I've decamped! I've gone over to the dark side!
Seriously, I had too many things on Wordpress, it was getting confusing trying to edit everything. So, I've transfered the whole kit and caboodle here http://sarahmonteith.wordpress.com/
Do come and see me!
Tuesday, 25 August 2009
Tuesday, 11 August 2009
On Hearing
In semiotics, a sign is "something that stands for something else, to someone in some capacity". It may be understood as a discrete unit of meaning, and includes words, images, gestures, scents, tastes, textures, sounds – essentially all of the ways in which information can be communicated as a message by any sentient, reasoning mind to another. Wikipedia, 11th August, 2009.
In memory of Jane Taylor, 19 October 1958- 9th August 2009.
Don't take this as a sign
that I grow maudlin
My misery is attributable
to specific time
fixed space
the fluidity and lightness of my interaction
with the world
nailed
abruptly,
to a moment encapsulated.
She
died.
the neutral neural mind
absorbs the signifier
and
retrieves
the termination
of relational involvement
tearful heat of
those close
excruciating torment
as free- falling grief
commences
And tries hard to reject
the words
to rewrite
the signified
to revisit
the youthful, juvenille self
who could have made more
if she'd only
known.
In memory of Jane Taylor, 19 October 1958- 9th August 2009.
Don't take this as a sign
that I grow maudlin
My misery is attributable
to specific time
fixed space
the fluidity and lightness of my interaction
with the world
nailed
abruptly,
to a moment encapsulated.
She
died.
the neutral neural mind
absorbs the signifier
and
retrieves
the termination
of relational involvement
tearful heat of
those close
excruciating torment
as free- falling grief
commences
And tries hard to reject
the words
to rewrite
the signified
to revisit
the youthful, juvenille self
who could have made more
if she'd only
known.
Sunday, 9 August 2009
Not Perfect
Just because I adore him. And, because he's so very very clever, and his other songs make me laugh so very much, and maybe it's just me, and where I'm at with everything at the moment, but this has never, NEVER failed to make me cry...
Not Perfect
Tim Minchin
This is my Earth, and I live in it
It’s one third dirt, and two thirds water
And it rotates and revolves through space at rather an impressive pace
And never even messes up my hair- and here’s the really weird thing
The force created by its spin is the force that stops the chaos flooding in
This is my Earth
And it’s fine
It’s where I spend the vast majority of my time
It’s not perfect
But it’s mine
It’s not perfect
This is my house, and I live in it
It’s made of cracks and photographs
We rent it off a guy who bought it from a guy
Who bought it from a guy whose grandad left it to him
And the weirdest thing is that this house has locks to keep the baddies out
But they’re mostly used to lock ourselves in
And it’s fine
It’s where I spend the vast majority of my time
It’s not perfect
But it’s mine
It’s not perfect
But it's mine
This is my body, and I live in it
It’s 31 and 6 months old- it’s changed a lot since it was new
It’s done stuff it wasn’t built to do, I often try to fill it up with wine...
And the weirdest thing about it is I spend so much time hating it
But it never says a bad word about me
This is my body
And it’s fine
It’s where I spend the vast majority of my time
It’s not perfect
But it’s mine
It’s not perfect
This is my brain, and I live in it
It’s made of love and bad song lyrics
It’s tucked away behind my eyes
Where all my fucked up thoughts can hide,
Cos God forbid I hurt somebody
And the weirdest thing about a mind
Is that every answer that you find is the basis of a brand new cliché
This is my brain
And it’s fine
It’s where I spend the vast majority of my time
It’s not perfect
But it’s mine
It’s not perfect
I’m not quite sure I’ve worked out how to work it
It’s not perfect
But it’s mine
(go watch him sing it... it's so lovely... and it's here... )
Thursday, 11 June 2009
Advertiser Scan
The Ormskirk Advertiser printed the letter I sent them based on my blog below about the BNP and voting. I'm really made up :-) x
Monday, 8 June 2009
Our Turn...
In 2004 the USA re-elected George Bush, in dubious circumstances and with questionable majorities. Lots of people in America were very concerned and upset about this state of affairs, and the impact it would have on the view that the rest of the world had on their country. So, some of them created a website- sorryeveryone.com- on which they posted pictures and messages of themselves apologising for the turn of events.
Last night, this country heard it had elected right wing facists to represent us in Europe. I'm saying no more on that as my words would be deeply unpleasant. But, suffice to say... I think it's our turn. I'm ashamed of my country doing this. America, for the first time, has a black president; we manage, probably through sheer apathy, to elect both the leader of the national front and the (convicted criminal) chairman of the BNP as MEPs.
I mailed them this last night.
The link is here if you want to follow suit.
Sunday, 31 May 2009
Babies, Bathwater and the BNP...
It's not very often I feel moved to write about politics, but I find myself growing increasingly concerned by the extent to which the upcoming European Elections are being overshadowed by the issues over MP's expenses.
Don't get me wrong- I am totally in favour of a thorough police investigation, of reform of the system that allowed this greed, of MP's no longer being able to create their own rules in matters such as this- knowing that power corrupts, we really need to save them from themselves. And when I think of the £400,000 (give or take) in salary, pension benefits and expenses that the European Parliament members are entitled to, with never a receipt in sight, I know reform is badly needed there too.
But, could we postpone our anger for a few days, please?
Just until after Thursday?
I only ask, because at the moment there is a real danger of the BNP winning seats. And if they do, they are going to be there, in power, representing us, for the next five years.
It's not easy to understand how the proportional voting system works in European Parliament, but essentially, your vote counts more in some ways than in our national elections. It is within your power to prevent the BNP from winning seats.
The UK is divided into 12 regions for the purposes of this election, and my region is the North West, which includes Liverpool, Manchester and Lancaster. If the BNP win in this area, we will be represented by, amongst others, Nick Griffin, chairman of the BNP, convicted of distributing material likely to incite racial hatred (a magazine denying that the Holocaust took place), Martin Wingfield, arrested, prosecuted and imprisoned under the Race Relations Act following distribution of racist literature and Eddy O'Sullivan, who after posting comments so vile on his facebook page that even his hate ridden party threatened to suspend him, defended himself by saying, "It was supposed to be a private conversation. I also may have had a drink at the time. I don't believe those comments are racist."
I do not want these people to represent me. But I can't stop them on my own. So, people, I'm begging you- whatever you think about politicians, however angry you are, please, please choose to use your vote. There are plenty of options- if you're protesting that you don't want to be in Europe, vote UKIP; if you want to protest against the three main parties, vote Green- use this guide if you need some help choosing. Just don't protest by not voting, not this time.
Here is some really helpful information about voting.
It's apolitical,but anti-extremist. It's only one page long. Have a quick look.
And here is what our ballot paper will look like in the North West.
You just have to mark an 'x'. It will take seconds.
Thursday June 4th.
Thanks.
If you want to see what the ballot paper in your area will look like, or to download (free) copies of the 'euro-vote' flyer, go to makemyvotecount.org.uk
Wednesday, 27 May 2009
Sizzling Hot!
Someone gave me this a few years ago cut out of a newspaper- don't know which one. I'm not normally in favour of the slightly sexist slant these articles can sometimes take (either in favour of male OR female) but this one seems to me to be fairly accurate!
Anyway, it still makes me laugh, so given the predictions for the coming summer, I thought I'd share...
When a man volunteers to do the BBQ, the following chain of events is set in motion:
1) The woman buys the food.
2) The woman cleans the salad, prepares the dips and makes pudding.
3) The woman prepares the meat for cooking, places it on a tray along with the necessary cooking utensils and sauces, and takes it to the man who is lounging beside the grill ? beer in hand. The woman pours herself a large glass of white wine. Here comes the important part:
4) THE MAN PLACES THE MEAT ON THE GRILL! Commander of the Coals, he brandishes the tongs in a manly fashion. Everything about his posture says: "This cooking lark's a doddle."
5) The woman goes inside to organise the plates and cutlery.
6) The woman comes out to tell the man that the meat is burning. He thanks her and asks if she will bring another beer while he Deals With The Situation. Another very important part:
7) THE MAN TAKES THE MEAT OFF THE GRILL AND HANDS IT TO THE WOMAN.
8) Inside, the woman cannot find a clean glass and starts drinking wine from the bottle. She scrapes the burnt bits off the lamb steaks and, from the oven, produces some M&S kebabs which she has bought, just in case. The woman prepares the plates, salad, bread, cutlery, napkins, sauces and brings them to the table.
9) After eating, the woman clears the table and loads the dishwasher. And most important of all:
10) Everyone PRAISES the MAN and THANKS HIM for his cooking efforts.
11) The man asks the woman how she enjoyed "Her night off". Woman grips barbecue skewer tightly. Says nothing.
Anyway, it still makes me laugh, so given the predictions for the coming summer, I thought I'd share...
When a man volunteers to do the BBQ, the following chain of events is set in motion:
1) The woman buys the food.
2) The woman cleans the salad, prepares the dips and makes pudding.
3) The woman prepares the meat for cooking, places it on a tray along with the necessary cooking utensils and sauces, and takes it to the man who is lounging beside the grill ? beer in hand. The woman pours herself a large glass of white wine. Here comes the important part:
4) THE MAN PLACES THE MEAT ON THE GRILL! Commander of the Coals, he brandishes the tongs in a manly fashion. Everything about his posture says: "This cooking lark's a doddle."
5) The woman goes inside to organise the plates and cutlery.
6) The woman comes out to tell the man that the meat is burning. He thanks her and asks if she will bring another beer while he Deals With The Situation. Another very important part:
7) THE MAN TAKES THE MEAT OFF THE GRILL AND HANDS IT TO THE WOMAN.
8) Inside, the woman cannot find a clean glass and starts drinking wine from the bottle. She scrapes the burnt bits off the lamb steaks and, from the oven, produces some M&S kebabs which she has bought, just in case. The woman prepares the plates, salad, bread, cutlery, napkins, sauces and brings them to the table.
9) After eating, the woman clears the table and loads the dishwasher. And most important of all:
10) Everyone PRAISES the MAN and THANKS HIM for his cooking efforts.
11) The man asks the woman how she enjoyed "Her night off". Woman grips barbecue skewer tightly. Says nothing.
Friday, 24 April 2009
Happy Bard-day to you...
As well as St George, St Phil (my brother) and countless other important luminaries, today is the lesser known William Shakespeare's birthday. Wiki says they don't know his birthday, only the day of his baptism. But, hey ho, this'll do. It's also the day he died, and four hundred years to the month that his first book of sonnets were sold for sixpence. Apparently.
Anyway. Here's my tribute. I read it at Poetry Cafe at the Bluecoats tonight. They didn't seem to mind that I was teasing slightly.
Mind you, I didn't dare attempt to tell them that St George was probably Turkish o_O x
No Longer Eighteen
Shall I compare thee to a wet weekend?
The ruthless winds have stripped our orchards bare
The lease is up, and yet we still pretend
sweet temperance? Or do we just not care?
In time, most mortal flesh begins to sag.
In Shakespeare's day they died at fifty one.
Who wants to live forever? let death brag.
At least the shade will keep us out the sun.
And so you raise the volume on the box.
Deaf as a post, but still with eyes that see-
In widescreen watch as Britney shakes her locks
Long gone the times you looked like that at me.
But trade you in? My darling, don't dismay-
I'll hang on, so the life insurance pays.
Anyway. Here's my tribute. I read it at Poetry Cafe at the Bluecoats tonight. They didn't seem to mind that I was teasing slightly.
Mind you, I didn't dare attempt to tell them that St George was probably Turkish o_O x
No Longer Eighteen
Shall I compare thee to a wet weekend?
The ruthless winds have stripped our orchards bare
The lease is up, and yet we still pretend
sweet temperance? Or do we just not care?
In time, most mortal flesh begins to sag.
In Shakespeare's day they died at fifty one.
Who wants to live forever? let death brag.
At least the shade will keep us out the sun.
And so you raise the volume on the box.
Deaf as a post, but still with eyes that see-
In widescreen watch as Britney shakes her locks
Long gone the times you looked like that at me.
But trade you in? My darling, don't dismay-
I'll hang on, so the life insurance pays.
Monday, 20 April 2009
Genius
Two reports for you today. Spot the connection.
A couple of weekends ago, my brother's wife's sister (stay with me) got married.
Her father is the vicar of in Holy Trinity in Idle, Diocese of Bradford, and so he performed the ceremony, and the reception was held at a nearby venue.
As my sister in law and her father have been involved in firework displays on and off for years, at the previous two siblings weddings the evening had been rounded off by a spectacular light show of some sort. True to tradition, they decided, as a surprise gift for the bride and groom, to launch some paper lanterns, lit inside, creating a beautiful display.
The day was a success, and the lanterns rounded things off beautifully.
The second is a report which appeared a few days ago in the Telegraph and Argus, a local Bradford newspaper. The report is by Marcus Meneaud, and the full text can be found here.
The headling states "UFO sightings are no joke for Denise", and the article goes on to describe
Coincidence?!
the truth is out there.....
Do you think they should confess?! :-)
Her father is the vicar of in Holy Trinity in Idle, Diocese of Bradford, and so he performed the ceremony, and the reception was held at a nearby venue.
As my sister in law and her father have been involved in firework displays on and off for years, at the previous two siblings weddings the evening had been rounded off by a spectacular light show of some sort. True to tradition, they decided, as a surprise gift for the bride and groom, to launch some paper lanterns, lit inside, creating a beautiful display.
The day was a success, and the lanterns rounded things off beautifully.
The second is a report which appeared a few days ago in the Telegraph and Argus, a local Bradford newspaper. The report is by Marcus Meneaud, and the full text can be found here.
The headling states "UFO sightings are no joke for Denise", and the article goes on to describe
"...reports of up to five red or orange orbs hovering silently in the night sky before quickly disappearing."The 'Denise' in the headline is Denise Wilson, who 'saw them circling above her home in Moorside, Daisy Hill, Bradford, when she took her dog for a night-time stroll.'
“There were four round red or orange glowing lights flying in formation,cruising towards me. ... They weren’t flying very high, not as high as planes and then they disappeared above the trees.A further couple of residents had spotted the same UFO's, although one described similar lanterns he had seen in China.
... I don’t care what people think of me, I know what I saw and it wasn’t normal and it wasn’t man-made. It was very, very strange, like some-thing out of Close Encounters of the Third Kind!”
Coincidence?!
the truth is out there.....
Do you think they should confess?! :-)
Saturday, 11 April 2009
Hitting the Bottle
My nephew seems to have developed a love of drinking directly from the bottle.
It would seem he's transfered this skill to bottles of wine.
I would like to point out that it isn't my hand holding the bottle, I was taking the photograph. Honestly.
Bless x
It would seem he's transfered this skill to bottles of wine.
I would like to point out that it isn't my hand holding the bottle, I was taking the photograph. Honestly.
Bless x
Tuesday, 31 March 2009
Random Statistic of the Week...
STRONGER FEELING HAIR*, SHINY COLOUR, WORKS IN JUST 10 MINUTES
Introducing NEW Garnier Herbashine, our first hair colourant enriched with bamboo extract, containing no ammonia and it works in just 10 minutes
Is this range right for me?
- If you want a colourant with no ammonia.
- If you want a colourant that works in just 10 minutes.
- If you want to help cover greys.
- If you want hair that feels stronger and looks shiny.
*87% agreed when tested on 304 women. Strength also measured as resistance to brushing
Introducing NEW Garnier Herbashine, our first hair colourant enriched with bamboo extract, containing no ammonia and it works in just 10 minutes
Is this range right for me?
- If you want a colourant with no ammonia.
- If you want a colourant that works in just 10 minutes.
- If you want to help cover greys.
- If you want hair that feels stronger and looks shiny.
*87% agreed when tested on 304 women. Strength also measured as resistance to brushing
Two thoughts. Number one, that means 264.48 (point four eight of a woman could be interesting...?) agreed that their hair felt stronger. With the population of the UK alone being approximately 61,612,300 this would be an interestingly small sample, but on the Garnier website you can choose your location from not one but sixteen countries, including Russia, USA and China. I went to wikipedia, found their best UN population guesses and added them up, making a total population of 2,312,343,413 people. Given they specified 'women', half of that is 1,156,171,706.5 (ish). Lots of them will be kids, I know. But you get the idea. That means, that in order to advertise this product as producing 'stronger feeling hair', they sampled about 0.00002% of their target audience, 87% of whom agreed with the premise that their hair felt stronger*. I'd work that out but I feel my luck on the maths front is running out- where's Nathan when I need him??! Anyway, I wonder if those who participated actually had to buy the product or if they were given it for free? And now I think about it, I wonder about the 39.52 women who said 'No, it's stupid and doesn't make any difference at all.'
Second thought. 'Strength also measured as resistance to brushing'. Who? What? When? How? Where? Why? What colour was the brush? Was it a Tuesday? Is that the hair or the participants strength they're talking about... 'Give me that brush'... 'No, get off'.... 'Give me the damn... blimey, you're strong...'
Second thought. 'Strength also measured as resistance to brushing'. Who? What? When? How? Where? Why? What colour was the brush? Was it a Tuesday? Is that the hair or the participants strength they're talking about... 'Give me that brush'... 'No, get off'.... 'Give me the damn... blimey, you're strong...'
Adverts. Gotta love em.
I'm not even going there with the bamboo extract...
*All figures are unproven and totally unscientifically worked out. In fact, I got my pet iguana to draw them out of a hat. I don't actually have a pet iguana. Which makes that last bit a lie. A lie is like a statistic, only more honest.
Friday, 27 March 2009
A Smear on my Character...
So, I'm not sure how I got myself into this, but here are my thoughts on smear tests, for Rosie and anyone else who cares to read!
I first had a smear test when I was at university. In those days it was encouraged for all women, not just those over twenty five as the crazy rules are today. It was done by the sister at the health clinic, and whilst not my first choice of relaxing occupation, it was in no way painful or uncomfortable.
You undress, bottom half only (actually, that's the really strange bit, I find- being naked waist down only is an unusual thing! Maybe if I'd had a baby it wouldn't be so odd) and lie on the bed, with your knees bent. It's not a torture chair arrangement like you see on American tv, it's just the usual doctor's couch thing. The doctor will insert the speculum, which is not cold, is round tipped so slides in easily, and doesn't in any way hurt. In fact, I've found that once it's in you don't really notice it, stretchy as us girls are. Just as painless and easy as tampons.
The doctor will open it slightly, just to allow her to see, then will take a swab from inside you using what looks like a long q-tip thing. It doesn't scrape in any way, you don't feel it.
And that's it. Job's done, it's over.
The reason I understand the fear is when I started with a new doctor about ten years ago, she asked me if I'd had a smear before, I said I had, and so she didn't feel she needed to explain what she was doing as she was went along. This would have been ok, but she decided to do a pelvic examination as well, which was not something I'd had before, and apparently is unusual to do with no reason. It also wasn't painful, was more embarrassing, as it involved inserting fingers inside and then pressing upwards and down on the abdomen from the outside. Again, this wouldn't be a problem but for the fact I didn't know it was going to happen!
As a result, I didn't go for a smear test for a long time, ignoring the letters and reminders from the doctors. Pure embarrassment, nothing else.
The thing is though, it could save your life.
It's free, it takes about five minutes, and it really, really could save your life.
By the time you have symptoms of cervical cancer, it's often too late. Screening picks up PRE- cancerous cells, that is cells that may turn cancerous one day but haven't yet. And it's pretty curable. The point is, without screening, you won't know you have cervical cancer until it's probably too late.
Eventually I plucked up the courage and went back. I told the receptionist how nervous I was, and she said she'd not been for ages either, and if I went through with it, she would too. I told my doctor how nervous I was, and she was amazing. She talked me through every step of the way, explaining what she was doing and where she was up to in the whole process. She was patient, understanding, very calm and very practical. It took minutes, and at the end I felt foolish for not doing it sooner.
Our daughters won't have to do this. The human papillomavirus (HPV) that causes cervical cancer is now preventable with a vaccine, and is being offered to school aged girls. Stupidly, some schools are opting out on the grounds that it might encourage the girls to have sex. Don't start me on this topic or this blog post will be very, very long. It's also stupid that boys aren't getting it, because they can be carriers, if not actually falling ill themselves. So, anyway, we're the last generation that will need to go and do this.
But, speaking of our daughters, if we are ever to have any of our own, we need to make sure we don't die of cervical cancer first.
So, top tips.
1. Be seen by a female doctor. Ask when you make the appointment. It's perfectly ok.
2. Make sure she knows you are nervous. She won't think you are stupid or immature, she's seen it all before. Really.
3. Relax. Honestly, if you can face dentists, needles and the Next sales, this is child's play. And the more relaxed you are, the easier it will be.
4. Ask your doctor to talk you through the steps she is taking. It really helps, and can allow you to ask questions as you go along if you need to.
5. Congratulate yourself on how brave you've been- rewards are essential!
I know it seems scary, but once you've done it, you'll realise it's not. At worst, it's a little embarrassing, because we're so English and reserved. And for me, a red face is not a good enough excuse!
Please comment, ask questions, disagree, debate, discuss and encourage. The only stupid question is the one you don't ask. We need to support each other with this. In 2006 (the latest stats) 949 women in the UK died from this. Nine hundred and forty- nine. Let's prevent as many more as we can.
Further information is available here.
Monday, 23 March 2009
Feelings... nothing more than...
This morning I watched Dancing on Ice: The Final, a repeat from Sunday evening. Being pathologically unable to watch television without my laptop in front of me, I'd already seen that Ray Quinn, a celebrity due to his previous appearance as runner-up on the X Factor, having discovered a genuine talent for ice skating through the competition had then won overall. He beat Donal MacIntyre, a journalist, made celebrity due to his willingness to go undercover and put his life in danger, which seemed a little at odds with the neon spandex of his ice dance costumes; and Jessica Taylor, a celebrity due to her previous appearance on the talent competition Pop Stars, a forerunner of X Factor, where she and the other runners up became the momentarily successful pop group Liberty X.
Over the series, Torvill and Dean, famous for being incredibly successful at their sport of ice dance and winning a lot of medals, auditioned amateur none-celebrities (there ought to be a word for people who aren't celebrities now, just to distinguish them. Might I suggest 'ignority', one who is unworthy of notice?) to become their Ice Stars. So, they auditioned a selection of ignorities, all of whom were talented ice skaters, all of whom were wannabe celebrities, and they selected five acts to appear last week, the winner of which would appear live on last night's Dancing on Ice: The Final. The finalists were interviewed, worked with the choreographers from the show, then performed for Jane and Chris, who chose a group of five lads calling themselves The Oxford Freestylers, as being suitably talented but also 'street' and 'out there' for their ignority act. It is important that when sharing a stage with a genuine celebrity that an ignority is either a rough diamond (in their performance, their accent, their intelligence or their clothing) or if showing potentially equal talent to the real celebrities (ie, they've appeared in a reality TV final before as Ray and Jessica had), then they must be only about six years old in order that they will not pose an immediate threat and so that the tabloid press can chart their slow decline into rehab by the age of fifteen.
Am I starting to sound cynical? I do apologise, stay with me, there is a point...
The Oxford Freestylers were interviewed before their performance about what winning Meant To Them. And their youngest member, straight to camera, said that for him, it had been an amazing journey. And it got me thinking... how on earth did a fourteen year old come out with the words 'amazing journey'? I mean, don't get me wrong, I'd been listening to Ray, Donal and Jessica for the last hour- 'chance of a lifetime', 'such an honour', 'amazing thrill', 'pleasure to work with', 'didn't think I'd get so far', 'just wanted the experience' almost on a loop, but something struck me about hearing it from someone so young. It's not a natural thing for a teenager to say. And his expression when he said it- so earnest, so serious, so self deprecating- now modesty is all well and good, but I know teenagers, and when they're good at something they like to tell you about it. And I realised, he'd learned it from watching. From our (un)reality TV soaked culture, where every contestant knows that they must strike the right balance between confident and humble, charming and demure, endearing and cheesy, must profess shock when they win and gratitude (and tears) when they lose, must, in short, play the game by the established celebrity rules.
We are reaching a point where our teenagers will expect that when they go for a job interview it will involve a ten minute piece to camera about how much the job means to them, what they will feel if they get it, how much they've enjoyed the selection process, how great it's been to meet the potential employers and other candidates, and a tearful tribute to their nan, who's always believed in them This will be followed by a vote and a prolonged announcement of the winning candidate by the MD. Oh, and lesser jobs awarded for the runners up so no-one feels left out.
I contrast this with three news reports, two from today, one from earlier in the week. In the earlier one, Dr Carol Craig, addressing a conference of Headteachers, warned that the constant drive to build self-esteem in schoolchildren had gone too far, and that we were in danger of creating a society of narcissists, unable to take criticism. 'If we say to people the most important thing is how you feel about yourself, then if a child fails maths and feels bad, it is very tempting for them to blame it on others like teachers and parents.'
The second, from today, was from Childline, the charity set up with the whole purpose of listening to children, and how they feel. They said that the number of children ringing to talk about feelings of suicide had tripled in the last five years, some calls from children under the age of eleven. Tripled. Now this would seem to be at odds with Dr Craig's assessment of the way we manage the feelings of children, were it not for the fact that Dr Craig's job is as chief executive of the Centre for Confidence and Wellbeing.
Now before I get lynched at dawn, please understand, I am a great supporter of therapy, having been in it for several years, and fully support people being in touch with their feelings, an expression which has always reminded me of the old joke about having baths- once a month, whether I need it or not. How do you get in touch with your feelings? By email? a quick call? Perhaps these days a tweet is all that is necessary- in touch in 140 characters or less. And there, in all seriousness, lies the problem.
We encourage children to feel, but then we don't tell them what to do with those feelings once they've got them; how to manage a sense of success and failure, how to form sense of well-being and develop a proportionate response to things around them. We compartmentalise feelings into something you 'do' when a camera is pointed at you, or when a tragedy occurs. We then blur the lines between tragedy, setback and minor disappointment. We set up celebrity role models to show them the correct way to respond to disappointment, the depth of sincerity required to get anywhere ('it means the world/my life/everything to me'- count how many times it occurs on the next X Factor auditions) and the expectation that you too can be Ray, can be Alicia, can be Jade. And I write this knowing the end of that particular tragic drama, whilst already the 'peoples princess' comparisons are being written and the black- edged red- tops tout their particular pledge for a legacy, a tribute, a memorial. We tell our kids that they can have that. They deserve it. And why? Because they're worth it. And then we're surprised when they feel an overwhelming sense of hollowness, of failure, when they wonder what the point of life is and talk genuinely about suicide, and we're shocked by how harshly they judge each other, bully each other to establish the same pecking order that we as the adults show them to be the norm. Dr Craig is right- we have to find a way to teach them what reality is, but more than that, we have to show them some way of handling their feelings in life, and somehow start to realign our culture to promote role models who do that successfully, and I'm not talking about Rooney's little tantrum on Sunday. I'd be willing to bet that the statistics on not only suicide, but also drug abuse and teenage pregnancy would show a remarkable shift if this was our aim, rather than mere A-C at GCSE.
The Oxford Freestylers were fantastic, really, and I genuinely applaud them, the parents who supported them going, and the people who coached them. They were very talented, and their routine was creative and innovative. I just pray that when the lights fade on the Dancing on Ice tour that there is enough satisfaction within themselves to sustain the interest in their hobby, and pass it on to another generation of Oxford skating kids. To find the merit in a journey away from the media spotlight.
Interestingly, the third news item was about a report from Becta, suggesting that parents are beginning to feel left out by their children's reluctance to talk about school and their lives. There's already a psychologist on the case, ready to deal with the anxiety the parents feel about this matter. Maybe we're a generation further in to the narcissism than we thought. How do we teach this new generation of reality culture parents to begin to introduce realism into their own parenting?
Would it be cynical of me to suggest they bought a video camera?
Over the series, Torvill and Dean, famous for being incredibly successful at their sport of ice dance and winning a lot of medals, auditioned amateur none-celebrities (there ought to be a word for people who aren't celebrities now, just to distinguish them. Might I suggest 'ignority', one who is unworthy of notice?) to become their Ice Stars. So, they auditioned a selection of ignorities, all of whom were talented ice skaters, all of whom were wannabe celebrities, and they selected five acts to appear last week, the winner of which would appear live on last night's Dancing on Ice: The Final. The finalists were interviewed, worked with the choreographers from the show, then performed for Jane and Chris, who chose a group of five lads calling themselves The Oxford Freestylers, as being suitably talented but also 'street' and 'out there' for their ignority act. It is important that when sharing a stage with a genuine celebrity that an ignority is either a rough diamond (in their performance, their accent, their intelligence or their clothing) or if showing potentially equal talent to the real celebrities (ie, they've appeared in a reality TV final before as Ray and Jessica had), then they must be only about six years old in order that they will not pose an immediate threat and so that the tabloid press can chart their slow decline into rehab by the age of fifteen.
Am I starting to sound cynical? I do apologise, stay with me, there is a point...
The Oxford Freestylers were interviewed before their performance about what winning Meant To Them. And their youngest member, straight to camera, said that for him, it had been an amazing journey. And it got me thinking... how on earth did a fourteen year old come out with the words 'amazing journey'? I mean, don't get me wrong, I'd been listening to Ray, Donal and Jessica for the last hour- 'chance of a lifetime', 'such an honour', 'amazing thrill', 'pleasure to work with', 'didn't think I'd get so far', 'just wanted the experience' almost on a loop, but something struck me about hearing it from someone so young. It's not a natural thing for a teenager to say. And his expression when he said it- so earnest, so serious, so self deprecating- now modesty is all well and good, but I know teenagers, and when they're good at something they like to tell you about it. And I realised, he'd learned it from watching. From our (un)reality TV soaked culture, where every contestant knows that they must strike the right balance between confident and humble, charming and demure, endearing and cheesy, must profess shock when they win and gratitude (and tears) when they lose, must, in short, play the game by the established celebrity rules.
We are reaching a point where our teenagers will expect that when they go for a job interview it will involve a ten minute piece to camera about how much the job means to them, what they will feel if they get it, how much they've enjoyed the selection process, how great it's been to meet the potential employers and other candidates, and a tearful tribute to their nan, who's always believed in them This will be followed by a vote and a prolonged announcement of the winning candidate by the MD. Oh, and lesser jobs awarded for the runners up so no-one feels left out.
I contrast this with three news reports, two from today, one from earlier in the week. In the earlier one, Dr Carol Craig, addressing a conference of Headteachers, warned that the constant drive to build self-esteem in schoolchildren had gone too far, and that we were in danger of creating a society of narcissists, unable to take criticism. 'If we say to people the most important thing is how you feel about yourself, then if a child fails maths and feels bad, it is very tempting for them to blame it on others like teachers and parents.'
The second, from today, was from Childline, the charity set up with the whole purpose of listening to children, and how they feel. They said that the number of children ringing to talk about feelings of suicide had tripled in the last five years, some calls from children under the age of eleven. Tripled. Now this would seem to be at odds with Dr Craig's assessment of the way we manage the feelings of children, were it not for the fact that Dr Craig's job is as chief executive of the Centre for Confidence and Wellbeing.
Now before I get lynched at dawn, please understand, I am a great supporter of therapy, having been in it for several years, and fully support people being in touch with their feelings, an expression which has always reminded me of the old joke about having baths- once a month, whether I need it or not. How do you get in touch with your feelings? By email? a quick call? Perhaps these days a tweet is all that is necessary- in touch in 140 characters or less. And there, in all seriousness, lies the problem.
We encourage children to feel, but then we don't tell them what to do with those feelings once they've got them; how to manage a sense of success and failure, how to form sense of well-being and develop a proportionate response to things around them. We compartmentalise feelings into something you 'do' when a camera is pointed at you, or when a tragedy occurs. We then blur the lines between tragedy, setback and minor disappointment. We set up celebrity role models to show them the correct way to respond to disappointment, the depth of sincerity required to get anywhere ('it means the world/my life/everything to me'- count how many times it occurs on the next X Factor auditions) and the expectation that you too can be Ray, can be Alicia, can be Jade. And I write this knowing the end of that particular tragic drama, whilst already the 'peoples princess' comparisons are being written and the black- edged red- tops tout their particular pledge for a legacy, a tribute, a memorial. We tell our kids that they can have that. They deserve it. And why? Because they're worth it. And then we're surprised when they feel an overwhelming sense of hollowness, of failure, when they wonder what the point of life is and talk genuinely about suicide, and we're shocked by how harshly they judge each other, bully each other to establish the same pecking order that we as the adults show them to be the norm. Dr Craig is right- we have to find a way to teach them what reality is, but more than that, we have to show them some way of handling their feelings in life, and somehow start to realign our culture to promote role models who do that successfully, and I'm not talking about Rooney's little tantrum on Sunday. I'd be willing to bet that the statistics on not only suicide, but also drug abuse and teenage pregnancy would show a remarkable shift if this was our aim, rather than mere A-C at GCSE.
The Oxford Freestylers were fantastic, really, and I genuinely applaud them, the parents who supported them going, and the people who coached them. They were very talented, and their routine was creative and innovative. I just pray that when the lights fade on the Dancing on Ice tour that there is enough satisfaction within themselves to sustain the interest in their hobby, and pass it on to another generation of Oxford skating kids. To find the merit in a journey away from the media spotlight.
Interestingly, the third news item was about a report from Becta, suggesting that parents are beginning to feel left out by their children's reluctance to talk about school and their lives. There's already a psychologist on the case, ready to deal with the anxiety the parents feel about this matter. Maybe we're a generation further in to the narcissism than we thought. How do we teach this new generation of reality culture parents to begin to introduce realism into their own parenting?
Would it be cynical of me to suggest they bought a video camera?
Monday, 16 March 2009
Gone!
The second Nano challenge, title 'Gone!' (exclamation mark optional), genre to be decided by participant (thank goodness), flexible on length (resists slightly risque but obvious double entendre.) Here's mine.
Gone! by Sarah Monteith
As she watched his departing back she tried to recall the salient points of his diatribe but found herself distracted by the tone in which it had been delivered. Yes, it was her fault. Yes, she had had it last, and yes, that meant she was responsible for it, and had likely been the cause of its loss. And yes, when it came down to it, she was the only one who'd been that bothered about it anyway, so, it was unlikely anyone else had done anything with it one way or the other. She'd sighed, and wished she hadn't asked.
If she was honest, she couldn't actually remember when she'd last seen it. She knew she'd had it at Christmas, somewhere amongst all the tinsel and the wrapping paper, but after that... well she couldn't be certain. The days had passed in a blur, and somehow, she just hadn't noticed it was missing. When she realised for certain it was actually gone she'd torn the place apart, going again and again round where she expected it to be, where it was supposed to be, where it ought to have been, checking and double checking, emptying and sorting and searching, manically searching. In her desperation she'd even ransacked unlikely corners, places it would only have been if someone had deliberately hidden it there, delving into the archives of a life, into the boxes of a move, under the floorboards of a rewire and the packaging of old toys. Of course there were references to it in the old diaries, tantalising glimpses, flashes of memory written in carefree hand, its possession taken for granted in her younger years, handled lightly. It appeared in photographs, worn unselfconsciously by laughing teens on nights out. Even on her wedding day... she peered closely at the grainy print, but yes, there it was, clear to see. Shaking albums and envelopes out on the kitchen table was tiring emotionally, physically; she knew it wasn't there, that she was looking in the wrong places, but she was out of options, and she couldn't, wouldn't face the thought that it was... no, it had to be somewhere.
His tone had been... impatient. Yes, that was it, now she put her finger on it. Impatient. As though in his view she had better things to do with her time than all this looking. After the initial patronising cliches, where- did- you- have- it- lasts and I'm- sure- it- will- turn- up- eventuallys, he'd lost his patience. In fact, he'd been so annoyed, the thought had even crossed her mind that he'd taken it, on purpose, to wind her up. She'd dismissed it, but it must have shown on her face, because something had flickered in his eyes, and he'd looked away. He'd walked out of the kitchen at that point, heading out to work, and for a second she'd really wondered... what if he had taken it? And lost it? Not on purpose, not that he'd meant to, but an accident... She shook herself, and tried to move on from the thought. It was irrelevant now. Even if he had, she couldn't blame him. It belonged to her. She should have taken more care of it. He couldn't have taken it if she hadn't let him. Same with the kids. They were kids. They didn't understand how precious some things were. She was the adult, and it was hers. She was the one who should have known where it was.
She allowed herself to stop looking long enough to make a coffee, pouring the steaming water onto the brown granules, fetching semi skimmed from the frost free fridge, stirring tiny white sweeteners in to the insipid milky liquid. She couldn't remember how she'd come to be taking her coffee that way; at university she'd drunk it strong and black, which had the dual effect of keeping her awake in the morning seminars, and saving her from having to buy milk to be stolen from the shared kitchen or develop an entirely independent ecosystem in her room, where the heating was only controllable by taking a hammer to the main boiler. She did prefer it with milk, but the sweetener was a later addition; years of him making it as he liked it and her not complaining had made her immune to the saccharine. She took a sip and wondered what to do.
What if it has really gone? The thought had been knocking at the corner of her mind all afternoon, and she allowed herself to look sideways at it, let it register in her peripheral vision. It was something she'd never considered; for years, even the merest hint of its loss had sent her into panic, left her reeling, unable to breathe. But now it seemed like a real possibility, and she was surprised by how calmly she was able to reflect on it. Perhaps the severity of the situation had focused her mind... or maybe she was in shock. She smiled to herself at that slightly ridiculous suggestion, and set down the coffee cup. Turning back to the table, she collected up the envelopes and papers, and shuffled them together, sliding them back into the box file and snapping them into place, piling the diaries and photographs on top. She closed the lid and looked at the label on the side, pressing her fingers against its corners in a futile attempt to make the ageing glue work and hold them back into place.
She could call someone. Ask for help. This option had taken a long time to come to, and she knew why she'd been avoiding it. Who would she ring? His reaction had been telling; her parents would almost certainly react the same way. And friends? Well, the friends they'd collected over the years would be as unlikely to notice its loss as the kids were... and, if anything, more unconcerned about the consequences. She opened the box again, looking at the photograph on the top, friends from university she hadn't seen since graduation, people who had been part of her life, but were now not known. Her friends. She wondered how they'd come to surround themselves with such self absorbed people, but maybe that wasn't fair, maybe they just had such important troubles of their own that no-one else's... She shut the box again abruptly; this train of thought wasn't helping. Glancing at the clock she realised it was later than she'd thought; they'd be expecting food and she'd said she would cook.
She put the box file on the side and opened the cupboard, extracting the potatoes and carrots that would form the basis of a soup. Taking her rings off she placed them carefully on the side near the empty cup, and tipped the vegetables into the sink, absent- mindedly scrubbing them in the water with the wooden handled brush. She thought again about who she could call, but knew in her heart of hearts that this was her problem, and she'd have to solve it. She was on her own.
She listened to their chatter as she served them the soup, ladled into the warm bowls, chunks of crusty baked bread being torn from the loaf in the centre. She chided them as she heard them tease and cajole, bicker and bitch. The children. Except now they weren't. And in a week they'd be gone anyway, back again to the universe-city all of their own. She was glad for them. She was proud of them. She was breaking up inside. That was the problem with twins, a double whammy for every emotionally fuelled parental moment. She smiled at them and sat, taking her time, savouring their company, just her and them.
They'd laughed at the uni photos, at the hair and the clothes, asking teasing questions about boys and drugs before spiralling out of the door in a whirlwind of see yous and laters, leaving her alone, with the returning awareness of the feeling of loss. She idly picked up one of the pictures and finally knew, with absolute certainty, that she wasn't going to find it. Not here anyway. Not in this life, in this house.
Packing a few things into a small holdall she grabbed her keys and bag and headed for the door. At the last minute she stopped and turned again to the kitchen. Taking a piece of paper from next to the phone, she sat once more at the table and wrote.
It's gone!
I know it's my fault, but, I have to find it.
I hope you can understand.
There's soup in the pan.
Setting it on the side, near the kettle, she placed her wedding ring on top of the note, and walked out of the house.
Gone! by Sarah Monteith
As she watched his departing back she tried to recall the salient points of his diatribe but found herself distracted by the tone in which it had been delivered. Yes, it was her fault. Yes, she had had it last, and yes, that meant she was responsible for it, and had likely been the cause of its loss. And yes, when it came down to it, she was the only one who'd been that bothered about it anyway, so, it was unlikely anyone else had done anything with it one way or the other. She'd sighed, and wished she hadn't asked.
If she was honest, she couldn't actually remember when she'd last seen it. She knew she'd had it at Christmas, somewhere amongst all the tinsel and the wrapping paper, but after that... well she couldn't be certain. The days had passed in a blur, and somehow, she just hadn't noticed it was missing. When she realised for certain it was actually gone she'd torn the place apart, going again and again round where she expected it to be, where it was supposed to be, where it ought to have been, checking and double checking, emptying and sorting and searching, manically searching. In her desperation she'd even ransacked unlikely corners, places it would only have been if someone had deliberately hidden it there, delving into the archives of a life, into the boxes of a move, under the floorboards of a rewire and the packaging of old toys. Of course there were references to it in the old diaries, tantalising glimpses, flashes of memory written in carefree hand, its possession taken for granted in her younger years, handled lightly. It appeared in photographs, worn unselfconsciously by laughing teens on nights out. Even on her wedding day... she peered closely at the grainy print, but yes, there it was, clear to see. Shaking albums and envelopes out on the kitchen table was tiring emotionally, physically; she knew it wasn't there, that she was looking in the wrong places, but she was out of options, and she couldn't, wouldn't face the thought that it was... no, it had to be somewhere.
His tone had been... impatient. Yes, that was it, now she put her finger on it. Impatient. As though in his view she had better things to do with her time than all this looking. After the initial patronising cliches, where- did- you- have- it- lasts and I'm- sure- it- will- turn- up- eventuallys, he'd lost his patience. In fact, he'd been so annoyed, the thought had even crossed her mind that he'd taken it, on purpose, to wind her up. She'd dismissed it, but it must have shown on her face, because something had flickered in his eyes, and he'd looked away. He'd walked out of the kitchen at that point, heading out to work, and for a second she'd really wondered... what if he had taken it? And lost it? Not on purpose, not that he'd meant to, but an accident... She shook herself, and tried to move on from the thought. It was irrelevant now. Even if he had, she couldn't blame him. It belonged to her. She should have taken more care of it. He couldn't have taken it if she hadn't let him. Same with the kids. They were kids. They didn't understand how precious some things were. She was the adult, and it was hers. She was the one who should have known where it was.
She allowed herself to stop looking long enough to make a coffee, pouring the steaming water onto the brown granules, fetching semi skimmed from the frost free fridge, stirring tiny white sweeteners in to the insipid milky liquid. She couldn't remember how she'd come to be taking her coffee that way; at university she'd drunk it strong and black, which had the dual effect of keeping her awake in the morning seminars, and saving her from having to buy milk to be stolen from the shared kitchen or develop an entirely independent ecosystem in her room, where the heating was only controllable by taking a hammer to the main boiler. She did prefer it with milk, but the sweetener was a later addition; years of him making it as he liked it and her not complaining had made her immune to the saccharine. She took a sip and wondered what to do.
What if it has really gone? The thought had been knocking at the corner of her mind all afternoon, and she allowed herself to look sideways at it, let it register in her peripheral vision. It was something she'd never considered; for years, even the merest hint of its loss had sent her into panic, left her reeling, unable to breathe. But now it seemed like a real possibility, and she was surprised by how calmly she was able to reflect on it. Perhaps the severity of the situation had focused her mind... or maybe she was in shock. She smiled to herself at that slightly ridiculous suggestion, and set down the coffee cup. Turning back to the table, she collected up the envelopes and papers, and shuffled them together, sliding them back into the box file and snapping them into place, piling the diaries and photographs on top. She closed the lid and looked at the label on the side, pressing her fingers against its corners in a futile attempt to make the ageing glue work and hold them back into place.
She could call someone. Ask for help. This option had taken a long time to come to, and she knew why she'd been avoiding it. Who would she ring? His reaction had been telling; her parents would almost certainly react the same way. And friends? Well, the friends they'd collected over the years would be as unlikely to notice its loss as the kids were... and, if anything, more unconcerned about the consequences. She opened the box again, looking at the photograph on the top, friends from university she hadn't seen since graduation, people who had been part of her life, but were now not known. Her friends. She wondered how they'd come to surround themselves with such self absorbed people, but maybe that wasn't fair, maybe they just had such important troubles of their own that no-one else's... She shut the box again abruptly; this train of thought wasn't helping. Glancing at the clock she realised it was later than she'd thought; they'd be expecting food and she'd said she would cook.
She put the box file on the side and opened the cupboard, extracting the potatoes and carrots that would form the basis of a soup. Taking her rings off she placed them carefully on the side near the empty cup, and tipped the vegetables into the sink, absent- mindedly scrubbing them in the water with the wooden handled brush. She thought again about who she could call, but knew in her heart of hearts that this was her problem, and she'd have to solve it. She was on her own.
She listened to their chatter as she served them the soup, ladled into the warm bowls, chunks of crusty baked bread being torn from the loaf in the centre. She chided them as she heard them tease and cajole, bicker and bitch. The children. Except now they weren't. And in a week they'd be gone anyway, back again to the universe-city all of their own. She was glad for them. She was proud of them. She was breaking up inside. That was the problem with twins, a double whammy for every emotionally fuelled parental moment. She smiled at them and sat, taking her time, savouring their company, just her and them.
They'd laughed at the uni photos, at the hair and the clothes, asking teasing questions about boys and drugs before spiralling out of the door in a whirlwind of see yous and laters, leaving her alone, with the returning awareness of the feeling of loss. She idly picked up one of the pictures and finally knew, with absolute certainty, that she wasn't going to find it. Not here anyway. Not in this life, in this house.
Packing a few things into a small holdall she grabbed her keys and bag and headed for the door. At the last minute she stopped and turned again to the kitchen. Taking a piece of paper from next to the phone, she sat once more at the table and wrote.
It's gone!
I know it's my fault, but, I have to find it.
I hope you can understand.
There's soup in the pan.
Setting it on the side, near the kettle, she placed her wedding ring on top of the note, and walked out of the house.
Sunday, 15 March 2009
Not My Usual Style...
I'd like to have the time to write an intelligently constructed post about football, the place it holds in our modern day western society, the influence it exerts on culture and media, the money that the industry generates and spends, my relationship with it as a female in a male dominated sporting world, and the James Corden sketch on comic relief, but I don't...
So instead I'll just say... four - one.
:-)
Friday, 13 March 2009
Send in the Clowns...
Today is Comic Relief, and was supposed to be the day we were limerick-ing twimericking for charity somewhere public in Liverpool. I'm tempted to label this post 'procrastination', but in reality, life events took a turn last weekend, resulting in the word 'funny' being buried in the depths of my emotional toolbox, with any potential retrieval seeming distant and unlikely. I'm sure it's not gone for good, but I'm equally sure that the forced effort of writing humour all day would probably have resulted in synaptic meltdown.
Not to say I won't watch it tonight; I will, I really will.
BBC1 from 7pm if you want to join me.
Anyway, enough of the 'woe is me'... I am lucky that my sadness isn't terminal, and that I have sufficient faculties to resolve the situation in due course, one way or another... I just felt that having created 'twimerick-the expectation', some sort of explanation was required.
Also, there's a new writing competition- This Morning and She magazine have teamed up... short story, 1500- 2000 words, deadline 23rd of this month, nice warm up for Screnzy.
Get writing!
Thursday, 26 February 2009
And I don't know it...
Well tonight I'm off to the Bluecoats in Liverpool to hear some poetry done proper like.
Unlike mine.
Perhaps I should get an MA in it, and then mine would be proper too. Like.
Oh I'm coming over all self pitying and moany. Think I'll go out instead. This isn't a healthy frame of mind!
Unlike mine.
Perhaps I should get an MA in it, and then mine would be proper too. Like.
Oh I'm coming over all self pitying and moany. Think I'll go out instead. This isn't a healthy frame of mind!
Saturday, 21 February 2009
Whenever I want you, all I have to do...
Horizon, a BBC2 programme, had an episode called 'Why do we dream?'
It's absolutely fascinating, but, for some obscure reason, the programme makers have decided to dilute the science with frightening, horror film images of dreaming and sleep; long corridors that warp slightly with the view of the camera, slightly transparent images projected onto the twitching faces of unconsciously sleeping bodies, and thrashing, shouting dream-ridden somnambulists staring with unseeing vacant sight in the grey-green glare of the nightsight camera. Even the scientists themselves are introduced with Stoker levels of menace- close ups on eyeballs and twitching, blurred images, as though they'd somehow been beamed down from the nearest passing spaceship, and abandoned to analyse our dreams.
There's no doubt that dreaming can leave people feeling vulnerable, but that's only half of the story. Maybe even a quarter of the story. Humans must sleep or they die. And when your relationship with sleep becomes complicated, in any way, that has a massive impact on your life.
When I was a child, I walked in my sleep. I also talked, sang, debated, screamed, and now know, having done a little research as an adult, suffered from night terrors. Dreaming occurs when your brain is asleep but active, but your body is totally paralysed to stop you acting things out. On a very, very basic level, sleep walking is when the 'paralysed' bit doesn't work, so you act out your sleeping brain's commands; night terrors are the opposite, when the 'paralysed' bit works just fine, it's just your brain isn't asleep- in fact, you're paralysed but awake. I grew out of that, and out of the sleep walking, and, don't get me wrong, my complicated sleep patterns were dealt with very positively by my parents, who had a light touch with my sleep walking; even as a teenager, they never made it a problem, it was more interesting than stressful.
That said, I hate going to sleep. The one thing I didn't grow out of was the nightmares. I have vivid and distressing dreams; sometimes they're violent or extreme enough to be nightmares, sometimes they're just intensely upsetting. I often wake shouting, or crying real tears, distressed and frightened, and very disorientated.
So I was fascinated to learn from this programme that REM sleep, previously believed to be the powerhouse of our dreams, may be only the centre for very negative dreams, with other, more positive dreams occurring during non-REM sleep. And that people who have suffered from depression being more prone to REM sleep in a night than people who aren't depressed.
This is good news. It's interesting, factual, exploratory, and very, very helpful. I feel calm and reassured by the research and messages it is discussing.
So who on earth decided to fill the programme with images so frightening, so reminiscent of nightmares, so likely to recur during the night, that I've had to turn it off, and... and... well I don't admit this easily, wait until there is someone else here to watch it with me... so I'm not alone.
A good, REALLY good BBC programme, for me made too difficult by the need to tap into the popular astrological, medium, palm reading view of dreams, through their choice of filler images and background music. So the people who really need to see it, have to look away. I could make comparisons, but... I wouldn't want to distress anyone.
It's absolutely fascinating, but, for some obscure reason, the programme makers have decided to dilute the science with frightening, horror film images of dreaming and sleep; long corridors that warp slightly with the view of the camera, slightly transparent images projected onto the twitching faces of unconsciously sleeping bodies, and thrashing, shouting dream-ridden somnambulists staring with unseeing vacant sight in the grey-green glare of the nightsight camera. Even the scientists themselves are introduced with Stoker levels of menace- close ups on eyeballs and twitching, blurred images, as though they'd somehow been beamed down from the nearest passing spaceship, and abandoned to analyse our dreams.
There's no doubt that dreaming can leave people feeling vulnerable, but that's only half of the story. Maybe even a quarter of the story. Humans must sleep or they die. And when your relationship with sleep becomes complicated, in any way, that has a massive impact on your life.
When I was a child, I walked in my sleep. I also talked, sang, debated, screamed, and now know, having done a little research as an adult, suffered from night terrors. Dreaming occurs when your brain is asleep but active, but your body is totally paralysed to stop you acting things out. On a very, very basic level, sleep walking is when the 'paralysed' bit doesn't work, so you act out your sleeping brain's commands; night terrors are the opposite, when the 'paralysed' bit works just fine, it's just your brain isn't asleep- in fact, you're paralysed but awake. I grew out of that, and out of the sleep walking, and, don't get me wrong, my complicated sleep patterns were dealt with very positively by my parents, who had a light touch with my sleep walking; even as a teenager, they never made it a problem, it was more interesting than stressful.
That said, I hate going to sleep. The one thing I didn't grow out of was the nightmares. I have vivid and distressing dreams; sometimes they're violent or extreme enough to be nightmares, sometimes they're just intensely upsetting. I often wake shouting, or crying real tears, distressed and frightened, and very disorientated.
So I was fascinated to learn from this programme that REM sleep, previously believed to be the powerhouse of our dreams, may be only the centre for very negative dreams, with other, more positive dreams occurring during non-REM sleep. And that people who have suffered from depression being more prone to REM sleep in a night than people who aren't depressed.
This is good news. It's interesting, factual, exploratory, and very, very helpful. I feel calm and reassured by the research and messages it is discussing.
So who on earth decided to fill the programme with images so frightening, so reminiscent of nightmares, so likely to recur during the night, that I've had to turn it off, and... and... well I don't admit this easily, wait until there is someone else here to watch it with me... so I'm not alone.
A good, REALLY good BBC programme, for me made too difficult by the need to tap into the popular astrological, medium, palm reading view of dreams, through their choice of filler images and background music. So the people who really need to see it, have to look away. I could make comparisons, but... I wouldn't want to distress anyone.
Hmmm.
Friday, 20 February 2009
Never Make Decisions After a Bottle of Wine...
(Part One... I suspect!)
Ok, so the NaNoAnon group met last night, for post- mortems on the Mills and Boon. It was a really good night, ending up in Pizza Express for buy-one-get-one free pizzas and pasta (thanks to moneysavingexpert.com) and lots of chat. Anyway, as tends to happen when you put six terrible creative minds in a small space and ply at least one of them with white wine, ideas were flowing by the end of the night, and one of them seems to have developed a life of its own.So, for Red Nose Day 09, which is March 13th, we'll be launching twimerick, a limerick-a-thon, in person and online, to raise money for Comic Relief. The twitterate amongst you can get updates by following @twimerick or @livtwim.
There are many details to be decided, which I will blog at a later stage, but at the moment we all feel quite excited that we can raise money doing something we all enjoy- drinking coffee... oh, no, I mean, writing :-)
Watch this space!
Thursday, 19 February 2009
Naked: Nurses... o_O
It's five to two, and, whilst flicking aimlessly through the TV channels looking for something soporific to lull me to sleep, I've stumbled upon 'Naked: Nurses'. Now, don't jump to conclusions, this is not (entirely) about to be a feminist rant about the exploitation of the female form for the titilation of the general public, but I do have deep concerns about this programme. It's one of a series, in which a group of people who work together embark on a series of challenges designed to tackle their insecurities and deal with their negative self images head on, culminating with a 'get naked' challenge, a la Gok. The first in the series was a group of beauty therapists, four female, one male, with their final challenge being life modelling, posing for an art class.
That is where the similarity 'How to Look Good Naked' ends. I have deep concerns about this programme, on many levels. The interactions are forced, the situations contrived, and the naked challenge is, to be frank, gratutious. Please understand, I am in favour of nakedness on tv; compared to the instances of violence, nudity is still seen as something 'shameful', and the fact that it is still illegal to show an erection (something that most of us in our lives are fairly likely to see for real) compared to some of the unlikeliness of say, Shameless or Skins... or Eastenders... is beyond comprehension. One of Gok's prime achievements is to show lots of nakedness, in a very relaxed way, that allows women (and men) to make a sensible comparison of themselves against the rest of the female community, as opposed to the airbrushed perfection in the media. And I'm in favour of the same 'comparison' being available for men. However, the nakedness here feels... well... I don't know. I'm uncomfortable.
That is not my main issue, however. More deeply, the thing that concerns me here is the 'quick fix' psychology that is on display. There are two 'experts'; Jonathan Phang, who clearly fancies himself as Gok but is way too bitchy behind the participants backs to be truly on their sides, and who is styled as 'mentor', and Emma Kenny, who is the psychologist. In the two shows I have seen, I've watched as the group are encouraged to shout their worst things about themselves to the sky... 'I am fat', 'I'm a bad mother'.... in an attempt to 'let go' of the negativity surrounding these thoughts... and, no really, made to do it a few times- "I'm sure you can do better than that... come on, just a little louder." They're then almost wrestled into a hug... "Yes, you let it out, there, there..." with those unable to squeeze a few tears labelled as 'hostile' or 'not up for the challenge'.
Having worked extremely hard myself in therapy, for a long time, I feel angered by the way this tears- and- hugging remedy is portrayed as somehow 'fixing' the people involved. On one level its shallowness is unproductive; on another, downright destructive, as people who are encouraged to tackle serious issues- long absent fathers, neglectful partners, are almost patted on the head for the effort, then disparaged if they somehow don't feel up to getting their kit off for the cameras at the end. I'm concerned that people will think this is somehow what therapy is really like, and that they will be put off trying it, when it is something that could really help.
I know TV can be rubbish; a diversion, a distraction, entertainment, and I also know that there is some excellent programmes taking on issues and airing debate, but... even by these standards, this show is disturbing. And more so as it's produced using my money by the BBC.
Hopefully, no-one's watching.
Tuesday, 17 February 2009
Please Don't Hold This Against Me...
Actually now I think about it, that would be a GOOD title for a Mills and Boon :-) Here's my contribution to the Wrimo M&B challenge. The other five can be found by following the links to their blogs. If I'm going down, I'm taking them with me. Oooo also a potential Mills and Boon title haha...
Chapter Five of 'Steer Me Home' by Eloise Jaimeson.
Corina slammed the door of the office and threw the huge pile of paperwork onto her already shambolic desk. “That MAN!” she growled, turning towards her wide- eyed colleague, June.
“Ohhh...” said June, a look of comprehension crossing her face. “Back from the meeting with the lovely Max, I take it?”
“Don't even joke about it, June. He's insufferable. I swear to you, one of these days..” Corina left the sentence unfinished as she pulled the tie off her unruly hair, shaking it so it fell across her shoulders before attempting to scrape it back into some semblance of neatness. “I mean, I know I'm the redhead, but he makes Genghis Khan seem positively reasonable.”
“And I'm guessing you made sure he was aware of your feelings before you left?” enquired June, with a raised eyebrow.
Corina looked a little sheepish. “Well, what else was I supposed to do?” she said, grumpily. “He said he didn't like the menus.”
“Ah.” June turned with a sympathetic look. “Are you going to redo them?” she asked, calmly.
Corina sank into her chair, all rage spent. She ran her hand across her head. “I don't know.” she sighed. “It's such a good account, if we get it.. well you know. Our reputation will be sky high. But I just don't know if I can keep... he's so.. so...”
“Awkward?” June supplied.
“That's putting it mildly.”
“Do you want me to take it over?” June walked over to Corina's desk and picked up the top sheet. “If he's really that bad?”
Corina stood and took back the file. “No, no.. it's ok, really. You've more than enough on your plate; plus I've done most of the background already. I just need to get my professional head on, and not let him upset me so much. He's just a client for goodness' sakes. I'll be fine.” Forcing a smile, Corina gave June a hug. “Now, on with these menus. No, wait, cup of tea first!”
“Ohhh...” said June, a look of comprehension crossing her face. “Back from the meeting with the lovely Max, I take it?”
“Don't even joke about it, June. He's insufferable. I swear to you, one of these days..” Corina left the sentence unfinished as she pulled the tie off her unruly hair, shaking it so it fell across her shoulders before attempting to scrape it back into some semblance of neatness. “I mean, I know I'm the redhead, but he makes Genghis Khan seem positively reasonable.”
“And I'm guessing you made sure he was aware of your feelings before you left?” enquired June, with a raised eyebrow.
Corina looked a little sheepish. “Well, what else was I supposed to do?” she said, grumpily. “He said he didn't like the menus.”
“Ah.” June turned with a sympathetic look. “Are you going to redo them?” she asked, calmly.
Corina sank into her chair, all rage spent. She ran her hand across her head. “I don't know.” she sighed. “It's such a good account, if we get it.. well you know. Our reputation will be sky high. But I just don't know if I can keep... he's so.. so...”
“Awkward?” June supplied.
“That's putting it mildly.”
“Do you want me to take it over?” June walked over to Corina's desk and picked up the top sheet. “If he's really that bad?”
Corina stood and took back the file. “No, no.. it's ok, really. You've more than enough on your plate; plus I've done most of the background already. I just need to get my professional head on, and not let him upset me so much. He's just a client for goodness' sakes. I'll be fine.” Forcing a smile, Corina gave June a hug. “Now, on with these menus. No, wait, cup of tea first!”
Max Clarkson had always known he would be a success. He'd bought his first classic car at the age of fifteen, a Bentley, with money he'd earned and saved from Saturday jobs and paper rounds. It was a wreck, but he'd read and learned and studied and worked, and eventually he'd sold it for twenty times the amount he'd bought it for. From that moment on, he was hooked, and even though he now owned and managed five sites, selling and renovating classic cars for the rich and famous, he still liked to get under the bonnet of a car, strip the engine down, feel the grease on his hands.
Lazily, he picked up one of the posters advertising the summer rally. She'd done a good job, and he wished he'd told her that. Not that she'd given him chance. She'd stormed out of the showroom door almost before he'd said anything. He sighed, and put the poster back on the desk. His hand hovered over the phone as he considered calling her to tell her, but then he pulled himself up. His life was complicated enough without getting involved with a crazy red-headed events manager. Even if she did have the most amazingly long legs. He smiled wryly to himself and picked up the phone. He was her customer. She could damn well be nice to him, the amount he was paying her. And she could damn well let him take her for dinner.
Corina wrapped a towel around her head and walked over to the wardrobe. Opening the doors she stood, wondering what on earth she could wear to a dinner she'd rather walk over hot coals than go to. One by one she started to take dresses out, holding them against her towel clad body, and looking in the full length mirror. “Too short....”she mused, discarding the dark green. Several others went the same way- the burnt orange chiffon was too revealing, the fail-safe black was too low cut. The last thing she wanted was him thinking she was making an effort. Finally she settled on the safe silver grey polo neck with black trousers. “Smart, casual,” she thought, though she knew the restaurant they were supposed to be going to was actually very dressy. She dried her hair and looped it round before clasping it at the back of her head, and once dressed, completed her outfit with the new knee length black boots she'd treated herself to at Christmas. Most of them would be hidden under her trousers, but the four inch heels gave her a satisfying boost, height wise, though she knew he'd still be an inch or two taller. Finishing with a spray of her favourite perfume, she looked at the result in the mirror.
“Professional. In control. I don't know what your game is, why you want dinner, Max Clarkson, but dinner is what you're going to get.” She smiled at herself, wishing she was as confident inside as she seemed on the outside. What was it about that man that made her so... volatile? She didn't like being near him, he unsettled her.
“It's just because this account means so much to you. That's why he bothers you,” she said out loud, decisively. Grabbing her bag from the bed, she headed out of the door of her first floor flat, trying hard to believe her own words.
Dinner was hardly a joyful affair. Max was charming, the perfect gentleman, but Corina knew she was on less than sparkling form. As they'd read the menus in the quiet bistro he'd taken them to, having ditched the five star when he saw what she was wearing, he'd commented again on the menus she'd prepared for the coming car rally. Feeling the fury rise in her stomach again, she'd swallowed hard, and from then on had been determined to bite her tongue. She knew this made her seem aloof, cold even, and she hated herself for it, but it was the only way she could stay in control.
An increasingly frustrated Max tried again and again to engage her, even resorting to talking about the rugby team he'd played in when he was twelve in a vain attempt to keep the conversation afloat. Finally, when she'd declined both dessert and coffee, he gave up, and called for the bill.
“I'm sorry you've had such an unpleasant evening,” he said, as he handed over his credit card.
Corina felt faintly ashamed of herself. “It... it wasn't unpleasant,” she stammered, looking down.
“No, really, don't worry about it,” he said, getting to his feet. “I'd hoped we'd be able to be friends as well as colleagues, but clearly that's not to be the case. I'm sure you're right, I'm sure it's for the best.” He picked her coat from off her chair and held it out for her to put on. She stood too, and eased her arm in, turning so he could offer the other arm. She felt his hand on her shoulder and a dart of electricity went through her, making her jump away from him.
A dark look crossed his eyes, and his face set. “Goodbye, Corina.” he said, and not even bothering to shake her hand, he walked away, throwing a note on the table in front of her. “Call yourself a cab, won't you?”
Corina looked down at the note in front of her and back at the closing door, and suddenly her eyes filled with tears. Brushing them away impatiently, she stood and picked up the money. Nodding to the waiter, she left and stood outside on the pavement, trying to get her bearings. It was a very quiet area, not somewhere Corina knew, and there were few cars or people around. She felt the tears welling up again and decided to walk for a while, clear her head. Why had she been so horrible to him? What WAS it about him that upset her so much? He'd been charming and funny, and so what if he'd mentioned the menus again. That was what she was there for, as his events manager, his employee... it's not like she was his lover, for goodness' sakes...
As she left that thought hanging in the air, she felt her face gradually redden. She thought back to the touch of his hand on her shoulder, and how intimate it had felt. Clasping her hands to her cheeks she realised, in shock, the reason he affected her so much. “Ohhh.. you silly, silly,..”
“Talking to yourself in the street. That'll get you locked up if you're not careful.” She jumped as he slammed the Bentley door, and walked round to her side of the car. She looked down, afraid he'd read her thoughts in her eyes.
“I thought you might struggle to get a taxi. I came back,” he said, his voice so soft and warm she felt the tears filling her eyes again. “It's a cold night and... Corina? Are you ok?” he asked, puzzled by her lack of response.
“Yes,” she whispered, and he drew closer to hear her.
“What's the... you're crying? What ever's wrong?” he said, and then his arms were round her, and she couldn't help it, she looked up at him.
For a moment the street disappeared and all that mattered was the strength of his arms, the depth in his eyes, his sweet full lips; and the look she saw reflected on his face made her knees weaken. She felt his arms tighten around her, pulling him to her, holding her safe.
“But you.... hate me....?” he whispered, wonderingly, searching her face for confirmation of what he was seeing.
Seeing the look of vulnerability in his eyes, Corina felt a rush of affection, and she smiled slightly.
“Turns out I'm not ALWAYS right,” she whispered, and could say no more as her words were drowned in his lips, her arms round his back, his hands caressing the bare nape of her neck, his tongue insistently seeking hers. A car horn suddenly sounded in the distance breaking the spell, making them both jump, and she could feel that he was shaking as he pulled away from her. He smiled at her and, holding her hand, he led her to the car in silent wonder, kissing her gently again before closing the door.
Monday, 16 February 2009
So Little Time...
Having not posted for a few days now, I realise just how much I've missed saying... how good Twestival was, all about my night out on Friday at the Rodewald Suite http://tiny.cc/L3tQ3 listening to the Matt Nickson Quartet (all three of them) play some very cool jazz, how much fun Saturday night with friends and Cranium was, how delicious Sunday lunch at the Foxcote near Chester was...
And alongside all those things that make me look like I actually have a life, some serious issues that have arisen today to do with copywrite and intellectual property; New Zealand's new laws http://tiny.cc/JOuiJ and Facebook's secret decision to steal all its users content http://tiny.cc/PDt6U being the two main ones that are causing concern, and some serious women bashing in the shape of a survey suggesting women who wear clothes and can't say 'No' in seven different languages are 'asking for it' http://tiny.cc/ZMCd2 and a delightful Facebook group dedicated to the delicate art of beating up women, http://tiny.cc/dveQA special honours going to Chris Brown.
All of which I could talk about, write about in depth. All of which really warrant a post in their own right. All of which would make me seem much cooler than what I AM going to actually post next.
The Nano group have a 1000 word Mills and Boon challenge for this month.
The deadlines is tomorrow night at midnight.
Mine will be appearing here. Please don't hold your breath...
*sighs...
Thursday, 12 February 2009
Twestival
This evening I will be going to Twestival in Liverpool. For at least the third time, I almost typed 'Twestical' there, but I think that is something else entirely. Perhaps to be used in a modern version of the mills and boon challenge the nano group have going at the moment. I digress.
It's at Leaf Cafe, a venue which I've never been to, and it's an entirely new event- there has never been Twestival before, let alone one in Liverpool. There will, it seems, be live music, and auctions of items as diverse as spa treatments, photographs and Stephen Fry's socks (worn). Oh and of course, a raffle.
I had planned to wear jeans. No, let me rephrase that... I almost always wear jeans anyway, and I had considered which of my narrow selection of tops I might wear with them. But then... on twitter... things changed...
There was talk of... shopping.
Now let me say right up front; I'm not adverse to a bit of shopping. I find clothes shopping a little stressful, being not the size six that the fashion industry seems to have deemed worthy of wearing its broadest selection of clothes (don't start me...), but I do like having new things to wear. However, aside from the fact that I am skint, one thing I do find very stressful is shopping under pressure. I find shopping to a deadline for clothes is almost always result in disappointment- you can never find anything you like, and then the 'stand by' things you already owned that you'd planned to wear if you couldn't find anything always seem shabby in comparison.
It seems that for the aforesaid twitterers, the shopping trip was a success, and new clothes were purchased for display this evening. This may also be something to do with the fact that they managed to get out of the house in that strange time of the day they call 'morning', which probably relieved the 'panic' element I would have felt if I'd left the house at one o'clock. I look forward to admiring their look and congratulating them on their purchasing prowess.
For myself, I will just wear my jeans and be content. And hope there isn't a dress code... o_O
Wednesday, 11 February 2009
Procrastination
I am supposed to be arranging 'I Have a Dream' for the gospel choir that will be arriving here in one hour and fifty minutes. I also have to shop for food, and pack to go away later this evening. Instead, I am trying to rearrange the words 'Liverpool' and 'England' on my profile, so that they will be on different lines. This has included a significantly long phone call, and some rapid upskilling in HTML, along with a discussion about how different pages may communicate with different servers.
I really don't need to do that. I need to do the other things.
This is the story of my life.
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