Last night, I went on a date. On paper, it was pretty fantastic: he was handsome and funny, he asked lots of questions, laughed at my jokes, had booked a very romantic table in a really nice restaurant and insisted on picking up the tab. Also lovely is the fact that he really wants to meet up again. Not so good is the fact that I don't.
Despite being lots of totally ace things, he was... and I'm afraid there is no easy way of saying this... he just wasn't clever enough. Before you spit out your oatcake at my arrogance, read me out. I don't give a flying expletive where he went to university or even if he did or not, I don't care if he doesn't have two GCSEs to rub together. It's not about spelling or grammar or intellect. It doesn't matter if he spent his twenties living in a squat smoking pot and playing the bongos. What does matter is how he spends his time now. Is he reading and writing and thinking and growing? Or is he bumbling? Because if it's the latter, then I can try as hard as I like, but I guarantee I'll never fancy him.
The other day, someone asked what qualities my ideal man would have, and I repeated the line from my online profile about him being 'slightly taller, slightly cleverer and slightly quirkier than I am', and the guy I was talking to asked how I would know that he's cleverer than me. I said it comes down to whether he can beat me in an argument. If that's not possible, then the power balance is all wrong, and when the initial honeymoon period is over, I'll take him DOWN, motherfucker. Can't help it.
This guy was very kind and nice. But he doesn't read, he doesn't write, he doesn't vote and he couldn't agree that skiing is slightly elitist, justifying its prohibitive expense on the basis that it protects the environment and that it would be 'ruined' if everyone did it. This morning, he texted me saying he enjoyed the fact that I was so challenging, which, along with "I wish Sarah Palin had won" and "I prefer Strictly" is pretty much the quickest way to put me off you. Sure, it's OK for a girl to challenge a guy, but at least half of the challenging has to come from the guy. Them's the rules.
Saturday night got me worked up too. Kate and I went to the depths of Westbourne Park for Book Slam!, a monthly event that bills itself as London's first/best/only literary nightclub. I was hoping for a bit of original thought and we were both disappointed by the staggeringly conventional stand-up host, Robin Ince, and the performance poet whose name I've forgotten, neither of whom said a single thing that wasn't wholly derivative. Then there was music from a disappointing choir and a girl with a beautiful voice but sub-Alicia Keys songs who's never going to make it big. The evening's sole highlight was the fascinating Lionel Shriver, who read excerpts from two of her books and dealt with Kate's and my gushing praise with cold-faced disinterest. Normally I wouldn't dare approach someone like her at a public event, but she seemed to be hating the proceedings even more than I was, so I remain cockily hopeful that we were a welcome interruption. The evening was as suffocatingly prosaic as a BBC costume drama, and while I sat inwardly tutting throughout, I did at least feel vindicated that, while I will never feel like I truly belong among the hipsters of East London, I definitely feel more at home with a few weirdos than in the safe and sterile confines of the W postcodes.
I tell you where I was very happy indeed, however - at the Roundhouse on Friday night, watching this year's selection of cabaret by La Clique. Featuring nudity, juggling, comedy, acrobatics, crap magic, impressions and rollerskating, I laughed my tights off and would happily pay £22 to see the whole thing again tomorrow. It's on until 17 January so if anyone fancies a New Year pickmeup, give me a shout. Of course, it always helps if you're sitting there with someone fantastic, and Thom's cackles definitely kept me smiling. Throw in dinner afterwards at a delicious pub, and a couple of narrowly-avoided fights in a grotty Camden boozer, and it was pretty much my perfect night out. London: I love you.
Monday, 30 November 2009
Show me the love
I've put a new feature on LLFF, the 'Reactions' checkbox, an unashamed cry for virtual adoration. Please now go back through all the posts I've written since November 2006 and tick your appreciation. Thanks.
Friday, 27 November 2009
Also...
I've been very bored this afternoon and reading a lot of Emails From Crazy People. This is my favourite one so far.
Open wide
One of the things that my hypnotherapy recording, Bounce Out Of Bed, asks me to do to aid early morning perkiness is to think about three things that you're looking forward to doing the next day. The idea is that when your alarm clock goes off, you'll think automatically about those three things rather than thinking, as I occasionally do, 'Ohhhhhhhhhhhhhhh......... why did I have that last glass of wiiiiiiiiinnnnnne.... my bed is soooooo amaaaaaazing...... It is inhumaaaaaaaane to expect me to leave the warmth. Inhumaaaaaane......' etc. The hypnotherapist, Mark Someone, seems to have created an equation whereby the excitement you feel about the exciting thing outweighs the appeal of staying in bed. Unfortunately, given how I feel most mornings, even those when I haven't touched alcohol for days, it would take the prospect of... actually, I can't think of anything that would ever make me want to bounce out of bed. Nothing. It is always, always done reluctantly. Even if I'm going on an incredible holiday and I have a plane to catch, even if I'm having lunch with Gandhi and dinner at Gordon Ramsay with a taller, better looking version of Simon Cowell, when I hear the alarm, I'm tempted to cancel.
Even so, I do what Mark tells me, and dutifully list and picture a few good things about the next day when I lie in bed each night. It is never hard to find things to be excited about when I'm still awake. It's the morning after where they lose all their currency. Last night, I was buzzing following a rousing trip to the Young Vic to see Annie Get Your Gun, ably but by no means perfectly performed by Jane Horrocks. We had a good night but it was definitely a bit clunky - I'd give it a solid 9.5 out of a possible 14. I hummed S'wonderful all the way home, clambered under my incredible duvet, the gift that keeps on giving, and settled down for Bounce Out Of Bed. My highlights for the following day came thick and fast: 1) see who has responded to my survey about the planned school reunion; 2) go to La Clique at the Roundhouse; 3) go for delicious dinner in Camden afterwards and poss. have amazing steak; 4) have first ever medical.
And there I ground to a halt. How could I possibly be looking forward to my first ever medical? The last person I knew that had a work medical found out they had prostate cancer. They are not associated with fun in my head. But, I guess in keeping with my eternal quest to know and control as much as I possibly can while still enjoying life to the max, the idea of being tested for lots of stuff appealed. I pay for this healthcare, so I may as well use it. And this morning, at 10.15, I scampered over to the medical centre near my office, filled in a lengthy form where I detailed all my various health incidents, crossing most of the boxes but filling in a few. I had to phone a friend, my dad, to help with family history - apparently we're in the clear - but other than that, it all went without a hitch.
Then I met my doctor, who was very nice, and asked me a few questions, and then asked me to 'slip on this robe' and I panicked because sometimes women's robes don't overlap far enough around my hips and I end up with an alluring isosceles gap around my thighs. Fortunately this was a roomy specimen and I clambered up onto the bench without flashing much of my smooth, tanned flesh. He listened to my heart, and my back, and checked my reflexes with his little rubber mallet (which I HATE), and he took a blood sample, and he did lady things, and he seemed pleased that I rarely eat red meat and I don't smoke or drink caffeine. He said I seemed very healthy, and we talked about infertility and he said not to worry until I'm 35, which seems like it's in about six minutes but hey. Que faire. Then I got dressed and went back to my desk. I get the results in a week. Cross your fingers.
So now two of my four exciting things of today are over but the best two are still to come. Woop. The weekend ahead has been timetabled with razor-sharp precision and if I don't have at least two hilarious anecdotes to regale you with on Monday I'll be disappointed. Go well, my lambs.
Even so, I do what Mark tells me, and dutifully list and picture a few good things about the next day when I lie in bed each night. It is never hard to find things to be excited about when I'm still awake. It's the morning after where they lose all their currency. Last night, I was buzzing following a rousing trip to the Young Vic to see Annie Get Your Gun, ably but by no means perfectly performed by Jane Horrocks. We had a good night but it was definitely a bit clunky - I'd give it a solid 9.5 out of a possible 14. I hummed S'wonderful all the way home, clambered under my incredible duvet, the gift that keeps on giving, and settled down for Bounce Out Of Bed. My highlights for the following day came thick and fast: 1) see who has responded to my survey about the planned school reunion; 2) go to La Clique at the Roundhouse; 3) go for delicious dinner in Camden afterwards and poss. have amazing steak; 4) have first ever medical.
And there I ground to a halt. How could I possibly be looking forward to my first ever medical? The last person I knew that had a work medical found out they had prostate cancer. They are not associated with fun in my head. But, I guess in keeping with my eternal quest to know and control as much as I possibly can while still enjoying life to the max, the idea of being tested for lots of stuff appealed. I pay for this healthcare, so I may as well use it. And this morning, at 10.15, I scampered over to the medical centre near my office, filled in a lengthy form where I detailed all my various health incidents, crossing most of the boxes but filling in a few. I had to phone a friend, my dad, to help with family history - apparently we're in the clear - but other than that, it all went without a hitch.
Then I met my doctor, who was very nice, and asked me a few questions, and then asked me to 'slip on this robe' and I panicked because sometimes women's robes don't overlap far enough around my hips and I end up with an alluring isosceles gap around my thighs. Fortunately this was a roomy specimen and I clambered up onto the bench without flashing much of my smooth, tanned flesh. He listened to my heart, and my back, and checked my reflexes with his little rubber mallet (which I HATE), and he took a blood sample, and he did lady things, and he seemed pleased that I rarely eat red meat and I don't smoke or drink caffeine. He said I seemed very healthy, and we talked about infertility and he said not to worry until I'm 35, which seems like it's in about six minutes but hey. Que faire. Then I got dressed and went back to my desk. I get the results in a week. Cross your fingers.
So now two of my four exciting things of today are over but the best two are still to come. Woop. The weekend ahead has been timetabled with razor-sharp precision and if I don't have at least two hilarious anecdotes to regale you with on Monday I'll be disappointed. Go well, my lambs.
Thursday, 26 November 2009
Science and not much progress
Last night I met up with Laura after work (not the Laura I work with but another one) and we went to Science Museum Lates at the, er, Science Museum - they stay open late one night a month, and no kids are allowed in. It was brilliant. We made origami and played on the machines and watched a talk about rockets, both volunteered to be assistants, got free drinks as a result, and accosted one of the incredibly knowledgeable curators who had tattoos up one arm to find out where the Apollo 10 capsule was hiding. He showed us - but not before he'd boasted about the satellite display he'd put together, showing the location of the approx. 11 thousand satellites there are currently whirring around our planet. Some of them are really far away - they're the ones that are static, like the ones for our Sky TV. It was fascinating.
After we'd tired of the exhibition (and personally, it was the site of all the sickeningly happy couples drooling on each other next to the party games), we went for some food and Laura's friend joined us, who was really nice and she works for a London website and wanted to hear about the Late night so she could write it up, and I offered to do it, and I wrote the review this morning and now it's on the internet. Clever me.
Writing's a funny one. I still stand by my assertion that, unlike every other human on earth, I don't have a novel inside me, but I do love the process of rambling on through the medium of typing. There are plans afoot. That said, I think there are a lot of people out there who are a lot better than I am. But with that attitude, no one would ever do anything. I've never been good at being medium at something, though. I'm either pretty good, or I don't do it at all. The prospect of just being an OK writer makes me feel a bit queasy. I'd rather not try. Blogging doesn't count as I can write exactly what I like. No one is paying me to do it, and you are not paying to read it. I owe you nothing, rooooer, nothin' at aaaalllllllll. Hmmm. Once you start writing for money, everything changes. Even you. We're a thousand miles apart but I still love you. Anyway. I have decided that Sundays in 2010 are Writing Days and I'm going to Do Something Constructive if it kills me.
Goodness what a lot of self-absorbed blathering. I have nothing else to report - all I can think about is myself, and when I briefly take time off from doing that, I am unable to cope with the panic I feel following the discovery that my lovely Hungarian hairdresser has left the salon and the unreasonable bitch at reception wouldn't give me his mobile number so now I can't stalk him and track him down in the street when he's out with his wife and demand that he trims my split ends immediately. That is all.
After we'd tired of the exhibition (and personally, it was the site of all the sickeningly happy couples drooling on each other next to the party games), we went for some food and Laura's friend joined us, who was really nice and she works for a London website and wanted to hear about the Late night so she could write it up, and I offered to do it, and I wrote the review this morning and now it's on the internet. Clever me.
Writing's a funny one. I still stand by my assertion that, unlike every other human on earth, I don't have a novel inside me, but I do love the process of rambling on through the medium of typing. There are plans afoot. That said, I think there are a lot of people out there who are a lot better than I am. But with that attitude, no one would ever do anything. I've never been good at being medium at something, though. I'm either pretty good, or I don't do it at all. The prospect of just being an OK writer makes me feel a bit queasy. I'd rather not try. Blogging doesn't count as I can write exactly what I like. No one is paying me to do it, and you are not paying to read it. I owe you nothing, rooooer, nothin' at aaaalllllllll. Hmmm. Once you start writing for money, everything changes. Even you. We're a thousand miles apart but I still love you. Anyway. I have decided that Sundays in 2010 are Writing Days and I'm going to Do Something Constructive if it kills me.
Goodness what a lot of self-absorbed blathering. I have nothing else to report - all I can think about is myself, and when I briefly take time off from doing that, I am unable to cope with the panic I feel following the discovery that my lovely Hungarian hairdresser has left the salon and the unreasonable bitch at reception wouldn't give me his mobile number so now I can't stalk him and track him down in the street when he's out with his wife and demand that he trims my split ends immediately. That is all.
Wednesday, 25 November 2009
Spills and spoils
Far be it from me to be a pedant or a grouch, but this made me growl last night. I'm as much of a fan of value for money as the next person, but when Tesco put a handy tear-off strip around their Colours washing powder, and then fill the box up way above that line, so that the act of opening it means that you have to a) hoover and b) do about seven colours washes immediately, I start thinking "Maybe Tesco are dicks." That said, the incident gave me an opportunity to use my Black & Decker Dustbuster, which made me very happy.On a separate matter, I was reading a story in The Guardian today about which of the Miliband brothers (if either) should be the next leader of the Labour party. As usual, I scrolled down through the comments at the bottom (almost always the most enlightening part of any article) and was gobsmacked to read the following by a commentator called RapidEddie:
"So the choice is between two brothers who both went to the same university to study the same degree? But I'm forgetting. The other name in the frame is James Purnell, who also studied PPE from Oxford. Oh, and Ed Balls (PPE degree from Oxford). I think this is New Labour's idea of diversity."
As if that wasn't shocking enough, a few scrolls down, and TangerineDream added this:
"If they want a bit of female diversity, they could always choose Jacqui Smith (PPE Oxford), Yvette Cooper (PPE Oxford), Ruth Kelly (PPE Oxford). If they wanted a bit of unelected dark-knighted-ness they could always choose Peter Mandleson (PPE Oxford). And hey, if the proles want a bit of a change we could always elect David Cameron (PPE Oxford) ably assisted by William Hague (PPE Oxford), and if we really wanted to push the boat out we could go crazy and go for a crazy liberal like Chris Huhne (PPE Oxford). Is it any wonder that all our politicians say the same thing? The most influential political figures in British politics are the Oxford PPE lecturers."
Blimey. Be interesting to see what would happen if we banned all Oxbridge grads from running for parliament. Might shake things up a bit. And I'd have more of a chance of getting elected then. Mwah ha ha ha.
Tuesday, 24 November 2009
They like it long
So last night a bunch of us were in the pub after choir, and someone said that my hair looked nice, and I said that I really like the fringe, but I hate the length. And they said (reasonably),
"Why don't you cut it?" and I said,
"Because I'm trying to maximise my chances and boys prefer girls with long hair." Immediately, there was a loud scoffing around the table as several of the tenors and basses hastened to assure me of the falsity of my statement.
"That's rubbish!" blurted one. "It looks great!"
"I LOVE short hair on girls... very sexy..." murmured another.
"Ah," I said. "You may like short hair on girls, but I bet you only go out with girls with long hair." Many pairs of male eyebrows simultaneously knotted. "I am always the cool, feisty girl with the funky hair and the excellent clothes," I continued, "and at every party, all the boys say I look great and laugh at my jokes, but then they end up falling for the girl with the long straight hair and the round neck jumper. You like short hair on girls, but not on your girlfriends." I spoke with authority, but even I was surprised at the speed at which the boys agreed.
"Actually, you're right," one conceded.
"You know, I've never been out with a girl with short hair," admitted another one.
"So this new hair," asked Aidan, "is your marriage hair?"
"I suppose it is," I said. And we all laughed. Hahahahaha.
Yes. I am growing marriage hair. Hahahahaha. What was yesterday a headful of long, blonde locks is today another symbol of my hope for partnership. Pragmatism or desperation? I don't think it's any different than my decision not to wear my all-in-one velour jumpsuit on dates or my choice to wear make-up rather than turn up with eyes like currants in a face full of unleavened pitta. We all do what we can to look attractive. I'm normal. Just abnormally open about it all. And you love me for it.
"Why don't you cut it?" and I said,
"Because I'm trying to maximise my chances and boys prefer girls with long hair." Immediately, there was a loud scoffing around the table as several of the tenors and basses hastened to assure me of the falsity of my statement.
"That's rubbish!" blurted one. "It looks great!"
"I LOVE short hair on girls... very sexy..." murmured another.
"Ah," I said. "You may like short hair on girls, but I bet you only go out with girls with long hair." Many pairs of male eyebrows simultaneously knotted. "I am always the cool, feisty girl with the funky hair and the excellent clothes," I continued, "and at every party, all the boys say I look great and laugh at my jokes, but then they end up falling for the girl with the long straight hair and the round neck jumper. You like short hair on girls, but not on your girlfriends." I spoke with authority, but even I was surprised at the speed at which the boys agreed.
"Actually, you're right," one conceded.
"You know, I've never been out with a girl with short hair," admitted another one.
"So this new hair," asked Aidan, "is your marriage hair?"
"I suppose it is," I said. And we all laughed. Hahahahaha.
Yes. I am growing marriage hair. Hahahahaha. What was yesterday a headful of long, blonde locks is today another symbol of my hope for partnership. Pragmatism or desperation? I don't think it's any different than my decision not to wear my all-in-one velour jumpsuit on dates or my choice to wear make-up rather than turn up with eyes like currants in a face full of unleavened pitta. We all do what we can to look attractive. I'm normal. Just abnormally open about it all. And you love me for it.
Monday, 23 November 2009
Same shit, different day
Embargo lifted.
So the guy who, last Sunday eve, suggested we meet for drinks, and then, having vetted me over beers, suggested we go on for food; who then kissed me, and told me I was beautiful, and said he wanted to see me again; who then texted me when I got home, suggesting we meet again; who then texted me again early the following evening, in full sobriety, saying he was a little busy this week but that he would drop me a line over the weekend to make a plan for the following week, and then added a previously-unused 'x': that guy? I never heard from him again.
I spent the week in my most hated state, that of feverish impotence, where someone is making a decision about me and I can do absolutely diddly squat to affect the outcome. The utter loss of control is, for an organised, capable, absolutely unspiritual individual such as myself, nothing short of torture. I would rather have spent the week being called ugly on successive days by a selection of lice-infested tramps. Ugly I can deal with. Ugly is in the eye of the beholder. Ugly is subjective fact, and can be altered. Waiting, on the other hand, is unbearable. Waiting affects me every second of every day. Waiting ruined my week and then it pretty much ruined my weekend.
I went away to the countryside on Friday afternoon, desperate for a change of scene having been in London for 55 consecutive days and, my diary informs me, in at home resting for only six of them. Lucy and Jake were in fine fettle and their two gorgeous nippers were bright of eye and bushy of metaphorical tail. The rain lashed against the windows and we snuggled in front of the fire, ate cake and watched The Thick Of It, and all would have been perfect if there hadn't been a silent iPhone on my bedside table, screaming 'HA HA HA YOU ARE STILL REJECTED' every time I checked it. The butterflies that had descended heavily into my stomach and larynx last Monday had grown fatter and angrier, and by the time I got back to the safety of my flat on Sunday afternoon, I so longed to be without the uncertainty that I engaged in an act of deliberate self-sabotage, and texted the guy. It was a bad text, utterly pointless with undesired yet completely unavoidable undertones of 'I reeeeeeeallllllyyyy liked you', but it had the desired effect - within five minutes, the guy who had avoided my phone for seven days replied, saying nothing of any import, asking no questions and typing no kisses. I sent back a sarcastic one liner smacking of unconcealed bitterness, and that was that.
Instantly, like clouds of bats swooping and screaming out of the Batcave, the butterflies departed. I felt my stomach calm and settle for the first time in a week and since then, I've been back to my old self. No joke. I barely care. I mean, obviously it smarts a bit. I'd rather he had found me irresistible, but I am old enough to know that not everyone will, and that is fine. They're obviously idiots, but it is fine.
None of the saga was about him specifically. I can hardly even remember what he looked like. I do remember us getting on really well, but I also remember that he was obviously fairly apolitical, and the fact that he basically got expelled from his school, and went to a rubbish university, and can't really string a sentence together on paper, and smokes like a chimney. I had not planned on spending the rest of my life with this man. All I knew was that I wanted to see him again, and that someone I fancied was weighing me up. The powerlessness was everything that I detested - the boy himself, and the outcome, seemed almost inconsequential. I didn't mind if he liked me or not - I just wanted to know which one it was so that I could adjust my mental abacus accordingly.
Normally, when I emerge from a grim experience, I can reassure myself that I've learned from my mistakes. There is an upside, I tell myself - I won't do that again. But in this situation, there's nothing I could have done differently. All I did was meet him, like him, and agree to see him again. I didn't screw up, so I can change nothing about my behaviour next time. The one thing I'd like to be different - the butterflies - are beyond my control. Believe me, I did my best. I told myself fifty times a day not to get excited, that he probably wouldn't call, that it would hardly be the end of the world, that he was too short anyway and that there are plenty more fish in the sea. But the butterflies remained, flapping their stupid fat wings and wiggling their antennae at all times of the night and day. I dearly wish I could meet someone fun, go on a great date, and then wake up the next morning feeling the same level of excitement as if I'd been to the supermarket. I'd love to wait until a boy has proved his worth to me before getting ants in my pants about him. But it is just not possible for me. If I like someone, if I think someone might have potential, it's exciting. The unpleasantness and the butterflies are inevitable. There is no way to trust someone straight away, and thus this stage of not knowing is an intrinsic part of falling in love. It is, surely, impossible to meet someone without it. So basically, unless I give up on love altogether, I will have to go through this again, possibly several times. Not a prospect I relish.
It is the first sign of madness to continue to do the same thing repeatedly but continue to hope for a different result. However, maybe, as my friend Sara pointed out, if the same action is repeated with different boys, then it is not quite the same thing, and therefore it is not madness, but merely hope, which sounds simultaneously better but sadder. For hope is not far from desperation. The fine line we tread as single women who ultimately would like a mate is barbed. Either you settle for second or third best - something I've tried to do and failed. Or you give up and buy a cat - something I don't want to do. Well, I want the cat. But not yet. So I carry on along the thorny path, hoping that against all the odds, one of the two remaining single men in London who aren't complete twunts realises that I am a ridiculously good catch. The last thing I want is to become one of those haggard old cynical cows who laughs bitterly in the face of any guy who dares pay her a compliment - but I do wish I'd stop having these disappointing experiences. Un. Pleasant. And it does get a bit depressing when the only thing my mum ever seems able to say to me is 'Keep on trucking.' It's good advice, but we all need a trip to the service station every now and then. Where is my Leigh Delamere?
Ah well, it's over again. Until the next time.
So the guy who, last Sunday eve, suggested we meet for drinks, and then, having vetted me over beers, suggested we go on for food; who then kissed me, and told me I was beautiful, and said he wanted to see me again; who then texted me when I got home, suggesting we meet again; who then texted me again early the following evening, in full sobriety, saying he was a little busy this week but that he would drop me a line over the weekend to make a plan for the following week, and then added a previously-unused 'x': that guy? I never heard from him again.
I spent the week in my most hated state, that of feverish impotence, where someone is making a decision about me and I can do absolutely diddly squat to affect the outcome. The utter loss of control is, for an organised, capable, absolutely unspiritual individual such as myself, nothing short of torture. I would rather have spent the week being called ugly on successive days by a selection of lice-infested tramps. Ugly I can deal with. Ugly is in the eye of the beholder. Ugly is subjective fact, and can be altered. Waiting, on the other hand, is unbearable. Waiting affects me every second of every day. Waiting ruined my week and then it pretty much ruined my weekend.
I went away to the countryside on Friday afternoon, desperate for a change of scene having been in London for 55 consecutive days and, my diary informs me, in at home resting for only six of them. Lucy and Jake were in fine fettle and their two gorgeous nippers were bright of eye and bushy of metaphorical tail. The rain lashed against the windows and we snuggled in front of the fire, ate cake and watched The Thick Of It, and all would have been perfect if there hadn't been a silent iPhone on my bedside table, screaming 'HA HA HA YOU ARE STILL REJECTED' every time I checked it. The butterflies that had descended heavily into my stomach and larynx last Monday had grown fatter and angrier, and by the time I got back to the safety of my flat on Sunday afternoon, I so longed to be without the uncertainty that I engaged in an act of deliberate self-sabotage, and texted the guy. It was a bad text, utterly pointless with undesired yet completely unavoidable undertones of 'I reeeeeeeallllllyyyy liked you', but it had the desired effect - within five minutes, the guy who had avoided my phone for seven days replied, saying nothing of any import, asking no questions and typing no kisses. I sent back a sarcastic one liner smacking of unconcealed bitterness, and that was that.
Instantly, like clouds of bats swooping and screaming out of the Batcave, the butterflies departed. I felt my stomach calm and settle for the first time in a week and since then, I've been back to my old self. No joke. I barely care. I mean, obviously it smarts a bit. I'd rather he had found me irresistible, but I am old enough to know that not everyone will, and that is fine. They're obviously idiots, but it is fine.
None of the saga was about him specifically. I can hardly even remember what he looked like. I do remember us getting on really well, but I also remember that he was obviously fairly apolitical, and the fact that he basically got expelled from his school, and went to a rubbish university, and can't really string a sentence together on paper, and smokes like a chimney. I had not planned on spending the rest of my life with this man. All I knew was that I wanted to see him again, and that someone I fancied was weighing me up. The powerlessness was everything that I detested - the boy himself, and the outcome, seemed almost inconsequential. I didn't mind if he liked me or not - I just wanted to know which one it was so that I could adjust my mental abacus accordingly.
Normally, when I emerge from a grim experience, I can reassure myself that I've learned from my mistakes. There is an upside, I tell myself - I won't do that again. But in this situation, there's nothing I could have done differently. All I did was meet him, like him, and agree to see him again. I didn't screw up, so I can change nothing about my behaviour next time. The one thing I'd like to be different - the butterflies - are beyond my control. Believe me, I did my best. I told myself fifty times a day not to get excited, that he probably wouldn't call, that it would hardly be the end of the world, that he was too short anyway and that there are plenty more fish in the sea. But the butterflies remained, flapping their stupid fat wings and wiggling their antennae at all times of the night and day. I dearly wish I could meet someone fun, go on a great date, and then wake up the next morning feeling the same level of excitement as if I'd been to the supermarket. I'd love to wait until a boy has proved his worth to me before getting ants in my pants about him. But it is just not possible for me. If I like someone, if I think someone might have potential, it's exciting. The unpleasantness and the butterflies are inevitable. There is no way to trust someone straight away, and thus this stage of not knowing is an intrinsic part of falling in love. It is, surely, impossible to meet someone without it. So basically, unless I give up on love altogether, I will have to go through this again, possibly several times. Not a prospect I relish.
It is the first sign of madness to continue to do the same thing repeatedly but continue to hope for a different result. However, maybe, as my friend Sara pointed out, if the same action is repeated with different boys, then it is not quite the same thing, and therefore it is not madness, but merely hope, which sounds simultaneously better but sadder. For hope is not far from desperation. The fine line we tread as single women who ultimately would like a mate is barbed. Either you settle for second or third best - something I've tried to do and failed. Or you give up and buy a cat - something I don't want to do. Well, I want the cat. But not yet. So I carry on along the thorny path, hoping that against all the odds, one of the two remaining single men in London who aren't complete twunts realises that I am a ridiculously good catch. The last thing I want is to become one of those haggard old cynical cows who laughs bitterly in the face of any guy who dares pay her a compliment - but I do wish I'd stop having these disappointing experiences. Un. Pleasant. And it does get a bit depressing when the only thing my mum ever seems able to say to me is 'Keep on trucking.' It's good advice, but we all need a trip to the service station every now and then. Where is my Leigh Delamere?
Ah well, it's over again. Until the next time.
Friday, 20 November 2009
Being @lostlooking
The speed at which my mind works is, quite frankly, impressive. And yet terrifying. A few moments ago, I tried to access the blogger.com site, in order to log in and write my next enthralling blog entry, and instead of the familiar navy and beige landing page, I was greeted with a stark, black typeface reading Error 503. In the next 4 seconds, I copied and pasted the text into Google, searched, and discovered that this particular error is generally caused by a temporary overload and is resolvable. I then tried to access blogger again and it loaded perfectly. The whole incident had lasted less time than it takes to peel a banana, yet the monologue I had in my head went something like, "Ohmygodohmygod, it's broken, why is it broken? What if ohmygod seriously though WHAT IF my work have blocked the site and I'm no longer able to blog from work?! What will I dooooooo?! My whole career and possibly my self-esteem is on the line here. Oh I know, I can write it at work and then email it to myself and upload it when I get home or I can email it to a third party and get them to upload it for me, but then help I wouldn't be able to get them to upload photographs because that's too big an ask, but then I suppose I could just upload the pictures myself at a later date and really the pictures aren't that big a deal as I don't upload them very often do, although maybe I should? But at least it's all manageable and oh thank fuck for that the page is loading now, god that would have been AWFUL."
So anyway, apologies for lack of blog yesterday - I do try to write every weekday but sometimes my life causes problems. This week has been slightly tricky for me, but I'm going to the countryside for some TLC shortly and we'll all be able to move on soon. For various reasons, I haven't been sleeping well, and last night I had the most vivid, VIVID sex dream about a guy (married, kids, not that attractive) who works in my office. It was one of those ridiculous dreams when they've been so lovely that you wake up and still slightly fancy them. I've seen him about five times today and keep on blushing. We had, no joke, flown to another planet and he was washing my hair with tea tree shampoo. There's no point pretending I'm not mental. Thankfully I have ridiculously nice friends and a lot of fun things going on so I have no complaints. See you next week. Virtually.
So anyway, apologies for lack of blog yesterday - I do try to write every weekday but sometimes my life causes problems. This week has been slightly tricky for me, but I'm going to the countryside for some TLC shortly and we'll all be able to move on soon. For various reasons, I haven't been sleeping well, and last night I had the most vivid, VIVID sex dream about a guy (married, kids, not that attractive) who works in my office. It was one of those ridiculous dreams when they've been so lovely that you wake up and still slightly fancy them. I've seen him about five times today and keep on blushing. We had, no joke, flown to another planet and he was washing my hair with tea tree shampoo. There's no point pretending I'm not mental. Thankfully I have ridiculously nice friends and a lot of fun things going on so I have no complaints. See you next week. Virtually.
Wednesday, 18 November 2009
All play and no work makes Jane a... worse than average employee?
Ohgodohgodohgodohgod. Why do I insist on doing this to myself? I have such good intentions to be boring and sensible and then I start having fun and I just can't stop. Last night I went out to see Simon Amstell do stand-up at the Shepherd's Bush Empire and I laughed so much I actually pulled one of the muscles around my left ribcage. Towards the beginning of the set, as I let an enthusiastic 'haha' escape from my lungs, the guy sitting on my left loudly said, 'Shhh!' 'You're kidding,' I thought. I'm getting shushed for laughing at a comedy show? No way. Then a few moments later, he did it again when I wasn't even making a sound. And I realised that was his laugh. 'Shhh!' he went, every few seconds, like a steam train pulling away from a station. It was really quite disconcerting, but I got used to it eventually.
My favourite moment was when Simon said that playing hard to get was ridiculous and compared it to walking into a supermarket and thinking, 'Hmmm, I really feel like a potato tonight - I better not look at the potatoes in case they realise I'm interested.' I do think it's different for boys though. As girls, we really are told time and time again not to make the first move. Boys do like the chase. It's fine. I'm used to it. (She says, drumming her fingers impatiently, waking her phone up from sleep mode to check for texts, refreshing her Gmail every six seconds, tearing her hair out, not sleeping).
Then we went back to Grania's with a third musketeer and danced on the table and took a zillion photos and did diabolo and discussed sex and religion and all those other good things until we finally went to bed at half past three, when I listened to Bounce Out of Bed. Needless to say, I was about as bouncy as a car park when my alarm went off at 7.45 this morning but somehow made it to my desk on time and am very much looking forward to this evening, when Donald is coming over and the very most I expect to do is go to the cinema. Thankfully my boss is on holiday so my usually unmanageable workload has been reduced substantially. Tick tock tick tock.
In good news, my guy has dropped one place on the popular list. In bad news, he has been on the site almost constantly today. Hangovers are not good for my paranoia levels. Nor, let's face it, is online dating. I'm not renewing my subscription. For now.
My favourite moment was when Simon said that playing hard to get was ridiculous and compared it to walking into a supermarket and thinking, 'Hmmm, I really feel like a potato tonight - I better not look at the potatoes in case they realise I'm interested.' I do think it's different for boys though. As girls, we really are told time and time again not to make the first move. Boys do like the chase. It's fine. I'm used to it. (She says, drumming her fingers impatiently, waking her phone up from sleep mode to check for texts, refreshing her Gmail every six seconds, tearing her hair out, not sleeping).
Then we went back to Grania's with a third musketeer and danced on the table and took a zillion photos and did diabolo and discussed sex and religion and all those other good things until we finally went to bed at half past three, when I listened to Bounce Out of Bed. Needless to say, I was about as bouncy as a car park when my alarm went off at 7.45 this morning but somehow made it to my desk on time and am very much looking forward to this evening, when Donald is coming over and the very most I expect to do is go to the cinema. Thankfully my boss is on holiday so my usually unmanageable workload has been reduced substantially. Tick tock tick tock.
In good news, my guy has dropped one place on the popular list. In bad news, he has been on the site almost constantly today. Hangovers are not good for my paranoia levels. Nor, let's face it, is online dating. I'm not renewing my subscription. For now.
Tuesday, 17 November 2009
Six degrees of separation
One of the worst things in the world, up there with cholera and Tesco's own mayonnaise, is the Guardian Soulmates popular list. The website apparently has over 130,000 active users, which makes us sound like energetic heroin addicts, and out of that unfathomably large online population, larger than the number of residents in Slough, the twenty girls and twenty boys who are a) made a 'favourite' by the most other users and are b) sent the most emails go onto a chart. The top twenty girls are listed first. Pretty much without exception, they are in their mid-twenties, very attractive, with long hair, a big smile and their head tilted slightly to one side. They all say they're happy to meet guys up to around aged 35, which means that the boys I'm interested in also have these lithe, uncellulited beauties to choose from. Not that I post photos of my cellulite on Guardian Soulmates, but, like the real story behind the moon landings and Tom Cruise's sexuality, the Truth Is Out There.
Then there's a list of the men. They are a handsome bunch, mostly in their early thirties, and not fans of the head tilt. Instead, they go for a rugged, wide smile, and stare straight to camera, indicating openness and honesty. Out of the twenty, only one has anything other than a full head of hair, which cannot be representative. And of course, like all truly awful things (spider plants, smallpox), the situation is horribly self-perpetuating. Once you're on the popular list, far more people see your profile, and you get far more emails.
Needless to say, I, with my mid-length hair and untilted head, have never been on the popular list. The closest I've come to it was going out on a date once with a guy whose sister had been at number three and was so devastated when she fell to number seven that she had to leave the site altogether. It's always seemed like the kind of webpage I should probably avoid unless I wanted a good cry. And, mostly, I was able to steer well clear. Until a few days ago, when I went on a date with a guy who's on the list - and I liked him. Very Katy Perry. Now I hover round desperately hoping for him to drop off the chart (and sadly he's in the top ten so it doesn't look likely), while trying to block out all thoughts of how many hundreds of coquettish messages he's getting each day from leggy, tilty-headed vixens.
Sadly, I don't see that there's much I can do, except campaign for this irritating section of the Soulmates website to be removed immediately. Singles of the world unite! You have nothing to lose but a small fraction of your terrible self-hatred! Join me in fighting to ban the popular list! Popularity stinks! Who wants to be popular? Not me, that's for darn tootin'! I want to be kooky and different and have only two or three balding men emailing me at any one time! Yes siree, that's why I pay my £22 every month. Yup. It's alllllllll good.
Then there's a list of the men. They are a handsome bunch, mostly in their early thirties, and not fans of the head tilt. Instead, they go for a rugged, wide smile, and stare straight to camera, indicating openness and honesty. Out of the twenty, only one has anything other than a full head of hair, which cannot be representative. And of course, like all truly awful things (spider plants, smallpox), the situation is horribly self-perpetuating. Once you're on the popular list, far more people see your profile, and you get far more emails.
Needless to say, I, with my mid-length hair and untilted head, have never been on the popular list. The closest I've come to it was going out on a date once with a guy whose sister had been at number three and was so devastated when she fell to number seven that she had to leave the site altogether. It's always seemed like the kind of webpage I should probably avoid unless I wanted a good cry. And, mostly, I was able to steer well clear. Until a few days ago, when I went on a date with a guy who's on the list - and I liked him. Very Katy Perry. Now I hover round desperately hoping for him to drop off the chart (and sadly he's in the top ten so it doesn't look likely), while trying to block out all thoughts of how many hundreds of coquettish messages he's getting each day from leggy, tilty-headed vixens.
Sadly, I don't see that there's much I can do, except campaign for this irritating section of the Soulmates website to be removed immediately. Singles of the world unite! You have nothing to lose but a small fraction of your terrible self-hatred! Join me in fighting to ban the popular list! Popularity stinks! Who wants to be popular? Not me, that's for darn tootin'! I want to be kooky and different and have only two or three balding men emailing me at any one time! Yes siree, that's why I pay my £22 every month. Yup. It's alllllllll good.
Monday, 16 November 2009
Office romance
So this afternoon I was writing an email to my boss when I received a text message on my phone that was sitting next to my keyboard. I was reading the message while typing my email, and it was only once I'd pressed send that I realised that I'd put an x at the end of it. I virtually kissed my boss. So inappropriate. But bound to happpen eventually.
Everything else I have to tell you is currently embargoed. Will update you as situations develop.
Everything else I have to tell you is currently embargoed. Will update you as situations develop.
Friday, 13 November 2009
Title suggestions welcome
Last night I went home and sat on my sofa and, for the following two hours, read What I Loved by Siri Husvedt until I came to the end. I don't think I've done that since I moved into my flat. Reading is something that I do when I've finished everything else - or when there's nothing else I can be doing i.e. on the tube. What's annoying is that it now must seem like the book I was reading was especially remarkable, but it wasn't - it was smug and self-aware and irritating. But, in much the same way that I read The Da Vinci Code in a matter of consecutive hours, I wanted to find out what happened. A gripping plot is an amazing achievement, something that manages to fight through all manner of literary irritants. Also compelling was the fact that three separate friends had told me to read the book, and warned me that it gets quite dark in its latter stages. Pulse racing and compulsively determined to 'win' in some way, I spent pretty much every page trying to pre-empt the darkness, guessing and guessing and guessing, and then I finished the book. Turns out that what I call dark is a bit darker than what they call dark. Not that I thought it was a romcom or anything, but in my head I had the dad becoming a paedophile with his best friend's underage son. That didn't happen.
I sat on my sofa for a few minutes after I'd finished the final page and tsked my way through the acknowledgements, and I think I've pretty much decided that I will never write a novel. I just don't know or care enough about any one thing to focus on it for months of my life. I love the flippancy of a blog, the immediacy and the disposability. We all change constantly; at the moment I find it hard to be committed to these entries for longer than the few seconds it takes me to write them, and I don't allow myself to come back and edit them - they are truly immediate, normally produced in around a quarter of an hour, churned out and forgotten about. I like that rush. And certainly, the idea of pulling together the first draft of a novel is electrifying in a completely different way, a marathon as opposed to a sprint, but the truth that, even if it goes brilliantly, I will still be churning out rewrites in a year's time - well, the claustrophobia is so strong I can smell it. I can't promise I'll still like my shoes tomorrow morning, nor my haircut, my job or my friends - how can I possibly guarantee that I'll still be interested in the same story in twelve months? I posted a question about book writing on Twitter and Facebook, and had a gratifying number of encouraging messages from friends, but only one from a published author, who told me not to bother. I think she's right. I'll stick to the short stuff. Can't someone just publish this blog somewhere?
Meanwhile, in Matters of the Heart, I have been emailing (amongst others) a deeply unsuitable guy over the past few days. He sent me a message on Wednesday afternoon, babbling away perfectly happily and asking a couple of questions, as you do. I logged on to the site yesterday afternoon and wrote a (brilliant) reply, and pressed send. I was then taken to an unfamiliar page with a no entry sign on it, and an error message that read 'This user has chosen to block you. Please respect their wishes.' My jaw dropped. In a moment of uncharacteristic cockiness, I immediately concluded that he must have done it in error. The guy chatters away like he's on smack, I'm pretty sure that he is a likely candidate for accidentally pressing buttons on his computer that block people on dating sites. Still, my ego wanted to know, so like any good sleuth, I asked Sara (who is also on the site, and who he hadn't yet blocked) to email him and tell him that he had accidentally blocked me. She did. He unblocked me and apologised. Now, of course, I look like I really like him, which is annoying, because I don't. But I'd rather be emailing an unsuitable smack addict than be blocked by one for no reason. So all's well that ends well.
I'm off to sing beautifully and then watch 2012. Dreading it.
I sat on my sofa for a few minutes after I'd finished the final page and tsked my way through the acknowledgements, and I think I've pretty much decided that I will never write a novel. I just don't know or care enough about any one thing to focus on it for months of my life. I love the flippancy of a blog, the immediacy and the disposability. We all change constantly; at the moment I find it hard to be committed to these entries for longer than the few seconds it takes me to write them, and I don't allow myself to come back and edit them - they are truly immediate, normally produced in around a quarter of an hour, churned out and forgotten about. I like that rush. And certainly, the idea of pulling together the first draft of a novel is electrifying in a completely different way, a marathon as opposed to a sprint, but the truth that, even if it goes brilliantly, I will still be churning out rewrites in a year's time - well, the claustrophobia is so strong I can smell it. I can't promise I'll still like my shoes tomorrow morning, nor my haircut, my job or my friends - how can I possibly guarantee that I'll still be interested in the same story in twelve months? I posted a question about book writing on Twitter and Facebook, and had a gratifying number of encouraging messages from friends, but only one from a published author, who told me not to bother. I think she's right. I'll stick to the short stuff. Can't someone just publish this blog somewhere?
Meanwhile, in Matters of the Heart, I have been emailing (amongst others) a deeply unsuitable guy over the past few days. He sent me a message on Wednesday afternoon, babbling away perfectly happily and asking a couple of questions, as you do. I logged on to the site yesterday afternoon and wrote a (brilliant) reply, and pressed send. I was then taken to an unfamiliar page with a no entry sign on it, and an error message that read 'This user has chosen to block you. Please respect their wishes.' My jaw dropped. In a moment of uncharacteristic cockiness, I immediately concluded that he must have done it in error. The guy chatters away like he's on smack, I'm pretty sure that he is a likely candidate for accidentally pressing buttons on his computer that block people on dating sites. Still, my ego wanted to know, so like any good sleuth, I asked Sara (who is also on the site, and who he hadn't yet blocked) to email him and tell him that he had accidentally blocked me. She did. He unblocked me and apologised. Now, of course, I look like I really like him, which is annoying, because I don't. But I'd rather be emailing an unsuitable smack addict than be blocked by one for no reason. So all's well that ends well.
I'm off to sing beautifully and then watch 2012. Dreading it.
Thursday, 12 November 2009
Surface tension
Last night I went to see Martha Wainwright sing songs by Edith Piaf at the Barbican. I've been a fan of Martha for a few years, having discovered her through my love of her brother, Rufus. Like her brother, she is classically trained, Canadian and pretty much bilingual. She's also had a pretty rocky time of it, albeit in a fairly privileged way, and where Rufus is openly gay and has written a lot about that, Martha is straight but has struggled with relationships, writing songs like Bloody Motherfucking Asshole and I Know You're Married But I've Got Feelings Too. I think she is clever and hilarious and in possession of an incredibly strong and sensual voice; I was extremely excited about last night.
And then she walked on stage, and I gasped: she was pregnant. Very pregnant. Last I'd heard, she was singing about being a mistress, and now she was having someone's baby and wearing a wedding ring. I was thrilled for her, genuinely thrilled, but then, through all the beautiful Piaf songs, I couldn't stop thinking about it. I wanted to focus on the music, I wanted her pregnancy and marriage to be irrelevant, but the mental image I'd had of her had always been of a battler, and now she was happy. I think I'd feel the same if I'd seen Gordon Brown with a suntan or Jesus doing a 100m sprint - it was incongrous and, shame on me, I found it distracting. Her clothes got me as well. Her leggings in the first half were too tight, her top was unflattering. And after the interval, she came back on stage wearing a black silk dress over a strapless bra that squashed her boobs into a flat plank, making them look like a little shelf. The dress needed to be ironed and the hem was irregular but not in a way that made me think it was a deliberate design choice.
And so this gorgeous, hair-raisingly beautiful music is being performed by fantastically talented singers and players, including a seriously hot pianist, and all I can think about is the fact that Martha's going to have a baby but her bra is a disaster, and whether they have ironing facilities in the dressing rooms at the Barbican. What is wrong with me?! Why can't I pierce the outermost layer and get stuck in to what's really important? I'm like the worst bits of Trinny, Suzannah and a magpie, distracted by anything sparkly, or, in my case, helplessly drawn to unsightly bulges.
It doesn't matter who's talking or what extraordinary life changing information they're imparting - a stray facial hair or a sweat patch will render me entirely unable to hear anything other than the voice in my head that's going 'Should I tell them? I probably should. I'd want someone to tell me. But then, what can they do about it? Maybe I should tell that other person to tell them...' and on to infinity. Some people just don't even see these things. They are the people who walk around with unplucked eyebrows and VPLs, the hanger loops dangling out of their waistlines, labels sticking out of their neck, whose dyed hair looks perfect from the front but a wreck from the back, who are happily talking to a boy they fancy with red wine encrusted into the cracks on their lips, and they don't give a damn. They're blissfully ignorant and god they're lucky. I want to be like them. Maybe if I stopped wearing glasses I wouldn't see as many flaws, but my new frames are too cool for school. Hmmm.
And then she walked on stage, and I gasped: she was pregnant. Very pregnant. Last I'd heard, she was singing about being a mistress, and now she was having someone's baby and wearing a wedding ring. I was thrilled for her, genuinely thrilled, but then, through all the beautiful Piaf songs, I couldn't stop thinking about it. I wanted to focus on the music, I wanted her pregnancy and marriage to be irrelevant, but the mental image I'd had of her had always been of a battler, and now she was happy. I think I'd feel the same if I'd seen Gordon Brown with a suntan or Jesus doing a 100m sprint - it was incongrous and, shame on me, I found it distracting. Her clothes got me as well. Her leggings in the first half were too tight, her top was unflattering. And after the interval, she came back on stage wearing a black silk dress over a strapless bra that squashed her boobs into a flat plank, making them look like a little shelf. The dress needed to be ironed and the hem was irregular but not in a way that made me think it was a deliberate design choice.
And so this gorgeous, hair-raisingly beautiful music is being performed by fantastically talented singers and players, including a seriously hot pianist, and all I can think about is the fact that Martha's going to have a baby but her bra is a disaster, and whether they have ironing facilities in the dressing rooms at the Barbican. What is wrong with me?! Why can't I pierce the outermost layer and get stuck in to what's really important? I'm like the worst bits of Trinny, Suzannah and a magpie, distracted by anything sparkly, or, in my case, helplessly drawn to unsightly bulges.
It doesn't matter who's talking or what extraordinary life changing information they're imparting - a stray facial hair or a sweat patch will render me entirely unable to hear anything other than the voice in my head that's going 'Should I tell them? I probably should. I'd want someone to tell me. But then, what can they do about it? Maybe I should tell that other person to tell them...' and on to infinity. Some people just don't even see these things. They are the people who walk around with unplucked eyebrows and VPLs, the hanger loops dangling out of their waistlines, labels sticking out of their neck, whose dyed hair looks perfect from the front but a wreck from the back, who are happily talking to a boy they fancy with red wine encrusted into the cracks on their lips, and they don't give a damn. They're blissfully ignorant and god they're lucky. I want to be like them. Maybe if I stopped wearing glasses I wouldn't see as many flaws, but my new frames are too cool for school. Hmmm.
Wednesday, 11 November 2009
You are getting veeeeery sleeeeepy
So after the Events of last Thursday (which Kate is, I think cruelly, insisting on calling Puke Night), I then went to an amazing gig at the Roundhouse on Friday night - we saw the Cinematic Orchestra, who had written music to play over the top of some gorgeous old Soviet-era footage. It was absolutely mesmerising but even more noteworthy for being a night out when I had nothing to drink. I was still feeling very nauseated so the desire to consume alcohol was nil but nonetheless, there was something unusual about hearing such gorgeous, languorous music and watching such hypnotic footage that would have gone perfectly with a couple of pints of lager. Still, I resisted and felt better for it on Saturday, when I mooched around Habitat and had one of those moments when I thanked the world that I don't have a boyfriend because every single couple I saw was experiencing some sort of fractious, hungover tension. This was good timing as the night before, at the Roundhouse, every single couple was Crazy In Love and it was getting On My Wick. Saturday night was fireworks - front row at Ally Pally with Grania and then back to dinner at the Gay Hussar in Soho and out for drinks with our new friend on Percy Street to a random chintzy bar with much dancing to The Kinks and Wham and the Killers, and then, having missed the last tube, on to a weird pub and then tripping down Charing Cross Road to the night bus, back home around 3am. Sunday was filled with lovely parents and ham cooked in Coca-Cola (thanks to Nigella for the recipe and Sara for telling me about it) and DIY and The X Factor. Yum.
But it all caught up with me on Monday, coinciding with the frowny face I write in my diary to remind me that PMT might be striking, and I was very blue and no fun whatsoever. I got home from choir, had a bath and then plummeted into a pit of sadness. I thought about my Disconnect hypnosis and I thought how nice it would be if there were other ones on other subjects, and then I remembered my friend telling me about Hypnosis Downloads, and I checked out the website, spent about sixteen thousand pounds in a matter of minutes and am now miraculously completely better. Flippancy aside, if you hold any truck with hypnotherapy, this is one of the most addictive sites in the world. It's not the type of hypnosis where the guy tells you to pretend to be a sex pest and you gyrate on stage in front of thousands of laughing audience members. It just lulls you into a very relaxed state and then tells you ridiculously obvious things that you can't argue with.
But the amazing thing about this particular website is the range of titles. There are over 500 of them and, much like herbal medicine counters, it was hard to be selective. When I go to Boots and see pills for 'a healthy liver' or 'a strong heart' or 'a boosted immune system', I begin to panic. What right-minded person would look at those bottles and say, "Nah, actually I don't want a healthy liver fanks." Basically, every single pill has positive benefits for pretty much every human. I don't know how I am supposed to make an informed choice. I end up buying a multi-vitamin and some fish oils and running away before I get sucked in to everything else.
Hypnosis Downloads are similarly hard to resist. Overcome Perfectionism? Yes please. Perfect Body? Sounds good. Stop Negative Thoughts? Well, if you insist! Within about five minutes I'd put ten in my shopping basket - about five hours of hypnosis for several of my hard-earned pounds. The one I was most excited about was Bounce Out Of Bed, which I listened to last night, and this morning, when my alarm went off an hour earlier than normal, I did find it easier to get up. I did my yoga, and I feel much better. Like all these things, it's probably bollocks, but if it's bollocks that works, I don't give a monkey's.
What was most brilliant was my power to reject some of the titles. It made me realise that, troublemaker that I am, there are still some areas in which I find life easier than others. Telesales Confidence, for example, is not a subject I need help with. Nor is Skin Picking, Porn Addiction or Vaginismus Treatment. And I'm very glad not to have hungrily downloaded Gag Reflex, Fear of Others Vomiting or Stop Thumb Sucking. That said, if I ever develop any of those issues, I'll know where to look. There is basically a 30 minutes programme for pretty much every single human phobia, insecurity or panic apart from Fear of Only Meeting Idiots Until You Finally Stumble Across Mr or Mrs Right But Then Discover That One Of You Is Infertile Or That You're Both Fertile But Then He Or She Dies In A Tragic Road Traffic Accident When The Baby Is Six Weeks Old which is clearly so rational a fear that it's impossible to logically soothe someone out of the panic in a half hour .mp3. Ah well. Can't win 'em all.
But it all caught up with me on Monday, coinciding with the frowny face I write in my diary to remind me that PMT might be striking, and I was very blue and no fun whatsoever. I got home from choir, had a bath and then plummeted into a pit of sadness. I thought about my Disconnect hypnosis and I thought how nice it would be if there were other ones on other subjects, and then I remembered my friend telling me about Hypnosis Downloads, and I checked out the website, spent about sixteen thousand pounds in a matter of minutes and am now miraculously completely better. Flippancy aside, if you hold any truck with hypnotherapy, this is one of the most addictive sites in the world. It's not the type of hypnosis where the guy tells you to pretend to be a sex pest and you gyrate on stage in front of thousands of laughing audience members. It just lulls you into a very relaxed state and then tells you ridiculously obvious things that you can't argue with.
But the amazing thing about this particular website is the range of titles. There are over 500 of them and, much like herbal medicine counters, it was hard to be selective. When I go to Boots and see pills for 'a healthy liver' or 'a strong heart' or 'a boosted immune system', I begin to panic. What right-minded person would look at those bottles and say, "Nah, actually I don't want a healthy liver fanks." Basically, every single pill has positive benefits for pretty much every human. I don't know how I am supposed to make an informed choice. I end up buying a multi-vitamin and some fish oils and running away before I get sucked in to everything else.
Hypnosis Downloads are similarly hard to resist. Overcome Perfectionism? Yes please. Perfect Body? Sounds good. Stop Negative Thoughts? Well, if you insist! Within about five minutes I'd put ten in my shopping basket - about five hours of hypnosis for several of my hard-earned pounds. The one I was most excited about was Bounce Out Of Bed, which I listened to last night, and this morning, when my alarm went off an hour earlier than normal, I did find it easier to get up. I did my yoga, and I feel much better. Like all these things, it's probably bollocks, but if it's bollocks that works, I don't give a monkey's.
What was most brilliant was my power to reject some of the titles. It made me realise that, troublemaker that I am, there are still some areas in which I find life easier than others. Telesales Confidence, for example, is not a subject I need help with. Nor is Skin Picking, Porn Addiction or Vaginismus Treatment. And I'm very glad not to have hungrily downloaded Gag Reflex, Fear of Others Vomiting or Stop Thumb Sucking. That said, if I ever develop any of those issues, I'll know where to look. There is basically a 30 minutes programme for pretty much every single human phobia, insecurity or panic apart from Fear of Only Meeting Idiots Until You Finally Stumble Across Mr or Mrs Right But Then Discover That One Of You Is Infertile Or That You're Both Fertile But Then He Or She Dies In A Tragic Road Traffic Accident When The Baby Is Six Weeks Old which is clearly so rational a fear that it's impossible to logically soothe someone out of the panic in a half hour .mp3. Ah well. Can't win 'em all.
Friday, 6 November 2009
Social Hurl
You know things are desperate when the first thing you Google of a morning is 'Burger King'.
Last night was interesting. Kate and her brother had a party in their 12th floor flat to watch the various fireworks displays around London. It was extremely, violently fun. I had a lot to eat and a lot to drink. Then I went to the bathroom and was extremely, violently sick. I mean violently. I haven't been sick from alcohol misuse for 11 years. But my god, I made up for lost time. I was so sick that I saw food that I last ate in July. Tears and sweat streamed down my face. It was awful. To add insult to injury, while I was vomiting, I remembered that someone once told me that bulimics have to vomit within 45 minutes of eating otherwise the fat in the food is already being stored by their body, and I'd eaten way more than 45 minutes previously, so I wasn't even avoiding weightgain. Livid.
There was not a chance that I could go back into the party to say goodbye. I turned right out of the bathroom, grabbed my bag, left the flat and soon found myself on the Embankment near Lots Road. I remember thinking that my footwear was unsuitable, so changed out of my boots into my trainers. Then I lurched off in the direction of my flat. I couldn't even remotely walk in a straight line. I was staggering, hair everywhere, still sweating, still wondering if I might be sick again, desperate to get home but uncertain whether getting in to a moving vehicle was sensible. I jolted east for god knows how long, spitting occasionally (yup), and eventually realised that I was really quite far from home. So finally I got in a cab. £4.20 later I had to ask him to let me out as the sickness was imminent. I stumbled the rest of the way home, a good couple of miles, made it to my bathroom, and then was sick again.
I woke up this morning at 09.31, precisely 31 minutes after I should have been seated at my desk. I texted my boss and told him I'd forgotten to set my alarm (true) and then rushed to work, although I had to get off the tube at Borough for a rest from the swaying carriage, which was taking my nausea levels from 'dangerous' to 'red alert'.
I had a Coke at 10am, which helped, and a gargantuan McDonald's at 12, which was fantastic. I feel much better now but despite drinking a litre of water, a can of coke and then a large coke with my McDonald's and a chocolate milkshake, I haven't had a wee since 09:32, which gives me some indication of quite how worryingly dehydrated I am. I still feel somewhat weak and feeble, and am perhaps over-emotional, given that I saw the headline 'Which minature animals make good pets?' on the Guardian website and was so excited by the concept alone, I welled up. I would question the idea that there is anyone alive who wants a Pygmy goat more than I do.
I certainly did have too much to drink last night, but, I'm afraid to admit, no more than normal, and I was wondering if my reaction was disproportionate, until I found out that someone else at the party was sick too, having drunk a lot less than I did. I now am convinced that we both had a reaction to something we ate. Sure, I was drunk, drunk enough to think it was acceptable to take back the slab of Hotel Chocolat deliciousness that I'd given to Kate, but I wasn't that drunk. I am never sick. This was odd. Anyway, the good news is that I had a really fun time at the party, from what I can remember (Kate kindly texted me today saying that I had been on 'brilliant form'), and I have £12.50-worth of chocolate in my fridge. I'm slightly surprised I wasn't arrested on the way home, but other than that, it was a splendid night.
Last night was interesting. Kate and her brother had a party in their 12th floor flat to watch the various fireworks displays around London. It was extremely, violently fun. I had a lot to eat and a lot to drink. Then I went to the bathroom and was extremely, violently sick. I mean violently. I haven't been sick from alcohol misuse for 11 years. But my god, I made up for lost time. I was so sick that I saw food that I last ate in July. Tears and sweat streamed down my face. It was awful. To add insult to injury, while I was vomiting, I remembered that someone once told me that bulimics have to vomit within 45 minutes of eating otherwise the fat in the food is already being stored by their body, and I'd eaten way more than 45 minutes previously, so I wasn't even avoiding weightgain. Livid.
There was not a chance that I could go back into the party to say goodbye. I turned right out of the bathroom, grabbed my bag, left the flat and soon found myself on the Embankment near Lots Road. I remember thinking that my footwear was unsuitable, so changed out of my boots into my trainers. Then I lurched off in the direction of my flat. I couldn't even remotely walk in a straight line. I was staggering, hair everywhere, still sweating, still wondering if I might be sick again, desperate to get home but uncertain whether getting in to a moving vehicle was sensible. I jolted east for god knows how long, spitting occasionally (yup), and eventually realised that I was really quite far from home. So finally I got in a cab. £4.20 later I had to ask him to let me out as the sickness was imminent. I stumbled the rest of the way home, a good couple of miles, made it to my bathroom, and then was sick again.
I woke up this morning at 09.31, precisely 31 minutes after I should have been seated at my desk. I texted my boss and told him I'd forgotten to set my alarm (true) and then rushed to work, although I had to get off the tube at Borough for a rest from the swaying carriage, which was taking my nausea levels from 'dangerous' to 'red alert'.
I had a Coke at 10am, which helped, and a gargantuan McDonald's at 12, which was fantastic. I feel much better now but despite drinking a litre of water, a can of coke and then a large coke with my McDonald's and a chocolate milkshake, I haven't had a wee since 09:32, which gives me some indication of quite how worryingly dehydrated I am. I still feel somewhat weak and feeble, and am perhaps over-emotional, given that I saw the headline 'Which minature animals make good pets?' on the Guardian website and was so excited by the concept alone, I welled up. I would question the idea that there is anyone alive who wants a Pygmy goat more than I do.
I certainly did have too much to drink last night, but, I'm afraid to admit, no more than normal, and I was wondering if my reaction was disproportionate, until I found out that someone else at the party was sick too, having drunk a lot less than I did. I now am convinced that we both had a reaction to something we ate. Sure, I was drunk, drunk enough to think it was acceptable to take back the slab of Hotel Chocolat deliciousness that I'd given to Kate, but I wasn't that drunk. I am never sick. This was odd. Anyway, the good news is that I had a really fun time at the party, from what I can remember (Kate kindly texted me today saying that I had been on 'brilliant form'), and I have £12.50-worth of chocolate in my fridge. I'm slightly surprised I wasn't arrested on the way home, but other than that, it was a splendid night.
Thursday, 5 November 2009
Overconnected?
Ways I Know I'm Old, Part 32: The way that my carpet slightly lifted up from my underlay due to the supreme suction created by my hoover once I'd put in a new bag made me go, "Ooooh!"
Last night, I got home, put on a pair of very fitted, grey Nike tracksuit bottoms that belonged to my mum in the eighties, and an oversized grey sweatshirt featuring a large picture of Mickey Mouse. I put my hair in a topknot, slid into my FitFlops, and cleaned my flat. I emptied the bins, I did the washing up, I did three loads of washing, I watered and pruned my plants, I plumped my sofa cushions, changed my sheets and vacuumed my floors. I also kind of tidied my V+ box, watching lots of month-old TV programmes, mostly on fast forward, while I scurried about. I ate my guilty home alone meal of microwave wholegrain rice, fried onion, tuna and mayo, drank two glasses of white wine, had a mini Magnum and received a couple of fun emails. Then I went to bed and nearly finished Prospect magazine. All in all, it was a brilliant night, accompanied by a Genius mix which started with my choice of Work by Kelly Rowland, and went via Play by JLo, Tears Dry On Their Own by Amy Winehouse, Superstar by Jamelia, My Love Is Like Wo! by Mya and Chain Reaction by Diana Ross. Pig in shit. Genius really is genius.
I do worry a bit about my obsessive love of technology though. The internet and its associated facilities affect the way I find out about news, the way I communicate with my friends and family, the way I cope with boredom at work, the way I find out about what fun stuff is going on in my city (and thus it directly impacts what I do in my spare time), it's the way I find out about new films and new dates and new music... I was standing in the shower yesterday, thinking that if someone threatened me with never being able to go online again, I would swap almost anything. Including possibly a limb. Any amputees out there will probably spit with rage at that, but I don't mean it flippantly. I am aware, though, that my perspectives might be slightly skewed, so (in an instance of fighting fire with fire) I downloaded an app to my iPhone called 'Disconnect', a hypnotherapy programme that is meant to make you less reliant on technology. I listened to it last night and although it didn't seem to be remotely profound at the time, I haven't checked Twitter today. Or Texts From Last Night. Hmmm. Maybe after a couple more listens I'll give up LLFF. Be a shame though. You'll be the first to know.
Last night, I got home, put on a pair of very fitted, grey Nike tracksuit bottoms that belonged to my mum in the eighties, and an oversized grey sweatshirt featuring a large picture of Mickey Mouse. I put my hair in a topknot, slid into my FitFlops, and cleaned my flat. I emptied the bins, I did the washing up, I did three loads of washing, I watered and pruned my plants, I plumped my sofa cushions, changed my sheets and vacuumed my floors. I also kind of tidied my V+ box, watching lots of month-old TV programmes, mostly on fast forward, while I scurried about. I ate my guilty home alone meal of microwave wholegrain rice, fried onion, tuna and mayo, drank two glasses of white wine, had a mini Magnum and received a couple of fun emails. Then I went to bed and nearly finished Prospect magazine. All in all, it was a brilliant night, accompanied by a Genius mix which started with my choice of Work by Kelly Rowland, and went via Play by JLo, Tears Dry On Their Own by Amy Winehouse, Superstar by Jamelia, My Love Is Like Wo! by Mya and Chain Reaction by Diana Ross. Pig in shit. Genius really is genius.
I do worry a bit about my obsessive love of technology though. The internet and its associated facilities affect the way I find out about news, the way I communicate with my friends and family, the way I cope with boredom at work, the way I find out about what fun stuff is going on in my city (and thus it directly impacts what I do in my spare time), it's the way I find out about new films and new dates and new music... I was standing in the shower yesterday, thinking that if someone threatened me with never being able to go online again, I would swap almost anything. Including possibly a limb. Any amputees out there will probably spit with rage at that, but I don't mean it flippantly. I am aware, though, that my perspectives might be slightly skewed, so (in an instance of fighting fire with fire) I downloaded an app to my iPhone called 'Disconnect', a hypnotherapy programme that is meant to make you less reliant on technology. I listened to it last night and although it didn't seem to be remotely profound at the time, I haven't checked Twitter today. Or Texts From Last Night. Hmmm. Maybe after a couple more listens I'll give up LLFF. Be a shame though. You'll be the first to know.
Wednesday, 4 November 2009
I can handle the truth
I know it's terrible to say, but I'm not a massive fan of the Dutch, for several reasons. In no way do I think I'm better than them, it's just that we're different and so we tend to rub each other up the wrong way. One thing I love, however, is that when they email you, their shortened form of 'Kind regards' (where we might write 'Rgds') is 'Gr'. Every now and then, I get a very polite message from one of my Dutch colleagues, which ends, as below, in a cute little growl.
I thank you for your time and wish you a happy weekend.
Gr,
Thea
It always makes me very happy.
In other news, last night I went on a date with a guy from the website. I wasn't convinced about him from his emails and it's safe to say I was singularly unbutterfly-ey about him, but then he texted before our meeting time to ask if I'd rather meet him at the restaurant or at the tube, which I thought was slighly gallant and I determined to give him the benefit of the doubt. I met him at the restaurant, we kissed hello and sat down. Then he started to talk. My brain knew that something was awry but couldn't immediately calculate quite what it was. His accent was unusual. And so I asked him.
"What's that accent? I don't recognise it."
"OK, well, I'm clearly not English, as it says in my profile," he said. "Nor is English my first language. I was born in Holland and grew up in Germany. And I've lived in London for ten years."
"Why did you lie?"
"Because I get better matching scores with people if I say I'm English."
"Well, I'd get better matching scores with people if I said my body type was slim. Them's the breaks."
By this point, the waiter had taken our drinks order, but then I told him I wouldn't be ordering any food. Once again, I know my mother will say I'm being too picky, but as I explained to him, I don't give a flying lemur whether he's from the UK or the Ukraine but I do have a massive problem with lying. As far as I'm concerned, trust and honesty are the bedrock of any relationship. He'd successfully pulled the wool over my eyes about this. What else was he prepared to disguise to get me into bed? Sure, we all omit certain key pieces of information. I might not tell a first date that I'm quite keen on having children in the next few years, or that one of my boobs is a bit bigger than the other, or that I'm on anti-depressant medication. But if he asked me outright, I wouldn't lie. And I would not - and do not - say anything in my online profile that is dishonest. The guy last night, he lied to me. And for that reason, we had a nice chat about nothing for twenty minutes, and then I stood up, left the restaurant and went home to my sofa.
OBVIOUSLY if I'd fancied him I would have let the whole lying thing go.
I thank you for your time and wish you a happy weekend.
Gr,
Thea
It always makes me very happy.
In other news, last night I went on a date with a guy from the website. I wasn't convinced about him from his emails and it's safe to say I was singularly unbutterfly-ey about him, but then he texted before our meeting time to ask if I'd rather meet him at the restaurant or at the tube, which I thought was slighly gallant and I determined to give him the benefit of the doubt. I met him at the restaurant, we kissed hello and sat down. Then he started to talk. My brain knew that something was awry but couldn't immediately calculate quite what it was. His accent was unusual. And so I asked him.
"What's that accent? I don't recognise it."
"OK, well, I'm clearly not English, as it says in my profile," he said. "Nor is English my first language. I was born in Holland and grew up in Germany. And I've lived in London for ten years."
"Why did you lie?"
"Because I get better matching scores with people if I say I'm English."
"Well, I'd get better matching scores with people if I said my body type was slim. Them's the breaks."
By this point, the waiter had taken our drinks order, but then I told him I wouldn't be ordering any food. Once again, I know my mother will say I'm being too picky, but as I explained to him, I don't give a flying lemur whether he's from the UK or the Ukraine but I do have a massive problem with lying. As far as I'm concerned, trust and honesty are the bedrock of any relationship. He'd successfully pulled the wool over my eyes about this. What else was he prepared to disguise to get me into bed? Sure, we all omit certain key pieces of information. I might not tell a first date that I'm quite keen on having children in the next few years, or that one of my boobs is a bit bigger than the other, or that I'm on anti-depressant medication. But if he asked me outright, I wouldn't lie. And I would not - and do not - say anything in my online profile that is dishonest. The guy last night, he lied to me. And for that reason, we had a nice chat about nothing for twenty minutes, and then I stood up, left the restaurant and went home to my sofa.
OBVIOUSLY if I'd fancied him I would have let the whole lying thing go.
Tuesday, 3 November 2009
1.5 seconds of fame
It's been 41 years since Andy Warhol predicted that in the future, everyone would be "world-famous for 15 minutes", and I am pleased to announce that, as of last night, I am 0.16 recurring % of the way there. While I was on my way home from choir practice, Thom texted me to say that he'd just seen me on TV. He also said I was on YouTube. So I got back to my flat, and looked, and he's right. I'm there, on a nationwide ad campaign, in glorious technicolour, for everyone to see. My teeth look very American.
Now, of course, that doesn't make me famous. But we've all got to start somewhere. And I've only got 898.5 seconds to go before Andy Warhol is proved right.
Thanks to Murray for answering my call while he was in Switzerland and giving me assistance with the percentage calculation. I'm tired and thick because I couldn't sleep last night and then couldn't stop reading Texts From Last Night. The fallout from Hallowe'en has been fantastic e.g.: "You tried to wear your Jesus costume into Family Christian stores and say it was a book signing." LOLZ etc.
Right. I'll leave you now. I doubt any of you have read yesterday in its entirity so you have plenty to be getting on with. Go on, my lambs, off you trot.
Now, of course, that doesn't make me famous. But we've all got to start somewhere. And I've only got 898.5 seconds to go before Andy Warhol is proved right.
Thanks to Murray for answering my call while he was in Switzerland and giving me assistance with the percentage calculation. I'm tired and thick because I couldn't sleep last night and then couldn't stop reading Texts From Last Night. The fallout from Hallowe'en has been fantastic e.g.: "You tried to wear your Jesus costume into Family Christian stores and say it was a book signing." LOLZ etc.
Right. I'll leave you now. I doubt any of you have read yesterday in its entirity so you have plenty to be getting on with. Go on, my lambs, off you trot.
Monday, 2 November 2009
4199-word-long weekend
I had the most amazing couple of days, and now all I can think about is the passive aggressive phone conversation I’ve just had about choir. GROWL. Unlikely though it may seem, I am actually not a fan of confrontation. In fact, I hate arguments and find them deeply upsetting. However, what I hate even more is someone thinking ill of me when it is unjustified. If I’ve actually been a proper pain in the arse, and of course, that happens all the time, then people can think ill of me all they like – it’s fair enough. But when they are gripping the incorrect extremity of the woody growth, I find it extremely hard to let things lie. I shouldn’t care, I know. What does it matter what they think, as long as I know the truth? But hey. We can’t all be mature. And fortunately I have ten A4 pages of hand-written notes (front and back) to bring the last two days back to life.
Just like last year and the year before, I attended the Battle of Ideas in west London, a two day debating forum run by the Institute of Ideas. And here follows what I learned, and, in square brackets, the irrelevant self-obsessed ramblings that popped into my head during each debate:
First up for me was a debate about Parliament, where all four speakers (including Martin Bell) agreed that reform of the political system is urgently needed. [Is it antisocial to eat a banana in this environment?] Over the course of the weekend, it seemed to go without question that the monarchy needs to be abolished immediately, that power should be shared out more equally among Parliament, that select committees should have more power, and that the House of Lords should be fully elected. Unless we have greater self-determination and greater control over our lives, we won’t become engaged in politics. All this makes sense to me, I just don’t see it happening. So many good ideas, but seemingly so little chance of any real change occurring. I left feeling a bit hopeless. [Would that guy’s stutter be deal-breaking?]
Next: Post-Recession Ideologies. How should the financial crisis change the way we think about the world? [How easy would it be to duplicate the wrist-band I’m wearing and sneak someone in for free tomorrow?] Despite working in a bank, I found this one less gripping, but this was the first time I’d heard people attacking the politics of austerity – the idea that we’re all being blamed for being too greedy, that we should all have allotments and go back to basics and stop travelling more than three metres from the house where we were born etc. In this discussion, there seemed to be anger that we are not looking for positive solutions to the problem, and are instead being shackled with this mantle of collective guilt. Terms like ‘the force of globalization’ only serve to make us feel powerless and disenfranchised, which is probably what the governments want – whereas we do have choices, and we should be getting angry and politicised.
Third on Saturday: When is it right to go to war. FASCinating. I couldn’t have been more glued to my seat on this one. [Hmmm. There are a lot of left-handers here. I like that.] The panel was really opposed, which made things more heated, and I came away not knowing what I think, which was uncomfortable but I could feel my brain recalibrating, which is always satisfying. A fairly pacifist speaker started off (1) , saying that firstly, it is profoundly undemocratic to engage in interventions in another country for reasons other than self-defence – it means we’re basically saying, “Our domestic system is perfect – all that’s left is to spread this system around the globe.” Additionally, going to war justifies more war, normalises violence, and makes no effort to address the causes of systemic conflict on an international level. We want less war, not more. [Is it acceptable to take the bus to the tube from here or is that unforgivably lazy?]
The second speaker (2) disagreed, saying that there are occasions where we must defend those who can’t defend themselves, and that if we wait for UN endorsement, we will wait forever, because there will always be some vetoes on every possible conflict. He argued that there weren’t enough interventions. Speaker three (3) said that since we don’t have a democratic society, thus we don’t have democratic control of our armed forces. Once we have successful national governance, only then can we partake in a valid global governance. And it will only be then that we have the right to legitimise intervention. I could see his logic, but I worried about the hundreds of thousands of people dying in genocides around the world. Then I worried about the people dying in the UK armed forces in conflicts that I didn’t agree with. Then the fourth speaker (4) started, and was deeply patronising but basically seemed to have faith in the concept that we know what is right, and we know what is wrong, and that we have a duty to defend those who are being treated cruelly. And it’s precisely this idea that there are universal truths that I find difficult. I’m just not sure I would feel confident knowing which side is right in a war that’s being fought on a different continent over battle lines that were often drawn centuries before I was born. But 4 was convinced: we are all suffering from way too much post-colonial guilt, we have to stop self-flagellating and get involved. It’s become politically incorrect to say that we are in the right, and so we do nothing while people die. I agree – it has become politically incorrect to say that. But I’m not sure that’s such a bad thing. [I’m going to have duck and pancakes tonight. But will I be able to fit in Singapore noodles as well?]
1 said that sovereignty and self-determination is a human right – other nations can’t make those decisions on your behalf. 2 said it’s a choice, then, between self-determination or universal human rights – you can’t have one or the other. How much self-determination is ‘allowable’? What if horrific cruelties are being acted out with women and children being raped? Is it ‘appallingly imperialist’ to say that is wrong? Sure, a lot of the values we have might have western origins, but that doesn’t mean they’re automatically wrong. An audience member asked us to remember that, although war kills, peace kills too, which I thought was a good point. How do we get rid of evil dictatorships if we can’t use force? But then pacifist 3 spoke again, using vivid images of civilians being bombed at weddings by allied forces, innocent children being killed at school. It does turn my stomach and it’s hard to justify. Maybe impossible. 2 agreed with 4, that the very concept of universal values is now seen as imperialist and wrong, and that he is not prepared to allow fear of imperialism to trump socialist values. Then 1 said that it’s this very self-flagellation that is making us go to war, not stopping us – we feel so guilty for having caused so much crap around the world that we feel like we have to fix all the messes. And speaker 3 said, I thought profoundly, that if something truly was a universal value, it probably wouldn’t need to be imposed. An audience member said that, who were we kidding, we only get involved in interventions when we have stuff to gain, like oil. [I fancy the guy in the checked shirt. A lot.] And patronising 4 said that you don’t get cheap oil from fighting wars, you get it from doing deals. The politicians aren’t trying to stay in Iraq and colonise it for resources, they’re trying to get out. I left the debate feeling none the wiser, but privileged to have seen such intelligent people arguing with such passion about a topic with such global significance.
Next – Rethinking Freedom: Rights or Liberty. There was a real sense throughout the weekend that we aren’t as free as even I might have imagined. I mean, obviously I have long been grumpy about the Nanny State, and I’m not happy about CCTV, and I’ve always been passionately opposed to ID cards, but there seem to be a number of stealth laws that have been passed that are eroding our freedoms in a slightly terrifying way. I’m wary of getting too Orwellian about it all, but these people were persuasive. The very idea that having rights (i.e. laws that protect us) removes our freedom is a contradiction that I hadn’t really thought much about before. The second speaker argued that rights and freedom shouldn’t be mutually exclusive but I’m not sure it’s possible to have them both. She was very strong about privacy, arguing that without it we have no political refuge. Agreed. Speaker 3 said, sensibly, that the state can, and should, guarantee rights – but it should also guarantee us a space in which to exercise those rights. A fan of rights and legislation might say that “the right to live free from poverty is more valuable than the right to live with freedom of expression.” 3 disagreed. Then the discussion turned to the BNP and freedom of speech, with 4 talking passionately about illiberal liberalism, where we’re heading towards a one-party monolith, an authoritarian, totalitarian state where there is only one acceptable opinion. It’s as if free speech is okay, as long as it’s liberal. He quoted Voltaire: “Think for yourselves, and allow others the privilege of doing so too.” The conversation about the BNP on Question Time then shifted to the BBC itself, which was widely seen as part of the problem, a state apparatus promoting government interests.
Speaker 2 said that the idea of universal freedom is difficult (as we had seen in the war debate). Civil rights as separate from civil liberties. Free speech vs. equality. Some say we need to repress speech that might offend oppressed groups – but 2 said she found that deeply patronising. We need to have the ability to engage in argument and debate. That’s where self-belief comes from. People only engage with civil liberties when the discussion affects their own civil liberties. What we need to work on is engaging their interest about the liberties of others.
An audience member commented that we have given up our privacy, and with it our sense of our own importance – we now feel powerless and we’ve lost confidence that our opinion is every bit as valid as that of the people who rule us. That definitely resonated. I too feel powerless. I have opinions but no voice. And even if I have a voice, I am deeply sceptical about my ability to change anything at all. [Woo! I asked a question and got applause! From a cool black guy wearing Sennheiser headphones!]
Then I cheered up in the final act of Saturday – a balloon debate between six revolutions, the French, Industrial, Sexual, English, Scientific and American. [The guy talking about the French Revolution is unquestionably very fit but I’m not sure about the way he’s pushed up his jacket sleeves.] It was all very arbitrary but in the end it was a draw between the Scientific and the Industrial, and the genuinely brilliant chairwoman had them decide it by an arm-wrestle. Science won. [It is unacceptable that she is so ridiculously intelligent and stunning.]
Then on to Sunday. Are you still with me? Perhaps not, but I need to get this off my chest. Topic one: the Human Rights Act. [Aw, the chair was introducing the speakers on his left and right and had to look at his hands and make an L in order to tell which one was which!] This debate was all a bit technical for me and I’d had no idea of the controversies surrounding the 1998 piece of legislation, but once again, it seemed to be a fight between rules and freedoms. As far as I’m concerned, freedom sounds alluring but the consequences of universal freedom are a bit scary when conflict seems like an inevitable by-product. Universal freedom is fine as long as everyone can sit down and debate things rationally, but given the inarticulacy of the planet (me included) when it comes to dealing with opposing views, a peaceful, free society doesn’t seem likely. Still, legislating for everything is certainly not the way to achieve the goal and the chair of the discussion (a lawyer himself) went so far as to say that the Human Rights Act had contributed to the death of political culture in the UK and that we have been neutered… That said, there was broad support for the Act in some form or other and all the panellists believed that it or something like it was important (clearly some laws are OK). [I think that guy is photographing me. Look pretty and clever.]
Second on Sunday: Mr Obama Goes To Washington. I have to admit to drifting off here, which was strange because one of the speakers was the Managing Editor of my beloved Prospect magazine, but he did repeat almost verbatim his article in the latest issue so I’m sure he could understand me drifting off. [Is the Managing Editor of Prospect magazine out of my league? I think probably yes.] The general thrust of the debate seemed to be that Obama had done pretty well in his first ten months, but could have done more, and the major criticism seemed to be that he defined himself as the anti-Bush, but hasn’t yet put forward many strong policies of his own. Is there are Big Vision? A coherent ideology? Surprisingly, not so much, and without a vibrant opposition against which to pitch themselves, they don’t know who they are; they know what they don’t want, but they’re not so clear on what they do. Obama consults everyone, but there’s a lack of conviction. Interesting. [I think I’d fancy him more if he had better glasses. The Managing Editor, that is. Not Obama.]
Then on to The Good Society: Virtues for a Post-Recession World. Four very different speakers made their points. 1 said that we are pretty much always in a post-recession world – the only thing that's different is how long ago the last one was. Either way, recessions are an inevitable fact of life, so we shouldn't really be bothering with trying to formulate particular virtues specific to now – there are universal virtues we should be thinking about, and they’re timeless. His belief is that what matters most to people is having a good job, and that consequently, anything we can do to create and retain jobs should be our first aim. Everything like charitable giving, good parenting and so on come late, once employment is sorted out. And the way to create this, he believes, is to be optimistic. Hope breeds new ideas, whereas giving up is the ultimate tragedy. We should concentrate on possibility and cultivate the will to achieve. Because “the pessimists are always on the losing side.” I liked that. Don’t turn against the risk-takers, he said – don’t over-regulate, bankers or otherwise.
2 was similarly aspirational, saying that to be a good human is to be active, to want to shape reality, to want to give something back, to refuse to accept the given world as given. It doesn’t have to be total selflessness – we should enjoy the beauties of the world because it is these that often move us to gratitude. I loved what she said, but disagreed with her that it is embarrassment that prevents people from aiming for virtue – I think the truth lies somewhere between laziness and a feeling of hopelessness, that we can’t make a difference even if we try.
Speaker 3 was fascinating in that he saw things from a perspective I’d never considered. He said it is commonplace to think of ourselves as living in an age of greed and selfishness, where our lack of restraint has led to this turmoil, where we’re all culpable and should all be ashamed. He said that this is the first time that it isn’t an elite getting criticised – this time it’s everyone, from Fred Goodwin, to the peasant in China who dares to buy a fridge, to the greedy low-income families who take out a mortgage they can’t afford. This has led to a feeling that there should be global restraint – loud calls for cutting back on pretty much everything, but, unusually, with no possibility for redemption as a result. We have to give up everything we’ve come to love, flying, eating meat, smoking, boozing, debating – we’re just evil consumers, users of resources – and we should turn this around. We aren’t just consumers, we’re creators, and we should be celebrating our achievements and looking to the future. We’re suffering from a lack of vision and need to regain the confidence that we can be problem-solvers as well as problem-makers. Decadence is a product, not a cause of the problem. Marx said we can create the new world through ruthless criticism of the old. We need freedom and prosperity to take us forward.
Then the wonderful Evan Harris MP was speaker 4, who launched an attack on the politics of celebrity. I’d been to a debate on Saturday where someone pointed out that an ex-Big Brother contestant is running for election in Scotland with the hands-up admission that “I know nothing about politics, I’m just going to vote with my conscience.” We need to have more political conviction, not less. But as Harris (or Evan. Can I call you Evan?) pointed out, we’re going to lose out to personality. “I don’t care about the leaders! Any of them!” he said, recklessly. “It’s the policies that count.” Refreshing but unlikely to make a difference. Sigh. [I think I want to be an MP.]
Yet again I felt simultaneously inspired and depressed. So many fantastic ideas, so much truth, but seemingly so few opportunities to execute these changes that need to be made so urgently. I stood up and said that there seemed to be a lot to be done and I felt truly hopeless and a bit like crying. Evan said I wasn’t the first woman who had said that to him and he did try to offer what he felt would be practical solutions: restoring inter-party democracy (presumably by bolstering select committees and by taking power away from the PM and the Whips) but expressed doubt that the findings of the committee he is, I believe, chairing, which will recommend parliamentary reforms, will be heeded at all.
Then downstairs to Is The NHS Institutionally Ageist? which seems to be a firm yes from all sides. It’s an interesting issue for someone who knows nothing about it (like me). There aren’t enough resources – so how do you issue them fairly? Allocating in response to need is fine, as long as needs are finite – but they’re not. There is infinite need. So then you start thinking about ‘meetable needs’ – but then there’s also the issue of benefit, in that you want to get as much bang for your buck as possible, which always discriminates against the elderly in that the cost of treating them is always greater and the ease of treating them is always less. Apparently the NHS has QUALYs, Quality Adjusted Life Years, and it basically says that the maximum you can spend to gain one more QUALY is approximately £30,000. This obviously discriminates against the elderly because their treatment is way more expensive as it’s way more complicated. They rarely suffer from just one condition, and their conditions are chronic and thus less glamorous and less well-funded and less well-researched than more prestigious (speaker’s words) illnesses that affect younger people. An audience member made the valid point that we live in an ageist society, and until that changes, there won’t be enough pressure on the health service to be any different. [I wonder how much weight I’ve gained this weekend?]
And finally, to What Next?, where panellists gave us the bees from their bonnets, what they felt were the most important issues for the coming months. And this was when the whole weekend came to life for me. Seeing the raw passion as each person spoke about the one thing they believe is most worth fighting for – it was inspirational and moving. James Boyle said that the most disgraceful problem in the UK is that every year the number of illiterate people rises. Even if you don’t care about them, he said, they are a massive drag on the economy. There is nothing more wasteful than uneducated people, he said: attack illiteracy.
Anthony Horowitz was incredibly angry about the Independent Safeguarding of Authority, the countless CRB checks that have to be done before parents can help out at their kids’ schools etc. Ian Huntley had been CRB checked, he pointed out. It’s pernicious, it destroys our relationships with children and is an horrendous piece of legislation.
Susan Neiman said that the split between religious and secular people is what needs to change the most. Religion is not the foundation of morality. But equally, secularists shouldn’t heap scorn on the religious. Whether god exists is beyond human knowledge. We should acknowledge that, whatever it was that created the world, it wasn’t me. So I have an incentive to give back for the gift of creation. A sense of gratitude is a moral emotion that will counter the sense of pessimism and misery. I am all for overcoming barriers between people (this is my main complaint against humanism, which I fear constructs more), so this resonated.
Katherine Rake, formerly of my beloved Fawcett Society, said that nostalgia may be all the rage, but it makes us fear the modern. And let’s not aim to recreate some sort of 1950s golden era that never existed. As an audience member later said: grow-your-own, make do and mend, it’s a return to domestic labour, and we all know who’ll be doing the majority of that.
James Panton spoke amazingly about the hyper-regulation of everyday life. We have a tendency to view other people’s actions as harmful to us. Smoking, drinking, photographing in public are all regulated. And sure, sometimes bad things will happen. But he hates the idea that, left to our own devices, we will cause each other harm: the inference is that we can’t work out a compromise within our community, amongst ourselves. So we legislate and regulate. We’re living life through license and it incapacitates us, but worse, we don’t just put up with it, we actually call for more. We’re becoming infantilised. We can take charge of our lives, we can organise these things for ourselves.
At this point I was squirming in my seat. How can we do it, though? Give me practical pointers, please. So I put my hand up, and the chair said, “Yes, to the lady in the yellow hat,” and I said, “I’ve been tremendously inspired by a lot of what I’ve heard this weekend. But I’m not in a powerful position. I’m not a respected journalist, or an MP. I don’t work for a think tank. I’m just a PA, a secretary, and I don’t know what I can do. What one thing would you suggest?”
James Panton said that I should refuse to allow people to control my life from above, and in response to Susan Neiman said, “I know that god doesn’t exist and I am sure that I create the world.” It was the most extraordinary sight, one human’s absolute certainty in his own power. I could have kissed him.
Susan Neiman and Katherine Rake said that I should think globally but act locally – believe in the power of the grassroots and do whatever I could to make as much change as I could, no matter how small it feels at the time. How do we raise the level of discussion when we have global media and other bodies that have a vested interest in keeping us stupid? We need to make ideas as fascinating as we can, as gripping as the latest MTV reality show. Let’s improve the way we communicate what’s important. And finally, that got me engaged. One thing I can do is communicate, and I agree that there is a huge gulf between the engaged academic and political class and the rest of the population. But I think I’m straddle the gulf. I like shopping. I worry about boys. I think I can speak to people and get them engaged. I just need a forum. It was food for thought. Rich, delicious, nourishing food.
And then Claire Fox, founder of the Institute of Ideas, summed up by saying that she believes in freedom, in freedom of speech, in autonomy, in humanity. That she is worried about the over-cautious, risk-averse nature of our population. She wants us to debate. To become better intellectually equipped. “Be idealistic,” she instructed. “Ideas matter. You can change the world. Human reason can conquer all. Believe in the capacity of people to change and to be change-makers.” I had tears in my eyes.
An extraordinary weekend that gives me goosebumps just remembering it. And then I went home and watched The X Factor Results.
Just like last year and the year before, I attended the Battle of Ideas in west London, a two day debating forum run by the Institute of Ideas. And here follows what I learned, and, in square brackets, the irrelevant self-obsessed ramblings that popped into my head during each debate:
First up for me was a debate about Parliament, where all four speakers (including Martin Bell) agreed that reform of the political system is urgently needed. [Is it antisocial to eat a banana in this environment?] Over the course of the weekend, it seemed to go without question that the monarchy needs to be abolished immediately, that power should be shared out more equally among Parliament, that select committees should have more power, and that the House of Lords should be fully elected. Unless we have greater self-determination and greater control over our lives, we won’t become engaged in politics. All this makes sense to me, I just don’t see it happening. So many good ideas, but seemingly so little chance of any real change occurring. I left feeling a bit hopeless. [Would that guy’s stutter be deal-breaking?]
Next: Post-Recession Ideologies. How should the financial crisis change the way we think about the world? [How easy would it be to duplicate the wrist-band I’m wearing and sneak someone in for free tomorrow?] Despite working in a bank, I found this one less gripping, but this was the first time I’d heard people attacking the politics of austerity – the idea that we’re all being blamed for being too greedy, that we should all have allotments and go back to basics and stop travelling more than three metres from the house where we were born etc. In this discussion, there seemed to be anger that we are not looking for positive solutions to the problem, and are instead being shackled with this mantle of collective guilt. Terms like ‘the force of globalization’ only serve to make us feel powerless and disenfranchised, which is probably what the governments want – whereas we do have choices, and we should be getting angry and politicised.
Third on Saturday: When is it right to go to war. FASCinating. I couldn’t have been more glued to my seat on this one. [Hmmm. There are a lot of left-handers here. I like that.] The panel was really opposed, which made things more heated, and I came away not knowing what I think, which was uncomfortable but I could feel my brain recalibrating, which is always satisfying. A fairly pacifist speaker started off (1) , saying that firstly, it is profoundly undemocratic to engage in interventions in another country for reasons other than self-defence – it means we’re basically saying, “Our domestic system is perfect – all that’s left is to spread this system around the globe.” Additionally, going to war justifies more war, normalises violence, and makes no effort to address the causes of systemic conflict on an international level. We want less war, not more. [Is it acceptable to take the bus to the tube from here or is that unforgivably lazy?]
The second speaker (2) disagreed, saying that there are occasions where we must defend those who can’t defend themselves, and that if we wait for UN endorsement, we will wait forever, because there will always be some vetoes on every possible conflict. He argued that there weren’t enough interventions. Speaker three (3) said that since we don’t have a democratic society, thus we don’t have democratic control of our armed forces. Once we have successful national governance, only then can we partake in a valid global governance. And it will only be then that we have the right to legitimise intervention. I could see his logic, but I worried about the hundreds of thousands of people dying in genocides around the world. Then I worried about the people dying in the UK armed forces in conflicts that I didn’t agree with. Then the fourth speaker (4) started, and was deeply patronising but basically seemed to have faith in the concept that we know what is right, and we know what is wrong, and that we have a duty to defend those who are being treated cruelly. And it’s precisely this idea that there are universal truths that I find difficult. I’m just not sure I would feel confident knowing which side is right in a war that’s being fought on a different continent over battle lines that were often drawn centuries before I was born. But 4 was convinced: we are all suffering from way too much post-colonial guilt, we have to stop self-flagellating and get involved. It’s become politically incorrect to say that we are in the right, and so we do nothing while people die. I agree – it has become politically incorrect to say that. But I’m not sure that’s such a bad thing. [I’m going to have duck and pancakes tonight. But will I be able to fit in Singapore noodles as well?]
1 said that sovereignty and self-determination is a human right – other nations can’t make those decisions on your behalf. 2 said it’s a choice, then, between self-determination or universal human rights – you can’t have one or the other. How much self-determination is ‘allowable’? What if horrific cruelties are being acted out with women and children being raped? Is it ‘appallingly imperialist’ to say that is wrong? Sure, a lot of the values we have might have western origins, but that doesn’t mean they’re automatically wrong. An audience member asked us to remember that, although war kills, peace kills too, which I thought was a good point. How do we get rid of evil dictatorships if we can’t use force? But then pacifist 3 spoke again, using vivid images of civilians being bombed at weddings by allied forces, innocent children being killed at school. It does turn my stomach and it’s hard to justify. Maybe impossible. 2 agreed with 4, that the very concept of universal values is now seen as imperialist and wrong, and that he is not prepared to allow fear of imperialism to trump socialist values. Then 1 said that it’s this very self-flagellation that is making us go to war, not stopping us – we feel so guilty for having caused so much crap around the world that we feel like we have to fix all the messes. And speaker 3 said, I thought profoundly, that if something truly was a universal value, it probably wouldn’t need to be imposed. An audience member said that, who were we kidding, we only get involved in interventions when we have stuff to gain, like oil. [I fancy the guy in the checked shirt. A lot.] And patronising 4 said that you don’t get cheap oil from fighting wars, you get it from doing deals. The politicians aren’t trying to stay in Iraq and colonise it for resources, they’re trying to get out. I left the debate feeling none the wiser, but privileged to have seen such intelligent people arguing with such passion about a topic with such global significance.
Next – Rethinking Freedom: Rights or Liberty. There was a real sense throughout the weekend that we aren’t as free as even I might have imagined. I mean, obviously I have long been grumpy about the Nanny State, and I’m not happy about CCTV, and I’ve always been passionately opposed to ID cards, but there seem to be a number of stealth laws that have been passed that are eroding our freedoms in a slightly terrifying way. I’m wary of getting too Orwellian about it all, but these people were persuasive. The very idea that having rights (i.e. laws that protect us) removes our freedom is a contradiction that I hadn’t really thought much about before. The second speaker argued that rights and freedom shouldn’t be mutually exclusive but I’m not sure it’s possible to have them both. She was very strong about privacy, arguing that without it we have no political refuge. Agreed. Speaker 3 said, sensibly, that the state can, and should, guarantee rights – but it should also guarantee us a space in which to exercise those rights. A fan of rights and legislation might say that “the right to live free from poverty is more valuable than the right to live with freedom of expression.” 3 disagreed. Then the discussion turned to the BNP and freedom of speech, with 4 talking passionately about illiberal liberalism, where we’re heading towards a one-party monolith, an authoritarian, totalitarian state where there is only one acceptable opinion. It’s as if free speech is okay, as long as it’s liberal. He quoted Voltaire: “Think for yourselves, and allow others the privilege of doing so too.” The conversation about the BNP on Question Time then shifted to the BBC itself, which was widely seen as part of the problem, a state apparatus promoting government interests.
Speaker 2 said that the idea of universal freedom is difficult (as we had seen in the war debate). Civil rights as separate from civil liberties. Free speech vs. equality. Some say we need to repress speech that might offend oppressed groups – but 2 said she found that deeply patronising. We need to have the ability to engage in argument and debate. That’s where self-belief comes from. People only engage with civil liberties when the discussion affects their own civil liberties. What we need to work on is engaging their interest about the liberties of others.
An audience member commented that we have given up our privacy, and with it our sense of our own importance – we now feel powerless and we’ve lost confidence that our opinion is every bit as valid as that of the people who rule us. That definitely resonated. I too feel powerless. I have opinions but no voice. And even if I have a voice, I am deeply sceptical about my ability to change anything at all. [Woo! I asked a question and got applause! From a cool black guy wearing Sennheiser headphones!]
Then I cheered up in the final act of Saturday – a balloon debate between six revolutions, the French, Industrial, Sexual, English, Scientific and American. [The guy talking about the French Revolution is unquestionably very fit but I’m not sure about the way he’s pushed up his jacket sleeves.] It was all very arbitrary but in the end it was a draw between the Scientific and the Industrial, and the genuinely brilliant chairwoman had them decide it by an arm-wrestle. Science won. [It is unacceptable that she is so ridiculously intelligent and stunning.]
Then on to Sunday. Are you still with me? Perhaps not, but I need to get this off my chest. Topic one: the Human Rights Act. [Aw, the chair was introducing the speakers on his left and right and had to look at his hands and make an L in order to tell which one was which!] This debate was all a bit technical for me and I’d had no idea of the controversies surrounding the 1998 piece of legislation, but once again, it seemed to be a fight between rules and freedoms. As far as I’m concerned, freedom sounds alluring but the consequences of universal freedom are a bit scary when conflict seems like an inevitable by-product. Universal freedom is fine as long as everyone can sit down and debate things rationally, but given the inarticulacy of the planet (me included) when it comes to dealing with opposing views, a peaceful, free society doesn’t seem likely. Still, legislating for everything is certainly not the way to achieve the goal and the chair of the discussion (a lawyer himself) went so far as to say that the Human Rights Act had contributed to the death of political culture in the UK and that we have been neutered… That said, there was broad support for the Act in some form or other and all the panellists believed that it or something like it was important (clearly some laws are OK). [I think that guy is photographing me. Look pretty and clever.]
Second on Sunday: Mr Obama Goes To Washington. I have to admit to drifting off here, which was strange because one of the speakers was the Managing Editor of my beloved Prospect magazine, but he did repeat almost verbatim his article in the latest issue so I’m sure he could understand me drifting off. [Is the Managing Editor of Prospect magazine out of my league? I think probably yes.] The general thrust of the debate seemed to be that Obama had done pretty well in his first ten months, but could have done more, and the major criticism seemed to be that he defined himself as the anti-Bush, but hasn’t yet put forward many strong policies of his own. Is there are Big Vision? A coherent ideology? Surprisingly, not so much, and without a vibrant opposition against which to pitch themselves, they don’t know who they are; they know what they don’t want, but they’re not so clear on what they do. Obama consults everyone, but there’s a lack of conviction. Interesting. [I think I’d fancy him more if he had better glasses. The Managing Editor, that is. Not Obama.]
Then on to The Good Society: Virtues for a Post-Recession World. Four very different speakers made their points. 1 said that we are pretty much always in a post-recession world – the only thing that's different is how long ago the last one was. Either way, recessions are an inevitable fact of life, so we shouldn't really be bothering with trying to formulate particular virtues specific to now – there are universal virtues we should be thinking about, and they’re timeless. His belief is that what matters most to people is having a good job, and that consequently, anything we can do to create and retain jobs should be our first aim. Everything like charitable giving, good parenting and so on come late, once employment is sorted out. And the way to create this, he believes, is to be optimistic. Hope breeds new ideas, whereas giving up is the ultimate tragedy. We should concentrate on possibility and cultivate the will to achieve. Because “the pessimists are always on the losing side.” I liked that. Don’t turn against the risk-takers, he said – don’t over-regulate, bankers or otherwise.
2 was similarly aspirational, saying that to be a good human is to be active, to want to shape reality, to want to give something back, to refuse to accept the given world as given. It doesn’t have to be total selflessness – we should enjoy the beauties of the world because it is these that often move us to gratitude. I loved what she said, but disagreed with her that it is embarrassment that prevents people from aiming for virtue – I think the truth lies somewhere between laziness and a feeling of hopelessness, that we can’t make a difference even if we try.
Speaker 3 was fascinating in that he saw things from a perspective I’d never considered. He said it is commonplace to think of ourselves as living in an age of greed and selfishness, where our lack of restraint has led to this turmoil, where we’re all culpable and should all be ashamed. He said that this is the first time that it isn’t an elite getting criticised – this time it’s everyone, from Fred Goodwin, to the peasant in China who dares to buy a fridge, to the greedy low-income families who take out a mortgage they can’t afford. This has led to a feeling that there should be global restraint – loud calls for cutting back on pretty much everything, but, unusually, with no possibility for redemption as a result. We have to give up everything we’ve come to love, flying, eating meat, smoking, boozing, debating – we’re just evil consumers, users of resources – and we should turn this around. We aren’t just consumers, we’re creators, and we should be celebrating our achievements and looking to the future. We’re suffering from a lack of vision and need to regain the confidence that we can be problem-solvers as well as problem-makers. Decadence is a product, not a cause of the problem. Marx said we can create the new world through ruthless criticism of the old. We need freedom and prosperity to take us forward.
Then the wonderful Evan Harris MP was speaker 4, who launched an attack on the politics of celebrity. I’d been to a debate on Saturday where someone pointed out that an ex-Big Brother contestant is running for election in Scotland with the hands-up admission that “I know nothing about politics, I’m just going to vote with my conscience.” We need to have more political conviction, not less. But as Harris (or Evan. Can I call you Evan?) pointed out, we’re going to lose out to personality. “I don’t care about the leaders! Any of them!” he said, recklessly. “It’s the policies that count.” Refreshing but unlikely to make a difference. Sigh. [I think I want to be an MP.]
Yet again I felt simultaneously inspired and depressed. So many fantastic ideas, so much truth, but seemingly so few opportunities to execute these changes that need to be made so urgently. I stood up and said that there seemed to be a lot to be done and I felt truly hopeless and a bit like crying. Evan said I wasn’t the first woman who had said that to him and he did try to offer what he felt would be practical solutions: restoring inter-party democracy (presumably by bolstering select committees and by taking power away from the PM and the Whips) but expressed doubt that the findings of the committee he is, I believe, chairing, which will recommend parliamentary reforms, will be heeded at all.
Then downstairs to Is The NHS Institutionally Ageist? which seems to be a firm yes from all sides. It’s an interesting issue for someone who knows nothing about it (like me). There aren’t enough resources – so how do you issue them fairly? Allocating in response to need is fine, as long as needs are finite – but they’re not. There is infinite need. So then you start thinking about ‘meetable needs’ – but then there’s also the issue of benefit, in that you want to get as much bang for your buck as possible, which always discriminates against the elderly in that the cost of treating them is always greater and the ease of treating them is always less. Apparently the NHS has QUALYs, Quality Adjusted Life Years, and it basically says that the maximum you can spend to gain one more QUALY is approximately £30,000. This obviously discriminates against the elderly because their treatment is way more expensive as it’s way more complicated. They rarely suffer from just one condition, and their conditions are chronic and thus less glamorous and less well-funded and less well-researched than more prestigious (speaker’s words) illnesses that affect younger people. An audience member made the valid point that we live in an ageist society, and until that changes, there won’t be enough pressure on the health service to be any different. [I wonder how much weight I’ve gained this weekend?]
And finally, to What Next?, where panellists gave us the bees from their bonnets, what they felt were the most important issues for the coming months. And this was when the whole weekend came to life for me. Seeing the raw passion as each person spoke about the one thing they believe is most worth fighting for – it was inspirational and moving. James Boyle said that the most disgraceful problem in the UK is that every year the number of illiterate people rises. Even if you don’t care about them, he said, they are a massive drag on the economy. There is nothing more wasteful than uneducated people, he said: attack illiteracy.
Anthony Horowitz was incredibly angry about the Independent Safeguarding of Authority, the countless CRB checks that have to be done before parents can help out at their kids’ schools etc. Ian Huntley had been CRB checked, he pointed out. It’s pernicious, it destroys our relationships with children and is an horrendous piece of legislation.
Susan Neiman said that the split between religious and secular people is what needs to change the most. Religion is not the foundation of morality. But equally, secularists shouldn’t heap scorn on the religious. Whether god exists is beyond human knowledge. We should acknowledge that, whatever it was that created the world, it wasn’t me. So I have an incentive to give back for the gift of creation. A sense of gratitude is a moral emotion that will counter the sense of pessimism and misery. I am all for overcoming barriers between people (this is my main complaint against humanism, which I fear constructs more), so this resonated.
Katherine Rake, formerly of my beloved Fawcett Society, said that nostalgia may be all the rage, but it makes us fear the modern. And let’s not aim to recreate some sort of 1950s golden era that never existed. As an audience member later said: grow-your-own, make do and mend, it’s a return to domestic labour, and we all know who’ll be doing the majority of that.
James Panton spoke amazingly about the hyper-regulation of everyday life. We have a tendency to view other people’s actions as harmful to us. Smoking, drinking, photographing in public are all regulated. And sure, sometimes bad things will happen. But he hates the idea that, left to our own devices, we will cause each other harm: the inference is that we can’t work out a compromise within our community, amongst ourselves. So we legislate and regulate. We’re living life through license and it incapacitates us, but worse, we don’t just put up with it, we actually call for more. We’re becoming infantilised. We can take charge of our lives, we can organise these things for ourselves.
At this point I was squirming in my seat. How can we do it, though? Give me practical pointers, please. So I put my hand up, and the chair said, “Yes, to the lady in the yellow hat,” and I said, “I’ve been tremendously inspired by a lot of what I’ve heard this weekend. But I’m not in a powerful position. I’m not a respected journalist, or an MP. I don’t work for a think tank. I’m just a PA, a secretary, and I don’t know what I can do. What one thing would you suggest?”
James Panton said that I should refuse to allow people to control my life from above, and in response to Susan Neiman said, “I know that god doesn’t exist and I am sure that I create the world.” It was the most extraordinary sight, one human’s absolute certainty in his own power. I could have kissed him.
Susan Neiman and Katherine Rake said that I should think globally but act locally – believe in the power of the grassroots and do whatever I could to make as much change as I could, no matter how small it feels at the time. How do we raise the level of discussion when we have global media and other bodies that have a vested interest in keeping us stupid? We need to make ideas as fascinating as we can, as gripping as the latest MTV reality show. Let’s improve the way we communicate what’s important. And finally, that got me engaged. One thing I can do is communicate, and I agree that there is a huge gulf between the engaged academic and political class and the rest of the population. But I think I’m straddle the gulf. I like shopping. I worry about boys. I think I can speak to people and get them engaged. I just need a forum. It was food for thought. Rich, delicious, nourishing food.
And then Claire Fox, founder of the Institute of Ideas, summed up by saying that she believes in freedom, in freedom of speech, in autonomy, in humanity. That she is worried about the over-cautious, risk-averse nature of our population. She wants us to debate. To become better intellectually equipped. “Be idealistic,” she instructed. “Ideas matter. You can change the world. Human reason can conquer all. Believe in the capacity of people to change and to be change-makers.” I had tears in my eyes.
An extraordinary weekend that gives me goosebumps just remembering it. And then I went home and watched The X Factor Results.
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