For my younger readers:
This week, I want to recommend a book I’ve just read. It’s called ‘The Portal’ by Andrew Norris. It’s Sci-Fi for anyone 9 or above, I think. It’s set in our world and then it strays off in a very intriguing way. There’s a real mystery to think about and some fantastic characters. I particularly liked the dog, Timber. I’m very fond of dogs in books – I have Wulfie in ‘Piper’, Munch in ‘Ghost in the Gallery’ and Rover in ‘My Mum and the Hound from Hell’. Makes up for not having one of my own at present! Timber is very appealing and not just your average dog – you’ll have to read the book to discover more! I was gripped from the word go and the style is very light and readable – just my sort of thing!
I’m looking forward to the sequel and, as I’m very, very picky about books, that’s high praise!
For my more wrinkly readers:
I’ve just had a birthday party – about four weeks late but that’s how it goes. Life for everyone is busy, busy, busy and it took some planning to get most (I couldn’t get all) of my favourite people there. I was a bit stressed throughout the evening – was everyone enjoying themselves? Would any of these randomly assorted people argue horribly? Was the food OK and would I poison anyone? But everyone appeared to have a good time.
Quite recently, a friend who is currently on the other side of the world told me that one of the things she appreciated about me was that all my friends were mad, bad or just plain controversial. On consideration, I think she is probably right. Certainly looking round my party guests, I knew that a fair number would admit to a degree of madness or badness or both! And just plain controversial? Well, probably all of them, to some degree – that’s one of the reasons I like them.
What’s controversial about them? Well, lots of things – but the thing that struck me given the party context was that I’d told them on the invitation not to expect alcohol; if they really had to have it they should bring their own. Only two people did and one bottle was still untouched at the end of the evening. In this day and age, if 18 people gather for a party and only one bottle of wine gets drunk between them, that seems to me fairly controversial. And it wasn’t as if they sat around all evening being poker-faced and miserable. Far from it! Some of them were still here at 2.30 in the morning, playing a no holds barred board game called ‘Therapy’.
I myself have never drunk alcohol beyond a polite sip of champagne at weddings (I’ve given even that up now as I detest the stuff) and some very welcome Murphy’s Irish Stout just after my twins were born – it’s supposed to help with the breastfeeding – I’m not convinced! So why not?
a) I think I was put off by a very jolly uncle’s premature death from alcoholism and resultant sclerosis of the liver when I was young and impressionable.
b) I don’t particularly like the taste.
c) I seriously dislike the effect on other people, from the smell of their breath to the disturbance in their behaviour, and can see no attraction in inflicting that on myself.
d) I don’t need artificial stimulants to enjoy myself.
What I don’t understand is why other people seem to like alcohol so much and actively seek its effects. I can just about understand the desire to loosen inhibitions a little - the ‘Dutch courage’ argument - but to actively seek drunkenness and oblivion seems to me utterly bizarre. Life is short. Why, unless you are miserable, would you want to deliberately miss any of it – or not be able to remember it, at least? Why do I hear so many young people saying, ‘Yeh – it was great! I couldn’t remember a thing about it next morning!’ Why is that great? And what is the point of spending time with people who are operating in a space divorced from reality? What I enjoy about spending time with other people is finding out what they think, how they tick, sharing views and experiences. I want to discover the ‘real’ them, in as much as that is ever possible. Once it is clouded by alcohol, I lose interest. The person I am talking to is no longer ‘real’. He or she becomes less inhibited, more out-spoken, louder, less witty and less sharp-brained. Often he or she will become boringly loquacious and repetitive, become too socially dominant and not know when or where to stop. And it takes remarkably little alcohol to see all these effects. So few people drink no alcohol on social occasions that I’m not sure how aware people are of all this. A solution, of course, is to join in – I prefer not to.
I probably sound like a prig and kill-joy but, without alcohol, I can still have a fantastic time. I get so high dancing that I worry what would happen if I added alcohol to the mix! And I don’t think anyone was complaining at my party the other night! The fact is that we do have an alcohol problem in this country – and I’m blessed if I can see why. What are people getting out of it? When I was doing my MA a couple of years ago, I used the university swimming pool. Time and again I would hear students in the changing rooms discussing their plans to get drunk. Going out for a drink, going to a party and, if you’re a bit shy, lubricating things a bit, I can just about understand – but actually planning to go out and get drunk? What’s that about? Knowing in advance of your birthday that the day after you won’t be doing anything because you’ll be ‘recovering’ – where’s the fun in that? And isn’t anyone ever worried about what they might do while they’re so out of it? Like get pregnant, pick up an STD, get into a fight, walk under some traffic, fall in the river and drown (like one of my ancestors did)? What about the financial cost? What about the long term health risks? What about the calories? What, could someone please explain, are the advantages? Are people so bored and miserable that they really have to have alcohol to add some sparkle? If so, how deeply, deeply sad.
My own children, I have never seen drunk. That doesn’t mean they haven’t been or that we haven’t had parties where alcohol has flowed liberally – mostly over the kitchen floor, from what I can remember. There was a great moment when someone filled my large Le Creuset with vomit, I recall. My children seem to hide their excesses from me. Not that I rant and rave about alcohol, except here. I just very evidently don’t do alcohol and neither does their dad – so maybe they feel uncomfortable about their own consumption – I don’t know. Over the years, the issue of how you introduce alcohol into a young person’s life in a way that is reasonable and sensible has troubled me. We all talk about the French introducing it from an early age and diluting it. Sounds like an excellent plan if you’re regular wine drinkers – not that I think I know anyone who has actually done it. But was I supposed to buy wine specifically to water it down for my kids? Sounds a bit mad to me! Occasionally there’s been wine around for some reason and we’ve allowed our children to have a little. We have not been hysterical or heavy about our abstinence. It’s just part of the picture of us as parents. And we’ve tried to show our children that there’s a huge amount of fun to be had without the need for chemical stimulation of any sort. After that, and out very stern warnings about drinking and driving, it has to be up to them. We’ll just have to see what happens.
My life is not perfect but I get a huge amount of enjoyment out of it most of the time. I can’t see how drinking alcohol would add anything. But clearly other people disagree. Why? Would someone like to explain?
Wednesday 28 November 2007
Wednesday 21 November 2007
Ranting about Guilt and the 21st century woman
For my younger readers:
I’m writing about women tonight – and I suspect if any younger people are reading this blog, then they’ll be girls – so you may like to read the section for older people to see what it’s like to be a 21st century woman and make your plans to avoid falling into the same habits and traps!
I hope that my character, Kate, who is very thoughtful and questioning, manages to wend her way through life without feeling burdened by the feelings I’m about to write about! But right now she’s just a teenager and her journal goes on at http://katelofthouse.blogspot.com/ Please visit and comment or vote on what should happen to her next – and then I can write the next instalment!
For my more wrinkly readers:
One of my friends has sent me a couple of very thoughtful and challenging e-mails as a result of reading my blog – one I’ve posted. This is an extract from the second:
‘Why is one compelled to do all this campaigning etc; what is your own need in it – is it truly altruistic or to fulfil a sense of inadequacy or guilt?’
Well, I don’t actually believe in altruism in the very strict sense. I don’t think anyone does anything out of a clear and unclouded motivation to care for others. Something in what we do is satisfying something in ourselves. I’ve been accused of cynicism for that view in the past – but I don’t feel like a cynical person. I feel optimistic and trusting. I suppose when I’m ranting about Christians taking more action, what I’m hoping is that they will have a desire to do so – and that will drive them on. Everyone will be happier as a result – the people they’ve helped and they themselves for their desire to act or to campaign will have been fulfilled. And I see nothing wrong in that. It’s not that I’m arguing that it is good for the soul to suffer! I want people to be happy in their ‘good works’.
But guilt. Now there’s a thing. And it seems to be very much a women’s thing. I’ve had several friends talk to me about their feelings of guilt since I posted the ‘social action’ blog. One said she felt guilty all the time about everything – and it seems to me, on a bad day, that that is exactly what it can be like. On bad days, I feel inadequate and guilty because I’m not holding down a ‘proper’ job. I don’t hit the workplace at 9am and return at 5.30, five days a week. The fact that I start ‘work’ of some sort from the moment I’m up and only stop for short breaks until late in the evening, that I teach on Thursday and Friday nights, Saturday mornings and some Saturday afternoons and that others are used up by author events, cuts no mustard. On a bad day, I feel guilty for ‘swanning around’, combining writing, teaching youth theatre, training to be a counsellor and being a mother. It’s not good enough. I’m not earning the sort of salary that an Oxford graduate ‘ought’ to be earning! And I’m certainly not doing enough campaigning, voluntary work, enough for my church or my children or – God help him – my husband! On a bad day, the support I give to my friends is too self-indulgent – friendship is a luxury and I can’t enjoy in it too much. And writing a blog – dear heaven! What’s that about? Just vainglory and narcissism! Even on a good day, I can’t watch a DVD (I don’t currently watch any TV – anyone want to recommend anything?) without a pile of ironing to do. That’s not just about the guilt of unproductive leisure time though – it’s about the fact that I don’t feel fully engaged by ‘just’ watching.
It seems to me that I’m not alone in this sort of negative thinking. Mothers who go back to work when their babies are little feel guilty for leaving them. No amount of ‘quality time’ quite makes them feel OK about it. Mothers who stay at home full-time (an increasingly rare breed, frequently for financial reasons) feel guilty for squandering their education or not contributing financially or just not quite playing the 21st century woman game.
A friend recently told me how very taken for granted she felt. Someone else talked of how she recalled her mother standing in the kitchen and weeping because ‘they treat this house like a hotel’. It’s bizarre. Modern women, it seems to me, run themselves ragged wearing endless different hats – workplace woman, mother, lover, chauffeur, nurse, gardener, cleaner, cook, laundry maid, mechanic, secretary – the list is endless. But instead of feeling fulfilled, empowered and celebrated (which they should – just look at that list – what are they not doing?), they feel guilty and taken for granted.
I’m lucky that I don’t feel taken for granted by my husband and children. Reason? Well, on the quiet, I feel I do a pretty minimal job as a mother and wife. Frankly, I’m a bit of a slob. Secretly, (until now!) I see a shiny house as self-indulgent. It doesn’t need to be ultra clean and it certainly doesn’t need too much money spent on it. Adequately furnished and reasonably hygienic is enough. And I have always made my children help with chores every day – from the moment they could drop their toys in a toybox. They don’t always do them and it still doesn’t come easy but I think I have made my point over the years, even though the chores have been tied in with rewards and pocket money. I don’t think they’re grateful for all that I do for them – but I don’t feel taken for granted. Maybe the fact that I have made it very clear for a long time that my work is also a priority for me has helped. Who knows? My children don’t seem to assume that I’ll be able to give them a lift at the drop of a hat or get the right shirt washed for the right day! My husband, poor man, assumes nothing – though he does prefer it when I cook in the evening! And – hallelujah – I don’t feel guilty about that, even on a bad day.
And not feeling guilty is so very liberating. On a good day, the rest of the guilt doesn’t kick in either – I’m living a flexible lifestyle which suits my needs, those of my family and those members of the community that need my support. My charitable giving is well-organised and I do as much campaigning and voluntary work as I can. My leisure time is reasonable and spent in a worthwhile way! In fact, I deserve a halo. Oops – no – that’s pride and we don’t want to go down that guilty spiral….
But guilt and feeling taken for granted – they’re both live issues for so many of us. And someone correct me if I’m wrong but they don’t seem so big for men. All down to hormones and fluctuations in our perception of reality? Or is the 21st Century woman really getting a bum deal?
I’m writing about women tonight – and I suspect if any younger people are reading this blog, then they’ll be girls – so you may like to read the section for older people to see what it’s like to be a 21st century woman and make your plans to avoid falling into the same habits and traps!
I hope that my character, Kate, who is very thoughtful and questioning, manages to wend her way through life without feeling burdened by the feelings I’m about to write about! But right now she’s just a teenager and her journal goes on at http://katelofthouse.blogspot.com/ Please visit and comment or vote on what should happen to her next – and then I can write the next instalment!
For my more wrinkly readers:
One of my friends has sent me a couple of very thoughtful and challenging e-mails as a result of reading my blog – one I’ve posted. This is an extract from the second:
‘Why is one compelled to do all this campaigning etc; what is your own need in it – is it truly altruistic or to fulfil a sense of inadequacy or guilt?’
Well, I don’t actually believe in altruism in the very strict sense. I don’t think anyone does anything out of a clear and unclouded motivation to care for others. Something in what we do is satisfying something in ourselves. I’ve been accused of cynicism for that view in the past – but I don’t feel like a cynical person. I feel optimistic and trusting. I suppose when I’m ranting about Christians taking more action, what I’m hoping is that they will have a desire to do so – and that will drive them on. Everyone will be happier as a result – the people they’ve helped and they themselves for their desire to act or to campaign will have been fulfilled. And I see nothing wrong in that. It’s not that I’m arguing that it is good for the soul to suffer! I want people to be happy in their ‘good works’.
But guilt. Now there’s a thing. And it seems to be very much a women’s thing. I’ve had several friends talk to me about their feelings of guilt since I posted the ‘social action’ blog. One said she felt guilty all the time about everything – and it seems to me, on a bad day, that that is exactly what it can be like. On bad days, I feel inadequate and guilty because I’m not holding down a ‘proper’ job. I don’t hit the workplace at 9am and return at 5.30, five days a week. The fact that I start ‘work’ of some sort from the moment I’m up and only stop for short breaks until late in the evening, that I teach on Thursday and Friday nights, Saturday mornings and some Saturday afternoons and that others are used up by author events, cuts no mustard. On a bad day, I feel guilty for ‘swanning around’, combining writing, teaching youth theatre, training to be a counsellor and being a mother. It’s not good enough. I’m not earning the sort of salary that an Oxford graduate ‘ought’ to be earning! And I’m certainly not doing enough campaigning, voluntary work, enough for my church or my children or – God help him – my husband! On a bad day, the support I give to my friends is too self-indulgent – friendship is a luxury and I can’t enjoy in it too much. And writing a blog – dear heaven! What’s that about? Just vainglory and narcissism! Even on a good day, I can’t watch a DVD (I don’t currently watch any TV – anyone want to recommend anything?) without a pile of ironing to do. That’s not just about the guilt of unproductive leisure time though – it’s about the fact that I don’t feel fully engaged by ‘just’ watching.
It seems to me that I’m not alone in this sort of negative thinking. Mothers who go back to work when their babies are little feel guilty for leaving them. No amount of ‘quality time’ quite makes them feel OK about it. Mothers who stay at home full-time (an increasingly rare breed, frequently for financial reasons) feel guilty for squandering their education or not contributing financially or just not quite playing the 21st century woman game.
A friend recently told me how very taken for granted she felt. Someone else talked of how she recalled her mother standing in the kitchen and weeping because ‘they treat this house like a hotel’. It’s bizarre. Modern women, it seems to me, run themselves ragged wearing endless different hats – workplace woman, mother, lover, chauffeur, nurse, gardener, cleaner, cook, laundry maid, mechanic, secretary – the list is endless. But instead of feeling fulfilled, empowered and celebrated (which they should – just look at that list – what are they not doing?), they feel guilty and taken for granted.
I’m lucky that I don’t feel taken for granted by my husband and children. Reason? Well, on the quiet, I feel I do a pretty minimal job as a mother and wife. Frankly, I’m a bit of a slob. Secretly, (until now!) I see a shiny house as self-indulgent. It doesn’t need to be ultra clean and it certainly doesn’t need too much money spent on it. Adequately furnished and reasonably hygienic is enough. And I have always made my children help with chores every day – from the moment they could drop their toys in a toybox. They don’t always do them and it still doesn’t come easy but I think I have made my point over the years, even though the chores have been tied in with rewards and pocket money. I don’t think they’re grateful for all that I do for them – but I don’t feel taken for granted. Maybe the fact that I have made it very clear for a long time that my work is also a priority for me has helped. Who knows? My children don’t seem to assume that I’ll be able to give them a lift at the drop of a hat or get the right shirt washed for the right day! My husband, poor man, assumes nothing – though he does prefer it when I cook in the evening! And – hallelujah – I don’t feel guilty about that, even on a bad day.
And not feeling guilty is so very liberating. On a good day, the rest of the guilt doesn’t kick in either – I’m living a flexible lifestyle which suits my needs, those of my family and those members of the community that need my support. My charitable giving is well-organised and I do as much campaigning and voluntary work as I can. My leisure time is reasonable and spent in a worthwhile way! In fact, I deserve a halo. Oops – no – that’s pride and we don’t want to go down that guilty spiral….
But guilt and feeling taken for granted – they’re both live issues for so many of us. And someone correct me if I’m wrong but they don’t seem so big for men. All down to hormones and fluctuations in our perception of reality? Or is the 21st Century woman really getting a bum deal?
Thursday 15 November 2007
Meg muses on Remembrance Day
For my younger readers:
I haven't written a book about war. Maybe one day I will as I feel very strongly about it. In the meanwhile you may like to try:
'Peaceweavers' by Julia Jarman
'Private Peaceful' by Michael Morpurgo
'When Hitler Stole Pink Rabbit' by Judith Kerr
'Coming Home' by Michelle Magorian
'The Diary of Anne Frank' by Anne Frank
'A Little Piece of Ground' by Elizabeth Laird
They're all very good but the last is my favourite. If you don't know much about the Palestine/Israel conflict, it's a good place to start. Very informative and very moving.
And for my more wrinkly readers:
I struggle with Remembrance Day. Although I respect the desire and need to remember all those who have fallen in defence of this country, I find myself with mixed feelings about it. These days, I choose to where a White Poppy http://www.whitepoppy.org.uk/ rather than a red one, a sign that, although I respect all those who have died for my freedom, I, as a pacifist, do not support the concept of war. It could be argued that nor do all those who wear a Red Poppy but by doing so they support the British Legion - and I am not sure I can do that. Although I know they do admirable work for war veterans and the bereaved, I cannot be comfortable with the Remembrance Day parades they organise, which with their bracing marching, Last Post and display of medals, cast an air of militarism over the proceedings. I am very organised in my giving, selecting charities to support each year, thus avoiding feeling guilty if I choose not to give to a tin rattler (though they often get something as I've done enough tin rattling myself to know how disheartening it can be) - and I'm afraid the British Legion doesn't match my criteria. So it has to be a White Poppy for me.
I am the daughter of someone who refused to collect his war medals. Even though he was called up when he was 17 and served in the Air Force for the whole of WW2 he didn't think he'd done anything to be proud of - he just did what he had to do and hated it. He never talked about it and my mother warned me not to ask. I do think he did something to be proud of though. He was in the advance party that went into Belsen at the end of the war. He spent a long time burying the dead. I don't suppose they give medals for that sort of thing and I don't suppose he would have wanted one anyway. But he got out his poppy and went to church on Remembrance Day. I remember his face, tight-lipped and distant. If I have mixed feelings about it, I'm sure his were a thousand times more so.
As a practising Christian, I find Remembrance Day in church very odd. We follow the teachings of the Prince of Peace. If we grovelled before him, begging for forgiveness for the horror we have caused and continue to cause, I would join in. If we held an all night prayer vigil, intercessing for war-torn regions and foreign policy makers, I would go. What we do is very different. We create something beautiful, poignant and poetic, with a dash of militarism, more so in some churches than others, and speak of ultimate sacrifice and years not condemning, when in fact we are talking about teenagers who were slaughtered on masse, riddled with bullets on barbed wire, eaten alive by gangrene, choked to death on mustard gas, burnt alive on oil-slicked seas, driven mad by shell-shock or simply shot if they couldn't stand it any longer. And that was just one war and only scratching the surface.
I have great respect for the pastor of the church I attend and know that he puts huge effort into the Remembrance Day service, making it dignified and moving and a comforting tribute for those who lost loved ones. I came home in tears on Sunday and so I should. But it seems that most people manage to retain the stiff upper lip throughout. Is all we're managing to do remembrance. Because if so, why are we bothering? I have been bereaved several times and I have no problem remembering that. I don't need a special day to do it on. Aren't we told that Remembrance Day is about it 'never happening again'. And if that's it's function, it's singularly useless. Because it does happen. It's happening now. And it seems to me that it will do so again and again and again. Because instead of facing the horror, we romanticise it; instead of acknowledging the utter degredation, we give it dignity.
So perhaps we should stop being dignified and quiet and romantic about it; perhaps we should be brash and loud and realistic. Instead of two minutes of silence, we could have two minutes of screaming. And if our throats are sore afterwards, maybe then we will remember the agony war causes. And if we have a sleepless night praying, then maybe we will remember those who can't sleep because they are being bombed. And if, instead of standing in silence, we kneel and abase ourselves, begging forgiveness and the will to avoid more, maybe we will remember those humiliated by torturers. And then maybe, instead of remembering for one day once a year, we will be active peacemakers on every day of every year. And then, at last, we won't need Remembrance Day any more.
I haven't written a book about war. Maybe one day I will as I feel very strongly about it. In the meanwhile you may like to try:
'Peaceweavers' by Julia Jarman
'Private Peaceful' by Michael Morpurgo
'When Hitler Stole Pink Rabbit' by Judith Kerr
'Coming Home' by Michelle Magorian
'The Diary of Anne Frank' by Anne Frank
'A Little Piece of Ground' by Elizabeth Laird
They're all very good but the last is my favourite. If you don't know much about the Palestine/Israel conflict, it's a good place to start. Very informative and very moving.
And for my more wrinkly readers:
I struggle with Remembrance Day. Although I respect the desire and need to remember all those who have fallen in defence of this country, I find myself with mixed feelings about it. These days, I choose to where a White Poppy http://www.whitepoppy.org.uk/ rather than a red one, a sign that, although I respect all those who have died for my freedom, I, as a pacifist, do not support the concept of war. It could be argued that nor do all those who wear a Red Poppy but by doing so they support the British Legion - and I am not sure I can do that. Although I know they do admirable work for war veterans and the bereaved, I cannot be comfortable with the Remembrance Day parades they organise, which with their bracing marching, Last Post and display of medals, cast an air of militarism over the proceedings. I am very organised in my giving, selecting charities to support each year, thus avoiding feeling guilty if I choose not to give to a tin rattler (though they often get something as I've done enough tin rattling myself to know how disheartening it can be) - and I'm afraid the British Legion doesn't match my criteria. So it has to be a White Poppy for me.
I am the daughter of someone who refused to collect his war medals. Even though he was called up when he was 17 and served in the Air Force for the whole of WW2 he didn't think he'd done anything to be proud of - he just did what he had to do and hated it. He never talked about it and my mother warned me not to ask. I do think he did something to be proud of though. He was in the advance party that went into Belsen at the end of the war. He spent a long time burying the dead. I don't suppose they give medals for that sort of thing and I don't suppose he would have wanted one anyway. But he got out his poppy and went to church on Remembrance Day. I remember his face, tight-lipped and distant. If I have mixed feelings about it, I'm sure his were a thousand times more so.
As a practising Christian, I find Remembrance Day in church very odd. We follow the teachings of the Prince of Peace. If we grovelled before him, begging for forgiveness for the horror we have caused and continue to cause, I would join in. If we held an all night prayer vigil, intercessing for war-torn regions and foreign policy makers, I would go. What we do is very different. We create something beautiful, poignant and poetic, with a dash of militarism, more so in some churches than others, and speak of ultimate sacrifice and years not condemning, when in fact we are talking about teenagers who were slaughtered on masse, riddled with bullets on barbed wire, eaten alive by gangrene, choked to death on mustard gas, burnt alive on oil-slicked seas, driven mad by shell-shock or simply shot if they couldn't stand it any longer. And that was just one war and only scratching the surface.
I have great respect for the pastor of the church I attend and know that he puts huge effort into the Remembrance Day service, making it dignified and moving and a comforting tribute for those who lost loved ones. I came home in tears on Sunday and so I should. But it seems that most people manage to retain the stiff upper lip throughout. Is all we're managing to do remembrance. Because if so, why are we bothering? I have been bereaved several times and I have no problem remembering that. I don't need a special day to do it on. Aren't we told that Remembrance Day is about it 'never happening again'. And if that's it's function, it's singularly useless. Because it does happen. It's happening now. And it seems to me that it will do so again and again and again. Because instead of facing the horror, we romanticise it; instead of acknowledging the utter degredation, we give it dignity.
So perhaps we should stop being dignified and quiet and romantic about it; perhaps we should be brash and loud and realistic. Instead of two minutes of silence, we could have two minutes of screaming. And if our throats are sore afterwards, maybe then we will remember the agony war causes. And if we have a sleepless night praying, then maybe we will remember those who can't sleep because they are being bombed. And if, instead of standing in silence, we kneel and abase ourselves, begging forgiveness and the will to avoid more, maybe we will remember those humiliated by torturers. And then maybe, instead of remembering for one day once a year, we will be active peacemakers on every day of every year. And then, at last, we won't need Remembrance Day any more.
Wednesday 7 November 2007
Meg muses on 'Shibboleth' at Tate Modern
First, I must apologise to Claire, from my creative writing class, who will be expecting a very different post from this one! Claire, the one we started on Saturday will appear in a couple of weeks time, OK? Today, I want to write something different - more of a celebratory rant, for once!
For my younger readers:
It's been an exciting week for me! 'Piper' was launched on Friday and I had a great welcome at Myton School in Warwick for my launch event. What a fantastic library you have - and such a lovely librarian too! I hope you appreciate them both! Those of you who bought copies of 'Fur' and 'Piper', I hope you're enjoying them. Do let me know what you think via my web-site.
Yesterday, I was at the lovely Newington Library in Southwark, London, launching the Orange Chatterbooks scheme there. It's a library that's clearly very well used. I was talking to the assistant manager about issues facing libraries today. Some members of the government feel libraries should return to only providing books. Nowadays, of course, they provide computer and Internet access, DVDs, CDs and a whole range of other activities. What do you think? Do you use your local library and if so, what for? Maybe you should let your MP know what you think or even tell Al Aynsley-Green, the first ever Children's Commissioner. I heard him speak yesterday and he really wants to know what children and young people think about anything and everything. That's his job. So do tell him. You can contact him via http://www.11million.org.uk/ Why 11 million? Because there are 11 million kids in the UK.
For my more wrinkly readers:
Yesterday was a jewel of a day so I want to celebrate it! I don't always rant because I am angry, or indeed, weighed down by grief! I have, I would like to say, been very moved by the posts and e-mails in response to last week's blog. Blogging has been a steep and, at times, painful learning curve but last week's effort was therapeutic for me and has touched several people, so the whole experiment has begun to feel very worthwhile.
So...yesterday! I was booked to launch the Orange Chatterbooks scheme for Southwark libraries in the morning, which is a delightful initiative to create reading groups for children. As someone who runs a children's book group and who is a member of two adult groups, I am all in favour of the project - so it was a bit disappointing when, having arrived bright and early at Elephant and Castle at 9am, there were no children in sight at quarter to ten! Sure enough, there had been a mix-up and the first group didn't arrive - which meant I got taken out for tea and croissants by the charming assistant manager - who turned out to be published poet, David Penn. He kept that very quiet for a remarkably long time! So I shall get paid for a very pleasant hour chatting to him! Can't be bad! Then, when the children finally arrived, they were delightful. Newington Library serves the biggest inner city estate in the country, an area designated for urgent renewal, with some serious social problems - but the years 5s I was working with were one of the most engaged, lively and interesting groups I have ever met. They were a hugely appreciative audience - they laughed at my jokes, for goodness sake! - and their questions were unusual and searching. What a joy!
Then, once I'd done my usual exit routine of forgetting half my equipment and having to go back for it (any author event puts me on a giddy high which makes me quite incompetent for at least an hour), I had until 8pm to spend in London, as the wonderful Chiltern Railways' 'Just 15' cheap ticket deal does restrict your time of travel. I had plenty of work to do so spent a large part of the time in the cafe of the Salvation Army's HQ which is on the St Paul's side of the Millenium Bridge. It's a great, very reasonable cafe in a stunning new building that's very notable for its architecture and all in a good cause - go there! But I also did two other very special things.
By chance, as I was passing St Paul's, I noticed that there was a panel discussion that evening, the final one of a series on childhood, organised by The Children's Society. It looked interesting so I thought I would go. I was somewhat stunned to find the panel consisted of The Archbishop of Canterbury, Al Aynsley-Green , the children's commissioner, Camilla Batmanghelidjh and Richard Leyard. Though I felt some of it was covering old ground, it was nevertheless, a very interesting evening. Some things stood out, however: Al pointing out that in this country you can be held criminally responsible at the age of ten but you are not old enough to own a dog and Camilla explaining that research has shown that the more interested you are in the welfare of other people, the happier you are. Thoughts to ponder on.........
My other special thing was to go to the Tate Modern to re-visit the wonderful giant spider, originally displayed inside and now on the South Bank, framing, as you look back across the river, the dome of St Paul's - and to see, of course, Shibboleth, the mind-bending crack that currently runs the length of the Turbine Hall. It is astonishing - it draws you in, almost mesmerising you into following it and peering into its ever varying depths. Children and young people stood along its edges, spanning it with hands and feet, jumping it, feeling it. A toddler staggered up the slope alongside it, fascinated. For me, there wasn't much that struck me about it at the time - I was just enjoying it - but there has been much that has done so since. I heard that the artist sees it as representing the divide between the rich and the poor of this world. For me, it could represent any division that cannot be entirely healed - even when it is filled in, as it will be eventually, Shibboleth will leave its mark on the floor. But divisions can be bridged. Hands can be held across the gash.
We have in our society, of course, many divisions - but also many, many hands held out and many, many bridges. Libraries and librarians, for example. If we allow them to shrink and die, where is the bridge for kids who have no books or computer at home into the joyful knowledge that books and the Internet provide for so many of us? What a wonderfully generous and welcoming hand held out the Orange Chatterbooks scheme is! Let's celebrate that! The Children's Society, with their investigation into 'A Good Childhood?', is trying to breach the divide between the old and the young, to hold out helping hands to thousands of children wounded by division of one sort or another. Al Aynsley-Green, with his 11 million web-site and his enthusiasm for his new role, is trying to make a bridge between government policy makers and the young people who need to inform them, to hold out a friendly hand to any young person who wants to talk to him. All the panellists saw a gulf of fear lying between older people in our society and younger people and wanted to bridge it with compassion and love.
We can all do it, I think. Build bridges where needed. Hold out helping hands. I'll be back to my social action rant if I'm not careful, but I'm thinking more personally this time. Anyone out there who's reading this and has thrown me a rope bridge or held out a helping hand, thank you. It was appreciated.
A final image from my jewel of a day - my walk in the dark, surrounded by the blazing lights of London, reflected and softened in the river below me as I, appropriately enough, crossed the Millennium Bridge.
For my younger readers:
It's been an exciting week for me! 'Piper' was launched on Friday and I had a great welcome at Myton School in Warwick for my launch event. What a fantastic library you have - and such a lovely librarian too! I hope you appreciate them both! Those of you who bought copies of 'Fur' and 'Piper', I hope you're enjoying them. Do let me know what you think via my web-site.
Yesterday, I was at the lovely Newington Library in Southwark, London, launching the Orange Chatterbooks scheme there. It's a library that's clearly very well used. I was talking to the assistant manager about issues facing libraries today. Some members of the government feel libraries should return to only providing books. Nowadays, of course, they provide computer and Internet access, DVDs, CDs and a whole range of other activities. What do you think? Do you use your local library and if so, what for? Maybe you should let your MP know what you think or even tell Al Aynsley-Green, the first ever Children's Commissioner. I heard him speak yesterday and he really wants to know what children and young people think about anything and everything. That's his job. So do tell him. You can contact him via http://www.11million.org.uk/ Why 11 million? Because there are 11 million kids in the UK.
For my more wrinkly readers:
Yesterday was a jewel of a day so I want to celebrate it! I don't always rant because I am angry, or indeed, weighed down by grief! I have, I would like to say, been very moved by the posts and e-mails in response to last week's blog. Blogging has been a steep and, at times, painful learning curve but last week's effort was therapeutic for me and has touched several people, so the whole experiment has begun to feel very worthwhile.
So...yesterday! I was booked to launch the Orange Chatterbooks scheme for Southwark libraries in the morning, which is a delightful initiative to create reading groups for children. As someone who runs a children's book group and who is a member of two adult groups, I am all in favour of the project - so it was a bit disappointing when, having arrived bright and early at Elephant and Castle at 9am, there were no children in sight at quarter to ten! Sure enough, there had been a mix-up and the first group didn't arrive - which meant I got taken out for tea and croissants by the charming assistant manager - who turned out to be published poet, David Penn. He kept that very quiet for a remarkably long time! So I shall get paid for a very pleasant hour chatting to him! Can't be bad! Then, when the children finally arrived, they were delightful. Newington Library serves the biggest inner city estate in the country, an area designated for urgent renewal, with some serious social problems - but the years 5s I was working with were one of the most engaged, lively and interesting groups I have ever met. They were a hugely appreciative audience - they laughed at my jokes, for goodness sake! - and their questions were unusual and searching. What a joy!
Then, once I'd done my usual exit routine of forgetting half my equipment and having to go back for it (any author event puts me on a giddy high which makes me quite incompetent for at least an hour), I had until 8pm to spend in London, as the wonderful Chiltern Railways' 'Just 15' cheap ticket deal does restrict your time of travel. I had plenty of work to do so spent a large part of the time in the cafe of the Salvation Army's HQ which is on the St Paul's side of the Millenium Bridge. It's a great, very reasonable cafe in a stunning new building that's very notable for its architecture and all in a good cause - go there! But I also did two other very special things.
By chance, as I was passing St Paul's, I noticed that there was a panel discussion that evening, the final one of a series on childhood, organised by The Children's Society. It looked interesting so I thought I would go. I was somewhat stunned to find the panel consisted of The Archbishop of Canterbury, Al Aynsley-Green , the children's commissioner, Camilla Batmanghelidjh and Richard Leyard. Though I felt some of it was covering old ground, it was nevertheless, a very interesting evening. Some things stood out, however: Al pointing out that in this country you can be held criminally responsible at the age of ten but you are not old enough to own a dog and Camilla explaining that research has shown that the more interested you are in the welfare of other people, the happier you are. Thoughts to ponder on.........
My other special thing was to go to the Tate Modern to re-visit the wonderful giant spider, originally displayed inside and now on the South Bank, framing, as you look back across the river, the dome of St Paul's - and to see, of course, Shibboleth, the mind-bending crack that currently runs the length of the Turbine Hall. It is astonishing - it draws you in, almost mesmerising you into following it and peering into its ever varying depths. Children and young people stood along its edges, spanning it with hands and feet, jumping it, feeling it. A toddler staggered up the slope alongside it, fascinated. For me, there wasn't much that struck me about it at the time - I was just enjoying it - but there has been much that has done so since. I heard that the artist sees it as representing the divide between the rich and the poor of this world. For me, it could represent any division that cannot be entirely healed - even when it is filled in, as it will be eventually, Shibboleth will leave its mark on the floor. But divisions can be bridged. Hands can be held across the gash.
We have in our society, of course, many divisions - but also many, many hands held out and many, many bridges. Libraries and librarians, for example. If we allow them to shrink and die, where is the bridge for kids who have no books or computer at home into the joyful knowledge that books and the Internet provide for so many of us? What a wonderfully generous and welcoming hand held out the Orange Chatterbooks scheme is! Let's celebrate that! The Children's Society, with their investigation into 'A Good Childhood?', is trying to breach the divide between the old and the young, to hold out helping hands to thousands of children wounded by division of one sort or another. Al Aynsley-Green, with his 11 million web-site and his enthusiasm for his new role, is trying to make a bridge between government policy makers and the young people who need to inform them, to hold out a friendly hand to any young person who wants to talk to him. All the panellists saw a gulf of fear lying between older people in our society and younger people and wanted to bridge it with compassion and love.
We can all do it, I think. Build bridges where needed. Hold out helping hands. I'll be back to my social action rant if I'm not careful, but I'm thinking more personally this time. Anyone out there who's reading this and has thrown me a rope bridge or held out a helping hand, thank you. It was appreciated.
A final image from my jewel of a day - my walk in the dark, surrounded by the blazing lights of London, reflected and softened in the river below me as I, appropriately enough, crossed the Millennium Bridge.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
