Readers, it is 15 minutes past midnight, I have a 5am start tomorrow and my lesson plan is embryonic scribble.
Where to begin? I have two jobs (secretary and teacher in case you're interested) and a roof over my head; I managed to run four miles today (despite still smoking), teach a class who seem to have faith in me, cheer up my dear old grandmother, make a lovely satay sauce and do a load of washing. Oh and apparently there's a rather attractive somebody who thinks I'm not so bad myself. (Though this is a 'my mate fancies you' situation, so it could all be hearsay. Remember Hear'Say? They were rubbish.)
Sounds good? I haven't been feeling good. I have wasted more hours than I care to admit this week worrying, crying and having panic attacks. Hence the fact tomorrow's lesson is still non existent. Time to change.
I was just talking online to a previous boss. She knew me 4 years ago as the little (well OK, at 5ft9 with size 7 feet I was never little) student who worked for her part time selling curtains, serving coffee and filling shop floor shelves with crockery. She asked and I updated her now about my ambitions (I do have some! I just forget them.) She wrote this:
Well, good luck my darling. If anyone can do it, you can. You have such a zest for life and positive attitude. I am proud to count you as one of my friends and I miss the rush of energy you used to inject into my life. I am now going to get a huge glass of red wine and drink to us. Please, please, keep me updated. Love and respect to you. xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
What a lovely, lovely thing to write. And how nice to be remembered that way. Thing is, I barely remember the girl she remembers. I like her very much though, even more through the added haze of nostalgia.
I want to be different. I want to stop expecting the worst. I want enjoy my job and not worry that I will lose it because I'm no good at it. I want to go on a date with somebody and just enjoy the date, and not be worried about sleeping with them in case I am a total let down. I want to accept the possibility that I'll have children without being put off by the fear that I will be a terrible mother. I want to take driving lessons... well actually I'm not sure I do, but I want to be put off because I like walking and having the money for other things and saving the planet, and not put off by my certainty that I will fail the test and/or crash if I eventually do pass. I want to fuck up and accept that that's because everyone does and not because I am inherently defected. I want to see being young as my chance to try things and make difference and find out what I want and be happy and make others happy. I want to stop seeing it as some kind of life sentence of inevitable mistakes and rejections. I want to be able to run 6 miles by April. I want to stop feeling guilty for being such a 'burden' to everyone and instead be grateful that my family and old friends love me so goddamn much they put up with my bile and melancholy. I want to type up this bloody lesson plan.
I might not be able to do it all on my own, and it won't happen overnight (except the lesson plan), and that scares me too.
OK, so tomorrow I'll be tired (that now is unfortunately inevitable). But the sun will rise the day after that and so will I.
Thursday, 3 March 2011
Sunday, 27 February 2011
A Tale of Three Monkeys
Hello there. Have I ever told you about why I do not think it is a good idea to name a pet Monkey? That is to say, give a pet the name Monkey, as opposed to give a pet monkey a name. No? Well please allow me to; so that when you next come to name a pet, you do not make the same mistake that I did, thrice. During my time at university, I had three pet Monkeys (none were monkeys). All, I regret to tell you, met with sorry fortune. In short, this is the tragic tale of three un-monkeys called Monkey.
Monkey number 1 was a flat hamster (as in, a hamster shared by all in the flat; even after his misfortunes began he was never actually flattened). He was ginger with little black eyes and a little white bum. There were nine of us living in university accommodation. We hadn’t chosen to live together and in truth we didn’t like each other much. But, as some ill-advised couples have children to save their marriage (apparently), we got a hamster in an attempt to save flat relations. It was a bad idea from the start; we couldn’t even agree on a name. To some he was Tyler, after the block of flats we were living in. The rest of us, thinking Tyler sounded too much like a name people call their children, and that since we would have preferred a monkey the next best thing was to pretend our hamster was one, called him Monkey. Nonetheless despite his identity crisis, like all children, Monkey was still a very happy, cared for and doted upon little being. O how we would watch him for hours (minutes at least) as he ran in his little wheel, chewed a toilet roll or pooed in his food bowl. The people in the next flat used to crowd into the room of the person who had a telly and watch Hollyoaks. We used to crowd into whichever room Monkey was residing in and watch him in his cage. We took turns to hide him in our room when the maintenance staff came to visit. He would join us when we were having parties in the kitchen, whizzing around our ankles and up and down the hall in his plastic ball. It was a magical time.
Then one day, our dear little Monkey disappeared. He’d been let out in his ball and was running around happily. The next thing we knew the front door was ajar and both Monkey and his ball were nowhere to be found. All cloak and dagger behaviour pertaining to our illegal hamster ceased immediately. Flyers with photographs of Monkey, our flat number, mobile numbers and email addresses went up on every wall, tree and notice board on campus. We called every flat in the building, all to no avail. Monkey was gone.
This however, is a Monkey’s tale which ends happily. For after 5 long weeks, when all hope had been abandoned, on the last day of the Michaelmas term, amidst the tinsel, mulled wine and essay deadlines, Flat 10 saw a Christmas miracle. While most of us were out, my flatmate Tally heard a knock at the door. It was ironic really; Tally was the only member of the flat who had always remained positively antipathetic towards Monkey, refusing even to flyer following his suspected abduction. This was probably lucky for the girls who returned him, as Tally had no qualms or questions about his condition or mode of transport.
When I got in after my final seminar of term, the first thing she said was, ‘guess who’s in my bedroom’. If you knew Tally you’d know that this was a question with endless possible answers so I shrugged, not wishing to offend. ‘Monkey’ she said.
‘Our Monkey?’ I asked.
‘Yes, our Monkey’ she confirmed, ‘the rat.’ And there he was, in a shoe box, with decidedly less of his baby fat than he’d had last time we saw him.
‘Where was he?’
‘In an Asda bag.’
Apparently Tally had been asleep when a persistent knock at the door and shrieks of laughter had forced her out of her bed. The noise makers were two girls who handed her the bag. She looked inside and there was Monkey and his ball (which was smashed into several pieces).
‘What did they say?’
‘Nothing’
‘What did you say?’
‘I thanked them and told them they woke me up from my nap. Then I put him in my Red or Dead boots box. I hope I don’t have to return them, He’s eaten part of the lid.’
After that, university was deemed too dangerous a place for a Monkey. He was re-named Toffee and went to live with my flatmate Zara’s parents. And that’s the story of my first Monkey.
Monkeys 2 and 3 were not quite so fortunate. My second Monkey was a hedgehog. He turned up in the garden of the house I shared with 2 people in my second and third years of university. We already had two cats, neither of whom were called Monkey, and it is to this I attribute (at least in part) their good health which remains to this day. His arrival was a mystery, as our garden was foliage free; its 12 square feet of ground was decking and instead of bushes, trees or plants, contained only an old fridge and a broken flower pot. There was nothing there either to attract or sustain a weary hedgehog. Still, we took it upon ourselves to look after him... or her; the fact that we couldn’t even determine its gender probably means we were not qualified to look after the hedgehog which I insisted on naming Monkey the Second, naturally. Monkey the Second was quite clearly not a well hedgehog: he or she was very small and at times I suspected, blind. Our adopted pet was continually falling down the one step in our garden (how s/he got up it we never knew) and walking into the wall despite how slowly s/he moved. (This could be because hedgehogs are supposed to be nocturnal and therefore unused to bright sunshine. Though Monkey did not seem to keep to any fixed sleep pattern. Perhaps this was part of the problem.) We bought a box which we propped against a wall for Monkey the Second to crawl in and out of at his/her will. We fed Monkey dry cat food (but not milk as we read that this induced diarrhoea). We stole foliage from our neighbour’s garden to make Monkey the Second feel at home. It was never our intention to keep Monkey the Second. We wished only to nurture him/her until he/she returned to health. This never happened. I don’t know if it’s because of the box falling on Monkey the Second, or if the cats scared him/her, or because we should have called the RSPCA when we first found him/her. But by the time we realised we couldn’t help Monkey the Second and my housemate took him/her there it was too late. Monkey the Second died soon after admission to the RSPCA hospital. May our androgynous pet rest in peace.
Monkey the Third was a baby bird. Therein lies the only poetry of his tale (and no, I don’t know if this Monkey was a boy or a girl either but I’m bored of remembering to type all this him/her business). We found him on the pavement outside our house (again – no trees, so how he got there is another one of life’s little unsolveds. I wonder if someone playing a trick on us kept leaving unloved wild animals outside our house), and he was quite alone and abandoned. We waited a while at the window for his mother to return (we didn’t touch him) but she didn’t. So we took him in and put him in the box which Monkey the Second had vacated. Again, it was not our intention to keep the third and final Monkey; we (well I) wanted only to feed him worms until he could fly and find his own. Now – if you think foliage sounds like an ambitious thing to steal from your neighbours’ gardens (actually you probably don’t because it’s very easy), you should try stealing worms. I tell you – it was a labour of love for that damn bird. My housemate Emmie was not happy with me for keeping the worms in one of her wine glasses either.
It was me who wanted to name the bird Monkey, after the hedgehog. Emmie, whose dark sense of humour made her my most favourite housemate ever, wanted to call him Cat Food. As it turned out, both names were tragically prophetic. We realised within 5 minutes of bringing the baby bird inside that we had to keep them in separate rooms; a mission which failed epically... Turned out that if they worked as a team, those wily cats could open the bloody doors. This we realised with a collective sigh and an ‘ahhh’, some weeks after we had disposed Monkey the Third’s remains.
So there you have it Readers: three Monkeys, a whole lot of good intentions and love for them, and no happy ending (except for Monkey the First who just underwent one traumatic event). In conclusion – don’t call an animal ‘Monkey’ (even if it is a monkey, as this would be very unimaginative). It brings bad luck.
I have just realised it is almost exactly a year since I gave birth to this blog. I’d love to say I’ll write another one in 2 days on its first birthday but my recent neglect of it renders that an unlikely possibility.
Monkey number 1 was a flat hamster (as in, a hamster shared by all in the flat; even after his misfortunes began he was never actually flattened). He was ginger with little black eyes and a little white bum. There were nine of us living in university accommodation. We hadn’t chosen to live together and in truth we didn’t like each other much. But, as some ill-advised couples have children to save their marriage (apparently), we got a hamster in an attempt to save flat relations. It was a bad idea from the start; we couldn’t even agree on a name. To some he was Tyler, after the block of flats we were living in. The rest of us, thinking Tyler sounded too much like a name people call their children, and that since we would have preferred a monkey the next best thing was to pretend our hamster was one, called him Monkey. Nonetheless despite his identity crisis, like all children, Monkey was still a very happy, cared for and doted upon little being. O how we would watch him for hours (minutes at least) as he ran in his little wheel, chewed a toilet roll or pooed in his food bowl. The people in the next flat used to crowd into the room of the person who had a telly and watch Hollyoaks. We used to crowd into whichever room Monkey was residing in and watch him in his cage. We took turns to hide him in our room when the maintenance staff came to visit. He would join us when we were having parties in the kitchen, whizzing around our ankles and up and down the hall in his plastic ball. It was a magical time.
Then one day, our dear little Monkey disappeared. He’d been let out in his ball and was running around happily. The next thing we knew the front door was ajar and both Monkey and his ball were nowhere to be found. All cloak and dagger behaviour pertaining to our illegal hamster ceased immediately. Flyers with photographs of Monkey, our flat number, mobile numbers and email addresses went up on every wall, tree and notice board on campus. We called every flat in the building, all to no avail. Monkey was gone.
This however, is a Monkey’s tale which ends happily. For after 5 long weeks, when all hope had been abandoned, on the last day of the Michaelmas term, amidst the tinsel, mulled wine and essay deadlines, Flat 10 saw a Christmas miracle. While most of us were out, my flatmate Tally heard a knock at the door. It was ironic really; Tally was the only member of the flat who had always remained positively antipathetic towards Monkey, refusing even to flyer following his suspected abduction. This was probably lucky for the girls who returned him, as Tally had no qualms or questions about his condition or mode of transport.
When I got in after my final seminar of term, the first thing she said was, ‘guess who’s in my bedroom’. If you knew Tally you’d know that this was a question with endless possible answers so I shrugged, not wishing to offend. ‘Monkey’ she said.
‘Our Monkey?’ I asked.
‘Yes, our Monkey’ she confirmed, ‘the rat.’ And there he was, in a shoe box, with decidedly less of his baby fat than he’d had last time we saw him.
‘Where was he?’
‘In an Asda bag.’
Apparently Tally had been asleep when a persistent knock at the door and shrieks of laughter had forced her out of her bed. The noise makers were two girls who handed her the bag. She looked inside and there was Monkey and his ball (which was smashed into several pieces).
‘What did they say?’
‘Nothing’
‘What did you say?’
‘I thanked them and told them they woke me up from my nap. Then I put him in my Red or Dead boots box. I hope I don’t have to return them, He’s eaten part of the lid.’
After that, university was deemed too dangerous a place for a Monkey. He was re-named Toffee and went to live with my flatmate Zara’s parents. And that’s the story of my first Monkey.
Monkeys 2 and 3 were not quite so fortunate. My second Monkey was a hedgehog. He turned up in the garden of the house I shared with 2 people in my second and third years of university. We already had two cats, neither of whom were called Monkey, and it is to this I attribute (at least in part) their good health which remains to this day. His arrival was a mystery, as our garden was foliage free; its 12 square feet of ground was decking and instead of bushes, trees or plants, contained only an old fridge and a broken flower pot. There was nothing there either to attract or sustain a weary hedgehog. Still, we took it upon ourselves to look after him... or her; the fact that we couldn’t even determine its gender probably means we were not qualified to look after the hedgehog which I insisted on naming Monkey the Second, naturally. Monkey the Second was quite clearly not a well hedgehog: he or she was very small and at times I suspected, blind. Our adopted pet was continually falling down the one step in our garden (how s/he got up it we never knew) and walking into the wall despite how slowly s/he moved. (This could be because hedgehogs are supposed to be nocturnal and therefore unused to bright sunshine. Though Monkey did not seem to keep to any fixed sleep pattern. Perhaps this was part of the problem.) We bought a box which we propped against a wall for Monkey the Second to crawl in and out of at his/her will. We fed Monkey dry cat food (but not milk as we read that this induced diarrhoea). We stole foliage from our neighbour’s garden to make Monkey the Second feel at home. It was never our intention to keep Monkey the Second. We wished only to nurture him/her until he/she returned to health. This never happened. I don’t know if it’s because of the box falling on Monkey the Second, or if the cats scared him/her, or because we should have called the RSPCA when we first found him/her. But by the time we realised we couldn’t help Monkey the Second and my housemate took him/her there it was too late. Monkey the Second died soon after admission to the RSPCA hospital. May our androgynous pet rest in peace.
Monkey the Third was a baby bird. Therein lies the only poetry of his tale (and no, I don’t know if this Monkey was a boy or a girl either but I’m bored of remembering to type all this him/her business). We found him on the pavement outside our house (again – no trees, so how he got there is another one of life’s little unsolveds. I wonder if someone playing a trick on us kept leaving unloved wild animals outside our house), and he was quite alone and abandoned. We waited a while at the window for his mother to return (we didn’t touch him) but she didn’t. So we took him in and put him in the box which Monkey the Second had vacated. Again, it was not our intention to keep the third and final Monkey; we (well I) wanted only to feed him worms until he could fly and find his own. Now – if you think foliage sounds like an ambitious thing to steal from your neighbours’ gardens (actually you probably don’t because it’s very easy), you should try stealing worms. I tell you – it was a labour of love for that damn bird. My housemate Emmie was not happy with me for keeping the worms in one of her wine glasses either.
It was me who wanted to name the bird Monkey, after the hedgehog. Emmie, whose dark sense of humour made her my most favourite housemate ever, wanted to call him Cat Food. As it turned out, both names were tragically prophetic. We realised within 5 minutes of bringing the baby bird inside that we had to keep them in separate rooms; a mission which failed epically... Turned out that if they worked as a team, those wily cats could open the bloody doors. This we realised with a collective sigh and an ‘ahhh’, some weeks after we had disposed Monkey the Third’s remains.
So there you have it Readers: three Monkeys, a whole lot of good intentions and love for them, and no happy ending (except for Monkey the First who just underwent one traumatic event). In conclusion – don’t call an animal ‘Monkey’ (even if it is a monkey, as this would be very unimaginative). It brings bad luck.
I have just realised it is almost exactly a year since I gave birth to this blog. I’d love to say I’ll write another one in 2 days on its first birthday but my recent neglect of it renders that an unlikely possibility.
Sunday, 6 June 2010
101 things which make me happy. Shamelessly stolen from another blogger who deserves 99.9% of the credit for this post.
I am not generally wont to post more than twice in a month, but you never know when I will run out of inspiration, so while I seem to have it... (Although this is not actually my own inspiration, as indicated by the title). The other reason why I am writing this list now Reader, is that I should be doing other things like preparing for work. Now, as you know by now I am not as naturally inclined to looking on the brighter side of life as I perhaps ‘should’ be. To write 101 things which annoy or anger or depress me would probably be a lot easier. For example: snow; children in clothes shops; Cliff Richard (the man eats condensed milk sandwiches for crying out loud); Tess of The D’Urbervilles (i.e.: Sweet Charity but WITHOUT the show tunes); white chocolate, which is just wrong on every level; Christmas (Bad weather, dead birds and the most revolting puddings ever. Mince Pie - yuck; Christmas Pudding - double yuck; Christmas Cake, worst dessert my palette has ever been assaulted by)... see I am already having much more fun with THIS list than I did writing the upbeat one I have painstakingly been compiling all day. But since I am striving with all my might to be a happy person I present to you 101 things which make Baby June cheerful:
1. Sending and receiving handwritten letters
2. Lush shower jelly
3. Having conversations in Sign Language with my friend Judy
4. Having conversations in German with the kiddies I once au – paired for & with their Grandmother & Aunt
5. Discovering quirky parts of London. Recent favourites include: Chapel Market; Hackney Wick & Brick Lane
6. Painting my toe nails crude colours (blue, orange, black, green...)
7. Eating olives; hummus & pitta bread
8. Cooking (savoury food. I can’t make desserts, I can only eat them.)
9. Finding a vegan restaurant in the form of a converted double decker bus and eating pudding there with my friend Pixie
10. Marian Keyes – everything she has ever written and/or said. She is my female crush.
11. Sunshine; blossom; blue skies; that yoke
12. Using the phrase ‘yoke’ & pretending I am Irish
13. People offering me a lift when it is raining
14. Finding umbrellas on trains and buses
15. Jogging! (Shocking!)
16. Blogging! (Less so!)
17. Having crushes on men and not telling them
18. The Slug and Lettuce
19. Bonnets (actual bonnets)
20. Bonnets (books, television shows and films where people wear them)
21. Friends (actual friends)
22. Friends (the television show)
23. My new handbag - £10 down from £40; found in a vintage shop which uses recycled leather
24. My new dress - £20 down from £40; makes me look thinner than I am
25. Lending people/being lent books
26. Receiving hilarious texts from my surrogate mother about Big Brother
27. Being woken up by the sun and not by my alarm
28. The naughty foxes who bath in/drink from our pond during the wee small hours, incensing my father but amusing me no end
29. My Ally McBeal DVDs
30. Beads
31. The Body Shop
32. Taking my make up off
33. When work is going well
34. My stupid brother
35. Old buildings
36. Staying in & drinking wine with my friend Gillespie
37. My hairdresser, who I would trust with my life
38. The Sound of Music – specifically the bit where Captain Von Trapp says, ‘I’ve behaved badly.’ (There is no accounting for taste.)
39. Long train journeys (not on the underground)
40. Facebook conversations with Mr W
41. Lunch with the Emperor
42. Cheap holidays
43. Dinner with the parents, particularly when outdoors
44. LOADS of books: Anne of Green Gables; Harry Potter (books. The films belong firmly on my ‘hate’ list); Captain Corelli’s Mandolin (Ditto); The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society; obviously everything by Marian Keyes...
45. Choosing birthday presents for my God – daughter
46. Rational people
47. Irrational people
48. Overtime at work
49. Not spending money
50. Pay Day
51. Finding I am halfway through a task
52. Dancing... albeit like a twat
53. Losing weight
54. Realising I don’t care about my weight
55. Crisps
56. Stationery
57. Being helpful
58. Hugs
59. Avenue Q
60. Talking
61. Listening
62. New knickers
63. Strictly Come Dancing
64. Drama – watching it; being in it; running around backstage; directing it...
65. Clothes that don’t need ironing
66. The battery recycling points at work
67. Hearing bottles smash at bottle banks
68. Australian soap operas
69. The Andrex Puppy
70. Kittens
71. When I walk down the High Street and run into lots of people who I know, especially when they're people I actually want to talk to
72. Typing really fast without naking amy miskates
73. When my calendar looks full (even if when you look closely it is mostly details of my menstrual cycle & dentist appointments)
74. People who have a slightly evil or dark sense of humour
75. Irish pubs
76. Free museums
77. Incense sticks
78. Remembering what I did the night before
79. Knowing the answer when somebody asks me for directions
80. Finding hair ties
81. Hand cream
82. Finding a book I have wanted to read for ages for £2 in a charity shop
83. Allowing myself the luxury of buying brand – spanking new books from Waterstone's
84. Writing poems
85. Red wine (especially the noise it makes when being poured, lovely); cider; beer; gin & tonic; Proseco; pretty cocktails
86. Giving up drinking
87. Finding what I am looking for quickly – especially when it is shoes. (Shopping for shoes in general would be on my lengthier ‘do not like’ list.)
88. The film Mamma Mia
89. Finally mastering a tune on the keyboard (admittedly I have not practiced in months)
90. These words: ergo; epistolary; oleaginous; noisome; vacillate; obfuscate; minge; umbrage; pinguid; ononism; hoppity; phalange; grim; ocelot; shizzle
91. Wasting hours of my life watching rubbish on YouTube
92. Mocking people who wear Ugg boots & ‘jeggings’
93. Finding episodes of QI
94. Big summer salads
95. Singing along (drunkenly & terribly) to ‘I Will Survive’; ‘Don’t Speak’; ‘Jolene’; ‘The Winner Takes It All’; ‘If I Could Turn Back Time’; ‘It’s Too Late’; ‘Take Another Little Piece of My Heart’; ‘Wuthering Heights’ & other such classics
96. Boy Bands
97. ‘Here Comes the Sun’ by The Beatles; ‘Ooh Child’ by Nina Simone & ‘Don’t Worry Baby’ by The Beach Boys. This is by no means an extensive list of my favourite songs, but certainly some of the most uplifting ones.
98. Pubs in other countries where you can still smoke
99. Meeting people who are the same star sign as me and instantly bonding with them & vowing to be friends forever
100. Doll’s Houses – I am not sure why
101. Finishing tasks
1. Sending and receiving handwritten letters
2. Lush shower jelly
3. Having conversations in Sign Language with my friend Judy
4. Having conversations in German with the kiddies I once au – paired for & with their Grandmother & Aunt
5. Discovering quirky parts of London. Recent favourites include: Chapel Market; Hackney Wick & Brick Lane
6. Painting my toe nails crude colours (blue, orange, black, green...)
7. Eating olives; hummus & pitta bread
8. Cooking (savoury food. I can’t make desserts, I can only eat them.)
9. Finding a vegan restaurant in the form of a converted double decker bus and eating pudding there with my friend Pixie
10. Marian Keyes – everything she has ever written and/or said. She is my female crush.
11. Sunshine; blossom; blue skies; that yoke
12. Using the phrase ‘yoke’ & pretending I am Irish
13. People offering me a lift when it is raining
14. Finding umbrellas on trains and buses
15. Jogging! (Shocking!)
16. Blogging! (Less so!)
17. Having crushes on men and not telling them
18. The Slug and Lettuce
19. Bonnets (actual bonnets)
20. Bonnets (books, television shows and films where people wear them)
21. Friends (actual friends)
22. Friends (the television show)
23. My new handbag - £10 down from £40; found in a vintage shop which uses recycled leather
24. My new dress - £20 down from £40; makes me look thinner than I am
25. Lending people/being lent books
26. Receiving hilarious texts from my surrogate mother about Big Brother
27. Being woken up by the sun and not by my alarm
28. The naughty foxes who bath in/drink from our pond during the wee small hours, incensing my father but amusing me no end
29. My Ally McBeal DVDs
30. Beads
31. The Body Shop
32. Taking my make up off
33. When work is going well
34. My stupid brother
35. Old buildings
36. Staying in & drinking wine with my friend Gillespie
37. My hairdresser, who I would trust with my life
38. The Sound of Music – specifically the bit where Captain Von Trapp says, ‘I’ve behaved badly.’ (There is no accounting for taste.)
39. Long train journeys (not on the underground)
40. Facebook conversations with Mr W
41. Lunch with the Emperor
42. Cheap holidays
43. Dinner with the parents, particularly when outdoors
44. LOADS of books: Anne of Green Gables; Harry Potter (books. The films belong firmly on my ‘hate’ list); Captain Corelli’s Mandolin (Ditto); The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society; obviously everything by Marian Keyes...
45. Choosing birthday presents for my God – daughter
46. Rational people
47. Irrational people
48. Overtime at work
49. Not spending money
50. Pay Day
51. Finding I am halfway through a task
52. Dancing... albeit like a twat
53. Losing weight
54. Realising I don’t care about my weight
55. Crisps
56. Stationery
57. Being helpful
58. Hugs
59. Avenue Q
60. Talking
61. Listening
62. New knickers
63. Strictly Come Dancing
64. Drama – watching it; being in it; running around backstage; directing it...
65. Clothes that don’t need ironing
66. The battery recycling points at work
67. Hearing bottles smash at bottle banks
68. Australian soap operas
69. The Andrex Puppy
70. Kittens
71. When I walk down the High Street and run into lots of people who I know, especially when they're people I actually want to talk to
72. Typing really fast without naking amy miskates
73. When my calendar looks full (even if when you look closely it is mostly details of my menstrual cycle & dentist appointments)
74. People who have a slightly evil or dark sense of humour
75. Irish pubs
76. Free museums
77. Incense sticks
78. Remembering what I did the night before
79. Knowing the answer when somebody asks me for directions
80. Finding hair ties
81. Hand cream
82. Finding a book I have wanted to read for ages for £2 in a charity shop
83. Allowing myself the luxury of buying brand – spanking new books from Waterstone's
84. Writing poems
85. Red wine (especially the noise it makes when being poured, lovely); cider; beer; gin & tonic; Proseco; pretty cocktails
86. Giving up drinking
87. Finding what I am looking for quickly – especially when it is shoes. (Shopping for shoes in general would be on my lengthier ‘do not like’ list.)
88. The film Mamma Mia
89. Finally mastering a tune on the keyboard (admittedly I have not practiced in months)
90. These words: ergo; epistolary; oleaginous; noisome; vacillate; obfuscate; minge; umbrage; pinguid; ononism; hoppity; phalange; grim; ocelot; shizzle
91. Wasting hours of my life watching rubbish on YouTube
92. Mocking people who wear Ugg boots & ‘jeggings’
93. Finding episodes of QI
94. Big summer salads
95. Singing along (drunkenly & terribly) to ‘I Will Survive’; ‘Don’t Speak’; ‘Jolene’; ‘The Winner Takes It All’; ‘If I Could Turn Back Time’; ‘It’s Too Late’; ‘Take Another Little Piece of My Heart’; ‘Wuthering Heights’ & other such classics
96. Boy Bands
97. ‘Here Comes the Sun’ by The Beatles; ‘Ooh Child’ by Nina Simone & ‘Don’t Worry Baby’ by The Beach Boys. This is by no means an extensive list of my favourite songs, but certainly some of the most uplifting ones.
98. Pubs in other countries where you can still smoke
99. Meeting people who are the same star sign as me and instantly bonding with them & vowing to be friends forever
100. Doll’s Houses – I am not sure why
101. Finishing tasks
Thursday, 3 June 2010
Edit to my last post
I was delighted today to receive an email 'from' Marian Keyes. (Yes, Reader I am on her mailing list. Are you really surprised?) I did what every Marian superfan probably did - I texted my mother (and a couple of friends), 'she's back'. So pleased was I that I actually turned off my Australian soap opera to read her newsletter. I won't bother to quote or paraphrase her. In fact I won't even attempt to convey the gist - you (all 3 of you who actually read this blog) can read her post for yourselves. And I would recommend it: 'tis insightful, honest and well - worth reading.
Marian's new post
My 'The Brightest Star in the Sky' book review
Marian's new post
My 'The Brightest Star in the Sky' book review
Friday, 28 May 2010
Dear Imaginary Friend
‘Well you cry a little and then you wait for the sun to come out. It always does.’ – Julie Andrews, The Sound of Music
Sometimes you have to feel worse than you ever thought was possible before you start to feel even fractionally like re – joining the rest of the world. You have to sit in the pub, surrounded by friends, feeling profoundly lonely; or in the classroom, as everybody else joins in a lively debate, desperately asking yourself what’s wrong with you because you don’t understand; or look into the devastatingly beautiful eyes of someone attractive and wonder why instead of flipping over, your stomach just feels as heavy as the rest of you.
For months I blow – dried my hair every morning in front of the mirror, as the eyes that looked back at me asked, ‘what’s the point?’ and I cried silently. The simplest things, like going to work, made me panic and bite my lips raw as my irrational mind compiled a list of everything which I would probably do wrong that day. At night time I lay awake. I felt guilty, and too ashamed to tell anybody what was happening. I hated myself. I couldn’t sit on a train platform without having the urge to jump, or pick up a pair of scissors and not wonder how much damage I could do. Somehow, despite also being a source of anxiety, going to work helped. But the only thing I could do which really bought me any kind of peace was read, most of the time anyway. Marian Keyes books in particular were a godsend. So was the mantra ‘this too shall pass’.
It took a long time to pass. It still hasn’t fully. Something which helped me and continues to was Marian Keyes’ blog. I have for a long time been a fan of both her and her novels. A militant fan who will get into an argument with anybody who dismisses her as ‘chick lit’ or ‘trite’, quoting she herself saying that the term ‘chick lit’ is not an insult but something to be celebrated; then contradicting myself by insisting that if they’d only read her work they would see that she has ‘a sense of nuance that is not commonplace in the chick-lit genre’ - phrase used by Paul Valley of The Independent. The truth is, I love Marian Keyes like young boys love David Beckham or Jenson Button. Possibly more. Many a time in the past, after a grey day I’ve been made to laugh by her writing and YouTube podcasts about holidays, lost passports, family weddings, make – up and awards ceremonies. (She is one of those rare celebrities whose candid humour and warmth make you feel as if you have met them; who you suspect that if you did meet them you could tell them anything. Stephen Fry is another favourite for the same reason.) However, she hit the headlines in January on account of her post on her website about her own depression. Her New Year blog was different from all the others. It was poignant and sad, reading ‘My dear amigos, happy new year to you all and I hope your festive season was not too unpleasant. I’m very sorry but this is going to be a very short piece because I am laid low with crippling depression.’ The blog went on to describe how she couldn’t eat, sleep, read, write or talk and was followed by a number of inspiring quotes. (See here)
She wrote so honestly, admitting, ‘I know I’m leaving myself open to stinky journalists saying ‘What has she got to be depressed about, the self-indulgent whiner, when there are people out there with real troubles?’ so I won’t go on about it.’Her fear of judgement, which many before her have felt, was understandable. Yet the response from readers was incredible. Out of about 500 comments (or more, I'm not sure) I think one was in criticism of her. The rest were expressions of sympathy, understanding, love and encouragement. I had just gotten through a very low Christmas and more than what she herself had written, these comments were my own ray of light, making me believe that in spite of all the painful things there are so many lovely people in the world. Moreover, that not everybody is a critic, that for every judge there is a compassionate heart. I hope that she reads some of the comments and as well as being, inevitably, saddened by how many people admitted to having their own demons, she will also be touched by all the kindness. One reader posted this poem. Those who don’t understand it, never will. Those who do should, I think, adopt it as a mantra:
You suppose you are the trouble
But you are the cure
You suppose that you are the lock on the door
But you are the key that opens it
It’s too bad that you want to be someone else
You don’t see your own face, your own beauty
Yet, no face is more beautiful than yours.
- Rumi, 13th Century poet
I hate to make generalisations and talk in the ‘we’, as I am not a politician, or a tabloid journalist, or a team leader. But recently ‘we’ all seem to have lived through a very long and disheartening winter. (And I don’t think I need to waffle on in my pitifully uninformed way about the economic crisis and other things you can see on the news in this blog.) I have recognised in the eyes of a few people recently a desperate look that I’d previously only seen in my own. A look of shocked annoyance at themselves which says, ‘I’m so sorry for being so sad. I know it is wrong of me and I wish I wasn’t such a burden.’
Yet despite the air of desolation, and the cynics who quip ‘misery loves company’, I have also sensed a new wave of comradery and compassion, the like of which I had previously only experienced fractionally during the gloom that was exam times – when you’d find yourself asking and being asked by people who you never really knew or liked ‘how it was going?’. (It’s possible too that this ‘new wave’ has something to do with the fact I am gradually, somewhat reluctantly, becoming a grown up, and am surrounded less by self – involved teenagers and more by people who have learned both pain and acceptance of others. I don’t know.) As well as being lower than ever before this past 18 months, I have also known fleeting moments of comfort from unlikely sources. The first from a woman I used to work with, who without words simply saw how sad I was and hugged me at a time when I was feeling utterly isolated and confused. Another came from a friend’s boyfriend who answered the phone when I was actually after her, and when I told him I’d had a bad week, said to me, ‘I know. Life is sometimes shit. I am sorry for you. It will get better.’ If there is a gift that comes from Hell, it is perhaps this: understanding.
Recently a friend of mine was struggling with her own black dog. I tried to text her something helpful, quoting Sam from Lord of The Rings, ‘Even darkness must pass’ (a quote, which yes! I did get from Marian’s website). My friend replied knowingly, ‘Darkness passes but it comes round again. My mind seems to mirror night and day.’ I couldn’t fault her logic: I felt like I was reading my own thoughts. It hit me again yesterday. I didn’t have work and was leisurely getting dressed when suddenly I felt such a sense of failure and uselessness, and that I wasn’t wanted or needed by anyone, that I climbed back into bed and cried for two hours. I managed to drag myself back out and round to my Grandmother’s. I even managed to be amused by her. (She has recently gotten out of hospital, having broken her hip in four places after a hoovering calamity, and was operated on under epidural. She claims the anaesthetic injected into her made her hallucinate geometric shapes and shadows of people and that this lasted a week and a half. I tried to explain to her that there are people who would pay a lot of money for a mere few hours of this, and that she should be grateful to have experienced such a legal high for free, but she was having none of it... anywho, I have digressed). Later in the evening I even went for that jog I’ve been threatening since New Year, though to be honest it was more out of a loathing for my thighs than care for my spiritual wellbeing.
Five months on and I continue to check Marian’s website and I know I’m not the only one. Only this month somebody summed up the feelings of many with the post, ‘Dear Marian. How is it going? It's strange how now and again I think about someone I dont even know. Yes, thats you. I do hope that there is light at the end of the tunnel. I hope that you will dazzle again soon.’
As yet there hasn’t been a new post from Marian, so I’m guessing she’s not 'back' yet. Here is what I would like to say to her:
Dear Imaginary Friend,
Your books have made me smile when little else could and changed my outlook on life. Rachel and Aisling and Lucy have been my heroines. My brother who I haven’t seen for 8 months sent me The Brightest Star in the Sky for Christmas when I was skint and couldn’t afford it myself, and in an attempt to lift my spirits I even started doing a daily ‘trio of blessings’, like Maeve. So when I first read your post in January, it touched a nerve for reasons I’m sure you can imagine. I shan’t depress you with details I’m sure you’re already familiar with, and I won’t pretend my experience was as bad as yours or worse, and I won’t patronise you by saying ‘I know how you feel’ because maybe I don’t. All I will say is that the quotes you posted and the response from readers were a glimmer of hope when I needed it. Even in your worst hour you provided something inspiring for so many. Thank you.
Winston Churchill was right when he said, ‘If you are going through hell, keep going.’ A few weeks ago I was sitting under the plum tree in the garden reading. The Beautiful South’s ‘Rotterdam’ was playing in the summer house. I looked up at the white blossom and cirrus clouds against the blue sky. I thought, ‘I’m glad I’m alive to see this.’
Take your time. Love, hope, light and strength to you. xx
The End
A few of my favourite Marian Keyes quotes:
‘What doesn't kill us makes us funnier.’ - The Other Side of the Story
‘How to make God laugh? Tell Him your plans.’ - The Other Side of the Story
‘It was ironic, really - you want to die because you can't be bothered to go on living - but then you're expected to get all energetic and move furniture and stand on chairs and hoist ropes and do complicated knots and attach things to other things and kick stools from under you and mess around with hot baths and razor blades and extension cords and electrical appliances and weedkiller. Suicide was a complicated, demanding business, often involving visits to hardware shops.
And if you've managed to drag yourself from the bed and go down the road to the garden centre or the drug store, by then the worst is over. At that point you might as well just go to work.’
- Lucy Sullivan Is Getting Married
‘But here's the thing my life did get better. I made a decision to let go of my dreams, because they were killing me, and I stopped asking the impossible of myself. I changed my attitude and decided to focus on what I had rather than what I didn't have.’ – Angels
‘The back windows looked out over the fields, then the Atlantic, maybe a hundred yards away. Actually, I'm just making that bit up. I had no idea how far away the sea was. Only men could do things like that. "Half a mile." "Fifty yards." Giving directions, that sort of thing. I could look at a woman and say "Thirty-six C." Or "Let's try it in the next size up." But I had no idea how far away Tim's sea was except that I wouldn't want to walk to it in high heels.’ – This Charming Man
"I'm not going to fall for him."
“So why are you bothering at all?"
“Just killing time until I die." – The Brightest Star in the Sky
Click here for M.K. on 'Feathery Strokers'
Sometimes you have to feel worse than you ever thought was possible before you start to feel even fractionally like re – joining the rest of the world. You have to sit in the pub, surrounded by friends, feeling profoundly lonely; or in the classroom, as everybody else joins in a lively debate, desperately asking yourself what’s wrong with you because you don’t understand; or look into the devastatingly beautiful eyes of someone attractive and wonder why instead of flipping over, your stomach just feels as heavy as the rest of you.
For months I blow – dried my hair every morning in front of the mirror, as the eyes that looked back at me asked, ‘what’s the point?’ and I cried silently. The simplest things, like going to work, made me panic and bite my lips raw as my irrational mind compiled a list of everything which I would probably do wrong that day. At night time I lay awake. I felt guilty, and too ashamed to tell anybody what was happening. I hated myself. I couldn’t sit on a train platform without having the urge to jump, or pick up a pair of scissors and not wonder how much damage I could do. Somehow, despite also being a source of anxiety, going to work helped. But the only thing I could do which really bought me any kind of peace was read, most of the time anyway. Marian Keyes books in particular were a godsend. So was the mantra ‘this too shall pass’.
It took a long time to pass. It still hasn’t fully. Something which helped me and continues to was Marian Keyes’ blog. I have for a long time been a fan of both her and her novels. A militant fan who will get into an argument with anybody who dismisses her as ‘chick lit’ or ‘trite’, quoting she herself saying that the term ‘chick lit’ is not an insult but something to be celebrated; then contradicting myself by insisting that if they’d only read her work they would see that she has ‘a sense of nuance that is not commonplace in the chick-lit genre’ - phrase used by Paul Valley of The Independent. The truth is, I love Marian Keyes like young boys love David Beckham or Jenson Button. Possibly more. Many a time in the past, after a grey day I’ve been made to laugh by her writing and YouTube podcasts about holidays, lost passports, family weddings, make – up and awards ceremonies. (She is one of those rare celebrities whose candid humour and warmth make you feel as if you have met them; who you suspect that if you did meet them you could tell them anything. Stephen Fry is another favourite for the same reason.) However, she hit the headlines in January on account of her post on her website about her own depression. Her New Year blog was different from all the others. It was poignant and sad, reading ‘My dear amigos, happy new year to you all and I hope your festive season was not too unpleasant. I’m very sorry but this is going to be a very short piece because I am laid low with crippling depression.’ The blog went on to describe how she couldn’t eat, sleep, read, write or talk and was followed by a number of inspiring quotes. (See here)
She wrote so honestly, admitting, ‘I know I’m leaving myself open to stinky journalists saying ‘What has she got to be depressed about, the self-indulgent whiner, when there are people out there with real troubles?’ so I won’t go on about it.’Her fear of judgement, which many before her have felt, was understandable. Yet the response from readers was incredible. Out of about 500 comments (or more, I'm not sure) I think one was in criticism of her. The rest were expressions of sympathy, understanding, love and encouragement. I had just gotten through a very low Christmas and more than what she herself had written, these comments were my own ray of light, making me believe that in spite of all the painful things there are so many lovely people in the world. Moreover, that not everybody is a critic, that for every judge there is a compassionate heart. I hope that she reads some of the comments and as well as being, inevitably, saddened by how many people admitted to having their own demons, she will also be touched by all the kindness. One reader posted this poem. Those who don’t understand it, never will. Those who do should, I think, adopt it as a mantra:
You suppose you are the trouble
But you are the cure
You suppose that you are the lock on the door
But you are the key that opens it
It’s too bad that you want to be someone else
You don’t see your own face, your own beauty
Yet, no face is more beautiful than yours.
- Rumi, 13th Century poet
I hate to make generalisations and talk in the ‘we’, as I am not a politician, or a tabloid journalist, or a team leader. But recently ‘we’ all seem to have lived through a very long and disheartening winter. (And I don’t think I need to waffle on in my pitifully uninformed way about the economic crisis and other things you can see on the news in this blog.) I have recognised in the eyes of a few people recently a desperate look that I’d previously only seen in my own. A look of shocked annoyance at themselves which says, ‘I’m so sorry for being so sad. I know it is wrong of me and I wish I wasn’t such a burden.’
Yet despite the air of desolation, and the cynics who quip ‘misery loves company’, I have also sensed a new wave of comradery and compassion, the like of which I had previously only experienced fractionally during the gloom that was exam times – when you’d find yourself asking and being asked by people who you never really knew or liked ‘how it was going?’. (It’s possible too that this ‘new wave’ has something to do with the fact I am gradually, somewhat reluctantly, becoming a grown up, and am surrounded less by self – involved teenagers and more by people who have learned both pain and acceptance of others. I don’t know.) As well as being lower than ever before this past 18 months, I have also known fleeting moments of comfort from unlikely sources. The first from a woman I used to work with, who without words simply saw how sad I was and hugged me at a time when I was feeling utterly isolated and confused. Another came from a friend’s boyfriend who answered the phone when I was actually after her, and when I told him I’d had a bad week, said to me, ‘I know. Life is sometimes shit. I am sorry for you. It will get better.’ If there is a gift that comes from Hell, it is perhaps this: understanding.
Recently a friend of mine was struggling with her own black dog. I tried to text her something helpful, quoting Sam from Lord of The Rings, ‘Even darkness must pass’ (a quote, which yes! I did get from Marian’s website). My friend replied knowingly, ‘Darkness passes but it comes round again. My mind seems to mirror night and day.’ I couldn’t fault her logic: I felt like I was reading my own thoughts. It hit me again yesterday. I didn’t have work and was leisurely getting dressed when suddenly I felt such a sense of failure and uselessness, and that I wasn’t wanted or needed by anyone, that I climbed back into bed and cried for two hours. I managed to drag myself back out and round to my Grandmother’s. I even managed to be amused by her. (She has recently gotten out of hospital, having broken her hip in four places after a hoovering calamity, and was operated on under epidural. She claims the anaesthetic injected into her made her hallucinate geometric shapes and shadows of people and that this lasted a week and a half. I tried to explain to her that there are people who would pay a lot of money for a mere few hours of this, and that she should be grateful to have experienced such a legal high for free, but she was having none of it... anywho, I have digressed). Later in the evening I even went for that jog I’ve been threatening since New Year, though to be honest it was more out of a loathing for my thighs than care for my spiritual wellbeing.
Five months on and I continue to check Marian’s website and I know I’m not the only one. Only this month somebody summed up the feelings of many with the post, ‘Dear Marian. How is it going? It's strange how now and again I think about someone I dont even know. Yes, thats you. I do hope that there is light at the end of the tunnel. I hope that you will dazzle again soon.’
As yet there hasn’t been a new post from Marian, so I’m guessing she’s not 'back' yet. Here is what I would like to say to her:
Dear Imaginary Friend,
Your books have made me smile when little else could and changed my outlook on life. Rachel and Aisling and Lucy have been my heroines. My brother who I haven’t seen for 8 months sent me The Brightest Star in the Sky for Christmas when I was skint and couldn’t afford it myself, and in an attempt to lift my spirits I even started doing a daily ‘trio of blessings’, like Maeve. So when I first read your post in January, it touched a nerve for reasons I’m sure you can imagine. I shan’t depress you with details I’m sure you’re already familiar with, and I won’t pretend my experience was as bad as yours or worse, and I won’t patronise you by saying ‘I know how you feel’ because maybe I don’t. All I will say is that the quotes you posted and the response from readers were a glimmer of hope when I needed it. Even in your worst hour you provided something inspiring for so many. Thank you.
Winston Churchill was right when he said, ‘If you are going through hell, keep going.’ A few weeks ago I was sitting under the plum tree in the garden reading. The Beautiful South’s ‘Rotterdam’ was playing in the summer house. I looked up at the white blossom and cirrus clouds against the blue sky. I thought, ‘I’m glad I’m alive to see this.’
Take your time. Love, hope, light and strength to you. xx
The End
A few of my favourite Marian Keyes quotes:
‘What doesn't kill us makes us funnier.’ - The Other Side of the Story
‘How to make God laugh? Tell Him your plans.’ - The Other Side of the Story
‘It was ironic, really - you want to die because you can't be bothered to go on living - but then you're expected to get all energetic and move furniture and stand on chairs and hoist ropes and do complicated knots and attach things to other things and kick stools from under you and mess around with hot baths and razor blades and extension cords and electrical appliances and weedkiller. Suicide was a complicated, demanding business, often involving visits to hardware shops.
And if you've managed to drag yourself from the bed and go down the road to the garden centre or the drug store, by then the worst is over. At that point you might as well just go to work.’
- Lucy Sullivan Is Getting Married
‘But here's the thing my life did get better. I made a decision to let go of my dreams, because they were killing me, and I stopped asking the impossible of myself. I changed my attitude and decided to focus on what I had rather than what I didn't have.’ – Angels
‘The back windows looked out over the fields, then the Atlantic, maybe a hundred yards away. Actually, I'm just making that bit up. I had no idea how far away the sea was. Only men could do things like that. "Half a mile." "Fifty yards." Giving directions, that sort of thing. I could look at a woman and say "Thirty-six C." Or "Let's try it in the next size up." But I had no idea how far away Tim's sea was except that I wouldn't want to walk to it in high heels.’ – This Charming Man
"I'm not going to fall for him."
“So why are you bothering at all?"
“Just killing time until I die." – The Brightest Star in the Sky
Click here for M.K. on 'Feathery Strokers'
Monday, 19 April 2010
Pssssst...
Like poetry? Then I can recommend Adrienne Rich. But if you're not bothered about poetic merit (or any merit), I also turn my hand to a bit of poesying (this really should be a real word):
http://junelouisepoems.blogspot.com/
Like reading? Me too. And I'd like to tell you about a few good yarns:
http://junelouisebooks.blogspot.com/
Big love xx
http://junelouisepoems.blogspot.com/
Like reading? Me too. And I'd like to tell you about a few good yarns:
http://junelouisebooks.blogspot.com/
Big love xx
Tuesday, 13 April 2010
I like children but I couldn't eat a whole one
Spring has always been my favourite time of year. My winter - related doldrums begin to abate with the first blossom and I know that it won't be long before I can wear floaty dresses again. People seem to be friendlier without their Michelin armour and weaponry of umbrellas, even in London. I can't help but feel - what's the word? - glad! Yet walking down the High Street on the most beautiful day so far this year, the joys of spring rapidly left me and I ploughed forward irritably. As I made my way through town, I tripped over a thousand pushchairs, dodged countless little round faces, and had my ear - drums abused by the cries of a hundred tantrums. "Cursed half term is upon us" I thought. I even envied the office workers, trapped inside on such a sunny day, their child - free Utopia.
Yes Reader, I am that glib woman who when asked if she wants babies quips, "I like children, but I couldn't eat a whole one." Yet I have not always been the mean - spirited, emotionally baron "Hansel and Gretel" witch you currently see in your mind's eye. Growing up I owned every member of the Tiny Tears family (they were the ones that did a wee when you fed them water - sort of - you had to shake them up and down a bit); as soon as my brother could walk, I was making him play "Mums and Babies" with me; throughout school the only constant ambition I had was to have children (preferably 7, who could climb mountains and perform "So Long, Farewell" every night before bed); from the age of 12, I had a long list of names for my future offspring; I was ridiculously excited whenever a relative, however distant (however disliked) produced a new sprog for me to coo over and pick up and marvel over the tiny fingers and toes of... You get the picture.
So what changed? What made me turn from that pastel - coloured, baby's chin - tickling Mama Wannabe into the cynical, child - phobic Mama Notforme I am today?
The truth is, I don't know. Though it perhaps has something to do with my choice to become an au - pair at the age of 20. It seemed like a great idea: a free, long holiday and hopefully a smallish baby to bounce on my hip and smile stupidly at all day. Maybe also a 4 year old - preferably a girl - whose hair I could plait and whose doll's house I could play with when she'd gone to bed. You see Reader, my expectations were too high. Incidentally, the last 4 year old girl I met wanted to perform a dance routine to Pink's "So What?" for me and had no interest in doll's houses. Call me naive, but I expect all girls under 10 to be like Heidi (and all under 15 to be like Anne Shirley in "Anne of Green Gables" - well, perhaps not).
Anywho, as an au - pair I looked after two boys, aged 2.5 and 5. They were perfectly lovely, at least as lovely as young boys ever are. Don't get me wrong, working abroad, I made some wonderful friends, partially learnt a language and worked for some of the kindest people in the world. All in all, it was not a bad 4 months. I experienced some of those moments of joy which people talk about when telling you about child - rearing: the boys' first English word ("bollocks" - only joking, it was actually "car"); the first time one of them drew me a picture (the subsequent 800 times were somewhat underwhelming); the one time they both agreed to brush their teeth the first time I asked; the times when the elder one gently and patiently explained things slowly to me in German and grinned up at me when I finally understood.
But these moments were outweighed by the fact I felt tense and worried most of the time (although I feel tense and worried most of the time now - so maybe it had nothing to do with the children). Every time I heard a bang I imagined that one of them had cracked their head open; each time they fought I pleaded internally, "please don't break each other on my watch". Their mother was more laissez - faire about the fighting saying, "I will wait until one cries, then I will shout, then they will stop". (Maybe children are like dresses. We all know it's much worse to spill something down your friend's dress, even if it is from Primark, than it is to ruin your own Armani. Not that I have a great collection of clothes from Armani, or Primark.) Whenever I was trying to get the children ready for bed unaided, I prayed their parents would come home when they were playing peacefully in their pyjamas, as opposed to when they or I were close to (or actually in) tears over a debate about getting out the play - doh 5 minutes before bed.
Now, whenever I find myself smiling at a fat little cherub sitting in a supermarket trolley, or my uterus skips a beat at the tiny clothes in H & M, I remember how lonely (and often bored) I was looking after children and pull myself together with an internal lecture about the planet; over - population; the fact I don't even have a boyfriend; and, importantly, how babies make you fat (I have not spent the best part of a decade on diets to end up with a muffin top and no jaw line thankyouverymuch).
Besides, even if in a moment of weakness I smile gormlessly at a cute toddler, after about 15 seconds most children become quite dull. Especially when they start talking and you have to nod convincingly as they tell you sweet F A of any interest for hours on end ("Toby's got a dog and it looked at me"). The perk of not understanding lots of what the children said to me when I was an au pair was probably that I didn't know how boring it was. (My old housemate, who was a sworn member of the 'I hate children' club long before I was, explained the crux of the matter as this: "kids just don't understand that they're inferior.")
None of this really explains why kids en masse at half term send my blood pressure up and spark such an over - long diatribe as this does it? Maybe it's because I read "PopCo" at an impressionable age (21) that whenever I see them swarming around like rats (I like rats, so this isn't an insult, just a reference to the volume) I think about all the stuff they consume and where it all comes from (and yes OK, I know I too am a consumer), and how their food comes from animals and their clothes and toys may well have been made by other children somewhere. Similarly, having recently read "Addition" (see my review - here), when I see so many kids I hear Toni Jordan's lovely, neurotic narrator telling the reader how many nappies are used every year. Maybe I read too much ("PopCo" was greatly responsible for my veganism - maybe I should have stuck with Austen) but now I imagine the population growing and growing as each generation breeds a new, bigger one (see what I mean about the rat thing?) until we all disappear under a mountain of Pampers (and, yes, carrier bags and plastic bottles - I do know nappies won't single - handedly destroy the planet). It makes me wonder how everybody can continue to spawn with such reckless abandon. (Though it probably has something to do with the fact most people just live life, rather than sit around worrying about it.) Then again, we must have been put on this earth to breed - maybe therefore we were put on this planet to ultimately destroy it. This was bound to happen. Perhaps I should just get a grip and give in to the possibility I might reproduce one day.
Still it's no wonder nobody can spell or punctuate these days - there are just too many children (who will never find jobs anyway at this rate, no matter how good their grammar) to worry about actually checking the learning of all of them. For me, this is possibly the biggest reason not to reproduce - sod the planet and the economy! Do I really want to bring a child into a society where intelligent people no longer differentiate between "your" and "you're"?
Lastly, much as it pains me to admit it, I probably don't have the emotional stamina for child - rearing. I'm not proud to confess to being a neurotic weakling, but the sad fact remains that I am. The woman for whom I worked as an au - pair was anything but weak. She spoke (and wrote in, and read in) 7 languages, fluently. (Yes 7 - that's like one for every Von Trapp child.) She had a wardrobe of clothes from Milan; was published in academic journals; trained race horses; cycled; ice - skated... are you building up an image of her yet? (Just to enhance it - she was tall and blonde.) She used to lecture me about sticking up for myself and demanding respect from men (I never listened). In short, she was One Of Those Women. And yet Reader, in spite of her "One Of Those Women" status, I saw her in many a battle of wills with a 2 year old, exhausted and frustrated. One time, when she was crying because her child wouldn't eat his carrots, I looked at her tired, defeated face as she told me (in perfect English) how, "being a mother is not always easy and nice" and felt very sorry for her. I thought, "if she finds this hard, there's no way I'm doing it. I can't even read Latin!" I already struggle with self - doubt and anxiety. What if my children won't eat carrots? Or broccoli? Or spinach? The possibilities are endless! They might refuse all vegetables. It could send me over the edge (I'm not sure what of exactly). As much as I think I don't want to have a child inflicted on me, it would be even worse to inflict me on a child. OK, my kids would have the best grammar in the playground (because otherwise I would disown them), but would that make up for the inconvenience of having the weepiest basket case of a mum? Probably not. Maybe, like the school bully who calls the girl with the biggest breasts a slut because she's embarrassed by her own flat chest, I dislike children so much because deep down I still want them but know I'll never have them. Oh God - there's a self - discovery I was not prepared for! See Reader, this is what comes from thinking too much.
Well, on that profoundly surprising note, I think it's time for me to stop writing (and thinking, forever) before I turn (back) into one of those women whose life's ambition is to get married and - ugh! - give birth to multiple babies. This can surely only lead to awful dating websites and stupid dates which are more like life auditions, before finally! A big, ugly, overpriced engagement ring and a bigger, uglier, more overpriced white dress, and next how - to - give - birth classes, and snot rags and finger painting.... and there are only 2 things more criminal than all of this: wanting all of this and, horrors!, wanting and not having it! Right. Stop it. Stop writing now!
Yes Reader, I am that glib woman who when asked if she wants babies quips, "I like children, but I couldn't eat a whole one." Yet I have not always been the mean - spirited, emotionally baron "Hansel and Gretel" witch you currently see in your mind's eye. Growing up I owned every member of the Tiny Tears family (they were the ones that did a wee when you fed them water - sort of - you had to shake them up and down a bit); as soon as my brother could walk, I was making him play "Mums and Babies" with me; throughout school the only constant ambition I had was to have children (preferably 7, who could climb mountains and perform "So Long, Farewell" every night before bed); from the age of 12, I had a long list of names for my future offspring; I was ridiculously excited whenever a relative, however distant (however disliked) produced a new sprog for me to coo over and pick up and marvel over the tiny fingers and toes of... You get the picture.
So what changed? What made me turn from that pastel - coloured, baby's chin - tickling Mama Wannabe into the cynical, child - phobic Mama Notforme I am today?
The truth is, I don't know. Though it perhaps has something to do with my choice to become an au - pair at the age of 20. It seemed like a great idea: a free, long holiday and hopefully a smallish baby to bounce on my hip and smile stupidly at all day. Maybe also a 4 year old - preferably a girl - whose hair I could plait and whose doll's house I could play with when she'd gone to bed. You see Reader, my expectations were too high. Incidentally, the last 4 year old girl I met wanted to perform a dance routine to Pink's "So What?" for me and had no interest in doll's houses. Call me naive, but I expect all girls under 10 to be like Heidi (and all under 15 to be like Anne Shirley in "Anne of Green Gables" - well, perhaps not).
Anywho, as an au - pair I looked after two boys, aged 2.5 and 5. They were perfectly lovely, at least as lovely as young boys ever are. Don't get me wrong, working abroad, I made some wonderful friends, partially learnt a language and worked for some of the kindest people in the world. All in all, it was not a bad 4 months. I experienced some of those moments of joy which people talk about when telling you about child - rearing: the boys' first English word ("bollocks" - only joking, it was actually "car"); the first time one of them drew me a picture (the subsequent 800 times were somewhat underwhelming); the one time they both agreed to brush their teeth the first time I asked; the times when the elder one gently and patiently explained things slowly to me in German and grinned up at me when I finally understood.
But these moments were outweighed by the fact I felt tense and worried most of the time (although I feel tense and worried most of the time now - so maybe it had nothing to do with the children). Every time I heard a bang I imagined that one of them had cracked their head open; each time they fought I pleaded internally, "please don't break each other on my watch". Their mother was more laissez - faire about the fighting saying, "I will wait until one cries, then I will shout, then they will stop". (Maybe children are like dresses. We all know it's much worse to spill something down your friend's dress, even if it is from Primark, than it is to ruin your own Armani. Not that I have a great collection of clothes from Armani, or Primark.) Whenever I was trying to get the children ready for bed unaided, I prayed their parents would come home when they were playing peacefully in their pyjamas, as opposed to when they or I were close to (or actually in) tears over a debate about getting out the play - doh 5 minutes before bed.
Now, whenever I find myself smiling at a fat little cherub sitting in a supermarket trolley, or my uterus skips a beat at the tiny clothes in H & M, I remember how lonely (and often bored) I was looking after children and pull myself together with an internal lecture about the planet; over - population; the fact I don't even have a boyfriend; and, importantly, how babies make you fat (I have not spent the best part of a decade on diets to end up with a muffin top and no jaw line thankyouverymuch).
Besides, even if in a moment of weakness I smile gormlessly at a cute toddler, after about 15 seconds most children become quite dull. Especially when they start talking and you have to nod convincingly as they tell you sweet F A of any interest for hours on end ("Toby's got a dog and it looked at me"). The perk of not understanding lots of what the children said to me when I was an au pair was probably that I didn't know how boring it was. (My old housemate, who was a sworn member of the 'I hate children' club long before I was, explained the crux of the matter as this: "kids just don't understand that they're inferior.")
None of this really explains why kids en masse at half term send my blood pressure up and spark such an over - long diatribe as this does it? Maybe it's because I read "PopCo" at an impressionable age (21) that whenever I see them swarming around like rats (I like rats, so this isn't an insult, just a reference to the volume) I think about all the stuff they consume and where it all comes from (and yes OK, I know I too am a consumer), and how their food comes from animals and their clothes and toys may well have been made by other children somewhere. Similarly, having recently read "Addition" (see my review - here), when I see so many kids I hear Toni Jordan's lovely, neurotic narrator telling the reader how many nappies are used every year. Maybe I read too much ("PopCo" was greatly responsible for my veganism - maybe I should have stuck with Austen) but now I imagine the population growing and growing as each generation breeds a new, bigger one (see what I mean about the rat thing?) until we all disappear under a mountain of Pampers (and, yes, carrier bags and plastic bottles - I do know nappies won't single - handedly destroy the planet). It makes me wonder how everybody can continue to spawn with such reckless abandon. (Though it probably has something to do with the fact most people just live life, rather than sit around worrying about it.) Then again, we must have been put on this earth to breed - maybe therefore we were put on this planet to ultimately destroy it. This was bound to happen. Perhaps I should just get a grip and give in to the possibility I might reproduce one day.
Still it's no wonder nobody can spell or punctuate these days - there are just too many children (who will never find jobs anyway at this rate, no matter how good their grammar) to worry about actually checking the learning of all of them. For me, this is possibly the biggest reason not to reproduce - sod the planet and the economy! Do I really want to bring a child into a society where intelligent people no longer differentiate between "your" and "you're"?
Lastly, much as it pains me to admit it, I probably don't have the emotional stamina for child - rearing. I'm not proud to confess to being a neurotic weakling, but the sad fact remains that I am. The woman for whom I worked as an au - pair was anything but weak. She spoke (and wrote in, and read in) 7 languages, fluently. (Yes 7 - that's like one for every Von Trapp child.) She had a wardrobe of clothes from Milan; was published in academic journals; trained race horses; cycled; ice - skated... are you building up an image of her yet? (Just to enhance it - she was tall and blonde.) She used to lecture me about sticking up for myself and demanding respect from men (I never listened). In short, she was One Of Those Women. And yet Reader, in spite of her "One Of Those Women" status, I saw her in many a battle of wills with a 2 year old, exhausted and frustrated. One time, when she was crying because her child wouldn't eat his carrots, I looked at her tired, defeated face as she told me (in perfect English) how, "being a mother is not always easy and nice" and felt very sorry for her. I thought, "if she finds this hard, there's no way I'm doing it. I can't even read Latin!" I already struggle with self - doubt and anxiety. What if my children won't eat carrots? Or broccoli? Or spinach? The possibilities are endless! They might refuse all vegetables. It could send me over the edge (I'm not sure what of exactly). As much as I think I don't want to have a child inflicted on me, it would be even worse to inflict me on a child. OK, my kids would have the best grammar in the playground (because otherwise I would disown them), but would that make up for the inconvenience of having the weepiest basket case of a mum? Probably not. Maybe, like the school bully who calls the girl with the biggest breasts a slut because she's embarrassed by her own flat chest, I dislike children so much because deep down I still want them but know I'll never have them. Oh God - there's a self - discovery I was not prepared for! See Reader, this is what comes from thinking too much.
Well, on that profoundly surprising note, I think it's time for me to stop writing (and thinking, forever) before I turn (back) into one of those women whose life's ambition is to get married and - ugh! - give birth to multiple babies. This can surely only lead to awful dating websites and stupid dates which are more like life auditions, before finally! A big, ugly, overpriced engagement ring and a bigger, uglier, more overpriced white dress, and next how - to - give - birth classes, and snot rags and finger painting.... and there are only 2 things more criminal than all of this: wanting all of this and, horrors!, wanting and not having it! Right. Stop it. Stop writing now!
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