Did I really need a mirror for my flaws?

When you have a tiny baby, you may spend much of your life trying and failing to be the parent and person you want to be, but you havent yet made enough of an imprint onto this blank canvas of a child- that other people will ever know that you are anything less than the parent you aspire to. As they get older, they copy your expressions slightly, your mannerisms, and emulate you when caring for their dolls- but stil, there is no clue to the outside world, of anything apart from what you show.

Then the miracle of speech happens.

It is natures idea of a practical joke, that children develop communication before they develop reason. Once you have finished tending to the basic needs of this child in your care- feeding, bathing, dressing- you are left to teach them about the world. Unfortunately, whatever your intentions are- that teaching does not come from the wisdom you choose to impart, like a stressed out Yoda- but from them watching an absorbing everything you do or say. They judge you, not with a developed understanding of the nuances of the world- but with the unquestioning eye and black and white logic, of an unforgiving mini Dr.Spock.

This week, we have mainly been talking about swearing. The concept of swearing was introduced, when out of the blue, my 10 month old daughter, uttered the beautifully formed and enunciated word ‘Cunt’. Up until that point, I had never considered that she understood language(apart from milk, mummy and daddy)- and I did try to say to her dad that it was only his behaviour that had necessitated the use of the word in the first place- but I was suitably shamed, and realised from this point on- this child would show up every single character defect I had. Oh, how right I was.

The dreaded ‘C’ word, has not reared its head again(due to creation of the word ‘Custard’ which is a cross between ‘Cunt’ and ‘Bastard’- but which can be safely uttered around the smaller members of our society). But the theme of Rachel showing up my every flaw, has continued in earnest.

I abandoned the concept of ‘naughty words’- after I told her that ‘bugger’ was a naughty word, and it was repeated whenever said child was in a mood for mischief. My telling her that it was not nice to say ‘bugger’ was met with the explanation that it was ‘nice cos it was NORTY!’. This  showed me very clearly that an alternative strategy was needed. Although if we are honest, her reasoning is a philosophy which has served me well in many areas of my life.

The attempted removal of expletives from my own speech, as well as a refusal to give attention, when the occasional exploratory swear word came from her mouth- was very effective. No swear words, not even beautifully uttered and enunciated ones, came forth. My occasional lapses were ignored, and life continued as normal.

THen someone, not me I might add, had the bright idea of telling Rachel that words were ‘Naughty’. Yesterday, while sat in a cafe, a young man on a nearby table, was reprimanded by my two year old, for saying such a naughty word- and during the discussion that they entered into- also explained ‘My mummy says naughty words when she is on the pooter and the telephone, but she is always naughty”. Thanks snitch.

And this is what toddlers do. They absorb what you say and do, and without any reason, or understanding of concepts of discretion, and tact- they proudly show what they have learned to the outside world.

From the introduction of my boyfriend(who is also Rachels godfather, her favourite pet, and who wasnt even allowed to kiss me in front  of her for 6 whole months) to her nursery worker as ‘J, who sleeps in my mummys bed’, to very vocal questions about whether I have lost my keys again, every time we get within 5 minutes of our house. The flicking through a magazine, with loud statements that she ‘liked those shoes but that dress looks cheap’, the correction to my friend, that we did have sweeties, its just that we kept them in mummys bedroom drawer. Through to the telling of the world that ‘mummy is grumpy and needs a cup of tea cos I am a pain in the bum’.  She proudly exposes my every parenting weakness, and character flaw, to a visibly amused world.

When Rachel bumped her leg, while her dad was carrying her downstairs- I am sure the constant repetition of the exclamation ‘My daddy smashed my leg into the wall and I CRIED’, did not raise any concerns about her father(incidentally also a child protection social worker…), and I am quite sure that the proud exclamations that ‘mummy will let me have a pot noodle for tea if am a good girl’(entirely untrue- I ONCE gave her a taste out of my pot noodle-pot noodle being one of my guilty dirty pleasures in a life dominated by fair trade produce, and organic veg), or the statement that I was planning on selling her on ebay for pooing in her nappy(and I have NO clue where that one came from!It wasnt me-I always plasters on a smile when welcome with a big steaming turd!)- have never led our friends and acquantinances to question our parenting.

I am taking Rachel on holiday with 6 of my friends, and their children, on Monday, and I am in no doubt, that after a week with Rachel they will be a) making phone calls to our local social services team b) convinced that I am a woman with such loose morals, and character flaws- that I should never have been allowed to attempt parenthood in the first place! The latter may possibly right…

Pink stinks!

I predictably swore that I would never do pink. My daughter would not ‘do’ pink. But here we are. Two loads a week. Bright pink, sugar pink, cerise, raspberry pink, peachy pink, pale pink, white with a hint of pink. Even the stuff that isnt pink, has pink fecking sequins, trims, and bindings.

I didn’t swear I wouldn’t ‘do’ pink, because I am a humourless militant feminazi. Although I am. It certainly wasnt because the idea that girls are somehow drawn to this bland, inoffensive, wishy washy colour, by virtue of being born with a uterus, was offensive to me- although it is.  It isn’t because thinking of the people who shape our nation, our minds, and our finances, standing up wearing sugar pink is absurd- although it certainly is.

I swore I wouldn’t do pink- because it is a fecking vile colour. It goes with nothing-apart from more fucking pink. The overall effect of a the obligatory pink trim, on anything, so that people are able to identify that my child is female, and is not called George- is horrible. It was a fucking vile colour when it was traditional for boys, and it remained a vile colour when boys realised, and it was shoved off to girls.

Rachel doesnt even suit pink. She looks great in red, blue, even yellow- but not pink. Yet it is almost impossible to buy clothing for a child without a penis, that doesnt have a sliver of pink, sneaked into it- somewhere, somehow.

I wish this post was original. I wish I was saying something that hadnt been said, a million times before, and that my insight into the cult of pink- was some kind of profound statement. But it isnt.

Ah, I hear you ask. You are the person controlling the purse strings- why do you buy pink? Consumer sovereignty and all that.

I try really hard not to. I will go to ridiculous extremes not to buy pink- but when 90 percent of the clothing available for girls is pink, is accented with pink, or has something pink on it- then you are left with little choice-and it slips in. When that is combined with the fact that her extended family and friends are determined to see her as some kind of princess(and am damn sure I will blog about the cult of the princess at some point- but I need to be able to do so without shaking with fury!)- the pink sneaks in. Rachel is told that she loves pink, that she should love pink- and slowly but surely, pink is becoming her favourite colour- as it is with every one of the little girls in her nursery class.   I would rant more about this subject, but I have to take a load of washing out of the machine, that looks like someone left a red sock in there.

A change of pace continued.

So the change of pace materialised again.

Walking into nursery, to be greeted by ‘Its my mummy, look, its my mummy!’, by an squealing, excited little girl, desperate to show me her new picture(which is for the wall mummy, but maybe at the top of the wall, cos there are lots of pictures now)- is just about the greatest thing in the world. Walking home, hand in hand, while she tells me I should have brought a coat, cos its a bit chilly, is beaten by nothing.

The chaos of jigsaws thrown about, and the sheer excitement of finding she has a new tea set in her bedroom (where did it come from Mummy, do you think Santa left it…I love it, but Santa is on holiday, you said).

Even the bedtime routine of ‘Mummy, I need to come and get a drink’, ‘Mummy there are spiders in my bed’, and every other desperate attempt to get me to come back up, delaying sleep, by just another minute. All brilliant.

I was wrong. I didnt need to prepare myself to change pace. The reason my life is at the pace it is at, is that it is ruled by a two year old tyrant, with blonde curls, and brown eyes. The minute my child free birthday celebration was over, and I walked into nursery. The pace changed by itself. Very happy I am about it too.

Did I mention the Sunflower has miraculously sprouted a new leaf?

Its my birthday.

THis year, I almost forgot my birthday was coming up.

Sometimes, its like I hit 21, and someone somewhere hit the fast forward button. Months pass quickly, I suppose I will get to the point where years pass quickly. I am going on holiday next week(nothing outrageous- just a shared house with some friends and their kids in the Cotswolds). This means that actually, I will probably spend my birthday sorting out my washing, and playing with the short one.

This year, its 31. Am supposed to feel sad about that. Its been all over the papers that some presenter has been sacked for being too old- and thats the thing with us girls. Once we hit 25, we are supposed to be concerned about the lines, the wrinkles, our fading usefulness, now we dont fit with this ideal of a perfect looking 21 year old. Youth is all, skin like a fresh apricot, taut stomach, arse you could bounce a penny off. People make jokes, pretend that they think I am older- like its supposed to be a bad thing.

Strangest thing though. Possibly not surprising for those who know me, but actually its no bad thing. In fact, I quite like it.

I have lived on my own since I was just shy of my 16th birthday. I always looked much younger than I was.  I had 13 year old stepsons at 23, and long before I was this person getting to grips with parenting Rachel, I was parenting boys who were 10 years my junior. I had this life, this great life, but this life that felt a bit pretending. Like I was pretending to be a grown up. Its cliche for our generation, that we all think we are faking adulthood, and that someone will come along, and take away the mortgage, the house, the career(have been lucky enough to have two), and send us back to double maths.

We arent faking it. I wasnt faking despairing cos Daniel had left it till the last minute to tell me he needed cooking ingredients. I certainly wasnt faking going to work in situations where the decisions I made had consequences that could last a lifetime for others. Any more than I was faking the nights out with my friends, where the sun coming up didnt really indicate that the night was over.  What made me feel like I was faking it, wasnt that when I looked in the mirror, I saw a girl who barely looked 20. What made it feel like I was faking it, was that other people couldnt see past that girls face.

Up until my daughter was born, I looked like a child. I had the skin of a child, enviable I was told. Same with my body- absolutely the ideal apparently. Tiny, fat free- like a little diet yoghurt-sample size- which meant buying designer bargains was much easier.

I was once carrying out a consultancy for Leeds City Council. I was about 23, and it was quite an impressive consultancy. Designing, delivering, and evaluating a series of training events, to be delivered across the service, designed to improve performance…blah blah blah. The head of their training team came to meet with me, and I went downstairs with the guy who did my admin. When we got there, the Leeds City Council guy, shook the admin guys hand, and asked me for a cup of coffee.

That kind of thing happened a lot. In the supermarket with the boys, I got ID’d for a bottle of vodka, even though I had a shopping trolley with what was clearly not the shopping of a young girl trying to score booze. (Seriously, if I had tried to score booze at 15, which I frequently did, I wouldnt have been buying a shopping trolley which included 12 toilet rolls, and enough food to satisfy a swarm of locusts, which by the way is the nearest comparison to having twin adolescent boys in your house-food wise).

When the things that I was supposed to prize started to fade. No longer could you bounce a penny of the arse, the breasts slightly out of kilter after going from a 34a to a 38c and back down again, after feeding Rachel for 15 months. The stomach still flattish, but no longer taut. Skin that could probably do with makeup more often than I can be bothered, and no longer fresh faced and able to fake life, after a weekends activities that apparently it is ‘sad’ that I still enjoy. My ovaries are apparently committing genocide on the eggs contained within, – and the sound of a biological clock should be deafening. All these things that indicate deteriorating usefulness, have actually signalled the start of something else. Something else entirely.

I dont get called sweetheart any more. People dont confuse me with the tea girl any more. I dont get people looking at me, like I really should be shunted back to double chemistry. And the incongruence between a fresh face, and the life I live, is no longer apparent.

I dont get people astounded that a the blonde girl in heels, with the baby face, actually has a working knowledge of economics, or middle eastern politics, or can grasp philosophical concepts. The dismissal of who I am, because I happened to be a girl who fit in with conventional norms of what a pretty girl is supposed to be, has stopped. Not altogether, but enough for there to be a noticeable difference in my life.

Without those dismissals, I have changed. I dont feel the need to justify my existence. I know who I am, and when I say something, I know that that view is worth as much, and is considered as the view of the person I am addressing. There is no confusion for the person I am addressing, no incongruence between what they see before them, and what they hear coming out of my mouth. My idealism has been tempered slowly over the years by pragmatism, but the principles remain unchanged.

The imperfections that age is slowly bringing(and lets face it, at 31 the ‘deterioration’ is only just starting) havent even made me look worse.

The fact that I am not constantly aware of my appearance, or how it might be perceived= no longer worried about the dissonance between the appearance and the reality- has led to a comfort in my own skin, which shows itself when I carry myself, in the way I dress, and in the expression that I hold. No longer the ideal of a pretty girl, I now look like the grown woman that I am.

Unap0logetic. And I have to say, if this is what being in your thirties does. If losing what society appears to prize in women above all else, means being allowed to be who I am- then long may it continue. May the arse sag, the crows land round my eyes, and the waist spread. May the skin wrinkle- because each of those changes, I will earn. They are a sign, that I am no longer 21 and pretending to be a grown up. Each line and sag, is another sign that not only am I learning to live in the world, but that I HAVE lived in the world. If you dont mind, now that the neurosis of early youth are fading, I am not sure I want to swap them with a new bunch of fears, that god forbid, I might age.

And the security that comes with that, which I have barely tasted- seems a whole lot more fun, than constantly worrying about how others perceive me, about whether I will be taken seriously, whether I fit the ideal.

So Happy 31st Birthday to me, and I hope that the feelings that my thirties brought continue- because quite honestly- if this is 31, then 41, 51, 61, can only be fucking amazing. If each of the lines that my face shows, is a little more wisdom, and a little more knowledge, and a little bit of my contribution to the world- then I want a face like an A=Z of Britain. The understanding of the world, that is only just beginning, allows me to enjoy the world, in a way that looking 21 never did.

Quote of the Day.

Just a quick one. Quote of the century- from David Mitchell in todays Observer.

‘He may represent a political class that wouldn’t tell you if the room in which you were standing was on fire because predictions of smoke inhalation play badly in key marginals.’ (about Ed Milliband).

http://www.guardian.co.uk/commentisfree/2009/jul/19/david-mitchell-cricket-air-travel

Tax credits, floods, and cat poo…

(Sorry in advance- this is probably a moan).

The day starts innocently enough. Radio4, tea, Rachel squishing cereal she has no intention of eating. We discuss our plans. She thinks we should go to a toy shop, on a boat, and to the park. I agree the park, but think we should probably clean up and pop in to see my friend. Slight disagreement-is over quickly.

Then the tax credits notice arrives. I read the letter. The 4 page letter. Then the neighbour brings one that has accidentally been delivered to her house. Another four sheets of incomprehensible jargon, providing two seperate breakdowns of payments that I dont understand. The warning at the bottom suggests that I might find myself in prison being flogged by a torturer left over from Thatcherite days, and that I will have sell Rachel into slavery, if I have not notified them of any important errors.

It isnt that I am stupid- although I am nowhere near as smart as I think I am. These letters are just not even english, and follow distorted logic, that has never found it into my old philosophy books. THe payment is awarded on the basis of what I might earn, even though, as my other posts on this blog have shown- my ‘earnings’ are slightly unpredictable. It is broken down into different forms of tax credits- and the actual award isnt decided until next tax year begins. Any overpayment will be recovered swiftly- and without consideration of my selfish need to eat.

I figure it might be like parents evenings, where they cant say what they need in the school report, and maybe I need a person to explain it to dumb old me. So I ring the ‘help’ line. I listen to the menus, which each take minutes, only to find that I am a miscellaneous enquiry, which does not fit into these menus. I press 5, and it tells me they are very busy, and cuts me off. Now pardon me, but I am also very busy- and I bet they dont have a two year old demanding to put a pull up on the cat, cos he has just pooed at the bottom of the stairs.

The smell of cat poo wafts in, and Rachel starts to bore of my preoccupation with the telephone. She asks if I am on the phone to the ‘naughty lady’(she means the woman at British Gas, who I may or not have shouted at so loudly, taht even though it was 6 months ago, it is imprinted on Rachels developing consciousness). I am on hold. Then I am cut off. I redial. I go through the menus. I get through to a person, after repeating this several times. I explain that I need to discuss my award for the year, and she asks if I need to appeal. I explain I dont know, because I cant make head nor tail of it. She tells me that they won a prize for ‘plain english’- I suppress the urge to wet myself laughing. Mainly because Rachel has been upstairs for a few minutes, and is being suspiciously quiet. Partly because I am guessing that this person has been dealing with people like me all morning, and would quite like to be at home watching Saturday morning television.

My award explained- it is very simple. I will receive x amount for the next 52 weeks, on the basis of what I have told them.

I feel relieved, I go to get dressed. There are puddles on the floor and the sound of dripping water. This is clearly not good.

I go upstairs, and the bath is overflowing. I have a bath designed for two people. So it has been a while- testament to the efficiency of the tax credits helpline. Rachel has adopted a face of innocence, and explains she was helping me, by running herself a bath. I wade into the bathroom, turn off the water. I plaster a smile on my face. I go downstairs, I sit on the step, and I light a cigarette. I smoke it.

Rachel is clearly aware that there is something wrong- but I cant shout at her. because shouting only works(if ever) if its quite calmly done. If I had shouted, I think  I may possibly have sounded like one of those awful parents in precints, effing and jeffing at their frightened looking children, while dragging them along by the arm. I may not be perfect but I know enough to know, that when I am truly angry- letting rip at my daughter is not nice- especially as she barely has the cognitive development to control her own bowels. However in the absence of anyone else to get angry at, and a responsibility not to let my anger show- I am left without even the option of just sitting there seething, and so I pretend I am not.

I survey the damage. I think it will dry out. My house is now covered in every towel I own, which will need to be washed. And there will need to be considerable mopping. Rachel will have to be occupied while this happens, and we still need to go and do the jobs we already had to do. She will be upset if we dont go to the park like we promised, so that will also have to be done. My Saturday night will be defined not by glamour and excess, but mopping, washing, and cleaning. I dont get to sit and whinge, or shout. I am the adult- and there isnt another adult here, who is sufficiently mature enough to process my whinging- and if I whinge at Rachel she will think its her fault. This is the problem with being a parent. Occasionally, you have to grit your teeth, and actually make the choice to be the grown up- when you would much rather sit and stamp your feet, and shout about how unfair it is.

And I havent even tackled the cat poo. Rachel has passed out on the couch, its tiring being two.

An accurate synopsis of Torchwood.

This is blatantly plagiarised from my friend Wolf Closterman(yes, that is his name, and you, sniggering up the back should really stop…). For the benefit of anyone who didn’t watch Torchwood, and who feels they wish to know what the fuss is about, Wolf has created this detailed synopsis for you.

”Here we go: Children on Earth, a summary

Aliens turn up.
Aliens: hey, UK, you know back in 19-whenever it was, when we came last time, and you gave us a “gift” of 20 kids no one would miss?
Shady Civil Servant: Yes, but we don’t like to talk about it.
Aliens: We want MORE kiddies. They’re like crack.
Shady Civil Servant: Er, no?
Aliens: SILENCE! I KILL YOU!
Shady Civil Servant: OK, OK, we’ll see what we can do
Torchwood: La-de-da, we’re going about our business all innocently
Shady Civil Servant, to PM: Excuse me Mr PM, these aliens have turned up. They might tell people that they were here before and we gave them kids. Can’t have people finding that out.
PM: You’re quite right. Kill everyone that knew about it. But I didn’t say that. I like fluffy kittens.
Shady Civil Servant: OK. Excuse me, faithful assistant?
Faithful Assistant: Yes?
Shady Civil Servant: Please have these people killed. Joe Nobody. Fred Nobody. Oh, and Torchwood.
Faithful Assistant: Er, OK (sends email, reading “Kill these peoples”)
Joe Nobody: Is ded
Fred Nobody: Is ded
Mahoosive bomb: ASPLODEY!!
Torchwood: Ouch. But, you know, you missed.
Civil Servant: Darn.
Aliens: WHERE ARE OUR KIDS?! I CAN HAS KIDS NAO?
Civil Servant: We can give you … er … four. That no one will miss. Is that enough?
Aliens: NO! I KILLL YOU! WE WANT ELEVENTY BILLION CHILDRENS!
Civil Servant: All right, all right. We must call a secret meeting of lots of important people.
Secret meeting: We must choose who to give them. Er. Give them all the thickos.
Police: Oi! Thicko children. Get into this bus, all of you, we’re going to give you to the aliens.
Children: NOOOO
Parents: OI! No takey our childrens!
Police: Shut it, you, I hit you with sticks.
Parents: Ow.
Aliens: OOOh, yummy. Childrens. Yum. We use them as drugs you know. Cos we’re terribly evil.
Torchwood: NOOO! You no takey childrens!
Aliens: OK, I KILL YOU!
Whole building: I ded.
Ianto Jones, member of Torchwood, boyfriend of Captain Jack Harkness: I ded.
Captain Jack: Hello. My name is Captain Jack Harkness. You killed my boyfriend. Prepare to die! (Valiantly runs away)
Aliens: Childrens. Yummy. Yum yum yum.
PM: Excuse me, Civil Servant bloke, we’re going to feed your two lovely daughters to the aliens
Civil Servant Bloke: Er. Very good, Mr PM. Thank you.
Civil Servant Bloke: Escuse me childrens, and lovely wife, I need to tell you something.
Childrens: Yes Daddy?
Civil Servant Bloke: Um. Look into this.
Childrens: Is that a gun, daddy?
Civil Servant Bloke: No no. It’s a kitten. *BANG* *BANG* *BANG*…. *BANG*
Childrens: is dead.
Wife: is ded.
Civil Servant Bloke: is ded.
Captain Jack: Right, I can stop the aliens by using this macguffin here. All I need is one expendible child, who will die horribly. Now, where is my grown-up daughter who was introduced at the very beginning of this episode for no apparent reason, and my cute blonde haired grandchild? Oh, there you both are.
Grown up daugher: No, don’t do it, Dad!
Captain Jack: sorry, I have to. Blonde haired grandchild, stand there, and I’ll give you a kitten.
Blonde haired grandchild: OK, Uncle Jack. I wuv you.
Captain Jack: That’s nice, now just wait there while I turn on this microwave oven.
Grandchild: is ded.
Aliens: are ded.
World: celebrates.
Grown up daughter: Tut
Jack: oh, no, I shall run away to the stars!
The end.

Dealbreakers.

So I got this message. Which, in my technophobic state, I accidentally deleted. Anyway, the message asked why I didnt blog about men and relationships. I am not sure what the answer to that is really- I think they just dont puzzle me as much as other things, and quite honestly, romantic love is not the most important thing in my life.  I happen to be very lucky with the men I have had in my life, and have in my life- but unlike trying to parent Rachel, or sort my career out, or get by financially..or buy shoes…they just dont puzzle me enough that I would write constantly about them. And thats what this blog is, its me venting and rambling, about the things I am figuring out.

Sure, I have read chick lit. Where the female protagonist is in search of Mr.Right- and in order to be fulfilled- that, above all else has to be sorted- but it has never spoke to anything in me, with anything that is truthful. I watched a film called ‘He’s not that into you’ the other day.(Not even under duress, I may add!), and by the time the film had gone half way through, I had decided that unless it turned into a massacre movie at some point soon, I was switching it off. By half way through the required massacre had not appeared, and I watched Torchwood instead.

In this film were a group of arguably, the worlds most beautiful women. Jennifer Connelly(who I am sorry to say, will always be known as ‘ass to ass’ girl from Requiem for a Dream), the girl from Friends with the dark blonde hair, who used to be married to Brad Pitt, and a few others. In this film, these great beautiful women, with great careers, with great friends, were obsessed with one true love, and marriage.

The film showed a dating game that left me cold. A world of analysing texts, and waiting for someone who has treated you like shit, to call. A film where men say what they mean, and women are too stupid to take that word on face value, and where fidelity is the be all and end all= cos doncha know we all have a soul mate- and even if that guy treats you like crap- the fact that you love him, is enough to make it worth working at.

This film, and the seven gzillion films and books like it, were not about love. Not about two adults, finding a way to make each other happy, through their relationship. This was about something else entirely.

Its not that I am anti-love. I certainly am, and have, been lucky enough to experience loving people, who loved me in a way that has made certain aspects of my life  infinitely richer and happier. But the idea of one man for eternity, and if I have that sorted, I will be happy, leaves me cold to be honest.

If you treat love, as what one person whose name I dont remember called ‘an inescapable virus that should be allowed to ride roughshod over every rational instinct of self preservation and reason we posess’(and I may be paraphrasing..from god knows where) then you are asking for trouble.

I am a member of a group- its just a group of women, with similar responsibilities- namely children. None of us are alike- but a more fiery group of intelligent, bolshy, kind, remarkable women, you will never come across.  We clash, and we talk, but when the shit hits the fan- we are absolutely there(Ta for helping me buy the shoes yesterday Rach!! And to those who were on the end of the phone when Rachel was ill-you have my eternal gratitude).

We were talking about relationships- more specifically monogamy. I am aware that my views on monogamy are not shared- and that for many people- the idea that actually, there just isnt one person for everyone, and attraction to someone else isnt a dealbreaker, doesnt appeal. The thing that shocks me though, are the things that people wont treat as a dealbreaker.

When a bloke is literally leaving you to run his life, exhausted, and still refusing to do a thing as trivial as housework-even though him helping is the difference between you being able to function, and you living life on a wheel of exhausting perpetual domestic motion. When a guy is so fiscally irresponsible, that he will put your home and your childrens home, in jeapordy. Behaviour which verges on the physically, and emotionally abusive. Why is that not seen as the dealbreaker= yet either of you being attracted to someone else, is?

Divorce laws give adultery as a sole ground for seperation-yet until my lifetime you could rape or beat your wife with impunity(and lets just pretend that the law is workable, and you cant actually do those things and get away with them…..).

I dont blog about men and relationships, in the way that I suppose others do- because if I was to blog about men and relationships-these arent the things I would blog about. I dont care about 16 rules to understand a man, or make him like you. Or how to interpret things they say ‘with what they really mean’.

I care that the person I am with treats me with respect, makes my life better, that I make theirs better. If I am not with someone, its not particularly a big deal- because at the end of the day even without them I am not alone, I have a life,  a child, good friends, a purpose. If I want to know if someone I am with loves me, or respects me, I ask them. If they treat me in a way that hurts me, my child, or makes me feel shit, I tell them-and if that negative effect on my life outweighs any positive benefit they bring- then they arent in my life anymore- or their place in my life, and their capacity to do that changes.

I think I do probably blog about men and relationships really- you just cant see it. Because relationships are not supposed to be dramatic love stories, that cause anxiety and turmoil- they are part of the thread that holds our lives together. They just arent the only thread- and I certainly dont think that thread is so singularly important, that if it comes loose I should allow it to bring my life crashing down around my ears.

I do care about how to live, so that I, and the people around me, dont inadvertently hurt each other- but that wouldnt be as interesting as a glib article with ’10 signs that he loves you’- or dramatic stories about how this woman who is trying to keep her life together- really shouldnt worry about the important stuff, cos if true love is there, it will all be ok. I am a romantic- but my idea of romance is relationships that are fulfilling, and work on their own terms, without adhering to ideas where you can be treated with little respect, and watch the lives of you and your children go down the toilet, but its worth it, because its ‘true love’.

(Realised who was quoting-thanks to Marielle Frostrup-http://www.guardian.co.uk/lifeandstyle/2009/jul/12/mariella-frostrup)

Festival madness.

Do you know what a state dependant memory is? You know when you are drunk, and you lose something, and then when you are in the same state, you remember where you put it. That is a state dependant memory, and  that is what happens with me and festivals.

My stomach sank on Friday morning. I looked out of the window, and after a week of glorious weather- I saw torrential rain, and  Lake Gallilee had formed outside my house. This was the first state dependant memory. The memory of every festival that I have ever been to. Waking up on the day of departure, to torrential rain- and the prospect of a weekend with trench foot, bad food, and cold.  I packed deeply unnatractive waterproofs(which i lost anyway, and never felt the benefit of..), my list of the bands/dj’s I intended to see, and off I went.

By the time I arrived- the torrential rain had dissapeared- left enough mud for the wellies to come out(pink candy striped wellies- clearly not an outdoors girl really..) and been replaced with glorious sunshine.

Unlike every other festival, I did not spend hours grappling with the intricate science of tent erection- instead arriving on site after my friends(actually one friend and her friends) had constructed a tent, laid it out with all things necessary for a great weekend, and already settled in.  This all boded well. As it was, I barely saw this tent, and not putting it up, meant I was not familiar enough with it, to actually find it without difficulty and luck, later on in the weekend… Her friends quickly became my friends, and off we went.

The initial forays to explore the lie of the land,  became entwined with the festivities, and I happily realised that the whole of Hebden Bridge had upped sticks to this collection of muddy fields for the weekend- with my neighbours, my stepson and his friends(trying desperately hard not to look like they were doing anything illegal at all..) and various acquaintances from different stages of my life- also there, in wellies-tentatively exploring this site of tents, marquees and sounds stages. After the first hour or so, of inhibitions falling, and decibels increasing- time began to lose all meaning.

Went from soundstage, to marquee, to tea shack, to a beautiful clearing in some very tall woods pounding with techno, and teeming with people. Many conversations with people, some strangers, some not, some already half recognised, and gotten to know in the time that elapsed between Friday evening, and Saturday afternoon(evening? Really not that sure). Had conversations with everyone, on topics as diverse as the meaning of life, the new Doctor Who, how to eat a twix correctly(you nibble the chocolate off the sides, then peel the toffee off the biscuit, then either eat the biscuit or chuck it..). It was dark, then it was light. Then I was lying on a sleeping mat, in a circle of tents, with some rather nice people- considering the awful choice that lay before me.

Lie there and fall happily asleep in the sun(which was already hot) and eventually be discovered as the toasted remains of me, or move and find the tent(which could have been green/red/blue, large or small, and possibly in a field with more tents…). As I did not at that point, have the capacity to move- my options became rather limited. THe porch of someones tent was offered- and I lay there, hoping for sleep, but actually listening to the competing decibels and beats, from the various soundstages- contemplating the fact that there was definitely a toothbrush and an unopened pack of cigarettes in the tent I had lost.

After being christened Bernard, and being part of a discussion about which animal we would prefer to be stampeded by(we came up with Meerkats-but realised it was impractical- as we would need about 15oo meerkats trained to stampede, possibly in pyjamas, and that might be difficult to locate)-the urge to pee, became stronger than the urge to sleep- and after a doze(it may have been sleep, it may not)- I went to look for the toilets.

This turned out to be a masterful stroke of planning. While I did not find the toilets- I did find my tent. Important rule- if you are looking for your tent at a festival, you will never find it, but kismet and serendipity mean you will always happen upon it eventually when you are looking for something else.

Saturday night at a festival is always different to Friday. The energy and the enthusiasm dissipates somewhat, and it is replaced by casualties from the night before, trying to rediscover the energy that they had the night before-without realising that the lack of sleep, adequate nutrition, and a shower- means it is lost till at least Sunday.

I valiantly gave up at 4am, and spent several hours asleep in a yurt.

Sunday was spent in a day of relative sobriety, looking about 30 years older than my years- eating cake, drinking tea, and contemplating going home. This placed me at odds with the rest of the gathered partygoers- but responsibility beckoned. They had found the energy to party with the same enthusiasm that they had arrived with- but this was my cue to leave. As the friend I had come with, was in no fit state to drive- I grabbed a lift to the station- and on Sunday evening, I managed to get myself home, albeit with filthy hair, a mouth that tasted like someone had died in it, and attire that might as well have been a neon sign  that said ‘I am on my way home from a festival’-(muddy wellies, denim cut offs, a bag with a sleeping mat sticking out- and hair that looked like it was on the verge of dreads).

Today, as I settled back into life watching Rachel, drinking tea, having clean hair, with techno replaced by Radio4, I was reassured by the friends that I had been with, that they had had a wicked time. State dependant memories of recovery from festivals, have appeared out of nowhere- . I didnt see any of the DJ’s or bands I intended to see(I may have caught 808 state, but really was unaware), but I did have a brilliant weekend. I have eaten terrible noodles, some things with chickpeas in it, and a very greasy burger, and paid way over the odds for the priveledge. I have peed in smelly portaloos, and I am quite sure that my stuff will remain in the bags I took for at least a week. I dont have trench foot, I do have sunburn, in a pattern which indicates it was earned while I was lay on that sleeping mat, procrastinating about finding my tent.

Rachel is now in bed. I am clean, my house is not, and I have decided that that is my festival fix for the summer. Unless Kendal Calling tickets fall ito my lap…

So this is blogging?

I am a deeply flawed human being, with a deeply embedded bad streak, only credit reference agencies have the true measure of me, and they know I am not to be trusted. I try really hard though.

This blog is my inane ramblings, and really, is a symbol of the vanity that the digital revolution has given us all.

I am not a writer- yet here I am, hoping that someone will find the musings on my deeply shallow, but deeply enjoyable existence-in the slightest bit interesting.

I have a beautiful, crazy, intelligent, 2 year old. A manky cat. I live in a town of organochavs, feminists, lesbians, and social workers- and have a sneaking suspicion that I am entirely qualified to live there.

I paint badly. I blog. I have an opinion on everything.

Oh, and I overuse commas.