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Sunday Poem 140

Sorry about the lateness yet again, I fell asleep and forgot to cook dinner so we had to go out.

Talking about my feelings ain’t my cup of tea – by John Hegley (b.1953)

Please don’t do the third degree
about the two of us
or the one of me
‘cos I ain’t one for talking about my feelings.
I just get these mental blocks
if it’s insecurity the box it’s in is ever so secure
with a well-kept key;
talking about my feelings ain’t my cup of tea.
Once when I had a nasty gash in my knee
and the doctor questioned me
about how I’d come to hurt myself
I was only too glad to be forthcoming
but enquiries about how I hurt myself
in the sense of self pretence and things like that
they make me want to flee:
talking about my feelings ain’t my cuppa.
Anyway who wants to know
that someone thinks existence stinks
or that every day spent on this planet
is one less day to go.
I’m not referring to me though,
it’s just an example.
It’s no big deal.
I keep my cards so near my chest
even I can’t see the way I feel.
I used to be closer to my emotions
or maybe they were close to me.
In the past I’ve been very open
the last time was when I was twenty-three months.
They say bashing pillows is beneficial
and it helps to hug a tree.
They say problems shared are problems halved
but they don’t say it to me
because revealing how I’m feeling it isn’t my Darjeeling.

Comments { 4 }

The Eurovision Song Contest 2012

It's meee, I'm Loreeeen, I've come home now, woh woh-oh-oh-o-ohh

We love Eurovision and we take the whole thing awfully seriously.  We get nice snacks in, a litre bottle of Ginger Beer and properly printed score sheets.  We discuss the hotness, the clothes, the dance routines and sometimes even the talent of the contestants.  We hotly dispute the merits of the songs and we decide among ourselves which three entries to vote for over the telephone.

This year, I gave douze points to Sweden, Germany and Denmark – we’re not as stringent in the voting as we might be.  The Boys both voted for the Russian Grannies and Boy the Elder demonstrated a singular lack of judgement in his championing of, the slightly suspect, Turkey .

Personally, I was delighted that the act upon which I would happily have placed a fiver each way, was the slightly Kate Bush-esque ‘Loreen’ of Sweden.  She looked beautiful, danced in an interesting way and the song was one to which I would happily dance for hours on end without the necessity of medication.

As usual, the voting was a heady mix of the political, predictable and utterly unexpected.  How could Denmark have come so low down when their singer was almost as good as Imelda May and they had a mad female drummer?  How could Germany have received such a lukewarm response when their song would have been a welcome addition to the UK Top Ten?  AND he was cool and aesthetically pleasing.  Or, as our friend in the north put it rather more directly, ‘I’d do ‘im’.  Indeed.

I think the problem is that European music is just not cool and, with the exception of Skandiweeja, they wouldn’t know cool if it sat on their faces and said ‘Call me Mivvy’.  And I don’t count the unrecognisable and relentless melodies of the rave and party discotheques that young people find so appealing.  I believe the Europeans have quite a stronghold there, but I suspect one loses one’s discernment when one is off one’s face on E or ketamine.

You will notice, that I have made no comment about the UK entry. I fear he may have been a little out of touch with the Eurovision audience.

Please release me, let me go

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Facebook Frolics

I’ve just played a super joke on Boy the Elder.  Some weeks ago he, somewhat inadvisably,  loaded Facebook onto my Blackberry.  This evening he went off to Explorers and failed to log out.  Oh dear oh dear oh dear.

There’s a particular girl that I know he’s been corresponding with for some time and he has described her as ‘him but with different chromosomes’, so I thought she would probably appreciate a decent wind up.

I contacted her and suggested that we play a trick and we came up with the idea of sending BTE a message which would run something like this:-

“I think it’s so brave of you to admit that that’s something you like doing and, if I’m honest, I feel really flattered that you chose to tell me ^_^  ” (or something of that nature).  We planned it all out and then I deleted our messages.  I told her what time to call and then sat back and waited.

True to her word, a message came through when he got back and he came storming into the kitchen, in a panic, because all his messages to her had been deleted.  Whoops.  I persuaded him that I wouldn’t even know how to delete messages (which was clearly true as I had lost the lot) and that maybe he should check to make sure that he hadn’t pressed the wrong button.

His friend performed brilliantly and he started to actually believe that he had had some sort of memory lapse but just couldn’t think what he might have confessed to.  I put my innocent face on, and asked whether he might have let slip the thing about women’s underwear or the business with the hamsters.  “This is NOT funny, Mum, not funny at all!  I just don’t remember telling her anything personal!”  She wouldn’t reveal what he had said because apparently he had made her promise never to repeat it and he became more and more perplexed.

Eventually she caved in and told him the whole story.  He just stared at me open mouthed.

“You actually went on my Facebook and plotted this with her?” he asked incredulously.

“I own you,” I said with barely an evil glint.

He will get me back.  Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow, but some day.

 

Comments { 18 }

Mission

There will be no article today or tomorrow as I am going to Edinburgh.  You will discover the reason ere long.

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Irritating Phrases No 974

How are you today, you slaaaaag?

I’m a modern kind of girl but I dislike over-familiarity from total strangers.  I don’t mind being addressed by my first name if my interlocutor has asked my permission, but an unsolicited given name, repeated after every few words leaves me wanting to perpetrate physical harm on the impudent rogue.

I am perplexed when an unknown salesperson starts the conversation with “How are you today?” as though s/he knew my state of mind or health yesterday and is concerned for my welfare on a daily basis. Which they are absolutely not.

I am similarly discombobulated when I’m greeted with “Are you alright?” as an alternative to “How are you today?”.  I was first presented with this greeting back in 1972 when I ran into Elsie-next-door in the street and she smiled and said “Are y’alriiight?”.  Why wouldn’t I be, I thought?  What could have lead her to think that I was in in any way distressed or unwell?

I was greeted in Costa’s this morning by a young boy who asked if I was “awriiiiight” and who then proceeded to serve me with an inaccurate beverage.  ‘If you spent a little less time on the phoney small talk and bit more time actually listening to the details of my order, we would all be much happier’…   I thought to myself, as I smiled wanley at him, the corner of my eye twitching almost imperceptibly.

The other greeting I dislike is being called ‘love’ by people young enough to be my children.  I was in the pub on Sunday night and the spotty, bum-fluffed barchild addressed an elderly lady as ‘love’,  ie. “What can I get you, love?”  How impertinant! and somehow a little bit affected.  I don’t mind being addressed as ‘love’ or ‘darlin” by a cheerful son of the soil, or ‘me duck’ as we say in the Midlands, because it is the affectionate vernacular, but it’s hardly the language of the professional.

And last but not least, I really hate “See you later” when no such arrangement has been made.  Again, my bewilderment was triggered at a tender age.  Loitering at the shops near home, I had been mercilessly chatted up by a repellent and pustulant local boy whose name, due to several hours under a therapist, has finally escaped me.  When he eventually shambled off down the street, gathering fag ends and Cabana wrappers under his paws as he dragged them along the kerb, he shouted over his shoulder, “See ya later!” with a glottal stop that would have secured him a long-running role on ‘Eastenders’.

‘Oh sweet Jesus!’ I thought in shock.  ‘At some point in that conversation I made an arrangement of which I have no recollection.  What have I said to make him think we’re meeting up later?  And where will he be expecting me to be?  And will he think me rude if I don’t turn up?’  Interesting that I should be more worried about exhibiting bad manners than being chatted up by a single-celled life-form with fur.  More interestingly, when I asked my mother, she wasn’t sure either but said that this was the sort of misunderstanding that happened when one talks to common children (I kid you not, my friends…).

In my family, we tend to favour the verbal sign-off  ‘See you/speak to you anon’ which we take to mean ‘soon’ or ‘presently’,  but in reality can also mean ‘immediately’ or ‘in a moment’.  Which just goes to show what a hypocritical snob I really am.

So what gets your goat, me ducks?  Which phrases set your eyelids twitching?  Laters……

 

Comments { 37 }

Sunday Poem 139

I found this poem quite by accident and somehow it seems to suit my mood today.  I always reserve a smidgeon of distrust for people who are too perfectly turned out, whereas I agree with Herrick that there is something quite sexy about someone who is just a little bit dishevelled.

Delight in Disorder – by Robert Herrick (1591-1674)

A sweet disorder in the dress
Kindles in clothes a wantonness:
A lawn about the shoulders thrown
Into a fine distraction:
An erring lace, which here and there
Enthrals the crimson stomacher:
A cuff neglectful, and thereby
Ribbands to flow confusedly:
A winning wave, deserving note,
In the tempestuous petticoat:
A careless shoe-string, in whose tie
I see a wild civility:
Do more bewitch me than when art
Is too precise in every part.

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How to Restore a Crushed Bath Brush

A bath brush such as you might find in the bathroom

A couple of years ago I published Wills’ Cigarette Card No 2:  How to restore a crushed broom

I can now tell you with complete confidence that this method will also restore and clean a crushed bath brush, which will save you between £6 and £12 on a new one.  Sadly I forgot to take a ‘before’ photo so you will have to trust me.  It took about fifteen minutes over the boiling spout to restore the bristles to their former masochistic ferociousness.

A rack such as this one from John Lewis would be ideal for hanging bathing accoutrements

Incidentally, in order to avoid your bath brush getting crushed in the first place, I would recommend putting up a small utensil rack with hooks, maybe above the bath taps, upon which you can hang flannels, loofas, those weird nylon fluffy things and bath brushes.  This will allow them to drip into the bath, dry without mildew or smelliness, and keep them hanging neatly off the surfaces.

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Two government cuts of which I wholeheartedly approve

I read two stories in the paper today.  The government is, at long last, going to introduce means testing for Child Benefit and it is possible that thousands of children will be taken off the Special Needs register.

Apparently, 97% of families claim Child Benefit even when they have massive incomes and have no need of the extra money whatsoever.  This money is often considered to be pin money for the mother or is put straight into savings accounts which then go towards making those families even more privileged.

Ideally, families on high incomes should refrain from claiming this money because it is an immoral act.  In times of recession it is outrageous to give free money to people who can easily support their children without help from the government when that money should be channelled into organisations to help children from deprived or abusive situations.

Child Benefit should always have been means tested and this nonsense about a universal benefit is just woolly, liberal, vote-toadying wastefulness.

And now we come on to the Special Needs register.  I am delighted that we now live in an environment where children with learning and behavioural difficulties are flagged-up and helped accordingly.  The recognition and assistance for people with dyslexia, for example, has changed the lives and careers of many people, young and older.

But for a long time I have suspected that a small but growing proportion of children have been labelled as ‘special needs’ because they are not very good at something or are badly behaved.  It’s a win-win situation; the school gets paid and the parents can abdicate responsibility.

At Boy the Elder’s first school, his class had 50% of the children statemented as Special Needs. 50%.  In a middle class, affluent and relatively trouble-free area.  I have witnessed at first hand parents who have had  their children statemented and labelled simply because they are unable to cope with their behaviour and personalities.  Other families have had to walk across hot coals just to get a bit of reading or maths help for their child because they are falling behind but have no official diagnosis.

Boy the Younger has shocking handwriting and can be a right little bastard.  He has neither ADHD nor dysgraphia, both of which have been suggested to me as possible explanations for this.  He is left-handed, eccentric and both his father and I have shocking (if characterful) handwriting and, more importantly, I don’t give him enough help with it at home.  He attends a handwriting club at school which is really helping, but he does not have a ‘condition’.

My, and our doctor’s, explanation for BTY’s bad behaviour has more to do with four house moves in five years, the separation of his parents and a love-hate relationship with his older brother.  He is a deep thinker and has the intellectual but not emotional maturity to work out his feelings. I am a great believer in appropriate counselling and I think this will be of far more benefit and influence than an educational statement or regular gob-fulls of Ritalin.

I have said this before and I will continue to say it until someone stuffs my mouth with socks.  As a society we have become too reliant on the idea that someone else must always sort out our problems and take up the slack for our difficulties and failures.  We are regressing in our personal responsibility, our capacity to assess risk and our determination to stand on our own feet, stop moaning and get on with it.

If everyone gets help with their children when they don’t need it, it distracts our attention away from the ones who really need society’s help, either financially, emotionally or educationally.  So, much as it kind of hurts to say it, I fully support the government on these two measures and support their determination to bring us through this recession, with our help, so that we can build a sustainable foundation for the future.

Comments { 35 }

Everyday Etiquette and Manners: Cutlery (another occasional series begins)

I was recently at a luncheon that was attended by several generations of people from different walks of life.  The restaurant was on the smart side, the food was delicious and unpretentious, and the service was effective and discreet.

However, the table manners of some of the guests, mainly the twenty-somethings, were genuinely shocking.  They appeared to have no idea how approach the table settings, how to hold their cutlery or when to wait or proceed with their food and drink.

The most important thing to know, before you even start talking about table manners, is that the host honours his guests by putting their needs above his own and the guest must show himself to be worthy of that courtesy.  Manners are there to accommodate and reassure, not to confound.

So in this first article in the series we shall talk about cutlery:

Forks on the left, knives and spoons on the right and the guest should work from the outside inwards, course by course.

If a fork is used without a knife, it is held in the right hand with the tines (prongs) pointing up.  Always hold it as near to the end of the handle as you can.  The fork should rest on the middle finger which is supported by the outer two fingers.

If a knife and fork are being used together, the fork should be held like a knife with the tines pointing downward.  It is acceptable nowadays to turn the fork over momentarily in order to scoop up food that has been pushed onto it by the knife.  In that case the food should be pushed onto the inner side of the fork, otherwise you might poke your companion on the left with your elbow.  Eating persistently with the tines of the fork turned upward is not acceptable.  The knife should be held as in the illustration and never held like a pen.

If you are eating with a spoon alone, it should be held in the right hand, just like a solo fork.

If a fork and spoon are used together, the fork should be used in the left hand with the tines pointing downward.  The spoon is the receptacle in this case and the fork as the guide.

Pausing and finishing eating:  It is correct to lay your cutlery down after each mouthful while you chew and swallow.  To indicate with your cutlery that you are merely pausing, the knife and fork (or fork and spoon) should be laid neatly in the twenty past eight position of the clock with the tines of the fork pointing down.  When you have finished, lay the knife and fork (or fork and spoon) neatly side by side, in the six-thirty or twenty-five past five position, with the tines of the fork pointing upward.  This indicates to both guests and waiting staff that you have finished.

 

With grateful thanks to Debrett’s 1992 edition of ‘Etiquette and Modern Manners’ ed. Elsie Burch Donald for their illustrations.

 

 

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Sunday Poem 138

I started this off as an extract, but as I typed, I thought the story was just too good and atmospheric to deprive you.  I found it so creepy I had to look at pictures of fairies and kittens to ensure an unbroken night’s sleep.  I can say quite openly that it would be close to my idea of hell to be stuck in a deserted church, in the dark, alone, in the middle of Lincolnshire.  It’s up to you how much you read!

A Lincolnshire Tale – by John Betjeman (1906-1984)

Kirkby with Muckby-cum-Sparrowby-cum-Spinx
Is down a long lane in the county of Lincs,
And often on Wednesdays, well-harnessed and spruce,
I would drive into Wiss over Winderby Sluice.

A whacking great sunset bathed level and drain
From Kirkby with Muckby to Beckby-on-Bain,
And I saw, as I journeyed, my marketing done
Old Caistorby tower take the last of the sun.

The night air grew nippy.  An autumn mist roll’d
(In a scent of dead cabbages) down from the wold,
In the ocean of silence that flooded me round
The crunch of the wheels was a comforting sound.

The lane lengthened narrowly into the night
With the Bain on its left bank, the drain on its right,
And feebly the carriage-lamps glimmered ahead
When all of a sudden the pony fell dead.

The remoteness was awful, the stillness intense,
Of invisible fenland, around and immense;
And out of the dark, with a roar and a swell,
Swung, hollowly thundering, Speckleby bell.

Though myself the Archdeacon for many a year,
I had not summoned courage for visiting here;
Our incumbents were mostly eccentric or sad
But – the Speckleby Rector was said to be mad.

Oh cold was the ev’ning and tall was the tower
And strangely compelling the tenor bell’s power!
As loud on the reed beds and strong through the dark
It toll’d from the church in the tenantless park.

The mansion was ruined, the empty demesne
Was slowly reverting to marshland again -
Marsh where the village was, grass in the Hall,
And the church and the Rectory waiting to fall.

And even in springtime with kingcups about
And stumps of old-oak trees attempting to sprout,
’Twas a sinister place, neither fenland nor wold,
And doubly forbidding in darkness and cold.

As down swung the tenor, a beacon of sound,
Over listening acres of waterlogged ground
I stood by the tombs to see pass and repass
The gleam of a taper, through clear leaded glass,

And such lighting of lights in the thunderous roar
That heart summoned courage to hand at the door;
I grated it open on scents I knew well,
The dry smell of damp rot, the hassock smell.

What a forest of woodwork in ochres and grains
Unevenly doubled in diamonded panes,
And over the plaster, so textured with time,
Sweet discolouration of umber and lime.

The candles ensconced on each high panelled pew
Brought the caverns of brass-studded baize into view,
But the roof and its rafters were lost to the sight
As they soared to the dark of the Lincolnshire night:

And high from the chancel arch paused to look down
A sign-painter’s beasts in their fight for the Crown,
While massive, impressive, and still as the grave
A three-decker pulpit frowned over the nave.

Shall I ever forget what a stillness was there
When the bell ceased its tolling and thinned on the air?
then an opening door showed a long pair of hands
And the Rector himself in his gown and his bands.

* * * * *

Such a fell Visitation I shall not forget,
Such a rush through the dark, that I rush through it yet,
And I pray, as the bells ring o’er fenland and hill,
That the Speckleby acres be tenantless still.

Comments { 9 }