I threw up on the morning of my A-level results day, just like I had on the day of my A-level British History exam, and just as I would find myself doing seven years later on the eve of my first ever paid stand-up comedy gig.
Nerves, you see. Let's not even talk about losing one's virginity. Vomit isn't everyone's idea of erotica.
On A-level results day, I was sitting on an offer to read English at Cambridge; an offer that surprised almost everyone, not least my English teacher. But they wanted three A grades. It was no means certain I was going to get the grades. My French was always weak.
We went to the school to get the envelope. My History teacher wouldn't meet my eye. Whilst I had managed somehow to get an A in French, I had missed my History grade. To get an A I needed 480 out of 600 marks. I had achieved 479.3. My History teacher had to hold the pen and do the maths for me as my hand was shaking too badly to make legible marks on the paper. I was 0.7 of one mark, out of 600 marks away from an A. I had missed my grades by 0.05%.
My History paper was sent for a re-mark.
My friends and I spent a weird afternoon in the park. I think they went drinking that night, but I don't remember going with them.
It took Cambridge five days to reject me, by which time all the best clearing places had gone. My insurance offer uni offered me halls of residence for "young ladies" only, about five miles from the department.
A month later, my History re-mark came back as an A. I had achieved my grades, but it was too late for Cambridge. I felt more adrift than I ever had before. I had never thought I was definitely going to get such high grades, but I also didn't imagine being left in this hinterland of having technically achieved the grades, but still being rejected from my first choice university.
My friends quickly firmed up their futures - the vast majority off to uni, a couple to adventures overseas. I dithered. I dithered some more. I seriously considered breaking contact with all of my friends as I could never be that person I wanted them to see me become. This was madness, depression, desperation, whatever you want to call it. Thankfully, it didn't last.
One day, let out from my summer job early one afternoon, I waited almost an hour at the bus stop by the September blackberries in the hedge. Unbidden, a half-forgotten Eagles' lyric popped into my head. "It may be raining, but there's a rainbow above you..." It started to rain.
I turned down my insurance offer. I decided to stay with my summer job for a year, and reapply to other universities with my three A grades, the following year.
My friends left. I made friends at work. I got a car. I visited my friends at their universities. I sent off my UCAS form for the next year. I wrote to my overseas friends. I started enjoying my job. I started getting really good at my job. I got to use my French. I got to travel regularly to London. I learned the basics of sales, marketing, accounting software and how to deal with clients and suppliers. I became a valued member of the team. Fast forward eight months, despite an unconditional offer from a top uni, I didn't want to leave the job, and had to fight myself to take the next step back into education.
University, when I finally got there, was something of an anticlimax. My English degree helped me to land a graduate job, for sure, but I have never used the contents of my degree, nor my English, French or History A-levels in my "real" life. My History is incredibly fuzzy and I still can't remember if it's Cranmer or Cramner. My French is pre-GCSE standard these days. I do still love reading, but as a pastime only.
I can't be glib and say A-levels don't matter at all, but if you're reading this today and the world feels slightly unreal, and the future is foggy, you likely have a very long time left to start becoming the person you want to be. As Mr Nunn always says, "Life is a long race".
What practical advice would I have liked on the day? Probably that which was inaccessible at the time: words of wisdom from my 35 year-old self. So here we go:
"It would be dishonest if I didn't say that I still occasionally wonder how my life might have been different had I gone to Cambridge, been in the Footlights, got that First... but I regret nothing at all about how my life has actually turned out. I am happier than my teenage self ever thought was consistently possible. It may be raining, but there are rainbows above you. Also, try and get some more contemporary taste in music and don't eat that lasagne before sex."
Thursday, August 13, 2015
Wednesday, August 05, 2015
Out of her (family) tree
"So anyway," said Mrs Nunn, "I told the vicar I'm Jewish now."
Mrs Nunn has always wanted to be Jewish. Not from a religious perspective, I don't think (I assume one is still allowed to convert), but from a cultural perspective. "I just feel Jewish," she says, before going on to list a whole load of stereotypes which she feels apply. "My family is very musical. I'm good with money. I have that, you know, Jewish sense of humour..."
I stop her before she strays too far into unintentionally racist waters.
You see, this is kind of my fault. Mrs Nunn has been enjoying researching her family tree, and has always maintained she's Jewish. This is not as easy to disprove as saying, "You're mental, Mum, back in your box," which works for most situations. This is because Mrs Nunn's maternal grandfather is something of an unknown quantity. By all accounts he was a Greek bloke who popped over to London for a bit, knocked up my great-grandma and then buggered (no racism intended) off back to Greece.
"There are lots of Jews in Greece." Mrs Nunn asserted.
"Are there?" I asked, not being particularly aware of a large Jewish community in Greece.
"Yes," said Mrs Nunn. "Greek Orthodox. Very well known."
"You know that the Greek Orthodox church is Christian, not Jewish, right?" I asked Mrs Nunn.
"Shut up," said Mrs Nunn, thus effectively ending the argument.
So, how is this insistence on her nascent Judaism my fault? Well, for her birthday, we decided to get her a DNA test that she could use with her family tree tracing. Turns out - genetically-speaking at least, she is only bloody Jewish.
And she's told the vicar.
I was surprised that the vicar didn't reply, "Don't worry, mate, so was Jesus." Apparently what actually happened was an "I am Sparticus" scene in which several other members of the Parish Church orchestra also stood up and announced their Jewish heritage. I would have liked to have seen that.
This has also given Mrs Nunn free rein for nagging ("I can't help it; I'm a Jewish mother."), advice on money ("Trust me. The reason us Jews have been hated throughout history is we know what we're doing with cash, and we work hard for it.") and short temper ("It's my Mediterranean temperament" - despite the fact that apparently her temper comes from her solidly British father rather than her calm, half-Greek mother.). She also suggested we could use our Jewishness to get the toddler into some of the higher-performing schools in the area. I'm not sure they accept DNA results as entry criteria, but perhaps it's worth a try.
So yes, Mrs Nunn is Jewish. And apparently so am I. Mazel tov!
Mrs Nunn has always wanted to be Jewish. Not from a religious perspective, I don't think (I assume one is still allowed to convert), but from a cultural perspective. "I just feel Jewish," she says, before going on to list a whole load of stereotypes which she feels apply. "My family is very musical. I'm good with money. I have that, you know, Jewish sense of humour..."
I stop her before she strays too far into unintentionally racist waters.
You see, this is kind of my fault. Mrs Nunn has been enjoying researching her family tree, and has always maintained she's Jewish. This is not as easy to disprove as saying, "You're mental, Mum, back in your box," which works for most situations. This is because Mrs Nunn's maternal grandfather is something of an unknown quantity. By all accounts he was a Greek bloke who popped over to London for a bit, knocked up my great-grandma and then buggered (no racism intended) off back to Greece.
"There are lots of Jews in Greece." Mrs Nunn asserted.
"Are there?" I asked, not being particularly aware of a large Jewish community in Greece.
"Yes," said Mrs Nunn. "Greek Orthodox. Very well known."
"You know that the Greek Orthodox church is Christian, not Jewish, right?" I asked Mrs Nunn.
"Shut up," said Mrs Nunn, thus effectively ending the argument.
So, how is this insistence on her nascent Judaism my fault? Well, for her birthday, we decided to get her a DNA test that she could use with her family tree tracing. Turns out - genetically-speaking at least, she is only bloody Jewish.
And she's told the vicar.
I was surprised that the vicar didn't reply, "Don't worry, mate, so was Jesus." Apparently what actually happened was an "I am Sparticus" scene in which several other members of the Parish Church orchestra also stood up and announced their Jewish heritage. I would have liked to have seen that.
This has also given Mrs Nunn free rein for nagging ("I can't help it; I'm a Jewish mother."), advice on money ("Trust me. The reason us Jews have been hated throughout history is we know what we're doing with cash, and we work hard for it.") and short temper ("It's my Mediterranean temperament" - despite the fact that apparently her temper comes from her solidly British father rather than her calm, half-Greek mother.). She also suggested we could use our Jewishness to get the toddler into some of the higher-performing schools in the area. I'm not sure they accept DNA results as entry criteria, but perhaps it's worth a try.
So yes, Mrs Nunn is Jewish. And apparently so am I. Mazel tov!
Friday, July 03, 2015
Got it licked
There are moments as a parent that you find yourself saying horrific things, completely by accident.
Case in point: the toddler generally has to be bribed to do anything she doesn't want to do. Anything she doesn't want to do can usually be put in the category of "anything you do want her to do". These bribes can range from food (biscuits) to playing whatever game she's into at the moment.
At the moment she likes to pretend to be a dog. This involves saying, "I'm a dog, Mummy," and then panting and licking my face. Every so often she likes to mix things up by having me pretend that I am the dog.
The toddler needed a wee. But the toddler did not want to go for a wee. "Be a dog, Mummy!" insisted the toddler. "Lick me!"
I decided to employ my bribe strategy to get her to go to the toilet.
And this, readers, is how I ended up saying this evening, "Do a wee-wee, then I'll lick you."
I am a terrible parent.
Case in point: the toddler generally has to be bribed to do anything she doesn't want to do. Anything she doesn't want to do can usually be put in the category of "anything you do want her to do". These bribes can range from food (biscuits) to playing whatever game she's into at the moment.
At the moment she likes to pretend to be a dog. This involves saying, "I'm a dog, Mummy," and then panting and licking my face. Every so often she likes to mix things up by having me pretend that I am the dog.
The toddler needed a wee. But the toddler did not want to go for a wee. "Be a dog, Mummy!" insisted the toddler. "Lick me!"
I decided to employ my bribe strategy to get her to go to the toilet.
And this, readers, is how I ended up saying this evening, "Do a wee-wee, then I'll lick you."
I am a terrible parent.
Wednesday, June 17, 2015
Neti no-no
I am pregnant, therefore I am miserable.
Last pregnancy I wanted to punch each and every person who told me to treasure each special moment. Which bits should I be treasuring exactly? The random vomiting, often striking without warning, mid-sentence, leaving the forehead damp with sweat, dark circles under the eyes, gasping for air and breath that smells of a dog's nadgers? Or maybe the spotty tits, the oddly hairy stomach or the fact that my temper is so short I'm genuinely a bit furious that the space bar on my keyboard is very slightly sticky? Or the fact that when I get out of bed each morning, it feels like I've been horse riding, which is ironic as when you're pregnant you're not allowed to ride a fucking horse.
I am not a new-age kind of person. I am very much of the attitude, "If there's a drug that will sort that out, I'll fucking have it." Unfortunately when you are pregnant, they don't let you have all the drugs. They will only let you have a Starbucks under strict supervision, and if you order a shandy in the pub, three well-intentioned citizens will call Social Services, who will arrive in 12 minutes and patronise you appropriately.
It is shit.
I have a cold. It is not a bad cold, as colds go, but it is a cold nonetheless. My usual cold routine goes like this:
- Vitamin C
- As much paracetamol as the packet allows (or Lemsip if I'm feeling indulgent)
- Sudafed nasal spray
- Cold and flu tablets (obviously not with the paracetamol or Lemsip - I'm not a fucking idiot)
- A tissue shoved up each nostril, and plenty of moaning.
Unfortunately, once pregnant your options are limited pretty much to:
- Vitamin C
- Tissues and moaning
This does not cut the fucking mustard.
Technically you can have paracetamol, but this involves an unprecedented amount of eye-rolling from Mrs Nunn who believes that paracetamol is the work of the devil, and even one tablet will result in irreversible kidney damage. Taking two tablets in pregnancy is basically child abuse. Also, it doesn't unblock your nose anyway.
In a spectacular whinge-fest on Facebook, I was recommended by several friends the use of a neti pot. Reader, I was desperate. I ordered one. It arrived.
I excitedly made myself a saline solution. I watched this video where an attractive woman happily neti-potted herself back to full health, smiling all the time. I would be like her! My nose would unblock! My makeup would be flawless! I might enjoy yoga!
It looked brilliant. It would sort out my sinuses, and I could stop moaning. Or at the very least, find something new to moan about.
I waited for my saline solution to come to the appropriate temperature.
Bent over the kitchen sink, I enthusiastically started to neti. In went the spout. Nothing happened. My nose was too blocked for water to go anywhere. I un-nettied myself, blew my nose, and tried again.
This time I was successful. I waterboarded myself. The stinging pain of the salt, which simultaneously went down the back of my throat, whilst further blocking my nose (rendering breathing impossible, for anyone who's following the biology), made me feel dreadful. Not being a quitter, I blew my nose again, and tried the other side. So I can be absolutely certain when I say I know what it's like to be waterboarded through both nostrils. (I assume this is what waterboarding is. It's either that, or something you have to pay extra for at Centre Parcs.)
Things reached an impressive crescendo as, still struggling with morning sickness (which is always worst - obviously - in the afternoon) I vomited copiously.
Pregnancy is total bollocks.
Last pregnancy I wanted to punch each and every person who told me to treasure each special moment. Which bits should I be treasuring exactly? The random vomiting, often striking without warning, mid-sentence, leaving the forehead damp with sweat, dark circles under the eyes, gasping for air and breath that smells of a dog's nadgers? Or maybe the spotty tits, the oddly hairy stomach or the fact that my temper is so short I'm genuinely a bit furious that the space bar on my keyboard is very slightly sticky? Or the fact that when I get out of bed each morning, it feels like I've been horse riding, which is ironic as when you're pregnant you're not allowed to ride a fucking horse.
I am not a new-age kind of person. I am very much of the attitude, "If there's a drug that will sort that out, I'll fucking have it." Unfortunately when you are pregnant, they don't let you have all the drugs. They will only let you have a Starbucks under strict supervision, and if you order a shandy in the pub, three well-intentioned citizens will call Social Services, who will arrive in 12 minutes and patronise you appropriately.
It is shit.
I have a cold. It is not a bad cold, as colds go, but it is a cold nonetheless. My usual cold routine goes like this:
- Vitamin C
- As much paracetamol as the packet allows (or Lemsip if I'm feeling indulgent)
- Sudafed nasal spray
- Cold and flu tablets (obviously not with the paracetamol or Lemsip - I'm not a fucking idiot)
- A tissue shoved up each nostril, and plenty of moaning.
Unfortunately, once pregnant your options are limited pretty much to:
- Vitamin C
- Tissues and moaning
This does not cut the fucking mustard.
Technically you can have paracetamol, but this involves an unprecedented amount of eye-rolling from Mrs Nunn who believes that paracetamol is the work of the devil, and even one tablet will result in irreversible kidney damage. Taking two tablets in pregnancy is basically child abuse. Also, it doesn't unblock your nose anyway.
In a spectacular whinge-fest on Facebook, I was recommended by several friends the use of a neti pot. Reader, I was desperate. I ordered one. It arrived.
I excitedly made myself a saline solution. I watched this video where an attractive woman happily neti-potted herself back to full health, smiling all the time. I would be like her! My nose would unblock! My makeup would be flawless! I might enjoy yoga!
It looked brilliant. It would sort out my sinuses, and I could stop moaning. Or at the very least, find something new to moan about.
I waited for my saline solution to come to the appropriate temperature.
Bent over the kitchen sink, I enthusiastically started to neti. In went the spout. Nothing happened. My nose was too blocked for water to go anywhere. I un-nettied myself, blew my nose, and tried again.
This time I was successful. I waterboarded myself. The stinging pain of the salt, which simultaneously went down the back of my throat, whilst further blocking my nose (rendering breathing impossible, for anyone who's following the biology), made me feel dreadful. Not being a quitter, I blew my nose again, and tried the other side. So I can be absolutely certain when I say I know what it's like to be waterboarded through both nostrils. (I assume this is what waterboarding is. It's either that, or something you have to pay extra for at Centre Parcs.)
Things reached an impressive crescendo as, still struggling with morning sickness (which is always worst - obviously - in the afternoon) I vomited copiously.
Pregnancy is total bollocks.
Wednesday, May 06, 2015
Luck of the draw
So, tomorrow sees the general election. We will either have a Conservative or a Labour PM. Beyond that, it's pretty much anyone's guess how the rest of parliament will be formed.
Far be it from me to tell you how to vote (I am just about to tell you how to vote), but here are some things to think about.
It would be hard to argue that the Conservatives are not the party that traditionally supports the wealthy, the traditional, the "conservative". They have cut bedroom tax, which affects the most vulnerable people in the country. They have deemed people "fit to work" who have died a few weeks later, and sanctioned people's benefits, causing at least one death from lack of food. The NHS was the UK's jewel for several generations. By the time my daughter is my age, it is unlikely to be free at point of access any more. This is entirely Tory-led and heart-breaking to see.
The Labour party isn't my ideal party. But, they have some solid policies around welfare, around supporting the vulnerable, around making sure that every child has a decent start in life - not just around maintaining the wealth those who were born lucky.
Because basically, luck is what it comes down to.
"No," I see you say. "I have worked hard. I have made sacrifices. My money was hard-earned."
No. You were lucky. You were lucky to either be born with brains to get an education, or with the genes that allow you to knuckle down and work hard, or with supportive parents who were able to provide for you a good education, or help pay your way through university, or even just give you a quiet place in your house to do your homework.
"No," you defend yourself. "I was born on a council estate and was fed gravel. I used to go to the library to do my homework because my grandma used to throw bottles at my head and call me a swot if I did it at home. And I still got into grammar school."
Then you were lucky. You were lucky that you live in a country where there are libraries and safe environments to do school work. You were lucky that you had access to an education. You were lucky that you were born with the grist to make yourself study when the odds were against you. You were lucky that grammar schools (feel free to replace with "that excellent teacher at my local comp") were there for you.
Or, if your schooling was a disaster, you were lucky that you were born with a brain for business, that you had and took that golden opportunity, that you were born with that appetite for risk - or that it was fostered in you during your upbringing.
Contrast this with a newborn baby born to a young, inexperienced single parent. The mother's own parents are not particularly supportive, or educated. There may be alcohol or substance abuse problems in the family. There may be physical, verbal or sexual abuse. This too is luck. Just a different kind. It would be a harsh person indeed who blamed any of this on the newborn baby.
And it is so, so much harder for this brand new person ever to achieve anything in life. The hand she has been dealt is not equitable. Yes, there is a chance that she too will be born with the vim to find the library, to knuckle down, to take those risks. But there is a far, far greater chance that she will be sucked into a similar life as the generations before her.
This is luck.
And if you are reading this, if you care enough to have waded through these political paragraphs, you are likely to be one of the luckier ones.
I want to live in a society where those of us who earn "more" than the average (regardless of how much we think we've earned it) can subsidise those who have been dealt a less lucky hand. Because the life we live is a lottery. And if I was holding a losing ticket, I would really appreciate some assistance to live a dignified life from the millionaire standing next to me, holding their winning ticket.
Don't let the Conservatives fool you with their nonsense about "fairness". There is no fairness. Just humanity. Be the bigger person. Be thankful for your luck.
Tuesday, March 10, 2015
Magic moments
I have a week off work. This is a glorious thing, and I decided that I would keep the toddler at home with me for some quality time. By which I mean "for two days of the week; I'm not a fucking saint."
Yesterday we planned and executed a fantastically packed day of holiday wonderfulness. We:
Sounds good, right? Sounds like the perfect day of glowing childhood memories?
Yesterday we planned and executed a fantastically packed day of holiday wonderfulness. We:
- Made pizza dough
- Went to the country park to look at all the animals. We petted donkeys, ran away from peacocks, and made up a song on the swing
- Came home for a boiled egg with dippy soldiers
- Had a lovely nap
- Got up and went to the library and read lots of books
- Went for a special treat chocolate milkshake at the ice cream parlour
- Fell over, scraped a knee and put a magic plaster on
- Came home and made our own pizzas, putting all the toppings on ourselves
- Had a bath, read some stories and fell asleep after a lovely day.
Sounds good, right? Sounds like the perfect day of glowing childhood memories?
Well, when TheBloke (TM) got home, she greeted him with, "Daddy, I fell over and hurt my knee."
That, ladies and gentlemen is why you shouldn't bother doing anything nice with your children. They are ungrateful little gits.
I'm doing it all again today.
So far, we have planned a picnic. I asked her what she would like in her sandwiches, giving her the choice of tuna or cheese. She said tuna. I asked her if she was sure. She said yes. "I want tuna, Mummy, it's my favourite." I asked again if she was sure. She was. I opened the tin of tuna.
This was immediately followed by, "I don't like tuna! Yuck. Also, I done a poo."
Happy holiday to me!
Monday, February 16, 2015
In the pink
TheBloke (TM) and I don't get out by ourselves very often. However, this weekend, Mr and Mrs Nunn were visiting, which provided us with the perfect opportunity for them to have some quality toddler time, whilst TheBloke (TM) and I had some quality alcohol time.
We decided to go to a bar in London called The Alchemist. It makes what it calls "molecular" cocktails - all a bit Heston Blumenthally - lots of smoke and special effects. I am a sucker for a cocktail, and even more of a sucker if it does something interesting.
The only problem is TheBloke (TM). Neither of us are big drinkers, nor have an encyclopaedic knowledge of cocktails. I tend to stick to the firm favourites (Long Island Iced Tea - mostly because unit-for-unit, I reckon you get the biggest bang for your buck), whereas TheBloke (TM) likes to try something new.
No matter which country in the world we're in, no matter what the cocktail might be called... he ends up with the girliest-looking cocktail in the world. Now, you know me and my lack of fondness for gender-stereotyping; I can only assume TheBloke (TM) is channelling his inner feminist because no matter what he orders, it is always bright pink.
Desperate to break the curse, TheBloke (TM) has previously ordered the manliest-sounding cocktail on menus across the world: a gruff-sounding Caravan (pink), a Gunfire (pink with sparklers) and a Football (pink, sparklers and whipped cream).
This time, not to be fooled, deftly sidestepping such traps as cocktails called Bubble Bath and Wow Woo, he ordered a cocktail intriguingly called The Colour-Changing One. What could possibly go wrong?
It started so well! He was presented with a no-nonsense glass with a huge rock of ice in the middle. He was then handed two scientific beakers, each with a different coloured liquid. One was blue, and the other was clear. His instructions were to mix them. All he needed to make this even more brawny was a hi-vis jacket and some safety goggles. Because he is cavalier when it comes to safety equipment, he didn't even need these!
This is what happened when he mixed the two beakers.
Pink. Pink and bubbly.
Not to be outdone, his next cocktail was called Red Dead Zombie. Can't get gruffer than that, right? It was pink. Pink and bubbly. Again.
Mine, on the other hand, had a rugged piece of bark poking out.
I think it's clear which one of us is more feminine in this relationship. *scratches balls*
We decided to go to a bar in London called The Alchemist. It makes what it calls "molecular" cocktails - all a bit Heston Blumenthally - lots of smoke and special effects. I am a sucker for a cocktail, and even more of a sucker if it does something interesting.
The only problem is TheBloke (TM). Neither of us are big drinkers, nor have an encyclopaedic knowledge of cocktails. I tend to stick to the firm favourites (Long Island Iced Tea - mostly because unit-for-unit, I reckon you get the biggest bang for your buck), whereas TheBloke (TM) likes to try something new.
No matter which country in the world we're in, no matter what the cocktail might be called... he ends up with the girliest-looking cocktail in the world. Now, you know me and my lack of fondness for gender-stereotyping; I can only assume TheBloke (TM) is channelling his inner feminist because no matter what he orders, it is always bright pink.
Desperate to break the curse, TheBloke (TM) has previously ordered the manliest-sounding cocktail on menus across the world: a gruff-sounding Caravan (pink), a Gunfire (pink with sparklers) and a Football (pink, sparklers and whipped cream).
This time, not to be fooled, deftly sidestepping such traps as cocktails called Bubble Bath and Wow Woo, he ordered a cocktail intriguingly called The Colour-Changing One. What could possibly go wrong?
It started so well! He was presented with a no-nonsense glass with a huge rock of ice in the middle. He was then handed two scientific beakers, each with a different coloured liquid. One was blue, and the other was clear. His instructions were to mix them. All he needed to make this even more brawny was a hi-vis jacket and some safety goggles. Because he is cavalier when it comes to safety equipment, he didn't even need these!
This is what happened when he mixed the two beakers.
Pink. Pink and bubbly.
Not to be outdone, his next cocktail was called Red Dead Zombie. Can't get gruffer than that, right? It was pink. Pink and bubbly. Again.
Mine, on the other hand, had a rugged piece of bark poking out.
I think it's clear which one of us is more feminine in this relationship. *scratches balls*
Tuesday, February 03, 2015
Limbo dancing
Today, in the House of Commons, MPs will be voting on three-person babies. For the uninitiated, this is a technique to prevent children being born with life-limiting conditions and disabilities. It has been rigorously tested, and is considered safe and effective. All three people involved in creating the new life are consenting, and a teeny-tiny bit of the DNA (just to replace the faulty part) will be used from the third-person donor.
It stops children dying at birth. At age 2. At age 7. At age 21. It will save hundreds of parents the devastation of losing a child.
This pisses off the Church, who would much rather children suffer (hence "suffer the little children" - they are quite clear about this. I'm not sure why we haven't rumbled them sooner.)
What I really fail to understand is why the Church thinks this is any of its business at all. It's just surreal. I wonder if they regularly phone up Audi and say, "The bishops are divided on the issue of your Vorsprung durch Technik. Therefore, the Church has no option but to condemn your Germanic engineering."
As far as I can tell, the Church's opinion on this issue is totally irrelevant.
It seems to me, far more relevant for scientists to have an opinion on some of the utter guff that the Church puts out there. I'm not talking about the "be nice to people", "try not to murder" and, "why don't you take Sundays off?" I'm OK with most of that (so long as the shops stay open). I'm talking more the Catholic literal belief that taking communion literally (and yes, I do mean literally) turns into the flesh and blood of Jesus once it enters your body.
If I were a scientist, the first thing I would do is fight back. "You can have an opinion on our processes, once we have validated some of your own." I would get some willing volunteers to take Holy Communion, blessed by a Catholic priest, and then do some sort of endoscopy or gastric study to prove, once and for all that bread and wine categorically don't turn into human flesh once you've eaten them.
If they did, I rather think Cafe Rouge might have gone out of business by now.
The Catholic Church believes (or used to believe, until last week, or something, when they - based on no further evidence either way - scientifically changed their minds) the spirits of dead, unbaptised babies fly round an imaginary place called Purgatory.
But, according to the Church, we should condemn a new, evidence-based, life-saving medical procedure, and add to that number of dead Purgatory babies, rather than increase the numbers of live, healthy ones.
Good work, humans!
It stops children dying at birth. At age 2. At age 7. At age 21. It will save hundreds of parents the devastation of losing a child.
This pisses off the Church, who would much rather children suffer (hence "suffer the little children" - they are quite clear about this. I'm not sure why we haven't rumbled them sooner.)
What I really fail to understand is why the Church thinks this is any of its business at all. It's just surreal. I wonder if they regularly phone up Audi and say, "The bishops are divided on the issue of your Vorsprung durch Technik. Therefore, the Church has no option but to condemn your Germanic engineering."
As far as I can tell, the Church's opinion on this issue is totally irrelevant.
It seems to me, far more relevant for scientists to have an opinion on some of the utter guff that the Church puts out there. I'm not talking about the "be nice to people", "try not to murder" and, "why don't you take Sundays off?" I'm OK with most of that (so long as the shops stay open). I'm talking more the Catholic literal belief that taking communion literally (and yes, I do mean literally) turns into the flesh and blood of Jesus once it enters your body.
If I were a scientist, the first thing I would do is fight back. "You can have an opinion on our processes, once we have validated some of your own." I would get some willing volunteers to take Holy Communion, blessed by a Catholic priest, and then do some sort of endoscopy or gastric study to prove, once and for all that bread and wine categorically don't turn into human flesh once you've eaten them.
If they did, I rather think Cafe Rouge might have gone out of business by now.
The Catholic Church believes (or used to believe, until last week, or something, when they - based on no further evidence either way - scientifically changed their minds) the spirits of dead, unbaptised babies fly round an imaginary place called Purgatory.
But, according to the Church, we should condemn a new, evidence-based, life-saving medical procedure, and add to that number of dead Purgatory babies, rather than increase the numbers of live, healthy ones.
Good work, humans!
Tuesday, January 27, 2015
Silence in the library
The Christmas holidays were... ages ago. Because I am totally lazy and keep putting off writing, even though I actually enjoy writing when I actually start writing. Because my brain is a dick.
Anyway, both TheBloke (TM) and I were off work for a decent stretch, and now we're both working full-time, we don't get to take the toddler to baby classes anymore. So we thought we'd take her to our local library who were hosting Rhyme Time. It was either that or watch more Bing which is basically crack for toddlers.
At 10 a.m. we were the only people in the children's section of the library.
At 10.02 the largest person I've ever seen walking unaided flopped into a chair, and put a CD player on the floor next to her.
At 10.05 We all (by which I mean me, the librarian and TheBloke (TM)) started singing to Old McDonald. The toddler picked her nose.
At 10.06 after a duck, a dog, a sheep and a pig, I realised how long Old McDonald actually is, and wondered about downsizing his farm.
At 10.07 the librarian had some sort of tuberculotic coughing fit, almost exactly in time to the music: "...with a *hack hack* here and a *hack hack* there" ("Old McDonald had TB, ee-i-ee-i-o"). TheBloke (TM) got the giggles, and had to leave the children's section and collect his thoughts by the "surviving domestic abuse" shelf. As he stood there giggling (but looking a bit like he was crying), concerned members of staff shot him sympathetic looks.
At 10.09 the toddler lost interest in Old McDonald and wandered off to find Daddy. It was just me and the librarian left.
My enduring memory of Christmas is sitting in the children's library singing Old McDonald to an obese librarian.
When another baby arrived five minutes later, I greeted his father like an old friend. Even when his child literally put his fingers in the toddler's eye sockets, I was delighted for their company.
We might just stick to CBeebies from now on.
Anyway, both TheBloke (TM) and I were off work for a decent stretch, and now we're both working full-time, we don't get to take the toddler to baby classes anymore. So we thought we'd take her to our local library who were hosting Rhyme Time. It was either that or watch more Bing which is basically crack for toddlers.
At 10 a.m. we were the only people in the children's section of the library.
At 10.02 the largest person I've ever seen walking unaided flopped into a chair, and put a CD player on the floor next to her.
At 10.05 We all (by which I mean me, the librarian and TheBloke (TM)) started singing to Old McDonald. The toddler picked her nose.
At 10.06 after a duck, a dog, a sheep and a pig, I realised how long Old McDonald actually is, and wondered about downsizing his farm.
At 10.07 the librarian had some sort of tuberculotic coughing fit, almost exactly in time to the music: "...with a *hack hack* here and a *hack hack* there" ("Old McDonald had TB, ee-i-ee-i-o"). TheBloke (TM) got the giggles, and had to leave the children's section and collect his thoughts by the "surviving domestic abuse" shelf. As he stood there giggling (but looking a bit like he was crying), concerned members of staff shot him sympathetic looks.
At 10.09 the toddler lost interest in Old McDonald and wandered off to find Daddy. It was just me and the librarian left.
My enduring memory of Christmas is sitting in the children's library singing Old McDonald to an obese librarian.
When another baby arrived five minutes later, I greeted his father like an old friend. Even when his child literally put his fingers in the toddler's eye sockets, I was delighted for their company.
We might just stick to CBeebies from now on.
Tuesday, December 23, 2014
A wee problem
We had tried potty training before.
And we had given up pretty damned quickly, after what can only be described as "spiteful pooing".
But, with the toddler now quite a lot older, and mostly able to communicate what she needs, and with us both off work for a couple of weeks over Christmas, we thought now would be an ideal time to try potty training. SPOILER ALERT: we were totally wrong.
Day one, midday
Toddler is wearing her big girl pants. She is excited about this. We ask her to sit on the potty every so often. She does. Nothing comes out, but it's going really well. We should have this cracked in about an hour. Maybe two.
Day one, 1 p.m.
Toddler does a little wee in her pants. Reassure her that this is OK. Be relieved that we have "the accident" out of the way. Remind her the potty is for wee-wees. Change her, clean up. On with the day.
Day one, 2 p.m.
Toddler no longer wants to sit on her potty. Wees incessantly in her pants and then cries as she's upset. We tell her that's OK, and remind her that she can put her wee-wees in the potty. Start to do this through very slightly gritted teeth. Consider buying shares in Dettol.
Day one 6 p.m.
Toddler now refuses to go anywhere near potty, or toilet. Clutches herself screaming, "I don't want to wet my pants." She has no such qualms about weeing once she's sitting on my lap and wets my pants as well as hers. Right through my jeans. Neither of us have any clean clothes left.
TheBloke (TM) giggles as both the toddler and I with our bare bottoms hanging out, load our clothes into the washing machine.
We will try again tomorrow.
Day two, 7 a.m.
Toddler is still wearing nappy from overnight. But she won't eat breakfast, and is instead clutching herself and saying, "I wet my pants. Change me!" I try to explain to her that that's OK because she's wearing a nappy, but she doesn't get it.
We put her in her big girl pants.
Day two, 9 a.m.
Toddler has been crying for two hours and fidgeting like a cat on a hot tin roof. She is clearly desperate for the toilet (and great she's recognising the signs) but will not go anywhere near the potty or the toilet. In terms of bribery we have tried so far:
And we had given up pretty damned quickly, after what can only be described as "spiteful pooing".
But, with the toddler now quite a lot older, and mostly able to communicate what she needs, and with us both off work for a couple of weeks over Christmas, we thought now would be an ideal time to try potty training. SPOILER ALERT: we were totally wrong.
Day one, midday
Toddler is wearing her big girl pants. She is excited about this. We ask her to sit on the potty every so often. She does. Nothing comes out, but it's going really well. We should have this cracked in about an hour. Maybe two.
Day one, 1 p.m.
Toddler does a little wee in her pants. Reassure her that this is OK. Be relieved that we have "the accident" out of the way. Remind her the potty is for wee-wees. Change her, clean up. On with the day.
Day one, 2 p.m.
Toddler no longer wants to sit on her potty. Wees incessantly in her pants and then cries as she's upset. We tell her that's OK, and remind her that she can put her wee-wees in the potty. Start to do this through very slightly gritted teeth. Consider buying shares in Dettol.
Day one 6 p.m.
Toddler now refuses to go anywhere near potty, or toilet. Clutches herself screaming, "I don't want to wet my pants." She has no such qualms about weeing once she's sitting on my lap and wets my pants as well as hers. Right through my jeans. Neither of us have any clean clothes left.
TheBloke (TM) giggles as both the toddler and I with our bare bottoms hanging out, load our clothes into the washing machine.
We will try again tomorrow.
Day two, 7 a.m.
Toddler is still wearing nappy from overnight. But she won't eat breakfast, and is instead clutching herself and saying, "I wet my pants. Change me!" I try to explain to her that that's OK because she's wearing a nappy, but she doesn't get it.
We put her in her big girl pants.
Day two, 9 a.m.
Toddler has been crying for two hours and fidgeting like a cat on a hot tin roof. She is clearly desperate for the toilet (and great she's recognising the signs) but will not go anywhere near the potty or the toilet. In terms of bribery we have tried so far:
- Chocolate
- Calling Grandma and Grandad
- Father Christmas (brings extra presents for girls who do wee-wee in their potties)
- More chocolate
- Star charts
- The fucking Elf on the Shelf
Eventually she wets her pants and is absolutely miserable. We put her back in nappies. This totally doesn't work.
Day two, 11 a.m.
Toddler now refuses to wee in her nappy either. To recap, now she refuses to wee in:
- Her nappy
- Her potty
- The toilet
- Her pants
She is incredibly uncomfortable and is crying a lot. We try and reassure her that it's OK just to let go. She won't. We try to reassure her that she can go to the potty. "Look! Mummy is on the toilet! Look, Daddy can sit on the potty!"
No dice.
"I don't want to wee-wee," she said.
I explained to her that everybody wees and that your wee-wee has to come out sometime.
"NOOOOOO!" she screamed, inconsolable at the thought of ever urinating again.
And that, Ploggers, in an attempt to show her how weeing in a potty is fine, is how I ended up in the middle of our kitchen, pissing into a potty at 1 p.m. this afternoon.
If you ever decide to go down this route (which I heartily do not recommend), once you have exiled TheBloke (TM) and the video camera from the room, do try and remember that you might need toilet roll. I forgot this.
So at 1.03 p.m. this afternoon, I was calling up the stairs to the recently-exiled TheBloke (TM), who found me sitting in the middle of the kitchen over a pot of my own piss, shouting for toilet roll.
The toddler found the whole thing quite funny.
But sadly, still won't wee.
Monday, December 22, 2014
Pub regulars
I met Hazel when I was about eleven years old, and haven't yet managed to shake her off.
Some would suggest I haven't tried that hard - in fact, when she emigrated to New Zealand, I booked a plane ticket and went and visited her almost immediately. But, I maintain I was just checking she was really gone, and that she wasn't just lying to get attention.
We have remained firm friends throughout the last two and a half decades. As you will see, we have blossomed from awkward-looking teenagers, right through to awkward-looking adults.
This was our school trip to Coventry Cathedral (the glamour), 1993. We look like an even gayer version of The Wizard of Oz. If it hadn't been filmed in technicolor. Lot of grey in that uniform. Hazel and I on the far right. Not in a Nazi way.
School trip to London, 1994. We could wear our own clothes, and for me that could only mean one thing: double denim. Hazel and I on the right again.
We didn't get any more mature as adults, unfortunately, though we learned to dress a bit better.
When we were about 15 years old, at a very academic school together (it mostly consisted of homework, shouting, and shouting about homework), we had fairly similar lives. This mostly involved homework. Playing an orchestral instrument was seen as borderline rebellious (it wasn't - strictly speaking - homework). My parents thought I was sad and needed to get a life. They were probably right, but I'm not sure Mrs Nunn's offer, as reported in my diary, was realistic, legal or helpful:
"Mum says I need to get out more. She has offered to get me a fake ID and drive me and a friend to a nightclub. Or to join Young Farmers."
To this day I am not sure what Young Farmers is, but in my mind - associated with nightclubs as Mrs Nunn clearly did - I imagine it to be a hotbed of hard house and hardcore humping.
Anyway, on one such enforced night out, Hazel and I made a pact, the type that 15 year-olds make - that we would meet up in 20 years time, at the same pub (Peggy's Bar in Loughborough, known primarily not for the quality of its drinks nor its ambiance, but its willingness to serve girls who had very recently turned 15).
I particularly like the fact that I passively-aggressively wrote on the beermat, "Don't worry, I'll remind you!" In actual fact, it was Hazel who kept the beermat, scanned it in and realised that it was in fact this year that we were due to meet.
After having ascertained that Peggy's Bar no longer exists, and we both now live in the South East, we agreed to meet in Central London instead. I tried to find a Peggy's Bar in London, to no avail. After which, I started looking at Loughborough Junction (too far away), and eventually settled on Efes Restaurant, which I decided on because of Efes Kebab Shop that we used to go to for chips with mayonnaise after a night out drinking 20/20.
A lovely night was had by both of us. Mrs Nunn did not have to drive us there, and whilst we fully intend to make sure that we see each other approximately every month from now on, as usual, we have also made plans for twenty years' time.
Well, it's traditional.
Some would suggest I haven't tried that hard - in fact, when she emigrated to New Zealand, I booked a plane ticket and went and visited her almost immediately. But, I maintain I was just checking she was really gone, and that she wasn't just lying to get attention.
We have remained firm friends throughout the last two and a half decades. As you will see, we have blossomed from awkward-looking teenagers, right through to awkward-looking adults.
This was our school trip to Coventry Cathedral (the glamour), 1993. We look like an even gayer version of The Wizard of Oz. If it hadn't been filmed in technicolor. Lot of grey in that uniform. Hazel and I on the far right. Not in a Nazi way.
School trip to London, 1994. We could wear our own clothes, and for me that could only mean one thing: double denim. Hazel and I on the right again.
We didn't get any more mature as adults, unfortunately, though we learned to dress a bit better.
When we were about 15 years old, at a very academic school together (it mostly consisted of homework, shouting, and shouting about homework), we had fairly similar lives. This mostly involved homework. Playing an orchestral instrument was seen as borderline rebellious (it wasn't - strictly speaking - homework). My parents thought I was sad and needed to get a life. They were probably right, but I'm not sure Mrs Nunn's offer, as reported in my diary, was realistic, legal or helpful:
"Mum says I need to get out more. She has offered to get me a fake ID and drive me and a friend to a nightclub. Or to join Young Farmers."
To this day I am not sure what Young Farmers is, but in my mind - associated with nightclubs as Mrs Nunn clearly did - I imagine it to be a hotbed of hard house and hardcore humping.
Anyway, on one such enforced night out, Hazel and I made a pact, the type that 15 year-olds make - that we would meet up in 20 years time, at the same pub (Peggy's Bar in Loughborough, known primarily not for the quality of its drinks nor its ambiance, but its willingness to serve girls who had very recently turned 15).
I particularly like the fact that I passively-aggressively wrote on the beermat, "Don't worry, I'll remind you!" In actual fact, it was Hazel who kept the beermat, scanned it in and realised that it was in fact this year that we were due to meet.After having ascertained that Peggy's Bar no longer exists, and we both now live in the South East, we agreed to meet in Central London instead. I tried to find a Peggy's Bar in London, to no avail. After which, I started looking at Loughborough Junction (too far away), and eventually settled on Efes Restaurant, which I decided on because of Efes Kebab Shop that we used to go to for chips with mayonnaise after a night out drinking 20/20.
A lovely night was had by both of us. Mrs Nunn did not have to drive us there, and whilst we fully intend to make sure that we see each other approximately every month from now on, as usual, we have also made plans for twenty years' time.Well, it's traditional.
Sunday, December 07, 2014
Being elfish
For I while, I had been hearing about Elf on the Shelf. It seemed to be an American story book, that came with an elf doll, and seemed to be brilliant for two great reasons:
- The parents hide the elf doll every night so it looks like it's moved by magic (on its way back from visiting Father Christmas), increasing magical anticipation of Christmas
and
- The elf reports on naughty behaviour to Father Christmas, hence derailing some bad behaviour on the way.
As we are firmly in the terrible twos, anything that could stop a tantrum sounded like a good idea. And as I had a (very quick) trip to New York for work in diary, I thought I'd pick up an Elf-based present for the toddler.
Once home from the Big Apple, we opened the box with excitement, and the toddler loved reading the book... which actually is quite horrible. It seems our elf is a nasty little snitch who is watching the toddler all day and passing back any minor misdemeanor to Santa. Santa gets "sad" if you do anything wrong.
Worst of all, apparently the elf will be reporting to Father Christmas whether or not you have been "saying your prayers". Vom. We skipped that bit when we read it to her.
Seeing as we were even in two minds about whether or not to tell her about Father Christmas (as atheists, the idea of lying to a child about an omnipotent being that judges her behaviour, felt hypocritical). We decided to allow it because we are weak and want to have some hold over her behaviour. Next week, we might become fundamentalist Mormons.
Anyway, our elf is just hiding around the house, and it has to be a force 9 tantrum before we suggest that the elf will be snitching.
In the meantime, here is Scout the elf, taking a shit in the toddler's advent calendar.
- The parents hide the elf doll every night so it looks like it's moved by magic (on its way back from visiting Father Christmas), increasing magical anticipation of Christmas
and
- The elf reports on naughty behaviour to Father Christmas, hence derailing some bad behaviour on the way.
As we are firmly in the terrible twos, anything that could stop a tantrum sounded like a good idea. And as I had a (very quick) trip to New York for work in diary, I thought I'd pick up an Elf-based present for the toddler.
Once home from the Big Apple, we opened the box with excitement, and the toddler loved reading the book... which actually is quite horrible. It seems our elf is a nasty little snitch who is watching the toddler all day and passing back any minor misdemeanor to Santa. Santa gets "sad" if you do anything wrong.
Worst of all, apparently the elf will be reporting to Father Christmas whether or not you have been "saying your prayers". Vom. We skipped that bit when we read it to her.
Seeing as we were even in two minds about whether or not to tell her about Father Christmas (as atheists, the idea of lying to a child about an omnipotent being that judges her behaviour, felt hypocritical). We decided to allow it because we are weak and want to have some hold over her behaviour. Next week, we might become fundamentalist Mormons.
Anyway, our elf is just hiding around the house, and it has to be a force 9 tantrum before we suggest that the elf will be snitching.
In the meantime, here is Scout the elf, taking a shit in the toddler's advent calendar.
Sunday, November 09, 2014
Full-time Mummy
Since going back to work full-time, I made the vow that I would try really hard to make weekends special with the toddler. I see far less of her now that I don't have two days a week when it's just us alone, so I try to think ahead about the precious Mummy and toddler moments we can have.
This weekend went as follows:
Friday evening
Planned
Try to get away a bit early to spend some bonding time reading a book together
Actual
An overrunning meeting meant I was late back. But never mind, I was there to give the toddler her bath. In which she had such a mega-tantrum and thrashed around so much that I physically couldn't lift her out of it. It was like wrestling an angry dolphin.
Saturday
Planned
A quiet day at home doing craft activities and maybe learning to read (why not?).
Actual
It started well.
I turned my back to empty the dishwasher, and the toddler chose this moment to impress me with her anatomy vocabulary: "Mummy I painted my nose and my chin." That bottle of Kahlua you can just make out in the background is medicine. (For me, not her. I haven't stooped that low. Yet.)
Sunday morning
Planned
Giving TheBloke (TM) a chance to do some revision for upcoming exams by taking the toddler to soft play where she would practise her physical skills and have a great time burning off some energy. I would catch up with some friends with children the same age and have a lovely cup of tea. We would finish at least three sentences between us.
Actual
The toddler wailed for about an hour and a half and refused to leave my side (this has literally never happened before). The only time she would go and play would be if I would come with her. This, readers, is how I found myself halfway up a sodding climbing wall, whilst simultaneously boosting up two toddlers, who'd found themselves unable to go any further. Then I had to crawl through a metal tunnel (not designed for adult knees), across a rope bridge and then realised that the only way back to the floor was down a sodding slide. My arse got stuck.
I did not manage a lovely cup of tea. The only sentence I finished was, "I think we ought to leave now." The toddler put on her shoes... then (of course) ran immediately back into the soft play area. Shoes are verboten in the soft play area. So, thinking she finally wanted to play, I tried to take her shoes off again. The sound she made was something akin to the sound Monty Cat makes when you accidentally stand on his tail.
She lay on the floor at my feet and banged her bottom up and down. The only reason I could figure for the tantrum was that she neither wanted to stay nor did she want to go home. Great. A two year-old with an existential crisis.
Sunday afternoon
Planned
We would make carrot cakes together. It would be educational with weighing, identifying ingredients and understanding how heat changes batter into cake. She might even be able to grate the carrots by herself.
Actual
All went well until I asked her to weigh out the sugar. Once the sugar was in the bowl, she stuck her chubby toddler hands in, and grabbed and handful and ate it. When I told her that was naughty (I had already said, "Don't touch,)" she threw the remaining sugar in her hands in my face and tried to tip over the bowl with the flour in. When told very sternly that that was naughty, she lay on the floor and tried to kick me as I went about adding the rest of the ingredients.
She did, however, do some funny dancing this afternoon, so she just about redeemed herself. But her quarterly performance review is going to involve some difficult conversations.
This weekend went as follows:
Friday evening
Planned
Try to get away a bit early to spend some bonding time reading a book together
Actual
An overrunning meeting meant I was late back. But never mind, I was there to give the toddler her bath. In which she had such a mega-tantrum and thrashed around so much that I physically couldn't lift her out of it. It was like wrestling an angry dolphin.
Saturday
Planned
A quiet day at home doing craft activities and maybe learning to read (why not?).
Actual
It started well.
I turned my back to empty the dishwasher, and the toddler chose this moment to impress me with her anatomy vocabulary: "Mummy I painted my nose and my chin." That bottle of Kahlua you can just make out in the background is medicine. (For me, not her. I haven't stooped that low. Yet.)
Sunday morning
Planned
Giving TheBloke (TM) a chance to do some revision for upcoming exams by taking the toddler to soft play where she would practise her physical skills and have a great time burning off some energy. I would catch up with some friends with children the same age and have a lovely cup of tea. We would finish at least three sentences between us.
Actual
The toddler wailed for about an hour and a half and refused to leave my side (this has literally never happened before). The only time she would go and play would be if I would come with her. This, readers, is how I found myself halfway up a sodding climbing wall, whilst simultaneously boosting up two toddlers, who'd found themselves unable to go any further. Then I had to crawl through a metal tunnel (not designed for adult knees), across a rope bridge and then realised that the only way back to the floor was down a sodding slide. My arse got stuck.
I did not manage a lovely cup of tea. The only sentence I finished was, "I think we ought to leave now." The toddler put on her shoes... then (of course) ran immediately back into the soft play area. Shoes are verboten in the soft play area. So, thinking she finally wanted to play, I tried to take her shoes off again. The sound she made was something akin to the sound Monty Cat makes when you accidentally stand on his tail.
She lay on the floor at my feet and banged her bottom up and down. The only reason I could figure for the tantrum was that she neither wanted to stay nor did she want to go home. Great. A two year-old with an existential crisis.
Sunday afternoon
Planned
We would make carrot cakes together. It would be educational with weighing, identifying ingredients and understanding how heat changes batter into cake. She might even be able to grate the carrots by herself.
Actual
All went well until I asked her to weigh out the sugar. Once the sugar was in the bowl, she stuck her chubby toddler hands in, and grabbed and handful and ate it. When I told her that was naughty (I had already said, "Don't touch,)" she threw the remaining sugar in her hands in my face and tried to tip over the bowl with the flour in. When told very sternly that that was naughty, she lay on the floor and tried to kick me as I went about adding the rest of the ingredients.
She did, however, do some funny dancing this afternoon, so she just about redeemed herself. But her quarterly performance review is going to involve some difficult conversations.
Monday, October 27, 2014
The whole tooth
Ploggers, the mystery of the century has been solved.
As you may remember, there was an ongoing debate in our house about whether it was Mr Nunn or Mrs Nunn who abused their toothpaste privileges and squeezed from the middle of the tube.
Last week, Mr Nunn came to stay for a night by himself, as he had plans in London the next day. We are clearly better than a hotel as a) we have a grandchild for him to amuse himself with b) we accept payment by babysitting and c) we provide toothpaste...
... which was squeezed from the middle of the tube.
Ladies and gentlemen, you heard it here first. Mr Nunn is not a bottom-squeezer.
Mrs Nunn will be relieved. I would say that I am disappointed, but that sounds wrong on many levels.
As you may remember, there was an ongoing debate in our house about whether it was Mr Nunn or Mrs Nunn who abused their toothpaste privileges and squeezed from the middle of the tube.
Last week, Mr Nunn came to stay for a night by himself, as he had plans in London the next day. We are clearly better than a hotel as a) we have a grandchild for him to amuse himself with b) we accept payment by babysitting and c) we provide toothpaste...
... which was squeezed from the middle of the tube.
Ladies and gentlemen, you heard it here first. Mr Nunn is not a bottom-squeezer.
Mrs Nunn will be relieved. I would say that I am disappointed, but that sounds wrong on many levels.
Tuesday, October 21, 2014
No need to grouse
It was an odd start to the evening. My friend Sarah and I arrived at the restaurant for a much-needed night out, and gave our coats to the cloakroom attendant, who looked at us a bit oddly.
"Are you living together?" he asked.
"Sorry, what?" I was a tad surprised that he was interested in our romantic relationship (or in this case, definite lack of).
"Are you leaving together?" he repeated. This was slightly better, but still seemed an odd question, and firmly in the category of Not Really His Business. Still, once we'd realised he was just seeing if he could put our coats on the same hanger, this was a tiny bit more normal. Though really, to avoid offence, he could have splurged on a second hanger.
It was a rare night out for me at a restaurant I would put into the "fairly nice" category. Not "ridiculously expensive", but the sort of place where, paying around £15 for your main course, you could expect decent food and good service, with staff on hand to answer any questions you might have.
We were seated at a lovely table overlooking the Thames.
The waitress came over to our table to take our order.
Sarah, perusing the menu, asked, "What's 'ray wing', exactly?"
"Eh?" asked the waitress, for whom English was not a first language.
Sarah repeated, "Raywing - is it similar to plaice?"
"Yes," said the waitress. "Is fish." Sarah - satisfied by this admittedly not in-depth explanation, which told her precisely nothing she didn't already know, risked it and went for the raywing.
I went for the grouse.
"Sorry," said the waitress. "You can point please?"
I should emphasise at this stage that we were not at a McDonalds, nor an institution that has pictures of the food on laminated menus (indeed, if we had been, Sarah may not have needed to ask about the raywing).
Still, always amenable, I did as I was asked, and pointed. The waitress wrote something down. I wasn't sure she'd got it right (maybe I have fat fingers). I said (a bit patronisingly, if I'm honest), "The grouse, yes?"
"Yes," said the waitress. And off she went to get our wine. It was a screw-top, but she still insisted we taste it before pouring. We should have actually made the most of this opportunity as the wine was then put in an ice-bucket some distance from our table, and we had to ask several times before we were allowed a second glass.
My starter arrived. It wasn't great. I didn't finish it. The waitress asked if it was OK. I said that I'd found it a bit dry. She said, "Oh." I wondered why she had bothered asking.
My main course arrived. Sarah's raywing looked lovely (and a bit like plaice). My lamb looked... less like grouse than I had hoped.
I sent it back. I was given a look as though I was one of those customers that had changed my mind several times. They edged the wine further away from me.
Luckily my main course, when it did arrive, was actually delicious. Our odd waitress disappeared at some point during the night (sacked? Pushed into the Thames?) and things then improved.
Though I still think we got an odd chuckle as we left together.
We have vowed to do it again soon.
"Are you living together?" he asked.
"Sorry, what?" I was a tad surprised that he was interested in our romantic relationship (or in this case, definite lack of).
"Are you leaving together?" he repeated. This was slightly better, but still seemed an odd question, and firmly in the category of Not Really His Business. Still, once we'd realised he was just seeing if he could put our coats on the same hanger, this was a tiny bit more normal. Though really, to avoid offence, he could have splurged on a second hanger.
It was a rare night out for me at a restaurant I would put into the "fairly nice" category. Not "ridiculously expensive", but the sort of place where, paying around £15 for your main course, you could expect decent food and good service, with staff on hand to answer any questions you might have.
We were seated at a lovely table overlooking the Thames.
The waitress came over to our table to take our order.
Sarah, perusing the menu, asked, "What's 'ray wing', exactly?"
"Eh?" asked the waitress, for whom English was not a first language.
Sarah repeated, "Raywing - is it similar to plaice?"
"Yes," said the waitress. "Is fish." Sarah - satisfied by this admittedly not in-depth explanation, which told her precisely nothing she didn't already know, risked it and went for the raywing.
I went for the grouse.
"Sorry," said the waitress. "You can point please?"
I should emphasise at this stage that we were not at a McDonalds, nor an institution that has pictures of the food on laminated menus (indeed, if we had been, Sarah may not have needed to ask about the raywing).
Still, always amenable, I did as I was asked, and pointed. The waitress wrote something down. I wasn't sure she'd got it right (maybe I have fat fingers). I said (a bit patronisingly, if I'm honest), "The grouse, yes?"
"Yes," said the waitress. And off she went to get our wine. It was a screw-top, but she still insisted we taste it before pouring. We should have actually made the most of this opportunity as the wine was then put in an ice-bucket some distance from our table, and we had to ask several times before we were allowed a second glass.
My starter arrived. It wasn't great. I didn't finish it. The waitress asked if it was OK. I said that I'd found it a bit dry. She said, "Oh." I wondered why she had bothered asking.
My main course arrived. Sarah's raywing looked lovely (and a bit like plaice). My lamb looked... less like grouse than I had hoped.
I sent it back. I was given a look as though I was one of those customers that had changed my mind several times. They edged the wine further away from me.
Luckily my main course, when it did arrive, was actually delicious. Our odd waitress disappeared at some point during the night (sacked? Pushed into the Thames?) and things then improved.
Though I still think we got an odd chuckle as we left together.
We have vowed to do it again soon.
Sunday, September 28, 2014
Mardy cow
Ill toddlers are no fun at all. Let's be honest, a fully-well toddler has her moments, between demands to only eat off a green plate, with a green spoon, whilst drinking from a green cup (and yet somehow refusing to eat either broccoli or spinach). But an ill toddler is something else.
Of course you have sympathy for them - their little pale faces peering out from a sweaty halo of hair, and their pleas for, "Cuggle, Mummy."
This sympathy wanes slightly when - for the ninth time that day you have suggested that they get dressed and each time is met with the sort of response you would get suggesting to your husband that you insert hot wires into his testicles. Eventually we compromised by allowing her to spend today dressed as a cow. And telling my husband we could delay on the hot wires thing until next weekend.
Unfortunately, a raging temperature meant we had to remove the cow outfit. Further demands were issued (and met) variously for, "My ice cream nightie!", "Mickey Mouse pyjamas!", "NOT Minnie Mouse, MICKEY Mouse" and, "Iggle Piggle". All of the above were worn, dispatched and vomited on in that exact order.
Iggle Piggle (a brand new birthday present) doesn't sound the same when you press his squeaker, now he's been through a 60 degree spin cycle. He's fine with that though, because he no longer has vomit over his red blanky.
I have done six loads of laundry today. I have scrubbed vomit out of our brand-new hallway carpet. I have shampooed vomit out of the toddler's hair.
Finally it was bedtime. "Night night, bunny," I said. "Mummy loves you."
Silence from the toddler.
"Do you love Mummy?" I prompted.
"Love Monty Cat," replied the toddler. Monty Cat who did absolutely NO cleaning up of vomit. (Unless you count trying to eat her regurgitated bacon.) "Love Monty, Mummy."
Little fucker.
Of course you have sympathy for them - their little pale faces peering out from a sweaty halo of hair, and their pleas for, "Cuggle, Mummy."
This sympathy wanes slightly when - for the ninth time that day you have suggested that they get dressed and each time is met with the sort of response you would get suggesting to your husband that you insert hot wires into his testicles. Eventually we compromised by allowing her to spend today dressed as a cow. And telling my husband we could delay on the hot wires thing until next weekend.Unfortunately, a raging temperature meant we had to remove the cow outfit. Further demands were issued (and met) variously for, "My ice cream nightie!", "Mickey Mouse pyjamas!", "NOT Minnie Mouse, MICKEY Mouse" and, "Iggle Piggle". All of the above were worn, dispatched and vomited on in that exact order.
Iggle Piggle (a brand new birthday present) doesn't sound the same when you press his squeaker, now he's been through a 60 degree spin cycle. He's fine with that though, because he no longer has vomit over his red blanky.
I have done six loads of laundry today. I have scrubbed vomit out of our brand-new hallway carpet. I have shampooed vomit out of the toddler's hair.
Finally it was bedtime. "Night night, bunny," I said. "Mummy loves you."
Silence from the toddler.
"Do you love Mummy?" I prompted.
"Love Monty Cat," replied the toddler. Monty Cat who did absolutely NO cleaning up of vomit. (Unless you count trying to eat her regurgitated bacon.) "Love Monty, Mummy."
Little fucker.
Saturday, September 20, 2014
Sleeper cell
We thought we were doing so well. The toddler had slept on the flight. She had napped in the car on the way back from the airport. She had had an afternoon nap to make up for the time difference and had not only gone to bed at the usual time, but had slept through! We were totally winning.
The next day she was a bit groggy, but we got her up at the usual time, she had a good day with her childminder, and again, went to bed at the usual time and slept through. We were clearly the best parents ever at managing children's jetlag.
Until the following night. Oh yes, she went to bed at 7 p.m. as usual. And then, just as we were going to bed at just gone 10 p.m. she woke. And screamed. And screamed. I went in, in case she was ill. She wasn't ill. She was Awake. I used a capital "A" there just to illustrate how awake she actually was.
I held her for a few minutes until she had calmed down, then I grabbed a spare duvet and flopped onto the floor of her bedroom to keep her company until she had drifted off.
"Hand, Mummy," she demanded, sticking her chubby toddler fingers through the cot bars. I held her hand for what seemed like about three weeks. It was probably about five minutes. I began to get pins and needles.
"Go to sleep now," I suggested, letting go of her hand and turning over so she couldn't see my face. The wailing started.
"It's OK, Mummy is here. Go to sleep." It went quiet. After two minutes, I hedged a glance over my shoulder. The toddler was standing up straight in her cot, dangling Toby Bear over the side, right above my head.
"Are you asleep?" I asked. I knew she wasn't asleep. I'm not that poor at childcare. I'm not even sure why I said it.
The toddler giggled and ran to the far end of her cot. This is harder than you might imagine, as she was wearing a toddler sleeping bag. From the far end of her cot, she started singing, "Twinkle winkle ittle aaar. Owwaee wonn aaaaah." As this changed to, "Baa baa back seep avy wool", I realised she was Properly Awake, and the only thing to do would be to start the bedtime routine again.
I brought her downstairs, gave her some milk. ("No! Warm milk, Mummy.") I warmed up the milk, gave it back to her, read her two or three stories, let her play with Monty Cat, then took her back upstairs, brushed her teeth again and put her to bed.
It was 11.30 p.m. by this point.
And the screaming finally subsided at about midnight. (I didn't go back in. Yes, you can judge me for being one of those awful parents who lets the baby cry it out, but we know from experience, the more you go in, the more it sets her back in her sleep routine.)
At about 12.30 a.m. TheBloke (TM) and I finally got to sleep.
At 3 a.m. there was an extremely loud thunderstorm that seemed to be located directly above our house and lasted for about an hour (or about five minutes, I don't know which). TheBloke (TM) and I sat bolt upright like frightened rabbits (not by the thunder, but by the fear that it would wake the toddler. It didn't. We, however, remained awake for at least another hour).
Virtual reality travel may be the way forward.
The next day she was a bit groggy, but we got her up at the usual time, she had a good day with her childminder, and again, went to bed at the usual time and slept through. We were clearly the best parents ever at managing children's jetlag.
Until the following night. Oh yes, she went to bed at 7 p.m. as usual. And then, just as we were going to bed at just gone 10 p.m. she woke. And screamed. And screamed. I went in, in case she was ill. She wasn't ill. She was Awake. I used a capital "A" there just to illustrate how awake she actually was.
I held her for a few minutes until she had calmed down, then I grabbed a spare duvet and flopped onto the floor of her bedroom to keep her company until she had drifted off.
"Hand, Mummy," she demanded, sticking her chubby toddler fingers through the cot bars. I held her hand for what seemed like about three weeks. It was probably about five minutes. I began to get pins and needles.
"Go to sleep now," I suggested, letting go of her hand and turning over so she couldn't see my face. The wailing started.
"It's OK, Mummy is here. Go to sleep." It went quiet. After two minutes, I hedged a glance over my shoulder. The toddler was standing up straight in her cot, dangling Toby Bear over the side, right above my head.
"Are you asleep?" I asked. I knew she wasn't asleep. I'm not that poor at childcare. I'm not even sure why I said it.
The toddler giggled and ran to the far end of her cot. This is harder than you might imagine, as she was wearing a toddler sleeping bag. From the far end of her cot, she started singing, "Twinkle winkle ittle aaar. Owwaee wonn aaaaah." As this changed to, "Baa baa back seep avy wool", I realised she was Properly Awake, and the only thing to do would be to start the bedtime routine again.
I brought her downstairs, gave her some milk. ("No! Warm milk, Mummy.") I warmed up the milk, gave it back to her, read her two or three stories, let her play with Monty Cat, then took her back upstairs, brushed her teeth again and put her to bed.
It was 11.30 p.m. by this point.
And the screaming finally subsided at about midnight. (I didn't go back in. Yes, you can judge me for being one of those awful parents who lets the baby cry it out, but we know from experience, the more you go in, the more it sets her back in her sleep routine.)
At about 12.30 a.m. TheBloke (TM) and I finally got to sleep.
At 3 a.m. there was an extremely loud thunderstorm that seemed to be located directly above our house and lasted for about an hour (or about five minutes, I don't know which). TheBloke (TM) and I sat bolt upright like frightened rabbits (not by the thunder, but by the fear that it would wake the toddler. It didn't. We, however, remained awake for at least another hour).
Virtual reality travel may be the way forward.
Thursday, September 18, 2014
Plane truth
I have returned, triumphantly, from a delightful holiday with TheBloke (TM), the toddler, and with Mr and Mrs Nunn.
Flying with a toddler is no easier than flying with a baby, but I'm having therapy to get over that part of the trip. The rest was loveliness involving Mickey Mouse, far too much food, and a lot of retail therapy (with free babysitting thrown in).
But... what goes up must come down, and today has mostly been about unpacking. Now, I'm not one to be sentimental, but, let's face it, it's the end of the summer in the UK. It's been a lovely summer, and so far, autumn has had a gentle start. But it's no longer t-shirt and shorts weather.
The thing is though - my t-shirt and shorts, I pack away and wear next year (to the horror of everyone who dreads the emergence of my simultaneously pasty-white and yet quite hairy thighs). But the toddler's summer clothes... she won't wear again. And it's harder somehow because she hasn't grown out of them. They still fit absolutely fine - but they are undoubtedly summer clothes - and she won't be this size next year. So these beautiful little outfits are disappearing, and it is sad.
Having said that, if she keeps eating like she did on holiday, she's not going to fit her winter clothes, nor those put aside for next summer either.
One worrying trend of the holiday is that the toddler has now started addressing us by our first names. Mr Nunn, entering the living room of a morning would inevitably be greeted by the toddler with, "Hello Bob."
Other new phrases included, "More lollies please", "My Mickey Mouse, you go away Mummy" and -at the end of a (for us at least) gruelling flight, on spotting a different aeroplane at the end of the runway, "Green one next." The thought of ever, ever getting on a plane again was very far from our minds at that point. But unfortunately it seems the toddler is in charge. It's a shame that the airline in question was Inter-Arab airways, meaning our next holiday is likely to be Iran, but you can't win every time.
Right. I am off to wallow in jet lag. Here I go now. *Wallowing sounds*
Flying with a toddler is no easier than flying with a baby, but I'm having therapy to get over that part of the trip. The rest was loveliness involving Mickey Mouse, far too much food, and a lot of retail therapy (with free babysitting thrown in).
But... what goes up must come down, and today has mostly been about unpacking. Now, I'm not one to be sentimental, but, let's face it, it's the end of the summer in the UK. It's been a lovely summer, and so far, autumn has had a gentle start. But it's no longer t-shirt and shorts weather.
The thing is though - my t-shirt and shorts, I pack away and wear next year (to the horror of everyone who dreads the emergence of my simultaneously pasty-white and yet quite hairy thighs). But the toddler's summer clothes... she won't wear again. And it's harder somehow because she hasn't grown out of them. They still fit absolutely fine - but they are undoubtedly summer clothes - and she won't be this size next year. So these beautiful little outfits are disappearing, and it is sad.
 |
| Table manners are so important. |
One worrying trend of the holiday is that the toddler has now started addressing us by our first names. Mr Nunn, entering the living room of a morning would inevitably be greeted by the toddler with, "Hello Bob."
Other new phrases included, "More lollies please", "My Mickey Mouse, you go away Mummy" and -at the end of a (for us at least) gruelling flight, on spotting a different aeroplane at the end of the runway, "Green one next." The thought of ever, ever getting on a plane again was very far from our minds at that point. But unfortunately it seems the toddler is in charge. It's a shame that the airline in question was Inter-Arab airways, meaning our next holiday is likely to be Iran, but you can't win every time.Right. I am off to wallow in jet lag. Here I go now. *Wallowing sounds*
Tuesday, August 26, 2014
Booked up
Self-indulgent Plog alert.
It was a rainy bank holiday. I had fifteen minutes whilst the toddler slept. Someone on Facebook (well, not just anyone - the impressive Kraken) nominated me to list ten novels that have made an impact on me. I duly did this.
Somebody else asked me what impact they had. And I think that's a great question.
So here are my ten novels (in no particular order) and the impact they had on me:
1. Lolita (Nabakov)
This is the only text I came across at university to make it to the list. A mandatory requirement of Modern Literature (which at Bristol Uni, stopped at 1950. Don't ask.), I read this on holiday with a friend in the Dominican Republic during Easter break. I loved the cleverness of the language, how it seemed to me that someone who was a linguistic outsider to the English language could see words and patterns that native English speakers were blind to. Purple pills became "purpills" and the therapist became "the rapist". Dissecting the novel in tutorial also made me conscious of the power play of language, and how Lolita never has her own voice. Her words are always narrated for her, by her rapist.
2. The God of Small Things (Roy)
I tried to read this for preparation for a university interview but found it impenetrable. A few months later, a co-worker recommended it to me, lent me a copy and I made a renewed effort. Once I got past the unfamiliar names and large cast(e) (see what I did there?), I found it a stunning work of poetry and impressionism. To this day, I love to think of bluebottles in hot weather as being "fatly baffled". It is also the first book I read where I had to look away from the page because of the violence. I then continued reading between my fingers. I do this quite a lot. TheBloke (TM) thinks it's hilarious.
3. Rebecca (Du Maurier)
I came across this through Book Club in my mid-twenties. I had always swerved it, thinking it would be romantic crap. I read it whilst a hurricane raged and bad stuff happened in the world. Perhaps it's the novel's genius that many people feel the same, but very rarely have I identified so closely with a protagonist - that slightly gauche, awkwardly polite person, trying to fake it in an adult world. The book took me away from the cold January; I found Rebecca and Rebecca fascinating. And to this day, I like to speculate on the heroine's unknown name.
4. Saturday (McEwan)
It was tough choosing just one McEwan novel (of course, I didn't have to - but it would seem harsh to put in several McEwans and only one Austen). It was a toss-up between Saturday and Atonement. The novel came out in 2005, and I counted the days down until it would be released in paperback (I didn't have much spare cash at the time). A lot of my favourite novels feel like love letters to London - this one was even more special to me because the Saturday on which it was set was actually one where I was living in London - and remembered what I had done that day. (I wasn't on the anti-war march, but Erica and I ate lasagne in my flat in Dalston - way before it was trendy - and went to a comedy club in the evening.) Saturday made me feel like I was a tiny (lasagne-eating) part of history.
5. The Grapes of Wrath (Steinbeck)
I had studied Of Mice and Men at GCSE, and y'know, it was OK, but honestly I didn't see what all the fuss was about. I thought I'd give this one a go, as people said it was good, and Oh My God. Beautifully written, desperately tragic - and very educational for me, as I hadn't realised the full extent of the Great Depression. Though why anyone would name their child "Rose of Sharon" is completely beyond me.
6. Pride and Prejudice (Austen)
The only "school-studied" text to make it to the list. Again, I found it hard to choose just one Austen. Most of them, with the exception of Mansfield Park (which I did study at A-level and still resent on a profound level) could have made the list. When I first read Pride and Prejudice, I hated it. But we were studying it for GCSE coursework, so I took it with me as one of the six or seven books I could carry on a French exchange trip for a fortnight. I had finished five of the books by the end of the coach trip to get to France. I had another two weeks, and an 18-hour coach journey home to survive, sans-reading materials. Out of sheer desperation for something, I re-read Pride and Prejudice; and then I re-re-read it. And then I bought Sense and Sensibility from South Mimms service station on the way home.
Other people got drunk and had a good time. Welcome to my teenage years.
7. The Handmaid's Tale (Atwood)
Dystopian, feminist sci-fi, what's not to like? Seriously, I had never really come across female-authored sci-fi before - and from a feminist viewpoint too. Rarely for me - I can't remember exactly where or when I read this one; I think I borrowed it from the library; I certainly remember raiding that part of the bookshelf and reading pretty much everything she'd ever written for a few weeks afterwards.
8. Behind the Scenes at the Museum (Atkinson)
This is an odd one. I can't remember if someone gave it to me at Book Club because they said they thought I'd enjoy it, or if I bought it for someone else because I knew they'd like it. Perhaps that's not important. It's clever without being snobbish. It has touches of magical realism without going all Angela Carter on us (though, to be fair, from memory, this novel uses less of the magic than other Atkinsons). A twist, a denouement, and characters that stay with you.
9. Gone with the Wind (Mitchell)
A bit like Rebecca, I had given this one a miss, thinking it was going to be corset-heaving nonsense. With a sense of duty ("I can't believe I haven't read...") I picked this one up. What I didn't expect to find was the feistiest heroine I've ever come across (say what you will about Scarlett but she gets her shit together) and a backdrop of war and slavery. A page-turner from start to finish; despite it being a massively long novel, I felt bereft as I noticed there were hardly any pages left to go.
10. The Diary of Anne Frank (Frank)
I lied earlier - this was also a school text, though well before GCSEs. We studied it in English (rather than history) class. The same year (entirely coincidentally) I played Anne Frank in a school play (whilst wearing a lot of dental braces. I was basically Anne Frank, had she been the patient of an over-zealous orthodontist) - so I spent rather more time than I might otherwise have done learning passages from the diary verbatim and really thinking a bit more about what it would actually be like to be Anne Frank, than if I had just read the book, written a couple of homework essays and then moved on. Personally, this was the first time I had been interested enough in something outside of school to do independent study for no reason other than wanting to know - using my pocket money to buy other reference books, and really reading around the subject. Reading my own diaries from the time and comparing quality, I am struck repeatedly at what talent this young girl really had. She was a great writer; she should have had the chance to keep writing.
Self-indulgent Plog over. Normal service will now resume.
It was a rainy bank holiday. I had fifteen minutes whilst the toddler slept. Someone on Facebook (well, not just anyone - the impressive Kraken) nominated me to list ten novels that have made an impact on me. I duly did this.
Somebody else asked me what impact they had. And I think that's a great question.
So here are my ten novels (in no particular order) and the impact they had on me:
1. Lolita (Nabakov)
This is the only text I came across at university to make it to the list. A mandatory requirement of Modern Literature (which at Bristol Uni, stopped at 1950. Don't ask.), I read this on holiday with a friend in the Dominican Republic during Easter break. I loved the cleverness of the language, how it seemed to me that someone who was a linguistic outsider to the English language could see words and patterns that native English speakers were blind to. Purple pills became "purpills" and the therapist became "the rapist". Dissecting the novel in tutorial also made me conscious of the power play of language, and how Lolita never has her own voice. Her words are always narrated for her, by her rapist.
2. The God of Small Things (Roy)
I tried to read this for preparation for a university interview but found it impenetrable. A few months later, a co-worker recommended it to me, lent me a copy and I made a renewed effort. Once I got past the unfamiliar names and large cast(e) (see what I did there?), I found it a stunning work of poetry and impressionism. To this day, I love to think of bluebottles in hot weather as being "fatly baffled". It is also the first book I read where I had to look away from the page because of the violence. I then continued reading between my fingers. I do this quite a lot. TheBloke (TM) thinks it's hilarious.
3. Rebecca (Du Maurier)
I came across this through Book Club in my mid-twenties. I had always swerved it, thinking it would be romantic crap. I read it whilst a hurricane raged and bad stuff happened in the world. Perhaps it's the novel's genius that many people feel the same, but very rarely have I identified so closely with a protagonist - that slightly gauche, awkwardly polite person, trying to fake it in an adult world. The book took me away from the cold January; I found Rebecca and Rebecca fascinating. And to this day, I like to speculate on the heroine's unknown name.
4. Saturday (McEwan)
It was tough choosing just one McEwan novel (of course, I didn't have to - but it would seem harsh to put in several McEwans and only one Austen). It was a toss-up between Saturday and Atonement. The novel came out in 2005, and I counted the days down until it would be released in paperback (I didn't have much spare cash at the time). A lot of my favourite novels feel like love letters to London - this one was even more special to me because the Saturday on which it was set was actually one where I was living in London - and remembered what I had done that day. (I wasn't on the anti-war march, but Erica and I ate lasagne in my flat in Dalston - way before it was trendy - and went to a comedy club in the evening.) Saturday made me feel like I was a tiny (lasagne-eating) part of history.
5. The Grapes of Wrath (Steinbeck)
I had studied Of Mice and Men at GCSE, and y'know, it was OK, but honestly I didn't see what all the fuss was about. I thought I'd give this one a go, as people said it was good, and Oh My God. Beautifully written, desperately tragic - and very educational for me, as I hadn't realised the full extent of the Great Depression. Though why anyone would name their child "Rose of Sharon" is completely beyond me.
6. Pride and Prejudice (Austen)
The only "school-studied" text to make it to the list. Again, I found it hard to choose just one Austen. Most of them, with the exception of Mansfield Park (which I did study at A-level and still resent on a profound level) could have made the list. When I first read Pride and Prejudice, I hated it. But we were studying it for GCSE coursework, so I took it with me as one of the six or seven books I could carry on a French exchange trip for a fortnight. I had finished five of the books by the end of the coach trip to get to France. I had another two weeks, and an 18-hour coach journey home to survive, sans-reading materials. Out of sheer desperation for something, I re-read Pride and Prejudice; and then I re-re-read it. And then I bought Sense and Sensibility from South Mimms service station on the way home.
Other people got drunk and had a good time. Welcome to my teenage years.
7. The Handmaid's Tale (Atwood)
Dystopian, feminist sci-fi, what's not to like? Seriously, I had never really come across female-authored sci-fi before - and from a feminist viewpoint too. Rarely for me - I can't remember exactly where or when I read this one; I think I borrowed it from the library; I certainly remember raiding that part of the bookshelf and reading pretty much everything she'd ever written for a few weeks afterwards.
8. Behind the Scenes at the Museum (Atkinson)
This is an odd one. I can't remember if someone gave it to me at Book Club because they said they thought I'd enjoy it, or if I bought it for someone else because I knew they'd like it. Perhaps that's not important. It's clever without being snobbish. It has touches of magical realism without going all Angela Carter on us (though, to be fair, from memory, this novel uses less of the magic than other Atkinsons). A twist, a denouement, and characters that stay with you.
9. Gone with the Wind (Mitchell)
A bit like Rebecca, I had given this one a miss, thinking it was going to be corset-heaving nonsense. With a sense of duty ("I can't believe I haven't read...") I picked this one up. What I didn't expect to find was the feistiest heroine I've ever come across (say what you will about Scarlett but she gets her shit together) and a backdrop of war and slavery. A page-turner from start to finish; despite it being a massively long novel, I felt bereft as I noticed there were hardly any pages left to go.
10. The Diary of Anne Frank (Frank)
I lied earlier - this was also a school text, though well before GCSEs. We studied it in English (rather than history) class. The same year (entirely coincidentally) I played Anne Frank in a school play (whilst wearing a lot of dental braces. I was basically Anne Frank, had she been the patient of an over-zealous orthodontist) - so I spent rather more time than I might otherwise have done learning passages from the diary verbatim and really thinking a bit more about what it would actually be like to be Anne Frank, than if I had just read the book, written a couple of homework essays and then moved on. Personally, this was the first time I had been interested enough in something outside of school to do independent study for no reason other than wanting to know - using my pocket money to buy other reference books, and really reading around the subject. Reading my own diaries from the time and comparing quality, I am struck repeatedly at what talent this young girl really had. She was a great writer; she should have had the chance to keep writing.
Self-indulgent Plog over. Normal service will now resume.
Monday, August 25, 2014
Minding your Ps and FUs.
Manners are important. This is what we tell our toddler regularly, as she demands something or other. She almost always gets whatever it is that she wants, but we feel slightly better about indulging her if she lisps, "Pease, Mummy", appropriately.
She hasn't quite yet mastered, "thank you" yet. Instead she prefers to say, "No pease" when she doesn't want something. So far, so cute, but every day's a school day.
In the library, I asked her if she'd like to choose another book. "No pease, Mummy," she said.
"How about saying, 'no thank you, Mummy?'" I suggested. "You say it! Say 'thank you'."
This was a mistake.
For the next 10 minutes, my middle-class smugness at entertaining my child in the library was shattered by my offspring running around shouting, "No, fuck you Mummy."
We might stick to "no pease" for now.
She hasn't quite yet mastered, "thank you" yet. Instead she prefers to say, "No pease" when she doesn't want something. So far, so cute, but every day's a school day.
In the library, I asked her if she'd like to choose another book. "No pease, Mummy," she said.
"How about saying, 'no thank you, Mummy?'" I suggested. "You say it! Say 'thank you'."
This was a mistake.
For the next 10 minutes, my middle-class smugness at entertaining my child in the library was shattered by my offspring running around shouting, "No, fuck you Mummy."
We might stick to "no pease" for now.
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