It's funny, the things your mind does to sabotage you. Perhaps there are people out there who truly believe they deserve good things, people who fully expect to win the lottery and actually do, and people who look themselves in the mirror's eye and believe they are good at whatever it is they say they do. I do not fall into this category.
I am delighted to report that I have had my first magazine acceptance. Pregnancy and Birth are allegedly going to publish my short article on bump names. Of course, I am still to await details, so they still have a couple of days to realise their mistake and decide that someone needs to be fired over the decision to publish my sorry little offering. But still. I liked it. My tutor liked it (whatever that's worth - I can't help feeling she's far too easy on me, going for the easy course pass rather than really challenging me as a writer) And yet, as soon as someone wants to publish it, I can't help wondering what the hell was wrong with it.
Having said that I am still happy about the news - I just don't quite believe it. And so I can't help but wonder... if this is how I feel about one simple article... I mean, I did study English at one of the best universities in the world, I really ought to be able to string a few sentences together - it's little wonder I haven't done anything big in life, is it?!
Nuff for now - supposed to be keeping this professional. Perhaps I'll go back to just doing little articles on here. It's not a diary, is it? Though I'm sure that's how it started...
Saturday, 6 March 2010
Thursday, 25 February 2010
There's just no pleasing some people...
Sadly I refer to myself. Whilst usually an avid supporter of the "think positive, life is what you make it" school of thought, I do allow myself the occasional moment of self-indulgent griping. Actually I do quite a lot of griping, I just prefer to focus on the more positive bits.
So - why am I impossible to please? I have sold my first piece of writing, Snapdragons, a children's illustrated narrative verse story, to an online magazine. I have heard back from Sprouts editor that he liked my article and wants another to go with it. I have been sent a features list by an old contact in the DVD industry to write for him. And my response? Disappointment. There must clearly be something wrong with all these people if they want to publish what I have written. I think it's also because I didn't think these were the best things I'd ever written so it's a little sour that they are the ones that have succeeded.
Then again, there's a little piece of me leaping about in excitement - first step on the ladder and all that. I do get painfully jealous of the success of others though. Bad me.
So - why am I impossible to please? I have sold my first piece of writing, Snapdragons, a children's illustrated narrative verse story, to an online magazine. I have heard back from Sprouts editor that he liked my article and wants another to go with it. I have been sent a features list by an old contact in the DVD industry to write for him. And my response? Disappointment. There must clearly be something wrong with all these people if they want to publish what I have written. I think it's also because I didn't think these were the best things I'd ever written so it's a little sour that they are the ones that have succeeded.
Then again, there's a little piece of me leaping about in excitement - first step on the ladder and all that. I do get painfully jealous of the success of others though. Bad me.
Monday, 8 February 2010
Don't read this if you're religious
The more I think about it, the more religion strikes me as absolutely preposterous. I mean really. Most 7 year olds are aware that there is no such thing as Father Christmas, the easter bunny or the tooth fairy - but at least all those things have real manifestations in humanity. OK so 9 times out of 10 it's their parents, but at least real, tangible things result.
Laws are passed, wars are fought and millions upon millions of people die every year in the name of God (whichever name those people are choosing is, for the purposes of this rant, irrelevant) A being whose existence has no basis in fact whatsoever, whose representation through history is at best sketchy and for whom, conveniently, the lack of proof of existence is meant to be taken as a test of faith, proving even more that he exists. (He, she - again, it's irrelevant) It's just utter tosh.
I do not gainsay spirituality, and I do believe that the human soul / conscious mind has more to it than simple mechanics, that we are perhaps more than just a bunch of animals roaming the earth in search of food. But I also suspect that that belief is, in most people, born of an inability to comprehend the idea of Nothing. Death is scary scary scary, never seeing those you love again. The idea that you can go through all the crap we go through, with no point or "higher meaning". But isn't our own existence, evolution and experience exactly what we're here for? Is God just a construct to comfort those who have lost loved ones? Some kind of insurance policy against a life cut short? Even some kind of omiscient boogeyman with which to scare children into behaving themselves. People have joked in the past that much of the world's turbulent history could have been avoided had the Bible had another page at the beginning saying "this is a work of fiction."
I believe in morality, I lead a relatively ethical existence (certainly in terms of the 10 commandments.) So much of the bible is just extremist, racist, homophobic evangelism, encouraging awful acts of retribution on what nowadays would be considered relatively minor sins. We throw up our Western hands in horror at the idea of Arabic cultures engaging in practices like cutting off the hands of thieves, or punishing women who have been raped. And yet it's all there, in the bible. If God were real, what kind of role model is that? I would rather raise my son to believe in a world where that kind of teaching is a thing of the past. We are encouraged to move with the times in all other aspects of life - why not this one? A country plunging further into debt by the day spends £20 million on a visit from the Pope. HOW can it possibly cost that much? I would love to know how much religion costs the average tax payer in this country.
Science has proved so much. We know some things don't exist (sorry Nessie...) And yes, fine, there are still things about this world, and more about the universe, that we don't know and probably never will. I just very much doubt that God's existence is one of them.I am all for people being happy in their own skins and finding whatever understanding of life makes them feel necessary and worthwhile in it. I just can't help feeling it's something that should be left behind with puberty.
Laws are passed, wars are fought and millions upon millions of people die every year in the name of God (whichever name those people are choosing is, for the purposes of this rant, irrelevant) A being whose existence has no basis in fact whatsoever, whose representation through history is at best sketchy and for whom, conveniently, the lack of proof of existence is meant to be taken as a test of faith, proving even more that he exists. (He, she - again, it's irrelevant) It's just utter tosh.
I do not gainsay spirituality, and I do believe that the human soul / conscious mind has more to it than simple mechanics, that we are perhaps more than just a bunch of animals roaming the earth in search of food. But I also suspect that that belief is, in most people, born of an inability to comprehend the idea of Nothing. Death is scary scary scary, never seeing those you love again. The idea that you can go through all the crap we go through, with no point or "higher meaning". But isn't our own existence, evolution and experience exactly what we're here for? Is God just a construct to comfort those who have lost loved ones? Some kind of insurance policy against a life cut short? Even some kind of omiscient boogeyman with which to scare children into behaving themselves. People have joked in the past that much of the world's turbulent history could have been avoided had the Bible had another page at the beginning saying "this is a work of fiction."
I believe in morality, I lead a relatively ethical existence (certainly in terms of the 10 commandments.) So much of the bible is just extremist, racist, homophobic evangelism, encouraging awful acts of retribution on what nowadays would be considered relatively minor sins. We throw up our Western hands in horror at the idea of Arabic cultures engaging in practices like cutting off the hands of thieves, or punishing women who have been raped. And yet it's all there, in the bible. If God were real, what kind of role model is that? I would rather raise my son to believe in a world where that kind of teaching is a thing of the past. We are encouraged to move with the times in all other aspects of life - why not this one? A country plunging further into debt by the day spends £20 million on a visit from the Pope. HOW can it possibly cost that much? I would love to know how much religion costs the average tax payer in this country.
Science has proved so much. We know some things don't exist (sorry Nessie...) And yes, fine, there are still things about this world, and more about the universe, that we don't know and probably never will. I just very much doubt that God's existence is one of them.I am all for people being happy in their own skins and finding whatever understanding of life makes them feel necessary and worthwhile in it. I just can't help feeling it's something that should be left behind with puberty.
Saturday, 6 February 2010
Ponderments and Wonderings
Before I had my son, I had a Good Job. We’re not talking six figures and a Canary Wharf penthouse here, but it kept me in unlimited free DVDs and all the film premieres I could want. And I am a big fan of film, so this was a Good Thing. And yet, when my crumpled little beauty of a son arrived, I took everyone, myself included, by surprise, and decided not to go back to work.
I was proud of my decision, and I stand by it – I love being able to spend every day with him, watching him discover and experiment in his own ways. And yet. Every so often I have a feeling that maybe I am somehow letting the side down, that I should have at least tried it out, and perhaps I gave in too easily. I was in the extremely fortunate position of being able to choose not to go back to work, and although it was a difficult decision, it really didn’t take me too long to make up my mind.
A few months ago, I went to a university reunion (I know, more fool me really) I was persuaded to go along against my better judgement by my best friend, and decided to take it at face value – an opportunity to meet up with friends in London and be out sans fils for once. We dutifully mingled and sipped our drinks, and waited politely to be routinely questioned by our old tutors, who we hadn’t seen for 10 years or so. Second in line, I waited patiently for my friend Mark to give a full life and work history of his path to becoming a successful sound engineer in the computer game industry. Suitably impressed, my tutor turned to me. Confident that she was going to be similarly impressed by my own sojourn in the world of film marketing, and my recent efforts to finally become a writer, I began with the proud words: “Well I recently gave up my job to stay at home with my son.” Before I could wow her with detail of my budding literary career, or bore her with highlights from my previous one, she interrupted me. “Oh how lovely,” she said. “And Liz, how about you?” That was it. My moment was over. I had been unequivocally and summarily dismissed.
But why? Surely it’s not just my own hackles that rise at such behaviour. Female emancipation is, in my perhaps flawed understanding of it, all about women having the freedom to choose the lifestyle they want for themselves, without being pressured into it. Well I have chosen to be at home with my son: so why do I feel so guilty about it?
Women in today’s society can have it all, and God forbid we don’t try to have exactly that. If we’re not juggling 4000 things then we’re obviously not working hard enough. It seems like we are living in the shadow of some giant, unspoken judgement that looms over us all. We have a collective chip on our shoulders the size of Mount Rushmore, and quite honestly, we need to cut ourselves some slack. We say the words but do we believe them? “Being a stay at home mum is a full time job.” There, I said it. And yet, do I believe it?
Well, my son certainly fills up most of my time, but because he doesn’t pay me a salary, set me ridiculous targets and assess me on a quarterly basis, I find it hard to take him seriously as a boss. The very fact that I am writing this might suggest that I am not entirely comfortable with the sole role of “stay-at-home-mum” just yet. Since university I have been entirely, proudly self-sufficient, and why should I give that up? I’ve worked hard to save up enough to maintain some degree of financial independence even now, without a salary. Women have fought so hard to be taken seriously, to stand on our own well turned-out feet that it rankles to take on a role associated with a much bleaker time of inequality. Most of my friends say they’re jealous that I can be at home all the time and I don’t doubt that in some ways that is true, but we all make our choices based on our own situations, and I’m not sure many of them would really be too comfortable with it either.
So was my tutor really blanking me, dismissing my status as unimportant and unworthy of input? Probably. But the fact that it bothered me reflects only on me, not on her. She has her own issues, her own filters through which she sees the world, and I have mine. Having children really does change your life, your perspective, and everything else. I for one am grateful that I have the opportunity to spend the first years of my son’s life with him, and I know that thousands of women out there will be envious that I can do just that. Maybe it’s just that the expectations we lay on each other and even on ourselves are so high that simply being one thing in life seems too simple to be truly rewarding. As most mothers will say, becoming one is the most empowering, memorable and unique moment in their lives – it seems that being able to focus on it for longer than your average maternity leave just seems too good to be true. But the time will come around all too soon when my son wants his own space and freedom, just as I need mine from time to time, and then I will look back on these precious years with longing and fond nostalgia.
It was actually my old boss who put my mind at rest. He knew I was struggling with my decision – as Free so memorably questioned, should I stay or should I go? He said, “Listen. If you leave, and decide in 6 months time it was the wrong decision, you can always go out and get another job. But if you stay and realise in 6 months it was the wrong decision, you can’t ever get that time back.”
Being a parent is a biological function, one that many will argue is the mythical Number 42 of life. Other people have their own raison d’etres; for some it is a career, travel or another passion. Many women decide not to have children at all, and are fulfilled in so many other ways. As long as we are comfortable with our own choices and understand the big things in life that makes each one of us happy, maybe just one identity is enough. Just because we CAN have it all these days, doesn’t necessarily mean that we always should.
I was proud of my decision, and I stand by it – I love being able to spend every day with him, watching him discover and experiment in his own ways. And yet. Every so often I have a feeling that maybe I am somehow letting the side down, that I should have at least tried it out, and perhaps I gave in too easily. I was in the extremely fortunate position of being able to choose not to go back to work, and although it was a difficult decision, it really didn’t take me too long to make up my mind.
A few months ago, I went to a university reunion (I know, more fool me really) I was persuaded to go along against my better judgement by my best friend, and decided to take it at face value – an opportunity to meet up with friends in London and be out sans fils for once. We dutifully mingled and sipped our drinks, and waited politely to be routinely questioned by our old tutors, who we hadn’t seen for 10 years or so. Second in line, I waited patiently for my friend Mark to give a full life and work history of his path to becoming a successful sound engineer in the computer game industry. Suitably impressed, my tutor turned to me. Confident that she was going to be similarly impressed by my own sojourn in the world of film marketing, and my recent efforts to finally become a writer, I began with the proud words: “Well I recently gave up my job to stay at home with my son.” Before I could wow her with detail of my budding literary career, or bore her with highlights from my previous one, she interrupted me. “Oh how lovely,” she said. “And Liz, how about you?” That was it. My moment was over. I had been unequivocally and summarily dismissed.
But why? Surely it’s not just my own hackles that rise at such behaviour. Female emancipation is, in my perhaps flawed understanding of it, all about women having the freedom to choose the lifestyle they want for themselves, without being pressured into it. Well I have chosen to be at home with my son: so why do I feel so guilty about it?
Women in today’s society can have it all, and God forbid we don’t try to have exactly that. If we’re not juggling 4000 things then we’re obviously not working hard enough. It seems like we are living in the shadow of some giant, unspoken judgement that looms over us all. We have a collective chip on our shoulders the size of Mount Rushmore, and quite honestly, we need to cut ourselves some slack. We say the words but do we believe them? “Being a stay at home mum is a full time job.” There, I said it. And yet, do I believe it?
Well, my son certainly fills up most of my time, but because he doesn’t pay me a salary, set me ridiculous targets and assess me on a quarterly basis, I find it hard to take him seriously as a boss. The very fact that I am writing this might suggest that I am not entirely comfortable with the sole role of “stay-at-home-mum” just yet. Since university I have been entirely, proudly self-sufficient, and why should I give that up? I’ve worked hard to save up enough to maintain some degree of financial independence even now, without a salary. Women have fought so hard to be taken seriously, to stand on our own well turned-out feet that it rankles to take on a role associated with a much bleaker time of inequality. Most of my friends say they’re jealous that I can be at home all the time and I don’t doubt that in some ways that is true, but we all make our choices based on our own situations, and I’m not sure many of them would really be too comfortable with it either.
So was my tutor really blanking me, dismissing my status as unimportant and unworthy of input? Probably. But the fact that it bothered me reflects only on me, not on her. She has her own issues, her own filters through which she sees the world, and I have mine. Having children really does change your life, your perspective, and everything else. I for one am grateful that I have the opportunity to spend the first years of my son’s life with him, and I know that thousands of women out there will be envious that I can do just that. Maybe it’s just that the expectations we lay on each other and even on ourselves are so high that simply being one thing in life seems too simple to be truly rewarding. As most mothers will say, becoming one is the most empowering, memorable and unique moment in their lives – it seems that being able to focus on it for longer than your average maternity leave just seems too good to be true. But the time will come around all too soon when my son wants his own space and freedom, just as I need mine from time to time, and then I will look back on these precious years with longing and fond nostalgia.
It was actually my old boss who put my mind at rest. He knew I was struggling with my decision – as Free so memorably questioned, should I stay or should I go? He said, “Listen. If you leave, and decide in 6 months time it was the wrong decision, you can always go out and get another job. But if you stay and realise in 6 months it was the wrong decision, you can’t ever get that time back.”
Being a parent is a biological function, one that many will argue is the mythical Number 42 of life. Other people have their own raison d’etres; for some it is a career, travel or another passion. Many women decide not to have children at all, and are fulfilled in so many other ways. As long as we are comfortable with our own choices and understand the big things in life that makes each one of us happy, maybe just one identity is enough. Just because we CAN have it all these days, doesn’t necessarily mean that we always should.
Tuesday, 5 January 2010
The Land Behind the Sofa
There's a land behind the sofa
That no-one else has found.
It's big enough for you and me and all the frightening, wonderful things we'd like to see
I go there on my own with you,
To hunt the unicorns and beasts,
Eat midnight feasts and scavenge treats and be in danger, sometimes.
There's a land behind the sofa,
That no-one else has found.
It's full of enemies and friends, strange places with amazing mazes of dead ends
And mirrors, ogres, and words like "oubliette" and "misfits"
There's a dragon there I'm sure, or two,
Perhaps one for me and another for you,
In the land behind the sofa.
A roaring crunching munchy noise waved me hello last time,
And I followed crumbs and you gathered them up for later,
And we found the lair of the Cake Monster, but we weren't at all scared,
Because he only eats cake,
And we fed him on Swiss Roll and he became our friend,
In the land behind the sofa.
There's a land behind the sofa,
I stare into it at times. When no-one knows what I'm looking at, say,
I can peek beyond the cushions and rugs and spy the glimmering sunshine
Or fierce storms with drumming thunder, depending on the day.
The creatures cross the glades and mountains,
Shady woods and lake-locked fountains,
Unaware that I can see them, in the land behind the sofa.
We go there you and me, and I feel happy more than scared,
Though sometimes Grumble Beasts can make me shake,
Ice Fairies make me freeze and quake and wish I was in bed,
But then the Hover Doves appear and Sparkle Footed Frogs,
And suddenly bed is the last place I want to be, in this land of you and me,
This land behind the sofa.
I dream about the land behind the sofa
At night, and in the day. I dream of going there alone with you,
To leave behind the broken ribbon of light beneath my bedroom door,
To play at climbing giants' towers unseen and teasing nymphs,
At breathing underwater, because there you can until forever,
And we tame the griffin birds and ride them through the violet sky
In the land behind the sofa.
That no-one else has found.
It's big enough for you and me and all the frightening, wonderful things we'd like to see
I go there on my own with you,
To hunt the unicorns and beasts,
Eat midnight feasts and scavenge treats and be in danger, sometimes.
There's a land behind the sofa,
That no-one else has found.
It's full of enemies and friends, strange places with amazing mazes of dead ends
And mirrors, ogres, and words like "oubliette" and "misfits"
There's a dragon there I'm sure, or two,
Perhaps one for me and another for you,
In the land behind the sofa.
A roaring crunching munchy noise waved me hello last time,
And I followed crumbs and you gathered them up for later,
And we found the lair of the Cake Monster, but we weren't at all scared,
Because he only eats cake,
And we fed him on Swiss Roll and he became our friend,
In the land behind the sofa.
There's a land behind the sofa,
I stare into it at times. When no-one knows what I'm looking at, say,
I can peek beyond the cushions and rugs and spy the glimmering sunshine
Or fierce storms with drumming thunder, depending on the day.
The creatures cross the glades and mountains,
Shady woods and lake-locked fountains,
Unaware that I can see them, in the land behind the sofa.
We go there you and me, and I feel happy more than scared,
Though sometimes Grumble Beasts can make me shake,
Ice Fairies make me freeze and quake and wish I was in bed,
But then the Hover Doves appear and Sparkle Footed Frogs,
And suddenly bed is the last place I want to be, in this land of you and me,
This land behind the sofa.
I dream about the land behind the sofa
At night, and in the day. I dream of going there alone with you,
To leave behind the broken ribbon of light beneath my bedroom door,
To play at climbing giants' towers unseen and teasing nymphs,
At breathing underwater, because there you can until forever,
And we tame the griffin birds and ride them through the violet sky
In the land behind the sofa.
Sunday, 20 December 2009
Getting along quite nicely with the machine, actually...
Well, the e-masses have flexed their virtual muscles and told X-Factor where to go. Rage Against the Machine's "Killing in the Name" has made it to the top of the chart, to be 2009's Christmas number 1. My initial reaction was amusement, even satisfaction, at seeing the X-Factor's "sure thing" defeated at last. But the more I think about it, the more I realise the whole sorry affair has left a slightly nasty taste in my mouth.
I can't help feeling that everyone has missed the point. I'm not even talking about the obvious point, the overt irony in the fact that a song which is notoriously anti-establishment, by a band renowned for being anti-establishment, whose catchy refrain is "F*** you I won'tdo what you tell me", has been bought in its millions by people who, for the most part, are only buying it because Facebook told them to. OK, I know there are some real fans out there too - but they, I presume, already own this track.
The point I feel we have somehow missed though, is simpler. I feel we've missed the point of Christmas number 1 records. What happened to actual Christmas songs? Perhaps I am being naively sentimental, but how much pleasure is there really in watching a 4 year old asking "Mummy, what does this song mean? And why are they so angry?"
I love Christmas. I always have. It's largely to do with the fact that my dad is a child at heart, and my family always went all out at Christmas. We had pillow-case stockings, mountains of presents under the tree, fantastic food (and in later years, copious amounts of booze too) more presents in the evening, Snowman presents on boxing day and even beyond. I was allowed to eat sweets at 9am, and it was one time of year the cameraderie between my sisters and I usually managed to overpower the niggling irritations. I did say usually...
Now married and with a young child of my own, I hope to carry on these Christmas traditions and give him a wonderful time of year to look forward to. I don't see the problem with belief in Fater Christmas, with flying reindeer or generous-bellied snowmen made from fermenting barrels and cotton-wool mysteriously filling with present day after day. It's fun. And yes, I know that if we didn't have two beans to rub together we'd have to cut back - but we'd still go overboard, even if the presents were gestures and good will.
I am just not sure I like the idea of this backlash against commercialism (through counter-commercialism - go figure) taking over the most magical time of year. It all feels a little bit sordid. I wonder though - had Aled and Terry's Christmassy, charity single Silver Bells topped the chart, I somehow doubt I would be having these worries. But with it being RATM, I can't help feeling we've all been complicit in some huge Cowell-fuelled inside joke. What has this achieved? I know what I'd rather be listening to on Christmas day.
I can't help feeling that everyone has missed the point. I'm not even talking about the obvious point, the overt irony in the fact that a song which is notoriously anti-establishment, by a band renowned for being anti-establishment, whose catchy refrain is "F*** you I won'tdo what you tell me", has been bought in its millions by people who, for the most part, are only buying it because Facebook told them to. OK, I know there are some real fans out there too - but they, I presume, already own this track.
The point I feel we have somehow missed though, is simpler. I feel we've missed the point of Christmas number 1 records. What happened to actual Christmas songs? Perhaps I am being naively sentimental, but how much pleasure is there really in watching a 4 year old asking "Mummy, what does this song mean? And why are they so angry?"
I love Christmas. I always have. It's largely to do with the fact that my dad is a child at heart, and my family always went all out at Christmas. We had pillow-case stockings, mountains of presents under the tree, fantastic food (and in later years, copious amounts of booze too) more presents in the evening, Snowman presents on boxing day and even beyond. I was allowed to eat sweets at 9am, and it was one time of year the cameraderie between my sisters and I usually managed to overpower the niggling irritations. I did say usually...
Now married and with a young child of my own, I hope to carry on these Christmas traditions and give him a wonderful time of year to look forward to. I don't see the problem with belief in Fater Christmas, with flying reindeer or generous-bellied snowmen made from fermenting barrels and cotton-wool mysteriously filling with present day after day. It's fun. And yes, I know that if we didn't have two beans to rub together we'd have to cut back - but we'd still go overboard, even if the presents were gestures and good will.
I am just not sure I like the idea of this backlash against commercialism (through counter-commercialism - go figure) taking over the most magical time of year. It all feels a little bit sordid. I wonder though - had Aled and Terry's Christmassy, charity single Silver Bells topped the chart, I somehow doubt I would be having these worries. But with it being RATM, I can't help feeling we've all been complicit in some huge Cowell-fuelled inside joke. What has this achieved? I know what I'd rather be listening to on Christmas day.
Sunday, 13 December 2009
The times they are a-changing
I needed milk this morning. Not an uncommon occurence with a 14 month old in the house. The shop is less than 10 minutes' walk away, so you would think this would be a quick undertaking. Not so. The whole round trip took over 45 minutes.
You wwould be forgiven for assuming that this was due to the usual baby-related faffing but no, the delay was rather different this time. It just so happened that everyone I met on the way was in the mood for a nice little chat. Old George's knees are playing up, you see, and Irene's dog is just not listening to her anymore, but he does look ever so smart now Naomi's done his new clip. Don't get me started on Bob's grandchildren, they're little terrors, don't they learn respect these days? And yes, Cath, you have met my son about a hundred times before, yes he is beautiful isn't he, and no, he is not a girl. Trust me.
Until just three short years ago, I lived in London. In Stepney Green, if I had ventured out of a morning to get some milk, I would barely have made eye-contact with the shop assistant, let alone stopped to talk to people on the way. Londoners consciously develop the elsewhere stare, the "I'm going somewhere very important so don't even think about talking to me" walk - to make ourselves as unapproachable as possible. Heads stay down, eyes remain averted. And so is the way of the city. Anyone looking cheery and greeting people on the street is generally regarded as a nutter, and is given as wide a berth as your average Big Issue seller in well-to-do town centres.
But then we moved. Suffolk is a little different to Stepney. The difference between town and country is much-chronicled, nothing new perhaps. But it is new to me - despite the fact that I grew up in the countryside. Several different countrysides in fact, as my father was in the military, which might go some way to explaining the rather different circumstances in which I now find myself: a somewhat baffled rural housewife who bakes for the community centre cafe, edits the local Community Association magazine and is on first name terms with all the local shop-owners. It's a far cry from my (if I do say so myself) rather glamorous career in London.
When I was growing up, my parents were not particularly social creatures. They were always friendly, and my mother has a capacity for smalltalk that any PR professional would envy. But they preferred their own company, they weren't "pub people" and we moved so often that making good friends was problematic. Most of my mother's best friends were the mothers of school or (don't judge me) pony club friends of mine - and testament to her incredible social skills, she is still in touch with many of them 25 years later. We knew very few people in the actual village(s) in which we lived however, and mostly just went about our lives, keeping our heads down. Later came university, and suddenly it was city life all the way for me. No longer did I want green fields, muddy feet and dubious aromas in the air. I wanted bars, shops, public transport that came more than once a fortnight. I wanted friends on my doorstep and a supermarket five minutes down the road. I wanted a whole city full of people I could ignore.
But life does tend to go full circle, and I find myself back now amidst the rolling fields and picturesque brooks of Suffolk. OK, I live in a semi-detached ex-council house in the middle of a thriving village, but don't let that ruin your vision of my rural idyll. Ignore for a moment the mud, the country smells and the extravagant mileage required for semi-decent shopping. It's still pretty wonderful living here in many ways - but some days I feel a little too grown-up for comfort.
In my village I now have friends. Not just people I'd nod a cheery "Morning" to on my way to the butcher or post office, but actual, proper, real-life friends who I love spending time with. We go walking (most of them have dogs. And children. And immaculate houses that put mine to shame) and have coffee in the community cafe, and generally just toddle along in our slightly lower-gear lives. Friends who still live in London often ask me if I miss it. I was, after all, a social gadfly, out several nights a week with work dos, relaxed drinks or very occasionally something verging on cultural. Now, going to the village pub for a quick drink at 5pm before rushing home to get the baby into bed is about as adventurous as it gets. And yet I am happy here. I don't miss it. Despite the fact that it can take 45 minutes to walk to the shop for a pint of milk, despite the fact that I now see my best friends only a handful of times a year, and despite the really quite irritatingly common power-cuts and dodgy broadband, I feel this is the right place for me.
And perhaps it isn't really full circle. Yes, the similarities are there from my childhood, but plenty of things are different. We are "pub people", we do have good friends, and the shopping nearby really has improved recently (and not just because my standards are slipping. OK, I never thought I'd buy clothes from a supermarket, but needs must when you have no salary) So perhaps life is really more of a spiral - if you look at it from the top as we usually do, it might look like a circle - but things are changing along the way, and these footsteps I find myself walking in are very definitely my own. They're just going a bit slower than they used to.
You wwould be forgiven for assuming that this was due to the usual baby-related faffing but no, the delay was rather different this time. It just so happened that everyone I met on the way was in the mood for a nice little chat. Old George's knees are playing up, you see, and Irene's dog is just not listening to her anymore, but he does look ever so smart now Naomi's done his new clip. Don't get me started on Bob's grandchildren, they're little terrors, don't they learn respect these days? And yes, Cath, you have met my son about a hundred times before, yes he is beautiful isn't he, and no, he is not a girl. Trust me.
Until just three short years ago, I lived in London. In Stepney Green, if I had ventured out of a morning to get some milk, I would barely have made eye-contact with the shop assistant, let alone stopped to talk to people on the way. Londoners consciously develop the elsewhere stare, the "I'm going somewhere very important so don't even think about talking to me" walk - to make ourselves as unapproachable as possible. Heads stay down, eyes remain averted. And so is the way of the city. Anyone looking cheery and greeting people on the street is generally regarded as a nutter, and is given as wide a berth as your average Big Issue seller in well-to-do town centres.
But then we moved. Suffolk is a little different to Stepney. The difference between town and country is much-chronicled, nothing new perhaps. But it is new to me - despite the fact that I grew up in the countryside. Several different countrysides in fact, as my father was in the military, which might go some way to explaining the rather different circumstances in which I now find myself: a somewhat baffled rural housewife who bakes for the community centre cafe, edits the local Community Association magazine and is on first name terms with all the local shop-owners. It's a far cry from my (if I do say so myself) rather glamorous career in London.
When I was growing up, my parents were not particularly social creatures. They were always friendly, and my mother has a capacity for smalltalk that any PR professional would envy. But they preferred their own company, they weren't "pub people" and we moved so often that making good friends was problematic. Most of my mother's best friends were the mothers of school or (don't judge me) pony club friends of mine - and testament to her incredible social skills, she is still in touch with many of them 25 years later. We knew very few people in the actual village(s) in which we lived however, and mostly just went about our lives, keeping our heads down. Later came university, and suddenly it was city life all the way for me. No longer did I want green fields, muddy feet and dubious aromas in the air. I wanted bars, shops, public transport that came more than once a fortnight. I wanted friends on my doorstep and a supermarket five minutes down the road. I wanted a whole city full of people I could ignore.
But life does tend to go full circle, and I find myself back now amidst the rolling fields and picturesque brooks of Suffolk. OK, I live in a semi-detached ex-council house in the middle of a thriving village, but don't let that ruin your vision of my rural idyll. Ignore for a moment the mud, the country smells and the extravagant mileage required for semi-decent shopping. It's still pretty wonderful living here in many ways - but some days I feel a little too grown-up for comfort.
In my village I now have friends. Not just people I'd nod a cheery "Morning" to on my way to the butcher or post office, but actual, proper, real-life friends who I love spending time with. We go walking (most of them have dogs. And children. And immaculate houses that put mine to shame) and have coffee in the community cafe, and generally just toddle along in our slightly lower-gear lives. Friends who still live in London often ask me if I miss it. I was, after all, a social gadfly, out several nights a week with work dos, relaxed drinks or very occasionally something verging on cultural. Now, going to the village pub for a quick drink at 5pm before rushing home to get the baby into bed is about as adventurous as it gets. And yet I am happy here. I don't miss it. Despite the fact that it can take 45 minutes to walk to the shop for a pint of milk, despite the fact that I now see my best friends only a handful of times a year, and despite the really quite irritatingly common power-cuts and dodgy broadband, I feel this is the right place for me.
And perhaps it isn't really full circle. Yes, the similarities are there from my childhood, but plenty of things are different. We are "pub people", we do have good friends, and the shopping nearby really has improved recently (and not just because my standards are slipping. OK, I never thought I'd buy clothes from a supermarket, but needs must when you have no salary) So perhaps life is really more of a spiral - if you look at it from the top as we usually do, it might look like a circle - but things are changing along the way, and these footsteps I find myself walking in are very definitely my own. They're just going a bit slower than they used to.
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