I’ve been involved with voluntary organisations of one sort or another all my life.
When I was in my early teens I went round selling poppies for the Royal British Legion, doing the door to door knocking and persuading people away from their tellies to open the door and slip 50p into the collecting tin in exchange for a red cardboard flower.
Then I joined the Barn Theatre and for almost forty years now (I started as almost a babe in arms, obviously) have served on committees for one or the other society in some capacity or another as well as turning up to serve wine, sell programmes or sweets or slip mail outs into envelopes.
And now, I am volunteering at a community radio station as a presenter and, time permitting, willing to help with fund raising and various other functions.
These are all quite diverse organisations but they have one thing in common. And I don’t mean community spirit, fund raising or being “all in a good cause”. No, I’m afraid what I mean is that they are rife with petty politics and power struggles.
Generally speaking, all these organisations are run and manned by very decent people. They willingly give their time and effort for nothing and whole heartedly throw themselves into the spirit of the thing. Those that are retired seem to almost adopt them as their new job and spend hours and hours in what should be their leisurely years slaving away to organise events, drum up sponsorship and keep the thing going. And most of them are thoroughly nice.
But occasionally, you come across one who uses the organisation for their own ends and exploits everyone they come into contact with. They are the equivalent of the playground bully, riding roughshod over everyone and when they are crossed becoming vicious and unbelievably nasty. Usually these people are clever, able to read situations and turn them about face for their own ends. They’re like Teflon (nothing sticks) and they don’t care who they squash. In short, they have no moral code.
It’s very hard to deal with individuals like that and quite often, if you give them enough rope they’ll eventually hang themselves. There has been a recent incident which has not directly affected me but has seriously impacted upon people I know which has been particularly nasty which may fall into this category; I sincerely hope so. All I feel I can do is offer moral support to those affected and if I am able, practical help to deal with the situation. It feels inadequate.
Why do people use organisations which are set up in such sincerity and good faith like this? It totally undermines the community principles they are meant to support and allows destructive individuals a platform upon which to exercise their Machiavellian tendencies. The only way that they will be toppled is by their membership, who need to exercise people power.
So come on guys; stand up and be counted when it matters. The world will be a better place, and go hang what other people think of you. If you know you gave done what is right, you can sleep easy at night.
Tuesday, 1 April 2014
Monday, 24 March 2014
Things, they are a changing....
I’m having one of those days when you feel about 150 years old and ridiculously tired. I had a rubbish night’s sleep, goodness knows why, and woke up as tired as I went to bed. As we all know, when you’re tired any physical aches and pains come to the fore (a sign of aging, sadly) and even the most mundane of problems seem too much of a mountain to climb.
It’s interesting that over the last year, when I haven’t done any shows or had much of an involvement in the theatre at all, I seem to have been as busy as ever and possibly more so. Goodness knows how I found time to appear in shows, let alone direct them with all the preparation and thinking through that involves. A year or so off of what has been my hobby for almost 40 years seems to have done nothing for my stress levels or energy.
In the spirit of remaining positive (mentioned in this blog last week) I’m trying not to let feeling totally knackered all the time get me down. After all, chores are getting done, the dog is getting walked (and I mean walked. I certainly don’t intend to go jogging with her), the house and garden are in good order and I’m managing to have some sort of a social life (although rather reduced from what it was). Paperwork and bureaucracy are being dealt with and I’m enjoying the radio presenting.
I thought your busiest times of life were meant to be from your mid to late twenties to about forty, when you had young children about the place and were climbing the greasy pole at work. So not in your fifties, when you might reasonably be expected to have reached the zenith of your career, to be able to slow things down a little and take some more time for yourself. But I’m exhausted.
Definitely it’s time for a major life change. I fully intend to have a ripe and fulfilling old(er) age and carrying on as I am really isn’t an option if am to achieve that. As I sit here now I can feel my shoulders aching due to computer work, my back playing up due to an uncomfortable train journey this morning, my sinuses congested due to the stuffy office atmosphere with no fresh air and my eyes wanting to nod because I sleep badly. All minor ailments, none of them life threatening or serious, individually hardly worth mentioning but collectively they really drag you down. The mental effect of cumulative small physical problems is significant.
So, plans are afoot which, if they come off in nine to twelve months time, will push me in a completely different direction and much, much closer towards what I want. I’d like to be free-er with less stress and angst, be able to do something creative, be able to work as much as I want, when I want and have a life with less moaning from others and more satisfaction. I’ll be so, so, so skint, but I’ve come around to the view that money isn’t everything and keeping the shoulder to the grindstone to achieve maximum pension or a house in a posh area or another promotion simply isn’t worth it in so many other ways.
The Hubby and I don’t entirely agree on this. Being more attached to Blighty than I am, he wants to work on with slightly different longer term ambitions. And for some bizarre reason, he thinks working in the public sector is worth it because it makes a difference (hmm - debate!). But he has been very supportive of my proposals and it’s safe to say that in the medium term (definitely not as far in the future as the long term) things will be very different. I have mixed feelings – “what have I done?” being one, bravery another and excitement underpinning it all.
But this time, I’m gonna do it!
It’s interesting that over the last year, when I haven’t done any shows or had much of an involvement in the theatre at all, I seem to have been as busy as ever and possibly more so. Goodness knows how I found time to appear in shows, let alone direct them with all the preparation and thinking through that involves. A year or so off of what has been my hobby for almost 40 years seems to have done nothing for my stress levels or energy.
In the spirit of remaining positive (mentioned in this blog last week) I’m trying not to let feeling totally knackered all the time get me down. After all, chores are getting done, the dog is getting walked (and I mean walked. I certainly don’t intend to go jogging with her), the house and garden are in good order and I’m managing to have some sort of a social life (although rather reduced from what it was). Paperwork and bureaucracy are being dealt with and I’m enjoying the radio presenting.
I thought your busiest times of life were meant to be from your mid to late twenties to about forty, when you had young children about the place and were climbing the greasy pole at work. So not in your fifties, when you might reasonably be expected to have reached the zenith of your career, to be able to slow things down a little and take some more time for yourself. But I’m exhausted.
Definitely it’s time for a major life change. I fully intend to have a ripe and fulfilling old(er) age and carrying on as I am really isn’t an option if am to achieve that. As I sit here now I can feel my shoulders aching due to computer work, my back playing up due to an uncomfortable train journey this morning, my sinuses congested due to the stuffy office atmosphere with no fresh air and my eyes wanting to nod because I sleep badly. All minor ailments, none of them life threatening or serious, individually hardly worth mentioning but collectively they really drag you down. The mental effect of cumulative small physical problems is significant.
So, plans are afoot which, if they come off in nine to twelve months time, will push me in a completely different direction and much, much closer towards what I want. I’d like to be free-er with less stress and angst, be able to do something creative, be able to work as much as I want, when I want and have a life with less moaning from others and more satisfaction. I’ll be so, so, so skint, but I’ve come around to the view that money isn’t everything and keeping the shoulder to the grindstone to achieve maximum pension or a house in a posh area or another promotion simply isn’t worth it in so many other ways.
The Hubby and I don’t entirely agree on this. Being more attached to Blighty than I am, he wants to work on with slightly different longer term ambitions. And for some bizarre reason, he thinks working in the public sector is worth it because it makes a difference (hmm - debate!). But he has been very supportive of my proposals and it’s safe to say that in the medium term (definitely not as far in the future as the long term) things will be very different. I have mixed feelings – “what have I done?” being one, bravery another and excitement underpinning it all.
But this time, I’m gonna do it!
Friday, 21 March 2014
Normally, I try to cover it up....
I’ve just done one of those ‘no make up selfie’ things which are doing the rounds for the cancer charities. As I’m working at home today (I am, really!) I haven’t bothered doing my hair either, so it’s a bit of a double whammy.
I don’t always wear make up, certainly not when I’m just bumming around the house. When I do bother by using at least some tinted moisturiser, mascara and lippy, I invariably forget to refresh it during the day and so by 5pm you don’t know I’m wearing any, anyway. The occasions when I wear full proper makeup and do my hair to look really respectable can probably be counted on my fingers.
It’s a funny thing isn’t it, our cosmetic mask. Putting it on increases our confidence and self esteem, and not wearing it, especially in public, makes us feel vulnerable.
The degree to which we feel that varies, of course. And I think it changes with age; when I was younger I wouldn’t have dreamed of going out without make up even for the most routine of shopping trips. Now, most of the time I can’t be arsed and nip down to Morrisons as natural as the day I was born, spots, thread veins and all. I’ve never understood the women I see on my daily commute sitting on the train and slathering loads of the stuff all over their faces as the train is moving. It jogs and jerks and if it were me I’d end up with mascara all down my cheek or poking the wand in my eye (mind you I am prone to doing that any way). If it’s really so important to you to look immaculately made up, then get up 15 minutes earlier and so it in a civilised way in front of a mirror with proper lights.
The scary thing about this selfie I’ve just taken, which of course is completely unflattering and at a weird angle as I try and peer into my iphone camera lens and look nonchalant, is how much like my mother I look. I’ve always known there were some very strong genetic traits there in the shape of the lower face and nose, but when made up they can be hidden and disguised quite effectively. Without that, they become the dominant feature and if you stood me next to my mother, aunt, grandmother and great grandmother (all no longer with us of course, so they wouldn’t be looking their best) it would be blindingly obvious that we were closely related.
Most of the time, I think I look a little like a bag lady. I dress for comfort and often for dog walking when I get covered in hair and mud, dislike things that are tight or too restrictive and shop for quite a bit of my daily wear from Primarni, which is all very well, until you wash it a few times (I do have standards though, my knickers still come from M&S). My age has meant that my skin, hair and so on has regressed back to its teenage state and is totally unpredictable and unreliable, a bit like most men. I seem to have shadows and bags under my eyes most of the time, and constantly be suffering from some minor ailment or another. The times when I look my scintillating, ravishing best and most gorgeous are becoming fewer and fewer. I’m told, when the next few years are over, that those times will return. Let’s hope so.
The make up free selfie campaign is for charity. The idea is that you text a number to donate three quid, take your photo and upload it to Facebook for everyone to laugh at you. Maybe men should do it too – instead of ‘no make up’ it could be ‘unshaven and hung over’. Now that’s got to be worth a few quid and a good laugh, hasn’t it?
I don’t always wear make up, certainly not when I’m just bumming around the house. When I do bother by using at least some tinted moisturiser, mascara and lippy, I invariably forget to refresh it during the day and so by 5pm you don’t know I’m wearing any, anyway. The occasions when I wear full proper makeup and do my hair to look really respectable can probably be counted on my fingers.
It’s a funny thing isn’t it, our cosmetic mask. Putting it on increases our confidence and self esteem, and not wearing it, especially in public, makes us feel vulnerable.
The degree to which we feel that varies, of course. And I think it changes with age; when I was younger I wouldn’t have dreamed of going out without make up even for the most routine of shopping trips. Now, most of the time I can’t be arsed and nip down to Morrisons as natural as the day I was born, spots, thread veins and all. I’ve never understood the women I see on my daily commute sitting on the train and slathering loads of the stuff all over their faces as the train is moving. It jogs and jerks and if it were me I’d end up with mascara all down my cheek or poking the wand in my eye (mind you I am prone to doing that any way). If it’s really so important to you to look immaculately made up, then get up 15 minutes earlier and so it in a civilised way in front of a mirror with proper lights.
The scary thing about this selfie I’ve just taken, which of course is completely unflattering and at a weird angle as I try and peer into my iphone camera lens and look nonchalant, is how much like my mother I look. I’ve always known there were some very strong genetic traits there in the shape of the lower face and nose, but when made up they can be hidden and disguised quite effectively. Without that, they become the dominant feature and if you stood me next to my mother, aunt, grandmother and great grandmother (all no longer with us of course, so they wouldn’t be looking their best) it would be blindingly obvious that we were closely related.
Most of the time, I think I look a little like a bag lady. I dress for comfort and often for dog walking when I get covered in hair and mud, dislike things that are tight or too restrictive and shop for quite a bit of my daily wear from Primarni, which is all very well, until you wash it a few times (I do have standards though, my knickers still come from M&S). My age has meant that my skin, hair and so on has regressed back to its teenage state and is totally unpredictable and unreliable, a bit like most men. I seem to have shadows and bags under my eyes most of the time, and constantly be suffering from some minor ailment or another. The times when I look my scintillating, ravishing best and most gorgeous are becoming fewer and fewer. I’m told, when the next few years are over, that those times will return. Let’s hope so.
The make up free selfie campaign is for charity. The idea is that you text a number to donate three quid, take your photo and upload it to Facebook for everyone to laugh at you. Maybe men should do it too – instead of ‘no make up’ it could be ‘unshaven and hung over’. Now that’s got to be worth a few quid and a good laugh, hasn’t it?
Monday, 17 March 2014
Be positive. Definitely.
I’m always moaning about work in these postings, I know. The commuting on an overcrowded, overpriced and inadequate public transport system, the dull and pointless nature of some of the work which doesn’t really make a difference to people’s lives (unless you count giving a multi millionaire permission to extend his excessively large, luxury house even further with a gym, cinema and underground garage for his Ferraris and Bentleys), the constant ungratefulness of public sector customers, the moaning and complaining from colleagues and the sheer grind of it all gets you down.
So I have decided to be more positive in my communications. Continually griping doesn’t actually make me feel any better and must be incredibly depressing for those that either bother to read my missives or take the time to listen to me.
The problem is I tend to see the world in a rather black and white way. As far as I can see, no one makes any allowances for me so why should I make them for other people. I’ve always been fairly forthright in my opinions (you might have noticed) because my parents taught me not to have hidden agendas and to be open and honest about what you think and feel. As it turns out, that was a pretty crap piece of advice to give because being open and honest as well as forthright makes you no friends and does you no favours. And boy, have I found out the hard way!
My mouth constantly gets me into trouble. And it isn’t even that I fail to stop and think. I DO stop and think, the problem is I mostly think “What the hell” and say it anyway. Quite often, I fail to understand why someone gets upset or angry about something I may have said or written, because to me it’s just a statement of the facts and not said with any malice.
I have discovered throughout my life that really and truly, no one is completely on your side. And that doesn’t mean that someone should always agree with you all of the time; some disagreement and challenge is healthy, and it’s good to hear alternative views and approaches to things. But it is quite surprising how many people underhandedly and actively brief against you just because they don’t like the fact that you have a different approach or will challenge them. I have discovered, for instance, that a member of a group I belong who is now in an influential position is actively briefing against me being a Director again for that group. I don’t know why, but I can only assume that it is simply because they think I will not allow them to do what they want or that they won’t be a shoo in for a role. Their priorities are all wrong – I’m a bloody good Director (not just my own opinion). And I always have the good of the organisation at heart, not just personal aggrandisement. Their loss!
But in the brave new world, I’m not going to let any of that matter because, in the grander scheme of things, it doesn’t. Those people can be as petty and small minded as they like and they can drown in their own bitterness because I’m bigger than them; I have been through a considerable amount of adversity and angst in my life and I’ve come out the other side. I have a husband that loves me (and doesn’t see me as a cash cow or as some romanticised duplicate of his sweet but compliant mother) (well, third time lucky!), two modern and intelligent daughters, a lovely granddaughter and a gorgeous dog. Oh, and two fluffy cats whom I adore and a job which might be horrible but pays reasonably well. I’m clever enough to see my own shortcomings, unlike some of the others, and to know when they matter. I have a reasonably good health and exciting plans for the future.
So I’m going to think of positive, exciting and interesting things to blog about over the next few months. That’s in between writing my books, doing my radio presenting and doing only what makes me happy and gives me fulfilment instead of what everyone expects me to do or what causes me stress and anxiety.
It’s either that or an early grave, and I know which I’d prefer.
So I have decided to be more positive in my communications. Continually griping doesn’t actually make me feel any better and must be incredibly depressing for those that either bother to read my missives or take the time to listen to me.
The problem is I tend to see the world in a rather black and white way. As far as I can see, no one makes any allowances for me so why should I make them for other people. I’ve always been fairly forthright in my opinions (you might have noticed) because my parents taught me not to have hidden agendas and to be open and honest about what you think and feel. As it turns out, that was a pretty crap piece of advice to give because being open and honest as well as forthright makes you no friends and does you no favours. And boy, have I found out the hard way!
My mouth constantly gets me into trouble. And it isn’t even that I fail to stop and think. I DO stop and think, the problem is I mostly think “What the hell” and say it anyway. Quite often, I fail to understand why someone gets upset or angry about something I may have said or written, because to me it’s just a statement of the facts and not said with any malice.
I have discovered throughout my life that really and truly, no one is completely on your side. And that doesn’t mean that someone should always agree with you all of the time; some disagreement and challenge is healthy, and it’s good to hear alternative views and approaches to things. But it is quite surprising how many people underhandedly and actively brief against you just because they don’t like the fact that you have a different approach or will challenge them. I have discovered, for instance, that a member of a group I belong who is now in an influential position is actively briefing against me being a Director again for that group. I don’t know why, but I can only assume that it is simply because they think I will not allow them to do what they want or that they won’t be a shoo in for a role. Their priorities are all wrong – I’m a bloody good Director (not just my own opinion). And I always have the good of the organisation at heart, not just personal aggrandisement. Their loss!
But in the brave new world, I’m not going to let any of that matter because, in the grander scheme of things, it doesn’t. Those people can be as petty and small minded as they like and they can drown in their own bitterness because I’m bigger than them; I have been through a considerable amount of adversity and angst in my life and I’ve come out the other side. I have a husband that loves me (and doesn’t see me as a cash cow or as some romanticised duplicate of his sweet but compliant mother) (well, third time lucky!), two modern and intelligent daughters, a lovely granddaughter and a gorgeous dog. Oh, and two fluffy cats whom I adore and a job which might be horrible but pays reasonably well. I’m clever enough to see my own shortcomings, unlike some of the others, and to know when they matter. I have a reasonably good health and exciting plans for the future.
So I’m going to think of positive, exciting and interesting things to blog about over the next few months. That’s in between writing my books, doing my radio presenting and doing only what makes me happy and gives me fulfilment instead of what everyone expects me to do or what causes me stress and anxiety.
It’s either that or an early grave, and I know which I’d prefer.
Sunday, 16 March 2014
Back. Again. Very briefly. For now.
I am conscious that I haven't blogged much recently. To be honest, I haven't felt inspired. But I'm starting to feel creative juices flowing again. And there seem to be lots of outrages going on in the world in various ways, too, for me to get my teeth into. So watch this space, and now I've worked out how to do his from my iPad, there'll be no stopping me.
Thursday, 30 January 2014
Sex sells. But its getting a bit boring.
I don't know about you, but the volume of sex scandals currently being reported on the news is starting to bore me rigid (no pun intended).
That, of course, sounds harsh and uncaring, and it isn't meant to be. I fully appreciate that for women (or men) genuinely molested or abused by those in influential or powerful positions, the situation must have been traumatic and scarring. I also realise that those suffering the abuse can be damaged for life and in some cases can never have a meaningful or trusting relationship again.
However, I cannot understand how, after all these years, chasing these allegations through a court case can be a realistic way to deal with them and how those trials will achieve closure.
I will be very surprised, for instance, if William Roache (aka Ken Barlow of Corrie or, if you read the tabloids, Cockroache) doesn't get acquitted in the case currently running and being avidly reported on our news each night. There is no real evidence, it's really just one person's word against another, and he has high profile friends testifying on his behalf. Even one of his accusers says she can't really remember the alleged incident. If he does get off, and from what I've read I think he will, it will have been a total waste of public money.
Similarly, how on earth can allegations of sexual misconduct in the 1960s and 1970s ever be proved? Dave Lee Travis may well have been a randy git (a condition still afflicting many of those in the performing arts and media professions), but if he did do anything improper no one complained at the time because presumably they either thought there was no point, it wasn't that big a deal or they thought shagging him might help them meet the right contacts to get a hit single.
I do not, of course, condone sexual predators in any way. There is no excuse for forcing anyone, male or female, to do something they do not want to do purely for personal gratification, and in particular there is no excuse for taking advantage of vulnerable people due to age, mental ability or for any other reason. The Jimmy Savile case is a travesty which reflects badly not only on him, but also on the BBC as his employer, since he was so prolific they must certainly have had suspicions and hushed them up. But now it is hard to know who has genuinely suffered, and who has just jumped on the band wagon for one reason or another.
In my view, the circus surrounding all these allegations is severely hampering the investigations reaching a proper conclusion. It is stirring up emotions and attracting sensationalists in equal measure and means that no one can possibly sit on a jury with an open mind, and without taking account of the fame of those accused. The media, sniffing blood, is whipping itself up into a righteous frenzy conveniently forgetting that 30 or 40 years ago someone or indeed several people within its own organisations almost certainly knew if the allegations were true, and if so turned a blind eye.
There should be a moratorium on reporting these cases until they reach a verdict. And we should have some real news on our TVs for a change, instead of dragging what may be innocent men's reputations through the mud in 'trial by public', and forcing genuine victims to live out their trauma again under the arclights.
Enough. And lets bring it all to a conclusion. Soon.
That, of course, sounds harsh and uncaring, and it isn't meant to be. I fully appreciate that for women (or men) genuinely molested or abused by those in influential or powerful positions, the situation must have been traumatic and scarring. I also realise that those suffering the abuse can be damaged for life and in some cases can never have a meaningful or trusting relationship again.
However, I cannot understand how, after all these years, chasing these allegations through a court case can be a realistic way to deal with them and how those trials will achieve closure.
I will be very surprised, for instance, if William Roache (aka Ken Barlow of Corrie or, if you read the tabloids, Cockroache) doesn't get acquitted in the case currently running and being avidly reported on our news each night. There is no real evidence, it's really just one person's word against another, and he has high profile friends testifying on his behalf. Even one of his accusers says she can't really remember the alleged incident. If he does get off, and from what I've read I think he will, it will have been a total waste of public money.
Similarly, how on earth can allegations of sexual misconduct in the 1960s and 1970s ever be proved? Dave Lee Travis may well have been a randy git (a condition still afflicting many of those in the performing arts and media professions), but if he did do anything improper no one complained at the time because presumably they either thought there was no point, it wasn't that big a deal or they thought shagging him might help them meet the right contacts to get a hit single.
I do not, of course, condone sexual predators in any way. There is no excuse for forcing anyone, male or female, to do something they do not want to do purely for personal gratification, and in particular there is no excuse for taking advantage of vulnerable people due to age, mental ability or for any other reason. The Jimmy Savile case is a travesty which reflects badly not only on him, but also on the BBC as his employer, since he was so prolific they must certainly have had suspicions and hushed them up. But now it is hard to know who has genuinely suffered, and who has just jumped on the band wagon for one reason or another.
In my view, the circus surrounding all these allegations is severely hampering the investigations reaching a proper conclusion. It is stirring up emotions and attracting sensationalists in equal measure and means that no one can possibly sit on a jury with an open mind, and without taking account of the fame of those accused. The media, sniffing blood, is whipping itself up into a righteous frenzy conveniently forgetting that 30 or 40 years ago someone or indeed several people within its own organisations almost certainly knew if the allegations were true, and if so turned a blind eye.
There should be a moratorium on reporting these cases until they reach a verdict. And we should have some real news on our TVs for a change, instead of dragging what may be innocent men's reputations through the mud in 'trial by public', and forcing genuine victims to live out their trauma again under the arclights.
Enough. And lets bring it all to a conclusion. Soon.
Wednesday, 11 December 2013
Nigella and Charles - you couldn't make it up!
I don’t know about you, but the public sparring match which is Nigella Lawson and Charles Saatchi is riveting me.
It’s a tabloid editor’s wet dream, of course, with all the salacious ingredients almost guaranteed to sell newspapers. Gorgeous curvaceous TV cook, millionaire art dealer several years older than her, publicly threatening behaviour, drugs, foreign servants, huge spending on fripperies and allegations of fraud by aforesaid foreigners. What could be better?
Apparently the tide of public opinion is supporting Nigella but that is hardly surprising. She is beautiful, talented, rich through her own endeavours and constantly on our TV screens. He is old, ugly, secretive and reclusive and not just rich but obscenely rich through the talent of others and plain old good luck in investment (you might argue he had foresight and exercised shrewd judgement, but that’s much less fun).
It seems that each new day brings further lurid allegations of wrong doing, law breaking or lack of morals. If it isn’t the fact (bandied across the front of various tabloids this morning) that they spent £25,000 on flowers in one year it’s their multi million pound collection of silverware stored in a special room and which costs £9,000 to clean (who cares? They can spend their money however they like). If it isn’t the coke sniffing, it’s the special fat free noodles which Nigella has allegedly been eating to attain her new, slim line figure. All grist to the mill!
I bought some of those noodles the other day in Holland and Barratt because say what you like about the rest of it, Nigella has lost a staggering amount of weight and surely it can’t all be due to stress? As you’ll know I’ve tried various diets over the years and not really had much success with any of them, or if so only short term. Whilst Christmas shopping at the weekend, I tried to find a new dress for Christmas Day, and failed because sadly, without putting too fine a point on it, I have an enormous overfed belly! So come post panto (about the third week of January) I plan to have another assault on the lard and therefore bought the noodles in anticipation (you may like to know that in an ironic twist, I am eating a homemade mince pie as I type this!).
To say fat free noodles look and feel weird is understating it. In appearance they look like nothing more than thin white worms, not noodle like at all. They have the feel of wet slimy string, all oozing about and slippery in the packet. I can’t honestly say they appear appetising in the slightest. They weren’t particularly expensive, but they certainly weren’t cheap and the packets are very small. I’m going to give them a try; but I don’t see them being a long term thing, although perhaps if you can afford to spend money on stuff to sniff up your nose and on costly flowers all year you don’t really care about that.
All the nasty allegations about one of my favourite TV chefs are rather disappointing (by the way she is also The Hubby’s favourite due to the food porn nature of her programmes. She’s lovely to look at, has curves in the right places and she can cook – what’s not to like?). No one is a saint, but she does seem to have had a rather colourful life over the last few years which, despite her earlier heartaches, can’t really be excused or justified. Mind you, Mr Saatchi certainly isn’t a saint either, so it would be completely wrong to apportion blame for the marriage break up to one or the other (allegedly he used to go round the house looking for dirt and make her grab the Marigolds and clean it up then and there – good job he never comes round to mine, then!).
No doubt this saga will run and run. There will be more scandalous allegations, and the press will have a field day. Nigella will bounce through it and after a short break will come back into the public consciousness more popular than ever (much like happened to Kate Moss when she was caught snorting coke on camera) and make loads more cash to fritter away on flowers. Charles Saatchi will disappear into his reclusive hole to be forgotten about by most and see his wealth increase further.
And no doubt some other public panto will come along with a couple more celebrities to entertain us. All depressingly familiar, and just showing what a shallow society we have become.
It’s a tabloid editor’s wet dream, of course, with all the salacious ingredients almost guaranteed to sell newspapers. Gorgeous curvaceous TV cook, millionaire art dealer several years older than her, publicly threatening behaviour, drugs, foreign servants, huge spending on fripperies and allegations of fraud by aforesaid foreigners. What could be better?
Apparently the tide of public opinion is supporting Nigella but that is hardly surprising. She is beautiful, talented, rich through her own endeavours and constantly on our TV screens. He is old, ugly, secretive and reclusive and not just rich but obscenely rich through the talent of others and plain old good luck in investment (you might argue he had foresight and exercised shrewd judgement, but that’s much less fun).
It seems that each new day brings further lurid allegations of wrong doing, law breaking or lack of morals. If it isn’t the fact (bandied across the front of various tabloids this morning) that they spent £25,000 on flowers in one year it’s their multi million pound collection of silverware stored in a special room and which costs £9,000 to clean (who cares? They can spend their money however they like). If it isn’t the coke sniffing, it’s the special fat free noodles which Nigella has allegedly been eating to attain her new, slim line figure. All grist to the mill!
I bought some of those noodles the other day in Holland and Barratt because say what you like about the rest of it, Nigella has lost a staggering amount of weight and surely it can’t all be due to stress? As you’ll know I’ve tried various diets over the years and not really had much success with any of them, or if so only short term. Whilst Christmas shopping at the weekend, I tried to find a new dress for Christmas Day, and failed because sadly, without putting too fine a point on it, I have an enormous overfed belly! So come post panto (about the third week of January) I plan to have another assault on the lard and therefore bought the noodles in anticipation (you may like to know that in an ironic twist, I am eating a homemade mince pie as I type this!).
To say fat free noodles look and feel weird is understating it. In appearance they look like nothing more than thin white worms, not noodle like at all. They have the feel of wet slimy string, all oozing about and slippery in the packet. I can’t honestly say they appear appetising in the slightest. They weren’t particularly expensive, but they certainly weren’t cheap and the packets are very small. I’m going to give them a try; but I don’t see them being a long term thing, although perhaps if you can afford to spend money on stuff to sniff up your nose and on costly flowers all year you don’t really care about that.
All the nasty allegations about one of my favourite TV chefs are rather disappointing (by the way she is also The Hubby’s favourite due to the food porn nature of her programmes. She’s lovely to look at, has curves in the right places and she can cook – what’s not to like?). No one is a saint, but she does seem to have had a rather colourful life over the last few years which, despite her earlier heartaches, can’t really be excused or justified. Mind you, Mr Saatchi certainly isn’t a saint either, so it would be completely wrong to apportion blame for the marriage break up to one or the other (allegedly he used to go round the house looking for dirt and make her grab the Marigolds and clean it up then and there – good job he never comes round to mine, then!).
No doubt this saga will run and run. There will be more scandalous allegations, and the press will have a field day. Nigella will bounce through it and after a short break will come back into the public consciousness more popular than ever (much like happened to Kate Moss when she was caught snorting coke on camera) and make loads more cash to fritter away on flowers. Charles Saatchi will disappear into his reclusive hole to be forgotten about by most and see his wealth increase further.
And no doubt some other public panto will come along with a couple more celebrities to entertain us. All depressingly familiar, and just showing what a shallow society we have become.
Tuesday, 12 November 2013
I wore my poppy with pride.
Yesterday was Armistice Day.
Along with many other people, I stopped work at 11am and stood for two minutes in silence remembering the atrocities of war and the valour of the young men and women who to this day continue to lay down their lives in the service of their country to preserve the safety, security and democratic rights of millions.
This year, I have been sickened by the very vocal objections to this commemoration by those who only have the right to voice their opinions because of the brave individuals who have fought for them. “It’s terrible” they opine “that you are celebrating war, which is a bad thing”.
That statement could be seen to be a moot point, of course. War may, in some circumstances, be the right thing to do. Was it right for instance, that Adolf Hitler be allowed to hasten his relentless march across Africa and Europe by invading and oppressing native peoples and quashing the diversity of mankind in his pursuit of the Aryan Dream? Of course it wasn’t, and in the end there was no option but to use military force to stop him. Is it ever right that one race try to enslave another or threaten its survival by sheer brute force and impose its beliefs and views upon others? Of course not! Believe what you like – believe little green men live on Mars if you like or believe that eating meat is sinful – but don’t try and impose your belief on me at the expense of my own. There is no situation, in terms of beliefs, where yours are right and mine are wrong. We are just different.
But the main issue is that they have missed the point of 11th November. It’s not about celebrating or glorifying war at all. It’s about remembering the best of the human character – bravery, dignity, sacrifice and friendship - and how our society is able to be what it is today because of it. It is about remembering the atrocity that is war, why it is sometimes necessary and providing a dignified means to show respect for those we have lost as a result.
Over the weekend I watched both the Royal British Legion Festival of Remembrance from the Royal Albert Hall and also the Sunday morning service at the Cenotaph. It always touches me that the veterans exhibit such pride in attending and I can imagine them as young men, full of bravado and outwardly confident, quaking inside at the prospect of going into war but doing it anyway not because they had been ordered to do so, but because they believed it was right. At the Albert Hall, the real tear jerker is the parade of war widows and orphans, people that have lost someone especially dear to them, and how they take such pride in wearing their late husband’s / boyfriend’s medals. I cry every time.
On a slightly more populist note, who hasn’t watched the final episode of the World War I Blackadder series and been touched by it.
I have no problem with someone not sharing my view that 11th November is something to commemorate (and I use the word ‘commemorate’, not ‘celebrate’) but I do have a problem with them trying to force others not to do so or rubbishing other perspectives about it. I also have a problem with them not recognising the amazing work done by charities such as the Royal British Legion or Help for Heroes, and how important it is. And I also have a problem with them trying to destroy the symbolism of the red poppy, surely the most potent and relevant symbol of remembrance there could possibly be and one which came about through a natural event in a very special place.
And so we come full circle. The objectors are able to say what they say because someone else has laid down his life and fought for his belief in a free world. It’s tragic that they can’t recognise that.
Along with many other people, I stopped work at 11am and stood for two minutes in silence remembering the atrocities of war and the valour of the young men and women who to this day continue to lay down their lives in the service of their country to preserve the safety, security and democratic rights of millions.
This year, I have been sickened by the very vocal objections to this commemoration by those who only have the right to voice their opinions because of the brave individuals who have fought for them. “It’s terrible” they opine “that you are celebrating war, which is a bad thing”.
That statement could be seen to be a moot point, of course. War may, in some circumstances, be the right thing to do. Was it right for instance, that Adolf Hitler be allowed to hasten his relentless march across Africa and Europe by invading and oppressing native peoples and quashing the diversity of mankind in his pursuit of the Aryan Dream? Of course it wasn’t, and in the end there was no option but to use military force to stop him. Is it ever right that one race try to enslave another or threaten its survival by sheer brute force and impose its beliefs and views upon others? Of course not! Believe what you like – believe little green men live on Mars if you like or believe that eating meat is sinful – but don’t try and impose your belief on me at the expense of my own. There is no situation, in terms of beliefs, where yours are right and mine are wrong. We are just different.
But the main issue is that they have missed the point of 11th November. It’s not about celebrating or glorifying war at all. It’s about remembering the best of the human character – bravery, dignity, sacrifice and friendship - and how our society is able to be what it is today because of it. It is about remembering the atrocity that is war, why it is sometimes necessary and providing a dignified means to show respect for those we have lost as a result.
Over the weekend I watched both the Royal British Legion Festival of Remembrance from the Royal Albert Hall and also the Sunday morning service at the Cenotaph. It always touches me that the veterans exhibit such pride in attending and I can imagine them as young men, full of bravado and outwardly confident, quaking inside at the prospect of going into war but doing it anyway not because they had been ordered to do so, but because they believed it was right. At the Albert Hall, the real tear jerker is the parade of war widows and orphans, people that have lost someone especially dear to them, and how they take such pride in wearing their late husband’s / boyfriend’s medals. I cry every time.
On a slightly more populist note, who hasn’t watched the final episode of the World War I Blackadder series and been touched by it.
I have no problem with someone not sharing my view that 11th November is something to commemorate (and I use the word ‘commemorate’, not ‘celebrate’) but I do have a problem with them trying to force others not to do so or rubbishing other perspectives about it. I also have a problem with them not recognising the amazing work done by charities such as the Royal British Legion or Help for Heroes, and how important it is. And I also have a problem with them trying to destroy the symbolism of the red poppy, surely the most potent and relevant symbol of remembrance there could possibly be and one which came about through a natural event in a very special place.
And so we come full circle. The objectors are able to say what they say because someone else has laid down his life and fought for his belief in a free world. It’s tragic that they can’t recognise that.
Tuesday, 5 November 2013
I'm sick of it......
Is anyone else sick to death of the phone hacking scandal?
I know I am. Every time I turn on the TV news, listen to the radio or open a newspaper there is the smug face and ginger Ninja mane of Rebecca Brooks looking back at me with her equally smug husband learing over her shoulder and Andy Coulson smirking in the background.
In my opinion, of course they did it and knew all about it! And if they didn’t they should be sacked for gross incompetence, because if one of my staff wanted to d something so momentous I’d certainly want to know about it and sign it off. We all know the media are crooks, up there with estate agents and running bankers a very close second. They manipulate, misrepresent and distort almost everything they report because by and large and barring enormous natural disasters like tsunami and earthquakes which cause immense human suffering, news is boring and dull and doesn’t sell papers. So it’s all spiced up, sexed up and amended to be more existing and juicy.
It would come as no surprise to me to learn that in actual fact the hacking is far worse than we even now realise and more ‘big’ names come out of the woodwork. Recently it has been revealed that police and palace officials have been selling confidential lists of mobile numbers belonging to public figures so maybe even Her Maj herself has been hacked. Now what a coup that would be!
They ought to just lock all these people up in cells which have 24 hour CCTV broadcasting live on the web and see how they like it if their every move, word and bodily function is available for all to view. Give ‘em a taste of their own medicine.
And while we’re about it, I am also sick of the ‘plebgate’ scandal which is following close behind phone hacking in news reports and the media generally. So what if some prat of a politician called a few coppers plebs and so what if he actually didn’t and they’re fibbing? Just like we know all of the media, estate agents and bankers are crooks, we also know that all politicians are idiots. How much is the bloody five second episode costing to investigate, is what I’d like to know? Shouldn’t they all just sit down together, say sorry (even if it’s not their fault), shake hands and agree to move on? That’s what we’d tell our children to do but we seem to be allowing this ridiculous episode to assume an importance far beyond what is deserved. Grow up Andrew Mitchell, and focus on what you were elected to do – run the country and represent your constituents instead of trumpeting your inflated view of your own importance!
A couple of years ago I resolved not to read a newspaper again or watch the news because it just made me frustrated and cross, and sometimes depressed. It’s a feeling I get when I’ve been on holiday and not read an English newspaper for two weeks, then get back on the plane, buy one and become increasingly bad tempered as I read through. In particular the Daily Mail, which never misses jumping on a band wagon and only really deserves to be called a comic and not a newspaper, produces this effect.
I think I am going to have to revisit my resolution. I can feel my blood pressure rising as I type. Doctor …….
I know I am. Every time I turn on the TV news, listen to the radio or open a newspaper there is the smug face and ginger Ninja mane of Rebecca Brooks looking back at me with her equally smug husband learing over her shoulder and Andy Coulson smirking in the background.
In my opinion, of course they did it and knew all about it! And if they didn’t they should be sacked for gross incompetence, because if one of my staff wanted to d something so momentous I’d certainly want to know about it and sign it off. We all know the media are crooks, up there with estate agents and running bankers a very close second. They manipulate, misrepresent and distort almost everything they report because by and large and barring enormous natural disasters like tsunami and earthquakes which cause immense human suffering, news is boring and dull and doesn’t sell papers. So it’s all spiced up, sexed up and amended to be more existing and juicy.
It would come as no surprise to me to learn that in actual fact the hacking is far worse than we even now realise and more ‘big’ names come out of the woodwork. Recently it has been revealed that police and palace officials have been selling confidential lists of mobile numbers belonging to public figures so maybe even Her Maj herself has been hacked. Now what a coup that would be!
They ought to just lock all these people up in cells which have 24 hour CCTV broadcasting live on the web and see how they like it if their every move, word and bodily function is available for all to view. Give ‘em a taste of their own medicine.
And while we’re about it, I am also sick of the ‘plebgate’ scandal which is following close behind phone hacking in news reports and the media generally. So what if some prat of a politician called a few coppers plebs and so what if he actually didn’t and they’re fibbing? Just like we know all of the media, estate agents and bankers are crooks, we also know that all politicians are idiots. How much is the bloody five second episode costing to investigate, is what I’d like to know? Shouldn’t they all just sit down together, say sorry (even if it’s not their fault), shake hands and agree to move on? That’s what we’d tell our children to do but we seem to be allowing this ridiculous episode to assume an importance far beyond what is deserved. Grow up Andrew Mitchell, and focus on what you were elected to do – run the country and represent your constituents instead of trumpeting your inflated view of your own importance!
A couple of years ago I resolved not to read a newspaper again or watch the news because it just made me frustrated and cross, and sometimes depressed. It’s a feeling I get when I’ve been on holiday and not read an English newspaper for two weeks, then get back on the plane, buy one and become increasingly bad tempered as I read through. In particular the Daily Mail, which never misses jumping on a band wagon and only really deserves to be called a comic and not a newspaper, produces this effect.
I think I am going to have to revisit my resolution. I can feel my blood pressure rising as I type. Doctor …….
Wednesday, 23 October 2013
Top tips for harmonious commuting.....
Below are a few tips for commuters to have a harmonious journey and avoid irritating your fellow man to the point of homicide….
1. Always, but always, carry a hanky or tissues. Even if you do not have a cold, your nose can run for all sorts of reasons and they are useful for mopping up spilled coffee, too.
2. Turn off the annoying beep which happens when you push the buttons on your mobile. You may have your headphones on, but we can hear it.
3. Turn your music down. I don’t care if hip hop, techno, garage and rap are best played at ear splitting volume. I don’t like it, and I don’t want to listen to it.
4. Do not try to walk across a crowded concourse whilst texting, scrolling through your music list or messages or continuing to read your ipad, kindle, book or newspaper. Put your head up and LOOK WHERE YOU ARE GOING!
5. If you must stand in the doorway of the train or tube, GET OUT OF THE WAY when it reaches a station so others can get on or off.
6. Do not squeeze yourself between other people that have had the courtesy to remove their rain soaked coats without taking yours off too.
7. Do not use up all the miserable allocation of table space with your laptop, newspaper or ridiculously large tote bag. Those facilities are there for all of us, and I want my share.
8. Do not stop immediately at the top or bottom of flights of stairs and gaze round aimlessly. There are about a thousand people behind you, all trying to get up/down/out/in. If you are lost, stand to one side, find a map or ask someone in a lurid fluorescent jacket for help. Similarly, do not dawdle – YOU ARE IN THE WAY.
9. Do not brush your long, flicky hair on the crowded train so that hair, dandruff and God knows what goes all over other people. It’s unhygienic. Either wait until you get to work, or get up two minutes earlier and do it at home.
10. Do not converse loudly either to a friend or on the phone about intimate, personal information or brag about your latest business deal or how important you are. It is embarrassing and frankly, you are not that interesting. Try to be discreet.
Finally, and this is the ultimate tip of all about commuting, if you can avoid it, DON’T DO IT!
1. Always, but always, carry a hanky or tissues. Even if you do not have a cold, your nose can run for all sorts of reasons and they are useful for mopping up spilled coffee, too.
2. Turn off the annoying beep which happens when you push the buttons on your mobile. You may have your headphones on, but we can hear it.
3. Turn your music down. I don’t care if hip hop, techno, garage and rap are best played at ear splitting volume. I don’t like it, and I don’t want to listen to it.
4. Do not try to walk across a crowded concourse whilst texting, scrolling through your music list or messages or continuing to read your ipad, kindle, book or newspaper. Put your head up and LOOK WHERE YOU ARE GOING!
5. If you must stand in the doorway of the train or tube, GET OUT OF THE WAY when it reaches a station so others can get on or off.
6. Do not squeeze yourself between other people that have had the courtesy to remove their rain soaked coats without taking yours off too.
7. Do not use up all the miserable allocation of table space with your laptop, newspaper or ridiculously large tote bag. Those facilities are there for all of us, and I want my share.
8. Do not stop immediately at the top or bottom of flights of stairs and gaze round aimlessly. There are about a thousand people behind you, all trying to get up/down/out/in. If you are lost, stand to one side, find a map or ask someone in a lurid fluorescent jacket for help. Similarly, do not dawdle – YOU ARE IN THE WAY.
9. Do not brush your long, flicky hair on the crowded train so that hair, dandruff and God knows what goes all over other people. It’s unhygienic. Either wait until you get to work, or get up two minutes earlier and do it at home.
10. Do not converse loudly either to a friend or on the phone about intimate, personal information or brag about your latest business deal or how important you are. It is embarrassing and frankly, you are not that interesting. Try to be discreet.
Finally, and this is the ultimate tip of all about commuting, if you can avoid it, DON’T DO IT!
Wednesday, 9 October 2013
Two blogs in one day! Things must be bad ....
It’s been a hell of a week since we got back from holiday!
While we were away, we got a phone call from Daughter One, an unusual enough event in itself. “Mum”, she wailed 2000 miles down the line to Crete, “I’ve broken my leg”.
Resisting the temptation to say “Well, what do you want me to do about it?”, I exhibited suitable motherly sympathy and asked all the right questions.
When we got back, I escorted her to East Surrey Hospital where she spent five hours of her life getting x-rays, a new plaster cast and seeing an orthopaedic consultant with no bedside manner whatsoever. She has broken the bottom end of her tibia, and is likely to be off work until Christmas. She cannot drive, which means that both she and the Granddaughter need to be ferried around to school, appointments etc. She will also go stir crazy not being able to do anything for twelve weeks.
Last weekend, Daughter Two went out clubbing with her friend Rosanna, who she is meant to be going on holiday with next Monday. Unfortunately, whilst getting cash out of a machine opposite said club at 1am on Sunday morning, they got mugged. Stereotypical situation – two young white women assaulted by two young black lads in hoodies, but fortunately no threatening behaviour with knives or anything. Daughter Two is OK apart from losing her stuff, a bit of a headache and a few bruises plus a fair dose of shock, but her friend is still in hospital and very poorly. She was assaulted quite hard and fell with a whack onto the pavement, hitting the back of her head. Apparently they cannot stop it bleeding, and she still cannot answer a full set of basic questions (ie what day is it?). It doesn’t look likely that they’ll be going away and we have to hope that this incident doesn’t have very sad repercussions. Poor Daughter Two!
Sister-In-Law has now also had some bad health news and has to go and see an oncologist. It may not be anything dreadful, but it’s worrying.
Work has deteriorated even further whilst I was away, and now I have to curb my working at home time to one day a week at least for a while to get a bunch of whinging, permanently dissatisfied staff back on track. Working at home two days each week has made the hideous commute bearable, and I am seriously concerned that I will have increased incidences of back and knee pain commuting four days a week. There’s no way I want to return to the days of daily Tramadol and ice packs.
So at the moment, as far as I can see it, the only way is up. Despite having come back from Crete for the third time this year only ten days ago, I feel like I’ve never been away. My stress levels are through the roof and God knows what my blood pressure reading is; I suppose I ought to take it as the next time I go along for my tablets I know Dr Williams will ask for it.
There is, of course, a lot to look forward to in the remaining months of 2013. Chris’s birthday, our tenth anniversary with a couple of great concerts in December and two nights away to celebrate, plus another trip to Crete.
The way things are here, this time I seriously might not come back.
While we were away, we got a phone call from Daughter One, an unusual enough event in itself. “Mum”, she wailed 2000 miles down the line to Crete, “I’ve broken my leg”.
Resisting the temptation to say “Well, what do you want me to do about it?”, I exhibited suitable motherly sympathy and asked all the right questions.
When we got back, I escorted her to East Surrey Hospital where she spent five hours of her life getting x-rays, a new plaster cast and seeing an orthopaedic consultant with no bedside manner whatsoever. She has broken the bottom end of her tibia, and is likely to be off work until Christmas. She cannot drive, which means that both she and the Granddaughter need to be ferried around to school, appointments etc. She will also go stir crazy not being able to do anything for twelve weeks.
Last weekend, Daughter Two went out clubbing with her friend Rosanna, who she is meant to be going on holiday with next Monday. Unfortunately, whilst getting cash out of a machine opposite said club at 1am on Sunday morning, they got mugged. Stereotypical situation – two young white women assaulted by two young black lads in hoodies, but fortunately no threatening behaviour with knives or anything. Daughter Two is OK apart from losing her stuff, a bit of a headache and a few bruises plus a fair dose of shock, but her friend is still in hospital and very poorly. She was assaulted quite hard and fell with a whack onto the pavement, hitting the back of her head. Apparently they cannot stop it bleeding, and she still cannot answer a full set of basic questions (ie what day is it?). It doesn’t look likely that they’ll be going away and we have to hope that this incident doesn’t have very sad repercussions. Poor Daughter Two!
Sister-In-Law has now also had some bad health news and has to go and see an oncologist. It may not be anything dreadful, but it’s worrying.
Work has deteriorated even further whilst I was away, and now I have to curb my working at home time to one day a week at least for a while to get a bunch of whinging, permanently dissatisfied staff back on track. Working at home two days each week has made the hideous commute bearable, and I am seriously concerned that I will have increased incidences of back and knee pain commuting four days a week. There’s no way I want to return to the days of daily Tramadol and ice packs.
So at the moment, as far as I can see it, the only way is up. Despite having come back from Crete for the third time this year only ten days ago, I feel like I’ve never been away. My stress levels are through the roof and God knows what my blood pressure reading is; I suppose I ought to take it as the next time I go along for my tablets I know Dr Williams will ask for it.
There is, of course, a lot to look forward to in the remaining months of 2013. Chris’s birthday, our tenth anniversary with a couple of great concerts in December and two nights away to celebrate, plus another trip to Crete.
The way things are here, this time I seriously might not come back.
My mouth hurts.....
I have toothache. Or, to be more accurate, I have pain in my mouth near my teeth.
I don’t actually think it is toothache per se. I’ve had that before, and it’s like having a hammer drill going at it in your mouth all the time and at double speed when you dare to move your head.
This, I think, is just an enormous ulcer at the back of my mouth where my embedded wisdom teeth leave a teensy gap between the gum and the fleshy part of my cheek. I’ve had a good gawp at it in a very bright light this morning (you know, in front of the mirror with a torch, pulling a sort of gurning competition face with my mouth stretched out) and that’s what it looks like, almost like some sort of giant, pulsating, slimy protuberance with a life of its own. Disgusting, isn’t it?
I have started to assault it with Corsodyl mouth wash (foul, but effective), a Corsodyl spray and some sort of industrial strength Bonjela type substance called Gingigel. Also rather foul, but something which in the past I have found effective.
I always do this for at least a fortnight before I even think of going to the dentist unless the pain is excruciating and preventing me living my life. I have a fear and hatred of visits to the dentist which is not equalled by my feelings about anything else associated with the normal routine of life. I have blogged before about my complete failure to see the need for six monthly or even annual checkups so long as you have good oral hygiene and don’t regularly crack your enamel on packets of rock hard pork scratchings. You don’t go to the doctors for a routine check up, so why the dentist? Just go when you have something wrong with you, for goodness sake.
The Hubby, who was brainwashed by his dentistry practising (and subsequently rich) ex sister in law, always goes along like a good little boy for his checkups and annual lecture from the hygienist. But it’s all to no avail; he has had more trouble with his teeth in the past five years than I have had in the whole of my five decades.
I am not afraid of needles, drills or anaesthetic. What I hate (really, really hate) is ‘things’ intruding into my mouth (ribald jokes now – come on, get them over with). I have a very strong gagging reflex, and just one little metal implement poking around my gums makes me retch. And as for those little square things they put into your cheeks to take x-rays , well, I’m outta there!
So I won’t be going to the dentist, at least not unless I really have to. My self help remedies from Boots have always worked so far, even if I have had to persist for a few days and run the risk of being a drooling slime monster when out in public as my mouth produces more saliva to cope with and try to counteract the alien presence growing within.
Increasing mouth ulcers and gum issues seem to be yet another thing which is increasing with my ‘certain age’. There is a definite link between when these things happen and other biological happenings, on a regular basis. And these are the things no one tells you about; yes, they tell you about hot flushes, mood swings, erratic monthly cycles etc, but not about an upset digestive system, aches and pains and dentistry difficulties.
I tell you, it’s a pain in the arse being a woman in her fifties – you blokes have it easy!
I don’t actually think it is toothache per se. I’ve had that before, and it’s like having a hammer drill going at it in your mouth all the time and at double speed when you dare to move your head.
This, I think, is just an enormous ulcer at the back of my mouth where my embedded wisdom teeth leave a teensy gap between the gum and the fleshy part of my cheek. I’ve had a good gawp at it in a very bright light this morning (you know, in front of the mirror with a torch, pulling a sort of gurning competition face with my mouth stretched out) and that’s what it looks like, almost like some sort of giant, pulsating, slimy protuberance with a life of its own. Disgusting, isn’t it?
I have started to assault it with Corsodyl mouth wash (foul, but effective), a Corsodyl spray and some sort of industrial strength Bonjela type substance called Gingigel. Also rather foul, but something which in the past I have found effective.
I always do this for at least a fortnight before I even think of going to the dentist unless the pain is excruciating and preventing me living my life. I have a fear and hatred of visits to the dentist which is not equalled by my feelings about anything else associated with the normal routine of life. I have blogged before about my complete failure to see the need for six monthly or even annual checkups so long as you have good oral hygiene and don’t regularly crack your enamel on packets of rock hard pork scratchings. You don’t go to the doctors for a routine check up, so why the dentist? Just go when you have something wrong with you, for goodness sake.
The Hubby, who was brainwashed by his dentistry practising (and subsequently rich) ex sister in law, always goes along like a good little boy for his checkups and annual lecture from the hygienist. But it’s all to no avail; he has had more trouble with his teeth in the past five years than I have had in the whole of my five decades.
I am not afraid of needles, drills or anaesthetic. What I hate (really, really hate) is ‘things’ intruding into my mouth (ribald jokes now – come on, get them over with). I have a very strong gagging reflex, and just one little metal implement poking around my gums makes me retch. And as for those little square things they put into your cheeks to take x-rays , well, I’m outta there!
So I won’t be going to the dentist, at least not unless I really have to. My self help remedies from Boots have always worked so far, even if I have had to persist for a few days and run the risk of being a drooling slime monster when out in public as my mouth produces more saliva to cope with and try to counteract the alien presence growing within.
Increasing mouth ulcers and gum issues seem to be yet another thing which is increasing with my ‘certain age’. There is a definite link between when these things happen and other biological happenings, on a regular basis. And these are the things no one tells you about; yes, they tell you about hot flushes, mood swings, erratic monthly cycles etc, but not about an upset digestive system, aches and pains and dentistry difficulties.
I tell you, it’s a pain in the arse being a woman in her fifties – you blokes have it easy!
Monday, 16 September 2013
Professional moaners....
I have made no secret of my desire to retire to the beautiful Greek island of Crete and live out my latter years in sunshine, with the amazing food and a slower lifestyle. I hate the climate in the UK, the greyness and the sheer pressure and grind of daily life.
Although to a certain extent when you aren’t there yet, the grass is always greener on the other side, my guess is that life is definitely better in the Med and although they may not be intrinsically happier, by and large people are healthier and more relaxed despite the ridiculous working hours many put in over the summer months.
Many other Brits (and those intrepid souls from other nations, of course) have clearly felt as I do about living in the land of their birth and have taken the enormous step of emigrating and living somewhere which fits more with their psyche and the way of life they wish to lead. It is not a step to be taken lightly, as it involves leaving your family and friends for a foreign country with new traditional and customs and probably learning to at least a basic level of proficiency a new language. Top that with a different alphabet in Greece, and you are looking at a significant life change. But many have gone ahead and taken the plunge.
I regularly view an expat website for Crete which I believe was set up to help those wishing to emigrate and live there, and provide an information exchange for those who already do so. And the point of this rather rambling introduction to this blog is that the people that use this expat website would appear to be a bunch of whinging moaners unhappy with their lot who bicker about the slightest thing and who, if you choose to take notice of them, would put anyone off going to Crete at first glance.
What is the matter with these people? They are living in Paradise and what’s more, a paradise of their choosing. They have a lifestyle within which they (largely) don’t have to work, have time to indulge their hobbies and presumably enjoy the wonderful food which is grown locally and a climate which mostly eradicates health grumbles such as bronchial difficulties (unless smoking related, of course) and rheumatism. For nine months of the year, the sun shines in a reassuringly dependable way and for quite a bit of the winter it is amazingly mild. Yet they complain.
Perhaps it’s a British disease, being a professional complainer? It is very tempting to post an answer on this website which says “If you don’t like it, then go back to where you came from” but of course the likelihood is that they can’t. The astronomical cost of housing in the UK probably prohibits it, and life is still more expensive here even though prices in Greece have caught up in some aspects of life such as petrol and the supermarket.
I suspect these people retired in their early fifties or maybe even sooner on reduced pensions (because they took them early) which gave them a fantastic lifestyle in southern Europe 15 or 20 years ago, but which has now been eroded by falling exchange rates, the recession generally and rising prices whilst their pensions have stayed relatively stagnant or increased only by UK inflation rates which are lower than those for most of Europe (Germany possibly excepted). So now they’re hard up, having to tighten their belts and blaming anyone but themselves.
It’s also a fact that the expat community is small and tight knit, an advantage when you need expertise or assistance from someone that speaks your language but a distinct disadvantage when it comes to integration into a new country and broadening your mind, as small groups within wider cultures become cliquey and very parochial. I have never forgotten an incident about 8 years ago when we bought our house, speaking to an English couple that owned a business in Crete (but obviously hated it) who said to me “Well, you don’t have to mix with the locals you know. There’s plenty of Brits around”! I was staggered; why wouldn’t I want to mix with local people, integrate myself with their society and learn their language? I love their country enough to want to live there, and it’s almost a duty to do those things. If you don’t, you are as bad as immigrants to this country who keep within their own communities, don’t learn English but take our benefits and healthcare. We all criticise those people, where ever they are from, and this couple were doing exactly the same thing; I bet they would have been the first to criticise if their position was reversed.
It is a salutary lesson that although The Hubby and I want to retire early we are determined that we will have a good income upon which to do so, so that we can enjoy life without watching the pennies too much. It simply isn’t realistic to expect to live a good life as a couple on 800 euros per month including all your living expenses and taxes which some of these people want to do – it isn’t the 1980s anymore! Going out and socialising costs money as does indulging in hobbies, even relatively solitary and sedate ones such as gardening, sewing or cooking. What is the point of loads of free time and early retirement if you have to restrict your social life to once a week and then only one or two drinks? You need contingency money and also a financial comfort blanket in case of ill heath or emergencies.
You must also embrace your new country just as much as you would embrace life within your village or town in England. Gaining new friends and experiences keeps your mind and body active and keeps life fresh and interesting. What is the point in moving somewhere else just to stagnate and be as miserable as you would have been in England?
We have a medium term plan to get there, and I definitely will not degenerate into an expat moaner (I am currently an in-pat moaner, if there is such a thing). My expectations are realistic, and I will plan, plan, plan and plan again to ensure I’ve got the money and decisions right (The Hubby will probably agree with me, although I will consult him!). The earliest I can do it is 2 ½ years’ time, and it can’t come soon enough.
Several more sleeps……
Although to a certain extent when you aren’t there yet, the grass is always greener on the other side, my guess is that life is definitely better in the Med and although they may not be intrinsically happier, by and large people are healthier and more relaxed despite the ridiculous working hours many put in over the summer months.
Many other Brits (and those intrepid souls from other nations, of course) have clearly felt as I do about living in the land of their birth and have taken the enormous step of emigrating and living somewhere which fits more with their psyche and the way of life they wish to lead. It is not a step to be taken lightly, as it involves leaving your family and friends for a foreign country with new traditional and customs and probably learning to at least a basic level of proficiency a new language. Top that with a different alphabet in Greece, and you are looking at a significant life change. But many have gone ahead and taken the plunge.
I regularly view an expat website for Crete which I believe was set up to help those wishing to emigrate and live there, and provide an information exchange for those who already do so. And the point of this rather rambling introduction to this blog is that the people that use this expat website would appear to be a bunch of whinging moaners unhappy with their lot who bicker about the slightest thing and who, if you choose to take notice of them, would put anyone off going to Crete at first glance.
What is the matter with these people? They are living in Paradise and what’s more, a paradise of their choosing. They have a lifestyle within which they (largely) don’t have to work, have time to indulge their hobbies and presumably enjoy the wonderful food which is grown locally and a climate which mostly eradicates health grumbles such as bronchial difficulties (unless smoking related, of course) and rheumatism. For nine months of the year, the sun shines in a reassuringly dependable way and for quite a bit of the winter it is amazingly mild. Yet they complain.
Perhaps it’s a British disease, being a professional complainer? It is very tempting to post an answer on this website which says “If you don’t like it, then go back to where you came from” but of course the likelihood is that they can’t. The astronomical cost of housing in the UK probably prohibits it, and life is still more expensive here even though prices in Greece have caught up in some aspects of life such as petrol and the supermarket.
I suspect these people retired in their early fifties or maybe even sooner on reduced pensions (because they took them early) which gave them a fantastic lifestyle in southern Europe 15 or 20 years ago, but which has now been eroded by falling exchange rates, the recession generally and rising prices whilst their pensions have stayed relatively stagnant or increased only by UK inflation rates which are lower than those for most of Europe (Germany possibly excepted). So now they’re hard up, having to tighten their belts and blaming anyone but themselves.
It’s also a fact that the expat community is small and tight knit, an advantage when you need expertise or assistance from someone that speaks your language but a distinct disadvantage when it comes to integration into a new country and broadening your mind, as small groups within wider cultures become cliquey and very parochial. I have never forgotten an incident about 8 years ago when we bought our house, speaking to an English couple that owned a business in Crete (but obviously hated it) who said to me “Well, you don’t have to mix with the locals you know. There’s plenty of Brits around”! I was staggered; why wouldn’t I want to mix with local people, integrate myself with their society and learn their language? I love their country enough to want to live there, and it’s almost a duty to do those things. If you don’t, you are as bad as immigrants to this country who keep within their own communities, don’t learn English but take our benefits and healthcare. We all criticise those people, where ever they are from, and this couple were doing exactly the same thing; I bet they would have been the first to criticise if their position was reversed.
It is a salutary lesson that although The Hubby and I want to retire early we are determined that we will have a good income upon which to do so, so that we can enjoy life without watching the pennies too much. It simply isn’t realistic to expect to live a good life as a couple on 800 euros per month including all your living expenses and taxes which some of these people want to do – it isn’t the 1980s anymore! Going out and socialising costs money as does indulging in hobbies, even relatively solitary and sedate ones such as gardening, sewing or cooking. What is the point of loads of free time and early retirement if you have to restrict your social life to once a week and then only one or two drinks? You need contingency money and also a financial comfort blanket in case of ill heath or emergencies.
You must also embrace your new country just as much as you would embrace life within your village or town in England. Gaining new friends and experiences keeps your mind and body active and keeps life fresh and interesting. What is the point in moving somewhere else just to stagnate and be as miserable as you would have been in England?
We have a medium term plan to get there, and I definitely will not degenerate into an expat moaner (I am currently an in-pat moaner, if there is such a thing). My expectations are realistic, and I will plan, plan, plan and plan again to ensure I’ve got the money and decisions right (The Hubby will probably agree with me, although I will consult him!). The earliest I can do it is 2 ½ years’ time, and it can’t come soon enough.
Several more sleeps……
Friday, 13 September 2013
TV heaven! I'm easily pleased.....
Twenty things that make me happy when watching the TV
1. Pointless (which is definitely the best TV quiz show ever made – I want Alexander Armstrong and Richard Osman to come to dinner!!)
2. Having control of the remotes
3. A large cup of tea (white, two sugars)
4. A large glass of wine (Pinot for preference)
5. Pointless
6. Chocolate (Dairy Milk, or possibly Old Jamaica)
7. Crisps (Cheese and Onion)
8. Biscuits (Bourbon, Garibaldi or Lemon Puffs)
9. A roaring log fire (in winter only, of course)
10. Pointless
11. A James Bond movie (now which is the best.... Goldfinger?)
12. A ‘Carry On’ movie (Definitely 'Carry On Cleo' is the best, followed by 'Carry on Cowboy')
13. Johnny Depp (in anything except where they make him look freaky)
14. Sam Neill (in anything)
15. Pointless
16. Something that makes me laugh, usually an old sitcom on ‘Gold’ – the world is too grim for anything else
17. Snuggling up on the sofa with The Hubby, The Dog and The Cats (even if it does get a bit crowded)
18. Another large glass of wine
19. More chocolate
20. Pointless
1. Pointless (which is definitely the best TV quiz show ever made – I want Alexander Armstrong and Richard Osman to come to dinner!!)
2. Having control of the remotes
3. A large cup of tea (white, two sugars)
4. A large glass of wine (Pinot for preference)
5. Pointless
6. Chocolate (Dairy Milk, or possibly Old Jamaica)
7. Crisps (Cheese and Onion)
8. Biscuits (Bourbon, Garibaldi or Lemon Puffs)
9. A roaring log fire (in winter only, of course)
10. Pointless
11. A James Bond movie (now which is the best.... Goldfinger?)
12. A ‘Carry On’ movie (Definitely 'Carry On Cleo' is the best, followed by 'Carry on Cowboy')
13. Johnny Depp (in anything except where they make him look freaky)
14. Sam Neill (in anything)
15. Pointless
16. Something that makes me laugh, usually an old sitcom on ‘Gold’ – the world is too grim for anything else
17. Snuggling up on the sofa with The Hubby, The Dog and The Cats (even if it does get a bit crowded)
18. Another large glass of wine
19. More chocolate
20. Pointless
Wednesday, 11 September 2013
Dentists - agents of Satan.....?
We all have our favourite pet hates when it comes to professions. For some people it’s bankers, for some politicians, maybe estate agents, lawyers or accountants or for others, like me, it’s dentists. And hygienists.
I hate going to the dentist with a vengeance. It’s expensive, uncomfortable and you get an unwanted lecture into what a bad, unhygienic person you are and how you must have appalling eating habits or personal hygiene. “Look” says the hygienist sticking a sharp implement into your gums, “It’s bleeding”. “Yes”, you reply grimacing, “It damn well is now”.
The frequency with which we visit the dentist often doesn’t (in my opinion) make any difference to whether you have good or bad teeth or gums. The Hubby diligently goes to the dentist every six months for a check up and a lecture by the hygienist. Personally, I think he was brainwashed by his ex sister-in-law who was a dentist and was married to a dentist. He seems to be of the view that if he doesn’t go somehow or other that makes him into a bad person and all his teeth will rot, go black and fall out.
As for me, on the other hand, well I haven’t been to the dentist for years. I did pop in about 18 months ago for a quick check up when I had a sore gum, was just about to go on holiday and didn’t fancy having to go for emergency treatment at a Greek dentist's surgery, but that aside, it must be at least seven years since I went for anything at all.
There is a reason for this. I am not afraid of blood, drills, needles, weird masks or chemical substances but I have a pathological fear of too many things in my mouth which, because I have a very strong gagging reflex, make me want to retch. Yes, I simply cannot stand anyone putting anything I don’t want them to into my mouth (ribald jokes, now, please, get them out of the way before we go any further!) In particular, I am up and out of that chair in a flash if I see those little rectangular things they tuck into your cheeks to take an x-ray coming towards me. God, I feel sick even just thinking about it!!
Taking all that into account, who do you think has spent the most emergency time at the torturer’s surgery and spent the most money on dental work in the past few years? Yep, you got it in one! The Hubby has spent a fortune on various fillings, caps and whatever despite the fact that he goes along religiously, brushes at least twice a day, flosses and uses mouthwash. I do all that stuff at home (well, not the flossing. Bloody stuff gets stuck between my teeth, even the waxed version) and despite my ‘just once in seven years’ visit when no work was done, I have no problems.
So is there really anything in the assertion (put about by dentists, of course) that we must get along and get our teeth checked out regularly or they will all fall out and we will all become diseased, ugly, toothless crones and hags? Personally, whilst regular check ups appear to be eminently sensible for children up to the age of maybe 16, for adults I don’t think so. I think that as long as you have good personal hygiene habits which include regular oral routines, and you have practised those good habits from childhood, then you shouldn’t need to go. You don’t go to the doctor for preventative visits, so why should you go to the dentist? It’s all a con to justify their enormous charges and buy their next Jag or next seven star holiday in Bermuda.
Toothache, or any sort of oral pain is, of course, almost some of the worst you can experience without having a life threatening condition. And when you do have a problem a good dentist, like a good emergency doctor, can be like an angel from heaven. But let’s get this in perspective and recognise the brainwashing for what it is.
And I’m not going, even though you’ve written to me this week and ticked me off for not attending an appointment in ages or finishing a ‘prescribed’ course of treatment (what treatment? I don’t remember that!). So there!
I hate going to the dentist with a vengeance. It’s expensive, uncomfortable and you get an unwanted lecture into what a bad, unhygienic person you are and how you must have appalling eating habits or personal hygiene. “Look” says the hygienist sticking a sharp implement into your gums, “It’s bleeding”. “Yes”, you reply grimacing, “It damn well is now”.
The frequency with which we visit the dentist often doesn’t (in my opinion) make any difference to whether you have good or bad teeth or gums. The Hubby diligently goes to the dentist every six months for a check up and a lecture by the hygienist. Personally, I think he was brainwashed by his ex sister-in-law who was a dentist and was married to a dentist. He seems to be of the view that if he doesn’t go somehow or other that makes him into a bad person and all his teeth will rot, go black and fall out.
As for me, on the other hand, well I haven’t been to the dentist for years. I did pop in about 18 months ago for a quick check up when I had a sore gum, was just about to go on holiday and didn’t fancy having to go for emergency treatment at a Greek dentist's surgery, but that aside, it must be at least seven years since I went for anything at all.
There is a reason for this. I am not afraid of blood, drills, needles, weird masks or chemical substances but I have a pathological fear of too many things in my mouth which, because I have a very strong gagging reflex, make me want to retch. Yes, I simply cannot stand anyone putting anything I don’t want them to into my mouth (ribald jokes, now, please, get them out of the way before we go any further!) In particular, I am up and out of that chair in a flash if I see those little rectangular things they tuck into your cheeks to take an x-ray coming towards me. God, I feel sick even just thinking about it!!
Taking all that into account, who do you think has spent the most emergency time at the torturer’s surgery and spent the most money on dental work in the past few years? Yep, you got it in one! The Hubby has spent a fortune on various fillings, caps and whatever despite the fact that he goes along religiously, brushes at least twice a day, flosses and uses mouthwash. I do all that stuff at home (well, not the flossing. Bloody stuff gets stuck between my teeth, even the waxed version) and despite my ‘just once in seven years’ visit when no work was done, I have no problems.
So is there really anything in the assertion (put about by dentists, of course) that we must get along and get our teeth checked out regularly or they will all fall out and we will all become diseased, ugly, toothless crones and hags? Personally, whilst regular check ups appear to be eminently sensible for children up to the age of maybe 16, for adults I don’t think so. I think that as long as you have good personal hygiene habits which include regular oral routines, and you have practised those good habits from childhood, then you shouldn’t need to go. You don’t go to the doctor for preventative visits, so why should you go to the dentist? It’s all a con to justify their enormous charges and buy their next Jag or next seven star holiday in Bermuda.
Toothache, or any sort of oral pain is, of course, almost some of the worst you can experience without having a life threatening condition. And when you do have a problem a good dentist, like a good emergency doctor, can be like an angel from heaven. But let’s get this in perspective and recognise the brainwashing for what it is.
And I’m not going, even though you’ve written to me this week and ticked me off for not attending an appointment in ages or finishing a ‘prescribed’ course of treatment (what treatment? I don’t remember that!). So there!
Monday, 9 September 2013
There's no justice in the world.
I don’t usually read the ‘trade’ magazines which we get at work, deeming them too dull and boring to merit my attention. It is hard to think of a more stultifying title for a magazine than ‘Local Government Lawyer Today’ or ‘Public Sector IT’.
However today a strap line on the front cover of one of these august publications caught my eye, highlighting the escalating cost of benefits and how other local authority services (like mine) are struggling for funding because of it.
Now if there’s one thing which exercises me politically, it’s why I should be burdened with supporting the welfare state when I have never taken a penny from it in my lifetime and I see profligacy and waste all around from its recipients?
That is, of course, a sweeping statement which tars all with the same brush. And I do accept that there are many deserving people out there drawing on the state’s purse who thoroughly deserve to be helped in many ways, whether with money or with caring. But there are lots that don’t, and several of them seem to live in my area.
I am going to cite one particular family as an example. This family have six, soon to be seven, children. God knows where they all sleep in a three bedroom semi! The father doesn’t work in the conventional sense and when she isn’t pregnant or nursing an infant, the mother would appear to work as a shelf stacker doing night duty, so presumably earns comparative pennies. Both these adults are physically fit, although we understand the Dad has some sort of mental difficulties around socialisation (but there are lots of jobs which require lone workers). The children all have large numbers of toys and some quite expensive stuff, such as a mini motorbike and fishing gear. For a bit of cash in hand (we guess) ‘Dad’ often goes off with loads of good quality gardening equipment (certainly better and more powerful than we have), returning later in the day. Their garden and house is immaculate partly due to ‘Dad’s somewhat casual earning arrangements which leave him plenty of time at home and partly due to the fact that the Council has, to the best of our knowledge, provided a new kitchen, bathroom and roof for the property within the last 3 years. The kids all go to school and are immaculately turned out.
These people cannot possibly support six children on income support and shelf stacking wages, probably just two adults would be a struggle, and now they are bringing a seventh child into the world. We can only assume that they are doing it for the money, a jaundiced unkind view but one fuelled by the fact that presumably they have lost money in the government’s benefit reforms and caps and are now looking to bump up (no pun intended) the monthly income.
I’m doing something wrong here. All my life I have worked hard, even when my daughters were small, to make my own way in life. I pay my taxes and my bills and I would never deliberately bring about a situation for my family which I could not support financially. And yet this family are not alone, and the situation is tolerated.
If it were me, I would change the law to say that the maximum number of children that the state would support is two. Any more than that and you’re on your own; after all, contraception is free on the NHS and our population is expanding at an alarming rate which needs curbing. I would issue child allowance in food vouchers and in vouchers which could be used at Boots for ‘baby’ supplies such as nappies and children’s clothing and not in cash. Rent and Council Tax would (if it has to be paid) be paid direct to the local authority or landlord, and the remaining benefit would be paid partly in food vouchers and only partly in cash. Those drawing benefit would have to have regular health checks by a qualified nurse to ensure that they are not smoking or excessively drinking and if so, part of their benefit would be withdrawn to encourage them to stop. The savings that were made would pay for the nurses tenfold.
This does, of course, all sound a bit like a Communist State and rather extreme. But The Hubby and I (actually mainly The Hubby, out in the rain yesterday) have just spent this weekend – all weekend – sorting out things on our property to maintain its value and we both work all the hours just to we can pay the mortgage and have a decent quality of life. No one subsidises us and whichever way we seem to turn, there is another bill to be paid or another unexpected expense.
I’m sick of it. And now we have been told that if we want to retire, we’ll have to wait until we’re 67. These people are in their early forties at most and are probably younger, and living a better basic quality of life on the state than we’ll be able to afford for the next 15 years despite their ever expanding tribe of children. Oh, and I don’t have any money at work to run my service and even the slightest investment has to be justified by endless reports and cost benefits analyses because…. wait for it …. bloody social care services are mopping up all the cash. So we’re back to where we came in, aren’t we?
Oh, if only I were in charge........
However today a strap line on the front cover of one of these august publications caught my eye, highlighting the escalating cost of benefits and how other local authority services (like mine) are struggling for funding because of it.
Now if there’s one thing which exercises me politically, it’s why I should be burdened with supporting the welfare state when I have never taken a penny from it in my lifetime and I see profligacy and waste all around from its recipients?
That is, of course, a sweeping statement which tars all with the same brush. And I do accept that there are many deserving people out there drawing on the state’s purse who thoroughly deserve to be helped in many ways, whether with money or with caring. But there are lots that don’t, and several of them seem to live in my area.
I am going to cite one particular family as an example. This family have six, soon to be seven, children. God knows where they all sleep in a three bedroom semi! The father doesn’t work in the conventional sense and when she isn’t pregnant or nursing an infant, the mother would appear to work as a shelf stacker doing night duty, so presumably earns comparative pennies. Both these adults are physically fit, although we understand the Dad has some sort of mental difficulties around socialisation (but there are lots of jobs which require lone workers). The children all have large numbers of toys and some quite expensive stuff, such as a mini motorbike and fishing gear. For a bit of cash in hand (we guess) ‘Dad’ often goes off with loads of good quality gardening equipment (certainly better and more powerful than we have), returning later in the day. Their garden and house is immaculate partly due to ‘Dad’s somewhat casual earning arrangements which leave him plenty of time at home and partly due to the fact that the Council has, to the best of our knowledge, provided a new kitchen, bathroom and roof for the property within the last 3 years. The kids all go to school and are immaculately turned out.
These people cannot possibly support six children on income support and shelf stacking wages, probably just two adults would be a struggle, and now they are bringing a seventh child into the world. We can only assume that they are doing it for the money, a jaundiced unkind view but one fuelled by the fact that presumably they have lost money in the government’s benefit reforms and caps and are now looking to bump up (no pun intended) the monthly income.
I’m doing something wrong here. All my life I have worked hard, even when my daughters were small, to make my own way in life. I pay my taxes and my bills and I would never deliberately bring about a situation for my family which I could not support financially. And yet this family are not alone, and the situation is tolerated.
If it were me, I would change the law to say that the maximum number of children that the state would support is two. Any more than that and you’re on your own; after all, contraception is free on the NHS and our population is expanding at an alarming rate which needs curbing. I would issue child allowance in food vouchers and in vouchers which could be used at Boots for ‘baby’ supplies such as nappies and children’s clothing and not in cash. Rent and Council Tax would (if it has to be paid) be paid direct to the local authority or landlord, and the remaining benefit would be paid partly in food vouchers and only partly in cash. Those drawing benefit would have to have regular health checks by a qualified nurse to ensure that they are not smoking or excessively drinking and if so, part of their benefit would be withdrawn to encourage them to stop. The savings that were made would pay for the nurses tenfold.
This does, of course, all sound a bit like a Communist State and rather extreme. But The Hubby and I (actually mainly The Hubby, out in the rain yesterday) have just spent this weekend – all weekend – sorting out things on our property to maintain its value and we both work all the hours just to we can pay the mortgage and have a decent quality of life. No one subsidises us and whichever way we seem to turn, there is another bill to be paid or another unexpected expense.
I’m sick of it. And now we have been told that if we want to retire, we’ll have to wait until we’re 67. These people are in their early forties at most and are probably younger, and living a better basic quality of life on the state than we’ll be able to afford for the next 15 years despite their ever expanding tribe of children. Oh, and I don’t have any money at work to run my service and even the slightest investment has to be justified by endless reports and cost benefits analyses because…. wait for it …. bloody social care services are mopping up all the cash. So we’re back to where we came in, aren’t we?
Oh, if only I were in charge........
Thursday, 5 September 2013
I don't have the time (or energy) to go to work!
We’ve had a busy few weeks, socially, and there are a few more things on the calendar.
Concerts, exhibitions, country fairs, meals out and social evenings with friends have all been very pleasant and totally enjoyable.
As with everything however, there are downsides and for these, the two downsides are that we are exhausted and skint. God, isn’t having a life expensive?
Over the next few weeks we really must make a concerted effort not to spend so much money enjoying ourselves. I mean honestly, why on earth should we, in our fifties, be allowed to go out and have fun after a lifetime of working bloody hard and bringing up our families with, it must be said, a reasonable degree of success moulding them into fairly well balanced people.
We do feel guilty, of course, at going out and spending all that cash which we could use paying off our debts or reducing the term of our mortgage. But then all my life I have done things for other people, been sensible, have had times when I’ve had cash and times when I’ve haven’t, and in the run up to my (late) middle age feel like I’ve accrued the right to have some fun for me, and not choose an activity just because others like it.
In recent months I have had time ‘off’ from shows; I haven’t performed, directed, helped backstage or been otherwise engaged in theatrical activity apart from going along to watch occasionally. I have started the radio DJ’ing, which is completely enjoyable and engrossing, even the evening spent in front of the computer choosing that week’s playlist. I have taken up tapestry, which has proved surprisingly satisfying and relaxing, and done some home brewing, a hobby I last did in my twenties (and pretty decent my Pinot Grigio is too!)
Making a concerted effort to have some ‘us’ time has certainly made us feel our age! We’re collapsing into the chair of an evening, after we’ve cleared away dinner and walked the dog, feeling totally shattered. We’re certainly sleeping well, better than we have for ages. The Hubby valiantly tries to read the paper and his eyelids droop (not an attractive sight, I can tell you) and I try and do the tapestry constantly unpicking stitches where I’m getting it wrong because I can no longer see straight. Honestly, what a pair!
There’s only one thing for it. We’ll have to retire. We don’t have time to go to work; we’re too busy! Now, how can we make that happen – sooner rather than later.
Thinking caps on. All sensible and polite suggestions welcome, please!
Concerts, exhibitions, country fairs, meals out and social evenings with friends have all been very pleasant and totally enjoyable.
As with everything however, there are downsides and for these, the two downsides are that we are exhausted and skint. God, isn’t having a life expensive?
Over the next few weeks we really must make a concerted effort not to spend so much money enjoying ourselves. I mean honestly, why on earth should we, in our fifties, be allowed to go out and have fun after a lifetime of working bloody hard and bringing up our families with, it must be said, a reasonable degree of success moulding them into fairly well balanced people.
We do feel guilty, of course, at going out and spending all that cash which we could use paying off our debts or reducing the term of our mortgage. But then all my life I have done things for other people, been sensible, have had times when I’ve had cash and times when I’ve haven’t, and in the run up to my (late) middle age feel like I’ve accrued the right to have some fun for me, and not choose an activity just because others like it.
In recent months I have had time ‘off’ from shows; I haven’t performed, directed, helped backstage or been otherwise engaged in theatrical activity apart from going along to watch occasionally. I have started the radio DJ’ing, which is completely enjoyable and engrossing, even the evening spent in front of the computer choosing that week’s playlist. I have taken up tapestry, which has proved surprisingly satisfying and relaxing, and done some home brewing, a hobby I last did in my twenties (and pretty decent my Pinot Grigio is too!)
Making a concerted effort to have some ‘us’ time has certainly made us feel our age! We’re collapsing into the chair of an evening, after we’ve cleared away dinner and walked the dog, feeling totally shattered. We’re certainly sleeping well, better than we have for ages. The Hubby valiantly tries to read the paper and his eyelids droop (not an attractive sight, I can tell you) and I try and do the tapestry constantly unpicking stitches where I’m getting it wrong because I can no longer see straight. Honestly, what a pair!
There’s only one thing for it. We’ll have to retire. We don’t have time to go to work; we’re too busy! Now, how can we make that happen – sooner rather than later.
Thinking caps on. All sensible and polite suggestions welcome, please!
Monday, 2 September 2013
A grand day out
Yesterday, The Hubby and I had a day out.
I appreciate that may not sound like the most exciting statement in the world, and ‘having a day out’ is something that people do all the time, but we haven’t done it for ages due to various pressures and obligations and it was a timely reminder of how important it is to make time to spend just with each other and enjoy each other’s company. For starters, we went to the British Museum and saw the special exhibition about Pompeii and Herculaneum. Unless you’re into ancient history that may sound a little dull, but the exhibition was superb and the plaster casts made from the voids in the volcanic ash where organic matter had decayed, but the ash around it had set into solid rock, were strangely touching and evocative. I cannot imagine the terror that the occupants of those cities must have felt when the volcano erupted, and the casts are so precise that on some of the statues the facial expression was visible. One group of people, thought to be a family huddled together in a room when the pyroclastic surge caught them, were particularly touching with the mother clutching one child and the other child contorted in fear.
After that, we went over to the South Bank originally with the intention of just having a wander and looking at the arts and crafts stalls. However it was such a beautiful day that we took advantage of practically no queue at the London eye and paid the extortionate fare for the 30 minute revolution. The view was staggeringly clear and I’m really glad we did it; last time we went up it was also a lovely day but we faffed, worried we hadn’t intended to spend that money and putting it off ‘until next time’. We almost did the same yesterday but in the end took the plunge and it was amazing, well worth the money. If you haven’t been, I suggest you do.
In the evening, we rounded off the day by going to Pizza Express for a pizza and nice bottle of rose. Lovely!
As I say, we haven’t done a day out like that for ages. Demands of teenagers, a newly bereaved mother in law and financial constraints have meant weekends spent ferrying others or doing chores. Time together has been at a premium and we have been endlessly tired. What little down time has been available has been spent slumped in front of the telly with little energy for anything else. As a result, the pleasure we have always taken in each other’s company has been hard to come by as to be honest, at the weekends we haven’t seen much of each other.
We have resolved, after yesterday which was a salutary reminder of how good it can be, not to let such a situation happen again. Once a month at least, provided we are not going on holiday that month, we will keep one weekend ‘for us’ and plan something nice, even if it is just a trip to the cinema and a curry afterwards. We will be disciplined about putting money aside for this, so that even in our straitened circumstances lack of cash is not an excuse.
So the challenge is to find something to do in October (we’re going away in September) which fits the bill. Maybe a trip to the seaside – haven’t been to seedy old Brighton in ages, or sedate and genteel Eastbourne! Or maybe the zoo, to see some tigers and gorillas.
Any more imaginative suggestions (which don’t involve either extreme physical exertion [ie no sport] or a second mortgage) welcome!
I appreciate that may not sound like the most exciting statement in the world, and ‘having a day out’ is something that people do all the time, but we haven’t done it for ages due to various pressures and obligations and it was a timely reminder of how important it is to make time to spend just with each other and enjoy each other’s company. For starters, we went to the British Museum and saw the special exhibition about Pompeii and Herculaneum. Unless you’re into ancient history that may sound a little dull, but the exhibition was superb and the plaster casts made from the voids in the volcanic ash where organic matter had decayed, but the ash around it had set into solid rock, were strangely touching and evocative. I cannot imagine the terror that the occupants of those cities must have felt when the volcano erupted, and the casts are so precise that on some of the statues the facial expression was visible. One group of people, thought to be a family huddled together in a room when the pyroclastic surge caught them, were particularly touching with the mother clutching one child and the other child contorted in fear.
After that, we went over to the South Bank originally with the intention of just having a wander and looking at the arts and crafts stalls. However it was such a beautiful day that we took advantage of practically no queue at the London eye and paid the extortionate fare for the 30 minute revolution. The view was staggeringly clear and I’m really glad we did it; last time we went up it was also a lovely day but we faffed, worried we hadn’t intended to spend that money and putting it off ‘until next time’. We almost did the same yesterday but in the end took the plunge and it was amazing, well worth the money. If you haven’t been, I suggest you do.
In the evening, we rounded off the day by going to Pizza Express for a pizza and nice bottle of rose. Lovely!
As I say, we haven’t done a day out like that for ages. Demands of teenagers, a newly bereaved mother in law and financial constraints have meant weekends spent ferrying others or doing chores. Time together has been at a premium and we have been endlessly tired. What little down time has been available has been spent slumped in front of the telly with little energy for anything else. As a result, the pleasure we have always taken in each other’s company has been hard to come by as to be honest, at the weekends we haven’t seen much of each other.
We have resolved, after yesterday which was a salutary reminder of how good it can be, not to let such a situation happen again. Once a month at least, provided we are not going on holiday that month, we will keep one weekend ‘for us’ and plan something nice, even if it is just a trip to the cinema and a curry afterwards. We will be disciplined about putting money aside for this, so that even in our straitened circumstances lack of cash is not an excuse.
So the challenge is to find something to do in October (we’re going away in September) which fits the bill. Maybe a trip to the seaside – haven’t been to seedy old Brighton in ages, or sedate and genteel Eastbourne! Or maybe the zoo, to see some tigers and gorillas.
Any more imaginative suggestions (which don’t involve either extreme physical exertion [ie no sport] or a second mortgage) welcome!
Thursday, 29 August 2013
By popular demand
By popular demand, and in response to considerable public pressure (well, one or two people at least) the rant is back!!
“The View on the Street” is extremely gratified to know that it has been missed. Its return may be on a somewhat less regular basis than before and rather erratic due to other pressures on time and frankly, there’s only so much creativity to go round. There certainly isn’t any shortage of topics to write about since the world does not appear to have become any saner in 2013 and in many cases has deteriorated significantly in sanity terms as well as in many other ways.
So what to choose as the first topic after a good rest?
Well there is the controversial stuff such as the civil war in Syria and the UK government’s dithering on what do to, if anything. There are the usual topics of immigration, the incompetence and inadequacies of the public transport system, the economic situation and politics.
There is also my ongoing battle with my weight and my aging body’s increasing propensity to regress to its teenage years in terms of spots, moods and odd sleeping habits.
There are the positive topics of ambition, plans for the future, happy events and celebrations such as Christmas (soon to be upon us, rather scarily) and birthdays (all too frequent and coming round ever more quickly with each year that passes), engrossing hobbies and activities we have engaged in (endless viewing of ‘Pointless’ [the best TV quiz programme EVER], concerts and exhibitions as well as a new hobby of home brewing which has seen the recent bottling of 40 bottles of Victorian ale and 13 bottles of home-made Pinot Grigio, and pretty passable Pinot Grigio at that).
There are the let downs and the arguments, gossip about others and just general observations on life as we know it.
Perhaps it’s best not to plan what to write in advance but just do so as the mood and activities of life take me. I think one of the things which has appealed about TVOTS is that it is not only superbly written, eloquent and articulate (my own opinion, not what I have been told but goes without saying, of course!!) but that it has been spontaneous and current, without a pattern and not predictable apart from the fact that it is quite frequently, of course, just a cathartic rant. One of the reasons I slowed it down before was because I didn’t want it to become formulaic, planned or too repetitive, so this time it may only be once or twice a week or maybe even less frequent if nothing significant has happened.
But it’s back. It never went away but was just sleeping, gathering its strength and refortifying for the coming few months. It will sit alongside other activities which will, I am convinced, bring me fame and fortune or at least one of those fickle companions if not both. It will be frank, fearless and controversial. It will say things you disagree with and which many think but few will have the courage to voice, or make assertions which make you think “Silly cow, she doesn’t know what she’s talking about”.
But you’ll notice it. Definitely!
Friday, 26 April 2013
Taking a little break....
The View on the Street is taking a little break for a while to, as they say, pursue other interests!
I have a number of projects in the pipeline which I have been meaning to do since I started my break from shows after panto. Stuff round the house, health issues and also a few outside interests. Have I done any of them? Hardly any and the main reason is time. Therefore I have decided to take the pressure off for a while and stop blogging for a few months ("Thank the Lord", I hear you say, "at last!") to focus on my other writing projects which have taken a back seat for far too long.
I had thought that once panto was over and I had my evenings to myself, then I'd really crack on with things. But of course what happened was I collapsed in an exhausted heap for several weeks, then got side tracked by the DJ'ing (Do you all listen by the way? You ought to, it's great fun and a very professional little radio station) and a major restructure at work which I was leading. I now want to write more, paint and perhaps be in a show again.
No doubt at some stage in the future, the rant will be back and over the next few weeks I will be scribbling down ideas and radical views to be shared with you all at a future date. In the meantime, thank you to those of you that are regular readers or even occasional 'dippers in' - your comments and views are much appreciated and very welcome.
Watch this space and Facebook, when it's back it will be bigger and better than ever, and no doubt more controversial.
I have a number of projects in the pipeline which I have been meaning to do since I started my break from shows after panto. Stuff round the house, health issues and also a few outside interests. Have I done any of them? Hardly any and the main reason is time. Therefore I have decided to take the pressure off for a while and stop blogging for a few months ("Thank the Lord", I hear you say, "at last!") to focus on my other writing projects which have taken a back seat for far too long.
I had thought that once panto was over and I had my evenings to myself, then I'd really crack on with things. But of course what happened was I collapsed in an exhausted heap for several weeks, then got side tracked by the DJ'ing (Do you all listen by the way? You ought to, it's great fun and a very professional little radio station) and a major restructure at work which I was leading. I now want to write more, paint and perhaps be in a show again.
No doubt at some stage in the future, the rant will be back and over the next few weeks I will be scribbling down ideas and radical views to be shared with you all at a future date. In the meantime, thank you to those of you that are regular readers or even occasional 'dippers in' - your comments and views are much appreciated and very welcome.
Watch this space and Facebook, when it's back it will be bigger and better than ever, and no doubt more controversial.
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