tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15311691792050195032024-03-13T21:17:41.969-07:00Single parenthood. Tales from the front-line...A mildly amusing and vaguely hysterical account of a single mother on the edge.Gappyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15086671907412626209noreply@blogger.comBlogger88125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1531169179205019503.post-85815546483300243482010-07-21T12:53:00.000-07:002010-07-22T12:29:50.848-07:00On the MoveI am defecting.<br /><br />I am changing my name...<br /><br />And I am going to the other side.<br /><br />Actually the horse has already bolted. I've moved to Wordpress.<br /><br />If you would like to come with me - and I very much hope you do - then feel free to click <a href="http://www.gappytales.com/">HERE.</a><br /><br />See you there.Gappyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15086671907412626209noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1531169179205019503.post-61232211608785256492010-07-19T03:44:00.000-07:002010-07-20T09:52:27.846-07:00Face Book - The Devils Work?Being relatively new to the internet, (better late to the party than never I suppose) the whole virtual world is still fairly mind-blowing to me. I keep waiting for the novelty to wear off, but no. I suppose you might say that I was easily pleased but actually you'd be wrong. I'm excited because the internet is truly a thing of wonder. It's like having an entire and previously undiscovered universe of possibilities opened up to you. I love that all that information is right there at the click of a mouse, ready to be accessed by anyone with an internet connection. It is in a lot of ways the most significant equalizer of our time. Just look at blogging - anyone can publish - you don't need to be an established author or have an agent - you just need to be able to read and write. As an aside the internet is also a mild OCD sufferers dream. So many new things to check obsessively - E-mail accounts, Facebook, Statcounter... I could go on.<br /><br />Now I have to say though that the jury is out for me on facebook. I can see all the positives and I enjoy them as much as the next person, but I'm just not sure. One morning for example when checking my e-mails, I found one informing me that a man named N had requested my facebook friendship. I racked my brains trying to think of all the N's I had ever known, none of whom matched the photo in front of me. Nope, I thought in the end. I have never seen this person before in my entire life. Just to make sure I clicked on his other profile photos and then - aha - recognition. He was someone with whom I had had a short and fairly insignificant relationship, years ago at university. It had all been rather forgettable as I now recall, except for one thing: he had lost his virginity to me. He'd neglected to tell me untill after the event, but honestly? I'd guessed.<br /><br />Now, is it me or is it <span style="font-style: italic;">slightly</span> odd that someone would just make contact like that out of the blue? I have on various trawls through facebook looking for friends, come across a couple of old lovers myself. And yes I suppose out of curiosity and fond memories and such like, it would be nice to know how they were getting on. But I certainly haven't contacted them. Why? Well because time has moved on. They could have a partner or spouse who might be less than thrilled about an old girlfriend getting in touch out of the blue, and also because the medium is so ripe for people to get the <span style="font-style: italic;">wrong idea</span>. The problem with on-line communication of all sorts is that there is no way to judge someones tone of voice or body language, and so it's much harder to determine what their agenda or meaning might be. And so I have done what I believe to be the wisest thing and chosen to let bygones be bygones.<br /><br />The next problem with facebook is requests for friendship from people who you don't even know. Why? Why would I wish for someone with whom I had never even had a basic conversation to be able to view my personal details and photographs? Why on earth would they be interested in the day to day inanities that I put up on my wall anyway? I just don't get it.<br /><br />The last, and for me most pertinent problem, is the privacy settings. Now I have mine up so that only my friends can view my wall and my photographs, but I have only done this recently since I discovered that the default setting has it so that anyone is able to view anyone elses wall, whether they are friends with them or not. I wish to god I had never found that out. It has meant that I have been unable to resist a sneaky peak at my ex boyfriends wall even though it was me who originally broke our facebook connection thinking that it would be healthier and easier to move on if I didn't see his comings and goings on my home page every day! Anyway there he was looking extremely happy with his new partner. His new, much younger than me (although much closer to his age to be fair,) extremely attractive, just graduated with a maths degree, partner. Ouch. A dagger to the heart. Just when I thought I was on the mend.<br /><br />Freedom of information, I have decided, can have its drawbacks after all. There are some things that you just don't want to know.<br /><br />As for Facebook? It's the damn devils work I tell you.Gappyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15086671907412626209noreply@blogger.com20tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1531169179205019503.post-24451353868491350472010-07-15T14:15:00.000-07:002010-07-19T13:55:39.875-07:00Technical Glitches and Secret CrushesThis last week my computer, or rather my internet connection, has been down. I say down, a tiny thread of snail paced connection has in fact stayed up and running but everything has been taking sooooo long to load - indeed if it will load at all - that attempting to do the simplest thing on line has turned into more of an exercise in hair tearing frustration than anything else.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;">I say frustration, actually what I mean is <span style="font-style: italic;">white hot raging fury</span>. It's always the little things that get to me. I'm pretty patient with the children, I manage to co-exist perfectly peacefully alongside all manner of idiots with whom I am expected to share the planet, and although injustice and inequality can sometimes make me angry, it is for the most part in a sad, slow head shaking sort of a way. For some reason (I know not which) it is the lost sellotape, the lids that won't screw open, the radios that won't tune in, and the damn computers that decide it is a good time to stage a go-slow that make me<span style="font-style: italic;"> </span><span style="font-style: italic;">really</span> hopping mad. I think it's called transference, or projection, or something. Anyway, in the end I had to just walk away. It wasn't worth it. I knew during a protracted phone call to the Orange broadband support team when I began to have lurid fantasies about taking a large mallet to the monitor, that it would be better that way.<br /><br /></div>So in the past week or so, instead of blogging I have been doing <span style="font-style: italic;">other things</span>. I have blitzed the house; it hasn't been this clean since December 2009 - the approximate fateful date on which I first plugged myself into the virtual ether. The children have clearly been set slightly off balance by their newly ordered surroundings and as a result have felt compelled to render things familiar once more by doing their very best to mess it all up again in the quickest time possible. I found a great trail of printer paper all over the house this morning, the Youngest had been making "stepping stones" apparently. Of course - silly me. It's not as if we could use the bloody stuff for anything else after all.<br /><br />I have also been spending more time with <span style="font-style: italic;">other people</span>. A few days ago I went out to dinner with a small group of friends that I don't see nearly often enough. You know that warm relaxed feeling you get when in the company of people whom you know like and accept you totally? Who know that you can sometimes mess things up royally, but who don't care and don't judge because they love you anyway, warts and all? I can state with absolute conviction that an evening of belly laughs with friends like that <span style="font-style: italic;">really</span> does a woman good. I am current living proof.<br /><br />This week has also seen me managing to read a book, sort out my front garden, survive one childs birthday and anothers last day at primary school (they have now all broken up for the summer holidays) and last but not least spend a curious and slightly worrying amount of time amusing myself thinking about who it might be fun to go out on a date with. In the end it was a toss up between Captain Jack Sparrow, Jim Morrison and<a href="http://www.guardian.co.uk/profile/charliebrooker"> Charlie Brooker</a>. After some serious consideration I plumped for Charlie. Obvious reasons such as him being a) real, and b) not dead, aside - he is for me the ideal combination of cynical, angry and scathing, yet witty, clever and likeable, not to mention a master of the one slightly raised ironic eyebrow expression - so hard to pull off without looking smarmy, wouldn't you agree?<br /><br />I have decided (I've worked it all out you see) that Charlie and I would meet at some soul suckingly awful corporate 'do' somewhere and bond instantly over how appalling it all was and how much we hated the sort of people who liked these things. We'd sit there being cynical together - Charlie of course also being devilishly handsome and impossibly funny - and then we'd sneak off on our own having realised that really we could think of a million different and better things to do. We'd go on the London Eye and eat really lovely food on a verandah overlooking the river. Then at night we'd break into the natural history museum and marvel at having it all to ourselves. It would be eerie and silent in the dim light and we'd have to try not to touch anything in case we set all the alarms off. Later we'd go and watch some fireworks fizzing around the moon from the top of a huge climbing frame, and then we'd find a really seedy pub somewhere and shoot pool untill the early hours. I would win. You can tell a lot about a man by how he responds to being beaten at pool by a woman. Charlie of course would be suitably impressed and gracious yet doggedly competitive, whilst still remaining - at all times - unfailingly and impossibly funny. No pressure there then.<br /><br />Now. This isn't going to be a post about how I've had a taste of my real life back and as a result am going to lay off the blogging for a while. Blogging <span style="font-style: italic;">is a part</span> of my real life (oh the joy when my broadband, for no blasted reason whatsoever, suddenly started working again) and besides I'm far too narcissistic to want to stop. In fact this post actually began life as a 'why I haven't been posting post' (I know, I know, yawn yawn) but then took on a life of its own and morphed unbidden into a post detailing my secret fantasy of breaking into the natural history museum in the dead of night with Charlie Brooker.<br /><br />Deeply Freudian I'm sure. My mother will be so proud.<br /><br />It's good to be back.Gappyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15086671907412626209noreply@blogger.com16tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1531169179205019503.post-87811427540716114072010-07-09T01:52:00.000-07:002010-07-11T11:48:06.296-07:00Playground Politics<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_Yf24ohC4qMw/TDcq-yPl03I/AAAAAAAAAME/3nSqIbyea2Y/s1600/images.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 95px; height: 113px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_Yf24ohC4qMw/TDcq-yPl03I/AAAAAAAAAME/3nSqIbyea2Y/s200/images.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5491905528729031538" border="0" /></a>The village school my children attend lies just a few minutes walk up the road from our house and is responsible for the education of about fifty children. There are two classrooms; one for the reception class and pupils in years one and two, and the other for the pupils in years three, four, five and six. At the moment I have Eldest Son in one class, Middle Son in the other and The Youngest attending one day a week, although that will all change come September when Eldest Son goes off to secondary school and The Youngest moves up to full time reception. The team of staff is made up in its entirety of a head-teacher, two classroom teachers, one classroom assistant, one cook, and a taxi driver whose main job it is to ferry some of the children to and from school, but who also doubles up as a dinner lady. She's a 'twofer' as my mother would say - twofer the price of one.<br /><br />The school is very much the hub of the local community and always has a large part to play in the organisation of village activities such as the annual fete, the fun run, and the summer grass-cuts of the village church grounds in which all the parents get together to strim, rake, and then finally wheelbarrow great heaps of grass up steeply angled wooden boards and on to flat bed trucks while the children all run around shrieking and chucking the grass at each other. The P.T.A. is extremely well attended with the majority of mothers going regularly to meetings; indeed if you do not choose to get involved with the P.T.A. and by the same token do not then contribute towards the planning and running of community activities, it tends to be rather frowned upon. The more active mothers huff and sigh and whisper amongst themselves that if so and so can't be bothered to help the school raise a bit of bloody money then why should so and so's children be entitled to free school trips along with <span style="font-style: italic;">their</span> children. What can I say... there's not much to do around here.<br /><br />Now. There is a small but powerful clique at the centre of the school that has the classroom assistant at its head, her best friend the cook as her trusty sidekick, one of the fathers who is on the board of governors and who has fairly recently split with his partner (he now rents the house directly opposite her) as the third in command, and a few of the other parents as their loyal sniveling minions. They are all on extremely friendly terms with the teaching staff, including the head; in fact the father who is on the board of governors is actually having a relationship with one of the teachers whose class includes his youngest daughter. It's <span style="font-style: italic;">supposed</span> to be a secret but it's a fairly open one really - subtle gestures of intimacy can often be seen passing between them when they think no-one's looking - and so in a nutshell I think it would probably be fair to say that the whole group is rather...um ....<span style="font-style: italic;">cosy.</span><br /><br />Funny isn't it how one small group of people can have such a big effect on the wider community around them. One of the ripples cast in the village pond by this particular groups social brick is that of a real change in the dynamics between the children at the school. The offspring of the cliques chosen few all socialise together regularly with their parents and so have very much picked up on the overblown sense of power and influence that their parents have. They shun the children whose parents are shunned by<span style="font-style: italic;"> their</span> parents and as a result, something of a two-tier social system has begun to emerge in the village. The strange thing is that all the other parents are only too aware of what is going on. The classroom assistant (who it is quietly felt has far too much clout when it comes to the running of the school) is <span style="font-weight: bold;">not</span> well liked despite her position at the top of the tree. She is seen to be something of a bully and a gossip, the sort of person who paints themselves with a superficial coating of sugary friendliness but who is actually rather mean spirited and judgemental, very much focused on their own agenda and concerned mainly with the retention of power at all costs - a bit like David Cameron.<br /><br />I used to be very much involved with the P.T.A. when Mr S was still living with us and The Youngest had not yet been born. I did the lucky dip every year at the school fete and we would always go as a family to the grass cuts. But these days not so much. The Youngest is too small to be left to roam and play unsupervised at community events while I am busy, and I do not have a partner or any extended family living nearby to help supervise her. Besides I find the group dynamics these days deeply unpleasant - any comments or suggestions made in meetings by anyone outside of the inner circle tend only to be dismissed out of hand anyway - so I've backed off from it all a bit with a view to perhaps becoming more involved again once my daughter is a little older.<br /><br />Now I know full well that the clique despise me (they barely acknowledge my existence most of the time, often to the point of downright rudeness) firstly for what they probably see as my lack of contribution to the school but also because I just don't fit in with them - never have and never will. They are uber parents and uber villagers, and I'm a bit messy and a bit disorganised and a bit, well.... slummy. I'm not overly concerned by their chilly shoulders, I don't think much of them either and there are plenty of people around that I <span style="font-style: italic;">do</span> like. My main social circle is outside of the village anyway and I find that I much prefer it that way - that it prevents village life from becoming too claustrophobic - however I do know that their superior attitude and air of exclusivity, not to mention their disproportionate degree of influence as to how the school is run, does upset some of the other mums very much and so I was wondering...<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Does this happen at every school? Is it inevitable that there will always be some sort of a hierarchy amongst parents? Or is it simply that the community here is small and a little incestuous? I would love to hear about other peoples experiences of school gate politics - what say you? </span>Gappyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15086671907412626209noreply@blogger.com21tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1531169179205019503.post-81260931861588644042010-07-08T02:42:00.000-07:002010-07-08T05:22:11.846-07:00So What Now?I didn't get the job.<br /><br />My boss phoned me on my mobile while I was in the middle of Tescos with the youngest choosing a packed lunch box for her first ever school trip.<br /><br />"I'm sorry Gappy. No-one wanted you to get the job more than me, but you just didn't give us the answers we were looking for."<br /><br />A bit like a court case in which previous convictions for the same crime cannot be taken into account lest it prejudice the minds of the jury, my colleagues on the interview panel were not allowed to take into account the skills they know I have, and the good work they know I do. The interview questions were all scored - a point being awarded for various specific key words and phrases used by the interviewee - and I didn't score high enough on some of the questions; not because I don't know the answers, but because I just didn't say them right or go into enough detail.<br /><br />So someone else will be starting my job after my temporary contract for it ends in two months time, and I will.... well, I'm not entirely sure what I will do. My boss was keen to point out that there was another job coming up soon and that they wanted to make sure to give me feedback from this interview so that I would be able to sail the next one if I wanted to apply for it, but I'm not sure if I do. The job will be in the information centre for one, and I much prefer refuge work. Also it will be five days a week which I just can't see myself being able to manage in the school holidays. On top of all that the working environments created by the two different teams are like night and day - the refuge team being a strong supportive group who take care of each other at work and the community/information centre being something of a snake pit in which nobody trusts each other and everybody goes about subtly undermining everybody else. I don't, in all honesty, really want to work there.<br /><br />I also feel embarrassed if truth be told. I really appreciate their support in offering to try to make sure I get this next job, it's nice that my boss has specifically said that she knows I'm good and she wants me working for them, but really it's not their responsibility to try to make sure that I am gainfully employed. I feel as if <span style="font-style: italic;">they</span> feel they owe me something because I have volunteered and covered paid posts at short notice for a long time now - but they don't really - it was my choice to do those things. One particularly helpful colleague from the community team said before my interview that she was hoping and praying I got the job because if I didn't it would just be "really awkward for you <span style="font-style: italic;">and</span> everyone else." I refrained from laughing bitterly and saying "Yeah thanks for that," but it's true really. It <span style="font-style: italic;">is</span> all a bit awkward. <span style="font-style: italic;"></span><br /><br />Tomorrow night is the slightly belated leaving do of the colleague whose job it was that I had applied for. I want to go - she was a fantastic, dedicated support worker and colleague who taught me a lot - but I know that me having not got the permanent post is going to be a massive elephant in the room. I'm torn really - I don't want to make anyone feel uncomfortable, but I also think that if I don't go it will look as though I have simply spat my dummy out, which isn't the case at all. My feeling is that I should probably go and try to hold my head high. I tried my best, I didn't get it, I'm terribly disappointed, but I'll live. It's her night anyway and we should all be concentrating on being there for her.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">What do you think? Any and all advice much appreciated. </span>Gappyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15086671907412626209noreply@blogger.com20tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1531169179205019503.post-20443346151831589382010-07-06T14:24:00.000-07:002010-07-07T14:25:44.690-07:00Eau de Dead Fox<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_Yf24ohC4qMw/TDTOa1Y9XpI/AAAAAAAAAL8/cmrBOhv_fXA/s1600/thumbnail.aspx.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 160px; height: 125px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_Yf24ohC4qMw/TDTOa1Y9XpI/AAAAAAAAAL8/cmrBOhv_fXA/s200/thumbnail.aspx.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5491240806075162258" border="0" /></a><br />I once spent an entire month smelling of dead fox.<br /><br />There is a lot of wildlife around these parts. You see it if you drive out in the early morning while the mist is still hanging in wisps just above the ground and the air is dewy and cold. A whole other wild world exists outside of the harsh hurried day - foxes, rabbits, and badgers can all sometimes be observed going about their business in the fields and hedges that run alongside the long and windy road that leads out of my village and into the next town. Most often though, the badgers are dead. It's not uncommon to see more than one lying on the grassy verge in a heavy heap before the council workers come later in the morning to remove them. I suspect that the local farmers bait them and then dump the corpses by the side of the road in order to pass them off as road kill. They never appear injured, just curled up, dirty, deathly still, and always much much larger than you would imagine.<br /><br />Of course lots of wildlife does tend to mean lots of road-kill too. The pheasants that come out during the day seem to be particularly susceptible to death by automobile. This is because they are extremely stupid and neurotic creatures with a gigantic death wish. I once had one walk straight in front of my car seemingly from nowhere, leaving me no time at all in which to stop, swerve, or even slow down. I remember feeling a dull thud and then seeing it roll in a perfect lightning ball of feathers to the side of the road. When I got home Mr S had asked me why I hadn't stopped and slung it in the boot to be brought home and plucked, drawn and eaten. "Well excuse me Mr Hugh Fearnley fucking Whittingstall if I don't much fancy stopping to investigate the 'of this world' status of a half dead and traumatised pheasant" I had said, annoyed. "Besides, the babies buggy is in the boot."<br /><br />I live in a rural farming community and people here don't much like foxes. Entire evenings are spent by some down the pub comparing and contrasting the various methods for keeping them away from the chicken pens at night. There are "Fight prejudice, fight the hunting ban" posters and car stickers everywhere, and I have even seen a dead fox draped menacingly over a local road sign, its head dangling like some sort of medieval talismanic warning.<br /><br />Consequently I did not pay too much attention when - a few years back - I saw a small fox lying dead on the road to town, it's body smashed and broken on the sticky tarmac. It was a hot hot day, I had my window wide open and I was driving to the mother and baby group where I volunteered as a breastfeeding peer supporter. My youngest was still a baby herself, cooing and dribbling and sucking on her tiny fist in her car seat next to me. Suddenly I felt a drop of something wet hit the top of my jaw just below my right ear. I looked up and saw that my rear view mirror also had a tiny splatter of pinkish red at its bottom corner. It was strange I suppose, but I didn't think much more of it untill gradually I began to become aware of an unfamiliar but distinctive smell that seemed to increase in intensity whenever I moved my head. Odd. And then - of course - I remembered the fox, lying directly in the line of my right sides wheels, blood and entrails spilling out like stuffing from its open belly.<br /><br />The aroma of dead fox is hard to shake. I know because I tried. I washed and scrubbed and bathed and sprayed, but still the unmistakable smell lingered on, seeming eventually to envelope my entire being. Week after week I retraced the journey back to my mother and baby group and I can state with absolute conviction that there is nothing more guaranteed to make a new mother clutch her small baby tighter to her bosom and start to edge away into a corner than a breastfeeding supporter wailing "Sniff me, sniff me! Do I <span style="font-style: italic;">still</span> smell of fox guts to you?" at the group facillitator.<br /><br />Eventually of course the smell faded and went, but I can still now conjure up that salty musky tang if I concentrate hard enough - it will be indelibly stamped on my olfactory memory forever more. It reminds me of a time in summer in which my last baby was small. Of being so delighted to finally have a daughter. Of spending time with a group of women who are still my friends now, all of us with our new babies, going for picnics, for walks in the park, and for tea and cake at the local cafe. It is not an uncommon question to be asked what is, for you, an evocative smell and my answer of dead fox is not really a socially acceptable one I know.<br /><br />But it is the truth nevertheless.Gappyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15086671907412626209noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1531169179205019503.post-40199841564849161892010-07-04T10:52:00.000-07:002010-07-05T15:44:41.716-07:00Gappy goes to London (Cybermummy 2010)The evening before Cybermummy I took a train for the first time in years to London Paddington. I approached the ticket office at my journeys starting point like an eager puppy, my huge bag swinging heavily against my legs as I heaved it off my shoulder. "I want to go to London" I said breathlessly to the man selling tickets from behind the glass partition. He was wearing what can only be described as an expression of monumental boredom, although I did also - I'm sure - see a slight look of alarm pass quickly over his face as he considered this shining eyed, slightly over excited woman in front of him. As he handed me my ticket however, accompanied by a gentle explanation as to how it <span style="font-style: italic;">also allowed me to travel on the tube</span>, his features quickly settled back into their obviously familiar arrangement of weary indifference. He had, it seemed, come to the reassuring decision that I was merely a harmless imbecile as opposed to an unhinged, dirty great bag carrying, maximum security escapee.<br /><br />I got to Paddington, took the tube to Waterloo - hot air blasting up in my face from the tunnels like a hairdryer - and from there made my way on foot down to the South Bank. The atmosphere was like a carnival. The evening sun was still shining, the enormous ferris wheel that is the London Eye loomed excitingly up ahead and there were happy, relaxed looking people outside all the cafes and pubs celebrating the end of the working week. I walked across the road towards the little food market where an old friend of mine has a stall selling fairly traded olive oil and spices. All the smells mingled into one delicious warm spicy bready aroma as I tried to count how many different languages I could hear being spoken. Somewhere in the distance a small brass band was playing some New Orleans style jazz music and it all just seemed to me in that moment to be as perfect a city scene as one could ever hope for. I hung about the market for a while then helped my friend to pack up her stall. As the sun began to dim we made our way slowly back to the to the small flat that she shares with her Palestinian husband and baby son.<br /><br />The next morning I was awake before the baby. Butterflies flitting in my stomach, I showered, dressed and made a cup of tea. My friend got up bleary eyed to see me off and I hugged her tightly goodbye before heading out in the morning sun to the tube station and hopping on the eastward bound Piccadilly line to Earls Court. A short walk from there to the Ibis Hotel and that was it. No going back, no running for the hills. Cybermummy had officially begun.<br /><br />It was all very much in stark contrast to the slightly bohemian, international feel of the South Bank the night before. Every credit to the women who had obviously worked incredibly hard to bring it all together - it was without doubt extremely well organised. It looked smart and professional, everything happened when it was supposed to, the food was good and the time-table was clear. The freebies were plentiful and the PR's and company representatives were out in force. It was..... slick.<br /><br />I however am not slick and if I'm honest the blatant commercialism bothered me. I don't have a view on what anyone else chooses to do on their own blog - it is their space and their business and we are all free to take from blogging what we will - but I personally don't like having people try to sell me shit, and I'm not interested in being used to sell shit for other people either. There are obviously many cynical company big-wigs out there who feel that mummy bloggers are a prime market for milking - there was even a babies bottle in our swag bags - and for me that side of things just left a slightly off taste in the mouth.<br /><br />I have also never been required to 'network' before. Turns out I'm shit at it. I met some lovely lovely people but they were mostly people with whom I had made a virtual connection anyway and so already felt some affinity with. My poor blue 'business' cards were left sadly redundant as I discovered that I couldn't quite bring myself to press them onto people I had had no contact whatsoever with other than a two minute schmooze over a cupcake. I think in Twitter speak that that could possibly be referred to as a #putyourselfouttherefail. Ah well. I was clearly never destined to be an internet rock star anyway.<br /><br />No. The highlight of the day by far in my opinion was listening to blog posts being read out by the authors themselves. There is something incredibly moving about hearing a blogger read their own post in their own way, using their own emphasis, their own meaningful pauses, and their own real emotion. Even posts that I had read before in their published form and so recognised straight away came strangely alive for me when I heard them spoken out loud by the women who had written them. It gave a real glimpse into the wealth of talent that is out there in the blogosphere and it was at this part in the proceedings more than any other that I felt a genuine kinship with my fellow women bloggers. Real womens lives and real womens experiences were laid bare with such beauty and raw honesty and I was struck by the strength of my response. We have so much more in common than we often think.<br /><br />What else? Well.. I also discovered that I am a veritable platinum mine of information when it comes to the all important subject of the lyrics of pop songs released from the nineteen eighties onwards. My fellow pub quizzers were gasping in what I imagined was, ahem...<span style="font-style: italic;"> sheer admiration</span> at my recognition of the poetic talents of the likes of JLS, Luther Vandross and Kylie. Um... I also won a prize. Oh, and there is now a picture of my (clothed) arse on <a href="http://stickyfingers1.blogspot.com/2010/07/cybermummy-2010.html">Tara Cains</a> blog for anyone who's interested.<br /><br />Bang go the last vestiges of my anonymity ;-)Gappyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15086671907412626209noreply@blogger.com18tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1531169179205019503.post-9445057582756917062010-07-01T13:48:00.000-07:002010-07-01T14:15:26.235-07:00Winter Winds<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_Yf24ohC4qMw/TC0EgMn5E2I/AAAAAAAAAL0/6BqvCr8i7NQ/s1600/mumford-and-sons.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 134px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_Yf24ohC4qMw/TC0EgMn5E2I/AAAAAAAAAL0/6BqvCr8i7NQ/s200/mumford-and-sons.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5489048472025371490" border="0" /></a><br />I realise this may be a bit of a lazy post seeing as the words I am about to write are not my own. I wish they were though - this is the most beautiful song I have heard in an age. The whole album is wonderful actually so if you're looking for something new to listen to, may I suggest Sigh No More by Mumford & Sons. You can click <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_KCg_QEHtkY">HERE</a> to hear their song Winter Winds, the lyrics of which I have taken the liberty of writing out for you below to read:<br /><br />As the winter winds litter London with lonely hearts<br />The warmth in your eyes swept me into your arms<br />Was it love or fear of the cold that led us through the night?<br />For every kiss your beauty trumped my doubt<br /><br />And my head told my heart<br />Let love grow<br />But my heart told my head<br />This time no, this time no<br /><br />We'll be washed and buried one day my girl<br />And the time we were given will be left for the world<br />The flesh that lived and loved will be eaten by plague<br />So let the memories be good for those who stay<br /><br />And my head told my heart<br />Let love grow<br />But my heart told my head<br />This time no, this time no<br /><br />The shame that sent me off from the god that I once loved<br />Was the same that sent me into your arms<br />And pestilence has won when you are lost and I am gone<br />And no hope, no hope will overcome<br /><br />But if your strife strikes at your sleep<br />Remember spring swaps snow for leaves<br />You'll be happy and wholesome again<br />When the city clears and sun ascends<br /><br />And my head told my heart<br />Let love grow<br />But my heart told my head<br />This time no, this time noGappyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15086671907412626209noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1531169179205019503.post-79486359225882492362010-06-28T12:34:00.000-07:002010-06-28T13:44:31.916-07:00Jobs For The GirlsOr a quick <a href="http://singleparenthoodbygappy.blogspot.com/2010/03/so-where-to-now.html">employment update.</a><br /><br />I have recently started paid work again for Women's Aid. One of our family support workers left to work for another Women's Aid group (one that is still a collective as opposed to a hierarchy) so I have been drafted in to cover her hours for three months over the summer. It is actually supposed to be a twenty five hour a week job - I can only do eighteen hours because of my childcare responsibilities and yet they <span style="font-style: italic;">still</span> employed me, so I guess that means they either really rate my work or that they were just plain desperate. Who knows.<br /><br />Anyway, a more permanent version of the same post has been advertised. I say permanent, it's actually only a one year fixed term in order to allow for an easy fall guy when it comes to the fairly inevitable 're-structuring' that is likely to happen in the nearish future to the refuge team. We've already seen it happen with the community team. But still, I have applied for it. A job for a year is a job for a year. At least if I get it I'll be doing the job I love, gaining valuable experience, and buying myself more time to find something else which hopefully <span style="font-style: italic;">will</span> be permanent.<br /><br />I e-mailed my application form to my boss yesterday. And today my colleague whom I work extremely closely with for two days a week went to sift through the applications in order to help select for interview. I have to say, it feels a bit weird. I'm essentially applying for my own job, and my colleague is the one who is not only judging my application form but who will be (if I am selected for interview) amongst others on the interviewing panel.<br /><br />Now I am not guaranteed to get this job, even though I am providing the temporary cover. A lot of experienced people may have applied for it, and the way I'm feeling at the moment it is perfectly possible that I will simply clam up at the interview and forget everything I ever knew about how to effectively support women and children in refuge. I have been told in the past that I interview well, but I'm ridiculously nervous about this whole process. I imagine it's pretty tough for my colleague aswell. We have a good working relationship, but she has to remain completely impartial - not easy I guess. I have so far resisted holding onto her ankles and snivelling, but I'm unsure as to how much longer I can last - I really want this job. It will mean aswell as everything else that I can put the book-keeping on hold and no longer have to deal with <a href="http://singleparenthoodbygappy.blogspot.com/2010/02/naked-boss-again.html">Naked Boss</a> - something of a bonus, I'm sure you'll agree.<br /><br />Anyway, this is just a short post (for me.) I've had an intense day at work and I'm on call tonight so I <span style="font-style: italic;">should</span> get to bed early in case I'm woken in the wee hours. Please keep your collective fingers crossed for me. I'll keep you posted as to how it all goes.Gappyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15086671907412626209noreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1531169179205019503.post-36319043634110325142010-06-26T02:40:00.000-07:002010-06-27T11:58:19.040-07:00A Woman of a Certain Age. Or See You at Cybermummy?I was born in the late hot summer of 1975. I have the scars to prove it. Cold metal forceps dug deep into baby soft flesh, tugging, pulling, splitting the skin. My poor mother. She was only nineteen.<br /><br />Very soon <span style="font-style: italic;">I</span> will be Thirty Five. And what I want to know is, how the hell did that happen? My eldest son will soon be twelve - is due to start secondary school in September - and still I don't feel so very much different from the young girl trying desperately to give off an air of sophisticated worldly wisdom in the hopes of fooling the circling predators on her own first day of secondary school.<br /><br />I can remember once when I was about sixteen, standing in the open doorway of my best friends living room. I was leaning lazily with my head against the door frame, chewing in a carefully cultivated 'whatever' sort of manner on cola flavoured Hubba Bubba. Her mother (who can only have been about thirty two herself - younger than I am now) was watching a Tina Turner video. We were contemptuous, my friend and I. After a short discussion we came to the conclusion that Tina Turner was failing abysmally in her duty to "grow old gracefully." I couldn't for the life of me work out why my friends mother was so annoyed.<br /><br />I keep waiting for the day to arrive when I feel like a proper grown up. Perhaps it will be the morning of my thirty fifth birthday. Perhaps that will be the day when I wake up and suddenly, doing the correct and responsible thing will have become second nature and I won't have to think about it anymore. I won't have to think to myself, "Hmmm, what would a responsible adult do in this situation? O.k. I'll try that then" because I will have stopped feeling like a beginner trapped in an experienced adults body. And just perhaps, on that fine morning, it will all start to feel a little less fraudulent. A little less of a confidence trick. Perhaps eh.<br /><br />In the meantime though, it seems that there are a whole host of other things to do with the aging process that I <span style="font-style: italic;">should</span> have been worrying about, only wasn't. A few recent happenings have conspired to make me begin to suspect that this is the case. The first was a conversation that I had with my friend and neighbour, a woman in her late twenties with three young children. She worked as a hairdresser before she had her kids and the other day she said to me ( while simultaneously flicking her long straightened hair over her shoulder) something along the lines of:<br />"Of course I'll just have to make the most of having my hair like this while I can still get away with it."<br />Me, in typically intelligent fashion: "What?"<br />Her: "Well you know... once you get to a certain age......<br /><br />The second was my six year old son rolling his eyes at me in the car today and saying: "Not Lady Gaaaaagaaaaaa again mum. Can't we listen to some David Bowie?" Now I am not generally a lover of pop music but I <span style="font-style: italic;">do </span>love Lady Gaga unashamedly. She's actually a very talented woman I think, a proper musician, and also she's a bit strange. What's not to like? But today, looking at my sons expression which seemed clearly to state that he considered it best just to humour me, it suddenly struck me that perhaps it really <span style="font-style: italic;">isn't </span>appropriate for a nearly thirty five year old woman to be driving along with her stereo on a bit too loud singing Pokerface at the top of her voice. Perhaps my fellow villagers think me unseemly. Oh dear.<br /><br />The third thing is all this talk of what to wear to Cybermummy. <span style="font-style: italic;">What to wear? </span>I was going in the hope that somebody might be able to teach me how to work my bloody computer. And in anticipation of meeting some interesting, like minded women too of course. I hadn't given that much thought as to what I was going to wear. But here's the thing - amongst all this talk of what to wear, the main concern seems to be that one doesn't end up looking too "muttony", which I'm presuming is a derivative of the expression 'mutton dressed as lamb.' Now my every day get up tends to be a t-shirt and jeans tucked into a pair of slightly battered biker boots. It's comfortable, I like it, and it's probably what I would have worn to Cybermummy, only now of course I'm starting to worry whether it might not be a bit "muttony." It's definitely a bit scruffy. Perhaps I will find that I'm able to 'network' so much more successfully if I wear something.... well I don't know. Something else.<br /><br />Of course I'm tempted just to say what a load of old bollocks. Mutton dressed as lamb is an appalling expression (is there an equivalent saying for men? Thought not.) But if I said that I wouldn't be being entirely honest, because the fact is I<span style="font-style: italic;"> do</span> care about how I come across to other people. So in the absence of a meet and greet photo post which I have noticed others putting up on their non-anonymous blogs in time for Cybermummy, I will simply say, on the day just look out for a woman who's completely inappropriately dressed and trying desperately to act her age. That'll be me.<br /><br />;-) See you there.Gappyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15086671907412626209noreply@blogger.com17tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1531169179205019503.post-74767989983053536232010-06-23T11:50:00.000-07:002010-06-24T02:11:21.363-07:00The Bad Mummy Moments Carnival Goes Live!So here we are! I am quite excited to be finally presenting the Bad Mummy Moments Carnival in all its (gory) glory. A huge thank you to everyone who has participated and submitted a post - it's been so enjoyable reading them all and I have also managed to discover some really fantastic new blogs in the process. Sooo without further ado, I reckon we'll start.<br /><br />First up we have <a href="http://slummysinglemummy.wordpress.com/2010/04/11/how-to-be-a-consistent-single-parent-or-not/">How to be a consistent single parent or not</a> by <span style="font-weight: bold;">Slummy Single Mummy</span>. I loved this post. It was really funny but it also touched on stuff that I think a lot of parents sometimes worry about. After all is it really possible for anybody to ever be 100% consistent?<br /><br />Next is <span style="font-weight: bold;">Notes From Home</span> with <a href="http://notesfromhome.com/2009/01/18/four-kids-under-six-three-children-under-five/">Coping with four children under six.</a> I have to say that although parts of this post made me laugh out loud (fake poo is always going to be a winner for me) I actually felt like lying down in a darkened room after reading it. This is one brave woman.<br /><br />Then we've got <span style="font-weight: bold;">Travels With my Nine Year Old </span>and her post, <a href="http://travelswithanineyearold.com/2010/03/09/homeschooling-disasters-chickenhaw/">Age Appropriate Reading. </a>MummyT tells her 'cringy conversation with your child' story with style and aplomb.<br /><br />Next up we have <span style="font-weight: bold;">Bloggertropolis</span> and his post <a href="http://bloggertropolis.blogspot.com/2007/12/dropping-baby.html">Dropping the Baby.</a> I think almost every parent can tell a similar story to this one. I've certainly experienced one or two of those heart in the mouth moments with my children and can remember feeling sick for the rest of the day. Horrible.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Notes From Lapland</span> is next with her hilarious post <a href="http://www.rukakuusamo.com/notesfromlapland/2010/04/i-am-a-stick-2.html">I am a Stick.</a> I could completely relate to this one too. In fact I would go so far as to say that I am the master of having entire conversations with my children while nine tenths of my brain is actually focused on something else entirely.<br /><br />Next is <span style="font-weight: bold;">New Mummy</span> with her post which is actually called <a href="http://mummynew.blogspot.com/2010/04/bad-mummy-moment.html">Bad Mummy Moment.</a> It is a good example of how we can let a genuinely innocent mistake make us feel unnecessarily guilty, even when we know logically that it isn't our fault.<br /><br />Then we have <span style="font-weight: bold;">The Babbling Mummy</span> and her post (which also made me laugh out loud) <a href="http://clareybabble.blogspot.com/2009/12/mummy-im-thirsty.html">Mummy I'm Thirsty.</a> If you fancy a giggle and you have a strong stomach, then this is the post for you.<br /><br />I remembered this post by <span style="font-weight: bold;">It's a Small World After All </span>from when it was first published. I loved it then and I love it now. I just think her children sound so ace. Click here for <a href="http://itsasmallworldafterallfamily.wordpress.com/2010/05/17/on-mice-ice-rinks-and-sweeping-chimneys/">On Mice Ice-rinks and Sweeping Chimneys.</a> You will find all sorts of ideas for games to keep your little ones amused!<br /><br />Now <span style="font-weight: bold;">Mommy Has a Headache</span> is my kind of woman. Read her post <a href="http://mommyhasaheadache.blogspot.com/2008/07/ahoy-there-matey.html">Ahoy There Matey!</a> on how to throw a kids birthday party without having a nervous breakdown (hopefully.) Also, I know strictly speaking that this poem hasn't anything to do with the theme of my carnival - MHAH didn't ask to submit it either - but I read this poem on her blog and it is so bloody brilliant that I'm just going to have to include a link to it here. Do yourselves a favour and read <a href="http://mommyhasaheadache.blogspot.com/2010/02/to-tampon-with-love.html">THIS.</a> I'm going to give it to my daughter to read when she comes of age.<br /><br />Next up is <span style="font-weight: bold;">Tiddlyompompom</span> with her post: <a href="http://wherethebrassbandsplay.com/2010/04/tiddlyompompom-thinks-its-time-to-change-my-ways/">Tiddlyompompom thinks it's time to change her ways.</a> Read this post for some refreshing role reversal.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Frugal Family</span> next with her post about <span style="font-style: italic;">swapping her child with someone elses</span> in the supermarket (Ha! says a smug Gappy - at least I've never done that. Ahem... I think...) Read <a href="http://www.frugalfamily.co.uk/2010/02/whats-the-most-embarassing-thing-you-have-done-as-a-parent.html">What's the Most Embarrassing Thing You Have Done as a Parent</a> here.<br /><br />Then we have <span style="font-weight: bold;">TattieWeasle</span> and<a href="http://tattieweasle.blogspot.com/2009/07/are-you-saint-mummy-or-why-i-will-never.html"> Mummy are you a Saint (or why I will never be canonised)</a> All I can say is Hahahahahahahaha! If all else fails, threaten them with dog poo.<br /><br />The next post is a more serious one - <a href="http://mdplife.blogspot.com/2009/10/this-parenting-lark-isnt-too-easy.html">This Parenting Lark isn't too Easy</a> from <span style="font-weight: bold;">Mummy From the Heart.</span> It certainly isn't. I found this post so touching. What a hard time we give ourselves for not being perfect.<br /><br />Next up is <span style="font-weight: bold;">Babyrambles</span> with her post <a href="http://babyrambles.blogspot.com/2010/06/if-supernanny-spent-day-in-my-house.html">If Supernanny Spent the Day in my House. </a>If Supernanny spent the day in <span style="font-style: italic;">my</span> house she'd be needing her smelling salts and a stiff gin before we'd even got so far as to set the table for lunch.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">A Muse Inner Me</span> next. Her post, <a href="http://amuseinnerme.blogspot.com/2010/06/creme-de-la-creme-aka-bad-mummy-moments_5562.html">Creme de la Creme aka Bad Mummy Moments</a> comes complete with photographic evidence of what can happen when you leave a toddler alone with a full pot of sudocreme (clue: it's very funny as long as it's not happening to you.)<br /><br />Then we have <span style="font-weight: bold;">Alex Late Enough</span> with her post <a href="http://www.lateenough.com/2010/03/my-day-in-bullets-and-its-not-over-yet/">My Day in Bullets and it's Not Over Yet.</a> A crappy day condensed into bullet point form. Genius. Next time I have a crappy day, I'm going to try that.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Bare Naked Mummy</span> next with a post that had me nodding vigorously in agreement: <a href="http://barenakedmummy.blogspot.com/2010/03/i-am-not-alpha-mummy-and-i-dont-care.html">I'm Not an Alpha-Mummy and I Don't Care</a>. Amen to that sister.<br /><br />The next post is from <span style="font-weight: bold;">Pants With Names</span>. It's actually from her <span style="font-weight: bold;">Brits In Bosnia</span> archives and is entitled <a href="http://britsinbosnia.blogspot.com/2010/02/mistress-of-spin.html">A Mistress of Spin.</a> The post skillfully shows how what sort of mother you are perceived to be can be "all in the presentation." Tsk. These so called uber mummys - all style over substance you know.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Typecast</span> is next with her post <a href="http://typecast2000.blogspot.com/2010/06/buzzing.html">Buzzing.</a> This post was a valuable insight for me into what it might be like for a child to experience ADHD, which is something I know very little about.<br /><br />Our penultimate post is from <span style="font-weight: bold;">Rosie Scribble</span> with her piece entitled <a href="http://rosiescribble.typepad.com/rosie-scribble/2010/06/a-bad-mother-moment-or-two.html">A Bad Mummy Moment or Two.</a> What is it about children and bookshops eh?<br /><br />Last but definitely not least we have <span style="font-weight: bold;">Musings of a Mother</span> with her fantastic post <a href="http://www.patchworkbird.com/2010/06/how-many-council-workers-does-it-take.html">How Many Council Workers Does it Take to Dig Out a Stupid Mummy? </a>What can I say except read this post. It will make you laugh and laugh (and shake your head a bit) and then laugh some more. I do declare MOAM the winner of the Bad Mummy Moments Carnival with this legendary post. She is to wear a virtual tiara for the rest of the month and shall be receiving a special prize in the next week or two.<br /><br />Anyway thanks again to everyone who has participated in the Bad Mummy Moments Carnival. I have laughed and I have cried, and now I think that I'd better go and tackle my laundry mountain so that my children might actually have some clean clothes to wear tomorrow. xxxGappyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15086671907412626209noreply@blogger.com23tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1531169179205019503.post-82791392633008832472010-06-18T13:42:00.000-07:002010-06-21T23:08:45.801-07:00Some People Shouldn't be Allowed to Have Children...The other day while I was lolling idly on my sofa reading the supplement magazine that comes with my weekend paper, I came across something that genuinely frightened and appalled me. Now I am, if I'm honest, the sort of person that often tuts at articles in the newspaper - it is a rare day indeed that I find myself short of things to tut at - but it is not often I find an article that makes me balk in quite the way this one did.<br /><br />The article - written by Jenny Kleeman - was about an American woman named Barbara Harris who runs a charity in the US called Project Prevention. Now Barbara Harris is of the belief that some people shouldn't be allowed to have children and has therefore made it her lifes mission to try to prevent them from doing so. So convinced is she of the rightness of her mission and the efficacy of her methods that she is now intent on exporting Project Prevention to the U.K. In fact she has recently spent time here, trawling our most deprived areas, dropping leaflets, talking to local people and making the most of various media opportunities with a view to spreading the word, managing to bag herself a wealthy British donor in the process.<br /><br />What Harris does essentially is buy peoples fertility. She pays people to get sterilised. Almost all of the people whom she offers money to in return for their ability to have children are women. Women with drug and alcohol problems. Her website claims that her goal is to "reduce the number of substance exposed births to zero." Harris herself has been directly quoted as saying that she and her charity are "preventing child abuse."<br /><br />It's an easy throw away comment to make isn't it?<span style="font-style: italic;"> 'Some people shouldn't be allowed to have children.' </span>I've heard it said many a time. I've seen it written in the comments sections of other peoples blogs in response to some awful story or another. Hell, I've probably even said it myself without really thinking. But now here we have a woman who has taken that common knee-jerk reaction and is doing her best to put it into practice (or at least to put her own ideas about what it might mean into practice) and the horrifying implications of what the impact might be on real peoples real lives begin to become clear.<br /><br />Personally I choose to avoid the obvious comparisons with the Nazi eugenics programme that have been made by other critics of Project Prevention. I find them a little bit crass to be honest and I worry that others may find them offensive. I also think that Harris' complete and utter lack of even basic ethics are plain for any thinking person to see and so I will not focus long on those either. Instead what I would like to look at are her beliefs and aims themselves.<br /><br />Harris believes that if you are an addict then you have no right to become a parent. There seems to be no space in her world view for ideas of redemption and recovery. Becoming a mother is an extremely meaningful occurrence in a womans life and can be the catalyst for all sorts of positive changes in her habits and behaviour. This can be true for any woman (I'm sure we can all think of changes that we might have made in our lifestyles for the sake of our children) but comes all the more sharply into focus when you consider that former addicts will often cite their children as being the main motivating factor in their decision to kick their habits.<br /><br />Harris believes that she is preventing child abuse, but the deliberate infliction of harm upon children cuts across class and social barriers. Why then is she only concentrating her efforts on the most deprived and run-down areas of Britain and the U.S? Homing in on some of the poorest, most vulnerable and disadvantaged members of our society and coercing them into becoming sterile does nothing to reduce the appalling rates of physical and sexual abuse of our societies children. If a woman gives birth to a baby who is suffering from neo-natal abstinence syndrome, (or who in plain English is going through the symptoms of withdrawal) the harm inflicted on that child is not the result of deliberate violence or malice on the part of the mother, but rather her inability to manage her addiction during pregnancy. It is a terrible thing by anybodies standards, but not the same as deliberate child abuse.<br /><br />Harris believes that she has the right to decide who is worthy of the gift of parenthood and who is not. She has amassed serious funding and is garnering a degree of credibility amongst some professionals involved in child protection, aswell as a lot of serious opposition. Where will the line be drawn? How about women who are addicted to anti-depressant or anti-anxiety drugs that are legally prescribed by their doctors? How about women who smoke? Or who live below the poverty line and so are unable to provide their children with everything they need? How about women who have mental health problems, or a significant chance of passing on a debilitating and hereditary disease or disability? What about women who have a history of being abused themselves as lots of addicts do? Where will it end?<br /><br />For those of you who think that Harris may have a point and that she is being unfairly lambasted by a gutless media (and a rather mediocre blogger) I would ask you to consider her next plan for Project Prevention. She intends to go to Haiti and pay women food stamps for their fertility. I quote: "Women in Haiti are having children they can't even feed, so why are they getting pregnant?" She thinks African women who are HIV positive shouldn't be allowed to have children either.<br /><br />Like I said.... where will it end?Gappyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15086671907412626209noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1531169179205019503.post-79834043730006724492010-06-16T11:49:00.000-07:002010-06-17T03:51:11.789-07:00But Hang On... YOU Crashed Into ME!It's lovely, my local town. You take a ten minute drive away from my house, up out of a valley and down a long and winding road with stunning views out over green hills and fields, and you're there. It's colourful and interesting with just the right amount of charming and eccentric thrown in. Full of independent shops and local produce, it has a real close-knit community feel to it. The post-office workers ask after your children and the woman who works in the second hand bookshop keeps books back for you that she thinks you'll be interested in.<br /><br />Down the bottom of town is a row of really lovely (but overpriced) shops - mostly independent and family owned. There is a gorgeous cook-ware shop selling everything from heavy cast iron Le Creuset pans to rows and rows of tiny pots of food colouring pastes in every shade of every colour imaginable. There is a drapers with samples from floor to ceiling of beautiful silks and fabrics (you can hear the sewing machines gently whirring upstairs) and an interiors shop full of locally thrown pottery and hand made furniture. There is also an extravagantly upmarket clothes shop to which people have been known to travel from London when there is a sale on.<br /><br />Now much as I hate to generalise, there is a certain type of woman can often be seen parking her extremely posh and unnecessarily large vehicle in one of the free parking spaces that lie facing onto both sides of the one way street on which these shops are situated. With her designer sunglasses perched elegantly atop her head and great clouds of perfume wafting in her wake, her entire demeanour screams, "I am expensive!!! My husband works away!!! I win dammit!!!"<br /><br />Yesterday I had an ill child at home and some essential errands to run, so my next door neighbour kindly let my son snuggle up in his pyjamas on her sofa while I quickly made the trip into town. Driving slowly up the aforementioned one way street, I could see only one empty parking space that had been made impossible to get into due to a woman in a BMW X6 straddling one of the white lines that marked it, essentially taking up two parking spaces. I was anxious to get back to my boy and so in a bit of a hurry, stopped my car, got out, and politely asked the woman in the BMW to please move over slightly so I could pop my car in next to her. I got back into my car intending to reverse it out of the way in order to allow her to re-park, but by this time other cars had driven up behind me, so I was unable to move back untill they had all passed. Obviously annoyed by my effrontery at having asked her to move in the first place, the woman in the BMW then reversed huffily out of the parking bays without looking and, despite my frantic beeping, drove straight into the drivers side of my tiny Clio. Shocked, I drove forwards, stopped further up the hill and got out. The woman and her two passengers had also got out of their vehicle and looked about to walk off in the other direction. I walked quickly towards them. One of them turned to me with a false, spiteful eyed smile and said:<br /><br />"I see you found somewhere else to park then."<br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Me</span>: "Um... you've just backed into my car. My driver door's all dented."<br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Driver</span>: "Well I didn't feel anything"<br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Me</span>: "But come and look at my car!"<br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Driver</span>: (walking up the road with her expensive friends to survey the damage, and then asking incredulously) "And that's <span style="font-style: italic;">just</span> happened has it?"<br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Me</span>: "Yes! I'm not lying for goodness sake. You just backed into me. You know you did. Didn't you hear me beeping?"<br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Driver</span>: (raising her voice) "Yes, so I stopped. Anyway, you knew I was going to reverse. You didn't move out of the way! Pretty bloody stupid thing to do if you ask me!"<br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Me</span>: "There were people behind me. I couldn't move out of the way. You would have known that had you been looking, which is what I presumed you would do. Most people tend to before reversing I find."<br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Drivers friend</span>: (with same false spiteful smile as before) "Well I certainly didn't feel anything either, and for a dent that big I think we probably would have <span style="font-style: italic;">don't you</span>?"<br /><br />To be honest I was starting to feel a bit out of my depth. Already shaky from having had an (albeit minor) bump, I was now faced with three hostile women who were not only flatly denying what was obviously true, but who were also now openly sneering at both me (I had barely had time to brush my hair that morning) and my slightly grubby, bashed up car (complete with screwed up fruit gum wrappers all over the dash.) In the end the driver reluctantly gave me her details and they walked off, their heels clicking down the pavement, the drivers friend suddenly turning around to administer a parting shot:<br /><br />"So do you want the details of <span style="font-style: italic;">two</span> witnesses who didn't feel anything happen then?"<br /><br />It was one of those situations where you think of about a million ways in which you <span style="font-style: italic;">could</span> have handled it better - only about half an hour later. But in that moment as I stood there in the street watching them disappear in a trail of over-dressed nastiness into the clothes boutique, all I could think was:<br /><br />"But hang on. <span style="font-style: italic;">You</span> crashed into <span style="font-style: italic;">me</span>..."<br /><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;"></span>Gappyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15086671907412626209noreply@blogger.com27tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1531169179205019503.post-34970092251031557022010-06-12T10:29:00.000-07:002010-06-13T10:15:38.454-07:00Roll up, roll up! It's The Bad Mummy Moments Carnival!<div style="text-align: left;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_Yf24ohC4qMw/S0SDzBiWxUI/AAAAAAAAACw/eE3qslZw7is/s1600-h/033.jpg"><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-weight: bold;"></span></span><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_Yf24ohC4qMw/S0SDzBiWxUI/AAAAAAAAACw/eE3qslZw7is/s200/033.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5423604763870020930" border="0" /></a><br />Yes, I know what you're all thinking. <span style="font-style: italic;">What's with the picture?</span> <span style="font-style: italic;">Not exactly seasonal</span> <span style="font-style: italic;">is it Gappy?</span><span style="font-style: italic;"> </span>But please bear with me, for all will soon be revealed....<br /><br />You see I have (after some fairly perfunctory how-to research) decided to host a carnival. I thought that perhaps it would be a good way to help us bloggers come together and discover some new authors, and that also the theme, "Bad Mummy Moments" (don't snigger, it took me bloody ages to come up with that) might provide us all with some laughs and reassurance along the way. I suppose that strictly speaking I should have called it "Bad Parenting Moments" but that didn't have quite the same alliterative ring to it, so "Bad Mummy Moments" it is, although of course anyone who would like to join in is more than welcome.<br /><br />Soooo if you would care to write (or already have) a post detailing your finest slackest hour, simply leave a link to it in the comments section or e-mail it to me <strike>so that I can feel so much better about myself</strike> No! I mean so that we can all support each other and take comfort in the shared knowledge that there is no such thing as a perfect mother - and that as long as we are genuinely doing our very best - then that is good enough. Your post can be humorous, thoughtful, poetic, or whatever you feel. The carnival will go live on Thursday 24th June and the author of my favourite post will receive a special prize...<br /><br />And so back to the picture. That picture actually accompanied one of the first posts that I ever wrote. I have decided to re-publish it here as my own contribution to the Bad Mummy Moments carnival as I distinctly remember worrying at the time that the drawing of satanist snowmen might just be considered reasonable justification by my sons teacher for a discreet wee call to social services... I give you:<span style="font-weight: bold;"><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Sinister Seasons Greetings</span></span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Tis the season to be jolly... And with that in mind presumably, my sons were asked by their teachers a while ago to design christmas cards, which could then be printed out and bought by parents wishing to send personalised seasons greetings to family and friends. I gave the school what seemed an inconceivable amount of money, in advance, for four packs of five.</span> <span style="font-family:arial;"><br /><br />Today Eldest Son comes out of school grinning proudly and gives me a stack of cards with what appears to be some sort of evil snowman on them. On closer inspection, one can see the snowman is carrying a forked staff, and is sporting sharp red horns. He is surrounded by ice blue snowflakes, and if you look really closely you can see a vague smudge of red around the mouth, as if he had failed to scrub up properly after feasting on bloodied corpses. The 'Merry Christmas' written on his body looks like an oddly obscure threat. 'We could send one to Grandma' chirrups Eldest Son happily.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Now Eldest Sons favourite song is Monty Pythons 'Always Look on the Bright Side of Life'. His favourite and most oft repeated lyric (regularly sung with gusto whilst zapping aliens on the computer) is: 'Always look on the bright side of death. Just before you draw your terminal breath'...</span> <span style="font-family:arial;"><br /><br />Ever wonder if perhaps you're doing something wrong? </span><br /><br /></div>Gappyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15086671907412626209noreply@blogger.com26tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1531169179205019503.post-15367591262586060162010-06-11T02:48:00.000-07:002010-06-11T10:18:59.264-07:00CBeebies is for Girls. Salami is for Boys.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_Yf24ohC4qMw/TBIiqPvnLdI/AAAAAAAAALE/qaLFvf2NsKA/s1600/P1010606PinkBlue.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 178px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_Yf24ohC4qMw/TBIiqPvnLdI/AAAAAAAAALE/qaLFvf2NsKA/s200/P1010606PinkBlue.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5481481805639396818" border="0" /></a><br />We are going through a funny phase in our house at the moment, or at least the youngest is. She has become inexplicably convinced that everything in her world can be categorised and sorted into two distinct camps - the boy camp and the girl camp. Everything is either for boys or for girls and woe betide anyone who is caught doing or touching anything that she considers to be outside the boundaries of their gender based confines. Extracts from recent conversations include:<br /><br />"CBeebies is for girls. It's not for boys. Not for boys with short hair anyway" (WTF?)<br /><br />(Pointing at a strange man in the street who is daring to wear white trainers with a small dark pink motif) "Look mummy, that man is wearing giiiirrrls trainers!"<br /><br />(Looking suspiciously at some new foodstuff) "That looks <span style="font-style: italic;">bisgusting.</span> I think that must be for boys" (I am ashamed to say that that one made me laugh. A lot.)<br /><br />The thing is, it's all getting a bit random. It started off predictably enough with the obvious gender stereotypes being applied to colours and toys and the like, but these days anything - food, inanimate objects, words even - can be assigned masculine or feminine status by my three year old daughter. She is the worlds self-appointed leading authority on what is supposedly for boys and what is for giiiirrls.<br /><br />Where is it all coming from? Before I had children I was convinced that gender was, for the most part, socially constructed. As a mother I am now less convinced by that argument, but not much less. I still think that boys and girls simply learn very early on what is expected of them in terms of demeanour and behaviour and that no matter how much we as parents try to guard against gender stereotyping, our children are still receiving messages about what it means to be either masculine or feminine from many different sources. It is a very human trait to seek approval by behaving in ways that you know are expected of you. Some of the earliest lessons we learn are in how to tow the line. But still... CBeebies is just for girls???<br /><br />So I have started gently challenging my daughter when she makes these sweeping declarations. I ask her <span style="font-style: italic;">why</span> she thinks girls shouldn't like the blue Power Ranger and <span style="font-style: italic;">why</span> salami is only for boys, but her reaction is simply to look at me as if to say, 'Good lord I really have got my work cut out with you haven't I...'<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Do you believe that gender differences are to a more or lesser extent innate? Do you go out of your way to avoid gender stereotyping at home? Is there a limit to how much we as parents can do? And how the hell has my daughter got it into her head that salami is boy food?</span>!Gappyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15086671907412626209noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1531169179205019503.post-12435423971693302962010-06-08T08:38:00.000-07:002010-06-09T14:00:24.351-07:00An Award and a Mini Interview<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_Yf24ohC4qMw/TA5ka9MCaNI/AAAAAAAAAK8/Z2-jnKsKq9s/s1600/lifeisgoodaward.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 199px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_Yf24ohC4qMw/TA5ka9MCaNI/AAAAAAAAAK8/Z2-jnKsKq9s/s200/lifeisgoodaward.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5480428210820901074" border="0" /></a><br />I have been sent this award by the lovely and inspiring <a href="http://www.thetechnobabe.com/">Technobabe</a>. I rather love the picture, but that is not really the point. The point is that Technobabe gave it to me. I'm chuffed because she is - in my opinion - a very fine blogger. Although I have never met her (she lives somewhere in middle America) we have over the last few months developed the sort of unique connection that comes from reading and commenting regularly on someone elses blog and having them do the same on yours. Funny, isn't it, how you can never have met someone and yet feel you in some way know them.... Anyway, the first post of hers that I ever read was <a href="http://www.thetechnobabe.com/2010/03/some-things-mother-will-never-know.html">this one.</a> I was blown away by it and I think it's fairly safe to say that I was hooked from that point on. Go and check it out. It will make you laugh and cry simultaneously, which is a rare thing.<br /><br />Along with the award also came a set of questions - a mini interview if you like. Here they are complete with my answers for anyone who's interested:<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;"><br />Q.1: If you blog anonymously, are you happy doing it that way? If you are not anonymous do you wish you had started out anonymously so you could be anonymous now?</span><br /><br />A: My blog is anonymous(ish.) I was completely anonymous when I started - and still the vast majority of my friends and family do not know that I write a blog. A few people know that I write one but do not know where to find it, which leaves just two people in my life who have read it - one with my permission - one without. I much prefer anonymity. I've heard other bloggers say that it's best to write as if everyone you know was reading, but if I did that I'd never write a thing!<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;">Q.2: Describe one incident that shows your stubborn side.</span><br /><br />A: I don't really think that I <span style="font-style: italic;">am</span> particularly stubborn (although I am now imagining my mother shouting, "Ooh Gappy, may you be forgiven!" at her computer screen.) I was fairly recalcitrant as a child by all accounts, but I think that I have mellowed and become far more given to compromise as I've got older. I don't know - I suppose you'd have to ask the people who actually have to deal with me on a regular basis!<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;">Q.3: What do you see when you really look at yourself in the mirror?</span><br /><br />A: Bloody hell. I'm going to have to take this question literally I think, because any other way just makes my brain hurt. Um... o.k. Well... I see a youngish looking woman with long wavy reddish hair, fair skin and grey eyes. She's slim and about 5foot 4inches tall, and is often sporting a slightly dishevelled, tired look. I call it the 'Vaguely Harassed Mum of Three.'<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;">Q.4: What is your favourite summer cold drink?</span><br /><br />A: Anything fizzy. I like to mix fruit juice with sparkling mineral water, or sometimes I buy Schloer which is kind of a poor womans Aqua Libra. I <span style="font-style: italic;">love</span> Aqua Libra but can never seem to find it anymore. Does that make me sound a bit Waitrose?<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;">Q.5: When you take time for yourself, what do you do?</span><br /><br />A: I blog. Blogging is my 'me' thing. I also like to read novels although I have done far less of that since I discovered blogging, which for some reason makes me feel slightly guilty. About four times a year I go to a place called Hay-on-Wye for the day. It is the second hand bookshop capital of the world and you could safely say that it was my special place - my Mecca if you like. I wrote a post about it complete with photos a while back. You can find it <a href="http://singleparenthoodbygappy.blogspot.com/2010/04/day-trip-to-hay-on-wye.html">here.</a><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;"><br />Q.6: Is there something you still want to accomplish in your life? What is it?</span><br /><br />A: This one's easy. My goal at the moment is financial independence. Independence from the state and independence from any future potential partner. I want to have a job that earns enough that I can support myself and my family reasonably comfortably and that ideally allows us to move to a house that is big enough for our needs (at the moment, my daughter and I have to share a bedroom.)<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;">Q.7: When you attended school, were you the class clown, the class overachiever, the class shy person, or always ditching school? Describe who you were if you were not one of these.</span><br /><br />A: I think it would probably be fair to say that I was an underachiever. I was academically very able, but ultimately did not put the work in. By the time I was fourteen or so, I was a chronic and persistent truant. I'll never forget the feeling of elation that went with the realisation that nobody could actually <span style="font-style: italic;">make</span> me go to school. I used to leave the house in the morning wearing my school uniform, but with my normal clothes in my school bag instead of my books. I'd walk to my friends house, get changed, and we'd spend the day smoking packets of ten Silk Cut under the underpass near her house. Happy days.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;">Q.8: If you close your eyes and want to visualise a very poignant moment in your life, what do you see?<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><br /></span></span></span>A: I see green hills all around. I am standing beneath an Ash tree with my feet feeling as though they had taken root in the ground. Enormous contractions are sweeping through my body. I am giving birth to my second son.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;">Q.9: Is it easy for you to share your true self in your blog or are you more comfortable writing posts about other people or events?</span><br /><br />A: Being anonymous certainly makes it easier for me to share more of my true self in my blog, although I tend to write a mixture of different kinds of posts. I have found that what I write about chops and changes a lot. When I first started blogging, my posts were mostly a mixture of what I hoped were humorous anecdotes about my life and my children, and more serious pieces about being a mother. But I have also found through blogging that I enjoy writing social commentary and I think that a lot of my posts now have that element, often with a feminist slant. I suppose that lately though, my blog has tended towards the more confessional. The really personal posts can be harder to write I find, but they are certainly very cathartic to get out there. I would never want the personal stuff to become the sole focus though - I like to mix it up a bit.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;"><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Q.10: If you had the choice to sit and read or talk on the phone, which would you do and why?<br /><br /></span></span></span>A: That would depend totally on my mood. I have one friend in particular who I tend to spend at least an hour on the phone to - although I do tend to multi-task whilst on the phone, even sometimes idly surfing the net whilst talking (naughty I know.) But then again I do love to curl up with a good book too. Could this question be interpreted as one that was really asking whether someone was an extrovert or an introvert? I'm an extrovert with introverted tendencies I think. Although I could be an introvert with extrovert tendencies.... Sigh. Self obsessed? Moi?<br /><br /><br /> Next I have to pass on the award to five other bloggers. So here goes...<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;">Jana from <a href="http://www.anattitudeadjustment.com/">An Attitude Adjustment</a><br />Ellie from <a href="http://www.onecraftymother.com/">One Crafty Mother</a><br />Jo from <a href="http://slummysinglemummy.wordpress.com/">Slummy Single Mummy</a><br />Liz from <a href="http://but-then-i-had-kids.blogspot.com/">But Then I Had Kids</a><br /><div style="text-align: center;">And my mate Victoria aka <a href="http://thecurseofthemoderndilemma.blogspot.com/">MODERN DILEMMA</a><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />Your mission, should you choose to accept it is to answer these ten questions about yourselves:<br /></div></div><br />Q.1. Inspired by Technobabes last question: Would you describe yourself as an introvert or an extrovert?<br />Q.2. What is your opinion on reality television?<br />Q.3. Do you have any phobias?<br />Q.4. What first attracted you to blogging?<br />Q.5. Can you name a famous person that you despise and say why?<br />Q.6. What is your most treasured possession?<br />Q.7. If you could have any skill in the world, what would it be?<br />Q.8. What is your favourite novel?<br />Q.9. If you could change one thing about yourself, what would it be?<br />Q.10. Which is your favourite season and why?<br /><br />Happy blogging. x<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;"><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><img src="file:///C:/Users/Public/lifeisgoodaward.jpg" alt="" /><img src="file:///C:/Users/Public/lifeisgoodaward.jpg" alt="" /></span></span></span>Gappyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15086671907412626209noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1531169179205019503.post-71845893933869472452010-06-03T14:05:00.000-07:002010-06-07T12:05:58.725-07:00Mine's a Lime and Soda<span style="font-style: italic;">This post was originally written for<a href="http://www.cryingoutnow.com/"> Crying Out Now</a>, which is a site that provides a space for women to talk about their struggles with addiction and recovery. I have thought long and hard about publishing it on my own space too, but decided in the end that I would. Comments, as always, are welcome although I will say that gushing affirmations can make me feel uncomfortable. I really don't want to be told I'm brave and amazing for finally making the commitment to recovery that I should have made years ago. On the other hand - for those who are tempted to judge - I would like to say that it could just as easily have been you writing this post and me sitting in judgement. </span><br /><br /><br />Up untill quite recently, it never properly occurred to me that I was an alcoholic. I still balk at the term now - not out of any sense of denial, I know full well that I cannot drink moderately or safely - but simply because to say it seems so dramatic. It makes me think of the people I see on the benches in town on my way to work sometimes, drinking Special Brew at 9.00 in the morning. I sometimes find myself fantasising idly about joining them, about throwing all of my many balls straight up in the air and not even bothering to try to catch them again. I am drawn to it like one is to the edge of a cliff or the bank of a deep river. It's terrifying, yet strangely magnetic.<br /><br />They say that alcoholism is progressive, and I don't doubt it, but I can not remember a time when I drank normally. I can not pin point where I might have 'crossed the line' because I have always drunk to excess. Even as a young teenager I would always be the one passing out in unsuitable places while my friends agonised over what to do with me. From that point on my alcoholism has gone through phases. There have been periods when I have been either drunk or hungover almost all the time. I have experienced black-outs, drunk spirits in the morning, and woken up shaking with the cold sweats. I also spent about six years trying desperately to moderate with varying degrees of torturous success. It was always going to be doomed to failure eventually. True moderate drinkers just are - they don't have to try with all their mental might. These days I make the only reasonable choice left to me, which is to be sober. See? Mine's a lime and soda.<br /><br />Except when it's a gin and tonic.<br /><br />You see, this was supposed to be a post all about my sobriety. About how sobriety was a righteous choice that I had made. About how I was done with self sabotage and self pity. It was going to be a post that said fuck the back story, because whether to drink or not is a simple choice to be made forever in the here and now - that talked about how I was never again going to repeat another pathetic story from my childhood because I alone was responsible for my actions - not some demon from my distant past. It was going to be a post about how my sobriety was rooted in the fertile soil of my<span style="font-style: italic;"> own </span>power, and about how - for me - there could be no higher power than that.<br /><br />Except that last night I drank again. A group of us went out for a friends birthday and I could not resist the peer pressure to have a drink. I could not bring myself to spill when my friends asked me why I was not having a cocktail. I attempted a feeble, 'Oh you know, I'm not really drinking at the moment...' only to have it waved away by friends who wanted to see me have a great time. Friends who I have managed to hide so much of myself from. Friends who wanted to go to a club to get drunk and dance and flirt, and who wanted me to join in. So I broke a promise to myself and I did.<br /><br />And nobody died. We drank cocktails and danced and flirted. It was fun. The only person in the whole world who knew what I was risking was me. But today I feel frightened and shocked. I feel turned inside out because I thought I had being sober pretty much sewn up. I had been completely tee-total for six months. I thought I was learning to <span style="font-style: italic;">trust </span>myself dammit. <span style="font-style: italic;"> 'You takes your responsibility, you makes your choices'</span> had become my personal motto, and I still wholeheartedly believe that. I <span style="font-style: italic;">did</span> make a choice last night, but it was the choice to drink. The choice to jeopardise my good life, and by the same token, my childrens good lives. Today it is unthinkable.<br /><br />So now what? The fact that the night passed without incident is precisely what makes this relapse so very dangerous. How easy it is now for the devil on my shoulder to whisper seductively:<span style="font-style: italic;"> "See? What's the problem? You're fine to have a few drinks every now and then. Real alcoholics drink untill they pass out every time they pick up. You can control it now."</span> I can't. I don't want to go into lurid details about my own personal rock bottoms but I know that I can't control my drinking - that I've never been able to control it. I know that I will always be an alcoholic and that the only way I can win is to not feed my body and brain with the substance to which they are addicted.<br /><br />So this is what I'm going to do: I'm going to get up, dust myself off and keep going in the same sober direction. I'm going to formulate a comprehensive plan as to how I'm going to deal with the next situation in which there is social pressure to drink (if anyone's got any tips I would be most grateful) and I'm going to <span style="font-style: italic;">takes my responsibility and makes my (better) choices. </span>In the end what else is there?<br /><br />Mine's a lime and soda.<br /><span style="font-style: italic;"> </span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">If anyone has been affected by the issues discussed in this post then there are some fantastic blogs out there that deal (amongst other things) with the thorny subject of addiction and recovery. It is by no means a comprehensive list - I'm discovering new stuff all the time - but these are invaluable and really worth reading:</span> <div style="text-align: center; font-style: italic;"><br />Stephanie over at <a href="http://stefaniewildertaylor.com/">Baby on Bored</a><br />Ellie over at<a href="http://www.onecraftymother.com/"> One Crafty Mother</a><br />Robin over at <a href="http://www.itsownterms.com/">Life on its Own Terms</a><br />And of course, <a href="http://thebhj.com/">Black Hockey Jesus</a><br /></div>Gappyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15086671907412626209noreply@blogger.com35tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1531169179205019503.post-56409636343286570692010-06-02T07:49:00.000-07:002010-06-02T14:15:10.895-07:00Do You Ever Miss Your Old Life?Do you? Ever miss your old life?<br /><br />It is half term break and my children, as is usual, have spent the first half of it with their fathers. They left Sunday night and so Monday morning - feeling ever so slightly drunk with freedom - I took off down a hot dusty motorway in my little car, turned the radio up loud, and drove for what seemed like forever to see some old friends in another part of the country.<br /><br />After a couple of hours I turned off the motorway and drove through a major city, coming out the other side into a gradually more genteel and rural setting. I ploughed on through small towns and villages untill I finally came to the small right hand turn off the main road that leads onto some tree lined country lanes, which themselves eventually dwindle after a few twists and turns into little more than a dusty track full of pot holes, the thick mud that for most of the year splatters the bottom of your car, baked pale dry and hard by the early summer sun.<br /><br />I parked in a shady spot under some trees and got out of my car, opening my boot and heaving my rucksack onto my back. The first familiar sound to greet me was the barking of dogs who came seemingly from all directions to investigate this strange person on their patch. The second was the sound of humans somewhere shouting at the dogs, "Dogs! Be quiet!" I smiled inwardly - for this was a scene that I had heard play out a thousand times in a thousand different places. I looked around at the vehicles and caravans - everything seemed to be in much the same spot as last time - so no-one new had moved on then. Walking up towards my old friends home, a huge converted horse box painted a dark red, I could see that she was sitting outside at a table in the sun making some shutters for the windows of her trailer. She looked up and grinned. It was so lovely to see her, happy and nesting, finally healthily pregnant with her second child after suffering the heartbreak that is recurrent miscarriage for so long.<br /><br />I spent a lovely couple of days not doing very much really. We had a barbecue and I saw some other friends who were parked up on the same site - one has midwifery exams coming up and so is hard at work on various placements, another is studying for an imminent book-keeping exam. My pregnant friend is actually an author and cartoonist who is - understandably enough - finding it hard to concentrate on anything except her longed for baby. Everyone seemed to be busy with various projects and looking forward to the summer.<br /><br />I am home now and it is of course wonderful to have my kids back again, but in the same way as always happens when I get back from visiting old friends on traveller sites, I feel a bit of a pang for my old way of life. I miss the sense of community, I miss the camaraderie, I miss the freedom. I miss having close male friends that I don't just socialise with because they are somebodies husband or partner. I miss the festivals in the summer, and the hunkering down next to the wood-burner in the winter. Not that I would go back now - it wouldn't be fair on the children - they are settled in our house and settled at school and we are all now used to hot running water and central heating. Besides there are many many things I <span style="font-weight: bold;">don't</span> miss about living on site. It could be hard sometimes, especially in the colder, wetter months. Conflict was always a nightmare to deal with because everyone was living in each others pockets, and then there's the cold hard fact of having to live under the almost constant threat or possibility of eviction. I know that it's easy for me to get all romantic about it when I'm only visiting for two days at the beginning of summer. I know that really I've changed a lot and I've moved on... but... I don't know, just but.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Do you ever miss anything about your old life? </span>Gappyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15086671907412626209noreply@blogger.com16tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1531169179205019503.post-20342120900886328552010-05-28T09:10:00.001-07:002010-05-30T14:52:33.965-07:00Pornification<span style="font-style: italic;">First things first: If there are kids of reading age around, you might want to read this post later. It contains some parts that are not appropriate for children.</span><br /><br /><br />I wanted to write a post about the pornification of our popular culture.<br /><br />But it's not an easy post to write. I have thought about what I want to say and how difficult it is to say it without appearing puritanical or judgemental, and so with that in mind I'm going to begin with a disclaimer: I love good sex as much as the next person. I think that what truly consenting adults choose to do with each other in private is entirely up to them. I am very much pro the sexual empowerment of women and I do not for one minute buy into the notions of shame that surround female sexuality and impede its liberation. Clear? Good. Then I shall begin my post proper...<br /><br />Years ago I read a book called <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Beauty_Myth">The Beauty Myth by Naomi Wolf.</a> The essence of its argument was that the more liberated women became in their day to day lives, the greater the pressure became on them to live up to an unachievable beauty ideal. Wolf argued that ever more unrealistic beauty standards caused women to become ever more insecure about themselves thus keeping them firmly in their (inferior) place. How can we move confidently towards true equality, she argued, if we are collapsing under the weight of our own insecurities?<br /><br />I am really interested in Wolfs idea that as we achieve more freedom in some areas of our lives, we become yet more oppressed in others, and that this serves to redress the balance and maintain the status quo. I believe that there is clear evidence for this in the increasing sexualisation of women and girls and the insidious pornification of our culture.<br /><br />My how things have changed. When I was a girl growing up in the eighties, we had the odd topless model lurking about on page 3 of the newspaper and people tutting disapprovingly over Madonna singing Like a Virgin on Top of the Pops (god I thought she was amazing.) Now soft-core pornography is everywhere - it's completely mainstream - and totally in your face. I went to the Co-op today to buy some milk. On the newspaper stand just at childs eye level was a picture of a woman on the front cover of a tabloid. She was naked apart from a thong, and posed on all fours. The photograph was taken from behind with her vulva clearly outlined through the thin fabric of the strip of material that covered it. She was contorting uncomfortably, her head twisted over her shoulder in order to pout at the camera. I drove home with the radio on and a song by Taio Cruz came on. In it a female singer called Kesha sang explicitly about taking 'dirty' pictures of herself and sending them to him. It was half past two in the afternoon. My three year old daughter was with me. When did society suddenly deem these things to be appropriate for children?<br /><br />I'm not a prude. I just think that the encroachment of pornography into our everyday lives sends out messages to young women and girls (and to young men and boys too) that are incredibly damaging. Images and portrayals of women objectified and offered up for mindless consumption, abuse and distort everyones sexuality. We can try to teach our daughters that they have a right to be treated with respect, that they can enter into sexual relationships on their own terms, that they can say no to things which make them feel uncomfortable or turn them off, and that they have the right to claim their own pleasure; but how successful can we be in instilling those values, that self worth, when Every. Single. Day. they are bombarded with music videos and adverts and song lyrics and magazine covers that send out a clear message that they are <span style="font-style: italic;">not</span> worthy of respect - that they are little more than decorative sex toys to be gawped at and played with and used - and that if they want to be considered desirable they'd better just shut up and play along.<br /><br />Although designed for their pleasure and the reinforcement of their superior status I think that ultimately the ubiquitous peddling of female bodies for titillation and entertainment does men and boys a huge disservice too. As avid consumers of internet pornography and so called 'lads mags' such as Zoo and Nuts, young men just starting out on their own sexual journeys are coming to the table with completely warped expectations. The advice columns of these magazines are full of young men horrified to discover that their girlfriends actually have pubic hair for example. How do they go about insisting that their girlfriend remove it they ask, after all aren't they entitled to a hairless partner? I should imagine that it also comes as a shock for some to discover that a lot of women don't actually<span style="font-style: italic;"> want </span>anal sex or to have their faces ejaculated over - that what they are looking for is a real connection and real intimacy and an orgasm or two for themselves thank you very much. Our cultures increasing pornification degrades and devalues sex for <span style="font-style: italic;">both</span> genders. Sex that is devoid of intimacy or love ultimately becomes very unsatisfying for everyone.<br /><br />Walk down any British high street on a Saturday afternoon and you will see young women everywhere sporting a certain look. It's one we all recognise: Long harshly dyed pale blond hair, heavily fake tanned limbs, pushed up breasts and make-up applied to the lips in such a way as to make them appear swollen and enlarged. Whether they are aware of it or not (and I suspect the majority are not) it is a porn aesthetic that has become steadily mainstream due to so much exposure. In much the same way that bikini waxes designed to remove all or most of the pubic hair became widespread as a result of pornography (actresses in the adult industry remove all pubic hair so as not to impede the view of penetration) so has mimicking the look of a soft porn glamour model now become an everyday fashion choice. I do not blame anyone for attempting to conform to what society makes clear is expected of them but it makes me so sad to see young women obviously spending vast amounts of their money, energy, and time on an effort to make themselves more closely resemble a real life blow-up barbie doll. It just seems such a waste of their resources.<br /><br />What makes me really angry though is when the growing sexualisation of women and girls is presented as being somehow empowering. Who needs equal pay or anything to be done about the rape conviction rate when we have 'girl power' eh? We live in a post-feminist society apparently. Our bodies are nothing to be ashamed of so why not flaunt them in a Girls Gone Wild video? Pole dancing is fun and a celebration of the female form. "Girls rule, boys drool" cry my eldest sons female classmates as they wiggle around suggestively at the school disco copying the dance moves they have seen performed by supposedly empowered women in endless music videos. Twenty first century women are sexy and unashamed, liberated and in control.<br /><br />It is a seductive argument. We all enjoy feeling attractive and confident, and being the focus of male attention and desire certainly <span style="font-style: italic;">can</span> give one a superficial sense of personal power. <span style="font-weight: bold;">But it is a trick.</span> In the end it is just the same old bullshit wrapped up in different packaging. There is nothing for women to celebrate in the pornification of our culture because ultimately all it does is reinforce the notion that a womans intrinsic worth lies in her ability to attract and please men. Real empowerment and self-esteem come from valuing our skills and achievements. From believing ourselves to be good and capable people who have a positive impact on the lives of others. There is no strength to be found in the commodification of our bodies.<br /><br />Our cultures pornification is damaging to the self-esteem of women and girls. It is a major step backwards in terms of our journey towards equality. And it doesn't lead to better sex for anybody.Gappyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15086671907412626209noreply@blogger.com25tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1531169179205019503.post-30495469473486479062010-05-25T07:38:00.000-07:002010-05-26T14:59:26.355-07:00True Blood.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_Yf24ohC4qMw/S_wrebuzVMI/AAAAAAAAAK0/oFdEW2qE8YE/s1600/002.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_Yf24ohC4qMw/S_wrebuzVMI/AAAAAAAAAK0/oFdEW2qE8YE/s200/002.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5475299048815809730" border="0" /></a><br />Those of you that follow me on Twitter will probably already know that I am a huge fan of the American television series True Blood. Written by Alan Ball (who also wrote the amazing Oscar winning film, American Beauty) True Blood is set in the small, conservative Southern town of Bon Temps, Louisiana. Vampires are living amongst human society, surviving on synthetic blood and attempting to integrate and achieve equal rights despite the huge prejudice against them. The story line revolves around the relationship between the two main characters: Sookie Stackhouse - a human waitress with a powerful ability to read minds, and Bill Compton - a five hundred year old vampire.<br /><br />It is a dark fantasy, richly imagined and blackly comic, sexy and bloody and over the top, and in my opinion one of the very few things actually worth watching on television. Not only is it grippingly entertaining, but it is also far more sophisticated than it may at first appear. The <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vxINMuOgAu8">opening credit sequence</a> is nothing short of stunning and could actually work as a short film on its own. Created by Digital Kitchen it uses stereotyped imagery of the rural Deep South, juxtaposing themes of sex, religion, and violence to set the scene and create a deep sense of unease. We see a rickety Lucky Liquor store on a dirt road segueing into glowing crosses that could almost be burning. A white preacher heals a black woman as the rest of the congregation sway and clap. A bar room brawl made murky under red lighting occurs in slow motion. The snippets of film and jerking, sometimes flashing images all culminate in a river baptism, a woman flailing and splashing in the dark as two men dunk her in.<br /><br />What struck me the most about season one in particular were the observations that it appeared to me to make about female sexuality - in particular the way in which societal judgements and norms are set in place to rigidly control it. It is made clear from the beginning that Sookie Stackhouse is a good, traditional Southern young woman - in fact it is made explicitly clear almost from the start that she is still a virgin. In Bon Temps women who associate with vampires are generally viewed with disaproval and contempt. They are labelled 'fangbangers', and so when a woman who was known to sometimes frequent the vampire bar Fangtasia is discovered dead in her apartment, and a further woman (one of Sookies fellow waitresses) is also found murdered in her home with vampire bite marks on her body, the whisperings around the town are that they had somehow asked for it - that they had 'had it coming.' Of course then the irony is that whiter than white Sookie Stackhouse falls in love with a vampire herself - bestowing unto him her precious virginity - and so sullying her reputation. What is interesting is that the whole town appear to take it upon themselves to be horrified, as if her virtue somehow belongs to all of them and it is up to them as a community to safe-guard it. Meanwhile her brother Jason (who was a sexual partner to both the dead women) behaves like a child in a sweet shop - having sex with every willing woman he can find - and everyone simply smirks and shakes their heads. Boys will be boys after all. Of course it is not long before the body count rises and the murderer is on the hunt for Sookie. The good girl gone bad must pay the ultimate price it would seem.<br /><br />One of the reasons I like True Blood so much is that it pokes fun at this sexual double standard. It exposes as ridiculous the notion that women can be judged good or bad, deserving or undeserving of violence, based purely on how they choose to conduct their sexual lives. With a cast full of telepaths, shape-shifters, vampires and rednecks True Blood manages to say an awful lot about the nature of inequality and prejudice whilst at the same time spinning a yarn so riveting, I defy anyone not to become hooked.<br /><br />Roll on season three. I can't wait.Gappyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15086671907412626209noreply@blogger.com17tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1531169179205019503.post-40404004576719020192010-05-23T09:35:00.000-07:002010-05-24T15:19:08.880-07:00Do You Believe in Fate?Fate.<br /><br />Do you believe in it?<br /><br />Or is the whole concept merely an irrational symptom of a very human desire to make sense of the crazy world around us?<br /><br />With society in general becoming ever more secular, has the notion of fate - of our lives having some pre-destined path - taken up the slack and helped to fill a spiritual void?<br /><br />I have to say that I balk at the concept of our paths having been already mapped out for us before we even begin the journey. I will not be denied my own agency. I cannot accept that I'm not in control of my own life and that I am simply at the mercy of fates hand; a little cork bobbing helplessly around on the surface of the sea, buffeted this way and that by lifes winds and currents. I believe that I live in choice. That I can make good choices or bad ones, but that either way they are mine. I own them. They are my responsibility. I know that through my own efforts I can change and improve if need be. I know that I am the driving force behind my own destiny.<br /><br />It is not possible to control every aspect of our lives however. Accidental circumstance can render one person at great disadvantage to another - where in the world you happen to have been born for example - how wealthy your parents are, or even what sort of upbringing you had. Unforeseen catastrophe can strike at any time and we can become the unwitting victims of a purely random tragedy such as a natural disaster, or a violent crime. Are we to believe then that these things are the products of fate, that they are somehow meant to be? When viewed through that lens, doesn't the whole concept of fate and its even more suspect cousin - the idea that we subconsciously choose our own paths - then become a tad offensive? I would not like to try to explain to a mother who had been caught in the crossfire of a civil war and forced to flee with her children to a refugee camp many miles away from her home, that her personal tragedy and my relative comfort and luxury were all part of a grand scheme that was somehow written in the stars.<br /><br />No. I am happy to accept that my life is made up of some entirely coincidental and random happenstance on the one hand - and my own conscious design on the other. I will not hand over to fate the credit for all that is good in my life and neither will I abdicate responsibility for that which is bad. For the things that I can't control, well... I have been working on my best c'est la vie style shrug for ages. It's still a wee bit unconvincing if I'm honest, but it's coming along.<br /><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Single Parenthood... Tales From the Front Line, welcomes all points of view. If you disagree with me, don't be shy. I'm interested in what everybody has to say.<br /></span>Gappyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15086671907412626209noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1531169179205019503.post-26479287416884102682010-05-20T11:55:00.000-07:002010-05-20T15:04:11.091-07:00Occasionally I am too sad to write...Occasionally I am too sad to write.<br /><br />I haven't got the energy to think of anything intelligent to say and I haven't the heart to be funny. There is only the day to be done as best I can. I force myself to tie up the niggly little loose ends that have been bothering me. I pay bills and parking tickets and I buy new blades for the lawn mower. I even mow the lawn. I sort out the re-cycling. I wash my hair and do the weekly food shop. I buy the boys new football stickers for their albums and myself some favourite chocolate.<br /><br />I keep on pushing on because there is no other choice. I am flying this plane - and I'm flying it on my own. And yes, it certainly is liberating, but I don't think I ever truly understood the word responsibility untill I got here. Because there is no-one else to take the wheel no matter how tired or crazy or sad I get. Losing ones nerve is not an option when one is flying solo.<br /><br />The issue of self disclosure has been on my mind recently. As time goes on my blog becomes a little less anonymous. I let my mother read it, somebody else who has been a part of my life looks for it, finds it, and reads it uninvited. I even go out for an evening with some other bloggers. Words on my computer screen become flesh and blood - I see real women with real lives - and in turn I feel a little more exposed. What to reveal and what to keep hidden when one is now only partially obscured by the screen in front of them?<br /><br />Writing is the one for me you see. In this small space I can take my sadness or fear or guilt and I can put them somewhere safe. I can <span style="font-style: italic;">do</span> something with them. Something that is healthy and constructive and which does not pickle my liver or alienate my friends.<br /><br />I set fire to a bridge today. I didn't want to and it made me really sad. So sad that I thought I couldn't write or fly in anything like the right direction. But it turns out that actually I can do both of those things after all because one helps to enable the other. Writing fosters self-reliance.<br /><br />Apparently the weather's going to be nice this weekend. I think I will take the children out for a treat.Gappyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15086671907412626209noreply@blogger.com30tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1531169179205019503.post-48916721742613321562010-05-18T03:38:00.000-07:002010-05-18T12:55:53.393-07:00The Cats...<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_Yf24ohC4qMw/S_KiOe62tLI/AAAAAAAAAKs/HaJ4o-bbF8I/s1600/thumbnail.aspx.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 106px; height: 160px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_Yf24ohC4qMw/S_KiOe62tLI/AAAAAAAAAKs/HaJ4o-bbF8I/s200/thumbnail.aspx.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5472614866910360754" border="0" /></a><br />Unusually for a modern day household, the Gappy residence is a pet free zone. There are no animals at all - not one. Not even a single forgetful little goldfish. The reasons for this are threefold:<br /><br />1) I don't actually like animals very much. I <span style="font-style: italic;">quite</span> like dogs but that's about it. I don't like anything with a beak. I don't like anything too large (so that's horses and cattle out of the question) and anything even remotely resembling a rodent is a complete and utter no no. The very thought is enough to make me shudder.<br /><br />2) I have an aversion to faeces. It doesn't matter how often and how convincingly my children look up at me with big soulful eyes and insist that <span style="font-style: italic;">they</span> would look after it if only we could just please please pleeeease get a pet, I know that it would be me who ended up having to deal with said pets shit. Ugh. I have enough responsibilities in my life thank you very much. Cleaning up animal shit is not going to become one of them.<br /><br />3) Anything plant-like that I have ever owned has been stone dead within three months of coming into contact with me. Seriously, I've so far managed to kill a grand total of four Spider plants and I hear that they're supposed to be practically immortal. I'm secretly worried that if we did get a cute little puppy or some such creature, that it would take one look at me - keel over - and that my children would be left traumatised for ever more. "It was such an adorable little puppy" I imagine them sobbing to their therapists... "And she killed it with her mind..."<br /><br />I comfort myself with the knowledge that between them, my neighbours appear to have an entire colony of cats, and so my poor deprived children are able to vicariously enjoy all the more palatable aspects of pet ownership through their friends. Cats are everywhere on our street. Everywhere. Sunning themselves on the garden wall, sauntering nonchalantly up the road, tripping you up when you're attempting to lug ten tons of shopping in from the car. They're<span style="font-style: italic;"> everywhere</span> I tell you.<br /><br />They all seem to come out en masse around dusk. One can sense a change in the mood, their collective feline presence becoming sinister, purposeful. They congregate - these glassy eyed feral creatures - slinking and yowling, in my back garden, looking for all the world like a scene from an Alfred Hitchcock film. 'Why?' I hear you ask.... Because my back garden has been officially designated the communal cat latrine of course. Why go for a boring poo on your own when you could meet up with all your mates and make an evening of it. Oh yes, if you're a cat and you need to go, Gappys garden is the place to be. Pass it on.<br /><br />They have even started doing it in broad daylight. I often look up from the sink whilst doing the dishes only to see that an individual cat has sneaked into my garden and is now hovering suspiciously over a patch of grass. I will bang on the window and give it my fiercest look, only to have it stare back in an unconcerned yet vaguely put out manner, as if to say: "Please. Do you mind? Only some of us are trying to have a poo here...." But what <span style="font-style: italic;">really</span> takes the biscuit is that some of the braver ones will then hop up, post poo, onto my window sill, arching their backs and rubbing their ears against the glass, looking at me and meowing contentedly. "Ah that's better, they seem to say. You know I <span style="font-style: italic;">do</span> rather like your garden.." Call me paranoid, but I know when I'm being mocked.<br /><br />One day I will lose the plot, get dressed up in over sized army fatigues, smear my face with black and green face paint and gather together my sons super-soakers. I will fill them all up and sit and wait silently on my back door step for the sun to go down, and then when I see the cats begin to slink in over the fence I shall laugh maniacally while I drench everything that moves.<br /><br />Bwahahahaha, take that Tiddles! Litter tray isn't looking quite so dull now is it?<br /><br />Ahem.Gappyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15086671907412626209noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1531169179205019503.post-75484004762897720232010-05-16T11:08:00.000-07:002010-05-18T08:30:32.344-07:00Mugabes Ark<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_Yf24ohC4qMw/S_E2Skb8wyI/AAAAAAAAAKk/yXRFGB677Tc/s1600/images.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 129px; height: 94px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_Yf24ohC4qMw/S_E2Skb8wyI/AAAAAAAAAKk/yXRFGB677Tc/s200/images.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5472214714878313250" border="0" /></a><br />This weekend while sitting at my mothers kitchen table with a cup of tea and the newspaper, an <a href="http://www.guardian.co.uk/world/2010/may/13/robert-mugabe-animals-north-korea">article in the International section</a> caught my eye. It told of how the Zimbabwean president, Robert Mugabe plans to send a "modern day ark" of wild animals taken from a Zimbabwean national park to North Korea as a gift to that countries 'Supreme Leader' Kim Jong-il.<br /><br />The story seemed one of those everyday coincidences in that I am at present reading David Maines, The Flood - a fictional retelling of the biblical story of Noah. It is a fascinating book in which Noah is depicted as a slightly mad old goat whose 'visions' must be humoured by his loyal and subservient family. When he receives word from Yahweh that there is to be a flood, he sends one of his daughters in law (a tough, cynical character) on a mission to collect some of the more exotic animals that are to be kept aboard the ark. The imagery of her return journey is startlingly beautiful. You are asked to imagine many rafts attached in a line to a boat, snaking out behind it like a 'desert caravan' on a glittering sea, bamboo cages atop the rafts filled with huge cats, gazelles, and monkeys, sailing their way slowly back to Noahs shore under a bright blistering sun.<br /><br />I imagine that the reality will be a catastrophe. Conservationists are already expressing concerns that two baby elephants will likely not survive what will in fact be an airlift to North Korea, and that there may also be plans to include a pair of endangered rhinos in the mix. The whole idea sounds completely fantastical and frankly, the product of an ill mind. An unimaginably grandiose gift from one megalomaniac to another. I suspect the biblical allusions are not lost on Mugabe - himself a roman catholic - and that they in fact fit in rather nicely with his distorted view of his own omnipotence.<br /><br />It is all too easy though to dismiss Mugabe as being simply mad and bad. In much the same way as some sought to dismiss the killers of James Bulger as being simply evil - therefore neatly avoiding any obligation to examine the ways in which society as a whole might bear some responsibility for turning out children who were capable of committing such a dreadful crime - so does the world denounce Mugabe in such glib terms as seem to forget that he is in many ways a product of his countries history.<br /><br />I am no apologist for Robert Mugabe. He has brought a country that was once considered to be the 'bread basket of Africa' to its knees, using violence and intimidation against his own people in order to maintain his grip on power. His policies have created an economic meltdown, with sky high inflation rendering the Zimbabwean dollar completely worthless. But no man comes to rule in a vacuum - context is key if we are to understand how this disaster has come about. Let's not forget that when he first came to power in 1980 he was a democratically elected leader who enjoyed huge popular support. Indeed he was considered by many to be a hero, a man who had both spent time as a political prisoner and been forced into exile as a result of his efforts to liberate his country from white minority rule.<br /><br />Whatever our abhorrence at the scenes on television of white farmers being violently evicted from their homes and land by Mugabes 'war veterans', it is nevertheless true that Zimbabwes tiny white population did not come by their wealth legitimately. Initially colonized by the British, Rhodesia (as it was then called) quickly found all of its best land appropriated by the white settlers who used all means of oppression at their disposal to create and legislate a system in which they could rule over the black majority. It was a brutal racist system that continued unabated untill 1980, and so the understandable bitterness and resentment felt by the majority of Zimbabweans of course then created the perfect climate for the rise to power of someone like Mugabe who (with a degree of tacit support from some other African leaders) has been able to dismiss all criticism of his land reform policies by other countries as being simply neocolonialist meddling - never mind that all the most profitable farmland has in fact been divvied up amongst his cronies rather than redistributed fairly to the people as promised.<br /><br />Todays people cannot be held responsible for the actions of their ancestors. But they can be held responsible for continuing to perpetuate a system that is unfair and immoral. Mugabe is happy to still use the emotive language of the anti imperialist freedom fighter that he once was in order to justify his clinging to power by violent means while his terrorised population starve. It is inexcusable. But I also think that it is a mistake for Western countries to dismiss as now past and irrelevant, the horrific legacy of colonialism and the huge part that it still has to play in this and other humanitarian disasters in Africa.Gappyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15086671907412626209noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1531169179205019503.post-26741324647129537222010-05-11T13:55:00.000-07:002010-05-12T14:54:42.261-07:00The Delicate Art of Blogging Etiquette<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://ts4.mm.bing.net/images/thumbnail.aspx?q=17749123755&id=5ce21c4e096b9c4ff26465519f626339&index=ch1&url=http%3a%2f%2fwww.mildreds-antiques.com%2fimages%2fbestweb_adderly16.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 160px; height: 126px;" src="http://ts4.mm.bing.net/images/thumbnail.aspx?q=17749123755&id=5ce21c4e096b9c4ff26465519f626339&index=ch1&url=http%3a%2f%2fwww.mildreds-antiques.com%2fimages%2fbestweb_adderly16.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br />When I first set up my blog and published my first post, I only really thought about the possibility of people reading it in quite specific, personal terms. As in: am I sure I can live with the fall-out if for some reason <a href="http://singleparenthoodbygappy.blogspot.com/2009/12/yesterday-i-drove-down-to-see-my-boss.html">Naked Boss</a> discovers it and recognises himself, which of course is never going to happen because no-one who knows me knows I'm writing it and I never use anybodies real name so stop being so paranoid and just write the flipping thing will you.... It didn't occur to me in any sort of concrete way that real people who <span style="font-style: italic;">didn't</span> know me might end up reading it on a regular basis. Of course I realise now how naive that was, but in my defence at the time I had only just got connected to the internet and I didn't have any understanding at all of how the blogosphere worked. In fact I posted for a good month or so just happily oblivious in my own little bloggy bubble, assuming that I was just writing for myself and that because nobody had left a comment, nobody was reading it. I had not yet become acquainted with anything like Stat-counter or Twitter and my blog just felt like my own little private domain. My secret. A clandestine and solitary pursuit, that no-one else was in on.<br /><br />My first comments came via <a href="http://noblesavage.me.uk/">Noble Savage</a>. She discovered my blog - in particular a post that I had written about the <a href="http://singleparenthoodbygappy.blogspot.com/2010/01/i-know-i-shouldnt-say-this-but.html">sugar coating of motherhood</a> - liked what she saw and not only left a comment herself, but also put out a link to the post on Twitter, which then had the effect of attracting many more comments and also my first readers. I was terribly excited. Blogging had now been instantly transformed into something else entirely - a mode of communication - rather than simply of self-expression.<br /><br />I sent NS an e-mail to thank her. I seem to remember gushing all over the place - which no doubt embarrassed her somewhat - before explaining that I was new and wasn't really sure what I was doing and did she have any tips? She sent back a very kind reply explaining (amongst other things) that it was generally considered good form to go and check out the blogs of those people that had left a comment on yours and perhaps also to leave a comment yourself if you felt so inclined.<br /><br />Almost five months later - although no less of a technical dunderhead - I do have a slightly better idea of how things work. But I still find the whole area around blogging etiquette a complete mine-field. I have, in the main, stuck to NS's advice in the sense that I will always have a look at someones blog if they have bothered to comment on mine. I feel it is only courteous and besides it's a good way to discover interesting new things to read. I am already finding however that when one is time poor it can be a difficult policy to keep up with. For bloggers who receive many comments per post I can imagine that it becomes almost impossible. I find myself worrying at times that I may have unintentionally snubbed someone, only to then feel frustrated because blogging for me is supposed to be about writing. It's supposed to be fun and cathartic, not an exercise in social climbing.<br /><br />The blogosphere <span style="font-style: italic;">is</span> in some ways a social space though, and it's here that it can become tricky to navigate. Because ultimately - and here's the rub - I am not prepared to read and comment on blogs that I'm not interested in or that I don't think are good, just to be polite. It's a waste of time. There, I've said it.<br /><br />Now... I know that my feelings and opinions are not objective facts. I only get to say what is good and what is not from my own point of view. Different strokes for different folks and all that. I think Catherine Cooksons books are crap for example, but she was an extremely successful author whose works sold more than 100 million copies. And<span style="font-style: italic;"> everybody in the whole world</span> seems to love the film The Shawshank Redemption, but I think it's mawkish and trite. There we are - I'm happy to accept that it's just me. By the same token I'm more than happy to accept that not everybody is going to think <span style="font-style: italic;">my</span> blog is good. I can be quite opinionated, perhaps I can take myself a little seriously at times, and my posts tend to be far too long - all things that I know can put readers off. I certainly don't expect anyone to read and comment on my blog simply because I read and comment on theirs. In fact I'm mortified by the idea that someone might comment on my space simply to be polite - I'd much rather they didn't to be honest.<br /><br />One of my favourite bloggers of all is<a href="http://thebhj.com/"> Black Hockey Jesus</a> (or BHJ.) He's a talented, funny, brutally honest and clever man who is also capable of writing that is so delicate, subtle and beautiful, it can take your breath away. I was re-reading <a href="http://thebhj.com/journal/2010/2/17/juicy-blog-whore-gossip-where-names-are-named.html">this post</a> of his last night (which by the way is neither delicate, subtle nor beautiful) and the comments that followed it, and really thinking about the questions it posed - one of which was this, which actually began life as a question on formspring:<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">“Would you concede that you ‘used’ certain bloggers you don’t respect and never did in order to get more attention early on?”</span><br /><br />Now I'm proud to say that I haven't ever done that. I<span style="font-style: italic;"> have</span> courted some bloggers unashamedly, leaving them lots of comments and hoping that they would notice, read my blog, and like my stuff too. BUT the crucial difference is that I have only done this with bloggers that I genuinely really admire. I have left them lots of comments because their writing has inspired me to do so. I have wanted to make a connection with them because I have found them interesting and truly liked what they have to say and the way they say it.<br /><br />Ultimately I think that being authentic is more important than being scrupulously polite. There is nothing appealing in falsity. I like to think that I'm courteous and friendly, but I'm not going to comment unless I mean it. On the other side of the coin you can know that if I do sometimes comment on your posts then that is because I have felt honestly inspired to do so and because I truly rate your writing.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">I am interested to know what other bloggers feel about this.</span> <span style="font-style: italic;">Do you ever feel under pressure when it comes to reading and commenting?</span>Gappyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15086671907412626209noreply@blogger.com30