fine, we cried, only a fool would think it was a good idea to leave the EU, and we went to our complacent beds secure in the knowledge that we were not a nation of  fools. How wrong can you be? The following morning I found myself sobbing in the Baked Goods aisle of Marks and Spencer's. Humiliating.

And then, just to top off the year from hell, along came the US Elections. Oh how we laughed at the very idea that a great, orange buffoon with the IQ of a gnat and all the charisma of a cold turd could possibly be elected as leader of the most powerful country in the world. And to be honest, Trump did look as surprised as the rest of us when the awful truth dawned. We tried to cheer ourselves by saying things like, 'It could only get worse if we had someone like that bumbling blonde idiot Boris Johnson as our Prime Minister..... '. And we chuckled heartily at the very notion. Oh how we scoffed...and how little we knew of what lay ahead. Shocked and dazed, we stumbled on to the end of the year.

 But I digress. Back to the year 2020 and the fact that this hasn't exactly shaped up to be everybody's favourite either. And we all know why that is. Covid has turned our lives upside down and deprived many thousands of theirs. 2020 is the year of plague and it's definitely not going to helped by a glass of fucking lemonade. I need alcohol. Lots of alcohol. Especially as the blonde twit and his evil mate, Cummings, actually ARE in charge now. Dark days indeed.

I'm not saying my wine habit's a good thing, but I find it helps, at the end of a long day of lockdown, having tried to find meaningful ways to occupy the empty hours (and if you mention sourghdough starters you're dead to me) I just look forward to pouring a glass of something that has the duel benefits of tasting delicious and making me feel a bit better, all at the same time. I'm not a cause for concern, I'm not putting whisky on my cornflakes, but I do get a frisson of excitement when the text comes through to say my Majestic delivery is on it's way. 

And that's another thing. I'd never had any sort of food delivery before lockdown, indeed I spurned the very idea. I liked to choose my own stuff. But, as it was either that or starvation, I went on line and started clicking. And it's not as bad as I thought, plus the delivery drivers are all unfailingly lovely, so that's a bonus. But the bit I like best is when they don't have what you asked for so they substitute it with something else.  I like that delightful element of surprise, as you rummage through your goods to see what this week's picker considers the nearest thing to a Tunnocks Teacake. It was a packet of weird wafer biscuits, since you ask. But the more random the better I like it. And when my husband asks, 'Why am I spreading something called Rhubarb Compote on my toast when I believe I asked for Thick Cut Marmalade?, I can reply, 'Take it up with Anthony, your picker for this week, Sunshine.'

I know that in many ways we're very lucky but I miss seeing my family and friends, other than by way of Zoom or Skype, with all the attendant, 'Are you there? I can see you, can you see me....oh you've gone!' Though it's certainly better than nothing. And yes, we have been doing family quizzes. So go judge us! 

But back to my main thrust. For many people, an unexpected benefit of lockdown has been all those people discovering the joys of nature. The planes and traffic fell silent and we could hear the birds. Within weeks, people who previously didn't know their pigeon from their puffin would stop in their tracks, cock an ear and declare, knowingly, 'That's a Ginglewolds Lesser Spotted Great Bottomed Boomer, if I mistake me not!' And people are walking and cycling more, both of which we happen to love. Consequently I decided to combine the pleasures and benefits of a country walk with a spot of foraging (also increasingly fashionable, as long as you don't overdo it and deprive the wildlife) that would ultimately turn into alcohol. Result! You see, I got to the point of all this rambling in the end.

Thus, on a sunny, Autumnal afternoon, we strode off over the fields in search of Sloe berries and spent a couple of happy hours, getting scratched to buggery picking the little sods and bore them home triumphantly. I now have two jars of Sloe Gin fermenting on a shelf in the understairs cupboard. It should be ready for drinking somewhere round mid January. And that will be just about perfect for toasting the inauguration Joe Biden as President of the United States of America. 

Now all we have to do is find a vaccine, overturn Brexit and get the Tory gits out of office. In the meantime, we can at least rejoice in the downfall of a pig shit thick fascist, racist, misogynist, sex pest, gun loving, daughter fancying pervert, draft dodging, tax dodging, climate change denying, narcissistic, thoroughly nasty cunt. Cheers!

34. Of Grandparents, Motorways and Halloumi Wraps

   Might you want to stop for a wee at Norton Canes?' asks my husband.
"Probably," I say. We usually get to the services on the Toll Road near lunchtime, and this one has a Leon so I can get an halloumi wrap.
"OK. I can stick some screenwash in when we're there,' he informs me.

This thrilling exchange is a pretty standard example of what passes for conversation on the weekly, five hundred mile round trip that we make, between our home in the North West of England and that of our youngest daughter, in East London.

Now, you might be thinking we're lacking in imagination, if this is the best we can come up with by way of banter. But we've been doing this trip for well over a year now, and we've pretty much exhausted our stock of fascinating subjects for debate. And the route is now so wretchedly familiar that we're sometimes reduced to such gems as, "I think there are more sheep in that field than there were last week." Bleak, yeah?

So we listen to music and radio plays and the miles pass. Mile after mile after frigging mile.Through the roadworks and the accident holdups, in rain, shine and snow. My only consolation an halloumi wrap.

And why are we subjecting ourselves to this ordeal, you might be wondering? I'll tell you why.There is a reward, at the end of our journey, in the form of a tiny girl, with a load of messy curls, an iron will, a cheeky smile and a of love of raisins, The Gruffalo, her wellies and, happily, her Grandparents. And for two days a week we provide her childcare. Not that I think of it in terms of that bald word. I see it more as larking about and having a laugh in great company. It's more than adequate recompense for the hell of the M6.

What I find interesting is the variety of reactions I get from friends and acquaintances when I mention this weekly ritual. It varies between disbelief at our stupidity, admiration for our devotion, and degrees of bewilderment in between. I've also been told that I'm a fool for allowing my daughter to exploit me. To which I say, "Fuck off!" It's insulting to suggest I've been in some way coerced into the job. I made the offer of help shortly after my youngest granddaughter was born. My two older grandchildren were born on the other side of the world and spent their early years there. Apart from infrequent visits, I observed their development on Skype, and was damned glad of it, but it's not quite the same as being there, physically, for the first smile, step, word. I feel privileged to be such an integral part of little E's life and I'm here to tell you that London's just a stone's throw compared to eight thousand  miles of longhaul flight.

Of course, we grandparents are often undervalued. I know of some far more devoted than I, who have uprooted themselves from happy, settled lives and moved lock, stock and barrel to be nearer to family who needed them. Every school gate will see a fair proportion of grandparents, planning their days around school drop offs and pickups. Every playgroup sees us sitting patiently at the painting table we thought we'd seen the last of years ago. We nod and smile at each other as we push the swing in the park. We're fabulous. But we're not entirely altruistic. Most of us do it because we actually like it, it's fun, it's good for us, it might even widen horizons that were getting a bit narrow.

I'm not going to deny there are also those days when I've turned down the chance of a boozy lunch with mates to end up in a blustery playground with a grumpy toddler who just wants to smear mud down my coat, when I feel a tinge of bitterness. Then I plan to produce stickers for the back windows of cars, like the ones that say, 'A dog's for life. Not just for Christmas.' Except mine would say, 'A Mum's got a life. She's not just for Childcare.' I'm only human. I have my moments.

But every week, as we set off on yet another of those long drives, we're smiling at the thought of what we're heading towards. We feel very lucky to have our children and grandchildren, and time spent with any of them is a good thing in our book. So here's to all the grandparents who help to keep the wheels turning at home whilst their hard working children are out earning their mortgage payments. We're all valuable and we're doing an essential, worthwhile job. Woe betide anyone who underestimates us and our contribution to society. And just think of the amazing opportunity we have to influence the next generation......and of being a bit subversive, if we choose. So come on little E, repeat after Grandma, "Theresa May is a silly twat." Good girl!!


Thanks so much for reading.

33. The Baby, The Bubbles And The Old Woman.

The bubble floats gently down before the entranced eyes of my ten month old granddaughter. It lands on the floor beside her and, delighted, she reaches out a tiny hand towards it.....just as it bursts. I bend my head and whisper in her perfect little ear, 'That's a lesson in the transient nature of happiness, my love.'

Bit cynical? Yeah, but it's never too early to learn the harsh facts of life, and I'm not entirely sure what it is we're here to learn anyway. We are at a Baby Sensory Class. We didn't have these when my children were tiny. The nearest I ever came to it was finding a 'Mother and Toddler' group, which you wouldn't have now anyway as it's sexist, but they were unenlightened times. So, believing I should be socialising my toddler, off we went and fetched up in a chilly old  hall with a pile of grubby toys in the middle of the floor and chairs round the walls. And there we sat, watching our kids fight over the toys whilst we mothers sipped stewed tea and kept well out of it, and then we went home.  It didn't feel like fun. I reckoned we could skip socialising sessions and just muddle through on seeing family, visiting friends, playing in the park and that sort of stuff. At home I did activities with them, played games and we sang jolly songs. It seemed to work ok so that's what I did with my subsequent children too.

But it's all different now. Now there are 'sessions' for everything. Thus, on the appropriate days each week, baby and I turn up at a variety of venues for all manner of activities.

I do not do this entirely reluctantly. I am thrilled to be so involved with her development and feel privileged to play such an active part in her life. Indeed, any time spent in her company is time well spent by my reckoning. I'm just not clear about what it's all for. There we all are, mums, dads and grandparents, and it's a joy to see so many lovely young men present, the involved and proud  fathers but, it has to be said, it's still mostly mums. I think that should be noted. And then there'll be the sparse sprinkling of us tired looking women with grey hair. The grandmothers. The providers of free childcare. We make eye contact across the rubberised, jigsaw flooring. And the look says it all. 'What the fuck is going on here?'

In my experience, these sessions are usually led by enthusiastic young women, deeply committed to their cause, and I feel myself swept along on their conviction. But on the walk home, emotionally wrung out and exhausted by sensory overload, I sometimes find myself questioning  the wisdom of it all and wishing that, like my over stimulated grandaughter, I could just lie down and go to sleep...preferably after I've consumed a large amount of calming gin.

Each week there's a theme but, it seems to me, they're all a mish-mash of the same ingredients. Bursts of deafening music, things that flash, stuff that has to be waved, the aforementioned bubbles, occasional puppet shows that are either downright weird or just plain scary in their frenetic enthusiasm and the songs, the endless, bloody songs. And don't get me started on 'baby signing.' I studied linguistics at university and language development in particular, and know for a fact that children under a year old can't associate a hand sign with, for example, the sun because they don't have language yet, so they can't make the connection between the thing in the sky and you waving your hand about. But we all sit there, obediently doing it. The babies, meanwhile, eschew the whole charade and go about their business, being babies, thumping each other or having a bit of a cry, whilst the more mobile ones crawl for the exit.

'Wave your light sticks,' cries our leader,'to stimulate your baby's sense of colour and movement!' I wave enthusiastically. There's nothing tardy about my waving. The baby inspects her right foot.

I can't help but think that, if you're a sleep deprived new parent, sitting on a floor, wielding a chiffon scarf in one hand, wind chimes in the other and singing about rainbows whilst your baby just looks embarrassed and ignores you it might not be the ideal moment to question your life choices.

We also go to a music class, which I quite like as I'm only required to sing along to the guitar accompaniment of the earnest woman who leads it. 'C'mon,' I urge the baby, 'let's clap to the music.' The glance she gives me shouts, 'I'm not a performing monkey. Give it a rest old woman.' And quite right too.

So, do I ever find anything enjoyable or beneficial in these groups I'm so sarky about? Hell, yes!

In an area where I'm a stranger I have been warmly welcomed by so many of these wonderful young parents and made to feel very much part of their community. And that's no small thing for an elderly woman, who's child rearing days were a long time ago and who's having to learn about the way things are done now.

I can see what a valuable, social resource these classes are, bringing together all those new parents, to befriend and support each other. I'd have loved to have had that when my daughters were tiny. It must be so reassuring to be able to exchange tips on weaning, or to find that everybody's baby has sleep issues and it doesn't mean they've got pneumonia every time they sneeze.

And because their mums and dads have become friends those babies will benefit from their own little friendship circles too, and that's lovely.

When it comes down to it, nothing really changes. We're all just trying to find the best ways of raising  our beloved children.

A friend of my daughter once described these sessions as 'batshit crazy' and I don't think I could possibly improve on that, but it's a good crazy. And definitely a step up on stewed tea in a dismal hall.



Thanks so much for reading.

32. Sexual Harassment And The Older Woman

In the light of recent events, exposing the disgusting behaviour of Harvey Weinstein, resulting in the floodgates flying open for the numerous women, and men but, let's be honest, mostly women who have been sexually harassed and felt compelled to stay silent, I decided to weigh in to the argument on behalf of the older woman. If I'm accused of jumping on the bandwagon then so be it. The best time to get aboard is when it's already in motion.

Suddenly the media is awash with reports of women suffering the unwanted attentions of men in every area of life. Sadly, it appears it had to be flagged up by high profile women in the glamorous worlds of film and theatre in order for people to take notice. Now politicians are being exposed for their abuse of power and over-inflated ideas of entitlement, but any woman, in any walk of life will recognise those scenarios. You don't have to be a Hollywood star to experience abuse, from the casual grope through to violent rape. Stop any woman on the street. They'll all have their story. The surprising thing is this sudden outpouring of shock and horror. It's Jimmy Savile all over again. We all know about it, and we've all complained about it, but nobody took much notice. Now, all of a sudden, it's everywhere! And I'm glad. It gets the message out there that it's just not acceptable to touch a woman, any woman, in any way, if she does not want you to. It is not acceptable to make lewd remarks, and it is not acceptable to become angry and insulting when a woman rejects your uninvited approach. It is not acceptable to abuse your power and use it is a weapon.

There are those men who are taking to the media to whinge about how complicated it's getting for the poor lambs. But it's terribly simple. Stop blaming women for your lack of control and make damned sure it's consensual before you make a move. Otherwise it's harassment. Clear?

Of course I don't tar all men with the same brush. There are lots of lovely, sensitive, non-predatory men out there. I'm married to one. That doesn't dilute the effect of the ones who are the opposite of all that and who devastate and blight entire lives.

And now to the point of my argument. It would appear, from the media coverage that, by and large, you are only at danger from this behaviour if you are young, attractive and perceived as desirable. Not so. But when it comes to older women it gets complicated.

I've written on this subject in an earlier blog but I feel it's worth revisiting at this particular moment. There seem to be an undefined point when a woman passes from object of desire to sexless being. Now, there are many advantages to the ageing process and, in some ways, this is one of them. It can be a relief not to have to go through that dance on a crowded train, trying to make sure you've edged your way out of the reach of the guy with the wandering hands. I wish I'd had the courage of the woman who grabbed the hand on her buttock, held it aloft and shouted, "I just found this on my arse. Does it belong to anyone?"

You can go into a bar, buy yourself a drink and settle in a corner with your book without constantly checking for the man who thinks being tipsy on Prosecco makes him irresistible and is heading your way. It can be very freeing.

However, there are those who think that age renders you entirely devoid of feeling and preference. These people, sometimes complete strangers, imagine that laying hands on you uninvited is totally acceptable and who look shocked and affronted when you recoil or shrug them off. We're not supposed to mind. Worse still, I think we're sometimes expected to be oddly grateful for this unwanted attention. After all, we're no longer sex objects are we, so we can't possible take offence can we? Yes, we fucking can!

But I have a personal axe to grind. There is a particular man, who I sometimes work with, who is much too handy for comfort. He's a cheery soul. Greets all as his friend. Is possibly a little younger than me, but not much. And I dislike this 'likeable' man. For a kick off, he addresses me as 'sweetheart'. He knows my name perfectly well and I find the patronising use of 'dear' and 'lovie', that you endure day in and day out once you pass a certain age, offensive and annoying, but I can (just about) forgive those who don't know my name.....though there are better alternatives, or simply nothing at all, which is just fine. But this man's 'sweetheart' makes my flesh creep. And then there's the touching.

I'm comfortable with a matey arm flung round a shoulder, but not the sudden sensation of hands being slipped slowly round your waist from behind, or the brushing of the back of a hand across your bottom, just a little too firmly to be accidental, that really offends me. I know for a fact I am not alone, and I certainly don't flatter myself than I am an object of desire to this man. I honestly believe that this is his habitual way of behaving around women.  And as, presumably, nobody has ever challenged him he continues to think it's just fine.  And it so isn't. For ANY women, regardless of age.

It may well be ingrained in him from those unenlightened times when such behaviour was widely accepted. Not liked, but accepted.

But times have changed and it's never too late to learn. Or is it? I question myself as to why I haven't reacted to his behaviour. Am I afraid of being ridiculed for even suggesting a man would choose to touch me? That I'd be accused of an over active imagination?

I'm fairly sure that if I challenge him then I will be accused of being silly, or over-sensitive and most people would probably side with the transgressor. He's a nice bloke, he doesn't mean any harm, and who do I think I am?

Well, I reckon I'm a woman. My age is immaterial.  My feelings are my own, as is my body. And it's time to say, "D'you know what, I don't like that. Please don't do it."

A small, personal skirmish in the great, feminist fight. But they all count. Don't they?



Thanks so much for reading.

31.Baby Boomer Blues

I'm a Baby Boomer. There you go. I've said it. Now I'll just sit back and take a kicking. It's no more than I deserve, apparently.

Only today, writing in the Mail On Sunday, Vince Cable (who I quite liked!) has accused the old of shafting the young via the Brexit vote. I'm so angry I could cry.

It seems to me that those of us who happened to be born at the end of the SWW are being held responsible for pretty much all the ills of society. And we're not. We're individuals, just like the rest of you, and it can be annoying to open my morning paper or watch the TV news to find it's all my fault that the nation's going to hell in a handcart. It's not just annoying, it's hurtful and frustrating....and wrong. We are too easy a target and it's lazy journalism to make an entire generation into scapegoats.

To begin at the beginning, we can't seriously be held responsible for the fact that our fathers returned from the theatre of war and all its accompanying horrors to fall, with joy and relief, into the welcoming arms of our mothers. We didn't get a say in the matter. But there we were. A whole load of babies, an army of us, if you will, with the sole intention of being an over privileged elite for the rest of our lives....quite deliberately.....allegedly.

We kicked off by overwhelming the welfare state. There was barely enough of that vile orange juice that came in medicine type bottles to go round. But we glugged it down our greedy little throats and grew big and strong. And then we had to be educated, demanding little bleeders that we were. And this is where the 'spoilt generation' theory starts to come unstuck. We ended up in overcrowded classrooms with hardworking, well intentioned teachers who had simply too many kids to monitor individually, so the less bright ended up at the back of the room, overlooked and under-educated. I know this. Years later I would be a voluntary one-to-one teacher of the many adults who came out of that system unable to to read or write. Bright, capable people who fell through a net that was bursting at the seams.

But on we strode, towards the Eleven Plus examination. I was reasonably bright and general expectations were that I might, in fact, pass and go on to the Grammar School. But I didn't. Nor did a lot of my classmates who had also been rated capable of passing. Our parents smelled a rat. And we were not demanding people. I came from a lower working class family. We knew our place. We didn't make a fuss.....usually. On this occasion, however, the families of just too many children, not all of them from the poorer end of the village, were shocked by the results and a meeting was called, attended by my mother who came home furious at having been told, by men in suits, that yes, there were a number of children who had achieved the requisite marks but, as there were too few places for too many children, they had had no choice to but to cream off those with the highest marks and condemn the rest to secondary modern education. And hard luck. Our numbers were a disadvantage, and we'd just have to live with it.

And thus we did, eventually leaving school at fourteen to an undeniably plentiful job market. Not necessarily the jobs we aspired to, and not many of them open to those of us without any qualifications, but there was low paid work to be had.. So we took what was going and worked hard. The work ethic was strong in us Baby Boomers and we grafted for the deposits that would enable us to buy our first homes, a privilege denied to most of our parents, the majority of whom were still in rented accommodation. Interest rates were high, which was fine if you were rich, but most of us weren't and taking on that monthly commitment was a scary business. Then, eventually, as we neared retirement age, we became the owners of those homes. Lucky us. We had what we'd worked and saved and paid for.

Yet now we are reviled, as if we are directly responsible for the fact that the young have an almost impossible struggle to get a foot on the property ladder, and nobody regrets this more than I do. I have three children and I have to watch them, longing for homes of their own and repeatedly finding it beyond them. This situation was created by the ineptitude of bankers and governments, not me. And no, I can't solve the problem for my kids. I think I mentioned my origins. I have no inherited fortune in the bank. What we have is the little we've saved from working all our lives whilst raising a family. It didn't leave much over.

Yes, I eventually got an education, as a mature student, with my fees paid and a full grant, to boot! That would be unimaginable riches to today's students, and I too have a daughter still trying to pay off her loan, long years after leaving Uni. I'm eternally grateful for my good fortune. It transformed my life in so many ways. But nothing I've done has contributed to the tragic lack of that opportunity for today's generation.

I learnt my socialism at my grandfather's knee. I've been a staunch Labour supporter all my life. I voted Remain in the referendum and wept when we lost. Make note of that. I'm old AND a Remainer, along with pretty much all of my friends, colleagues and neighbours in the same age bracket. Obviously the Leavers are out there, but I don't know any.

Yet much of the media has turned me into some horrible caricature of a blue rinsed, selfish, right wing, immigrant hating harridan with more money than intellect, narrow of outlook and hanging on to my ill-gotten gains, along with my sense of entitlement, with the feverish grip of some uncaring dowager.  And I'm none of those things.

I try to give back to the society that nurtured me by working in the charitable sector and, whilst I can't support my adult children financially, I help out by providing free childcare as and when I'm able. That too is my privilege and pleasure.

Nobody bewails the shit we're in more loudly than I do. Nobody rages against the iniquitous inequalities of our society more vociferously. If I had the means to change it all I fucking would!

But I don't. And I'm not responsible for it either. I don't belong to some strange homogeneous group that can be conveniently blamed for all that ails us. I am not over indulged. I have a state pension and a bus pass. I'm hugely grateful for both and lament the fact that they will almost certainly be denied to the next generation, but that's not MY call. My life hasn't been an easy ride. And I never take the fact that I'm now happy, healthy and have a nice life for granted. I wish it could be so for everyone.

So please, people of the media, look elsewhere for the cause of societies problems, because it's not me.

Thanks for reading.

30. Shampoo and Chiffon Scarves.

I left school when I was fourteen. I wasn't expelled or anything. That's what we did, dear children, back in the olden days. We gathered up our crinolines and went looking for work.

The laughingly named 'Careers Advisor' came to school and sat opposite me, your typical baby boomer, eleven plus failure and branded thicko, and gave me his most unctuous smile.

Him: 'Is there anything you enjoy doing?'
Me. 'Writing.'
Him, sniggering: 'I don't think you're going to earn a living at that.'
He looked at a card on the desk in front of him, picked up the phone and made an appointment for me. It was with a local hairdresser. If successful, I would be apprenticed and paid nineteen shillings and sixpence a week (that's just under a quid) plus tips. I can only assume he considered this paltry sum a 'living' for the likes of me, who'd just go off and get herself up the duff by a local layabout and be married in a couple of years anyway, at which point I'd stop bothering the employment market.

 I got the job.

I didn't do the other stuff.

And he was probably right, in that I would never have set the world of literature on fire, but I'd have been content to start off with the births and deaths page on the local newspaper, something like that. But I was fourteen. I'd no idea how you went about getting a job. That's why I still harbour a grudge against that smug, disinterested bloke who failed to fulfil the 'advisor' bit of his job title.

Not that it was all bad. I was a sheltered child, quiet and naive by nature, from a buttoned-up home where sex, or any matters pertaining to the body, were banned from conversation. In that salon the blanks in my education were swiftly filled. The youngest of my colleagues were in their late teens, and they all knew loads more about stuff than I did. Even the forty-something manageress, Lindy, was at it. As the most junior employee it was my job to open up the shop and prepare it for the day ahead. How well I remember the morning I let myself in and happened upon Lindy pleasuring the shampoo rep in the backwash chair. I'd wondered why he slipped us so many free bottle of conditioner with our order.

Then there was the day our senior stylist, Carol,  assisted by Lindy, ended an unwanted  pregnancy in the staff room, during the lunch break, which might be a fine example of the work ethic as not a perm or trim was cancelled.  Exactly what the mysterious procedure involved I never knew, as I'd been sent out to get fish and chips, presumably by way of celebration. It must have been a success because Carol, who was usually a moody cow, was remarkably cheerful for the next day or two. She was even nice to me. Normally she was telling me I was fat or didn't pass her the rollers fast enough. I hated her. I didn't know then about bullying in the workplace, but if ever that girl got the chance to make my life miserable she grabbed it. I wasn't sorry when she developed an allergy to perm lotion and had to leave.

I may have been shocked to my prudish core by all these goings-on, but it was a timely crash course in the ways of the real world.

And, generally, things were looking up. I'd hardly been there a month before I'd been taken in hand. My hair had been styled and coloured. The other girls had grabbed their make-up bags and sat me down to introduce me to the mysteries of of eyeliner and lipstick and, even more usefully whilst transforming me into a painted Jezebel, they whispered the secrets of birth control, before setting me up on dates with their brother's mates. I was a willing pupil.

Having been metamorphosed from a mousey child into a long-haired, short skirted minx I would dash home to cast off my dye stained, nylon overall and prepare to hit the fleshpots of the nearest town. I drank coffee out of glass cups in smoke shrouded cafes. I danced in grubby, dark basement clubs and learnt that, with a little perseverance, I could acquire a taste for the alcohol that was banned from my home as the work of the devil. I snogged in bus shelters, letting the last bus pass me by, thereby enraging my mother. And I took to smoking, just to add to my sophisticated allure. It was the best possible fun. But I was careful. I'd listened. I didn't want to be like Carol.

And there was music. Another discovery. I just loved that noise. And that's the thing about the teenage years. You start as this empty kid and get filled up with new experiences and the freedoms of the adult world you're transitioning in to. And sometimes it's wonderful and sometimes terrifying, and you find the things that help you make sense of it and get you through. For me it was books and music, and I still think it's not a bad combination.

I didn't love that job. It gave me varicose veins from all the standing and I got cracks in the skin of my hands so deep that they bled, from washing towels in cold water because the heater wasn't working again, and there was no washing machine. And the money was shit and the hours were long and the reps always tried it on and the poshest customers were the worst tippers. Actually, the best tip I got in that place was how to hide hickies with a carefully arranged chiffon scarf. Chiffon scarf manufacturers must have cleaned up in the sixties.

But I grew up in that salon. I met some lovely people who are still my friends and I got to chat to so many different customers, just in the course of a single day, which was heaven for a nosey girl like me. You'd be amazed what women will confide to their hairdresser, it's like the confessional but with a blow-dry thrown in.
And, eventually, I'd sort myself out, return to education, get a couple of degrees and have jobs that I chose and enjoyed.

Not that there's anything wrong with hairdressing. It's a fine, creative, essential profession and the skills of a good stylist can be transformative. But it wasn't what I wanted to do so I wasn't very good at it. I think back with shame to the lop-sided cuts and patchy dye jobs I sent out into the world.

But, I'd learnt some valuable lessons, and I'm even grateful to nasty Carol. Thanks to her, I always tried to be kind and supportive, to all my colleagues, but particularly to those a bit lower in the pecking order than myself. So maybe Mr. Whateverhisnamewas, didn't do me such a dis-service afterall. However, I really hope today's school leavers get a better deal than I did and that someone listens to them a bit more closely.
Most of us end up spending an awfully big chunk of our lives in the workplace and it's so much nicer if we really want to be there.

Bye the way, I can still do a half decent fringe trim, if anyone's interested?



Thanks for reading.

29. Brexit, Breakfast, Brickshit. WTF?!!

Back in the summer, the British people made a terrible mistake and voted for something called Brexit. I'm absolutely certain it was a mistake, but what that mistake actually entails remains a mystery.

For a kick-off, the powers that be don't seem to know what it is. Mrs Theresa May, she of the sexy kitten heels and stern, dominatrix expression, seems to think it's something called Bregzit, which is a worry as she's apparently in charge of the whole shebang.

Meanwhile, John McDonnel and Andrew Davies both seems to imagine we're debating Breakfast, which is a lovely idea. I would welcome the notion that legislation about Breakfast was embedded in the constitution.

Then again, there appears to be some confusion as the type of Breakfast we're contemplating here. John McDonnel expressed fears that it would be a chaotic Breakfast. Well, I for one can relate to that, and I bet a lot of other people can too. Indeed, I'm full of admiration for those who, on a week day, can still manage a beautifully set table with a choice of the full English, kedgeree or devilled kidneys with a selection of cereals and toast and conserves on the side.  In our house, back when there were three school children to be fed and equipped for the day, and two adults dispatched to work on time, I counted it a good day if everybody had a few cornflakes and a cup of tea inside them before the front door slammed behind us.

I'd chip the cemented cereal off the bowls when I eventually returned home.

I'd fit right in with the chaotic Breakfast idea.

But, apparently, there are two other options. Hard or Soft Breakfast. So what of them?

Hard Breakfast is, well, hard to contemplate. Would it limit us to overdone, charcoaled toast and Weetabix without milk? I'm not too keen on that idea. Or those horrible biscuits that claim to be  breakfast in a bar? Come to think of it, breakfast in an actual bar, with the option of gin on your Crunchycracklypopsios, doesn't sound too bad. But I digress. Hard Breakfast is not for me.

Soft Breakfast, on the other hand, sounds fine. That could incorporate Eggs Florentine (though that sounds a bit foreign, so we're probably not allowed it any more) or porridge, or scrambled eggs with a bit of smoked salmon. I could live with that.

But nobody knows, so we can't relax.

I've a sneaking suspicion that it's nothing to do with any of the above, and we could be in for a very bumpy ride, involving things much more serious that what we sling in front of our unsuspecting families of a morning. I think it might include issues that impinge on our very way of life and will now be dictated by views that I, personally, find abhorrent.

I have nice neighbours. They have always been kind, helpful and, on occasion, very generous towards me. Yet, on the morning after the vote, one of them, expressing her delight in the result, said such vile things about immigrants that I wanted to punch her in her sweet, little churchgoing mouth. It's a nasty, divisive thing is Brexit, and nothing whatever to do with the cheery chaos of the average family breakfast table. Would that it were.

I'm putting all my (undoubtedly misplaced) faith in Article 50. I'm not sure if I've got it right but I'm led to believe that we're not really out of the EU until this mysterious Article has been activated. And who's going to want to trigger it? I'd love to be a fly on the wall at that Cabinet meeting. I can just see them all, gathered round the table at number ten, trying not to catch Theresa's eye when the subject pops up.
'What about you, Boris? I seem to remember you were frightfully keen on it?'
'No! Sorry Tezza, you sexy old thing, but I couldn't possibly. Not with all this this Foreign Secretary muck you've dumped onto my bloody plate. Just no time, you old slapper.'
'Well IDS, couldn't you be a sweetie and do this teensy, weensy favour for your little Prime Ministerikins.'
'Christ no! They all hate me as it is. I don't want to risk making it any worse. Are you mad, woman?'
'Not even if I give your lovely little bald head one of my special strokes, Iain?'
'No!'
'That bloody David! Sneaking off home to Sam and his kitchen suppers and watching Aston Ham and leaving me to shovel up the shit. Bastard!'

If they all refuse, even the man who looks after the boilers at Westminster, we could be saved!

And let's not even get started on the debacle that's taking place across the pond. How that loathsome caricature, Donald Trump, even ended up as a possible replacement for the dignified, cerebral diplomat that is Obama is a mystery to me. Have they all gone mad? Did they put something in the water? It's a travesty, isn't it?

Good old Hills is far from perfect but, honestly people, take a good look at the choice. At least the woman has practised her craft and always been on the side of the underdog, unlike Trump who, it would seem, has crawled out of the slime, with a shit smeared silver spoon in his maw, and reared up to bellow his bile, devoid of any moral code, for the delight the disenfranchised masses. My sympathies are with them, but Trump, with his racist, misogynist ignorance, is not going to be their saviour. And that's the tragedy.

But I do like those Trump Pence signs, because it sounds like the form of currency they'd have in Trumpton, which is quite sweet.



I'm now going to sound like the decrepit throwback that I am, but I entered this world at the end of the last World War, and grew up with all that well intentioned rhetoric about our loathing for Hitler and how we would never let it happen again.

But here we are, watching it, clear eyed. And some of those people who would have spoken in favour of the Kindertransport, which took place back in the nineteen forties to save the lives of Jewish children, will now raise objections to a handful of refugee children being brought over to Britain from the hellish conditions they've been existing (you can't call it living) in, over in Calais. Hitler would be rejoicing. I truly fear his is spirit is alive and well and cavorting about all over the world.

Trump wants to build walls to preserve America for the.......what? American Indians? Obviously not. The USA is a country of immigrants. Just as Britain is a mongrel race. We were invaded so many times our language incorporates bits of every nation's tongue that could possibly get a boat onto one of our many shores. And lots of them did. It's good. It's dynamic. What's the fucking problem?

Let's face it. There's really only one race. It's called the human race. And I apologise if that sounds twee but I mean it and I believe it. If we can't extend a helping hand to our neighbour, when they're having a rough time, then it's a poor look out.

And tomorrow it could all too easily be us. So surely, whilst we're the lucky ones, we can afford to be kind.



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