Two weeks ago something dreadful happened.
My great pal, and business partner, TD died very suddenly at home one day.
It's taken me these two weeks to properly process this very simple fact - that Tim is simply no longer here.
I've known him for a little over five years but what a five years those have been.
I met him about six months after the departure of Idiot Boy. I was in a pretty bad way but my preservation instinct told me to get up and out and meet new people.
Tim was the first person I met in a one to one situation, over ginger beer and spag bol one lunchtime nearby where we both worked.
Lunchtime coffee and photography became a regular feature for all the time we worked in nearby offices.
We were never more than friends - but certainly never less. We went onto found our company together following a conversation about his wish, given infinite wealth, to have a practice of his own.
Although we were never financially successful, I refuse to only judge the value of our work by that alone. We helped influence thinking on temporary regeneration and the importance of it to communities. We gave people ideas about how people who are excluded from society can be included and encouraged to contribute. Tim was behind most of the ideas.
I'm a very different person to the woman I was when I first met Tim - and Tim was a very different man. Both of us grew in confidence in dealing with other people in a business - and in a personal sense. Both of us learned loads about how local authorities, funding bodies and other
organizations work.
If he'd been less fun, less unintimidating when we first met, then chances are I would have written off meeting people via internet means (in our case Flickr) as unworkable and too scary.
As a direct result of that meeting I gained the confidence to explore meeting other people - and I met S.
Not only that but Tim's influences led me to expland my horizons to include Velvet Underground, The Fall, Michael Clarke, Pina Bausch, event photography, my Nikon D300, the deeper aspects of architecture and construction, musing on the height of Patrick Moore's waistband, Chicken with ginger, the whereabouts of Socotra, and the list goes on.
The picture on this post is a case in point: his eye for detail made me write down the details of this particular sort of fencepost that surrounded the Wish Tower in Eastbourne. He thought it could be interesting to find out a little more about them at some point.
So I was on holiday in Cornwall with S when I saw this rusty version, somewhat randomly, in a nature reserve. I took the picture to send to Tim thinking he'd find it mildy interesting that we'd found another instance of the fencepost.
I hadn't mailed him the picture by the time I learned, three days later, that he had died. I find this particularly poignant.
Once again I find myself not sure quite what the future holds - but I'm determined that our work to date needs to be built upon because what we were trying to do - Tim's vision - needs to be done by someone.
I'll miss the comprehensive streams of expletives in emails when things weren't going well, I'll miss the random links to weird and interesting things on the internet but most of all I'll miss my occasional lunches with a tall, gruff, slightly scruffy-looking bloke who could make me laugh like a drain at inappropriate comments and could make really shitty days better with the occasional hug.
Thanks, matey.
x
Wednesday 31 October 2012
Wednesday 19 September 2012
Baying for Blood
I found myself shouting at the radio again last night - not at Woman's Hour for once - but at the BBC news on Radio Four.
It was on the matter of the shooting of two unarmed police officers in Greater Manchester.
So much emphasis seems to have been placed on the fact that they were female officers. Why?
One report was that someone has suggested it would be more appropriate if female officers were always accompanied by male colleagues - as if blokes are somehow more bullet proof than tender women.
Yes, most men have more raw strength than most women - but no matter what the gender of the officers involved, chances are they would be just as dead.
Other annoying prose described them as "heroic" - but from what I can see from the story they were lured to a fake burglary and then gunned down in cold blood. I'm sorry - but that in itself isn't heroic. It sounds like they were victims of a particularly callous crime.
I know quite a few serving and ex-police officers personally and have come across many, many others for sundry pleasant and unpleasant reasons and whilst I almost always disagree with their views politically, I can never help but admire people who do one of the most unpleasant jobs there is, and do it willingly.
All beat coppers know that they are doing a potentially dangerous job and my understanding is that most of them also would choose to be both unarmed and unarmoured. This is admirable - if anything it makes ALL coppers who put themselves out on the street heroic...and that's whether they get killed or not.
The fact that relatively few officers die in violent incidents on the job does make the times when they do seem all the more horrific and scary. But this doesn't mean they should be routinely armed.
How long ago was it that we were all castigating Police Officer Simon Harwood for hitting Ian Tomlinson?
How long ago was the clusterfuck that saw Jean Charles Demenezes dead of police-inflicted gunshot wounds?
How many people thought that the riot police who handled the riots in Stokes Croft were heavy-handed?
Isn't it closer to the truth that some police officers, like doctors, nurses, teachers, social workers are better and more suited to their jobs than others?
Of course that's also true of bankers, oil exploration executives...and of call centre operators and chuggers.
Problem is, when a chugger does their job badly, it mildly irritates one person...or possibly does a charity out of a small donation. Nobody dies.
Last night one of the dead police officer's father was reported as saying that police should be armed and allowed to "shoot on sight".
Now we have Norman Tebbit being wheeled out (sorry, there's an inappropriate pun there somewhere...) baying for the return of the death penalty for people who kill coppers.
I can forgive the father of the dead daughter for saying that - even though I think he's absolutely wrong - I'm not sure I can forgive the media for reporting it. After all, part of the reason for a democracy is that a single father in pain, after an unspeakable event is the worst person in the world to set policy. But a politician? In the wake of cover-up over cover-up of police wrong-doing? Seriously, get a grip your Lordship.
The very reason for not having capital punishment is the same as for not routinely arming our police. It reduces the chances of cock ups causing the death of innocent people.
So, to the people of 24 hour rolling news; politicians (including senior police officers) stop using hyperbole, stop overanalysing and for goodness sake report the facts not every comment by every person who happens to have a view.
Meanwhile - to the familes of those murdered officers: it doesn't matter whether they were daughters or sons, they died doing a job that most of us wouldn't - and they were heros for doing the job, not dying doing it.
It was on the matter of the shooting of two unarmed police officers in Greater Manchester.
So much emphasis seems to have been placed on the fact that they were female officers. Why?
One report was that someone has suggested it would be more appropriate if female officers were always accompanied by male colleagues - as if blokes are somehow more bullet proof than tender women.
Yes, most men have more raw strength than most women - but no matter what the gender of the officers involved, chances are they would be just as dead.
Other annoying prose described them as "heroic" - but from what I can see from the story they were lured to a fake burglary and then gunned down in cold blood. I'm sorry - but that in itself isn't heroic. It sounds like they were victims of a particularly callous crime.
I know quite a few serving and ex-police officers personally and have come across many, many others for sundry pleasant and unpleasant reasons and whilst I almost always disagree with their views politically, I can never help but admire people who do one of the most unpleasant jobs there is, and do it willingly.
All beat coppers know that they are doing a potentially dangerous job and my understanding is that most of them also would choose to be both unarmed and unarmoured. This is admirable - if anything it makes ALL coppers who put themselves out on the street heroic...and that's whether they get killed or not.
The fact that relatively few officers die in violent incidents on the job does make the times when they do seem all the more horrific and scary. But this doesn't mean they should be routinely armed.
How long ago was it that we were all castigating Police Officer Simon Harwood for hitting Ian Tomlinson?
How long ago was the clusterfuck that saw Jean Charles Demenezes dead of police-inflicted gunshot wounds?
How many people thought that the riot police who handled the riots in Stokes Croft were heavy-handed?
Isn't it closer to the truth that some police officers, like doctors, nurses, teachers, social workers are better and more suited to their jobs than others?
Of course that's also true of bankers, oil exploration executives...and of call centre operators and chuggers.
Problem is, when a chugger does their job badly, it mildly irritates one person...or possibly does a charity out of a small donation. Nobody dies.
Last night one of the dead police officer's father was reported as saying that police should be armed and allowed to "shoot on sight".
Now we have Norman Tebbit being wheeled out (sorry, there's an inappropriate pun there somewhere...) baying for the return of the death penalty for people who kill coppers.
I can forgive the father of the dead daughter for saying that - even though I think he's absolutely wrong - I'm not sure I can forgive the media for reporting it. After all, part of the reason for a democracy is that a single father in pain, after an unspeakable event is the worst person in the world to set policy. But a politician? In the wake of cover-up over cover-up of police wrong-doing? Seriously, get a grip your Lordship.
The very reason for not having capital punishment is the same as for not routinely arming our police. It reduces the chances of cock ups causing the death of innocent people.
So, to the people of 24 hour rolling news; politicians (including senior police officers) stop using hyperbole, stop overanalysing and for goodness sake report the facts not every comment by every person who happens to have a view.
Meanwhile - to the familes of those murdered officers: it doesn't matter whether they were daughters or sons, they died doing a job that most of us wouldn't - and they were heros for doing the job, not dying doing it.
Tuesday 21 August 2012
Sun Setting
Well today marks another momentous (for me, anyway) occasion.
I put my house on the market.
I moved in here, with Idiot Boy, in November 1997 and I'll move out again around 15 years later to a slightly more complicated life but one that's right for now.
So there's been a flurry of painting, cleaning, lawn mowing and a nearly epic amount of throwing (or rather, giving) away.
There have been more than usual of my periodic "tricky moments" as memories crowd in on me but, as S wisely reminds me "you always knew it would be hard". It is.
The house seemed to have been turning on me and my lack of attention to it of late - but it has rewarded my latest efforts by looking pretty good in the set of photographs I took for the estate agent. I'm finding it easy to see why we fell in love with the place all that time ago.
So am I sorry to be going?
Sort of...but the overriding feeling is that it's the right time to change and the new plan (flat in Bristol, shared house in Eastbourne) is absolutely the right thing to be doing for now.
Thanks to everyone who has been wishing me well with the plans.
Thanks to everyone who has helped with getting the house into a better state (especially PBH, MP, JP and CP for helping me tame the lawn over the last couple of months).
And, of course, S...who is quietly encouraging without intruding, always ready with a hug when it gets a bit shit and brings practical solutions to my problems.
You're all fab.
x
I put my house on the market.
I moved in here, with Idiot Boy, in November 1997 and I'll move out again around 15 years later to a slightly more complicated life but one that's right for now.
So there's been a flurry of painting, cleaning, lawn mowing and a nearly epic amount of throwing (or rather, giving) away.
There have been more than usual of my periodic "tricky moments" as memories crowd in on me but, as S wisely reminds me "you always knew it would be hard". It is.
The house seemed to have been turning on me and my lack of attention to it of late - but it has rewarded my latest efforts by looking pretty good in the set of photographs I took for the estate agent. I'm finding it easy to see why we fell in love with the place all that time ago.
So am I sorry to be going?
Sort of...but the overriding feeling is that it's the right time to change and the new plan (flat in Bristol, shared house in Eastbourne) is absolutely the right thing to be doing for now.
Thanks to everyone who has been wishing me well with the plans.
Thanks to everyone who has helped with getting the house into a better state (especially PBH, MP, JP and CP for helping me tame the lawn over the last couple of months).
And, of course, S...who is quietly encouraging without intruding, always ready with a hug when it gets a bit shit and brings practical solutions to my problems.
You're all fab.
x
Monday 11 June 2012
Beginnings
It felt like a bit of an impulse purchase - you know, like the packet of fruit pastilles you pick up in the supermarket when you went for milk and toilet rolls.
Truth is, this purchase has been brewing for a little while and I'd be fooling myself if I tried to claim otherwise.
I've been living in my house, largely on my own for over five years now and my continued occupation of a three storey, semi-detatched, mid-Victorian villa has been increasingly hard to justify to myself.
This home belongs to another life, another time.
Victorian houses need near constant coaxing and tweaking to keep them from turning on you and I simply can't keep up with it any more.
Added to my lack of inclination to maintain the house is that I'm spending less time here because I've other places I want to spent a significant part of my time.
A while ago, my friend CJ said I'd know if and when the time came to move on.
He was right - the time has come.
I've never lived anywhere but Bristol and I'd never particularly thought about whether that was a good or bad thing.
Of course, of late I've been getting acquainted with Hitchin and then Eastbourne and it had been dawning on me that living somewhere new and getting to know it, the way I know Bristol, would definitely be a Good Thing.
So - a plan was formed. Leaving Bristol altogether is simply not on at the moment so I'd need to keep a base here.
It's possible that ExtraVerte will have some work to do in Eastbourne; I really like the town and I'm making some good community contacts there and well as having some "borrowed" family there for good measure.
Finding somewhere in Bristol which was convenient for my lifestyle (extensive rail travel, no car, no desire for home improvements) may have been a tricky thing.
I saw "The Eye" on Temple Quay built and it's had a bit of a perilous story so far but the estate agent put a card through my door which took me to the website.
I booked an appointment to view it almost hoping that I'd hate it and then I could let the plan to move go off the boil for a bit.
But I liked it. A lot.
I refused to sign up immediately but booked viewing for other places in town...and hated them all.
By the time I could take S to have a look (to point out all the faults and flaws that I'd missed) all but one apartment on my preferred side of the building had been sold.
Then something odd happened - S said "I can see you living here.
We agreed that the location (notwithstanding the slightly irritating lack of nearby parking for the few times he brings a car to Bristol) was perfect.
Less than five minutes on foot to the station, 15 minutes from town and in a quiet area.
The show flat was on the first floor and my friend GBH thought that lower was better on the simple grounds of keeping the water nicely in view.
But the only flat left was on the 10th Floor.
So - last Wednesday I was taken to the 10th Floor (in fetching hi-viz jacket, mingling with the builders) to see how "my" flat would feel.
And the picture shows you.
I'm sold.
There are views to Totterdown and beyond to Dundry, you can see the cut and Wills' Tower. Even the roof of the office building opposite is pretty pleasant.
So I've signed on the dotted line; I've had estate agents appraise my house and I've started to price up storage space and house removals.
It's really happening.
Whilst the hideous detail of the amount of effort that's going to be involved is revealing itself to me, I'm more than a little bit excited.
So if I'm even less available for beers and photowalks for the next few months, please forgive me...I'm likely to be packing books, or cleaning things.
Here's to the next chapter...
Truth is, this purchase has been brewing for a little while and I'd be fooling myself if I tried to claim otherwise.
I've been living in my house, largely on my own for over five years now and my continued occupation of a three storey, semi-detatched, mid-Victorian villa has been increasingly hard to justify to myself.
This home belongs to another life, another time.
Victorian houses need near constant coaxing and tweaking to keep them from turning on you and I simply can't keep up with it any more.
Added to my lack of inclination to maintain the house is that I'm spending less time here because I've other places I want to spent a significant part of my time.
A while ago, my friend CJ said I'd know if and when the time came to move on.
He was right - the time has come.
I've never lived anywhere but Bristol and I'd never particularly thought about whether that was a good or bad thing.
Of course, of late I've been getting acquainted with Hitchin and then Eastbourne and it had been dawning on me that living somewhere new and getting to know it, the way I know Bristol, would definitely be a Good Thing.
So - a plan was formed. Leaving Bristol altogether is simply not on at the moment so I'd need to keep a base here.
It's possible that ExtraVerte will have some work to do in Eastbourne; I really like the town and I'm making some good community contacts there and well as having some "borrowed" family there for good measure.
Finding somewhere in Bristol which was convenient for my lifestyle (extensive rail travel, no car, no desire for home improvements) may have been a tricky thing.
I saw "The Eye" on Temple Quay built and it's had a bit of a perilous story so far but the estate agent put a card through my door which took me to the website.
I booked an appointment to view it almost hoping that I'd hate it and then I could let the plan to move go off the boil for a bit.
But I liked it. A lot.
I refused to sign up immediately but booked viewing for other places in town...and hated them all.
By the time I could take S to have a look (to point out all the faults and flaws that I'd missed) all but one apartment on my preferred side of the building had been sold.
Then something odd happened - S said "I can see you living here.
We agreed that the location (notwithstanding the slightly irritating lack of nearby parking for the few times he brings a car to Bristol) was perfect.
Less than five minutes on foot to the station, 15 minutes from town and in a quiet area.
The show flat was on the first floor and my friend GBH thought that lower was better on the simple grounds of keeping the water nicely in view.
But the only flat left was on the 10th Floor.
So - last Wednesday I was taken to the 10th Floor (in fetching hi-viz jacket, mingling with the builders) to see how "my" flat would feel.
And the picture shows you.
I'm sold.
There are views to Totterdown and beyond to Dundry, you can see the cut and Wills' Tower. Even the roof of the office building opposite is pretty pleasant.
So I've signed on the dotted line; I've had estate agents appraise my house and I've started to price up storage space and house removals.
It's really happening.
Whilst the hideous detail of the amount of effort that's going to be involved is revealing itself to me, I'm more than a little bit excited.
So if I'm even less available for beers and photowalks for the next few months, please forgive me...I'm likely to be packing books, or cleaning things.
Here's to the next chapter...
Tuesday 22 May 2012
Never Say Never
...or in the words of my friend, CL "Try anything twice, the first time might have been shit".
I have always spurned the study of history. I was a scientist and we were at constant war, when sixth-formers, with the historians. I was very juvenile, to be honest but I stuck by my ignorance of history.
My school history lessons were a bit scattershod, as I remember: bits of the industrial revolution (Spinning Jenny, anyone?); the evolution of crop rotation systems (three field system, possibly) and a little bit about local architecture (which bits of Keynsham were 1950's and which bits were older...plus a visit to the Roman Villa).
But there was no overall context, nothing about the monarchy, or about what and when the mediaeval era (was it an era?) began and ended...you know, stuff like that.
It was literally only a few months ago I Iearned that we had no king or queen for a while (oh, so that's what they mean by "The Restoration").
My good friend and man who does "ago" on a professional basis, DrC, sighs at my lack of knowledge and periodically tries to address it - but largely without success. Or rather "visible" success.
But an odd thing has been happening...I've recently had many reasons to make some feable attempts to improve my understanding of some things.
S took me on an archaeological dig (he's a keen but sporadic member of an archaeolgical society over in the East). The back-breaking work of sifting soil and pulling out sherds (not shards, apparently) of pottery turned interesting when we learned that some of the apparently uninspiring red clay stuff was REALLY OLD pottery.
Then I went to the theatre to see Anne Boleyn. Brilliant play and with an intriguing portrayal of James VI/I (to be honest, I did know that James VI Scotland was also James I England but I had no idea when that was). After the play my friends and I discussed the historical stuff - including whether James had some sort of acknowledged illness which lead to his weird behaviour.
As soon as I got home I found it necessary to do a bit of research and found out that he is suspected of having porphyria like George III. But my research made me look at the line of succession which lead to our present Queen.
Then there's my wannado project involving a Martello Tower in Eastbourne.
It's progressing everso-slightly but whilst I wait to learn whether we've got any chance of doing it for real the history of the building has got me by the scruff of the neck.
I've read a book or two, a number of websites and got really quite hooked on Wikipedia.
In my reading I learned that the National Archives may have some information not available in electronic form.
I ask for them to copy some of the stuff that looked relevant but was told that due to the complication of medium I'd have to visit in person.
I tell S about this and he suggested that we pay a visit.
So last weekend saw us on a mission to Kew. Neither of us have done this kind of thing before but we get through the application for a reader's ticket (including a test on how to handle documents) without any problem.
We go and request our documents and with just a bit of confusion over swiping cards in and out of rooms (my confusion, that is) and general confusion over table allocation we had our first set of original documents to look at.
It was a collection of plans of Martello Towers drawn by hand about 200 years ago - and they were letting us handle them!
We tried to be pretty focussed on what we looked at - it would have been really easy to get sidetracked by other towers and forts. Well, actually we did get sidetracked by those things...but we tried not to.
We collected another lot of documents and we readily understood why they couldn't be copied without a visit. It was an enormous bundle of plans rolled together and tied around with tape.
Handling these papers (all about the size of a flip chart pad) which had been rolled for ages and were on something like thick cartridge paper was terrifying. With a little assistance from one of the members of staff we got what we needed for now.
We were in need of refreshment and fresh air so we called it a day and left, both thoroughly impressed by the experience.
Sunday morning saw us with laptop and the National Archives website looking for more stuff....and then, in order look a little wider, reading some background information on the subject of the Napoleonic conflicts.
Today I found out that the last custodian of the tower was called Smith and that his son was born in the tower. I've now got this urge to find out more about him.
So is this how historians start? (albeit it a LOT earlier)...some tiny thing starts their interest and in order to understand it, they have to widen their understanding of the things that surround and underpin the tiny detail they're interested in?
And it is the very papers themselves that help you connect to the subject matter? Would I be less enthused had the plans been available to download electronically?
In any case, I can't be anything but immensely proud of living in a country that allows half-witted members of the public, like me, to get the feel of history...and all for free.
We're already planning a return visit and I can't wait.
I now want to learn how to research historical information more effectively so maybe DrC's influences have been rubbing off after all...
I have always spurned the study of history. I was a scientist and we were at constant war, when sixth-formers, with the historians. I was very juvenile, to be honest but I stuck by my ignorance of history.
My school history lessons were a bit scattershod, as I remember: bits of the industrial revolution (Spinning Jenny, anyone?); the evolution of crop rotation systems (three field system, possibly) and a little bit about local architecture (which bits of Keynsham were 1950's and which bits were older...plus a visit to the Roman Villa).
But there was no overall context, nothing about the monarchy, or about what and when the mediaeval era (was it an era?) began and ended...you know, stuff like that.
It was literally only a few months ago I Iearned that we had no king or queen for a while (oh, so that's what they mean by "The Restoration").
My good friend and man who does "ago" on a professional basis, DrC, sighs at my lack of knowledge and periodically tries to address it - but largely without success. Or rather "visible" success.
But an odd thing has been happening...I've recently had many reasons to make some feable attempts to improve my understanding of some things.
S took me on an archaeological dig (he's a keen but sporadic member of an archaeolgical society over in the East). The back-breaking work of sifting soil and pulling out sherds (not shards, apparently) of pottery turned interesting when we learned that some of the apparently uninspiring red clay stuff was REALLY OLD pottery.
Then I went to the theatre to see Anne Boleyn. Brilliant play and with an intriguing portrayal of James VI/I (to be honest, I did know that James VI Scotland was also James I England but I had no idea when that was). After the play my friends and I discussed the historical stuff - including whether James had some sort of acknowledged illness which lead to his weird behaviour.
As soon as I got home I found it necessary to do a bit of research and found out that he is suspected of having porphyria like George III. But my research made me look at the line of succession which lead to our present Queen.
Then there's my wannado project involving a Martello Tower in Eastbourne.
It's progressing everso-slightly but whilst I wait to learn whether we've got any chance of doing it for real the history of the building has got me by the scruff of the neck.
I've read a book or two, a number of websites and got really quite hooked on Wikipedia.
In my reading I learned that the National Archives may have some information not available in electronic form.
I ask for them to copy some of the stuff that looked relevant but was told that due to the complication of medium I'd have to visit in person.
I tell S about this and he suggested that we pay a visit.
So last weekend saw us on a mission to Kew. Neither of us have done this kind of thing before but we get through the application for a reader's ticket (including a test on how to handle documents) without any problem.
We go and request our documents and with just a bit of confusion over swiping cards in and out of rooms (my confusion, that is) and general confusion over table allocation we had our first set of original documents to look at.
It was a collection of plans of Martello Towers drawn by hand about 200 years ago - and they were letting us handle them!
We tried to be pretty focussed on what we looked at - it would have been really easy to get sidetracked by other towers and forts. Well, actually we did get sidetracked by those things...but we tried not to.
We collected another lot of documents and we readily understood why they couldn't be copied without a visit. It was an enormous bundle of plans rolled together and tied around with tape.
Handling these papers (all about the size of a flip chart pad) which had been rolled for ages and were on something like thick cartridge paper was terrifying. With a little assistance from one of the members of staff we got what we needed for now.
We were in need of refreshment and fresh air so we called it a day and left, both thoroughly impressed by the experience.
Sunday morning saw us with laptop and the National Archives website looking for more stuff....and then, in order look a little wider, reading some background information on the subject of the Napoleonic conflicts.
Today I found out that the last custodian of the tower was called Smith and that his son was born in the tower. I've now got this urge to find out more about him.
So is this how historians start? (albeit it a LOT earlier)...some tiny thing starts their interest and in order to understand it, they have to widen their understanding of the things that surround and underpin the tiny detail they're interested in?
And it is the very papers themselves that help you connect to the subject matter? Would I be less enthused had the plans been available to download electronically?
In any case, I can't be anything but immensely proud of living in a country that allows half-witted members of the public, like me, to get the feel of history...and all for free.
We're already planning a return visit and I can't wait.
I now want to learn how to research historical information more effectively so maybe DrC's influences have been rubbing off after all...
Wednesday 16 May 2012
It's a point of view
My friend, Dru, posted a link on Twitter to a blog article, yesterday.
Dr Ben Goldacre also referred to it today.
I really like to read other people's perspective on gender, what it means and what effects it has on people.
I commented to Dru that I like the premise...(or, on reflection, the metaphor) of the article but I don't agree with the conclusion.
We agreed that Twitter doesn't really lend itself to long discourse on a subject and my schedule's a bit too hectic at the moment to suggestion a discussion over a coffee...that's sad.
So, with another 24hrs to muse on the subject I thought a blog entry of my own might be in order.
Do read the article, it's pretty well written and I did find it thought-provoking, but if you don't have the time right now, the premise is that in the game of life, being a straight, white man is like playing on the simplest setting.
As a straight, white woman, I'm reasonably confident that would be classed as the next easiest setting but even so, I'm not totally convinced that my male counterpart really has a free ride.
I have many, many male friends. Some straight, most white, all different. I worked in a male-dominated, white dominated part of a largely male-managed industry. I mention this to illustrate that my life has been pretty male-rich all my life.
Don't get me wrong, it drove me insane when said male colleagues assumed that I knew nothing about computers because I'm a girl. I still get pretty prickly if I think I being patronised by anyone, but infinitely more so if it's a bloke (no matter what his colour or sexual orientation). All that said, I'm not so sure that white straight guys really get all the breaks.
I'm assuming that the blog author is talking about things "on average" - and that's fair enough, it's not good enough to point to exceptions and then decry an entire theory. But here's the thing...
...I think that "on average" there may be a generalised assumption that straight white men have an easier time of things and so the bar is set a little higher - or maybe set differently for them.
Men are supposed to be strong, practical, brave, high-aspiring, high-achieving and the one who is the bigger earner in a family or couple. No, no, I don't hold this view either - in fact I'm usually repelled by men who fit the traditional "alpha-male" model, but I'm talking about the generalised, or average view.
When the whim takes us girls, we also expect the man of our dreams to be romantic, affectionate, thoughtful and accept the fact that sometimes we earn a little more than them.
We already know that men who suffer from depression and similar conditions are less likely to seek medical help to deal with the condition because it betrays a sense of weakness. They feel they should be able to deal with stuff alone purely because they're men, because on average, that's what society expects of them. They don't have anything to fall back on, or any excuse for any aspect of their lives.
I think what I'm saying is that as a white, straight woman I don't really have much of a frame of reference outside my gender, colour and sexual orientation - nor can I have since none of these things are readily alterable. As a result it's not really fair for me to say that someone else has an easier life than me - even on a "on average" basis.
I've got a metaphor I prefer. The first instrument I played was a guitar.
Guitarists have to look at music, decide how you create a given note on one of six strings (and there's a big overlap of range on each string) and play up to six notes at a time.
I always said that playing the 'cello was far easier since there are only four strings and you don't play more than one note anything like as often as on a guitar.
Then I played the 'cello and learned that the trickiness in the 'cello is that you have to learn a new musical clef and, more importantly, there are no frets on a cello to tell you where each note appears. Of course, playing a piano must be far easier since all the notes are there in front of you and ready to be pressed.
Of course, when I started to play piano, I realised the real tricky thing is that you now have two lines of music to follow at a time and each line can have more than one note to play at a time.
So maybe being a white straight man is a bit like playing the recorder - it looks really easy if you're not a recorder player. You just blow and get a note, right?
Maybe so, but to play the thing to a degree good enough to stop people setting fire to your hands as you play you have to have subtlty of breath control, incredible dexterity and the patience of Job to practice for about 10,000 hours in order to get good at it.
Dr Ben Goldacre also referred to it today.
I really like to read other people's perspective on gender, what it means and what effects it has on people.
I commented to Dru that I like the premise...(or, on reflection, the metaphor) of the article but I don't agree with the conclusion.
We agreed that Twitter doesn't really lend itself to long discourse on a subject and my schedule's a bit too hectic at the moment to suggestion a discussion over a coffee...that's sad.
So, with another 24hrs to muse on the subject I thought a blog entry of my own might be in order.
Do read the article, it's pretty well written and I did find it thought-provoking, but if you don't have the time right now, the premise is that in the game of life, being a straight, white man is like playing on the simplest setting.
As a straight, white woman, I'm reasonably confident that would be classed as the next easiest setting but even so, I'm not totally convinced that my male counterpart really has a free ride.
I have many, many male friends. Some straight, most white, all different. I worked in a male-dominated, white dominated part of a largely male-managed industry. I mention this to illustrate that my life has been pretty male-rich all my life.
Don't get me wrong, it drove me insane when said male colleagues assumed that I knew nothing about computers because I'm a girl. I still get pretty prickly if I think I being patronised by anyone, but infinitely more so if it's a bloke (no matter what his colour or sexual orientation). All that said, I'm not so sure that white straight guys really get all the breaks.
I'm assuming that the blog author is talking about things "on average" - and that's fair enough, it's not good enough to point to exceptions and then decry an entire theory. But here's the thing...
...I think that "on average" there may be a generalised assumption that straight white men have an easier time of things and so the bar is set a little higher - or maybe set differently for them.
Men are supposed to be strong, practical, brave, high-aspiring, high-achieving and the one who is the bigger earner in a family or couple. No, no, I don't hold this view either - in fact I'm usually repelled by men who fit the traditional "alpha-male" model, but I'm talking about the generalised, or average view.
When the whim takes us girls, we also expect the man of our dreams to be romantic, affectionate, thoughtful and accept the fact that sometimes we earn a little more than them.
We already know that men who suffer from depression and similar conditions are less likely to seek medical help to deal with the condition because it betrays a sense of weakness. They feel they should be able to deal with stuff alone purely because they're men, because on average, that's what society expects of them. They don't have anything to fall back on, or any excuse for any aspect of their lives.
I think what I'm saying is that as a white, straight woman I don't really have much of a frame of reference outside my gender, colour and sexual orientation - nor can I have since none of these things are readily alterable. As a result it's not really fair for me to say that someone else has an easier life than me - even on a "on average" basis.
I've got a metaphor I prefer. The first instrument I played was a guitar.
Guitarists have to look at music, decide how you create a given note on one of six strings (and there's a big overlap of range on each string) and play up to six notes at a time.
I always said that playing the 'cello was far easier since there are only four strings and you don't play more than one note anything like as often as on a guitar.
Then I played the 'cello and learned that the trickiness in the 'cello is that you have to learn a new musical clef and, more importantly, there are no frets on a cello to tell you where each note appears. Of course, playing a piano must be far easier since all the notes are there in front of you and ready to be pressed.
Of course, when I started to play piano, I realised the real tricky thing is that you now have two lines of music to follow at a time and each line can have more than one note to play at a time.
So maybe being a white straight man is a bit like playing the recorder - it looks really easy if you're not a recorder player. You just blow and get a note, right?
Maybe so, but to play the thing to a degree good enough to stop people setting fire to your hands as you play you have to have subtlty of breath control, incredible dexterity and the patience of Job to practice for about 10,000 hours in order to get good at it.
Saturday 21 April 2012
Feel the Fear
I'm emerging from a dark place this weekend. I've been feeling pretty "m'eh" all week.
I get this periodically. It's now part of my psyche and I'm learning to live with it. I don't remember it happening so much in the past but then again my life was a lot simpler with far less to cause me to worry or get blue.
I guess it's a bit of a post-holiday come down coupled with a sudden surge of "Oh my God I've got all this difficult stuff to do!"
Our holiday in Porth (a suburb of Newquay) was great. Lots of walking, reasonable weather, good company, companionable meals followed by board games and cards of an evening. Better yet, next to no phone signal (although we did eventually hijack the wi-fi) so I barely thought of all the stuff waiting for me at home.
So I came home with a bit of a bump...and with an ear problem I couldn't get sorted out for a few days.
I had project documents to do, meetings to organize, building work to attend to and then the churning realisation that if I'm going to put my house on the market soon, I'd better pull my finger out and consider the logistics of that.
That conspired with the unique sense of isolation I get when I can't hear and the fretting began.
I began to doubt I could convince anyone to support our project, and even if they did whether I could get it delivered.
Then the thought of not living in this house became almost terrifying. The idea that I'd be spending significant portions of my life in a new home in a part of the country I barely know made me panicky. I mean, I was brought up in Keynsham and have lived in Bristol since I left home at 23.
All of this lead to a strong sense of "I can't do this" with the accompanying racing pulse, and dry mouth of anxiety coupled with obsessive (yet unconscious) tooth grinding as I wrote my project initiation report.
Then I heard part of "Total Crackpot Hour" (sorry, Woman's Hour) which did nothing to improve my mood as they spoke about self-help books. During the section they kept mentioning "Feel the Fear and Do it Anyway" which seemed to polarise opinion the most. I'm not one for self help books so I don't know it but the phrase was used to me at a time when I was really struggling a number of years ago, when everything terrified me.
By Friday morning, I'd had enough. I had to get up fairly early to meet a stone mason for a job and that meant hacking across town in the rain. My mood was pretty much as black as the clouds overhead. I did manage to get a nice coffee in the Bearpit, though, and that was a plus.
I was early to meet the mason, and I misjudged the bus stop so I had 15 minutes or so to sit in park and check my emails. The sun came out briefly and I relaxed a little.
Then I met the mason who was hard work, initially. But he warmed to the task at hand and it was easy to see not only was he very skilled but he had a passion for his work that was quite infectious. Our brief meeting over, I grabbed some lunch from the local supermarket and got the bus back home.
I had a doctor's appointment in the afternoon to sort my ear out and I still wasn't in the mood to return to my project docs so I caught up on emails and other mundanities.
The nurse in the surgery who was sorting out my ears was brilliant and five minutes later I was walking back out of the surgery with hearing restored albeit the left side of my entire head feeling like I'd been assaulted and some residual dizziness.
That evening S enquired whether everything was OK since I'd been pretty quiet. I told him about the pain and he prescribed icecream...which worked a treat. That made me smile. I also explained my mood to him.
This in itself made me take stock of the things that have been bothering me.
Then I remembered what my cousin had said about me - that I resembled her mum (my favourite aunt) in that even when jobs seem too complicated, or insurmountably hard I (and she) have a tendency of saying things like "Oh, it can be done" and then rolling up our sleeves.
I also remember my brother "outlaw" being the one to say "feel the fear..." to me when I was working out whether or not I had the courage to meet someone (in fact my friend and business partner TD) for lunch for the first time.
I've applied that countless times since: the first time we took ExtraVerte to a real, posh architecture firm; the first time I did a photography event; every time I got involved with internet dating - so often in fact that I don't usually feel the fear any more.
So I woke up this morning a little more ready to take on the World. Well, not the World so much as my life.
So the laundry's done, I've picked up the toiletries from the floor next to the landing cupboard that I couldn't even be bothered to put away when they arrived with the shopping; and I even made myself a proper dinner.
I've gone back to my project document with renewed vigour and I've exchanged a bit of banter on Twitter.
Yeah the stuff to do is still there but I'm at the point of rolling up my sleeves and doing it anyway.
Meanwhile I'm also watching Yoda levitate a space ship using The Force and for now I'm thinking "ach...piece of cake"
:-)
Postscript: Well, whaddya know? I spoke a little too soon. Other than a nice brunch with M, Sunday totally sucked. Talk about your three steps forward and two back.
I couldn't summon the wherewithall to do anything other than fill the bird feeders.
This is the nature of the moody thing...I know it is...
But today's been better. Got a fair bit of stuff done.
You never know...I might actually be heading upwards again...
I get this periodically. It's now part of my psyche and I'm learning to live with it. I don't remember it happening so much in the past but then again my life was a lot simpler with far less to cause me to worry or get blue.
I guess it's a bit of a post-holiday come down coupled with a sudden surge of "Oh my God I've got all this difficult stuff to do!"
Our holiday in Porth (a suburb of Newquay) was great. Lots of walking, reasonable weather, good company, companionable meals followed by board games and cards of an evening. Better yet, next to no phone signal (although we did eventually hijack the wi-fi) so I barely thought of all the stuff waiting for me at home.
So I came home with a bit of a bump...and with an ear problem I couldn't get sorted out for a few days.
I had project documents to do, meetings to organize, building work to attend to and then the churning realisation that if I'm going to put my house on the market soon, I'd better pull my finger out and consider the logistics of that.
That conspired with the unique sense of isolation I get when I can't hear and the fretting began.
I began to doubt I could convince anyone to support our project, and even if they did whether I could get it delivered.
Then the thought of not living in this house became almost terrifying. The idea that I'd be spending significant portions of my life in a new home in a part of the country I barely know made me panicky. I mean, I was brought up in Keynsham and have lived in Bristol since I left home at 23.
All of this lead to a strong sense of "I can't do this" with the accompanying racing pulse, and dry mouth of anxiety coupled with obsessive (yet unconscious) tooth grinding as I wrote my project initiation report.
Then I heard part of "Total Crackpot Hour" (sorry, Woman's Hour) which did nothing to improve my mood as they spoke about self-help books. During the section they kept mentioning "Feel the Fear and Do it Anyway" which seemed to polarise opinion the most. I'm not one for self help books so I don't know it but the phrase was used to me at a time when I was really struggling a number of years ago, when everything terrified me.
By Friday morning, I'd had enough. I had to get up fairly early to meet a stone mason for a job and that meant hacking across town in the rain. My mood was pretty much as black as the clouds overhead. I did manage to get a nice coffee in the Bearpit, though, and that was a plus.
I was early to meet the mason, and I misjudged the bus stop so I had 15 minutes or so to sit in park and check my emails. The sun came out briefly and I relaxed a little.
Then I met the mason who was hard work, initially. But he warmed to the task at hand and it was easy to see not only was he very skilled but he had a passion for his work that was quite infectious. Our brief meeting over, I grabbed some lunch from the local supermarket and got the bus back home.
I had a doctor's appointment in the afternoon to sort my ear out and I still wasn't in the mood to return to my project docs so I caught up on emails and other mundanities.
The nurse in the surgery who was sorting out my ears was brilliant and five minutes later I was walking back out of the surgery with hearing restored albeit the left side of my entire head feeling like I'd been assaulted and some residual dizziness.
That evening S enquired whether everything was OK since I'd been pretty quiet. I told him about the pain and he prescribed icecream...which worked a treat. That made me smile. I also explained my mood to him.
This in itself made me take stock of the things that have been bothering me.
Then I remembered what my cousin had said about me - that I resembled her mum (my favourite aunt) in that even when jobs seem too complicated, or insurmountably hard I (and she) have a tendency of saying things like "Oh, it can be done" and then rolling up our sleeves.
I also remember my brother "outlaw" being the one to say "feel the fear..." to me when I was working out whether or not I had the courage to meet someone (in fact my friend and business partner TD) for lunch for the first time.
I've applied that countless times since: the first time we took ExtraVerte to a real, posh architecture firm; the first time I did a photography event; every time I got involved with internet dating - so often in fact that I don't usually feel the fear any more.
So I woke up this morning a little more ready to take on the World. Well, not the World so much as my life.
So the laundry's done, I've picked up the toiletries from the floor next to the landing cupboard that I couldn't even be bothered to put away when they arrived with the shopping; and I even made myself a proper dinner.
I've gone back to my project document with renewed vigour and I've exchanged a bit of banter on Twitter.
Yeah the stuff to do is still there but I'm at the point of rolling up my sleeves and doing it anyway.
Meanwhile I'm also watching Yoda levitate a space ship using The Force and for now I'm thinking "ach...piece of cake"
:-)
Postscript: Well, whaddya know? I spoke a little too soon. Other than a nice brunch with M, Sunday totally sucked. Talk about your three steps forward and two back.
I couldn't summon the wherewithall to do anything other than fill the bird feeders.
This is the nature of the moody thing...I know it is...
But today's been better. Got a fair bit of stuff done.
You never know...I might actually be heading upwards again...
Wednesday 21 March 2012
Happy Memories
This photograph was taken five years ago...just a few days before everything changed irrevocably.
My life now bears little resemblance to my life then.
Good or bad?
Neither. It just is.
My life then was comfortable, secure and I enjoyed it very much.
My life now is insecure, confusing, scary as all hell and I love it - but in a different way.
I've spent a few contemplative moments today trying to compare and contrast past lives and present lives and why things have changed so much. I came up with nothing.
Being unable to change the past, it seems more useful to try and make the most of the present and possibly influence the future.
So that's what I'm trying to do.
I don't always get it right but the trying's the thing and I couldn't keep going without those people who are there to keep me going.
You know who you are.
x
My life now bears little resemblance to my life then.
Good or bad?
Neither. It just is.
My life then was comfortable, secure and I enjoyed it very much.
My life now is insecure, confusing, scary as all hell and I love it - but in a different way.
I've spent a few contemplative moments today trying to compare and contrast past lives and present lives and why things have changed so much. I came up with nothing.
Being unable to change the past, it seems more useful to try and make the most of the present and possibly influence the future.
So that's what I'm trying to do.
I don't always get it right but the trying's the thing and I couldn't keep going without those people who are there to keep me going.
You know who you are.
x
Saturday 10 March 2012
Love at First Site
I'm currently quite obsessed.
About 18months ago S took me to Eastbourne, the place he was brought up, to see an exhbition of Robert Mapplethorpe photographs.
I'd never been there before - in fact my knowledge of the South East is woefully lacking. The only thing I thought I knew was that it was pensioner central. In the light of that an exhibition by Mapplethorpe looked like a weird sort of euthanasia experiment.
It was a whistle-stop day trip so little time (and rather too much wind and rain) to explore everything the town had to offer but we did wander past a Martello tower smack bang in the middle of the sea front.
Now, for some reason I'm a bit of a sucker for Martellos. When I asked whether it was possible to get inside to take a peek, S informed me it had been mostly disused for ten years or more.
Then a tiny thought hatched in my brain. A thought, it has to be said, that S has encouraged and TD has raised his eyebrows a bit but indulged.
You see the company that TD and I started was supposed to breathe live into under-used land and buildings. True enough, we were hoping that commercial developers would hire us to deal with their building sites but more recently we'd worked out that if we worked with community groups we could help them bring projects to life.
The extension - or maybe the starting place - for this could be for us to come up with community project ideas and then work with the community to deliver them.
The idea is maturing to the point we have people in Eastbourne listening to us and willing to get involved. We have actors, comedians, dancers and scientists eager to bring their skills from Cambridge, Hitchin, and Bristol to work with local folk - and with ExtraVerte - to make this a building the community can see and learn to love all over again.
I've told loads of people about our hopes and I've now had quite a few meetings with the great and the good in Eastbourne craving their indulgence and all along I've been waiting for someone to say "It's a stupid idea, now go away"...but no one has.
Quite the contrary.
Now we've got ourselves involved with a local community organization who have set themselves up to improve the town they live in. There are clearly parallels in our aims we've identified possibilities for working together.
I've been bowled over at the "go get 'em" attitude of the people I've been speaking to and suddenly, our madcap scheme to reuse a Martello tower for the benefit of the community and to train local young adults in work skills seems entirely fitting and at one with the prevailing spirit of the town.
I'd worked out a while ago that if this scheme comes off, then I'd be spending an awful lot of time here. Holiday type accommodation is fine but I know that the nomadic lifestyle really isn't for me. Living out of a rucksack is an overrated pastime and at over fours hours, the journey doesn't really lend itself to commuting.
Although the funding isn't secure yet, we're getting a little closer so I'm looking at the possibility of making a part time home there.
I've never lived anywhere but Bristol so the prospect of relocating to a completely different part of the country is everso slightly terrifying.
But it's clearly a place that's starting to wake out of a period of a sort of hibernation and what better place to practice our craft of innovative regeneration.
...and the other day I watched a TV programme which made a flypast of the Seven Sisters and Beachy Head taking in a view across the South Downs...and I have to say I felt a definite yearning.
So to everyone I have bored rigid on the subject...and to everyone I plan to bore rigid in future..thank you...but wish us luck.
...and to those people who think of Eastbourne as God's waiting room...just you watch us prove otherwise!
About 18months ago S took me to Eastbourne, the place he was brought up, to see an exhbition of Robert Mapplethorpe photographs.
I'd never been there before - in fact my knowledge of the South East is woefully lacking. The only thing I thought I knew was that it was pensioner central. In the light of that an exhibition by Mapplethorpe looked like a weird sort of euthanasia experiment.
It was a whistle-stop day trip so little time (and rather too much wind and rain) to explore everything the town had to offer but we did wander past a Martello tower smack bang in the middle of the sea front.
Now, for some reason I'm a bit of a sucker for Martellos. When I asked whether it was possible to get inside to take a peek, S informed me it had been mostly disused for ten years or more.
Then a tiny thought hatched in my brain. A thought, it has to be said, that S has encouraged and TD has raised his eyebrows a bit but indulged.
You see the company that TD and I started was supposed to breathe live into under-used land and buildings. True enough, we were hoping that commercial developers would hire us to deal with their building sites but more recently we'd worked out that if we worked with community groups we could help them bring projects to life.
The extension - or maybe the starting place - for this could be for us to come up with community project ideas and then work with the community to deliver them.
The idea is maturing to the point we have people in Eastbourne listening to us and willing to get involved. We have actors, comedians, dancers and scientists eager to bring their skills from Cambridge, Hitchin, and Bristol to work with local folk - and with ExtraVerte - to make this a building the community can see and learn to love all over again.
I've told loads of people about our hopes and I've now had quite a few meetings with the great and the good in Eastbourne craving their indulgence and all along I've been waiting for someone to say "It's a stupid idea, now go away"...but no one has.
Quite the contrary.
Now we've got ourselves involved with a local community organization who have set themselves up to improve the town they live in. There are clearly parallels in our aims we've identified possibilities for working together.
I've been bowled over at the "go get 'em" attitude of the people I've been speaking to and suddenly, our madcap scheme to reuse a Martello tower for the benefit of the community and to train local young adults in work skills seems entirely fitting and at one with the prevailing spirit of the town.
I'd worked out a while ago that if this scheme comes off, then I'd be spending an awful lot of time here. Holiday type accommodation is fine but I know that the nomadic lifestyle really isn't for me. Living out of a rucksack is an overrated pastime and at over fours hours, the journey doesn't really lend itself to commuting.
Although the funding isn't secure yet, we're getting a little closer so I'm looking at the possibility of making a part time home there.
I've never lived anywhere but Bristol so the prospect of relocating to a completely different part of the country is everso slightly terrifying.
But it's clearly a place that's starting to wake out of a period of a sort of hibernation and what better place to practice our craft of innovative regeneration.
...and the other day I watched a TV programme which made a flypast of the Seven Sisters and Beachy Head taking in a view across the South Downs...and I have to say I felt a definite yearning.
So to everyone I have bored rigid on the subject...and to everyone I plan to bore rigid in future..thank you...but wish us luck.
...and to those people who think of Eastbourne as God's waiting room...just you watch us prove otherwise!
Wednesday 22 February 2012
Faking it, or Making it?
So, a while back I started a blog post saying that I was cripplingly shy. I meant it. I honestly believe I am...or rather, that I was.
But much more recently (about a month ago, in fact) I had a sudden realisation that I'm not shy any more. Or at least I don't act like a shy person any more.
Over the last few years several people have said they're surprised to hear me describe myself as shy as I don't come across that way. I always counter with a smile that I'm good at faking it.
I have no knowledge of the psychology of shyness and whether it's something that you always have - like blue eyes - or whether it's a state of mind you can be trained out of.
All I can say is that a month ago I had a business-ish meeting with a couple of guys who run a comedy club I attend from time to time in Hitchin, with S. S has known one of the guys since he was a young lad and he was supposed to be accompanying me to the meeting to effect introductions. I was secure in the knowledge that he would break the ice and all would be well. And then S contracted flu and was too ill to come with me. There was no option but to go it alone.
I sat in the bar waiting for the guys to arrive (I'm always early) and I realised, all of a sudden, that I wasn't nervous at all. I guessed they probably wouldn't recognise me but I knew what they looked like and I had no qualms about leaping up and introducing myself if needs be. Wait...I'll just run that past again...not nervous and no qualms. Weird.
In fact, one of the guys recognised me and the meeting time flew by as we had a very pleasant and helpful nattering session.
The next evening we were due to attend the comedy club itself with the usual group of four blokes...
I'd met them all a couple of times before but I can't say I really know them. Nevertheless I went and met them and spent a cheery hour or so in their company, again not feeling in the least concerned.
At the weekend, the plan had been to pop up to Peterborough for an away match. S insisted that I still go so that his usual matchday buddy had some company. I know MP reasonably well and so this was always going to be an easier sell than the other outings but even so...the only thing I was in the least apprehensive about was finding my way to the pub where we had agreed to meet. As it was I had a really enjoyable day. Yes, of course I missed S's company, but that's not the same as not enjoying something because you're shy.
Since then I've booked a working weekend in Eastbourne to work on a potential project...moreover, I did so without any regard for whether I'd go on my own or be accompanied.
Feels like I've come a long way since I fretted for an afternoon about going to a pub on my own in Marazion when I was really gagging for a beer but had to be coached and coaxed, by email, by TD, before I would.
Don't get me wrong - I'd still avoid parties and certain other social occasions like the plague but that could easily be because I simply don't enjoy smalltalk or loud rooms.
However, I'm genuinely interested to know whether I'm not as shy as I was...or whether I've just got some better strategies for coping with it.
I also wonder whether other people who look like they're confident and happy in the company of strangers are, in fact, just doing the same as me...because I can't shake the feeling that for me it's still so much smoke and mirrors.
Then again, the fact that life's a little less stressful, and I'm less likely to avoid activities that I'll ultimately get on fine with is the main thing and maybe the wondering why is over-analsying (what me? Surely not).
But much more recently (about a month ago, in fact) I had a sudden realisation that I'm not shy any more. Or at least I don't act like a shy person any more.
Over the last few years several people have said they're surprised to hear me describe myself as shy as I don't come across that way. I always counter with a smile that I'm good at faking it.
I have no knowledge of the psychology of shyness and whether it's something that you always have - like blue eyes - or whether it's a state of mind you can be trained out of.
All I can say is that a month ago I had a business-ish meeting with a couple of guys who run a comedy club I attend from time to time in Hitchin, with S. S has known one of the guys since he was a young lad and he was supposed to be accompanying me to the meeting to effect introductions. I was secure in the knowledge that he would break the ice and all would be well. And then S contracted flu and was too ill to come with me. There was no option but to go it alone.
I sat in the bar waiting for the guys to arrive (I'm always early) and I realised, all of a sudden, that I wasn't nervous at all. I guessed they probably wouldn't recognise me but I knew what they looked like and I had no qualms about leaping up and introducing myself if needs be. Wait...I'll just run that past again...not nervous and no qualms. Weird.
In fact, one of the guys recognised me and the meeting time flew by as we had a very pleasant and helpful nattering session.
The next evening we were due to attend the comedy club itself with the usual group of four blokes...
I'd met them all a couple of times before but I can't say I really know them. Nevertheless I went and met them and spent a cheery hour or so in their company, again not feeling in the least concerned.
At the weekend, the plan had been to pop up to Peterborough for an away match. S insisted that I still go so that his usual matchday buddy had some company. I know MP reasonably well and so this was always going to be an easier sell than the other outings but even so...the only thing I was in the least apprehensive about was finding my way to the pub where we had agreed to meet. As it was I had a really enjoyable day. Yes, of course I missed S's company, but that's not the same as not enjoying something because you're shy.
Since then I've booked a working weekend in Eastbourne to work on a potential project...moreover, I did so without any regard for whether I'd go on my own or be accompanied.
Feels like I've come a long way since I fretted for an afternoon about going to a pub on my own in Marazion when I was really gagging for a beer but had to be coached and coaxed, by email, by TD, before I would.
Don't get me wrong - I'd still avoid parties and certain other social occasions like the plague but that could easily be because I simply don't enjoy smalltalk or loud rooms.
However, I'm genuinely interested to know whether I'm not as shy as I was...or whether I've just got some better strategies for coping with it.
I also wonder whether other people who look like they're confident and happy in the company of strangers are, in fact, just doing the same as me...because I can't shake the feeling that for me it's still so much smoke and mirrors.
Then again, the fact that life's a little less stressful, and I'm less likely to avoid activities that I'll ultimately get on fine with is the main thing and maybe the wondering why is over-analsying (what me? Surely not).
Friday 6 January 2012
View from the Top
I don't feel the urge to blog anything like as frequently as I used to. Nor to write in the journal in my bedside table, nor to take photographs.
I enjoy writing, and I love photography but just now, they're not imperatives for me. I realised that I needed to do those things before but at the moment they don't have that same hold over me.
More than anything, I've realised that my mind has calmed itself a lot. I used to walk for hours and take photographs because the concentration that photography requires shuts outs all other thoughts and stops the "what ifs" and "what next" thoughts from spinning out of control.
Along with this, my urge to read is returning (currently "The Book of Dave" by Will Self) as is my desire to cook properly...even just for myself. To the extent of making my own wheatflour tortillas to go with the chilli I took out of the freezer because I couldn't be arsed to cook.
I've been musing on this change for a few days and wondering why.
My life certainly isn't any more settled than it's been for the last few years. I haven't got religion, gone vegan or started meditating.
Of course, there have been changes - mostly incremental things - in my life. I see more of some people, and less of others as their lives and circumstances change too. Of course, there's S who entertains me on a regular basis: dragging me up hills, forcefeeding me beer, widening my musical appreciation and carrying my camera bag for me as well as making the best steak and kidney pudding in the northern hemisphere.
...and this is the key, of course, it's incremental change over...TIME.
Change takes time to adjust to. I must admit I thought that the "adjustment" was about getting used to sleeping on my own in the house, learning how to change tap washers, taking responsibility for chopping wood and stuff like that.
But I'm learning it's more subtle than that.
2011's was a good year: seeing new places, meeting new people, doing new stuff and remembering what it was like to enjoy old things with new people, and on my own.
2012 promises to give me more change, more challenges and more fun. I'm looking forward to it hugely.
I hope that anyone reading this who's had an unpleasant change wrought upon them can take a bit of heart from the probability that things will get better and sometimes you've gotta dig in and ride the shit out.
Yep, there are bloody difficult hills you have to climb...but when you get some encouragement the view can be worth it.
Bring it on.
x
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