shewring

Bad choices

We've been having a conversation this weekend about where we live. This started with a bonfire visit to a friend's house in Derbyshire, a house with big rooms and lots of them, a garden, space, all that kind of thing. In other words, not a smallish, ex-council flat in Central London.

"Why do all our friends have better houses than we do?" our nine year old asks.

We explain that we are fortunate enough to have two houses, which means that they both have to be very small.

He isn't really convinced.

The thing is, we say, we are lucky to live right in the centre of London. It's a totally awesome place to live. We start to say things like, "When we were young, living in Northern suburbia, we dreamed of this kind of location," but, as he has always lived in W1, he has no comparison. It seems that, at nine years old, it's unreasonable to expect him to appreciate the worth of location, location, location.

Most of the children at your school live in flats like ours, we say. Smaller probably, and with more siblings to fill them. It's just that our friends, people we know through work and university, they have just chosen to live further away where they can afford a house. But it might take those parents an hour or more to get to work. You wouldn't like that, would you? Not seeing much of us during the week?

A non-committal noise comes from the little man.

A moment of silence, then Arthur says, "I suppose your friends just made better choices."

Crushing. We are reduced to returning his low blow with one of our own. "Well we could move somewhere else, where we could afford a house but you'd have to leave all your friends." 

He pipes down.

You know you're turning into your parents when...

you feel the need to turn the old sauce bottle upside down on top of the new sauce bottle so as not to waste those hard to reach last few squirts.  More precisely, this is me turning into my dad who, as the years go by, is more and more obsessed with this sort of activity. He's been known to turn batteries upside down, arguing that in some way this extends their life. While I'm not necessarily on side with him on the whole battery project, this evening I have turned two all but empty bottles on their heads - once sauce, one a shampoo. Surely, I'm too young to be turning bottles. Surely.

Copyright humour

If you have any interest in either copyright issues or crazy people, take a look at this. I would tell you what it's about but I'm afraid.

http://www.z-site.net/copyright-notice-by-pz/

Another me

I've just been Googling myself and have been somewhat disturbed to find, among the talk of school governor business and my one short story success, several references to an academic paper I wrote almost ten years ago. It was a long essay really, written as part of my MA in History and looked at the experience of the returning veteran, as depicted in four films. One of my lecturers suggested sending it off to a journal, which I duly did and at the time was thrilled to have it published.  However, "We Didn't Do That, Did We? Representations of the Veteran Experience" (Journal of American and Comparative Cultures 23.4 2000) pretty much marked the beginning and the end of my academic publishing career.

Yet, now I find that it's been cited in at least two places, not least in something called Bombs Away!: representing the air war over Europe and Japan by Wilfried Wilms and William Rasch and in a paper by William Ebenstein, Ph.D called "Toward an Archetypal Psychology of Disability Based on the Hephaestus Myth" published in Disabilities Studies Quarterly. I quote from Mr Ebenstein: "The drama [the film, Coming Home] focuses on the adulterous relationship between the beautiful Sally, played by Jane Fonda, and Luke, a paraplegic Vietnam veteran. 'Sally's sexual liberation is represented by her ability to reach orgasm with Luke, something she could never do with her husband...' writes Anne Shewring (2000). Luke is portrayed as an attractive, sexually active, self-assured person with a disability."

A few things trouble me. Firstly, I don't even understand the title of Mr Ebenstein, Ph.D's paper. To be frank, I am no longer too clear about the title of the journal which took my veteran piece in the first place. More worrying however is the truth that, not only did I once write a sentence beginning, "Sally's sexual liberation is represented by her ability to reach orgasm...", but that anyone else would support their academic arguments based on me writing something containing the words, "Sally's sexual liberation is represented by her ability to reach orgasm..." I'm sure Wilfried, William and William (and what's with the similar names?) are fine fellows with much to say that is worthy and erudite, but quoting Shewring (2000), whoever she is, just seems wrong. 

My Grandma

My 97 year old grandma died recently. This is what I said at her funeral.

Ninety-seven years is a long time, a long life, and if we’re honest, much of my grandmother’s life – certainly the first part - seems to us now like history, a story we can only bring to life through imagination. Her mother, for example, dying after childbirth, or her father, one of over 200,000 men killed during the final Battle of Ypres in 1917.  As an orphan, she was raised by an Aunty here in Great Sutton, and then went into service at Gayton Hall in Parkgate. When she spoke of her days as an upper parlour maid, to me these seemed some of the happiest of her life but still, her world of upstairs-downstairs is largely lost to us now.

But there are some things I do know about my Grandmother.

She was a formidable woman. I’m sure I’m not the only one here who came to dread the words, “just speaking my mind.” Indeed, once my grandmother had arrived a decision it was a brave person who would try to shift her. She was a dedicated Liverpool fan – watching football with her was always a highly partisan affair - and after Hillsborough, she never read The Sun again. Grandma always voted Labour and her interest in and knowledge of politics was robust. I won’t repeat, at least not in church, some of her views on Mrs Thatcher and I like to think my own allegiance to Labour is part of her legacy to me.

In later years, I know her resolve didn’t always seem useful. Her refusal to accept any kind of support made it incredibly difficult to help her. But it was this same stubbornness that kept her in her own home all this time. Until relatively recently, she was cooking her own meals, doing her own cleaning and washing, going to the supermarket and the luncheon club. Not bad for 97.

It was the same stubbornness I suspect that made it possible for my mum to be among the first to go to grammar school; that turned the many houses she lived in, into homes, and ensured that until her final days she was still interested in everyone who came to see her. I know that until just a few days before she died she was talking about her great grandchildren and saying how proud she was that Michael had started at John Moores and that Sarah was doing so well and, in her words, “is such a lovely girl.”  It was also this determination that made her such a source of strength when Jane died.

But, more important than all that, she was my Grandma. She never arrived without a comic or a pocket full of sweets (usually won playing cards at the Over 60s). She was the best babysitter ever, letting us stay up late, cooking crumpets and, yes, playing cards. She knitted weird and wonderful toys and spending the night at her bungalow was a huge treat, sleeping on the little camp-bed in soft flannelette sheets. And then there were our days out in Llandudno, fish and chips and a trip on the Great Orme cable cars. As I looked through photographs over the last few days, I have been reminded that she was present at so many occasions, our graduations, weddings and school plays, and I think that perhaps my mum – a fantastic grandmother in her own right – learned something of the art of grand-mothering from this great example.

And one final thing: while we all hope our families will be long living, the reality is not always easy. Without mum it would have been impossible for grandma to stay living in her own home and I know these last few months and weeks have been very hard, so I think it’s also worth saying just how amazing mum has been.

Thank you for coming and please do come to back to the house. In the tradition of my grandmother, there is a vast amount of cake waiting to be eaten.

Old quiz shows

My nine year old has discovered Challenge TV. We're already enjoying The Crystal Maze (favouring Richard O'Brien over Ed "Tenpole Tudor" Tudor-Pole) as well as the occasional celebrity Family Fortunes. This morning, I found him eating breakfast in front of Brucie and Play Your Cards Right.

"I just love these old quiz shows," he says, taking a bite of sausage sandwich. "I mean look at that. Giant playing cards. That's just brilliant."

Dressing up history

Historical character day at school today. Many children (and teachers) dressed as a vast range of notable figures from the olden days and, in the case of the Y3 girl who came as Michelle Obama, not so olden days. It was all fabulous. Some highlights:

• Y3 Howard Carter meets a real live Y4 Tutankhamun;
• Vincent Van Gogh, complete with nasty ear scar;
• Y3 Hitler having to explain his behaviour to a bunch of feisty Y5 Anne Franks;
• Charles de Gaulle - need I say more?
• Many Cleopatras and Boudiccas - we're big on ancient queens;
• Two Buzz Lightyears as real astronauts;
• A boy dressed as a Chinese Emperor (perhaps), who, when asked who he was, said, "It's a secret."
• Postman Pat;
• Excellent Einstein hair;
• Impressive amount of revolutionaries - Martin Luther King, Malcolm X, Che, Gandhi.
• Our own super cool Al Capone.

A big success. I'm angling to have it repeated next year but with a greater degree of specialism. Twentieth Century British political figures, for example: a Y3 Bonar Law perhaps; a Foundation Stage Hugh Gaitskell or a Y5 Sir Keith Joseph.

Books and children

Book sale day at school. For those not in the swing, this means cases of books arrive at school for children and parents to purchase (and the school gets a bit of money as a result).
We put them in the playground as it was a nice autumnal day and promptly, at 3.30 children came tumbling out of school, noticed the books in the far corner of the playground and tore over, shouting, "It's the books, it's the books." Much browsing, examining and discussion by small people, followed by a large number of sales.
If I were a Daily Mail reader or a member of the Tory party, I'd say this was just consumerism. Thankfully I am neither of those things, and can therefore safely put it down to the shock news that children still like books and that, even here in the inner cities, they can read.

No more news

Depressed at the thought of all the news I'll hear, see and read between now and the election. The long, slow drag as the country inches towards what - Cameron and a bunch of people like Cameron. And all to the soundtrack of John Humphrys and a coterie of his ilk. I guess it was the same just the other way round before the 1997 election, but clearly that was ok, while this is just going to be awful. Not sure I can stand to see any of the Tory Party conference next week. The worst sound in the world - the sound of Conservatives laughing.

Atheism come a-knocking

Two gentlemen from the local Catholic church came calling last night at about 9.30. I was in my pyjamas. Would I like to come to a meeting, they asked, see if I can find a way to let God into my life. I declined their offer, but they persisted. Had I had a bad experience with the Church? Would I not be interested in coming along  to hear about the word of the Lord? One of the fellows looked somewhat miffed, personally offended that I wasn't interested.
I'm wondering why atheists don't go door to door to Christians in the same way. Good evening. We would like to invite you to a meeting to help you find a way to shake God from your life. There'll be tea and biscuits.
But then I guess if your immortal soul isn't in the balance, then why bother.