Yep, I'm sorry, but I'm jumping on one.
What's the difference between these two situations?:
A woman goes to a League 1 football match with two male friends. Two seats are together, one seat is on its own.
Being the visitor, the woman suggests that she's happy to sit in the single seat.
One of the men comments - "no, you sit with M because, you need someone sitting next to you to explain the offside rule in a loud and patronising manner"
and
A pair of professional sports presenters suggest that someone should go and explain the offside rule to one of the assistant referees at a premership match because she's a woman.
Let's face it, they both say the same thing.
But the first was made between close friends and was actually a joke on sexist men everywhere.
The second? Not so much.
With the exception of Rachel Hey-ho-hey-ho, the world seems to have been outraged on Sian Massey's behalf.
The quieter story was that she was subsequently removed from officiating at a match a few days later because of the shitstorm kicked up which was not of her doing. I think this was the one that made me more cross.
I didn't know much about how much training FA referees underwent, nor how much they got paid...so I went and had a look.
It takes at least 20 hours of formal training and countless matches to get to the top tier of FA refereeing. Most, if not all of this, will be done at the person's own expense and remuneration seems to start at tenner a match (rising to £250 for the Football league matches).
I have no doubt that Sian Massey has earned less than a pound for every time the offside rule quip has been made in her hearing. Let's face it, an awful lot worse gets levelled at referees.
I think what's galling when it comes to professional presenters - and especially those with a history of playing the game - is that there's a crisis of qualified officials, especially for women and girls in the game - and without these folk, the matches (certainly those at lower levels) simply wouldn't happen.
Like my grandmother said, I believe:
"I don't mind when you shit on me. I don't even mind when you rub it in. It's when you tell me I stink that I object".
.
Wednesday, 26 January 2011
Sunday, 19 December 2010
Going Equipped
The journey should have been simple enough.
Cambridge via Victoria coach station for ma, Victoria coach station and return in a day for me.
Yeah, yeah, the weather was always going to be a risk. That's the very reason I wore my new mids and my proper outdoor jacket with fleece lining and took a change of clothes and a toothbrush. There was always going to be a possbility of an overnight stop in a service station on the M4 or something like that.
I hadn't expected quite the delay going out though.
So, a journey to London that should have taken a bit over two hours took well over four, scuppering connections to Cambridge for ma and a speedy return to Bristol for me.
S offered accomodation in Hitchin if required, having had his weekend plans altered by the weather. As much as I love S's company, I really needed to get home because I had something like 8 people arriving at my house for various reasons on Sunday.
Nevertheless, London Victoria was pandaemonium, trains didn't look any more certain to take me the whole way home, news was that the M4 was worsening by the minute and the thought of getting somewhere comfy and inside as soon as possible was seductive and the more I thought about it, the more I liked the idea whilst all the while feeling like it was a bit like taking the easy way out.
On the journey up my ma had told me something her mother had said - along the lines of "the sooner you realise that God sends the weather, the happier you'll be".
She didn't mean that we had to believe in God - she meant that there are some things in your life over which you have no control and you might as well surrender to the idea and deal with it.
So I trekked across town to Kings Cross, bought a ticket and set forth for Hitchin. It took a little longer than usual because that service had started to suffer weather-related problems, but after about an hour, we were sitting in the Nightingale with a couple of pints for all the world like the journey was planned.
A few text messages and calls to make alternative arrangements for the people supposed to be arriving at my house on Sunday and then a call from my sister to tell me she and ma were stuck in London but were holing up in an hotel for the night.
The walk to S's house was in a winter wonderland of vigin snow and cold crispness. As the snow fell harder the stress of the day retreated because it felt like I'd made the right call and I was surrendering to weather I couldn't change. Even the thought that I might not be able to get home the next day didn't bother me particularly. If worse came to worst, I'd have to go shopping for one or two things but it wouldn't be the end of the world.
The light of day on Sunday revealed that no further snow had fallen, both road and rail conditions had improved a bit.
Then the agonising started again. We both had things to do, places to go and yet it would have been nice just to have gone for a walk in the snow and then to the pub for lunch and not worry about anything else.
Ultimately, we planned our respective journeys for the day and S dropped me at the station. My journey back home was relatively painless, albeit it a bit crowded and a bit longer than usual.
I'm home now and S is safely at his planned destination. All's right with the world.
I guess my Grandmother's wisdom has merit - as did much of what she said, so I'm led to believe.
So - I'm going to try and go with the flow and accept the odd fucking up of my plans and know that it can sometimes lead to a pleasant evening passed with a friend, some beer and "Life of Brian". (thanks, again, S)
...and maybe the wisdom I can pass to my nephews and nieces is "always carry spare underwear - you just never know..."
.
Cambridge via Victoria coach station for ma, Victoria coach station and return in a day for me.
Yeah, yeah, the weather was always going to be a risk. That's the very reason I wore my new mids and my proper outdoor jacket with fleece lining and took a change of clothes and a toothbrush. There was always going to be a possbility of an overnight stop in a service station on the M4 or something like that.
I hadn't expected quite the delay going out though.
So, a journey to London that should have taken a bit over two hours took well over four, scuppering connections to Cambridge for ma and a speedy return to Bristol for me.
S offered accomodation in Hitchin if required, having had his weekend plans altered by the weather. As much as I love S's company, I really needed to get home because I had something like 8 people arriving at my house for various reasons on Sunday.
Nevertheless, London Victoria was pandaemonium, trains didn't look any more certain to take me the whole way home, news was that the M4 was worsening by the minute and the thought of getting somewhere comfy and inside as soon as possible was seductive and the more I thought about it, the more I liked the idea whilst all the while feeling like it was a bit like taking the easy way out.
On the journey up my ma had told me something her mother had said - along the lines of "the sooner you realise that God sends the weather, the happier you'll be".
She didn't mean that we had to believe in God - she meant that there are some things in your life over which you have no control and you might as well surrender to the idea and deal with it.
So I trekked across town to Kings Cross, bought a ticket and set forth for Hitchin. It took a little longer than usual because that service had started to suffer weather-related problems, but after about an hour, we were sitting in the Nightingale with a couple of pints for all the world like the journey was planned.
A few text messages and calls to make alternative arrangements for the people supposed to be arriving at my house on Sunday and then a call from my sister to tell me she and ma were stuck in London but were holing up in an hotel for the night.
The walk to S's house was in a winter wonderland of vigin snow and cold crispness. As the snow fell harder the stress of the day retreated because it felt like I'd made the right call and I was surrendering to weather I couldn't change. Even the thought that I might not be able to get home the next day didn't bother me particularly. If worse came to worst, I'd have to go shopping for one or two things but it wouldn't be the end of the world.
The light of day on Sunday revealed that no further snow had fallen, both road and rail conditions had improved a bit.
Then the agonising started again. We both had things to do, places to go and yet it would have been nice just to have gone for a walk in the snow and then to the pub for lunch and not worry about anything else.
Ultimately, we planned our respective journeys for the day and S dropped me at the station. My journey back home was relatively painless, albeit it a bit crowded and a bit longer than usual.
I'm home now and S is safely at his planned destination. All's right with the world.
I guess my Grandmother's wisdom has merit - as did much of what she said, so I'm led to believe.
So - I'm going to try and go with the flow and accept the odd fucking up of my plans and know that it can sometimes lead to a pleasant evening passed with a friend, some beer and "Life of Brian". (thanks, again, S)
...and maybe the wisdom I can pass to my nephews and nieces is "always carry spare underwear - you just never know..."
.
Wednesday, 1 December 2010
Under Pressure
Remember the incident with the failed tap washer? No? Oh, well, read about it here if you like.
I've had a few more recently...
My vacuum cleaner stopped picking up as well as it should and was making an odd whining noise. Some fiddling to dismantle the brush head and unclog it was necessary. I was pretty pleased that I'd done it but didn't really think any more about it.
Then a load of light bulbs failed - well, I say a load...four, actually, but they were odd bulbs in awkward places. When I was looking in the cupboard under the stairs for something else I discovered that I didn't need to source new bulbs, there was a handy supply there already for me (thanks, Idiot Boy - I'll stop mocking your hoarding instincts now...though what's with the thirteen boxes of matches, eh?). It then just took me to get my shit together sufficiently to get the stepladder out and then to accept the fact that all eight shades on the light fitting in the lounge would need to be cleaned in soapy water.
Then I had a problem with the oven. After being on for about 10 minutes it tripped the RCD and turned a couple of ring mains off. First time I put down to gremlins, second time I realised something needed to be done.
Twitter is a wonderful thing and after bleating about it I had helpful suggestions from two friends (Dru and TT) both of whom suggested elements were at fault.
TT went on to suggest sharing the delivery cost on replacements for me and some stuff for him.
Then Dru mailed me to say if I needed help to let her know...although her default assumption was that I was both confident and competent to do the job myself (actually, I don't believe I was either of these things).
I whined to my friend S, too. He, like the others, was pretty certain an element was at fault.
It took a while to identify the right model of cooker and therefore the correct elements but I ordered them and they duly arrived.
There are no instructions anywhere that tell you how to replace them. Maybe it's obvious, maybe I'm just dumb, or maybe there's an expectation that you'll always get a "professional" in to do the job.
Thing is, my dad always had a go at fixing things himself, so did Idiot Boy (in fact he replaced elements in this cooker about four times) and so does my brother.
So I did the obvious thing and took the back off the cooker. It became obvious that I'd need to do something inside the cooker too...but it took me a while to work out what.
However, I got there eventually.
Then the bad news...the element design had changed. The spares website had warned me of this and had detailed the adaptations necessary. What became clear, however, was that my cooker was older tham the model to which they referred and the adaptations needed wouldn't work.
I was left with earth connectors that I couldn't connect.
I agonized for a while, stamped my feet a little, too and then had a think.
Then I jury-rigged something that I hoped would be good enough.
Problem for me with earth is that I only half understand it and what it's there to do and they do say a little learning is a dangerous thing.
Both elements replaced, complete with makeshift earth connections I turned the oven on. It worked. I was amazed. Better yet, when I touched the outside of the cooker I didn't die.
When S arrived to stay for the weekend, I asked his advice over the earth wires and his opionion was that what I'd done was good enough. Phew.
So - all fixed, then?
Yes...and no.
My house was freezing at the weekend and S was on the verge of hypothermia a couple of times so he offered to bleed my radiators (I sort of knew they needed doing - CJ had suggested a while back that the cold radiator in my bathroom was probably to do with air). Sadly I had neither the correct tool (radiator valve key) nor a substitute (long-nosed pliers). At least I was pretty certain I did have both things but could lay my hands on neither.
S tried some improvisation with the tools to hand but to no avail. I suggested that I'd get a heating engineer to service the boiler and take a look at the radiators. S said I was perfectly capable of doing it myself - he's clearly got more faith in my than I have. He explained what I needed to do.
I went and bought radiator keys and a pair of long-nosed pliers and came home to find I did, indeed have both already, but hey...
I bled a couple of radiators and was gratified to find it was easy and the results were immediate. The third one, however, wasn't so easy...it became apparent that the water pressure had dropped in the system and I'd have to let more water into it. Problem is, I had no idea how.
I let TD know that I'll be absent from my desk for a while longer and he, as ever, encourages me not to panic, gives me a bit of advice (if the system's warm then let the water in slowly) and then says RTFM or Google.
I pull out my tumble drier to let me get at the underside of the boiler and find that an unrelated pipe has a leak from a strange connection. Irritation and panic come at the same time but clearly this is the more pressing problem. First I make the problem worse, then I fix it...well sort of.
I exchange texts with S who alternates between advice and concern.
It's not clear how to let water into the boiler and it takes an hour of surfing for documentation and reading and watching a video to finally understand what needs to be done. Once understood the process took only ten minutes.
OK, I'm pretty pleased with myself on the whole but the nagging feeling that I'm more comfortable with a spanner, rather than a mascara brush in my hands returns to haunt me and I slink off to bed under a bit of a cloud.
Today I'm feeling a bit more defiant. I'm irritated that I'm letting myself feel pressure for being a bit sub-girlie. Then I realise that several of my perfectly capable male friends wouldn't have been any more confident than me to do these jobs. Also, there's a nagging annoyance that clear instructions for simple maintenance jobs should be more easily come by.
Then I re-read the blog post I mention above and see the comments - it makes me smile and gives me heart.
I'm not out of the woods on this whole saga, of that I'm sure but if I concentrate on how bloody useful it is to be able to fix my own stuff (with help, and encouragement of course) perhaps I'll stop getting cold sweats when faced with M&S adverts for perfect women in slinky dresses.
Maybe...
.
Wednesday, 17 November 2010
Mmmmmm beer
I like beer.
I was introduced to it about 20 years ago when I learned that cider didn't generally travel much, nor well.
In a conversation with S and some other friends at a beer festival, I had to admit I didn't like Belgian beer, at least not the stuff I'd tried. The admission was greeted with some surprise and the assertion from all present that there would be Belgian beers I like, I just had to find them.
So, S suggested we amble over to Brussels by Eurostar to try and find beer I might like. He's nice like that.
CJ tells me that he's never been there and would appreciate an appraisal of the place. So this seems as good a place as any to do it.
I'm going to try not to ramble...
Friday
Last minute change of plans sees us meet at the Betjeman Arms in St Pancras.
Much better than the usual run of station bars serving well-kept Doom Bar and Betjeman (both Sharps).
Eurostar check-in is like "airport security lite" and soon we're aboard the train.
Travelling at up to 180mph is a bit disconcerting when the journey is so smooth and it's dark outside so you get little sense of what you're travelling through.
Two hours later we arrive at Bruxelles Midi - in the rain.
We find the apartment (Apartments Manneken) dump our stuff, change into dry clothes and head back out to find food...and beer.
'Le Falstaff': Well-known in the right circles. Service awful, food a bit m'eh (Carbonnade for S, Lapin ala gueze for me).
Beer: Hoegaarden - standard fare, perfectly good - a good introduction to get my palate in.
Next A la Mort Subite.
Beers: Morte Subite Kriek, a lambic and a couple of others I can't remember. Kriek was a high-point for me - bright pink, fruity but not sweet.
Saturday
More rain.
Visit to La Grande Place and the museum there. Interesting place - a good introduction to the history of Brussels - includes architectural artefacts, maps, ceramics, paintings and tapestries.
Oh, and the wardrobe of 'Le Mannequin Pis' - seriously, weird.
Refreshment needed so S recommends A la Becasse.
Lovely interior (Arts and Crafts, maybe?) with friendly service.
Beer: sweetened Lambic beer. Served in a jug to share. Followed up with a mix of Lambic and Kriek in an even bigger jug.
I think the kriek/lambic mix worked particularly well.
Time to find something to eat and luckily right opposite was a cheese shop and a bakery. Back to the apartment to eat and have a bit of a rest.
Refreshed, we headed back out around 9pm and found Poechenellekelder.
Lively but easy-going atmosphere, excellent service and beer served with a little bit of ceremony.
Beers: Taras Boulba (yummy yum, yum). Kwak (nice but in a silly glass) and probably four more that I can't remember.
Sunday
Culture: Notre Dame de la Chapelle church. Quite restrained by Roman Catholic standards but has a completely OTT pulpit. Definitely worth a visit.
Parc de Bruxelles was a little sparse but would probably be a green oasis in the height of summer.
Musical Instrument Museum was fab - if you like musical instruments. Floor after floor of every instrument you can imagine and several you can't.
You get a set of headphones that pick up sound samples whilst you're walking around to illustrate the exhibits. Not perfect but a good idea.
Really enjoyable couple of hours spent and we didn't see everything. I can pretty much guarantee you'll never see so many accordians or bagpipes in any other place.
So it was time for more refreshment.
Toone is famous for its puppet theatre and should be notorious for its service. Not exactly hostile but definitely didn't get the impression they cared about whether we were there or not.
Beer: Hopus (tall glass and a shot glass for the bottoms to be added if you like). Very nice indeed - better with the bottoms added.
We decided to go to one of the many fishy restaurants in Rue des Bouchers. Sole and Monkfish were greedily eaten and washed down with Leffe (blonde for me, brune for him).
Thence to Delerium which our beer guide told us had 2000 beers to try.
We think it's changed set up since the book was written but it was a nice place.
No table service - but something like 30 beers on tap at the upstairs bar. Oh and a very tall bar.
Beers: Floris Fruit beer (possibly Kiwi flavoured?) very drinkable but not very beerish (pictured)
Guillotine: Dark but quite bitter.
There were a couple of others too...but their names escape me.
Upstairs bar was full of young trendy things and it was very noisy so we tried the downstairs one - this one had more people the same age as us but the crush was greater and the noise level higher.
Instead we escaped and went to Soleil which was just around the corner from our apartment. Very quiet and clearly a locals' bar. Nice place with the grooviest toilets you can imagine.
S had Rochefort which was dark, chewy and strong. Can't remember what I had.
We then had time for one quick closing - something draught, but I can't remember what.
Mionday
Our last day so a bit of an early start which was something of a shock.
A walk north following a trail of building-side cartoons which seem to be prevalent around the city.
The area is rather unloved and it's a shame they don't make anything of the canal but we did stumble on the interesting 1930's church of John the Baptist in Molenbeek.
A walk through the Marolles area with its antique shops and flea market ended with a trip to the utterly charming gueze museum/Cantillion Brewery.
Here we learned about real, traditional Lambic brewing methods. We were given a booklet and sent to amble around the working brewery learning about how it does its stuff.
After about an hour we were invited to sit in the bar and try their beers.
Gueze is not to everyone's taste - it's very acidic, almost cider-like in character. I wouldn't want to drink it every day but after three small glasses of it, my tastebuds had become accustomed.
Then it was time to head towards the station but time for a couple of glasses of "Palm" in a station bar.
The journey home was as smooth as the one out and before we knew it we were back in St Pancras.
In conclusion
A great place with many further possibilities.
I was wrong about Belgian beer - it's not all sweet, sickly and dark. There's probably a beer to suit everyone. I found loads to like.
Having a beer guide (in the person of S, and a copy of a CAMRA book) was extremely useful but it's not hard to work out how the various bars work if you pay attention - some are table service, others are bar service.
Making the effort with French (in most places) was rewarded with smiles and help.
One surprise was that smoking is still allowed in some bars - it might sway your choice of venue.
Go there! Drink beer.
Thanks, S
x
I was introduced to it about 20 years ago when I learned that cider didn't generally travel much, nor well.
In a conversation with S and some other friends at a beer festival, I had to admit I didn't like Belgian beer, at least not the stuff I'd tried. The admission was greeted with some surprise and the assertion from all present that there would be Belgian beers I like, I just had to find them.
So, S suggested we amble over to Brussels by Eurostar to try and find beer I might like. He's nice like that.
CJ tells me that he's never been there and would appreciate an appraisal of the place. So this seems as good a place as any to do it.
I'm going to try not to ramble...
Friday
Last minute change of plans sees us meet at the Betjeman Arms in St Pancras.
Much better than the usual run of station bars serving well-kept Doom Bar and Betjeman (both Sharps).
Eurostar check-in is like "airport security lite" and soon we're aboard the train.
Travelling at up to 180mph is a bit disconcerting when the journey is so smooth and it's dark outside so you get little sense of what you're travelling through.
Two hours later we arrive at Bruxelles Midi - in the rain.
We find the apartment (Apartments Manneken) dump our stuff, change into dry clothes and head back out to find food...and beer.
'Le Falstaff': Well-known in the right circles. Service awful, food a bit m'eh (Carbonnade for S, Lapin ala gueze for me).
Beer: Hoegaarden - standard fare, perfectly good - a good introduction to get my palate in.
Next A la Mort Subite.
Beers: Morte Subite Kriek, a lambic and a couple of others I can't remember. Kriek was a high-point for me - bright pink, fruity but not sweet.
Saturday
More rain.
Visit to La Grande Place and the museum there. Interesting place - a good introduction to the history of Brussels - includes architectural artefacts, maps, ceramics, paintings and tapestries.
Oh, and the wardrobe of 'Le Mannequin Pis' - seriously, weird.
Refreshment needed so S recommends A la Becasse.
Lovely interior (Arts and Crafts, maybe?) with friendly service.
Beer: sweetened Lambic beer. Served in a jug to share. Followed up with a mix of Lambic and Kriek in an even bigger jug.
I think the kriek/lambic mix worked particularly well.
Time to find something to eat and luckily right opposite was a cheese shop and a bakery. Back to the apartment to eat and have a bit of a rest.
Refreshed, we headed back out around 9pm and found Poechenellekelder.
Lively but easy-going atmosphere, excellent service and beer served with a little bit of ceremony.
Beers: Taras Boulba (yummy yum, yum). Kwak (nice but in a silly glass) and probably four more that I can't remember.
Sunday
Culture: Notre Dame de la Chapelle church. Quite restrained by Roman Catholic standards but has a completely OTT pulpit. Definitely worth a visit.
Parc de Bruxelles was a little sparse but would probably be a green oasis in the height of summer.
Musical Instrument Museum was fab - if you like musical instruments. Floor after floor of every instrument you can imagine and several you can't.
You get a set of headphones that pick up sound samples whilst you're walking around to illustrate the exhibits. Not perfect but a good idea.
Really enjoyable couple of hours spent and we didn't see everything. I can pretty much guarantee you'll never see so many accordians or bagpipes in any other place.
So it was time for more refreshment.
Toone is famous for its puppet theatre and should be notorious for its service. Not exactly hostile but definitely didn't get the impression they cared about whether we were there or not.
Beer: Hopus (tall glass and a shot glass for the bottoms to be added if you like). Very nice indeed - better with the bottoms added.
We decided to go to one of the many fishy restaurants in Rue des Bouchers. Sole and Monkfish were greedily eaten and washed down with Leffe (blonde for me, brune for him).
Thence to Delerium which our beer guide told us had 2000 beers to try.
We think it's changed set up since the book was written but it was a nice place.
No table service - but something like 30 beers on tap at the upstairs bar. Oh and a very tall bar.
Beers: Floris Fruit beer (possibly Kiwi flavoured?) very drinkable but not very beerish (pictured)
Guillotine: Dark but quite bitter.
There were a couple of others too...but their names escape me.
Upstairs bar was full of young trendy things and it was very noisy so we tried the downstairs one - this one had more people the same age as us but the crush was greater and the noise level higher.
Instead we escaped and went to Soleil which was just around the corner from our apartment. Very quiet and clearly a locals' bar. Nice place with the grooviest toilets you can imagine.
S had Rochefort which was dark, chewy and strong. Can't remember what I had.
We then had time for one quick closing - something draught, but I can't remember what.
Mionday
Our last day so a bit of an early start which was something of a shock.
A walk north following a trail of building-side cartoons which seem to be prevalent around the city.
The area is rather unloved and it's a shame they don't make anything of the canal but we did stumble on the interesting 1930's church of John the Baptist in Molenbeek.
A walk through the Marolles area with its antique shops and flea market ended with a trip to the utterly charming gueze museum/Cantillion Brewery.
Here we learned about real, traditional Lambic brewing methods. We were given a booklet and sent to amble around the working brewery learning about how it does its stuff.
After about an hour we were invited to sit in the bar and try their beers.
Gueze is not to everyone's taste - it's very acidic, almost cider-like in character. I wouldn't want to drink it every day but after three small glasses of it, my tastebuds had become accustomed.
Then it was time to head towards the station but time for a couple of glasses of "Palm" in a station bar.
The journey home was as smooth as the one out and before we knew it we were back in St Pancras.
In conclusion
A great place with many further possibilities.
I was wrong about Belgian beer - it's not all sweet, sickly and dark. There's probably a beer to suit everyone. I found loads to like.
Having a beer guide (in the person of S, and a copy of a CAMRA book) was extremely useful but it's not hard to work out how the various bars work if you pay attention - some are table service, others are bar service.
Making the effort with French (in most places) was rewarded with smiles and help.
One surprise was that smoking is still allowed in some bars - it might sway your choice of venue.
Go there! Drink beer.
Thanks, S
x
Monday, 25 October 2010
Campaign for pointless activities
I had the perfect morning, this morning.
I walked a couple of miles in the cold autumn sunshine and attended a meeting for ExtraVerte with TD at council offices in South Bristol.
The meeting was everything we could have asked for - upbeat, helpful, generating more potential contacts and an answer in the affirmative. After the meeting we repaired to a cafe to discuss the outcome of the meeting, next steps and to prepare a strategy for the project.
After that, TD noticed that the water level was low in the river so we strolled around taking pictures in the sunshine and, it has to be said, dropping stones and other small, heavy found objects into the gloopy mud. We both chuckled with childish satisfaction at the activity. We're middle-aged professional people, for goodness sake. What the hell are we playing at?
This has happened a few times recently.
I visited Hitchin a few weeks ago and on my walk into town from the train station I was horrified (yes, horrified is definitely the word) to see that under a horse chestnut tree was a pile of fallen conkers. In my day, a hoard like that was like finding gold. It was all you could do to stop us throwing sticks into trees to get conkers out of the trees so you'd never ever see that many shiny conkers just lying there on the ground.
There was something deep inside me that couldn't pass by...so I guiltily scooped a dozen or so up and popped them in my coat pocket.
I rediscovered them later when I was at S's house. So I gifted them to him. He chuckled and graciously accepted them and we both bemoaned the lack of conker competition today.
We never got around to playing conkers so he's either quietly thrown them away or they're still there in a pile on the side in the kitchen.
Last weekend I went for a walk with M and her kids. She has a son of 7 (pictured) and a daughter of 11. We passed a big pile of dry fallen leaves. Naturally I kicked them (yes, naturally...that's what dry leaves are for).
M eyed me with some horror..."there might be dog poo!". True enough. I hate poo as much as the next person, but the risk of finding it in a pile of leaves can't overcome my innate desire to kick leaves. The risk is worth it.
So her son, also M, and I kick leaves for the next few minutes.
When we get to the old dockside rail tracks M and I play on the tracks for a while. Balancing on the rails, jumping over sleepers, and then trying to move the points.
M's mum and sister leave us to it.
Why the hell do I think that playing on railway lines, kicking leaves, dropping stones into mud and scooping up conkers is a valuable activity for me, and for my friends?
Because for the short time we do them, our focus is entirely on the now. The now of simple pleasures.
There's time later to think about the fridge that seems to have developed a fault, the cooker element that blew at the weekend, the fact that the bathroom radiator no longer gives out any heat at all...and how the hell am I going to pay the bills if no bugger will pay me to pretty up the urban landscape.
For the next 20 minutes I can just concentrate on not falling off the railway track and into the stingers, scraging my knees on the way down.
After that, the other things seem less unmanagable because I've just given my brain a rest.
So go on...let your inner seven-year old out on loose for a bit and to hell with life's dog poo!
.
I walked a couple of miles in the cold autumn sunshine and attended a meeting for ExtraVerte with TD at council offices in South Bristol.
The meeting was everything we could have asked for - upbeat, helpful, generating more potential contacts and an answer in the affirmative. After the meeting we repaired to a cafe to discuss the outcome of the meeting, next steps and to prepare a strategy for the project.
After that, TD noticed that the water level was low in the river so we strolled around taking pictures in the sunshine and, it has to be said, dropping stones and other small, heavy found objects into the gloopy mud. We both chuckled with childish satisfaction at the activity. We're middle-aged professional people, for goodness sake. What the hell are we playing at?
This has happened a few times recently.
I visited Hitchin a few weeks ago and on my walk into town from the train station I was horrified (yes, horrified is definitely the word) to see that under a horse chestnut tree was a pile of fallen conkers. In my day, a hoard like that was like finding gold. It was all you could do to stop us throwing sticks into trees to get conkers out of the trees so you'd never ever see that many shiny conkers just lying there on the ground.
There was something deep inside me that couldn't pass by...so I guiltily scooped a dozen or so up and popped them in my coat pocket.
I rediscovered them later when I was at S's house. So I gifted them to him. He chuckled and graciously accepted them and we both bemoaned the lack of conker competition today.
We never got around to playing conkers so he's either quietly thrown them away or they're still there in a pile on the side in the kitchen.
Last weekend I went for a walk with M and her kids. She has a son of 7 (pictured) and a daughter of 11. We passed a big pile of dry fallen leaves. Naturally I kicked them (yes, naturally...that's what dry leaves are for).
M eyed me with some horror..."there might be dog poo!". True enough. I hate poo as much as the next person, but the risk of finding it in a pile of leaves can't overcome my innate desire to kick leaves. The risk is worth it.
So her son, also M, and I kick leaves for the next few minutes.
When we get to the old dockside rail tracks M and I play on the tracks for a while. Balancing on the rails, jumping over sleepers, and then trying to move the points.
M's mum and sister leave us to it.
Why the hell do I think that playing on railway lines, kicking leaves, dropping stones into mud and scooping up conkers is a valuable activity for me, and for my friends?
Because for the short time we do them, our focus is entirely on the now. The now of simple pleasures.
There's time later to think about the fridge that seems to have developed a fault, the cooker element that blew at the weekend, the fact that the bathroom radiator no longer gives out any heat at all...and how the hell am I going to pay the bills if no bugger will pay me to pretty up the urban landscape.
For the next 20 minutes I can just concentrate on not falling off the railway track and into the stingers, scraging my knees on the way down.
After that, the other things seem less unmanagable because I've just given my brain a rest.
So go on...let your inner seven-year old out on loose for a bit and to hell with life's dog poo!
.
Sunday, 10 October 2010
Nostalgia readjustment
Firstly, you need to get over the picture, OK?
Yes, yes, the littlest one is me.
I have siblings who are a fair bit older than me - my brother is eight years' older, my sister eleven years' older.
Anyhow - this was the only vaguely relevant picture I have relating to the subject at hand. For what it's worth I'm thinking that this picture was taken in the mid-late 1960's.
It was my birthday this week and although I generally don't make that much of a fuss of it, other people do and my friend M said she'd like to take me out by way of a birthday gift. How lovely.
I asked her to take me to "Made in Dagenham".
It's a film about women working for Ford in Dagenham who fought for equal pay in the late sixties.
It's not the best film ever made, hell it's not even the best British film made in the last 10 years but I enjoyed it immensely.
The story isn't that hard to guess (most of it is a matter of record, after all) and in fact the story arc is something of a cliche and yet I found it totally compelling.
Maybe it was some of the opening footage of 1960's advertisements for cars, possibly it was the reconstruction of the world of my childhood.
The casual sexism was shocking and caused gasps in the audience. That was quite amusing in itself.
At one point in the film the heroine's husband tells her what a good husband he's been because he didn't drink excessively and had never raised his hand to her.
She rails at him and says that's how is should be. Of course she's right - she should be able to take decent treatment for granted.
Women should be able to take equal pay for equal work for granted.
Nevertheless, those of us women who have always been paid equally and have treated that as a right need to remember the women who who fought to make that true.
.
Yes, yes, the littlest one is me.
I have siblings who are a fair bit older than me - my brother is eight years' older, my sister eleven years' older.
Anyhow - this was the only vaguely relevant picture I have relating to the subject at hand. For what it's worth I'm thinking that this picture was taken in the mid-late 1960's.
It was my birthday this week and although I generally don't make that much of a fuss of it, other people do and my friend M said she'd like to take me out by way of a birthday gift. How lovely.
I asked her to take me to "Made in Dagenham".
It's a film about women working for Ford in Dagenham who fought for equal pay in the late sixties.
It's not the best film ever made, hell it's not even the best British film made in the last 10 years but I enjoyed it immensely.
The story isn't that hard to guess (most of it is a matter of record, after all) and in fact the story arc is something of a cliche and yet I found it totally compelling.
Maybe it was some of the opening footage of 1960's advertisements for cars, possibly it was the reconstruction of the world of my childhood.
The casual sexism was shocking and caused gasps in the audience. That was quite amusing in itself.
At one point in the film the heroine's husband tells her what a good husband he's been because he didn't drink excessively and had never raised his hand to her.
She rails at him and says that's how is should be. Of course she's right - she should be able to take decent treatment for granted.
Women should be able to take equal pay for equal work for granted.
Nevertheless, those of us women who have always been paid equally and have treated that as a right need to remember the women who who fought to make that true.
.
Monday, 27 September 2010
Plus ça Change
So, S invites me to take up a spare ticket for Brighton's home match.
I don't support any team of any sport. I have a dabbling kind of interest in major competitions under certain circumstances. Nevertheless, I started watching live football around the age of five.
After a whistle-stop tour of the town (I'd never been there before) and lunch at a good pub we head off to the ground.
The last time I'd actually been to a match was when Bristol City was in league division one (in today's money, that's the Premiership) and Brighton's current home ground is far state-of-the-art (that comes next season) but on walking through the ground to take up our seats, I got a powerful sense that despite a different team at a different ground, football matches are somehow a universal constant.
S had been a little concerned that I was attending out of politeness - he needn't have worried. I had a whale of a time.
The football wasn't the best in the world but there were moments of sheer elegance. There was plenty of action and three actual goals and about four nearly ones.
According to the home crowd, the referee was of questionable parentage and visually impaired at that. It was also asserted that he got his ya-yas at his own hand. I can't really comment on the veracity of any of these statements - but he did seem to make a few school girl errors. Then again, I had a better vantage point than him so maybe I should cut him some slack.
I'd been warned that the regulars in the seats behind would be vocal in their opinions throughout the match - and this was certainly the case. If only all these people's opinion on the best way to arrange the team, or to press home the advantage were taken - surely the resulting squad would be near-perfect proponents of the craft. No?
You can argue that it's a fairly low, tribalistic form of entertainment but I have to say that the enthusiasm of fans for their chosen team is quite infectious.
Best of all is to hear about five thousand people crying "Oooooh!" in unison, with no conductor or instruction but as a visceral reflex at a chance made but not converted.
I'm not about to start watching regularly again but it was brilliant to be reminded of what being at a live game is about.
It was also a lovely reminder that there are things in your life that are largely unchanged by time and that despite changes in rules, and in styles and in the length of shorts, the spectators of a football are one of those things.
Thanks S, thanks MP and thanks Seagulls - it was fun
.
I don't support any team of any sport. I have a dabbling kind of interest in major competitions under certain circumstances. Nevertheless, I started watching live football around the age of five.
After a whistle-stop tour of the town (I'd never been there before) and lunch at a good pub we head off to the ground.
The last time I'd actually been to a match was when Bristol City was in league division one (in today's money, that's the Premiership) and Brighton's current home ground is far state-of-the-art (that comes next season) but on walking through the ground to take up our seats, I got a powerful sense that despite a different team at a different ground, football matches are somehow a universal constant.
S had been a little concerned that I was attending out of politeness - he needn't have worried. I had a whale of a time.
The football wasn't the best in the world but there were moments of sheer elegance. There was plenty of action and three actual goals and about four nearly ones.
According to the home crowd, the referee was of questionable parentage and visually impaired at that. It was also asserted that he got his ya-yas at his own hand. I can't really comment on the veracity of any of these statements - but he did seem to make a few school girl errors. Then again, I had a better vantage point than him so maybe I should cut him some slack.
I'd been warned that the regulars in the seats behind would be vocal in their opinions throughout the match - and this was certainly the case. If only all these people's opinion on the best way to arrange the team, or to press home the advantage were taken - surely the resulting squad would be near-perfect proponents of the craft. No?
You can argue that it's a fairly low, tribalistic form of entertainment but I have to say that the enthusiasm of fans for their chosen team is quite infectious.
Best of all is to hear about five thousand people crying "Oooooh!" in unison, with no conductor or instruction but as a visceral reflex at a chance made but not converted.
I'm not about to start watching regularly again but it was brilliant to be reminded of what being at a live game is about.
It was also a lovely reminder that there are things in your life that are largely unchanged by time and that despite changes in rules, and in styles and in the length of shorts, the spectators of a football are one of those things.
Thanks S, thanks MP and thanks Seagulls - it was fun
.
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