A message to Jordan and Peter Bloody Andre!!

When your parents split- the two most important people in your life- it is life altering, and if handled badly, has the potential to lay a foundation which will damage you for your entire life.

Regular commentary to tabloid newspapers, magazines, and the filming of docusoaps- about every aspect of your childrens lives and the most painful thing they are likely to have experienced in their short lives- for the highest bidder-is pretty much beyond ‘handling it badly’.

A conflict on that scale between the two main attachment figures in your life is bad enough. TO feel that to show loyalty to one, places you in conflict with the other- is a heartbreaking situation for any child. TO have it played out in the shitty tabloid rags, who will make a headline out of every single out of place comment is bad enough. TO wilfully provide acres of coverage for your children, their peers, and the adults they will become- to pore over, is downright irresponsible.

To those watching- seriously- switch off your bloody televisions, and go find entertainment that isnt sitting there in your armchair- watching real life people getting divorced- and where the very act of you viewing, isnt contributing to the harm that that kind of behaviour causes. The only reason that people can do this, is that you the viewing public will watch, and will part with cash for magazines. Stop.

Death for sale, divorce for sale, custody battles for sale…. Seriously- is there anything that digital channels, OK Magazine, and Heat wont buy and sell for entertainment?

I am no longer a football widow.

Today is the first day of the football season. I could not tell you who is playing, I could not tell you who managed to buy whom, before the transfer window closed. I could not tell you who has a new stadium, who was injured over the summer. Who was looking good in pre-season training. I would be hard pressed to tell you who finished where, at the end of last season, who has been relegated- and who is in for a tough season. Quite honestly, I would be hard pressed to identify a team by their football strip.

HURRRRRRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYY!!!! (The reader should note that I paused typing, to jump around the living room, doing a happy dance, which may have been a naked happy dance!).

When I was booking the registry office, for the day of my wedding- I asked my husband to be, what time he would prefer. He seemed quite adamant about the time he chose, I was pleased he was so interested in our happy day.

The day of our nuptuals arrived, and when we arrived at our reception- he asked if I would like to go upstairs for a ‘glass of champagne’. We arrived in the room. He looked around furtively. This all boded well, I prepared to lock the door, and proffered the vintage veuve cliquot bottle for opening. He turned, looked at me, with excitement in his eyes. And went for the television. Arsenal vs Chelsea, Quarter Final, FA Cup. He asked if I had minded booking the wedding with the kick off time in mind. I went back downstairs to join our guests, while several of his friends piled in, to check the score.

We boarded the plane to our honeymoon. Ten days for the Fallas festival in Valencia(http://www.valenciavalencia.com/culture-guide/fallas/fallas.htm). As I boarded the plane, I was slightly perturbed by the number of Arsenal shirts.  He said that Arsenal would be playing Valencia, in the Champions league(also quarter final I recall), and seemed surprised I was not as happy about this little ‘coincidence’ as he was.

Learning my expected date of delivery, for our beautiful daughter, was met with much frantic scrabbling through fixture lists. He attempted a discussion about what would happen if I went into labour, during Watford vs Arsenal(apparently v important as Watford are his home team). Good wife that I am, I said I would ask our daughter to stay put during said match, but if all else failed, he would fucking switch the television off, and deal with the pain. I was sure they could give him some pethidine to soften the blow.

When watching football matches, I am always struck with the immediate thought, that I have in fact, already seen this match. Same green pitch. The same amount of blokes running round the pitch. It always follows the same format- they run around. At some point one of the guys will kick a ball, into the little arches at the end of the pitch- this will happen on average between one, and four times. It will go on for the same amount of time. And the score will be one of very few variables- with occasions where the score falls outside those parameters, being discussed for ages on various commentary programmes for years after it occurs. If a film was so predictable- noone would care.

THe advent of digital television means that there will always be a channel, with some variation of this game, discussion of this game, analysis of this game, news from this game. I cannot fathom how such a predictable event could warrant so much discussion and money. On Radio, Radio5Live, will use this game as a reason to vent the most racist, mysogynistic, ill informed views possible, under the guise of this futile macho bonding excercise.

From August to June of every year, the television in my house appeared to develop a fault, whereby every time you appeared to have paused viewing something, perhaps this pause was indicated by you blinking- the television would return to its default setting of SkySportsNews- for incomprehensible tables to occupy the screen, while some junior anchor tried to fill the airtime with pointless dull comment, on the progress of the season.

So here I am, on the first day of the football season- doing my naked happy dance, seperation has MANY benefits.

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…