Welcome to the bereavement counsellor’s chair. That’s you in the chair, and me the bereaved … so if you’re not ready to be subsumed by my gloomy news, “look away now”.
My mother died of a sudden heart attack on Monday 8 December, at about 2:20 in the afternoon.
I had just returned from a very pleasant walk in the woods with my dog, and answered the phone expecting a work-related call, not my grief-stricken not-step-father saying my mum had collapsed while cleaning the windows and the paramedics could not revive her. For the record, she was only 64, and had only been retired from her very hectic publishing job for about six years.
Since the 8th, life has been a strange mixture of sadness, raucous laughter, not getting ready for Christmas, and mild panic and confusion, because I no longer have anyone special to phone to tell my news.
I live about 100 miles from my mum, and haven’t lived at home permanently since I went away to school, aged 11, in 1977. In all that time, we mostly spoke on the phone, or while we were driving around from one place to another – on work-related trips or the 50-minute ‘school run’ at the start and end of holidays and Sunday afternoon ‘tea visits’. We had a regular appointment, during my school days, whereby I would ring her on Sundays (after church, a daily ritual at my C of E boarding school) giving ‘three rings’ to let her know it was me, then redialing so she could pick up the receiver.
On the day after her death, Mr Ms_well and I drove up the M1 and back to do the grim things I now know you have to do, if you’re a next of kin. When we arrived home at about 10 minutes to midnight, we couldn’t sleep, and instead watched a DVD of Peter Kaye featuring his own personal take on the ‘three rings’. Are all northern mothers the same, then? I howled with laughter, and with sadness. My mum was a fan of Peter Kaye, and I was half tempted to have Is this the way to Amarillo? – the Tony Christie version, mind you – played at the funeral, because my mum loved it, and she used to live next door but one to TC.
Once I left school and had a phone of my own and, crucially, an answering machine, my mum’s catch-phrase of “It’s only me, I’ll phone you later”, became very familiar, and already, that’s the thing I miss the most.
So here I am, having gone through a thoroughly modern Yorkshire funeral – no punch-ups (that’s the old-fashioned way!), but emotionally charged by ex-husbands, bereaved partners, bereaved partner’s US-based son who’s a stranger to everyone at the wake, aunts and uncles who don’t speak to each other, and former bosses and their families who diplomatically fail to turn up, despite the 20+ years of devoted service given with only a pittance of a pension to show for it (which will only just cover the funeral expenses, but don’t be me started on that just now).
And now I’ve had three unexpected and unwelcome weeks off work, at a time when I’ve got a bulging order book and clients who are being extremely thoughtful through the gritted teeth of “when will you deliver that job?”
Back to work, then. As my dad wrote in my son’s remembrance book “Oh blah dee, oh blah dah, life goes on …”.
Showing posts with label family. Show all posts
Showing posts with label family. Show all posts
Saturday, 27 December 2008
Wednesday, 3 December 2008
A red-tailed hawk and a three-legged dog
Nothing much happens in the small Hertfordshire town where I live (though we have made the headlines once this year). But I’ve seen two unusual sights in two days, so thought I’d share them with you.
Yesterday I met a three-legged dog.
When I say ‘met’, it glared at me and my dog from a distance, stalked us for several yards, then gambled towards us at a frightening pace (given his disability). I stood my ground while my cowardly and totally soppy Springer Spaniel groveled in case the newcomer was unfriendly. [My dog was attacked when he was a puppy and has learnt to be wary of growly border-collie-types who can out-run him!]
But fear not, dear reader, after a quick sniff, the three-legged dog trotted off. Then he cocked his leg…
…Not by slightly raising the stump of the missing leg, but by doing what can only be described as a doggie hand-stand.
Talk about adaptability! (And what fantastic balance.)
Today, because the sun was shining, we dared to stray further from home to a nearby country-park-cum-woodland (owned by the Woodland Trust, in fact), which is a very popular dog-walking venue – providing you don’t mind washing off the cow pats and badgers-doings when you get home.
We’d had a good stretch through the fields in the sunshine, and climbed high up into the woods then back down to head for home, when I spotted a chap walking towards us behaving rather oddly.
Not sure whether to choose a different direction (I am hyper-conscious of potential problems walking alone in isolated spots, even with my dog and mobile phone), I paused and shielded my eyes from the sun to see if I could tell what he was up to.
As he approached, I realised – he’d been catching his red-tailed hawk.
I put my dog on the lead and so we got a really good close-up of the bird, and a quick chat with the ‘owner’ who assured me that this huge bird of prey is fine with dogs. He tells me he doesn’t need a licence to own/hunt with the beastie, which surprised me, knowing how up-tight some farmers can be about their live-stock. Apparently, though, the red-tailed hawk only goes for the small-fry that farmers think of as pests (cute bunny rabbits, mice, voles, squirrels etc).
Having seen it up-close, I’m very glad he caught the bird, before it caught us!
___
This wasn’t what I had intended to write in my blog this week, but you know how things can pile up. Things I was intending to write about:
* Eddie Izzard live in London last Saturday - excellent; and included an hysterical joke for editors… but damned if I can remember it. Woe.
* Last night’s Horizon on ‘Time’, plus more on science communication.
* Still trying to get round to doing my ‘green’ story; started it in September. It will come, eventually.
* And ‘slow blogging’ - snippet spotted in Guardian last week. Instead of writing about it, I’ve been practising it!
Yesterday I met a three-legged dog.
When I say ‘met’, it glared at me and my dog from a distance, stalked us for several yards, then gambled towards us at a frightening pace (given his disability). I stood my ground while my cowardly and totally soppy Springer Spaniel groveled in case the newcomer was unfriendly. [My dog was attacked when he was a puppy and has learnt to be wary of growly border-collie-types who can out-run him!]
But fear not, dear reader, after a quick sniff, the three-legged dog trotted off. Then he cocked his leg…
…Not by slightly raising the stump of the missing leg, but by doing what can only be described as a doggie hand-stand.
Talk about adaptability! (And what fantastic balance.)
***
Today, because the sun was shining, we dared to stray further from home to a nearby country-park-cum-woodland (owned by the Woodland Trust, in fact), which is a very popular dog-walking venue – providing you don’t mind washing off the cow pats and badgers-doings when you get home.
We’d had a good stretch through the fields in the sunshine, and climbed high up into the woods then back down to head for home, when I spotted a chap walking towards us behaving rather oddly.
Not sure whether to choose a different direction (I am hyper-conscious of potential problems walking alone in isolated spots, even with my dog and mobile phone), I paused and shielded my eyes from the sun to see if I could tell what he was up to.
As he approached, I realised – he’d been catching his red-tailed hawk.
I put my dog on the lead and so we got a really good close-up of the bird, and a quick chat with the ‘owner’ who assured me that this huge bird of prey is fine with dogs. He tells me he doesn’t need a licence to own/hunt with the beastie, which surprised me, knowing how up-tight some farmers can be about their live-stock. Apparently, though, the red-tailed hawk only goes for the small-fry that farmers think of as pests (cute bunny rabbits, mice, voles, squirrels etc).
Having seen it up-close, I’m very glad he caught the bird, before it caught us!
___
This wasn’t what I had intended to write in my blog this week, but you know how things can pile up. Things I was intending to write about:
* Eddie Izzard live in London last Saturday - excellent; and included an hysterical joke for editors… but damned if I can remember it. Woe.
* Last night’s Horizon on ‘Time’, plus more on science communication.
* Still trying to get round to doing my ‘green’ story; started it in September. It will come, eventually.
* And ‘slow blogging’ - snippet spotted in Guardian last week. Instead of writing about it, I’ve been practising it!
Monday, 27 October 2008
Biscuits: the driving force behind the nation’s freelance writers/editors
Freelance writers and editors, working at home, need to demonstrate a significant level of willpower; so I’m pleased to learn that scientists have published evidence to suggest that sneaking a daily dip into the biscuit barrel could, contrary to expectations, give your willpower a much needed boost.
Although I criticised the concept of Psychologies magazine last week, I am still drawn to psychology-related articles in the more serious press. Last week, while belated flicking through back issues of New Scientist, I came across a piece that pretty neatly sums up the chemistry/biology behind that eternal freelances’ problem: procrastination. And, in a twist of logic that Psychologies would surely be proud of, here I go reinterpreting the hard science for my own journalistic purposes…
Resist! by Helen Phillips (New Scientist, 13 September 2008, pp40–43) reports on several studies into self-control and willpower. Few readers will be surprised to learn that some people are better at self-control than others, that female impulse control is linked to the menstrual cycle, and that there are links between IQ and the ability to avoid temptation.
More interesting, though, is the news that resisting temptation appears to be controlled by the frontal lobes of the brain (especially the right frontal lobe), and that the effort of self-control also taxes the areas of the brain responsible for ‘working memory’. (One conclusion the researchers draw from these results is that teenagers find it hard to control their impulses because their frontal lobes are still developing.)
On top of that, there’s evidence that exercising willpower is also a physiological process – i.e. it’s a process that needs energy.
Helen Phillips cites studies published in the journals Psychological Science, and Journal of Personality and Social Psychology, which suggest that self-control requires effort (energy) and, just as you can run out of energy when you’re pounding the treadmill at the gym, you can run of out self-control.
Part of the evidence for this comes from studying people’s heart rates while they’re being asked to resist temptation, which shows that there are peaks in energy use during temptation experiments. Another study (by Roy Baumeister at Florida State University) found that giving participants a sugary drink before their self-control was challenged improved their ability to resist temptation.
Ok, so here’s my spin on this news: eating a bicky or two before I set to work in the morning is actually good for me, because keeping up my blood sugar level boosts my self-control ‘muscle’.
A bit far fetched, perhaps? Not necessarily. One thing I’ve noticed since I turned freelance is that prioritisation (inextricably linked to resistance and self-control) is getting harder and harder. On the evidence of Phillips’ article, I now suspect my problem is caused by long-term depletion of willpower.
Ponder this for a moment:
Ten years ago the biggest drain on my self-control was the effort of getting out of bed, performing my daily ablutions and setting off for the office.
Fast forward a few years and my self-control was sorely tested by the arrival of a baby who needed me to think on his behalf (and I still do, 9 years on!), then later, along came the dog who had to be walked, fed and pampered, with rarely a day off from my responsibilities. (Not to mention all the other domestic chores, of which the most brain-taxing is invariably answering the question "What's for dinner?" )
These days I reckon I spend 90% of my time resisting doing the things I want to do, because I have so many other things that MUST BE DONE.
Having a deadline, therefore, is crucial. If, as now, I have work on the books, but nothing urgent, I can’t resist the temptation to blog instead of getting on with the paid-for stuff. And every day I’m also using up currency from my bank of self-control by “resisting” the temptation to tidy the house, put the rubbish out, stuff/unstuff the washing machine, prune my email inbox, write letters to friends I should’ve replied to in January…
It’s only biscuit power that’s helping me to resist all these exciting opportunities!!
One last thought before I really MUST get on with real work: one of Phillips’ interviewees strongly recommends writing detailed ‘to do’ lists as a way of giving yourself a leg-up to get over the procrastination fence:
“… Even something as simple as saying you will go to the gym at 5pm on a specific day is a more successful strategy than intending to exercise once a week. Planning can turn a difficult conscious decision into an unconscious habit, which makes the whole process faster and more efficient without depleting energy levels.”
So if you don’t hear from me for a while, it’s because I’m knee-deep in ‘to do’ spreadsheets.
Although I criticised the concept of Psychologies magazine last week, I am still drawn to psychology-related articles in the more serious press. Last week, while belated flicking through back issues of New Scientist, I came across a piece that pretty neatly sums up the chemistry/biology behind that eternal freelances’ problem: procrastination. And, in a twist of logic that Psychologies would surely be proud of, here I go reinterpreting the hard science for my own journalistic purposes…
Resist! by Helen Phillips (New Scientist, 13 September 2008, pp40–43) reports on several studies into self-control and willpower. Few readers will be surprised to learn that some people are better at self-control than others, that female impulse control is linked to the menstrual cycle, and that there are links between IQ and the ability to avoid temptation.
More interesting, though, is the news that resisting temptation appears to be controlled by the frontal lobes of the brain (especially the right frontal lobe), and that the effort of self-control also taxes the areas of the brain responsible for ‘working memory’. (One conclusion the researchers draw from these results is that teenagers find it hard to control their impulses because their frontal lobes are still developing.)
On top of that, there’s evidence that exercising willpower is also a physiological process – i.e. it’s a process that needs energy.
Helen Phillips cites studies published in the journals Psychological Science, and Journal of Personality and Social Psychology, which suggest that self-control requires effort (energy) and, just as you can run out of energy when you’re pounding the treadmill at the gym, you can run of out self-control.
Part of the evidence for this comes from studying people’s heart rates while they’re being asked to resist temptation, which shows that there are peaks in energy use during temptation experiments. Another study (by Roy Baumeister at Florida State University) found that giving participants a sugary drink before their self-control was challenged improved their ability to resist temptation.
Ok, so here’s my spin on this news: eating a bicky or two before I set to work in the morning is actually good for me, because keeping up my blood sugar level boosts my self-control ‘muscle’.
A bit far fetched, perhaps? Not necessarily. One thing I’ve noticed since I turned freelance is that prioritisation (inextricably linked to resistance and self-control) is getting harder and harder. On the evidence of Phillips’ article, I now suspect my problem is caused by long-term depletion of willpower.
Ponder this for a moment:
Ten years ago the biggest drain on my self-control was the effort of getting out of bed, performing my daily ablutions and setting off for the office.
Fast forward a few years and my self-control was sorely tested by the arrival of a baby who needed me to think on his behalf (and I still do, 9 years on!), then later, along came the dog who had to be walked, fed and pampered, with rarely a day off from my responsibilities. (Not to mention all the other domestic chores, of which the most brain-taxing is invariably answering the question "What's for dinner?" )
These days I reckon I spend 90% of my time resisting doing the things I want to do, because I have so many other things that MUST BE DONE.
Having a deadline, therefore, is crucial. If, as now, I have work on the books, but nothing urgent, I can’t resist the temptation to blog instead of getting on with the paid-for stuff. And every day I’m also using up currency from my bank of self-control by “resisting” the temptation to tidy the house, put the rubbish out, stuff/unstuff the washing machine, prune my email inbox, write letters to friends I should’ve replied to in January…
It’s only biscuit power that’s helping me to resist all these exciting opportunities!!
One last thought before I really MUST get on with real work: one of Phillips’ interviewees strongly recommends writing detailed ‘to do’ lists as a way of giving yourself a leg-up to get over the procrastination fence:
“… Even something as simple as saying you will go to the gym at 5pm on a specific day is a more successful strategy than intending to exercise once a week. Planning can turn a difficult conscious decision into an unconscious habit, which makes the whole process faster and more efficient without depleting energy levels.”
So if you don’t hear from me for a while, it’s because I’m knee-deep in ‘to do’ spreadsheets.
Wednesday, 1 October 2008
Wedding bells in a church of your choice
The Church of England moves in mysterious ways, that’s for certain. Apparently, they’ve finally come round to the idea (19 years too late, in my case) that they should allow people to get married in the church of their choice, not just the one that’s nearest to their current abode. This will be good news for some; and it means my very own Archbishop’s Special Licence will be a bit of national history, not just something for the family ‘archive’.
Church weddings have been going out of fashion for decades, but once the government ‘deregulated’ the marriage business in 1994 – leaving people free to celebrate their nuptials in, of all places, motorway service stations, hot-air balloons, and even the bottom of the sea – the C of E option looked even more dated.
Today, amid much rejoicing – i.e. the Bishop of Reading holding a special wedding breakfast accompanied by a gospel choir singing wedding favourites (deep joy!) – the C of E finally launched the Church of England Marriage Measure which means that you can get married outside your ‘home’ parish, providing the church of your choice has some sort of family connection.
And blow me, they’ve also launched a website dedicated to helping people get the church wedding of their dreams! There, you can read the “Seven steps to a heavenly wedding” (I kid you not); and meet a happy smiling and female vicar (via the magic of the interweb).
My, how things have changed since I walked down the aisle…
Neither of us were (are) church-goers; in fact Mr Ms_well.words is about as anti organised religion as it’s possible to get. But despite my atheism, I’m a former C of E head chorister, and I really wanted to have a wedding filled with good old-fashioned English psalmody. It didn’t turn out quite as I’d envisaged.
In 1989, we were living in London; my family in Yorkshire, his in Herts; and my aging granny too ill to travel but determined to get to the wedding one way or another.
The picturesque (and extremely popular) church near to my former home was fully booked, and in any case, wouldn’t marry us because we were not parishioners – in fact neither was my mother, it turned out. Once we investigated, we found out that her home was just over the parish boundary, and actually her local church was at the far end of her road; an old soot-blackened Victorian pile like so many others littering the City.
I’d read in a wedding magazine that it was possible to obtain an Archbishop's Special Licence to marry outside your own parish, so we contacted this local church to asked whether they would do the deed. I never did get to meet the vicar (a Curate dealt with our ‘case’), which is a shame because he later became rather famous in the national press for various misdemeanors! Plans went ahead over the phone, without us stepping foot in the actual building.
When I finally did go there, it was a bit of a shock. The grim and gritty (but authentic and definitely Northern) church outside had been stripped of its charm on the inside and ‘renovated’ to suit the Evangelicals who had moved in (complete with Sunday night ‘Rock’ events).
So, no angelic choir singing psalms; no vast organ pumping out Mendelssohn’s finest; no WEDDING BELLS…
By that time, we’d already gone to the trouble of getting the licence, signed and sealed by Archbishop R Runcie, so it was too late to change our minds. (Mr Ms_well.words had to go to Westminster Abbey in person to obtain it!)
Small wonder there was thunder and lightning during the Service…
Ever since, I’ve been meaning to get the Special Licence properly framed (instead of it being folded up in the bottom of a box of wedding snaps). Now it’s a piece of history, I’d better fish it out and put it somewhere safe.
Church weddings have been going out of fashion for decades, but once the government ‘deregulated’ the marriage business in 1994 – leaving people free to celebrate their nuptials in, of all places, motorway service stations, hot-air balloons, and even the bottom of the sea – the C of E option looked even more dated.
Today, amid much rejoicing – i.e. the Bishop of Reading holding a special wedding breakfast accompanied by a gospel choir singing wedding favourites (deep joy!) – the C of E finally launched the Church of England Marriage Measure which means that you can get married outside your ‘home’ parish, providing the church of your choice has some sort of family connection.
And blow me, they’ve also launched a website dedicated to helping people get the church wedding of their dreams! There, you can read the “Seven steps to a heavenly wedding” (I kid you not); and meet a happy smiling and female vicar (via the magic of the interweb).
My, how things have changed since I walked down the aisle…
Neither of us were (are) church-goers; in fact Mr Ms_well.words is about as anti organised religion as it’s possible to get. But despite my atheism, I’m a former C of E head chorister, and I really wanted to have a wedding filled with good old-fashioned English psalmody. It didn’t turn out quite as I’d envisaged.
In 1989, we were living in London; my family in Yorkshire, his in Herts; and my aging granny too ill to travel but determined to get to the wedding one way or another.
The picturesque (and extremely popular) church near to my former home was fully booked, and in any case, wouldn’t marry us because we were not parishioners – in fact neither was my mother, it turned out. Once we investigated, we found out that her home was just over the parish boundary, and actually her local church was at the far end of her road; an old soot-blackened Victorian pile like so many others littering the City.
I’d read in a wedding magazine that it was possible to obtain an Archbishop's Special Licence to marry outside your own parish, so we contacted this local church to asked whether they would do the deed. I never did get to meet the vicar (a Curate dealt with our ‘case’), which is a shame because he later became rather famous in the national press for various misdemeanors! Plans went ahead over the phone, without us stepping foot in the actual building.
When I finally did go there, it was a bit of a shock. The grim and gritty (but authentic and definitely Northern) church outside had been stripped of its charm on the inside and ‘renovated’ to suit the Evangelicals who had moved in (complete with Sunday night ‘Rock’ events).
So, no angelic choir singing psalms; no vast organ pumping out Mendelssohn’s finest; no WEDDING BELLS…
By that time, we’d already gone to the trouble of getting the licence, signed and sealed by Archbishop R Runcie, so it was too late to change our minds. (Mr Ms_well.words had to go to Westminster Abbey in person to obtain it!)
Small wonder there was thunder and lightning during the Service…
Ever since, I’ve been meaning to get the Special Licence properly framed (instead of it being folded up in the bottom of a box of wedding snaps). Now it’s a piece of history, I’d better fish it out and put it somewhere safe.
Friday, 19 September 2008
Aghaarr! Corny pirate joke ahoy
Aghaarr, Aghaarr, Aghaarr (trs: I say, I say, I say)
How much did the pirate pay for his wooden leg and hook?
… An arm and a leg!
[Don't blame me; blame it on the Beano … well, it is "International talk like a pirate day"!]
How much did the pirate pay for his wooden leg and hook?
… An arm and a leg!
[Don't blame me; blame it on the Beano … well, it is "International talk like a pirate day"!]
Tuesday, 16 September 2008
Populism at the Proms – where Barenboim meets the Cybermen?
I can’t make my mind up about the Proms: is it good for the ‘classical music scene’, or pandering to populism?
I didn’t watch Saturday’s Last Night at the Proms, but I heard snippets on the radio while I did some chores. The performances were, as you’d expect, of a high standard, but the programme (i.e. pieces chosen) was, basically, unremarkable.
I can understand why people get worked up about the Royal Albert Hall gig. If you’re on the inside, there’s a great atmosphere, and that can be catching when you’re watching at home. What I can’t fathom is the Proms in the Park element.
I went to a few of the picnic-and-performance-type events at Kenwood (Hampstead) some years back when they were the ‘in thing’, but apart from the snob value of getting your candelabra out of your Fortnum & Mason’s picnic hamper, I didn’t get ‘it’. You couldn’t hear the music over the braying of the socialites; and I’m scared of fireworks, so that element of the proceedings is a write-off anyway.
Given that PitP has to be a September event, the odds are stacked against a pleasant evening’s chillin’ with your mates; far more likely to be genuinely chilled - to the point where blankets, raincoats, wellies and thermal undies are essential.
Why stand in the cold and the dark to catch a glimpse of a distant orchestra churning out the ‘pops’, and listen to Terry Wogan doing his ‘not-the-Eurovision-Song-Contest’ compère routine?
Is this really the impression the classic music ‘industry’ ought to be conveying? And is that really what the Proms are about?
No, I don’t think so. And it’s a shame that this is most people’s only encounter with the Proms, because there were a couple of great things worth shouting about (probably several more, but these are the ones I notice):
First was the Dr Who Prom, back in July. I was annoyed they’d canceled the Blue Peter fixture this year, mainly because that cut the child-friendly gigs from two down to one, but fair play to the BBC, the Dr Who Prom was spectacular. And hopefully the children will have subliminally picked up on the crucial role that orchestral music plays in TV and films.
Those Cybermen are a joke on their own, but once their ‘theme’ starts up and they come marching down the stairs into the Royal Albert Hall, they really were pretty terrifying. The two boys I’d taken with me looked very worried: they couldn’t find a sofa to hide behind!
Some of the critics panned Murray Gold’s music, but I’m now a convert – the show would be nothing without it, and it stood up well in a concert format.
The other items were predictable (except for the Mark-Anthony Turnage premier, which was most welcome), but you have to make concessions to the likely age of the audience. Mind you, the woman sitting next to me (who’d come on her own) confessed that she’d only come because she’s a Dr Who fan – particularly enamoured of David Tennant. And I bet she wasn’t the only one!
It’s too late now to “listen again” (the BBC i-player only had the concerts posted for a week), but apparently they’re going to show it on TV, so if you’re a Dr Who fan, or interested in the music, keep your eye on the BBC website for details.
The second great concert was something I hadn’t intended to listen to, but caught my attention when I was at my desk one evening. It was so spell-binding I had to stop work to listen. What was it?
Prom 38: West-Eastern Divan Orchestra
This is conductor Daniel Barenboim’s orchestra, which he formed in collaboration with the Palestinian philosopher Edward Said. Members are from both sides of the Arab-Israeli conflict. They’re young and they play together with great fervour.
It wasn’t just the excellent playing that got me hooked, though; it was the atmosphere in the RAH. Of course, when the audience had the chance to show their appreciation, they certainly did, but even before that, I could tell that they were enraptured – I don’t know how I knew. Maybe having been there just a week or so beforehand it was easy for me to be back there in my mind’s eye?
But more significantly, it took me straight back to the two live performances I’ve seen of Steve Reich’s The Cave. This work views the situation in the Middle East conflict from three different angles: Arab, Israeli and American. To someone like me, who hadn’t a clue about what goes on over there (other than that it’s a seemingly endless tragedy) it was a revelation. Whether or not you like Minimalist composers (and I really think you should!), and where ever you sit in the political spectrum, I highly recommend this – live, if possible. I also recommend Anthony Holden’s review of the 2006 performance at the Barbican; he says it all so much better than I ever could.
But finally, perhaps they have converted me to populism after all – I thought Sue Perkins did a grand job as a Maestro! (The only bit of the PitP I did see.) The series was entertaining and informative; just goes to show that getting “grades” doesn’t necessarily make you musical (Goldie vs Katie Derham, anyone?).
I didn’t watch Saturday’s Last Night at the Proms, but I heard snippets on the radio while I did some chores. The performances were, as you’d expect, of a high standard, but the programme (i.e. pieces chosen) was, basically, unremarkable.
I can understand why people get worked up about the Royal Albert Hall gig. If you’re on the inside, there’s a great atmosphere, and that can be catching when you’re watching at home. What I can’t fathom is the Proms in the Park element.
I went to a few of the picnic-and-performance-type events at Kenwood (Hampstead) some years back when they were the ‘in thing’, but apart from the snob value of getting your candelabra out of your Fortnum & Mason’s picnic hamper, I didn’t get ‘it’. You couldn’t hear the music over the braying of the socialites; and I’m scared of fireworks, so that element of the proceedings is a write-off anyway.
Given that PitP has to be a September event, the odds are stacked against a pleasant evening’s chillin’ with your mates; far more likely to be genuinely chilled - to the point where blankets, raincoats, wellies and thermal undies are essential.
Why stand in the cold and the dark to catch a glimpse of a distant orchestra churning out the ‘pops’, and listen to Terry Wogan doing his ‘not-the-Eurovision-Song-Contest’ compère routine?
Is this really the impression the classic music ‘industry’ ought to be conveying? And is that really what the Proms are about?
No, I don’t think so. And it’s a shame that this is most people’s only encounter with the Proms, because there were a couple of great things worth shouting about (probably several more, but these are the ones I notice):
First was the Dr Who Prom, back in July. I was annoyed they’d canceled the Blue Peter fixture this year, mainly because that cut the child-friendly gigs from two down to one, but fair play to the BBC, the Dr Who Prom was spectacular. And hopefully the children will have subliminally picked up on the crucial role that orchestral music plays in TV and films.
Those Cybermen are a joke on their own, but once their ‘theme’ starts up and they come marching down the stairs into the Royal Albert Hall, they really were pretty terrifying. The two boys I’d taken with me looked very worried: they couldn’t find a sofa to hide behind!
Some of the critics panned Murray Gold’s music, but I’m now a convert – the show would be nothing without it, and it stood up well in a concert format.
The other items were predictable (except for the Mark-Anthony Turnage premier, which was most welcome), but you have to make concessions to the likely age of the audience. Mind you, the woman sitting next to me (who’d come on her own) confessed that she’d only come because she’s a Dr Who fan – particularly enamoured of David Tennant. And I bet she wasn’t the only one!
It’s too late now to “listen again” (the BBC i-player only had the concerts posted for a week), but apparently they’re going to show it on TV, so if you’re a Dr Who fan, or interested in the music, keep your eye on the BBC website for details.
The second great concert was something I hadn’t intended to listen to, but caught my attention when I was at my desk one evening. It was so spell-binding I had to stop work to listen. What was it?
Prom 38: West-Eastern Divan Orchestra
This is conductor Daniel Barenboim’s orchestra, which he formed in collaboration with the Palestinian philosopher Edward Said. Members are from both sides of the Arab-Israeli conflict. They’re young and they play together with great fervour.
It wasn’t just the excellent playing that got me hooked, though; it was the atmosphere in the RAH. Of course, when the audience had the chance to show their appreciation, they certainly did, but even before that, I could tell that they were enraptured – I don’t know how I knew. Maybe having been there just a week or so beforehand it was easy for me to be back there in my mind’s eye?
But more significantly, it took me straight back to the two live performances I’ve seen of Steve Reich’s The Cave. This work views the situation in the Middle East conflict from three different angles: Arab, Israeli and American. To someone like me, who hadn’t a clue about what goes on over there (other than that it’s a seemingly endless tragedy) it was a revelation. Whether or not you like Minimalist composers (and I really think you should!), and where ever you sit in the political spectrum, I highly recommend this – live, if possible. I also recommend Anthony Holden’s review of the 2006 performance at the Barbican; he says it all so much better than I ever could.
But finally, perhaps they have converted me to populism after all – I thought Sue Perkins did a grand job as a Maestro! (The only bit of the PitP I did see.) The series was entertaining and informative; just goes to show that getting “grades” doesn’t necessarily make you musical (Goldie vs Katie Derham, anyone?).
Monday, 15 September 2008
Goodbye Grange Hill… and good riddance
So, today sees the broadcast of the last ever episode of the BBC's 'flagship' children's drama, Grange Hill. Well, now I'm 42-and-three-quarters I'm a bit out of their target demographic, I guess, but I'm really glad they're finally getting rid of GH.
The show's been running for 30 years, so back in 1978 when it started I'd just 'escaped the horrors of the English comprehensive system', that is, I'd been packed off to an all-girls boarding school to try to keep me away from the trouble-makers and get on with some proper study.
Our TV diet was very strictly controlled (Top of the Pops on Thursdays; Dallas on a Saturday; Robin of Sherwood on a Sunday) and so I only saw Grange Hill in the school holidays. And I remember that it definitely did conform to the prejudices I was being force-fed - that the comprehensive system was a disaster, that kids bunked off, cheeked their teachers, got into trouble, and teenage pregnancies were the norm.
Of course, I now know different (hey, they have bullies, drugs, and teenage pregnancies in boarding schools too, folks!), but I didn't find it entertaining then, and I don't like it now.
These days, though, I see the programme in a different light - as a parent. (Watch out: rant approaching!!)
The thing is, instead of stretching kids' imaginations and engaging them in things they'd never otherwise encounter, GH just reflected back 'real life' which, for some kids then and now can be dull, depressing, frightening and lacking in opportunity.
It's not so much the bad behaviour that bothers me. Mischief can be entertaining, and 'cute', providing it doesn't go too far (I'm still a fan of Dennis the Menace and his pals; not so sure about Horrid Henry, though). What gets to me is that the kids of GH often had little respect for the adults around them (admittedly, some of the adults certainly didn't deserve any). I can't help wondering what subliminal effect GH had on classroom behaviour then and now.
There were some great shows back then that were eclipsed by GH. And GH started a trend for grittier children's shows, so that today the BBC's offering is pretty low-grade - too many progs are just imitating adult reality TV formats.
One last thought: I'm not saying that all kids' TV should be Blyton-esque; but the schedulers ought to bear in mind that programmes for 13-year-olds are probably also watched by their 6-, 7- or 8-year-old siblings.
Can we scrap Tracy Beaker next please?
The show's been running for 30 years, so back in 1978 when it started I'd just 'escaped the horrors of the English comprehensive system', that is, I'd been packed off to an all-girls boarding school to try to keep me away from the trouble-makers and get on with some proper study.
Our TV diet was very strictly controlled (Top of the Pops on Thursdays; Dallas on a Saturday; Robin of Sherwood on a Sunday) and so I only saw Grange Hill in the school holidays. And I remember that it definitely did conform to the prejudices I was being force-fed - that the comprehensive system was a disaster, that kids bunked off, cheeked their teachers, got into trouble, and teenage pregnancies were the norm.
Of course, I now know different (hey, they have bullies, drugs, and teenage pregnancies in boarding schools too, folks!), but I didn't find it entertaining then, and I don't like it now.
These days, though, I see the programme in a different light - as a parent. (Watch out: rant approaching!!)
The thing is, instead of stretching kids' imaginations and engaging them in things they'd never otherwise encounter, GH just reflected back 'real life' which, for some kids then and now can be dull, depressing, frightening and lacking in opportunity.
It's not so much the bad behaviour that bothers me. Mischief can be entertaining, and 'cute', providing it doesn't go too far (I'm still a fan of Dennis the Menace and his pals; not so sure about Horrid Henry, though). What gets to me is that the kids of GH often had little respect for the adults around them (admittedly, some of the adults certainly didn't deserve any). I can't help wondering what subliminal effect GH had on classroom behaviour then and now.
There were some great shows back then that were eclipsed by GH. And GH started a trend for grittier children's shows, so that today the BBC's offering is pretty low-grade - too many progs are just imitating adult reality TV formats.
One last thought: I'm not saying that all kids' TV should be Blyton-esque; but the schedulers ought to bear in mind that programmes for 13-year-olds are probably also watched by their 6-, 7- or 8-year-old siblings.
Can we scrap Tracy Beaker next please?
Monday, 25 August 2008
A lesson from Doris
I just caught the end of a major interview with Doris Lessing on today's Woman's Hour (Radio 4). The fragment I heard was fascinating - particularly how winning the Nobel Prize has affected her. But there was one comment that stuck out a mile:
Not the cheeriest of thoughts, but perhaps a useful incentive to get on with things while you have got the time…
… if only. I once heard a similarly (un)inspiring aphorism:
"Being old is a way of life."By which she meant, she's so busy taking herself from one hospital appointment to another that she doesn't have time for much else - certainly not writing!
Not the cheeriest of thoughts, but perhaps a useful incentive to get on with things while you have got the time…
… if only. I once heard a similarly (un)inspiring aphorism:
In youth, you have health and time, but no money*Whoever wrote this obviously wasn't a freelance editor living in the South East with a massive mortgage and son who hoovers up food as fast as I can shove it in the trolley.
In middle age, you have health and money, but no time
In old age, you have time and money*, but no health.
Wednesday, 20 August 2008
So much for the summer
If anyone is following this blog (OK, I know ONE person is), you'll have noticed a deafening silence.
As well as taking a holiday, I've been too absorbed in my own small worries to be bothered about writing here. But it doesn't take too long before the world in general gets up my nose to an extent that I can't hold back any longer…
So I'm back; and the summer's not over yet, I'm sure.
As well as taking a holiday, I've been too absorbed in my own small worries to be bothered about writing here. But it doesn't take too long before the world in general gets up my nose to an extent that I can't hold back any longer…
So I'm back; and the summer's not over yet, I'm sure.
Monday, 14 July 2008
Maternity benefits should pay attention to biology
Last week poor Zoe Williams lost her mojo amid a post-natal hormonal fug (see Guardian G2, Friday 11 July); this week Sarah Veal (TUC) and Sylvia Tidy-Harris (www.womenspeakers.co.uk) have ferociously debated the merits (or otherwise) of employing women of child-bearing age - not once, but twice… in one morning (on Woman's Hour, then on the Jeremy Vine show).
Yes, motherhood is top of the news agenda … again.
Ms T-H is an employer who says she won't employ women of child-bearing* age…
Hmm … I wonder how she'd react if an employee of hers discovered they were ill? What if (heaven forbid) they contracted cancer and had to take 6 months off to undergo surgery and recover from chemotherapy?
Those who complain about new legal provisions to protect their employees might do better to go back to their offices and do a bit of 'forward planning'. Employees are not bound to stick with an employer for ever - women of child-bearing age are just as likely to go out and find a new job (with better terms and conditions!), as they are to get pregnant. Nothing in life is predictable...
Sensible employers do understand that having a baby is a life-changing experience, and offer as much support as possible. But for all the maternity leave, childcare vouchers, and flexible working hours, the one thing that's not often on offer to new mothers is a 'good ear' to help returners talk through their problems.
I was lucky to work for an employer who offered excellent support for its female employees - including an on-site crêche. Nevertheless, three of us who worked in one division - and who all became pregnant with our first babies within a short 'window' (arousing comments like "There must be something in the water round here...") - all left once we had served enough time to avoid having to pay back our maternity pay.
Why?
In my own case, I'm pretty certain it was a question of hormones.
I took the full amount of maternity leave, going back to work when my baby was seven months old. In that short time my life had changed completely - not just a new baby, but a new (and as we later discovered, unsuitable) home as well. (Oh, and I almost forgot - recovering from emergency surgery!) Plunging back into the office, even on reduced hours, was another massive upheaval.
Even just the simple change of routine to get to work took some coping with. Where once I could have woken up, dress, breakfasted and been on the road to work in around 60 minutes, now I had a whole new list of things to do before I could step out of the house - wake, feed, dress baby; pack bag for nursery; mop up sick; change baby's nappy (again), change me (smudges on suit). [No need to explain further - this is a common scenario for all mothers, whether they're going out to work or just a basic shopping trip or school run.]
I was very lucky that my baby thrived at nursery, though quickly picked up the usual assortment of childhood bugs, which meant time off work. Despite my employer's flexible attitude I didn't feel that I was doing either job (employee; mum) justice.
I didn't sit around staring at my PC wondering what my baby was doing, but my brain definitely wasn't in gear either at home or at work.
The idea of working at home was therefore appealing; crucially, I wouldn't have to be at a certain place at a certain time. And as I had always had the idea of working for myself in the back of my mind, it seemed - at the time - like a logical thing to do.
What I hadn't thought through, though, was the the many benefits I have lost by taking this route: job security, career progression, and the biggie - a decent pension. And my employer lost a member of staff with more than five years' service, who they'd only recently sponsored through a post-graduate diploma.
When I handed in my notice, with baby's first birthday approaching, no one questioned my decision; not family, not friends, not my employer. Everyone just assumed I was a grown up and I'd made a grown-up decision.
What no one had factored into the equation was that I was still breastfeeding (just) and even if I hadn't been, I would still have been, like Zoe Williams, in the post-natal hormone fug. A few more months and I might have made a totally different decision.
So I applaud any efforts to extend the maternity leave period. Surely it's better for employers to mark a little more time waiting for their familiar, trained and refreshed female employees to return to work, than to hurry them back when they're still struggling to get a grip on their new life status, and their biology is working against them?
Don't get me wrong, I'm not saying that all new mothers should be forced to stay at home, but I do think there should be greater consideration given not just for the obvious outward signs of new-motherdom, but for what's happening on the inside.
Interestingly, a quick Internet search for scientific studies of female hormones after birth draws lots of articles about post-natal depression, but nothing at all on general issues of hormonal changes. [Not surprising, as a lot of medical research is geared up to developing drugs to cure 'illness', rather than understanding perfectly natural phenomenon.] Wikipedia says that in some East Asian countries: "... confinement traditionally lasts 30 days, although regional variants may last 40, 60 or as many as 100 days".
_____
* She's currently 'representing' one Katie Hopkins, the scourge of last year's Apprentice who kept her own maternal status a secret until she reached the show's finale. Nuff said?
Yes, motherhood is top of the news agenda … again.
Ms T-H is an employer who says she won't employ women of child-bearing* age…
Hmm … I wonder how she'd react if an employee of hers discovered they were ill? What if (heaven forbid) they contracted cancer and had to take 6 months off to undergo surgery and recover from chemotherapy?
Those who complain about new legal provisions to protect their employees might do better to go back to their offices and do a bit of 'forward planning'. Employees are not bound to stick with an employer for ever - women of child-bearing age are just as likely to go out and find a new job (with better terms and conditions!), as they are to get pregnant. Nothing in life is predictable...
Sensible employers do understand that having a baby is a life-changing experience, and offer as much support as possible. But for all the maternity leave, childcare vouchers, and flexible working hours, the one thing that's not often on offer to new mothers is a 'good ear' to help returners talk through their problems.
I was lucky to work for an employer who offered excellent support for its female employees - including an on-site crêche. Nevertheless, three of us who worked in one division - and who all became pregnant with our first babies within a short 'window' (arousing comments like "There must be something in the water round here...") - all left once we had served enough time to avoid having to pay back our maternity pay.
Why?
In my own case, I'm pretty certain it was a question of hormones.
I took the full amount of maternity leave, going back to work when my baby was seven months old. In that short time my life had changed completely - not just a new baby, but a new (and as we later discovered, unsuitable) home as well. (Oh, and I almost forgot - recovering from emergency surgery!) Plunging back into the office, even on reduced hours, was another massive upheaval.
Even just the simple change of routine to get to work took some coping with. Where once I could have woken up, dress, breakfasted and been on the road to work in around 60 minutes, now I had a whole new list of things to do before I could step out of the house - wake, feed, dress baby; pack bag for nursery; mop up sick; change baby's nappy (again), change me (smudges on suit). [No need to explain further - this is a common scenario for all mothers, whether they're going out to work or just a basic shopping trip or school run.]
I was very lucky that my baby thrived at nursery, though quickly picked up the usual assortment of childhood bugs, which meant time off work. Despite my employer's flexible attitude I didn't feel that I was doing either job (employee; mum) justice.
I didn't sit around staring at my PC wondering what my baby was doing, but my brain definitely wasn't in gear either at home or at work.
The idea of working at home was therefore appealing; crucially, I wouldn't have to be at a certain place at a certain time. And as I had always had the idea of working for myself in the back of my mind, it seemed - at the time - like a logical thing to do.
What I hadn't thought through, though, was the the many benefits I have lost by taking this route: job security, career progression, and the biggie - a decent pension. And my employer lost a member of staff with more than five years' service, who they'd only recently sponsored through a post-graduate diploma.
When I handed in my notice, with baby's first birthday approaching, no one questioned my decision; not family, not friends, not my employer. Everyone just assumed I was a grown up and I'd made a grown-up decision.
What no one had factored into the equation was that I was still breastfeeding (just) and even if I hadn't been, I would still have been, like Zoe Williams, in the post-natal hormone fug. A few more months and I might have made a totally different decision.
So I applaud any efforts to extend the maternity leave period. Surely it's better for employers to mark a little more time waiting for their familiar, trained and refreshed female employees to return to work, than to hurry them back when they're still struggling to get a grip on their new life status, and their biology is working against them?
Don't get me wrong, I'm not saying that all new mothers should be forced to stay at home, but I do think there should be greater consideration given not just for the obvious outward signs of new-motherdom, but for what's happening on the inside.
Interestingly, a quick Internet search for scientific studies of female hormones after birth draws lots of articles about post-natal depression, but nothing at all on general issues of hormonal changes. [Not surprising, as a lot of medical research is geared up to developing drugs to cure 'illness', rather than understanding perfectly natural phenomenon.] Wikipedia says that in some East Asian countries: "... confinement traditionally lasts 30 days, although regional variants may last 40, 60 or as many as 100 days".
_____
* She's currently 'representing' one Katie Hopkins, the scourge of last year's Apprentice who kept her own maternal status a secret until she reached the show's finale. Nuff said?
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