That villainous creature, the teenage mother

A couple of days ago a discussion about teenage pregnancies took place on the excellent Vanessa Feltz show on BBC Radio London. It turns out that every year around 57,000 teenage girls become pregnant in the London area. Some have protested at the reaction they get from the general public. They aren’t seen as role models.

At my school very few girls fell into this category and those who did were regarded as rather stupid by the ones who had plans for the future. This did not mean that we weren’t having sex. We had taken on board the information provided during sex education lessons and in those pre-HIV days this usually meant taking the contraceptive pill. I wonder how many of those who took this superior attitude now have gone on to have children? I suspect they have left it too late by putting their careers first and discovered that, in spite of what we were led to believe by teachers and parents, it is not possible to have it all.

We are now in a situation where older women are trying to fix the situation that the passing of time has left them in, using fertility treatment to give them the children that come too easily to those who succumb to a persuasive boyfriend in the heat of the moment. It has to be said that in both situations having the ideal father for your child is not likely to be the motivating factor. Older women may have searched in vain for Mr. Right and girls are probably on the receiving end of a good deal of persuasion that they have found him.

The irony is of course that it is the teenager who is at the right age to cope with pregnancy and produce healthy children. It is the mature mother who runs the risk of a child with significant (and expensive) health issues. Midwives will tell you that younger mothers have quicker and relatively trouble free births, whereas older mothers sometimes have a harder time and their children are more likely to need intensive post natal care.

I wonder if there ever was a time when the majority of young women married before becoming pregnant. I suspect that there were far more “unwanted” pregnancies than we will ever really know about and a great many more people “living in sin” than was admitted at the time. The fact is that women were afraid of getting pregnant because childbirth could kill you in an age when midwives were poorly informed. The urge to procreate is a powerful thing and resists all the rules that society thinks it can impose. Some sacrificed their own chance of motherhood to their careers as teachers, nurses and carers for other people’ children. How often were these women sneered at and described as “dry old maids”? How many women committed suicide because they were conscious of the shame of being pregnant but unmarried?

It’s very sad to hear that some teenage mothers have been on the receiving end of abusive comments from some older people. Where this has happened I think it has more to do with the suggestion that they are all living off the state rather than ensuring that they can support themselves and their child before becoming mothers. Times are hard and there is a largely unfounded theory that a teenage mother automatically qualifies for free public housing, unlike the many single men who are the ones most in need of this kind of accommodation. How frustrating it must be for a man who has been on the council waiting list for most of his adult life to see a very young pregnant girl “get” the flat that he has waited years for. Undoubtedly, a small number of young women who, having seen others (in some cases their own mothers) benefit from a system that tries to ensure that every child born in the UK has an adequate roof over its head, deliberately become pregnant in order to benefit from it themselves. However I don’t think it’s that easy for all of those concerned.

Someone usually takes in that teenager, even when she is turned out by an outraged father. This is often the mother of the boyfriend who allowed that underage girl to share a bedroom with her son in the first place. This seems to happen so often now that I can’t help feeling that there is a degree of calculation in all this. They are guaranteed at least one grandchild during their lifetime, unlike the parents whose well-educated, well brought up daughters have left them waiting in vain.

I also feel that we are missing the point when it comes to schoolgirl mums. How often does the person who got her pregnant get punished or even criticised? Unless you have been through it yourself it is hard to describe the pressure that the person you believe that you love at that moment can exert when they want sex. You don’t want to lose them and, for a very young woman who has yet to develop the self-confidence that an older woman searching for the right man has, it may seem as though this is your one and only chance for love.

A few months ago I happened to overhear a discussion between two young men that was mostly about girlfriends and parenthood. It was a fascinating insight into the older teenage mind but it revealed an unsettling degree of confusion. They seemed critical of those of their peers who had become parents but their own physical needs and desires were likely to get in the way of common sense when it came to getting what they wanted. The concerns about HIV and AIDs that dominated my teenage years had passed them by. And so the cycle continues.

One of the things that struck me about the radio discussion was the number of callers who had been teenage (and often schoolgirl) mums but had gone on to gain an education, even a Master’s Degree. One young woman had married the father of her child when she was a few weeks away from giving birth to her child. Her husband was now a plumber and although they were still living with the in-laws she was determined to be part of a self-supporting family.

I still believe that it is preferable that parenthood should be put off until those considering it are in a financial position to fund it. I no longer sneer at young women who want to be wives and mothers rather than having a career. Those who become pregnant when they are going through their education should be given the option of continuing it at some stage but I believe that the interests of the child should come first. Mum should be there until they start school but should expect to start supporting herself or re-enter education at this stage. I think fathers should be on the receiving end of more criticism for their part in getting very young girls pregnant – it’s nothing to be proud of that you’re the absent father to several children by different women, especially if you aren’t paying for them.

Above all I believe that children should never be punished as they once were for being the consequence of a moment of weakness. They should be regarded as a very precious resource whatever the circumstances of their conception.

The Laurence Olivier meltdown and other school trips

The other day I heard the relatively unusual sound of lots of happy children in my street, looked through the window and saw a crocodile of primary school pupils. They were wearing uniforms and some of the girls even had their hair in pigtails.

I remember being on that sort of trip, snaking our way through the streets on our way somewhere. The earliest memory I have of this sort of occasion was a trip to the Natural History Museum. The school was close enough to it for us to be able to walk there. The trouble was that I lived even closer to the museum than I did to the school. So I walked to school and almost back again before we all returned to school. And then I walked home again.

As I grew older my father seemed to be on a mission to turn me into a museum guide and teachers leading the trip sometimes found that I knew as much, if not more, about the place we were visiting than they did. My father had managed to locate and recce the most obscure collections in London long before the school got anywhere near them. If those teachers had me down as a geeky little know-all they hid it well.

I was at secondary school when we went on a trip to Greenwich. We turned up wearing our own clothes as a special treat, all except one boy. The story was that he had forgotten that he didn’t have to wear his uniform but in truth he couldn’t afford the sort of smart fashionable clothes that everyone else was wearing. I always remember him when the issue of school uniform and its abolition comes up. A uniform evens things out.

The onset of O and A levels gave rise to a different class of school trip. I expect theatres were glad to have the guarantee of bums on seats by putting on something from the latest syllabus. The best performance of this kind that we attended was one of “The Winter’s Tale” at the National Theatre with a cast that included Sheila Hancock. We really were transported to the Edwardian countryside, the chosen setting for this version of the play. There was a ripple of nervous laughter when one of the performers, raising a rifle and aiming it somewhere over our heads, caused most of us to duck instinctively.

The worst performance was probably one of “Waiting For Godot”, put on by the students of a drama school. You either love or hate this challenging play but if your first experience of it was the version we attended it can be reasonably assumed that you wouldn’t choose to see it again. They were pretty bad and I think we were the only people there. We sat through most of it but left before the end (how mean is that!). The most entertaining moment had been when the teacher accompanying us, his very long legs folded up before him like those of a large spider in the cramped seating, had begun snoring. His head was tilted back and he really let rip. It was funny but we couldn’t blame him.

I think it was 1980 when those of us studying “Othello” for O level English Literature trooped into a large cinema in Leicester Square. In company with hundreds of students from schools across London we sat down to watch the film of Laurence Olivier in the role of the Moor. He had famously “blacked up” for the stage play, filmed in 1965. He may have been one of the greatest actors this country has ever produced but that didn’t stop him from getting sweaty. It had been strange enough seeing an obviously white man playing someone who was supposed to be black. There were a great many close-ups, showing us things that a theatre audience would never usually see, and the sight of sweat coursing through the dark greasepaint was more than some of us could cope with. We began to giggle. It was contagious.

The schools sitting alongside us looked on disapprovingly at first but even they gave in and eventually waves of laughter swept the auditorium. Teachers and students curled up as Laurence kept it up, his great performance lost on us. I can’t help wondering if it was my lot that set things off but that might not be the case. If you were there and you remember it you may know the truth. I would love to hear from you.

Vote!

It is European Parliamentary Election time again and this has meant that assorted “election communications” have come through the letterbox. I send in a postal vote which means that I get some advance notice of those who are standing. I am not left lurking at the polling station, faced with a list of people I have never heard of or from, apart from representatives of the main parties.

This year several independent candidates are standing and, thanks to the scandal of MPs’ expenses, they are likely to get more votes that they bargained for when they opted to become involved in the process. The UK’s electorate are in the mood to punish. The three main parties are likely to feel the full force of the average voter’s anger but smaller parties, some of whom have yet to win seats in the UK’s Parliament, are bound to gain from this situation.

The British National Party has made the most of it and their representatives have been heard and seen on the mainstream broadcast media. They usually shun the BNP but the fact that many people are openly stating that they will vote for a party that claims “It’s not racist to oppose mass immigration and political correctness - it‘s common sense!” means that they have to be seen to be fair and give them some air time. There isn’t a single foreign sounding name on their list of candidates, in contrast to the other parties, and their leaflet only features white faces.

It proclaims a “New Battle of Britain” and to this end includes an image of a Spitfire, the aircraft most associated with the desperate hours of World War 2 when Britain faced invasion from the forces of Nazi Germany. Unfortunately for whoever put the leaflet together the actual Spitfire shown has been identified as that flown by Jan Zumbach, a pilot of the Polish Fighter Squadron. Elsewhere the leaflet includes references to other conflicts in which the UK could not have managed without foreign help, namely D-Day (USA) and the Falklands (the Gurkhas and a number of others from Commonwealth countries who chose to join the UK’s armed forces). They also mention the Somme (to this day no one can be sure who really won) and Dunkirk (a major evacuation by the British). They get it right with Trafalgar but that was over two hundred years ago.

Two other parties fielding candidates focus specifically on the European issue. They are either for democracy and against the EU or for democracy and for the EU. Confused? How do you think I feel? I wonder how many members of the Rail, Maritime and Transport Union (RMT) would prefer it if their leader stuck to union politics rather than dipping his toe into the European variety as well.

The Green Party is also likely to gain from current voter unhappiness. They have sent out a jolly and positive leaflet, printed on recycled paper (of course), featuring children from a range of ethnic backgrounds. It is ironic that the party that was most vocal about recycling has succeeded in getting what many regard as junk mail through the door when the Labour Party has not made that effort so far in my area. I suspect that the Conservatives have had to bin and reprint some of their literature as the item I received mentions “Taking a lead in reforming MEPs’ pay and expenses” (I doubt that they were too worried about that issue before the Telegraph began telling tales on those who claimed, or tried to claim, duck islands and moat clearance as legitimate expenses). I wonder how many will misread that as MPs’ expenses.

I’ve made my choice and sent off my ballot paper. I hope it was the right one. I did have doubts about voting at all because I was so angry that people who claimed to represent me thought that it was acceptable to ask tax payers to pay for things that tax payers could not themselves afford. People who risked serious physical or psychological injury and even death to take part in events such as D-Day now cannot afford to pay for heating and food. Yet there are MPs who expect to be refunded for the confectionary they consume in the course of their strenuous duties. In the end I remembered what a friend pointed out to me many years ago, that women died so that I could vote, and I put my cross in what I believe is the right place. Better a wrong choice than no choice at all.

Bear Grylls - woggled not stirred

I’d forgotten about my brief career as a Girl Guide until I heard the announcement that Bear Grylls, the dashing adventurer of TV fame, had been appointed Chief Scout. It has led to hundreds of enquiries and applications to join the organisation inspired by Robert Baden Powell’s book, “Scouting For Boys”, which was published in 1908. A century after Baden Powell found that boys were as keen to read his books as the men that they were written for Bear Grylls has also found a following amongst the young.

This revived interest in outdoor team activities by children and teenagers is bound to be welcomed by anyone concerned at rising levels of obesity and the emergence of the “cotton wool kid”. Cynical observers may wonder whether the new generation of Scouts may end up sending out for pizza using their mobiles provided by anxious parents as they sit around the campfire. Will they be allowed to light a fire in the first place? Things have changed since Baden Powell’s first expedition to Brownsea Island which was a deliberate attempt to bring together boys from very different backgrounds to teach them self-reliance and citizenship. Today’s Scouts and Guides are led by people who are carefully screened and conscious of potential risks.

Being a Girl Guide really wasn’t my idea but one of the priests at the local Catholic church persuaded my mother that it would be good for me (what the hell did he know about what’s good for prepubescent girls?). I think it had as much to do with the lack of local recruits as my welfare. My mother definitely has a thing about uniforms and realised that this was the one and only chance she would get to see me in one. The sort of organisation that was the equivalent of the Girl Guides in her own country was probably one step away from the Hitler Youth, at least, that’s the impression I am left with. My father had been in the Boys’ Brigade with his brother but I don’t think they had much choice - their father was the local minister.

This was the latest in a long line of things that had been considered good for me and most of them died the death fairly quickly. In spite of this we visited the Guide shop in Buckingham Palace Road where she bought the uniform, complete with really stupid hat which for some reason smelt of mushrooms. I had to put the damned thing on and show it to assorted people before I‘d done much guiding. The skirt was especially hideous because it was almost rigid, made of a really static nylon fabric.

If I had been a team player it would have done a lot for me but I was more interested in books than other people. I couldn’t see the point in gaining badges, I hated the thought of camping and no one ever took the time to teach me the words to Ging Gang Goolie. They just assumed that I knew them. So much for being prepared. When we spent a couple of hours at a retirement home singing songs to the elderly I just sat there opening and closing my mouth at the right moments. I had absolutely no idea that we were going there in the first place. This happened a lot. I would turn up at the right time and we would do as we were told. On one occasion this meant spending an evening pushing leaflets through doors. I assume that this was in return for some sort of sponsorship for our group but even I thought it a strange activity for a Guide.

For some reason we had to turn up at a Mother’s Union event and were kept supplied from the start of the evening with glasses of punch. As most of us were barely into our teens this had quite an effect and we were some of the most enthusiastic people there. I can’t remember anything else about that night which is hardly surprising. Apart from the occasional church parade I think we were at these does to make up numbers.

The military bits where you had to stand in line and salute or whatever were intriguing for a while but it already felt a bit old fashioned at the time. Being told how wonderful I was for being a Guide probably helped to keep me interested but somehow I got out of it in the end without ever having to endure a camping trip. The uniform was given away and I steered clear of that church hall for a very long time.

I don’t want to be too mean about the people who ran the group of Guides that I was involved with because they were kind and gave up many hours of their time to do it. There were fellow Guides for whom it really was an opportunity to get away from a grim home life for an evening or a weekend. I grew up in an area where the obscenely rich often lived alongside the very poor and the group drew members from both.

Looking back at my experience I don’t like the fact that it was tied in so closely with a Catholic church or the mock military rituals. I hope that things in this area have changed or disappeared altogether. I would also like to think that they make room for the child who is less gregarious than the rest. And I’m really glad that the bloody awful uniform has gone.

The words to “Ging Gang Goolie” - learn them and be prepared.
http://www.djmorton.demon.co.uk/scouting/songs/ginggang.htm

Save the Innocent 3

Richard Reed, Jon Wright and Adam Balon are, depending on your view point, brave or cunning. They are the founders of Innocent Drinks, the company that sells a range of fruit and vegetable products to those who are prepared to pay a premium for smoothies and veg pots made without additives, flavourings and anything else that might worry the concerned consumer.

Ten years ago they risked £500 of their own cash on fruit which they turned into smoothies, sold at a music festival. They did so well that they packed in their day jobs and set up the company. Their positive, ethical approach to business and their charitable efforts have won them a loyal customer base. However this has now been threatened by the decision to allow Coca Cola, a company that has been the target of fierce criticism by human rights, environmental and anti-globalisation activists, to become a minority shareholder in Innocent.

Recently they invited some of their customers along to an AGM where they explained their reasons for taking the decision. They want to expand into Europe and continue their charitable activities at a time when everyone, including potential investors, is tightening their belts. They felt that Coca Cola offered them the best chance of doing this on their own terms.

I watched their responses to the criticism on YouTube (the meeting was recorded) and have to admit that it brought me back down to earth. These men are running a business and they have marketed it so well that many of its customers have forgotten that this is what they are - customers.

The fact that Innocent donates so much to charity does not mean that we can forget that its main aim is to make money. The reality is that in order to be in the position to be so generous it does have to generate a considerable income. If those who feel that Coca Cola’s dealings around the world are so despicable that they taint everything they touch then they must vote with their feet and go squash their own fruit. If they are that concerned about the environment they would be doing this anyway because, lets face it, it does use up petrol and electricity to make and sell all those bottles with the cute smiley faces on them.

I admire Reed, Wright and Balon because they are very, very good at what they do which is marketing. I am also really impressed that they have given away so much that they could have kept for themselves, including the right to run their own business without the interference of whining customers. Inviting them in through the door at Fruit Towers to ask awkward questions could be part of a cynical marketing ploy but if that is the case more fool them for being suckered. An article in The Independent newspaper makes it clear that Innocent’s founders are not that innocent:

“The reality was rather more businesslike even before Coke came on board. Reed, after reading geography at Cambridge, was working at BMP, the advertising agency whose clients include Barclaycard. Wright, an engineering student, had joined Bain, the big US management consultancy – hence his time in California. The third founder, Adam Balon, used his economics degree to secure a job at rival consultancy McKinsey.”
“Slaughter of the Innocent? Or is Coke the real deal?”, Richard Northedge, Sunday 12 April 2009.

Naomi Klein’s “No Logo” (2000) persuaded many that they should be more discerning about their consumer choices and aware of the impact that they can have on working conditions and pay, but I am sure I am not the only one who was impressed by the cleverness of the campaigns run by some companies. The consumer should learn to keep one foot on the floor when he or she falls in love with a brand. Rushing into a love affair without taking precautions is a mistake whatever the context.

By taking Coca Cola’s money Innocent’s bosses have bought themselves an aspidistra and given their dedicated fans a dose of reality. There was a price to be paid for all the fluffiness. I will continue to crochet little hats for their annual Age Concern fundraiser. Viva the Innocent 3.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gBvTI-4AHTQ
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Qp7w7ifIhPc
http://www.independent.co.uk/news/business/analysis-and-features/slaughter-of-the-innocent-or-is-coke-the-real-deal-1667412.html
http://www.killercoke.org/
http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/world/south_asia/4603511.stm

Goodbye Jones

Jones the cat (a.k.a. Smelly Bear, Thunderpaws, You With The Fur, Jellybelly, Destructotail, Jonesboy, Gingernuts, Mate, Circus Cat, Moggychops, etc. etc.) ran out of lives on the 9th of September 2008. As today would have been the day we regarded as his birthday, the anniversary of the day we brought him home, it seems an appropriate moment to write his obituary.

I had always wanted a cat but The Attached One wasn’t keen. He had grown up with pets and thought them a lot of effort but it was something I had longed to do. Even so I had been concerned that I wouldn’t get it right so put it off for several years until I saw a mug shot of a worried looking ginger cat called Jasper in the local paper. Cats Protection were looking for a home for him. We had established that the longed for cat had to be anything other than black following an unfortunate mix up involving two of this particular colour. Jasper needed a home with a garden but no children and, as he was anxious, he could not be left alone for long periods of time so someone who worked part time was essential.

The mug shot was shown to The Attached One. I made the phone call. We had a home visit to make sure that we weren’t making fur coats from local moggies and then the moment came. Armed with a larger than average pet carrier (we had been warned about his size) we set off for the cat hostel. We found ourselves in a terrace and, behind the door of a small house, around twenty cats.

When we first saw him he was stretched out on a bench, listless and bored. We were told that he was quite territorial so the shelter was his idea of hell. He had turned up on the doorstep, about a year old and an obvious stray. Twelve months later, unclaimed but housetrained, it was felt that he was ready to move on. He was paler than I though he would be, a creamy sandy colour rather than a marmalade cat. The lady who owned the shelter clearly wanted to make sure that we were the right kind of people and we spent some time getting to know the other tenants but Jasper ignored us until we tried to get him into the carrier. This achieved we said our goodbyes to the shelter owner (she was a little tearful by this stage), got Jasper into the car and The Attached One drove off.

We began to wonder if we were making a mistake. He miaowed loudly and desperately all the way home and when he wasn’t doing that he huffed. We came to know that this was his way of expressing irritation but at the time we were really worried. The Attached One’s knuckles were white for most of the journey as he clutched the steering wheel and tried to ignore all the noise. Once through the front door we explained that he was now called Jones, after the cat in the film “Alien”. Why does every ginger car need to be named after Jasper Carrot?

He worried for two days but I knew things were going to be fine when he began to wash. He had established that he had the house, and us, all to himself. When he insisted on getting into bed with us (so much for the “no pets on the bed” rule: Cats 1 - Humans 0) and let out a deep and contented purr The Attached One said “Well, we must be getting something right.” It didn’t take us long to realise that Jones was quite a special cat. He had a distinct personality, an unusual paw waggling habit and a real need to flump onto our feet. There were now three people in our household.

He had absolutely no difficulty in letting us know what he wanted. I had been out for the evening and when I got back the Attached One said that Jones had cornered him and subjected him to a long rambling miaowed conversation. He had made the right noises when he could get a word in. Jones had clearly wanted to know where I‘d gone. After that there was no stopping him, all you had to do to keep him going was to talk back. Or miaow back. “How do you know what he’s saying?” asked a bemused visitor following one exchange. “I just spend far too much time alone with him…”

And the fact was that I did spend a lot of time with him. Jones came along at the moment when agoraphobia and anxiety were beginning to take a firm and disabling hold on me. For the best part of two years I barely left the house and, until The Attached One came home at night, he was the only one I could talk to. He probably stopped me from going under completely by insisting on tummy rubbing sessions, nagging me for biscuits and providing me with an endless supply of (mostly) live critters that he had found in the garden. This became his territory, guarded fiercely from intruders. His first trophy was a frog. He was really excited and tried to tell me about it but it’s hard to talk with your mouth full of live amphibian. He longed to catch a bird but as far as I know never managed it. He had to make do with swearing at them through a window. “Akakak, huff huff.” He really had it in for pigeons.

Jones remained quite nervous of other people although he did have long chats with our elderly neighbours. At home he ruled the roost, adopting any fleeces and corners that he took a fancy to and largely ignoring the pet beds that we bought him. The Attached One’s desk chair was a favourite even if it was already occupied. I think he felt that if it smelt of us it was probably good, so the bed remained unmade for days and we compromised by flipping the duvet over the footboard to create a Jones cave. For a while he went through a “sleeping on heads” phase - he tried to be fair and share this honour by sleeping on one head and draping his smoke ringed tail across the neighbouring face. He was usually purring when he did this so our heads would be vibrating into the bargain. I spent a great many Sunday mornings curled up with Jones. “You must have been having some strange dreams” said The Attached One. “He was stroking your face with the side of his paw while you were asleep.”

He had found that careful, strategic turning, as well as bracing his legs against The Attached One’s back, would get him more room in bed. He would do this to the point where The Attached One fell out or came close to it. Sunday mornings usually began with his entering the bedroom, tail raised and the tip turned forward like an umbrella handle. It was all we could see of him as he walked around the bed. There would be a scuffling sound as he jumped onto the bedside table and then onto the windowsill where he would sit behind the curtain, his dangling tail flicking and twitching. Security concerns addressed he would then jump from the windowsill onto the bed, usually landing on The Attached One’s delicate bits. This could have quite a dramatic effect, especially if he carried out this manoeuvre at 4am. We came to the conclusion that he sometimes did this on purpose, just to remind us that he was there. If he got it just right The Attached One would even shout out loud.

There were a few things that the Cats Protection lady didn’t warn us about. One evening Jones had been sitting between us on the sofa for quite a while when he suddenly got up and left the room in a hurry. Within a few seconds we realised why. He had released a weapons grade fart. As we rushed to open windows and fan the door we wondered whether we should contact the Ministry of Defence and reveal our weapon of mass destruction. I could picture the scene. A British officer (with a clothes peg on his nose) holding Jones up to the enemy, stripy tail swishing gently from side to side, paws waggling lazily. Afghanistan? No problem. Iraq? Sorted. One sniff would lead to immediate surrender and a plea for gas masks. That boy’s farts were something else.

One night I thought I could hear someone carrying out late night DIY a few doors away. The droning was still going on as I turned off the television and I was a bit surprised to find that it was getting louder as I went up stairs. By the time I got to the bedroom the sound was truly awful and really loud. Jones and The Attached One were fast asleep but snoring. I don’t know how they didn’t wake each other up. Small quick cat snores combined with big slow human ones made a sound not unlike a drill. The neighbours must have been able to hear it through the wall. We found that we could often locate Jones by his snores.

And the fur, he must have shed mountains of it over the years. It turned up everywhere. For a time The Attached One was a warehouse supervisor and he was convinced that it was distributed far and wide, clinging to the polythene bags of clothing that he sent around the country. I found it on the windows I was trying to clean at work. It wove itself into the things I stitched, quilted and crocheted. It drifted onto The Attached One’s carefully painted models just as the paint began to dry. I stopped wearing so much black and resigned myself to the fact that fur probably represented at least 1% of what I was eating. However we would put up with it all over again just to have him back.

It was a shock to be told that he had a health problem because he seemed so fit and healthy. The vet had found a lump during a regular check up and prescribed medication for hyperthyroidism. He was optimistic about it but we knew that Jones would not be with us for much longer. For months we fed him pills and these brought him back from the brink more than once but they were not enough to stop him from slowing down. Over the months he became a dreamy little old man, still climbing into bed with us and lying back with his paws hooked over the edge of the duvet, still sanding my face down when he could reach it, but doing it all much more slowly. We gave him all the treats he wanted and let him sleep where he chose to, including the cool enamel bath in hot weather. We left the lawn uncut so that he could make Jones nests. On the day before he died I took him outside for an hour or so and he wandered about in the sunshine, surrounded by all the familiar noises of suburbia, birdsong, distant traffic, the sounds of everyday life. For a while he was his old confident self, dislodging a cricket from his back with a casual flick, and together we watched the insects and grass swaying in the breeze.

Two days after he died a rubber duck appeared in the middle of the lawn. The local foxes had probably left it there but it was a very Jones thing to have happened. It made us laugh.

We miss him so much. The house is too quiet without him. He was a one off, irreplaceable, and although we know that there are many cats out there looking for a home we can’t help feeling that it would be a betrayal to just slot another cat into his place. So, on his birthday, we want to say thanks mate for nine and a half years of love and friendship. You will always be our boy.

So long, and thanks for all the fleas, farts, shrews, mice, slow worms, frogs, fur…

Jones the cat, 1996ish to 2008.

“The Galloping Cat” by Stevie Smith
http://www.fp.ucalgary.ca/jwhamilt/Smith%20Galloping%20Cat.htm

My name is Aspidistra and I am an internet addict

I would not describe myself as a technophobe but the fact is I can be inept when it comes to dealing with some of the technology that others seem to deal with so easily, almost in their sleep it would seem.

Take my first post on this blog. It was only achieved with much swearing and the help of The Attached One. I can’t help feeling that one of the reasons his hair has taken on a distinguished silvery tinge is that the internet has entered my narrow life (well it was his fault). Before he knew it he was having to help me email, blog, post photos and generally do stuff and things. Believe me, I’ve stretched his boundaries.

I do wonder how those who have less experience than me actually manage these days. It is easy to forget that, even though website addresses for everything from political parties to biscuits appear all over the place, a considerable chunk of the UK’s population don’t have access to them. In some cases it isn’t because they don’t want or need it. For a while one of the most common complaints to the BBC was that the assumption had been made that listeners and viewers could actually “find out more” on the BBC website. Older listeners were the ones most likely to find this a problem. If some of us need teenagers to set up the VCR to record something off the telly then we will certainly need them to visit a website. I occasionally see someone of a certain age plugged into their MP3 and wonder if it took a grandchild to sort that out for them.

On the whole I can handle that myself these days, now that I don’t use an iPod. I was seduced by the compact and clever design of the Shuffle, ignoring all the negative rumours surrounding this particular company’s technology. The Attached One and I came to the conclusion that you have to be on a higher plane/telepathic/a cyborg to be able use it because I ended up with music on the damned thing more by accident than deliberate intent. So the Shuffle was stuffed back into its funky little box and replaced with the lovely Zen Stone. It really is lovely and we ooed and aahed over it when it arrived (courtesy of the internet - well, when did you last buy anything in a real shop?). The Attached One wiggled it into its “skin” (you see, we even do the lingo) and we went into a downloading frenzy. But the quality of the sound wasn’t as good as the iPod and I spent rather too much time browsing the Argos catalogue and before I knew it I was the proud owner of a Sony E Series Walkman - pictures and telly too. Everyone knew it as well - I kept showing them pictures. They began backing away and crossing the road. They were occasionally doing that anyway but the Walkman didn’t help.

I even have my own computer and all it cost was some of The Attached One’s time and petrol. I am a member of the Freecycle group and dedicated daily scouring of its lists over a period of weeks netted me keyboards, a mouse, a printer, monitors and, eventually, a three year old computer. And now I even suffer from that increasingly common problem - I have spare technology. Three sets of earphones to choose from - I can rotate them.

Unfortunately, an excess of technology is a privilege that a relative few enjoy in the UK. Efforts have been made by the government to provide a degree of free internet access through public libraries but it is clear that even this is not enough. Last year I was encouraging a retired man I know to use the library to access the internet and learn about it. When I spoke to him a few weeks ago he was complaining that it is hard to get any time on the library terminals. Another addict. I noticed that an internet café in the area is offering an hour’s access for £1 but if its a choice between that and your bus fare when you are unemployed or on a tight budget then internet addiction remains a luxury for far too many of us.

Come back Jeremy, all is forgiven

I’ve just seen the trailer for Guy Ritchie’s Sherlock Holmes film and I can already tell that Robert Downey Jr. does not fit my idea of the great man. Jude Law might manage it as Watson and I do prefer him with a bit of facial hair. Watson needs a moustache. He is, after all, a former soldier and a veteran of Afghanistan.

Jeremy Brett’s portrayal has, in my opinion, come the closest to an accurate representation of Arthur Conan-Doyle’s detective. As a child I had watched Basil Rathbone and Nigel Bruce in the black and white film versions and Brett was a complete change. He played Holmes between 1984 and 1994 in the Granada TV series, in company with David Burke and Edward Hardwicke who shared the role of Dr Watson. Unfortunately Hollywood requires a degree of sexiness to sell any film so it is inevitable that Holmes, in the form of Mr Downey Jr., will be baring his six pack to the world. Jeremy Brett didn’t need to do that - we just took it for granted that he was really toned under that waistcoat. And he left the handcuffs to Inspector Lestrade.

Part of the appeal of the Sherlock Holmes stories is their restraint and that would not draw in the size of audience that the 21st century film director hopes to attract. So Holmes has to be seen diving into the Thames from a window in the Houses of Parliament (and I expect certain people currently based there feel like doing the same thing at the moment) and getting physical with an attractive female. The element of uncertainty regarding his sexuality and his drug use made him more interesting and was used to great effect by a number of those who have portrayed him on film and TV. In particular “The Private Life of Sherlock Holmes” starring Robert Stephens as Holmes and Colin Blakely as a comic but sympathetic Watson. A really silly plot line and conclusion but memorable portrayals of the main characters. I also have a soft spot for Michael Caine’s effort in “Without A Clue”. I try not to think about what Rupert Everett did to Holmes.

BBC Radio 4 has provided us with Clive Merrison as Holmes and Michael Williams/Andrew Sachs as Watson, successfully adapting and expanding the original stories. I could listen to those over and over again. Alas the BBC was also responsible for a truly awful television version of “The Hound of the Baskervilles”, another blonde romantic Holmes. You can always tell when the audience weren’t impressed the first time around. It hasn’t been hauled out for a repeat every Christmas since. I expect it sits on the same shelf as the BBC’s ghastly version of “The Woman In White” (what was all that lesbian relationship stuff about?).

My favourite Holmes will always be the one in my head, created through the words of Conan-Doyle. A modern mind taking on the challenges of the late nineteenth and early twentieth century, Holmes uses telegrams and all the other conveniences of his age but is still obliged to walk a lot. I wonder what he would make of the internet and mobile phones. Through Holmes Conan-Doyle gives us an insight into the politics and foreign policy of the time. American themes show a country that still has an exciting wild frontier and hint at the impact of its money on the upper levels of British society. Some women are shown as liberated and independent, others remain fragile and protected. London is a place of poverty, wealth, blackmail and corruption. Spare but evocative, it is no surprise that the Sherlock Holmes stories continue to be read long after his reluctant creator’s death.

And the other reason for preferring the Brett version? I’ve never seen so many aspidistras in one place at the same time.

http://sherlock-holmes-trailer.blogspot.com/
http://www.jeremybrett.info/

True Colours

A few days ago I learned that one of our neighbours had died. We knew that she had at least moved away because a “To Let” sign had appeared in front of her house but, considering how long we had known her, it has to be said that we did not shed a tear at the news. I regarded her as an old fashioned racist, the variety that would have to die out rather than be convinced that they are wrong, but I have realised lately that there are many more people just like her and they don’t need walking sticks.

I discovered my late neighbour’s lack of political correctness during a conversation a decade ago. An avid gossip, she had gone to the effort of leaning over someone else’s privet hedge in order to dish the latest dirt and get a gratifying reaction from me. I must have made the right noises - she opened up and let me know what she thought of black people, Asians and foreigners in general. I countered with the argument that if my foreign mother and others like her had not come to the UK willing to do the dirty work we would have been in a sorry state. She retreated, realising her mistake. I don’t sound or look foreign but increasingly I pity those in the UK who do.

The area I live in has welcomed immigrants for many years and has the highest concentration of Poles in the UK. It was noticeable when the rules for entry to the country changed a few years ago - you were more likely to hear Polish being spoken in the street than English. Generally the attitude towards them was positive. They were obviously hardworking and had old fashioned values, however the tensions began to show when they began to have an impact on local services. I admit that I found it really annoying to have to wait in a queue at the local surgery while a young woman, with a friend in tow to translate, asked one question after another that the receptionist could not answer and kept thinking up more. Most of these problems evaporated when a large number of these temporary residents returned to a revitalised Poland but I have noticed that, for those who have remained, the honeymoon is over. A wariness is evident when I pass them on the street, as if they are expecting trouble.

Recently I made the effort to attend a council ward meeting where local policing problems were discussed. One of the first matters raised was the presence of eastern European men who hang out on the benches at the small park near our home. They are heavy drinkers and this can lead to problems, to the extent that the park is avoided by women with children. This area has been designated as one in which you cannot consume alcohol in public but even though quite large fines are imposed and they are warned off their place is filled the next day by others who continue the tradition. There were cynical comments about the fact that these men had the money on them to pay these fines and that they were actually in work, the attitude being that no one with any sense would actually employ anyone who came to work reeking of beer. I wonder how many of those who expressed these opinions realise the dangerous working practices imposed on those who employ labourers or that they do not have to spend money on accommodation because they spend cold nights hidden the overgrown shrubs at the side of main roads. By the time I left it was clear that, for some in this council ward, the belief is that eastern Europeans are a problem. I fear that, give the impact recent revelations about MP’s expenses have had, a British National Party candidate standing in this area would win a seat on the council.

Some are undoubtedly a problem but these are not usually the ones who attract the undeserved attention of British racists. About a year ago I nipped down the road for a loaf of bread to a Sri Lankan owned shop. It was a Sunday evening and the street was virtually empty but I found I had to pretty much force my way past two young men and a woman to get into the shop. Once inside I found that an irritated but determined shopkeeper was standing his ground as two skinheads tried to get him to sell them some beer at a discount. These shining examples of the master race were still there when I left, forcing my way out once more. The experience left me angry and unnerved, it was a blast from an unpleasant past but with a foreign accent.

And a reminder that, at times, I live in a bubble and that I am a coward. I work with someone who is so ignorant and prejudiced that it often takes my breath away. In order to keep the peace I let her run on when she tells me that visiting her son in Brixton prison would have been less of a challenge if there had not been so many black people in the area. That relations with her in-laws would be easier if they weren’t Asians. I watch her lip curl as she speaks and remember Johnnie, the gentle elderly black neighbour whose death I became aware of because so many people turned out to see his casket driven away from the house he had lived in for decades. He had no need for gossip and I wish that, for his sake, I had more courage.