This is just to let anyone know who might still be checking out my Blogger site that I've now moved my blog to http://www.youngbyname.wordpress.com. My old portfolio website is still available at http://www.debbieyoung.info but that URL will be pointed at the wordpress site a little bit later this year.
To all subscribers: please subscribe to my new Wordpress site instead - it's much nicer!
Best wishes
Debbie
Monday, 23 August 2010
Wednesday, 7 July 2010
The Freelance Philosopher
What do freelance philosophers think about on their day off?
Until I heard one introduced on a radio discussion programme recently, I didn’t even know there was such a thing. Unable to hear the rest of the broadcast, I’ve been wondering ever since what the job entailed.
I picture the philosopher on the programme in full flow, his meter running, taxi-like, as he expounds. Then, as the end credits roll, he flips up the flag to turn his yellow “for hire” light back on. Till someone hails him for another trip, he’ll be switching off his mind.
When not in receipt of a paycheck, does his overdeveloped mind transforsms from wily processor to passive receiver? Does he sit expressionless, refusing to extrapolate philosophical theories from his experiences? Next time I meet a philosopher, I’ll be watching and taking notes.
Actually, I refuse to accept that there can be such a thing as a freelance philosopher. Surely, if your mind is of philosophical bent, you just can’t help yourself. It’s the same with being a writer.
Admittedly, when I ditched my full-time job in February, I did initially bill myself as a freelance writer to celebrate escaping the yoke of a salaried employee. But I quickly realised two important truths.
Firstly, freelance should not be confused with freedom. The freelance may no longer be enslaved to a single employer, but that doesn’t make him free. (And slavery has its advantages – security, for starters).
Secondly, a writer is a writer is a writer. I will always write, whether or not someone is paying me a fee. All artistic or creative types should surely be entitled to describe themselves by their vocation regardless of their income. If you write poetry, you’re a poet; if you paint pictures you’re an artist. It’s immaterial whether the meter is running (or should that be metre, for the poet?) Payment is desirable, of course – but lack of it won’t dry up my pen. Selling only a single painting in his lifetime did not, I am sure, prevent Van Gogh from calling himself an artist.
It’s not as if there are specific qualifications for such occupations. It’s not like the medical profession, where you need years of training and official registration before you can use the associated title. I for one would have to be desparate to accept treatment from a freelance doctor or itinerant dentist.
This tag “freelance” also has a certain implied sadness about it. Like the label “single” these days, there are overtones of failure, of waiting for someone to come along and snap you up.
In the end, I felt a little sorry for my mystery freelance philosopher. I just hope he eventually found someone willing to pay him to come to terms with his situation.
Until I heard one introduced on a radio discussion programme recently, I didn’t even know there was such a thing. Unable to hear the rest of the broadcast, I’ve been wondering ever since what the job entailed.
I picture the philosopher on the programme in full flow, his meter running, taxi-like, as he expounds. Then, as the end credits roll, he flips up the flag to turn his yellow “for hire” light back on. Till someone hails him for another trip, he’ll be switching off his mind.
When not in receipt of a paycheck, does his overdeveloped mind transforsms from wily processor to passive receiver? Does he sit expressionless, refusing to extrapolate philosophical theories from his experiences? Next time I meet a philosopher, I’ll be watching and taking notes.
Actually, I refuse to accept that there can be such a thing as a freelance philosopher. Surely, if your mind is of philosophical bent, you just can’t help yourself. It’s the same with being a writer.
Admittedly, when I ditched my full-time job in February, I did initially bill myself as a freelance writer to celebrate escaping the yoke of a salaried employee. But I quickly realised two important truths.
Firstly, freelance should not be confused with freedom. The freelance may no longer be enslaved to a single employer, but that doesn’t make him free. (And slavery has its advantages – security, for starters).
Secondly, a writer is a writer is a writer. I will always write, whether or not someone is paying me a fee. All artistic or creative types should surely be entitled to describe themselves by their vocation regardless of their income. If you write poetry, you’re a poet; if you paint pictures you’re an artist. It’s immaterial whether the meter is running (or should that be metre, for the poet?) Payment is desirable, of course – but lack of it won’t dry up my pen. Selling only a single painting in his lifetime did not, I am sure, prevent Van Gogh from calling himself an artist.
It’s not as if there are specific qualifications for such occupations. It’s not like the medical profession, where you need years of training and official registration before you can use the associated title. I for one would have to be desparate to accept treatment from a freelance doctor or itinerant dentist.
This tag “freelance” also has a certain implied sadness about it. Like the label “single” these days, there are overtones of failure, of waiting for someone to come along and snap you up.
In the end, I felt a little sorry for my mystery freelance philosopher. I just hope he eventually found someone willing to pay him to come to terms with his situation.
Saturday, 26 June 2010
Give Me A Wetwipe and I Will Clean the World
I am not renowned for the quality of my housework. Until recently, I could blame my laxity on having a full-time job while also raising a family, but as I gave up the job in February and my family consists of just the one husband and child,that excuse doesn't quite pull the same punch these days.
Since drawing the rheumatoid arthritis card a few years ago, I have in any case had to be economic with the scrubbing brush, as my hands can't take the strain. (Well, it was a welcome excuse, to be honest.)
I've been frightened of vacuum cleaners since the age of about 2. One of my earliest memories is hiding from the hoover in horror. (It's called zuigerphobia, as you ask.) Fortunately the recent trend for laminate flooring and my subsequent elimination of carpet in my house mitigated in the favour of floor hygiene.
But now I've discovered the joy of household wetwipes, the dust and germs are starting to lose their battle in my home.
Of course, as a modern mother, I got through a crate or two of baby wipes when my daughter was smaller. How did our parents ever manage without them? When I was a teenager and the environmental debate about disposable nappies was starting up, I cut out a cartoon from the newspaper that showed a lady carrying around her baby in a bucket, saying "On balance it seemed the best solution". It seemed like a perfectly good idea to me. But baby wipes stopped being a regular feature in my shopping trolley some time ago.
Then when I had to give notice to my cleaning ladies when I left the job that paid their fee, I started to linger a little longer in the cleaning products aisle at the supermarket. There I discovered a fascinating range of wetwipes for the home. Polish-impregnated wipes to do away with grubby yellow dusters and icky polising cloths, window wipes, kitchen counter wipes, bathroom wipes, shower wipes, and now even flushable toilet wipes. I trialled them in our camper van, where space is at a premium and their compact packaging was a distinct advantage. Within ten minutes, I had the whole interior shiny new.
I'm ignoring my inkling that this could all be a manufacturing scam. Are all of the wipes actually exactly the same, just with a slightly different perfume added to put you off the scent (ho ho) and a different plastic wrapper? I'm not prepared to testdrive the flushable toilet wipes on my leather sofas to check this out.
Having just enjoyed cleaning my bathroom with, yes, the bathroom wipes, I plan to get the polishy ones out in a minute for my desktop, once I've finished this piece. Then perhaps I'll head for the Welsh dresser in the kitchen. I'm on a roll here.
Give me the right wetwipe and I could clean up the world. Global warming wetwipe, anyone? Pollution polishing cloth? Anti-terrorist tissues? Go on, Cillit Bang, I'm sure you could do it if you put your minds to it.
Since drawing the rheumatoid arthritis card a few years ago, I have in any case had to be economic with the scrubbing brush, as my hands can't take the strain. (Well, it was a welcome excuse, to be honest.)
I've been frightened of vacuum cleaners since the age of about 2. One of my earliest memories is hiding from the hoover in horror. (It's called zuigerphobia, as you ask.) Fortunately the recent trend for laminate flooring and my subsequent elimination of carpet in my house mitigated in the favour of floor hygiene.
But now I've discovered the joy of household wetwipes, the dust and germs are starting to lose their battle in my home.
Of course, as a modern mother, I got through a crate or two of baby wipes when my daughter was smaller. How did our parents ever manage without them? When I was a teenager and the environmental debate about disposable nappies was starting up, I cut out a cartoon from the newspaper that showed a lady carrying around her baby in a bucket, saying "On balance it seemed the best solution". It seemed like a perfectly good idea to me. But baby wipes stopped being a regular feature in my shopping trolley some time ago.
Then when I had to give notice to my cleaning ladies when I left the job that paid their fee, I started to linger a little longer in the cleaning products aisle at the supermarket. There I discovered a fascinating range of wetwipes for the home. Polish-impregnated wipes to do away with grubby yellow dusters and icky polising cloths, window wipes, kitchen counter wipes, bathroom wipes, shower wipes, and now even flushable toilet wipes. I trialled them in our camper van, where space is at a premium and their compact packaging was a distinct advantage. Within ten minutes, I had the whole interior shiny new.
I'm ignoring my inkling that this could all be a manufacturing scam. Are all of the wipes actually exactly the same, just with a slightly different perfume added to put you off the scent (ho ho) and a different plastic wrapper? I'm not prepared to testdrive the flushable toilet wipes on my leather sofas to check this out.
Having just enjoyed cleaning my bathroom with, yes, the bathroom wipes, I plan to get the polishy ones out in a minute for my desktop, once I've finished this piece. Then perhaps I'll head for the Welsh dresser in the kitchen. I'm on a roll here.
Give me the right wetwipe and I could clean up the world. Global warming wetwipe, anyone? Pollution polishing cloth? Anti-terrorist tissues? Go on, Cillit Bang, I'm sure you could do it if you put your minds to it.
Friday, 18 June 2010
It's So Last Century
My sister-in-law Janet's famed theory ("The best way to get something done is to do something else") strikes again today as I take my car to the garage for repairs.
My objective: to cure the car of making an odd scraping sound that suggests the exhaust might be about to fall off. While the mechanics try to diagnose the cause, I'm restricted to a range within walking distance of the garage. So I hit Chipping Sodbury High Street with nothing to do but keep an eye on my phone for an update on my car's welfare.
My achievement: one new skirt, one new waistcoat, one new jacket, one new blouse, plus a bill for £68 (so a bit of a bargain, then). This is, of course, excluding the garage costs.
A frequent target for comedians as the ultimate in rural backwaters, Chipping Sodbury High Street is actually quite a pretty place, with an old-fashioned marketplace centre and a range of shops untouched by the global brands that dominate most other high streets. Until I ran out of cats, my most frequent missions to Sodbury were for the sake of the veterinary surgery. Until the wonderful Mr Riley retired a few years ago, he seemed to spend almost as much time with my menagerie as I did. He particularly looked forward to appointments with Floyd, whom he pronounced "the most amiable cat I've ever met". Even when taking an animal on a one-way trip to the vet, I always enjoyed the fact that Mr Riley's surgery was situated in Horse Street.
Our house now being a feline-free zone, I spend today's visit meandering down the High Street. I check out the charity shops, as you do, before wandering into a clothes shop that I'd never been into before. Having previously written it off as a shop for old ladies, I soon find myself enthusiastically trying on half the shop. At one point another customer asks my permission to try on a dress. I am carrying so many clothes that she thinks I must work there. I leave with a surprisingly full carrier bag, trying not to consider the possibility that the chief reason I nowlike this shop is that I've evolved into an old lady.
My car, incidentally, does not get fixed. The required part will not arrive until Monday. So my sole achievement this morning is to revitalise my wardrobe.
This comes not a moment before time. Recently I rearranged my clothes. Usually I oscillate between hanging them in order of colour and pairing them up in outfits, in between the odd bout of chaos. I flirted with the idea of putting them in order by date of purchase, until I realised that a shocking proportion of items were bought before the turn of the millenium. Never mind them being "so last year" - "so last century" was nearer the mark. Carbon-dating would not go amiss.
But one thing's for sure: Janet's theory is proven beyond all doubt.
My objective: to cure the car of making an odd scraping sound that suggests the exhaust might be about to fall off. While the mechanics try to diagnose the cause, I'm restricted to a range within walking distance of the garage. So I hit Chipping Sodbury High Street with nothing to do but keep an eye on my phone for an update on my car's welfare.
My achievement: one new skirt, one new waistcoat, one new jacket, one new blouse, plus a bill for £68 (so a bit of a bargain, then). This is, of course, excluding the garage costs.
A frequent target for comedians as the ultimate in rural backwaters, Chipping Sodbury High Street is actually quite a pretty place, with an old-fashioned marketplace centre and a range of shops untouched by the global brands that dominate most other high streets. Until I ran out of cats, my most frequent missions to Sodbury were for the sake of the veterinary surgery. Until the wonderful Mr Riley retired a few years ago, he seemed to spend almost as much time with my menagerie as I did. He particularly looked forward to appointments with Floyd, whom he pronounced "the most amiable cat I've ever met". Even when taking an animal on a one-way trip to the vet, I always enjoyed the fact that Mr Riley's surgery was situated in Horse Street.
Our house now being a feline-free zone, I spend today's visit meandering down the High Street. I check out the charity shops, as you do, before wandering into a clothes shop that I'd never been into before. Having previously written it off as a shop for old ladies, I soon find myself enthusiastically trying on half the shop. At one point another customer asks my permission to try on a dress. I am carrying so many clothes that she thinks I must work there. I leave with a surprisingly full carrier bag, trying not to consider the possibility that the chief reason I nowlike this shop is that I've evolved into an old lady.
My car, incidentally, does not get fixed. The required part will not arrive until Monday. So my sole achievement this morning is to revitalise my wardrobe.
This comes not a moment before time. Recently I rearranged my clothes. Usually I oscillate between hanging them in order of colour and pairing them up in outfits, in between the odd bout of chaos. I flirted with the idea of putting them in order by date of purchase, until I realised that a shocking proportion of items were bought before the turn of the millenium. Never mind them being "so last year" - "so last century" was nearer the mark. Carbon-dating would not go amiss.
But one thing's for sure: Janet's theory is proven beyond all doubt.
Sunday, 6 June 2010
Offa's Dyke Path, Laura's Way
When my daughter Laura had just turned two years old, we decided we'd walk the Offa's Dyke Path - the national trail that runs along the ancient English-Welsh border.
From the start, on the banks of the River Severn near Chepstow, we agreed we'd be realistic about our ambition. Accordingly, each year, we've done just two or three short segments of the 177 mile long Path. At first she would tire easily and we'd have to carry her, but lately the problem has not been her energy - she literally skips up some steep slopes - but her willingness. With the squeamishness of most seven year olds, she has developed an aversion to cross country routes due to the presence of animal poo. So we're developed some handy diversionary strategies to keep her marching on.
Our first tactic was to let her play with my mobile phone. As it was loaded with the Mamma Mia soundtrack, Laura positively danced past the sheep that day. On her sixth birthday, this was replaced with a pink iPod shuffle, featuring all her favourite songs and stories, and providing the important benefit of earphones. (The sheep had a whip-round.)
Second, we now always load our pockets with snacks, preferably the kind that can be made to last a long time. As Laura's diabetic, I always have a packet of LoveHearts to hand in case of hypos. Not only are these handy for instant inflight refuelling, they also provide entertainment as we read and discuss the slogan printed on each one. These have moved with the times since I was a child, now saying things like "Text Me" and most recently (and bizarrely) "Me Julie".
Thirdly, we allow a couple of lightweight toys to stow away in our rucksacks. These are useful for impromptu games along the way. This week, the sight of Ken helping Barbie courteously over stiles provided excellent entertainment for us all.
Community singing is a great standby, especially songs that can be adapted to suit our walks. "The Wheels on the Bus" easily accomodates "sheep on the bus", "cows on the bus" and so on, though I wouldn't like to be a passenger on that particular double-decker. "One Man Went to Mow" proved popular during our Easter walks, with the dog-mad Laura enthusiastically providing the "Woof-woofs" for up to 27 men going to mow before the game started to pall (and Mummy to run out of puff). I'm keeping "10 Green Bottles" up my sleeve.
But best of all is my latest ploy: to read books as we walk along. "Multi-tasking at its finest," as a friend described it when I told her about our Easter trip.
For some reason, Roald Dahl has become a natural companion on Offa's Dyke. Maybe it's his Welsh upbringing coming into play. "The Fantastic Mr Fox" saw us out of Hay-on-Wye and will be forever associated in my mind with the sublime views from Hergest Ridge. (Though I did manage to finish it in time to catch Mike Oldfield's glorious eponymous album on my own iPod before we descended.) "The Giraffe, The Pelly and Me" took us up the steep rise out of Kington, and "Danny the Champion of the World" saw us down the other side.
I think I may have discovered a whole new pastime here. I'm keen to find further books that will take us on appropriate walks. Some are blindingly obvious: "Three Men in a Boat" along the Thames towpath, "Cider with Rosie" for the Cotswold Way. But contrasts would be fun too: the alpine story of "Heidi" in Holland, "Born Free" on a city break. There'll be a packet of LoveHearts for the sender of the best suggestion.
From the start, on the banks of the River Severn near Chepstow, we agreed we'd be realistic about our ambition. Accordingly, each year, we've done just two or three short segments of the 177 mile long Path. At first she would tire easily and we'd have to carry her, but lately the problem has not been her energy - she literally skips up some steep slopes - but her willingness. With the squeamishness of most seven year olds, she has developed an aversion to cross country routes due to the presence of animal poo. So we're developed some handy diversionary strategies to keep her marching on.
Our first tactic was to let her play with my mobile phone. As it was loaded with the Mamma Mia soundtrack, Laura positively danced past the sheep that day. On her sixth birthday, this was replaced with a pink iPod shuffle, featuring all her favourite songs and stories, and providing the important benefit of earphones. (The sheep had a whip-round.)
Second, we now always load our pockets with snacks, preferably the kind that can be made to last a long time. As Laura's diabetic, I always have a packet of LoveHearts to hand in case of hypos. Not only are these handy for instant inflight refuelling, they also provide entertainment as we read and discuss the slogan printed on each one. These have moved with the times since I was a child, now saying things like "Text Me" and most recently (and bizarrely) "Me Julie".
Thirdly, we allow a couple of lightweight toys to stow away in our rucksacks. These are useful for impromptu games along the way. This week, the sight of Ken helping Barbie courteously over stiles provided excellent entertainment for us all.
Community singing is a great standby, especially songs that can be adapted to suit our walks. "The Wheels on the Bus" easily accomodates "sheep on the bus", "cows on the bus" and so on, though I wouldn't like to be a passenger on that particular double-decker. "One Man Went to Mow" proved popular during our Easter walks, with the dog-mad Laura enthusiastically providing the "Woof-woofs" for up to 27 men going to mow before the game started to pall (and Mummy to run out of puff). I'm keeping "10 Green Bottles" up my sleeve.
But best of all is my latest ploy: to read books as we walk along. "Multi-tasking at its finest," as a friend described it when I told her about our Easter trip.
For some reason, Roald Dahl has become a natural companion on Offa's Dyke. Maybe it's his Welsh upbringing coming into play. "The Fantastic Mr Fox" saw us out of Hay-on-Wye and will be forever associated in my mind with the sublime views from Hergest Ridge. (Though I did manage to finish it in time to catch Mike Oldfield's glorious eponymous album on my own iPod before we descended.) "The Giraffe, The Pelly and Me" took us up the steep rise out of Kington, and "Danny the Champion of the World" saw us down the other side.
I think I may have discovered a whole new pastime here. I'm keen to find further books that will take us on appropriate walks. Some are blindingly obvious: "Three Men in a Boat" along the Thames towpath, "Cider with Rosie" for the Cotswold Way. But contrasts would be fun too: the alpine story of "Heidi" in Holland, "Born Free" on a city break. There'll be a packet of LoveHearts for the sender of the best suggestion.
Sunday, 30 May 2010
Beanhenge
What is it about runner beans that compels the English gardener to grow them?
They have little flavour, and what there is of it is pretty uninteresting. Their rough and hairy texture is not generally sought after in foodstuff, unless you're an owl or suchlike with a penchant for mice. No matter how carefully you prepare beans for cooking, they still smuggle stringy bits into your mouth that must be bravely swallowed or brashly extracted, depending on the company you're in.
Yet, like a lemming to the cliff-edge, (that gruesome Disney fabrication - Google "Disney" and "lemming" if you don't know what I'm talking about), I find myself yet again this spring wrestling with bamboo canes and wiggly bean seedlings. How to arrange them this year to net the best yield without losing the lot to strong winds - or an eye to the cane tips?
I've had it with wigwams, where you arrange the canes in a circle, binding them together at the top, Indian fashion. All is well when you blow the whistle for the beans to start growing. They race straight up the sticks happily enough. But as soon as they converge at the top, there's chaos. The result: a tangled mess, with far too much bean plant to airspace.
Compared to this, the bean tent offers obvious advantages: two parallel rows of poles, inclined to meet at the top. Here you secure a single cane with string to form the ridge. Each plant enjoys more airspace and the whole makes for easier picking. But by the time the early autumn winds pick up, there's enough plant matter to catch the wind like a sail. Before you know it, the tent is travelling about the garden and felling any other plants in its way.
But this year, I think I've cracked it. With a fine collection of weathered bean poles of many different lengths, I have insufficient matching ones to tackle either classic structure, and my hand is forced. Without a clear plan of action, I just shove what sticks I have in the ground, upright in a circle, and plant a seedling at the foot of each. I slip a plant tie around each one and secure it to the nearest stick: a hint as to where it should pledge its allegiance. Standing back to admire my handiwork, and wondering what to do next, it occurs to me that I've created a whole new concept: the runner bean's answer to Stonehenge. It has a cretain timelessness and dignity about it, and it looks pretty well unshiftable. All I need to do now to complete the effect is to find a few shorter sticks and place them across the top of random pairs of canes.
There is ample space for every plant to flourish and for the would-be picker to find the beans. No matted canopy of green to catch the wind. Beanhenge is the perfect solution. All I need do now is await the summer solstice and see which bean lines up with the sunrise. I'm half expecting a posse of druids to turn up. Now, where did I put my woad?
They have little flavour, and what there is of it is pretty uninteresting. Their rough and hairy texture is not generally sought after in foodstuff, unless you're an owl or suchlike with a penchant for mice. No matter how carefully you prepare beans for cooking, they still smuggle stringy bits into your mouth that must be bravely swallowed or brashly extracted, depending on the company you're in.
Yet, like a lemming to the cliff-edge, (that gruesome Disney fabrication - Google "Disney" and "lemming" if you don't know what I'm talking about), I find myself yet again this spring wrestling with bamboo canes and wiggly bean seedlings. How to arrange them this year to net the best yield without losing the lot to strong winds - or an eye to the cane tips?
I've had it with wigwams, where you arrange the canes in a circle, binding them together at the top, Indian fashion. All is well when you blow the whistle for the beans to start growing. They race straight up the sticks happily enough. But as soon as they converge at the top, there's chaos. The result: a tangled mess, with far too much bean plant to airspace.
Compared to this, the bean tent offers obvious advantages: two parallel rows of poles, inclined to meet at the top. Here you secure a single cane with string to form the ridge. Each plant enjoys more airspace and the whole makes for easier picking. But by the time the early autumn winds pick up, there's enough plant matter to catch the wind like a sail. Before you know it, the tent is travelling about the garden and felling any other plants in its way.
But this year, I think I've cracked it. With a fine collection of weathered bean poles of many different lengths, I have insufficient matching ones to tackle either classic structure, and my hand is forced. Without a clear plan of action, I just shove what sticks I have in the ground, upright in a circle, and plant a seedling at the foot of each. I slip a plant tie around each one and secure it to the nearest stick: a hint as to where it should pledge its allegiance. Standing back to admire my handiwork, and wondering what to do next, it occurs to me that I've created a whole new concept: the runner bean's answer to Stonehenge. It has a cretain timelessness and dignity about it, and it looks pretty well unshiftable. All I need to do now to complete the effect is to find a few shorter sticks and place them across the top of random pairs of canes.
There is ample space for every plant to flourish and for the would-be picker to find the beans. No matted canopy of green to catch the wind. Beanhenge is the perfect solution. All I need do now is await the summer solstice and see which bean lines up with the sunrise. I'm half expecting a posse of druids to turn up. Now, where did I put my woad?
Monday, 24 May 2010
Under the Apple Tree
Driving to Chalford this morning, listening to Start the Week on BBC Radio 4, I am intrigued by a concept in a book of short stories neuroscientist David Eagleman. In Sum, one of forty possibilities that he suggests for the afterlife is that when you die, you may choose your favourite experience from your life, and this becomes your experience in perpetuity – a kind of Groundhog Day of your choosing.
What would mine be? It’s a case of being careful what you wish for. The day my daughter was born might seem an obvious candidate, but it involved major surgery, and once was more than enough. The following night might be a contender: I lay awake all night long, gazing with wonder through the clear plastic sides of her hospital cot, transfixed by the most beautiful thing I had ever seen. But the perpetual crying of other babies dotted about the ward might get me down after the first decade or two.
Other achievements that gave me great pleasure, though in a different league, include producing the village youth group’s fashion show, years ago, and later their talent show, including what I thought was a sublime sketch, penned by me, called “The Simpsons Go to the Hawkesbury Show”. The children’s acting was fabulous and the costumes priceless – who’d have thought a blue plastic carrier bag could be so cleverly transformed into Marge Simpson’s big hair? Being on stage myself, in amateur dramatic shows, was great too – but even the best shows would pall after endless repeats.
But for an experience that could be perpetually rerun , I’d be tempted to go for the “happy place” that I go to in my head whenever I can’t sleep at night: lying under the apple tree in my back garden, with early summer sunshine filtering through the blossom. It’s my favourite place in the world (and I’m pretty well travelled). Birds always sing in the surrounding mass of trees; there’s the occasional gentle buzz of light aircraft, sometimes doing aerobatics; floral scents waft by on the warm breeze - musky lavender, sweet lilac, rosy apple blossom, heady crab apple, and later in the season, intoxicating nicotiana and night-scented stock. It’s a spot I’d never tire of.
Later, on the way home, I plan how best to use the brief window of time between arriving home and collecting my daughter from After-School Club. I need to make the most of it. Actually, there is no decision to be made. I head for my apple tree. The hammock is still in place from my daughter’s birthday party yesterday afternoon, as are the old curtains that we’d suspended from strategic branches to shield us from the intense sun of the current heatwave. I arm myself with a few books and magazines, but soon I am dozing in the afternoon sunshine, swinging very gently in the hammock. Occasionally a petal or two drifts down from the apple tree and lands on my face. I pick one up to examine in, and discover it is already tinged with brown at the edge. Eternity this isn’t. Better seize the day.
What would mine be? It’s a case of being careful what you wish for. The day my daughter was born might seem an obvious candidate, but it involved major surgery, and once was more than enough. The following night might be a contender: I lay awake all night long, gazing with wonder through the clear plastic sides of her hospital cot, transfixed by the most beautiful thing I had ever seen. But the perpetual crying of other babies dotted about the ward might get me down after the first decade or two.
Other achievements that gave me great pleasure, though in a different league, include producing the village youth group’s fashion show, years ago, and later their talent show, including what I thought was a sublime sketch, penned by me, called “The Simpsons Go to the Hawkesbury Show”. The children’s acting was fabulous and the costumes priceless – who’d have thought a blue plastic carrier bag could be so cleverly transformed into Marge Simpson’s big hair? Being on stage myself, in amateur dramatic shows, was great too – but even the best shows would pall after endless repeats.
But for an experience that could be perpetually rerun , I’d be tempted to go for the “happy place” that I go to in my head whenever I can’t sleep at night: lying under the apple tree in my back garden, with early summer sunshine filtering through the blossom. It’s my favourite place in the world (and I’m pretty well travelled). Birds always sing in the surrounding mass of trees; there’s the occasional gentle buzz of light aircraft, sometimes doing aerobatics; floral scents waft by on the warm breeze - musky lavender, sweet lilac, rosy apple blossom, heady crab apple, and later in the season, intoxicating nicotiana and night-scented stock. It’s a spot I’d never tire of.
Later, on the way home, I plan how best to use the brief window of time between arriving home and collecting my daughter from After-School Club. I need to make the most of it. Actually, there is no decision to be made. I head for my apple tree. The hammock is still in place from my daughter’s birthday party yesterday afternoon, as are the old curtains that we’d suspended from strategic branches to shield us from the intense sun of the current heatwave. I arm myself with a few books and magazines, but soon I am dozing in the afternoon sunshine, swinging very gently in the hammock. Occasionally a petal or two drifts down from the apple tree and lands on my face. I pick one up to examine in, and discover it is already tinged with brown at the edge. Eternity this isn’t. Better seize the day.
Tuesday, 11 May 2010
How To Get Things Done
On Sunday afternoon, after months of feeble excuses, I decide to tackle what appears to be an enormous task. I undertake to tidy my dressing table. It is inches deep in the detritus of dressing and undressing: discarded jewellery, price labels and hanging tags from new clothes, odd coins and pens and business cards that have been turned out of jacket or trouser pockets. The Victorian honey-coloured pine surface is completely hidden from view.
Tidying my dressing table is not my favourite task, which is why I have ignored it for so long. In the half light of early mornings and the dimmed lamps of late nights, I never really scrutinise it, so the muddle bothers me far less than if it were on the kitchen table. The only reason I am bothering to tackle it now is that otherwise I will have no moral high ground from which to make my daughter clear up her dressing table, now competing with mine in the untidiness stakes.
I grit my teeth, put on my Ipod (that invaluable mental anaesthetic) and wonder how many podcasts it will take before I’ve completed my task. I click on my favourite, The News Quiz , and swiftly fall into the meditative, methodical rhythm of tidying.
I locate lost necklaces, reunite long parted pairs of earrings, and accumulate quite a stash of beribboned clothing tags for my cardboard recycling box. (Can I really have bought so many new clothes lately? Erm, no – it’s just an awfully long time since I last culled the discarded labels.)
I restore to centre stage a favourite antique lace mat and a colourful binca mat that my daughter cross-stitched for me last Mother’s Day under her Grandma’s artistic direction by Grandma. I rearrange the chipped but beautiful mulberry Bavarian glass dishes that once belonged to my own Grandma. With a neatness bordering on OCD, I align the numerous necklaces draped over the corners of the hinged mirror. My dressing table is starting to resemble an exotic shrine – and all before The News Quiz is half way through. Stepping back to admire the new order, I feel a sense of calm creeping osmotically from this harmonious little scene into the depths of my soul.
This tidying business really is therapeutic. I continue to feel a little glow of satisfaction every time I walk past the dressing table, even now, two days on. So why did I wait so long to do it? I really must not procrastinate like this again. Now that I can see the mirror again, perhaps I ought to write across it a note in lipstick to remind myself: The best way to get something done is to do it.
Tidying my dressing table is not my favourite task, which is why I have ignored it for so long. In the half light of early mornings and the dimmed lamps of late nights, I never really scrutinise it, so the muddle bothers me far less than if it were on the kitchen table. The only reason I am bothering to tackle it now is that otherwise I will have no moral high ground from which to make my daughter clear up her dressing table, now competing with mine in the untidiness stakes.
I grit my teeth, put on my Ipod (that invaluable mental anaesthetic) and wonder how many podcasts it will take before I’ve completed my task. I click on my favourite, The News Quiz , and swiftly fall into the meditative, methodical rhythm of tidying.
I locate lost necklaces, reunite long parted pairs of earrings, and accumulate quite a stash of beribboned clothing tags for my cardboard recycling box. (Can I really have bought so many new clothes lately? Erm, no – it’s just an awfully long time since I last culled the discarded labels.)
I restore to centre stage a favourite antique lace mat and a colourful binca mat that my daughter cross-stitched for me last Mother’s Day under her Grandma’s artistic direction by Grandma. I rearrange the chipped but beautiful mulberry Bavarian glass dishes that once belonged to my own Grandma. With a neatness bordering on OCD, I align the numerous necklaces draped over the corners of the hinged mirror. My dressing table is starting to resemble an exotic shrine – and all before The News Quiz is half way through. Stepping back to admire the new order, I feel a sense of calm creeping osmotically from this harmonious little scene into the depths of my soul.
This tidying business really is therapeutic. I continue to feel a little glow of satisfaction every time I walk past the dressing table, even now, two days on. So why did I wait so long to do it? I really must not procrastinate like this again. Now that I can see the mirror again, perhaps I ought to write across it a note in lipstick to remind myself: The best way to get something done is to do it.
Wednesday, 5 May 2010
Why Pay A Grand for A Handbag?
Leafing through the Sunday supplements, I wonder how many readers actually buy the extortionately expensive items featured in the fashion pages. £100 for a moisturiser? No thank you! I expect change from a tenner when I buy a facecream. And how can any handbag be worth £1,000? I would never pay that much for an item I couldn’t drive away or spend a family holiday in.
The most I’ve ever spent on a handbag is just £35, and that was extravagant by my standards. Admittedly my standards are very low. My handbag collection features far too many bags that started life as free gifts attached to women’s magazines.
But I can certainly justify this relatively lavish purchase. It brought to a satisfactory conclusion my lifelong quest for the perfect handbag. Pillar box red, with a scattering of cheery retro flowers over practical dirt-repellent oilcloth, it has soft leather-trimmed khaki handles that make for comfortable carrying, even when it’s stuffed full with all that my daughter and I need for a day out. Its depths are positively Tardis-like.
Strangely, it also appears to spread joy to those about me. Walking around with this bag on my arm is like going out with a celebrity. People stop me to admire it, ask me where I got it, tell me they’re planning to put it on their Christmas list. I even had a shy-looking teenager call after me in a superstore toilet yesterday, just as I was leaving, as if unable to help herself: “I like your handbag!”
So if you’ve been tempted by the Sunday supplements to splash out, think again. Nip into Cath Kidston instead and buy a handbag like mine for £35. Then invest in a notebook to make a list of how you’re going to spend the £965 you’ve just saved.
The most I’ve ever spent on a handbag is just £35, and that was extravagant by my standards. Admittedly my standards are very low. My handbag collection features far too many bags that started life as free gifts attached to women’s magazines.
But I can certainly justify this relatively lavish purchase. It brought to a satisfactory conclusion my lifelong quest for the perfect handbag. Pillar box red, with a scattering of cheery retro flowers over practical dirt-repellent oilcloth, it has soft leather-trimmed khaki handles that make for comfortable carrying, even when it’s stuffed full with all that my daughter and I need for a day out. Its depths are positively Tardis-like.
Strangely, it also appears to spread joy to those about me. Walking around with this bag on my arm is like going out with a celebrity. People stop me to admire it, ask me where I got it, tell me they’re planning to put it on their Christmas list. I even had a shy-looking teenager call after me in a superstore toilet yesterday, just as I was leaving, as if unable to help herself: “I like your handbag!”
So if you’ve been tempted by the Sunday supplements to splash out, think again. Nip into Cath Kidston instead and buy a handbag like mine for £35. Then invest in a notebook to make a list of how you’re going to spend the £965 you’ve just saved.
Monday, 3 May 2010
I Wear My Vote on my Sleeve
Having cast my vote a week ago via postal ballot, I can now relax and ignore the rest of the campaign. Indeed, I don’t intend to give the election much further thought until Thursday night, when the excitement of the old swingometer will certainly have our household glued to the telly till dawn.
This early decision doesn’t mean I’m not taking the election seriously. I knew long ago who I would vote for and that my decision would be completely unaffected by the antics of the big three slugging it out on the TV debates. My vote is my own decision rather than an echo of my parents’ political views. And there has never been any danger of my failing to vote at all. I truly value my democratic right, and for this I have my grandmother to thank.
I first became politically aware – or at least aware of the voting system – when I was still at primary school. What child could fail to be won over by the principle of democracy if it meant their school would be closed for the day to be used as a polling station?
From the ages of 5 to 11, I spent every school dinner time with my grandmother. I am perpetually grateful to her for rescuing me from the horrors of school dinners, substituting her proper home-cooked Lancashire hot pot and gooseberry pie for their compulsory beetroot and glutinous rice pudding. Grandma was a huge influence on me, shaping many of my characteristics such as a life-long love of BBC Radio 4 panel games and a killer skill at Scrabble. She was also a patient fielder of my incessant questions.
“So who are you going to vote for, Grandma?” I asked her when the election was brewing.
I was taken aback when my ever generous, indulgent Grandma refused to tell me. Instead she gave me an impassioned lecture about it being a woman’s right to make her own decision and keep it secret. She wasn’t even going to tell Grandpa.
It wasn’t until much later, when studying early 20th century history at school, that I realised why Grandma so treasured her vote and the privacy of the polling booth. Born in 1900, she was old enough to be aware of the Edwardian Suffragette movement. Grandma was an impressionable 13 when Emily Davison was trampled by the King’s horse during her infamous pro-suffragette protest at the Epsom Derby. For Grandma, turning 18 didn’t entitle her to vote: in 1918, only women aged 30 or over were entitled to vote. She had to wait until she was 28 for women to gain the right to vote on the same terms as men. No wonder she guarded her democratic right so carefully.
I’m pleased to say my six-year-old daughter is also taking her political rights seriously.
“Can we have a ‘Win with Webb’ sign for our garden too, Mummy?” she asked, as the orange diamonds started to appear in gardens around the village. (The rather wonderful Steve Webb is our local MP - and long may he remain so.)
Though I have a feeling that if there’d been a party with pink as its colour, she might have changed her allegiance. Now there’s a way to secure the women’s vote. (Not.)
This early decision doesn’t mean I’m not taking the election seriously. I knew long ago who I would vote for and that my decision would be completely unaffected by the antics of the big three slugging it out on the TV debates. My vote is my own decision rather than an echo of my parents’ political views. And there has never been any danger of my failing to vote at all. I truly value my democratic right, and for this I have my grandmother to thank.
I first became politically aware – or at least aware of the voting system – when I was still at primary school. What child could fail to be won over by the principle of democracy if it meant their school would be closed for the day to be used as a polling station?
From the ages of 5 to 11, I spent every school dinner time with my grandmother. I am perpetually grateful to her for rescuing me from the horrors of school dinners, substituting her proper home-cooked Lancashire hot pot and gooseberry pie for their compulsory beetroot and glutinous rice pudding. Grandma was a huge influence on me, shaping many of my characteristics such as a life-long love of BBC Radio 4 panel games and a killer skill at Scrabble. She was also a patient fielder of my incessant questions.
“So who are you going to vote for, Grandma?” I asked her when the election was brewing.
I was taken aback when my ever generous, indulgent Grandma refused to tell me. Instead she gave me an impassioned lecture about it being a woman’s right to make her own decision and keep it secret. She wasn’t even going to tell Grandpa.
It wasn’t until much later, when studying early 20th century history at school, that I realised why Grandma so treasured her vote and the privacy of the polling booth. Born in 1900, she was old enough to be aware of the Edwardian Suffragette movement. Grandma was an impressionable 13 when Emily Davison was trampled by the King’s horse during her infamous pro-suffragette protest at the Epsom Derby. For Grandma, turning 18 didn’t entitle her to vote: in 1918, only women aged 30 or over were entitled to vote. She had to wait until she was 28 for women to gain the right to vote on the same terms as men. No wonder she guarded her democratic right so carefully.
I’m pleased to say my six-year-old daughter is also taking her political rights seriously.
“Can we have a ‘Win with Webb’ sign for our garden too, Mummy?” she asked, as the orange diamonds started to appear in gardens around the village. (The rather wonderful Steve Webb is our local MP - and long may he remain so.)
Though I have a feeling that if there’d been a party with pink as its colour, she might have changed her allegiance. Now there’s a way to secure the women’s vote. (Not.)
Wednesday, 28 April 2010
Introducing My Edible Friend
I have a new friend living in my house. Herman is undemanding company and an inexpensive guest. His appetite is small: I have to feed him only once every few days, and in between times he sits quietly in a corner, minding his own business, underneath a tea-towel. Then in about a week he will reward my hospitality by letting me eat him.
No, I haven’t turned cannibal. It’s just that Herman is actually the starting point for a cake. Like the old-fashioned ginger beer plant, he is a yeast-based mixture that you top up occasionally with nutrients (sugar, milk, flour) to keep the ferment going. Meanwhile the mixture quietly bubbles and thickens, an innocuous quicksand. Little by little, it grows to the point where you have little no option, unless you are exceptionally greedy, but to subdivide it and pass a few portions on to friends, not forgetting to include a sheet of instructions as to how to care for him. The instructions I received included a request to talk to Herman. What’s the best subject for a discussion with a cake mix? For once, the price of eggs does not seem a clichéd topic of conversation.
My own personal Herman was given to me by a kind colleague a few days ago, and next week I will be passing his offspring on to my friends and family. Giving Herman his evening stir-up tonight, I wondered about his pedigree. How far has he travelled since the very first Herman mixture was produced? Are there grains of flour within his depths that come from the other end of the country or is he a true Gloucestershire lad? Has he metamorphosed like Doctor Who, leaving only a homeopathic trace of the first ingredients within his murky depths? Or is he a thoroughbred, original genes still largely intact? Looking to his future, where might my Herman’s descendants end up? With a bit of forethought and planning, we could engineer a Herman for every home in the country, infiltrating the homes of the rich and famous, even putting a Herman on the Queen’s breakfast table. If you’d like your own personal Herman, well, you know where to come.
No, I haven’t turned cannibal. It’s just that Herman is actually the starting point for a cake. Like the old-fashioned ginger beer plant, he is a yeast-based mixture that you top up occasionally with nutrients (sugar, milk, flour) to keep the ferment going. Meanwhile the mixture quietly bubbles and thickens, an innocuous quicksand. Little by little, it grows to the point where you have little no option, unless you are exceptionally greedy, but to subdivide it and pass a few portions on to friends, not forgetting to include a sheet of instructions as to how to care for him. The instructions I received included a request to talk to Herman. What’s the best subject for a discussion with a cake mix? For once, the price of eggs does not seem a clichéd topic of conversation.
My own personal Herman was given to me by a kind colleague a few days ago, and next week I will be passing his offspring on to my friends and family. Giving Herman his evening stir-up tonight, I wondered about his pedigree. How far has he travelled since the very first Herman mixture was produced? Are there grains of flour within his depths that come from the other end of the country or is he a true Gloucestershire lad? Has he metamorphosed like Doctor Who, leaving only a homeopathic trace of the first ingredients within his murky depths? Or is he a thoroughbred, original genes still largely intact? Looking to his future, where might my Herman’s descendants end up? With a bit of forethought and planning, we could engineer a Herman for every home in the country, infiltrating the homes of the rich and famous, even putting a Herman on the Queen’s breakfast table. If you’d like your own personal Herman, well, you know where to come.
Thursday, 22 April 2010
Mineral water meltdown
Feeling a complete victim of supermarket manipulation, I submit to a 2-for-1 offer in Waitrose and pick up two multipacks of a kind of mineral water I've never seen on the shelves before. I've found some wacky ones there in the past, most memorably the environmentally friendly one that guaranteed the bottle would biodegrade in six weeks. (I meant to keep one for seven weeks, to see if it worked.) They must have to handle their deliveries in a very timely manner.
My latest purchase is quite the opposite in terms of environmental impact. I feel positively guilty sneaking it into my trolley, packing it deep down in a carrier bag at the checkout, so no-one will see. For it claims to be Norwegian glacial meltwater. A handy new byproduct of global warming, I wonder? The producer wins top marks for optimism, with its commendable "if life gives you lemons, make lemonade" approach.
I wonder what it will taste like? Whatever the flavour, I'm half-expecting it to remain ice-cool even if I leave it in the car in the current heatwave, given its frozen origins.
Of course, I know that really it will be just the same temperature as a bottle of tropical Fiji water - another shockingly wasteful import. I was tempted to try that one, too, out of curiosity, but rejected it for its carbon footprint. Having read recently that it has become a major export for Fiji, I'm now torn between environmental outrage and the desire to support a developing nation's industry.
But sadly, there is an even stronger argument for resisting it than environmental impact: it is reputedly the only beverage that Paris Hilton will give her pet dogs. Well, I suppose a bottle of water would fit neatly in her handbag alongside them.
On second thoughts, make mine a tapwater.
My latest purchase is quite the opposite in terms of environmental impact. I feel positively guilty sneaking it into my trolley, packing it deep down in a carrier bag at the checkout, so no-one will see. For it claims to be Norwegian glacial meltwater. A handy new byproduct of global warming, I wonder? The producer wins top marks for optimism, with its commendable "if life gives you lemons, make lemonade" approach.
I wonder what it will taste like? Whatever the flavour, I'm half-expecting it to remain ice-cool even if I leave it in the car in the current heatwave, given its frozen origins.
Of course, I know that really it will be just the same temperature as a bottle of tropical Fiji water - another shockingly wasteful import. I was tempted to try that one, too, out of curiosity, but rejected it for its carbon footprint. Having read recently that it has become a major export for Fiji, I'm now torn between environmental outrage and the desire to support a developing nation's industry.
But sadly, there is an even stronger argument for resisting it than environmental impact: it is reputedly the only beverage that Paris Hilton will give her pet dogs. Well, I suppose a bottle of water would fit neatly in her handbag alongside them.
On second thoughts, make mine a tapwater.
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