Some thoughts on Women, Men, and India
(Not all related.)
Two days ago I met a friend for a cup of tea in Marzanos. (For those not of Norwich, this is a café in the same building as the library – called The Forum.) We like to talk about…it feels arrogant to call them intellectual things but, you know, things other than what our favourite tv programme is or the activities of various celebrities…those things just don’t interest us. In fact, we’re thinking of forming a Lonely Conversationalists Club for those of us who are similarly inclined, because it can feel a bit of a solitary occupation.
Anyhow, in our very deep and meaningful conversations (well…) my friend (a man) commented, in a slightly aggrieved tone, although he is definitely of the general view that women should have equal rights etc (yes, I know most of these words I’ve just written are contentious and possessing of multiple variations, but that’s not what this is here – this is just relaying somethings I’ve heard and said and thought), that men were suffering an onslaught at the moment. There then after that – after I responded to that – followed a wide ranging and very contentious debate about moving goalposts and the possible spectre (raised, actually by me) of views of the past changing as the current context moves forwards…. I can feel the rotten fruit being thrown right now, and will definitely say that these are only tiny wonderings, about tiny possibilities or small aspects of life. But what I more want to say, because I feel it is maybe slightly more tangible, was that my immediate response to my friend was to apologise – because I could hear the hurt, not massive but there, in his voice. I said that I hadn’t thought about how hard this current climate could be for all men – not just the paedophiles and sex pests and those who chose to be or knew they were paid more than female colleagues doing the same work.
Like you can say of teenagers – how must it feel when thousands of people and news stories and tv programmes are saying something bad about a group that you are part of?
So I apologised, and sympathised, and I did feel sympathy. But there was a duality to my emotion, because behind that there was a feeling:
You don’t like it? Do you.
(And a grim pleasure in payback.)
I countered – although I think he maybe saw it as a side-step – with talking about the (general) physical weakness of women to men, and living with the possibility that, ultimately, you probably couldn’t resist rape, if a man chose to do that. Not always thinking it of course, but it’s something that you know, and know – or I do – that dressing and acting a certain way increases risk. Potentially. Although I was recently told that grandmothers have been raped and, of course, rapists usually knows the victim – it’s not necessarily the beauty of the victim that arouses the rapist, they just I guess feel in the mood. I shared the story I often tell of a scene in I think The Invisible Man by Ralph Ellison. A book about race primarily, there is a ‘Battle Royale’ scene where young black men are forced to fight in front of white businessmen. They (including the narrator) finish and then he talks of the white stripper who is up next. He talks about the power that she has – every man wants her, every man follows every movement she makes, animalistic. Then he notes the fear in her eyes, because the only thing stopping the men tearing her apart is the dry leaf of…what, politeness? Manners? The social rules of ‘best not’.
My friend then mentioned the – not always true of course – difference in sexual appetites between men and women, and voiced the feeling that men were being vilified for their natural selves. I could understand the difficulty of feeling hungry and not being allowed to eat, being told you cannot eat, and that eating is bad. BUT we are of course talking of consent. It vaguely occurs to me that perhaps some parallel can be drawn between vegetarianism – choosing not to force your will on another living being, despite your hunger. (And then you get of course into the whole mire of levels of sentience – hotly debated – and whether that would correlate to levels of ‘wrong’.)
The debate then ranged all sorts of places, but writing this now, it reminds me of India. I went to Mumbai and Goa last month. What is the connection? Being forced to suppress your nature. I guess women (Some? Many? As many as would if they had not been indoctrinated – in all parts of the world – into these views) do want children, do want to stay at home and cook and clean for them and their husband. And I should not have a scornful tone in that sentence (sorry). While in Mumbai my friend and I went on a tour of one of the slums. Yes, I know, poor people zoo. I felt torn, but it was run by a Community Interest Company, based in that slum, which reinvested I think 80% of the profits after tax back into the slum, running educational programmes, sport programmes…. We couldn’t take photographs, we were a small group of five, we were shown round the industrial parts of the slum and only briefly through some narrow alleyways past some homes…. But excuses now made, our tour guide was a woman of perhaps twenty, who herself lived in a slum. She was working while training to be a psychotherapist. She said that her family had – because she was a woman – only given the option of being married off. She didn’t go to private school, but she was way ahead of everybody (boys and girls) in results when she was younger. She had when we met her been learning English for about six months and was basically fluent. She was hospitalised with depression because she did not want to be married off to breed, she wanted to become a doctor. Still her parents said no, only marriage. So she left them, went to live in a slum, got this job to pay for her education. She said she had had to change her dream, because studying to be a doctor was too expensive, but at least as a psychotherapist she would be able to help people, as she had been helped herself.
I’ve told many people this story when I’ve returned. Most haven’t I think felt it the same way I have. One man at work talked about the male dominated society of Victorian England, comparing it to then in a manner so devoid of censure that I would have been upset if I had not experienced far worse things and gained a sense of proportion. My mum said, when I told her this story, and of other things I had seen, “You would have hated growing up there.” And that is the thing. Not everybody would have, but I would have hated it. (I don’t think my nature would have been totally quelled.)
Another friend and I were discussing different cultures. He – being of mixed heritage – spoke of an attraction towards non-Western cultures. He spoke of the sense of community. The support, the lack of isolation. I said that it seemed to me that strongly-joined communities also ran the risk of being more oppressive. Not necessarily, and not to dismiss the benefits. Of knowing who you are, where you are, what is good and bad to do. I know that our culture is not perfect, but I think I prefer the unheld reins that allow me to go in (almost) any direction. I do not know the other side, the other way, but I am not isolated, I know right from wrong, and I am happy.
In Mumbai there was an eeriness. Something felt strange. I loved it there. There was a kindness, and I’d say a lack of pridefulness. I did not ever feel threatened as we walked around. But eventually I realised what was strange: almost all of the people I saw on the street were men. Every waiter, every shop assistant, every policeman, and almost every single stall owner.
(Not all related.)
Two days ago I met a friend for a cup of tea in Marzanos. (For those not of Norwich, this is a café in the same building as the library – called The Forum.) We like to talk about…it feels arrogant to call them intellectual things but, you know, things other than what our favourite tv programme is or the activities of various celebrities…those things just don’t interest us. In fact, we’re thinking of forming a Lonely Conversationalists Club for those of us who are similarly inclined, because it can feel a bit of a solitary occupation.
Anyhow, in our very deep and meaningful conversations (well…) my friend (a man) commented, in a slightly aggrieved tone, although he is definitely of the general view that women should have equal rights etc (yes, I know most of these words I’ve just written are contentious and possessing of multiple variations, but that’s not what this is here – this is just relaying somethings I’ve heard and said and thought), that men were suffering an onslaught at the moment. There then after that – after I responded to that – followed a wide ranging and very contentious debate about moving goalposts and the possible spectre (raised, actually by me) of views of the past changing as the current context moves forwards…. I can feel the rotten fruit being thrown right now, and will definitely say that these are only tiny wonderings, about tiny possibilities or small aspects of life. But what I more want to say, because I feel it is maybe slightly more tangible, was that my immediate response to my friend was to apologise – because I could hear the hurt, not massive but there, in his voice. I said that I hadn’t thought about how hard this current climate could be for all men – not just the paedophiles and sex pests and those who chose to be or knew they were paid more than female colleagues doing the same work.
Like you can say of teenagers – how must it feel when thousands of people and news stories and tv programmes are saying something bad about a group that you are part of?
So I apologised, and sympathised, and I did feel sympathy. But there was a duality to my emotion, because behind that there was a feeling:
You don’t like it? Do you.
(And a grim pleasure in payback.)
I countered – although I think he maybe saw it as a side-step – with talking about the (general) physical weakness of women to men, and living with the possibility that, ultimately, you probably couldn’t resist rape, if a man chose to do that. Not always thinking it of course, but it’s something that you know, and know – or I do – that dressing and acting a certain way increases risk. Potentially. Although I was recently told that grandmothers have been raped and, of course, rapists usually knows the victim – it’s not necessarily the beauty of the victim that arouses the rapist, they just I guess feel in the mood. I shared the story I often tell of a scene in I think The Invisible Man by Ralph Ellison. A book about race primarily, there is a ‘Battle Royale’ scene where young black men are forced to fight in front of white businessmen. They (including the narrator) finish and then he talks of the white stripper who is up next. He talks about the power that she has – every man wants her, every man follows every movement she makes, animalistic. Then he notes the fear in her eyes, because the only thing stopping the men tearing her apart is the dry leaf of…what, politeness? Manners? The social rules of ‘best not’.
My friend then mentioned the – not always true of course – difference in sexual appetites between men and women, and voiced the feeling that men were being vilified for their natural selves. I could understand the difficulty of feeling hungry and not being allowed to eat, being told you cannot eat, and that eating is bad. BUT we are of course talking of consent. It vaguely occurs to me that perhaps some parallel can be drawn between vegetarianism – choosing not to force your will on another living being, despite your hunger. (And then you get of course into the whole mire of levels of sentience – hotly debated – and whether that would correlate to levels of ‘wrong’.)
The debate then ranged all sorts of places, but writing this now, it reminds me of India. I went to Mumbai and Goa last month. What is the connection? Being forced to suppress your nature. I guess women (Some? Many? As many as would if they had not been indoctrinated – in all parts of the world – into these views) do want children, do want to stay at home and cook and clean for them and their husband. And I should not have a scornful tone in that sentence (sorry). While in Mumbai my friend and I went on a tour of one of the slums. Yes, I know, poor people zoo. I felt torn, but it was run by a Community Interest Company, based in that slum, which reinvested I think 80% of the profits after tax back into the slum, running educational programmes, sport programmes…. We couldn’t take photographs, we were a small group of five, we were shown round the industrial parts of the slum and only briefly through some narrow alleyways past some homes…. But excuses now made, our tour guide was a woman of perhaps twenty, who herself lived in a slum. She was working while training to be a psychotherapist. She said that her family had – because she was a woman – only given the option of being married off. She didn’t go to private school, but she was way ahead of everybody (boys and girls) in results when she was younger. She had when we met her been learning English for about six months and was basically fluent. She was hospitalised with depression because she did not want to be married off to breed, she wanted to become a doctor. Still her parents said no, only marriage. So she left them, went to live in a slum, got this job to pay for her education. She said she had had to change her dream, because studying to be a doctor was too expensive, but at least as a psychotherapist she would be able to help people, as she had been helped herself.
I’ve told many people this story when I’ve returned. Most haven’t I think felt it the same way I have. One man at work talked about the male dominated society of Victorian England, comparing it to then in a manner so devoid of censure that I would have been upset if I had not experienced far worse things and gained a sense of proportion. My mum said, when I told her this story, and of other things I had seen, “You would have hated growing up there.” And that is the thing. Not everybody would have, but I would have hated it. (I don’t think my nature would have been totally quelled.)
Another friend and I were discussing different cultures. He – being of mixed heritage – spoke of an attraction towards non-Western cultures. He spoke of the sense of community. The support, the lack of isolation. I said that it seemed to me that strongly-joined communities also ran the risk of being more oppressive. Not necessarily, and not to dismiss the benefits. Of knowing who you are, where you are, what is good and bad to do. I know that our culture is not perfect, but I think I prefer the unheld reins that allow me to go in (almost) any direction. I do not know the other side, the other way, but I am not isolated, I know right from wrong, and I am happy.
In Mumbai there was an eeriness. Something felt strange. I loved it there. There was a kindness, and I’d say a lack of pridefulness. I did not ever feel threatened as we walked around. But eventually I realised what was strange: almost all of the people I saw on the street were men. Every waiter, every shop assistant, every policeman, and almost every single stall owner.
Jax’s amazing guide on how to help :)
A few months ago, when Em and I were on holiday in Lisbon, it’s possible I might have had a little whinge. Everyone is always so lovely and positive about the volunteering I do, but no-one ever goes any further! (Except Kate Bradbrook, who is a legend.)
Em suggested that rather than whingeing, I should do something positive about this. And I would also like to say that I know how busy everyone is. So, although I may have been complaining then, do not feel guilty. You and your life are important. The people you love and the things you love doing are important.
Sometimes, though, you want to help and have time to help, but are maybe short on ideas. OR you are swamped by a ca-zillion ideas, doing that thing which I always do when attempting breaststroke: breathing in and inhaling and then choking on…ideas of how to help. Ok. That metaphor did not work. Anyway, so during this conversation Em and I had, she suggested I share a few things I’ve done or heard about that for me have made me feel like I was making a difference (or whoever was doing the thing). By no means an exhaustive list, but here we go….
1. Enjoy your life.
It’s easier to spread happiness if you are happy. Do you dream of making your own clothes? Or going to the theatre more? Or seeing your friends and going to a pub quiz once a week? DO IT. Then you will smile, and that will be infectious. I think you can help people most from a place of happiness. (At the same time, doing these helpful/generous things I find really makes me happy, so if you are interested, read the rest of this list....)
2. Befriending.
It is true that in my time of befriending old people two have died on me, and one was a slightly creepy old man, but I befriended Win for about seven years and loved her to bits. She would give me advice, listen to me, keep me company: I got so much out of it I felt a little fraudulent. Now my friend Edmonde is teaching me to make patchwork quilts. Seeing Win was and seeing Edmonde is my weekly oasis. It can only take an hour a week, or you could do it fortnightly. It can usually work around your schedule, and I know that Age UK tries to match you with someone you’ll get on with – I presume other places do too. You can meet up with people with disabilities, old people, all sorts of people. And isolation is terrible for both your mental and physical health so you would definitely be doing a fantastically good deed! You could even just 'befriend'/swing by and say hi to an elderly neighbour. (Although I might be throwing a cat among the safeguarding pigeons there.) Anyway I say if you can, it’s lovely.
3. Mentoring.
My friend Rhi does this. She volunteers with young people and mentors them in getting jobs, sorting out housing, etc. So far I have not done this, but I once went to a training course giving statistics about the potential futures of people who have been in care, and what to think about when working with them, and it made me want to quit all of my jobs and do that constantly. (But no, I didn’t do that, in fact haven’t done it at all – see, I’m not that good.)
4. Smile at people in the street and say thank you.
There is so much anger and hate around right now. I think it is important to try to fight against this, and one of the best ways of doing this is liking people. If you like them, they’ll like you. And it intensifies in a wonderfully swirly upwards spiral. Recently I experienced a wonderful thing: I cycled right and up onto the pavement (and then got off). BUT I completely cut up a car that was about to come out of the junction. I felt terrible! I started apologising to the man through his window. He started to wind his window down and I thought oh no, he’s going to have a go at me (which I did deserve). As he wound his window down and I braved a look at his face I noticed he looked nervous. I think he thought I was having a go at him! Instead what happened was I said, “I’m so sorry, I completely cut you up!” And he said, “That’s ok, no worries!” And we smiled and went our separate ways. My day was much happier, and I hope his was too.
5. Petitions.
There's a certain number above which a petition will be considered for a debate in the House of Commons: 10,000. Now I'm a bit of a cynic about this, but if politicians care about what the people who vote for them want, we need to let them know what we want. Or what a proportion of the population wants. The first petition to get child refugees allowed into the UK was successful. Ok this was then backtracked on, and we're now having to do it all again, but that's at least a partial victory....
6. And marches/demos.
Em and I went on a march a few months ago. It was in support of Syria, trying to stop the bombing. We may have realised at the end that we had been given and proudly paraded around the Turkish flag, not the Syrian one (because the Turkish community was supporting the Syrian community), but it is still a great memory of mine, walking along with thousands of people, who all cared enough to come out, shouting slogans like 'Refugees are Welcome Here.' (Interestingly my dad said that there was no coverage of the protest on the national or regional BBC news that day.) I also will always remember what my friend John William Brown said, about some protests he was involved with in the 1980s – they were in support of an African man who'd been unfairly jailed. He was freed in 1990: Nelson Mandela.
7. The Big Issue (buy it)
I was chatting to a friend of mine once, and she said that she wasn't convinced by the Big Issue, as the problems behind homelessness should be dealt with instead. I think do BOTH. And, also, some of what causes homelessness can be relationship/life breakdowns and subsequent drug/alcohol problems, and there are loads of case studies in the Big Issue (yes, they're not impartial) of people saying that selling the Big Issue helped to build their confidence and helped them rebuild their lives. Certainly one of the Big Issue sellers I buy from isn't homeless – because the scheme has worked.
8. Gloves/scarves/food if you don’t want to give money to the homeless?
I know a lot of people have issues with giving money to the homeless – I do too. In winter, how about carrying around a spare pair of gloves that you could offer? I've done this and had a few nos but also some grateful yesses. (And my housemate Nicola's mum and her friends are amazing and keep knitting me things for this!) Or perhaps you could carry around food? There's also a great cafe in Norwich (for those who live here) called Kindakafe, and you can buy an extra (slightly cheaper) cup of tea, soup, things like that which homeless people can them come and claim. P.S. Apparently socks are a sought-after thing.
9. Shoes: yes put yourself in other people's shoes, but also every now and then take a look at your own. I know you don't like it, but there might be a bit of crud on them.
(Try to question yourself and think about your reactions to things: am I definitely right? Is it possible the other person is also right? Or partly right? Or at least has reasons for their beliefs…? And what are the reasons for my beliefs? Or anger, or frustrations? Etc.)
10. Community things like litter picks.
It’s fun and healthy and helps connections. You know, with people. And you get to go outside in the sunshine and chat to or ignore people (your choice) while you feel supremely virtuous about all the ducks and hedgehogs you’re saving. There is fresh air, there might be sunshine. And if it’s pissing it down and you step in fox poo, well it was an ADVENTURE! (Calling things an adventure makes them all a lot better.)
11. CRAFTS as fundraising!
I love making things, but it’s somewhat pointless. I’ve kind of already given all of my friends and family something I’ve made. (Which they are all thrilled about.) You could have an Etsy style business of course, but (partly because I then feel less guilty about charging money for the things I’ve made which are not necessarily the bestest…) I like to sell them to raise money for a cause that’s important to me.
12. Help make coffee or run activities in local old people’s clubs. Or clubs for people with disabilities. Etc.
(Perhaps just once a month?) There's a real shortage of people to help out at old people's clubs. (And loads of other things.) Apparently this is partly because the old people who used to do this are now having to do a lot of babysitting because both parents are having to work.... And it might help intergenerational misunderstandings, if a few of us young beans come along and help out. (P.S. My friend Doug was cycling along after Brexit and had abuse hurled at him because he was old. He voted REMAIN.)
Oh, and because I’m feeling concerned about the environment….
1. Fly less.
Apparently my Aunty Anne and her family try to fly as little as possible, but they have family in the US, so what they do is they try to balance out the emissions caused by their flights with other good behaviour. I must ask them what this is. Anyhow, this year I'm going to try to enjoy the wonders of places I can access by train instead. And my friends. I would LOVE to find a friend to have a joint Norwich-cation with and spend a week making clothes or upcycling furniture or going and painting in the park! Any takers?
2. Stop the water in the shower while you’re lathering up.
(NO INNUENDO HERE. Please behave.) This saves water, and also makes your shower gel go further.
3. Buy clothes from charity shops.
(If you even need them: my mum was a firm advocate of ‘you have three t-shirts, so you don’t need more. And one skirt is more than enough!) This is re-use (which is better than recycling) AND it gives financial assistance to a charity. But not pants or socks. Unless you’re braver than me.
Anyhow, I hope that was a wonderfully inspirational blog post, and that it made sense and wasn't too rambly. Thank you for reading it!
Dear God, four pages. Soz.
Em suggested that rather than whingeing, I should do something positive about this. And I would also like to say that I know how busy everyone is. So, although I may have been complaining then, do not feel guilty. You and your life are important. The people you love and the things you love doing are important.
Sometimes, though, you want to help and have time to help, but are maybe short on ideas. OR you are swamped by a ca-zillion ideas, doing that thing which I always do when attempting breaststroke: breathing in and inhaling and then choking on…ideas of how to help. Ok. That metaphor did not work. Anyway, so during this conversation Em and I had, she suggested I share a few things I’ve done or heard about that for me have made me feel like I was making a difference (or whoever was doing the thing). By no means an exhaustive list, but here we go….
1. Enjoy your life.
It’s easier to spread happiness if you are happy. Do you dream of making your own clothes? Or going to the theatre more? Or seeing your friends and going to a pub quiz once a week? DO IT. Then you will smile, and that will be infectious. I think you can help people most from a place of happiness. (At the same time, doing these helpful/generous things I find really makes me happy, so if you are interested, read the rest of this list....)
2. Befriending.
It is true that in my time of befriending old people two have died on me, and one was a slightly creepy old man, but I befriended Win for about seven years and loved her to bits. She would give me advice, listen to me, keep me company: I got so much out of it I felt a little fraudulent. Now my friend Edmonde is teaching me to make patchwork quilts. Seeing Win was and seeing Edmonde is my weekly oasis. It can only take an hour a week, or you could do it fortnightly. It can usually work around your schedule, and I know that Age UK tries to match you with someone you’ll get on with – I presume other places do too. You can meet up with people with disabilities, old people, all sorts of people. And isolation is terrible for both your mental and physical health so you would definitely be doing a fantastically good deed! You could even just 'befriend'/swing by and say hi to an elderly neighbour. (Although I might be throwing a cat among the safeguarding pigeons there.) Anyway I say if you can, it’s lovely.
3. Mentoring.
My friend Rhi does this. She volunteers with young people and mentors them in getting jobs, sorting out housing, etc. So far I have not done this, but I once went to a training course giving statistics about the potential futures of people who have been in care, and what to think about when working with them, and it made me want to quit all of my jobs and do that constantly. (But no, I didn’t do that, in fact haven’t done it at all – see, I’m not that good.)
4. Smile at people in the street and say thank you.
There is so much anger and hate around right now. I think it is important to try to fight against this, and one of the best ways of doing this is liking people. If you like them, they’ll like you. And it intensifies in a wonderfully swirly upwards spiral. Recently I experienced a wonderful thing: I cycled right and up onto the pavement (and then got off). BUT I completely cut up a car that was about to come out of the junction. I felt terrible! I started apologising to the man through his window. He started to wind his window down and I thought oh no, he’s going to have a go at me (which I did deserve). As he wound his window down and I braved a look at his face I noticed he looked nervous. I think he thought I was having a go at him! Instead what happened was I said, “I’m so sorry, I completely cut you up!” And he said, “That’s ok, no worries!” And we smiled and went our separate ways. My day was much happier, and I hope his was too.
5. Petitions.
There's a certain number above which a petition will be considered for a debate in the House of Commons: 10,000. Now I'm a bit of a cynic about this, but if politicians care about what the people who vote for them want, we need to let them know what we want. Or what a proportion of the population wants. The first petition to get child refugees allowed into the UK was successful. Ok this was then backtracked on, and we're now having to do it all again, but that's at least a partial victory....
6. And marches/demos.
Em and I went on a march a few months ago. It was in support of Syria, trying to stop the bombing. We may have realised at the end that we had been given and proudly paraded around the Turkish flag, not the Syrian one (because the Turkish community was supporting the Syrian community), but it is still a great memory of mine, walking along with thousands of people, who all cared enough to come out, shouting slogans like 'Refugees are Welcome Here.' (Interestingly my dad said that there was no coverage of the protest on the national or regional BBC news that day.) I also will always remember what my friend John William Brown said, about some protests he was involved with in the 1980s – they were in support of an African man who'd been unfairly jailed. He was freed in 1990: Nelson Mandela.
7. The Big Issue (buy it)
I was chatting to a friend of mine once, and she said that she wasn't convinced by the Big Issue, as the problems behind homelessness should be dealt with instead. I think do BOTH. And, also, some of what causes homelessness can be relationship/life breakdowns and subsequent drug/alcohol problems, and there are loads of case studies in the Big Issue (yes, they're not impartial) of people saying that selling the Big Issue helped to build their confidence and helped them rebuild their lives. Certainly one of the Big Issue sellers I buy from isn't homeless – because the scheme has worked.
8. Gloves/scarves/food if you don’t want to give money to the homeless?
I know a lot of people have issues with giving money to the homeless – I do too. In winter, how about carrying around a spare pair of gloves that you could offer? I've done this and had a few nos but also some grateful yesses. (And my housemate Nicola's mum and her friends are amazing and keep knitting me things for this!) Or perhaps you could carry around food? There's also a great cafe in Norwich (for those who live here) called Kindakafe, and you can buy an extra (slightly cheaper) cup of tea, soup, things like that which homeless people can them come and claim. P.S. Apparently socks are a sought-after thing.
9. Shoes: yes put yourself in other people's shoes, but also every now and then take a look at your own. I know you don't like it, but there might be a bit of crud on them.
(Try to question yourself and think about your reactions to things: am I definitely right? Is it possible the other person is also right? Or partly right? Or at least has reasons for their beliefs…? And what are the reasons for my beliefs? Or anger, or frustrations? Etc.)
10. Community things like litter picks.
It’s fun and healthy and helps connections. You know, with people. And you get to go outside in the sunshine and chat to or ignore people (your choice) while you feel supremely virtuous about all the ducks and hedgehogs you’re saving. There is fresh air, there might be sunshine. And if it’s pissing it down and you step in fox poo, well it was an ADVENTURE! (Calling things an adventure makes them all a lot better.)
11. CRAFTS as fundraising!
I love making things, but it’s somewhat pointless. I’ve kind of already given all of my friends and family something I’ve made. (Which they are all thrilled about.) You could have an Etsy style business of course, but (partly because I then feel less guilty about charging money for the things I’ve made which are not necessarily the bestest…) I like to sell them to raise money for a cause that’s important to me.
12. Help make coffee or run activities in local old people’s clubs. Or clubs for people with disabilities. Etc.
(Perhaps just once a month?) There's a real shortage of people to help out at old people's clubs. (And loads of other things.) Apparently this is partly because the old people who used to do this are now having to do a lot of babysitting because both parents are having to work.... And it might help intergenerational misunderstandings, if a few of us young beans come along and help out. (P.S. My friend Doug was cycling along after Brexit and had abuse hurled at him because he was old. He voted REMAIN.)
Oh, and because I’m feeling concerned about the environment….
1. Fly less.
Apparently my Aunty Anne and her family try to fly as little as possible, but they have family in the US, so what they do is they try to balance out the emissions caused by their flights with other good behaviour. I must ask them what this is. Anyhow, this year I'm going to try to enjoy the wonders of places I can access by train instead. And my friends. I would LOVE to find a friend to have a joint Norwich-cation with and spend a week making clothes or upcycling furniture or going and painting in the park! Any takers?
2. Stop the water in the shower while you’re lathering up.
(NO INNUENDO HERE. Please behave.) This saves water, and also makes your shower gel go further.
3. Buy clothes from charity shops.
(If you even need them: my mum was a firm advocate of ‘you have three t-shirts, so you don’t need more. And one skirt is more than enough!) This is re-use (which is better than recycling) AND it gives financial assistance to a charity. But not pants or socks. Unless you’re braver than me.
Anyhow, I hope that was a wonderfully inspirational blog post, and that it made sense and wasn't too rambly. Thank you for reading it!
Dear God, four pages. Soz.
January - 1. Paint a Picture of God
(Apologies if this offends anyone, it is just my musings.)
Today I listened for over half an hour to a man who drove, verbally, from Interesting way up North to Paranoid and A
Bit Crazy. Not too scary – a veneer of sane, but I'd always known he was heading that direction – there were hints of medium Northern (according to the previous metaphor). Passionate certainly. I am encouraged to read many books – avoiding the brainwashing TV – and decide for myself. Because most people, when he talks to them, don't believe him.
He understands that.
I was given a cup of tea and, once the lessons were over, came into the kitchen of the community centre to say thanks,
and promote – a final sally – the aims of the particular job I was doing that day. I chatted, and they, these 5 men, were interested, keen to volunteer. They said I should come earlier next week, to do more questionnaires (which is what I'd
been doing before my interviewee got sidetracked) – in fact, I should come to the service. I said mmm, and made a face. They kindly pressed me. I said, “Well, I'm afraid I've got to reveal myself as an atheist. But I'm still a nice person!”
(Joking tone – it's always an awkward one.) I can't remember what they then said – probably because my defenses were
up, so slight memory loss. But they were nice. Still friendly. And they didn't immediately start a debate, which is what
I'm always worried about.
My jokey tone was particularly because my interviewee had, in an answer, added another category to the lonely – that
was the subject of the questionnaire: the godless. Or he'd put it the Godless. He's said, “It's not pc, but....” and written it.
I'd made those types of comments - “No, it's ok. I can see what you mean, because it's a very social thing, going to church,
the support network.” He'd said no, that it was more.... I forget. I don't think he finished. I may have talked over him.
But I think he was heading along the lines of 'even on their own, in a room, no Christian is ever alone, because they have God.'
I could have imagined a white-belted, arms tangled man, alone, in a room, discussing morality with himself. But I had the feeling that I used to have when I still thought Leon had high regard for me – even though it had not worked, and we were several counties apart, I could feel his support and sometimes hear his advice. I knew it was me, but I believed I was right
in the scripting I was doing – that was how he'd feel, that was what he'd say, so I could draw strength from it. Or even if
it was myself giving myself advice, it was nicer in his voice.
And, I had a half picture (an echo because my mind's pictures are not strong) of an old man, with a beard, stranding
behind someone sat on a chair, with a hand friendly over the seated one's shoulder. Not touching.
God does not exist (in my opinion). If he did he might look like Santa without the red suit. He more likely looks like Gandalf, and is wise like him too. I'm pretty sure he is not a lion, no matter how sentient it is: he has to have a beard, and look like an old man. He could be Dumbledore. Hang on, weren't they, at least at some point, played by the same actor?
It's hard. Many old people look somewhat similar (from a distance…).
Of course, God could be like an elf, and age very slowly, or Peter Pan, and not age at all.
But everyone (in the Western world) knows he's an old man with a long white beard. (Or everyone in England.)
The Quakers and probably various others believe God is everywhere and in everything. But we don't think he is in everything, do we. We never think God is in the pate, or the exercise book, or sneezes. If I am thinking kindly of God I think he is in joy. Typically I think of joy – subset nature – blue sky that you want to whirl in, pretty twig, cow chewing, butterfly, swans. But, thinking about it, I'd like to extend God to all other goods – open my definitions. Therefore God
is the BBC Pride and Prejudice and 27 Dresses, my tan boots that make me feel like a cowboy (a Mexican cowboy), and yoghurt apricots.
And maybe wider – I'm still excluding Him (he/she/it) from selves – mine and others. So God is...feeling healthy, pride
(not too much), daydreams, endorphins, helping your friends and them helping you.
Listening to a man for what felt like an hour, and being torn by interest versus needing to leave.
Being given a cup of tea by them.
And them offering to volunteer.
Here is a picture of God:
(Note the beard.)
Today I listened for over half an hour to a man who drove, verbally, from Interesting way up North to Paranoid and A
Bit Crazy. Not too scary – a veneer of sane, but I'd always known he was heading that direction – there were hints of medium Northern (according to the previous metaphor). Passionate certainly. I am encouraged to read many books – avoiding the brainwashing TV – and decide for myself. Because most people, when he talks to them, don't believe him.
He understands that.
I was given a cup of tea and, once the lessons were over, came into the kitchen of the community centre to say thanks,
and promote – a final sally – the aims of the particular job I was doing that day. I chatted, and they, these 5 men, were interested, keen to volunteer. They said I should come earlier next week, to do more questionnaires (which is what I'd
been doing before my interviewee got sidetracked) – in fact, I should come to the service. I said mmm, and made a face. They kindly pressed me. I said, “Well, I'm afraid I've got to reveal myself as an atheist. But I'm still a nice person!”
(Joking tone – it's always an awkward one.) I can't remember what they then said – probably because my defenses were
up, so slight memory loss. But they were nice. Still friendly. And they didn't immediately start a debate, which is what
I'm always worried about.
My jokey tone was particularly because my interviewee had, in an answer, added another category to the lonely – that
was the subject of the questionnaire: the godless. Or he'd put it the Godless. He's said, “It's not pc, but....” and written it.
I'd made those types of comments - “No, it's ok. I can see what you mean, because it's a very social thing, going to church,
the support network.” He'd said no, that it was more.... I forget. I don't think he finished. I may have talked over him.
But I think he was heading along the lines of 'even on their own, in a room, no Christian is ever alone, because they have God.'
I could have imagined a white-belted, arms tangled man, alone, in a room, discussing morality with himself. But I had the feeling that I used to have when I still thought Leon had high regard for me – even though it had not worked, and we were several counties apart, I could feel his support and sometimes hear his advice. I knew it was me, but I believed I was right
in the scripting I was doing – that was how he'd feel, that was what he'd say, so I could draw strength from it. Or even if
it was myself giving myself advice, it was nicer in his voice.
And, I had a half picture (an echo because my mind's pictures are not strong) of an old man, with a beard, stranding
behind someone sat on a chair, with a hand friendly over the seated one's shoulder. Not touching.
God does not exist (in my opinion). If he did he might look like Santa without the red suit. He more likely looks like Gandalf, and is wise like him too. I'm pretty sure he is not a lion, no matter how sentient it is: he has to have a beard, and look like an old man. He could be Dumbledore. Hang on, weren't they, at least at some point, played by the same actor?
It's hard. Many old people look somewhat similar (from a distance…).
Of course, God could be like an elf, and age very slowly, or Peter Pan, and not age at all.
But everyone (in the Western world) knows he's an old man with a long white beard. (Or everyone in England.)
The Quakers and probably various others believe God is everywhere and in everything. But we don't think he is in everything, do we. We never think God is in the pate, or the exercise book, or sneezes. If I am thinking kindly of God I think he is in joy. Typically I think of joy – subset nature – blue sky that you want to whirl in, pretty twig, cow chewing, butterfly, swans. But, thinking about it, I'd like to extend God to all other goods – open my definitions. Therefore God
is the BBC Pride and Prejudice and 27 Dresses, my tan boots that make me feel like a cowboy (a Mexican cowboy), and yoghurt apricots.
And maybe wider – I'm still excluding Him (he/she/it) from selves – mine and others. So God is...feeling healthy, pride
(not too much), daydreams, endorphins, helping your friends and them helping you.
Listening to a man for what felt like an hour, and being torn by interest versus needing to leave.
Being given a cup of tea by them.
And them offering to volunteer.
Here is a picture of God:
(Note the beard.)
A Study in Cream
I have decided to call this A Study in Cream. It was either that or Moles in Bathooms? But that's a big ambiguous because by moles I mean the animals not the things on our bodies (that are occasionally cancerous). And it does rather Give the Game Away too. Obviously this whole paragraph therefore does - Give the Game Away - but I've decided to instead call it Suspense (the effect, not this story): why are these moles found in bathrooms/WTF?
My brother Rob/Bob was back from Kenya for two weeks so the whole family spent three days in the Lake District. Mum and Dad got there first - the day before. Tom (other brother) drove Rob and I up from Peterborough (well, near there). (At the beginning of this, although in the middle of my own journey from Norwich, there was a cup of tea and toast in Tom's house, during which I managed to knock over a mug and break it. This reminded me of when Rob came to visit me and almost immediately bummed a bowl onto the floor - smash!)
When we arrived I said, "Where is the house? Unless it's that shed over there." It was the shed. A prefab holiday home next to the King George the Sixth and owned by that pub. You could actually fit five, six or even seven people in it. It was all we needed.
We like playing cards, so we played that a lot - that and the dice game, which is great fun, and the second evening we started with Racing Demon and then moved onto Scat (nothing dodgy - we just call it that). I was sitting in one of the low grey garden chairs (some of the real chairs were broken) with a cream and brown tube cushion wedged behind me to try to 1. Make my back hurt less (cream futon NOT comfy) and 2. Help me reach the table. White plastic kettle had been boiled - Dad and I had tea. Mum, Rob and Tom had decaffinated (aka pointless) stuff because it was past their tea-shed.
Now Scat is a game of speed. It's like Uno but better because it has jumping in. We like to talk when we play - not conversation but 'smack talk' - or our version of it. It's not rude; its creative expressions of annoyance include 'You gherkin!' and victors might say something like 'Laughing out the other side of your face now, aren't you.' The Scat cards are carefully chosen: they are cheap and old. Proper cards eventually graduate to become Scat cards. You don't use new or nice ones because they frequently get bent when hands clash during an overenthusiastic or contested jump-in. They are sticky because of years of sweaty hands holding them and also because (with the particularly old sets) Nanny used to say "I can't get these cards apart," lick them, then deal.
So, why have I decided to call it A Study in Cream? Well, as well as the cream futon and white kettle (close enough) there were cream dice and cream prefab walls with cream plastic blinds and they grey garden chairs had whitey-cream mesh.
To be continued....
My brother Rob/Bob was back from Kenya for two weeks so the whole family spent three days in the Lake District. Mum and Dad got there first - the day before. Tom (other brother) drove Rob and I up from Peterborough (well, near there). (At the beginning of this, although in the middle of my own journey from Norwich, there was a cup of tea and toast in Tom's house, during which I managed to knock over a mug and break it. This reminded me of when Rob came to visit me and almost immediately bummed a bowl onto the floor - smash!)
When we arrived I said, "Where is the house? Unless it's that shed over there." It was the shed. A prefab holiday home next to the King George the Sixth and owned by that pub. You could actually fit five, six or even seven people in it. It was all we needed.
We like playing cards, so we played that a lot - that and the dice game, which is great fun, and the second evening we started with Racing Demon and then moved onto Scat (nothing dodgy - we just call it that). I was sitting in one of the low grey garden chairs (some of the real chairs were broken) with a cream and brown tube cushion wedged behind me to try to 1. Make my back hurt less (cream futon NOT comfy) and 2. Help me reach the table. White plastic kettle had been boiled - Dad and I had tea. Mum, Rob and Tom had decaffinated (aka pointless) stuff because it was past their tea-shed.
Now Scat is a game of speed. It's like Uno but better because it has jumping in. We like to talk when we play - not conversation but 'smack talk' - or our version of it. It's not rude; its creative expressions of annoyance include 'You gherkin!' and victors might say something like 'Laughing out the other side of your face now, aren't you.' The Scat cards are carefully chosen: they are cheap and old. Proper cards eventually graduate to become Scat cards. You don't use new or nice ones because they frequently get bent when hands clash during an overenthusiastic or contested jump-in. They are sticky because of years of sweaty hands holding them and also because (with the particularly old sets) Nanny used to say "I can't get these cards apart," lick them, then deal.
So, why have I decided to call it A Study in Cream? Well, as well as the cream futon and white kettle (close enough) there were cream dice and cream prefab walls with cream plastic blinds and they grey garden chairs had whitey-cream mesh.
To be continued....
Muttley.
(Not a continuation from the previous tale.)
On my 28th birthday we acted like children. Alcohol was there, but we probably would have anyway: when you get to a certain age you either face it or regress. Plus I was in a big house with lots of nooks and crannies. 3 floors. Cupboards.
So at about midnight the lounge was deserted. Bright orange (cheese-puff orange) flavoured Doritos in a bright pink mixing bowl. Squash-like wine-based drink in a few cups (most other things empty). The laptop was quietly singing Tracks of My Tears, and then moved onto The Beastie Boys. The room was still - just the laptop singing and a few crisp bits working their way into the corners of the pastelle and weirdly-lumped sofa.
But you could also hear a few footsteps - almost padding around except a few decibels louder than quiet because of the pink, red and white wine and the pond-green cider. And voices crap-whispering, "Where is she?" (You know how when you're drunk you think putting on a husky voice makes it quiet.)
I was under my big white rectangle-with-a-curved-end desk that my dad made for me years ago. I was behind some hideous red white and grey spotty boxes. And behind my fraying black wheelie chair. And I couldn't stop doing a little Muttley-laugh. Hee hee hee hee.
That's what gave me away.
On my 28th birthday we acted like children. Alcohol was there, but we probably would have anyway: when you get to a certain age you either face it or regress. Plus I was in a big house with lots of nooks and crannies. 3 floors. Cupboards.
So at about midnight the lounge was deserted. Bright orange (cheese-puff orange) flavoured Doritos in a bright pink mixing bowl. Squash-like wine-based drink in a few cups (most other things empty). The laptop was quietly singing Tracks of My Tears, and then moved onto The Beastie Boys. The room was still - just the laptop singing and a few crisp bits working their way into the corners of the pastelle and weirdly-lumped sofa.
But you could also hear a few footsteps - almost padding around except a few decibels louder than quiet because of the pink, red and white wine and the pond-green cider. And voices crap-whispering, "Where is she?" (You know how when you're drunk you think putting on a husky voice makes it quiet.)
I was under my big white rectangle-with-a-curved-end desk that my dad made for me years ago. I was behind some hideous red white and grey spotty boxes. And behind my fraying black wheelie chair. And I couldn't stop doing a little Muttley-laugh. Hee hee hee hee.
That's what gave me away.