For an interesting--if depressing--reflection on how Aldous Huxley, author of Brave New World, seems to have been something of a prophet, have a read of Emily Watson's article in Quadrapheme. Because Nineteen-Eighty-Four is sooooo 1989, n'est-ce pas? I mean, now that we're moved on from Stalinism to kindergarten sex-ed, it ain't your grandparents' dystopia no more.
***
I was having a chat with a Fellow Foreign Wife yesterday, and I remembered my first Christmas in Edinburgh, the one in which I couldn't for the life of me remember how to make the Sacred Christmas Bun and ended up crying hysterically on the kitchen floor.
Sadly, too many of our Christmas holidays involve me crying hysterically on the kitchen floor, which is one reason why B.A. is so keen for us to go to Italy this year. I have made a private oath to do as little Christmas baking as possible during Advent, so the cooky-baking madness will not begin until our return.
Yesterday I pondered my need to cook and bake like a maniac in the last few days before Christmas, and of course I am trying to recreate the wonders of family Christmas. I am pretty sure when B.A. and I were courting he promised we would always go "home for Christmas"--and we never have. I was heartbroken about the first missed Christmas, but after six years, I am used to it. Little by little, I get used to my new life in Scotland and the drawbacks bother me less and less.
As I grew up in a town that saw wave after wave of immigrants, I looked forward (as an engaged lady) to discovering what it is like to be oneself an immigrant, and of course I was brought up with a bump against the realities immigrants to Canada often complain about.
The number one issue, since I immigrated for love, is work. Those delightful jobs in Catholic media that would have been my second choice after academia are none so many in Scotland, where Catholics make up only 15% of the population and of those maybe 30% go to Mass on Sunday. And, since I immigrated into my husband's Catholic traditionalism, I am not keen to become a lay chaplain, which is what my M.Div. qualifies me to do. Finally, the two sectors in Edinburgh in which workers are most needed are 1. minimum wage "carers" and 2. retail sales.
How I cope: Freelance for Catholic media and education in communities with more Catholics. Yay, internet!
What complicates all this is (2.) the persistent British class system, which used to put working-class people at a hideous disadvantage, but now puts middle-class outsiders at a disadvantage. If you are deemed to "talk posh" or you obviously aren't "one of us", that stop-gap job can make you miserable. The do-as-little-as-possible-but-look-busy ethos of the latter union era which still persists in places is quite shocking to foreigners, as is the casually sexist and sex-obsessive "banter" that deeply shocked another foreign wife friend of mine.
How I cope: I channel my Scottish-Canadian grandmother, who, like many Scots, loved to chat with bus-drivers and other near strangers. If a Scot in a queue makes some remark about the weather, I agree that it is terrible. If a Scot mentions it is dark for 3 PM, I agree that the nights are fair' drawing in. If my shopping bill is strangely low, I joke about it with the cashier. And I almost always chat with cab drivers, who are fonts of information about a side of Scottish society I rarely see. At the same time, I hang out with the minority within the minority of my religious minority, which fortunately does not mean ISIS-sympathizers, but Latin Mass fans.
Then, of course, (3.) I sound foreign. Thanks to the red hair, pink skin and charity shop wardrobe, I don't look foreign. But naturally as soon as I open my mouth, I can be pegged as foreign. Because the number one non-English group of foreigners in Edinburgh are Polish, I was asked if I were Polish even before I began to learn Polish. Occasionally I am asked if I am American, which can be a bit tricky, as Americans are not universally loved in the UK.
How I cope: Generations of Canadians before me have lost it on Scots assuming that they are Americans, as so in my experience Scots are careful about this. If they ask if I'm American, and I reveal that I am a Canadian, they apologize profusely. After all, if there's anything a Scot hates, it's being mistaken for English.
Meanwhile I am gradually changing my vocabulary and responses to match those around me, being careful, however, not to use any expression my husband does not use. "Ah dinnae mind" ("I don't remember) is right out. I have tried to say "I must go home and make my man's tea" but it sounded false to my ears. We don't have tea, we have dinner. Or supper. And usually after 8 PM, so that is not any kind of "tea" my great-grandfather would have recognized.
I live a pretty quiet life, though, so "Where-are-you-from" does not crop up all that often.
And indeed (4.) I am foreign. Sort of. As my mother is a Scottish-Canadian, with a lot of east-coast Scottish assumptions about saving money, Christian decency, social dynamics, and that the Scots are the SALT of the EARTH, the Scots do not drive me crazy. They seem pretty normal to me, except for the class chippiness and, before the Referendum, any Scottish republicanism. (Horror!) However the Scots are generally too busy to hang out with under-employed foreigners. If I lived in Toronto, I would probably be too busy with work, family and old friends to go about making new foreign friends myself.
How I Cope: Polska! Polska! Polska! The Poles are foreign; I'm foreign. What better way to find togetherness in voluntary exile than hanging out with other exiles? As a matter of fact, though, my list of fellow foreigner friends and acquaintances also includes English, Americans, Italians, and an Australian. Meanwhile, I have gradually stopped celebrating Canadian holidays. As I have no Canadian friends here, it makes no sense to cook up a huge dinner whose special significance was lost on everyone but me. I needed them at first--Thanksgiving and Hallowe'en--but now I don't.
My Polish class has a fair number of other foreigners, and swing-dancing is incredibly pan-European.
IN CONCLUSION: Marrying a Scot and then whisking off to his flat in the Scottish Historical House for which he works takes some adjustment. My adjustment was relatively easy because my mother is a Scottish-Canadian whose Scots Protestant grandparents came from roughly the same culture I now live in. It's easy to like people who remind you of your beloved grandmother, and it's reasonably easy to channel your own grandmother. The biggest headaches are the job market and sounding foreign--although this latter problem is less of a problem now that I have started automatically making the appropriate responses to Scottish questions. (e.g. "What do you think of X town?" "Weeeeellllll......")
That said, 21st century Scots are a lot different from 20th century Scottish-Canadians, so many contemporary realities confuse or trouble me, from public female drunkenness to sudden outbreaks of street violence to Scottish republicanism, for in my view it undercuts the unity inherent in being British. However, all places have their ups and downs. The important thing for me is that B.A., who does not have a migrant nature, is happy in his home and that I, who do have a migrant nature, get to leave Scotland from time to time, especially to return to Canada to see my family and old friends.
Showing posts with label Great Britain. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Great Britain. Show all posts
Thursday, 3 December 2015
Wednesday, 29 July 2015
Lessons about Singles at Swing
Yes, it's another post about swing-dancing. But I'm fascinated by swing-dancing, now that I think of swing-dancing as an art and not as a way to meet "the One." The emotional stakes are not so high. I can sit like a cushion on a chair all night, ignored by all, and then go home to my doting husband. I mention this not to rub it in, but to remind myself that I am in a much different situation from that of my Single readers.
Nevertheless, I do not like sitting like a cushion on a chair all night, ignored by all, so I practice as much as possible and take all the lessons my conscience says we can afford, because the number one way to get oneself asked to dance is to be a good dancer. Therefore last weekend I went to an all-day swing dance class, taught by two visiting Americans. Naturally, I learned about more than dancing.
First, I learned that there are TWO overlapping swing dancing communities in Edinburgh, including a host of people who can't make it out to my community's Wednesday nights. Second, I learned that there were a number of people from my own community who are so committed to improving their swing-dancing that they will dedicate a whole Saturday (and £35) to it. Third, I learned that the travelling Canadian who had come to Wednesday night had signed on for the Saturday, too--which must have taken advance planning, now that I think about it, as enrollment was limited. Fourth, I learned that swing-dancing can be taught in a really sexist way.
Oh Edinburgh, Edinburgh. I appreciate the gentleness of your swing-dancing culture, and your constant emphasis on Leader and Follower and quiet assertion that man or woman can choose to be either. I praise you for this not because I think men and women are the same, but because Saturday reminded me of the strong disadvantages involved in being a Follower, especially when the Lead is a man.
I don't want to beat up on the poor American instructor, who is a really great dancer and no doubt a legend in the worldwide swing community, etc., so I will not get into the nitty-gritty of why I felt uncomfortable with his sexualization of swing-dancing, his nudge-nudge cries to the men to "use" their partners, etc. Instead I will coolly observe that the number one sin of male Leads is to blame their Followers for their own mistakes. And this is very much worth observing, if you are at swing-dancing to make friends.
Meanwhile, the two lessons about Singles I want to talk about today are 1. the brilliance of getting involved in a social-dancing community and 2. learning about men from the way they dance.
The travelling Canadian, in whom I took a patriotic interest, loves to travel and wherever he travels, he tries to go to swing-dancing. This is not unusual in swing-dancers, but it is brilliant. I love to travel alone, but I hate staying in a foreign place alone, and I always scurry back to my lodging before dark. During a long, ill-thought-out week in Florence, I went to daily Mass every day, so as to see the same people. They were mostly old ladies in surgical socks, but I was heartened when I saw on the third day that they were all watching to see if I would turn up again.
Well, I had the right idea, but social dancers take it even further: instead of merely being with like-minded people, they interact with them in a mutually agreeable activity. When next I am in Krakow, I will see if I can find a swing-dance night, for whatever my linguistic skills, I can certainly dance in Polish. It would give me something fun to do in the evening, and get me past that whole fear-of-foreign-darkness problem.
This leaping into a foreign dance scene is, once again, easier for Leaders than for Followers, for Leads always do the asking, whereas Followers are merely driven to it. Because I ask Leaders to dance when nobody has asked me to dance for a bit, I know perfectly well that it must be intimidating to ask a Follower to dance. However, all Followers want to dance and most women are at a social dance because they want to dance. So Followers almost never say no, whereas Leads occasionally just moan and groan and say "It's too fast" or "I'm tired." I'm not sure, but I think sometimes Leads take revenge on not-so-skilled-yet Followers for daring to ask them to dance by flinging us wildly about the room. At any rate, I think very carefully before I ask one of the Lords of Creation to dance. "Is he a nice guy?" is uppermost on my mind.
But do not let me put you off the whole idea. If you can think of another worldwide, weekly social activity in which people share a skill that you think you might enjoy developing, then I recommend taking it up. The Canadian chap made at least three Facebook friends from the local swing-dance community, chatted a lot, danced a lot, and went to lunch with little me. (I invited, he paid--which was very handsome of him.) He is a good dancer--probably advanced-beginner, like me--and not at all egotistical about it.
This brings me to Lesson 2, which is that you can learn a lot about men from the way they dance--or rather, what they act like when they're dancing with you. I am tempted to lump them into groups:
1. The Blamer. The Blamer tells you whenever you have done something wrong, or even when you haven't. The Blamer says "Can I give you some tips?" and then gives you the tips before you have had a chance to say "No." This behaviour is banned in our Code of Conduct, but The Blamer needs no stinking Codes of Conducts.
As annoying as The Blamer is, he fascinates me because blaming women (and others) is the Ur sin of men. Adam did it. Even if it turns out the story of Adam-and-Eve wasn't exactly like it says in Genesis, it sure has the ring of authenticity when Adam says "The woman You gave me tempted me." It was HER fault. It was YOUR fault. Happily for me, at the end of the evening, I get to go home to B.A. who is patience incarnate and generally passes over my multiple faults with no more than a sigh. He never blames me for his own faults, whatever they may be. (He must have some; maybe he saves them for work.)
2. The Diplomat. The Diplomat is a very good dancer, and he takes his role as a Lead extremely seriously, as if he belongs to the Lead-Knights of Our Lady of Swing-Dancing. The Diplomat believes that a Lead's primary purpose in life is to make his Follower feel happy and confident on the dance floor. He gives strong and clear cues, he smiles at his partner, and he gauges whether or not his Follower is up to such advanced tricks as the Texas Tommy. He apologizes if he tries it, and she is not. "My fault!" says the Diplomat cheerily. The Diplomat is, in fact, a self-appointed ambassador for the Nation of Swing, and so he continues to ask beginning Followers to dance, so that they too may become citizens of that happy country one day.
Naturally I love The Diplomat, and if he teaches classes, I take every single one. I also say, "Would you mind if I asked you for for some feedback?" and "Do you take private students?" and "Have you met my pretty friend Betsy?" Just kidding--so far--on that final statement. The best Diplomat I know already has a girlfriend.
3. The Nervous Recruit. The Nervous Recruit is sometimes also a Blamer, but happily he usually isn't. In fact, he is often a better dancer than he gives himself credit for. The Nervous Recruit is the most likely to wail "It's too fast" and "Maybe the next one." If he isn't a Blamer, all this nervousness suggests an attractive masculine humility. Meanwhile, the Follower has to make a difficult decision: does she start to lead a tiny bit? With a Nervous Recruit who suddenly forgetten all he has ever been taught, I think this can be a good idea. It's best to do it verbally. I think this is called "making suggestions"--not what he can do to become a better dancer--not your job--but what you can do together for the next two bars.
If the night is wearing on and nobody has asked me to dance for awhile, I will scan the chairs for a Nervous Recruit. Some of them would probably make strong-minded girls excellent boyfriends, ready to compromise on what film to see after the requisite face-saving bout of argumentation.
4. The Swing Obsessive. The Swing Obsessive has been dancing two nights a week every week for the past four hundred years, with or without a Follower: it obviously doesn't matter to him. If he wants to do the most complex routine at the fastest speeds, he's going to do it, dragging his poor Follower around with him as her eyes rattle in her head.
Avoid. Avoid. Avoid. Avoid. Avoid. Still, if you can get such a man to notice you for you, your evenings for the next fifty years are all planned out.
5. The Absent Beloved. The Absent Beloved is all the boyfriends and husbands who can't or won't dance and refuse to go to dance class. This is such a phenomenon that there is a popular swing-dance T-shirt featuring the motto "Why Can't My Boyfriend Dance?" This T-shirt, now that I think about it, could be a subtle way to inform all the men around that you are there only to dance. At any rate, The Absent Beloved is the man you really want to dance with, but you probably never shall. Weep weep.
Meanwhile, your chances of meeting your Future Beloved at Swing Dance may be small if your number one criteria is that he be Catholic and you live in a Protestant-majority country. Go to get out of your Catholic bubble and make friends. Meanwhile, I may start a league of Catholic swing-dancers. I am not sure how yet, but I will give the idea some thought. Perhaps we should start with some secret symbol. Hey! How about a gold crucifix on a gold chain?
6. The Perve. I have never come across the Perve, but the longer you are in the swing community, the more you hear or--more likely, read--about him. The Perve can either be some lump who takes advantage of the close position of dancing to grope you, or he can be some charismatic teacher who grooms star-struck students for sex. The basic kind of Perve gets thrown out on his ear at once; all you have to do is tell the teachers or the dance organizers (e.g. the ticket-seller), and he is gone. The advanced kind can be avoided if you follow the simple maximum: "Never sleep with your teacher unless you have married him."
I suspect the basic Perve exists at all only because of the inequalities that seem to exist between Leads (usually men) and Followers (usually women), which should be minimized as much as possible. If you feel that you are being led around like a horse or a donkey or some other brute beast, you are doing it wrong. There are all sorts of things a Follower must do, and one is to keep one's shoulders back and upper arms strong, holding one's forearms in the same position and clamping down gently but firmly on the Lead's arm. A Follower must also have the guts to say cheerfully "It would be easier if you put your hand higher on my back" if there is any doubt about where that hand is going. In my case, 100% of the time, the guy has just been a Nervous Recruit.
7. The Amusingly Elderly. One of the nice things about swing-dancing is that adults of all ages take it up. Therefore, no-one, no matter how young, should view it as a dire insult if an old man asks her to dance. The King of Swing, Frankie Manning, danced until he died in his nineties. The old guys may be great dancers; one of my favourite dance partners is a tiny Polish man who says, "This is how I learned it in Warsaw!" before doing whatever it was they were dancing in Warsaw in, like, 1955. He does it well, and it works with what I know, so it's all good, and I really hope he was not in the SB.
That said, there are men in their 60s (not their 70s and 80s, who giggle when they dance like they are cheating Father Time and getting away with it), who are bossy and boring and ask women 30 years younger than themselves for coffee and get humph-y when the women say "No." However, I have come across only one man like that, and I haven't seen him for a long time. Men who come to swing dance only to meet women either become interested in the dance for itself or disappear.
***
Goodness. It's past NOON! Alas, I feel I am on my way to becoming a different kind of Swing Obsessive.
Nevertheless, I do not like sitting like a cushion on a chair all night, ignored by all, so I practice as much as possible and take all the lessons my conscience says we can afford, because the number one way to get oneself asked to dance is to be a good dancer. Therefore last weekend I went to an all-day swing dance class, taught by two visiting Americans. Naturally, I learned about more than dancing.
First, I learned that there are TWO overlapping swing dancing communities in Edinburgh, including a host of people who can't make it out to my community's Wednesday nights. Second, I learned that there were a number of people from my own community who are so committed to improving their swing-dancing that they will dedicate a whole Saturday (and £35) to it. Third, I learned that the travelling Canadian who had come to Wednesday night had signed on for the Saturday, too--which must have taken advance planning, now that I think about it, as enrollment was limited. Fourth, I learned that swing-dancing can be taught in a really sexist way.
Oh Edinburgh, Edinburgh. I appreciate the gentleness of your swing-dancing culture, and your constant emphasis on Leader and Follower and quiet assertion that man or woman can choose to be either. I praise you for this not because I think men and women are the same, but because Saturday reminded me of the strong disadvantages involved in being a Follower, especially when the Lead is a man.
I don't want to beat up on the poor American instructor, who is a really great dancer and no doubt a legend in the worldwide swing community, etc., so I will not get into the nitty-gritty of why I felt uncomfortable with his sexualization of swing-dancing, his nudge-nudge cries to the men to "use" their partners, etc. Instead I will coolly observe that the number one sin of male Leads is to blame their Followers for their own mistakes. And this is very much worth observing, if you are at swing-dancing to make friends.
Meanwhile, the two lessons about Singles I want to talk about today are 1. the brilliance of getting involved in a social-dancing community and 2. learning about men from the way they dance.
The travelling Canadian, in whom I took a patriotic interest, loves to travel and wherever he travels, he tries to go to swing-dancing. This is not unusual in swing-dancers, but it is brilliant. I love to travel alone, but I hate staying in a foreign place alone, and I always scurry back to my lodging before dark. During a long, ill-thought-out week in Florence, I went to daily Mass every day, so as to see the same people. They were mostly old ladies in surgical socks, but I was heartened when I saw on the third day that they were all watching to see if I would turn up again.
Well, I had the right idea, but social dancers take it even further: instead of merely being with like-minded people, they interact with them in a mutually agreeable activity. When next I am in Krakow, I will see if I can find a swing-dance night, for whatever my linguistic skills, I can certainly dance in Polish. It would give me something fun to do in the evening, and get me past that whole fear-of-foreign-darkness problem.
This leaping into a foreign dance scene is, once again, easier for Leaders than for Followers, for Leads always do the asking, whereas Followers are merely driven to it. Because I ask Leaders to dance when nobody has asked me to dance for a bit, I know perfectly well that it must be intimidating to ask a Follower to dance. However, all Followers want to dance and most women are at a social dance because they want to dance. So Followers almost never say no, whereas Leads occasionally just moan and groan and say "It's too fast" or "I'm tired." I'm not sure, but I think sometimes Leads take revenge on not-so-skilled-yet Followers for daring to ask them to dance by flinging us wildly about the room. At any rate, I think very carefully before I ask one of the Lords of Creation to dance. "Is he a nice guy?" is uppermost on my mind.
But do not let me put you off the whole idea. If you can think of another worldwide, weekly social activity in which people share a skill that you think you might enjoy developing, then I recommend taking it up. The Canadian chap made at least three Facebook friends from the local swing-dance community, chatted a lot, danced a lot, and went to lunch with little me. (I invited, he paid--which was very handsome of him.) He is a good dancer--probably advanced-beginner, like me--and not at all egotistical about it.
This brings me to Lesson 2, which is that you can learn a lot about men from the way they dance--or rather, what they act like when they're dancing with you. I am tempted to lump them into groups:
1. The Blamer. The Blamer tells you whenever you have done something wrong, or even when you haven't. The Blamer says "Can I give you some tips?" and then gives you the tips before you have had a chance to say "No." This behaviour is banned in our Code of Conduct, but The Blamer needs no stinking Codes of Conducts.
As annoying as The Blamer is, he fascinates me because blaming women (and others) is the Ur sin of men. Adam did it. Even if it turns out the story of Adam-and-Eve wasn't exactly like it says in Genesis, it sure has the ring of authenticity when Adam says "The woman You gave me tempted me." It was HER fault. It was YOUR fault. Happily for me, at the end of the evening, I get to go home to B.A. who is patience incarnate and generally passes over my multiple faults with no more than a sigh. He never blames me for his own faults, whatever they may be. (He must have some; maybe he saves them for work.)
2. The Diplomat. The Diplomat is a very good dancer, and he takes his role as a Lead extremely seriously, as if he belongs to the Lead-Knights of Our Lady of Swing-Dancing. The Diplomat believes that a Lead's primary purpose in life is to make his Follower feel happy and confident on the dance floor. He gives strong and clear cues, he smiles at his partner, and he gauges whether or not his Follower is up to such advanced tricks as the Texas Tommy. He apologizes if he tries it, and she is not. "My fault!" says the Diplomat cheerily. The Diplomat is, in fact, a self-appointed ambassador for the Nation of Swing, and so he continues to ask beginning Followers to dance, so that they too may become citizens of that happy country one day.
Naturally I love The Diplomat, and if he teaches classes, I take every single one. I also say, "Would you mind if I asked you for for some feedback?" and "Do you take private students?" and "Have you met my pretty friend Betsy?" Just kidding--so far--on that final statement. The best Diplomat I know already has a girlfriend.
3. The Nervous Recruit. The Nervous Recruit is sometimes also a Blamer, but happily he usually isn't. In fact, he is often a better dancer than he gives himself credit for. The Nervous Recruit is the most likely to wail "It's too fast" and "Maybe the next one." If he isn't a Blamer, all this nervousness suggests an attractive masculine humility. Meanwhile, the Follower has to make a difficult decision: does she start to lead a tiny bit? With a Nervous Recruit who suddenly forgetten all he has ever been taught, I think this can be a good idea. It's best to do it verbally. I think this is called "making suggestions"--not what he can do to become a better dancer--not your job--but what you can do together for the next two bars.
If the night is wearing on and nobody has asked me to dance for awhile, I will scan the chairs for a Nervous Recruit. Some of them would probably make strong-minded girls excellent boyfriends, ready to compromise on what film to see after the requisite face-saving bout of argumentation.
4. The Swing Obsessive. The Swing Obsessive has been dancing two nights a week every week for the past four hundred years, with or without a Follower: it obviously doesn't matter to him. If he wants to do the most complex routine at the fastest speeds, he's going to do it, dragging his poor Follower around with him as her eyes rattle in her head.
Avoid. Avoid. Avoid. Avoid. Avoid. Still, if you can get such a man to notice you for you, your evenings for the next fifty years are all planned out.
5. The Absent Beloved. The Absent Beloved is all the boyfriends and husbands who can't or won't dance and refuse to go to dance class. This is such a phenomenon that there is a popular swing-dance T-shirt featuring the motto "Why Can't My Boyfriend Dance?" This T-shirt, now that I think about it, could be a subtle way to inform all the men around that you are there only to dance. At any rate, The Absent Beloved is the man you really want to dance with, but you probably never shall. Weep weep.
Meanwhile, your chances of meeting your Future Beloved at Swing Dance may be small if your number one criteria is that he be Catholic and you live in a Protestant-majority country. Go to get out of your Catholic bubble and make friends. Meanwhile, I may start a league of Catholic swing-dancers. I am not sure how yet, but I will give the idea some thought. Perhaps we should start with some secret symbol. Hey! How about a gold crucifix on a gold chain?
6. The Perve. I have never come across the Perve, but the longer you are in the swing community, the more you hear or--more likely, read--about him. The Perve can either be some lump who takes advantage of the close position of dancing to grope you, or he can be some charismatic teacher who grooms star-struck students for sex. The basic kind of Perve gets thrown out on his ear at once; all you have to do is tell the teachers or the dance organizers (e.g. the ticket-seller), and he is gone. The advanced kind can be avoided if you follow the simple maximum: "Never sleep with your teacher unless you have married him."
I suspect the basic Perve exists at all only because of the inequalities that seem to exist between Leads (usually men) and Followers (usually women), which should be minimized as much as possible. If you feel that you are being led around like a horse or a donkey or some other brute beast, you are doing it wrong. There are all sorts of things a Follower must do, and one is to keep one's shoulders back and upper arms strong, holding one's forearms in the same position and clamping down gently but firmly on the Lead's arm. A Follower must also have the guts to say cheerfully "It would be easier if you put your hand higher on my back" if there is any doubt about where that hand is going. In my case, 100% of the time, the guy has just been a Nervous Recruit.
7. The Amusingly Elderly. One of the nice things about swing-dancing is that adults of all ages take it up. Therefore, no-one, no matter how young, should view it as a dire insult if an old man asks her to dance. The King of Swing, Frankie Manning, danced until he died in his nineties. The old guys may be great dancers; one of my favourite dance partners is a tiny Polish man who says, "This is how I learned it in Warsaw!" before doing whatever it was they were dancing in Warsaw in, like, 1955. He does it well, and it works with what I know, so it's all good, and I really hope he was not in the SB.
That said, there are men in their 60s (not their 70s and 80s, who giggle when they dance like they are cheating Father Time and getting away with it), who are bossy and boring and ask women 30 years younger than themselves for coffee and get humph-y when the women say "No." However, I have come across only one man like that, and I haven't seen him for a long time. Men who come to swing dance only to meet women either become interested in the dance for itself or disappear.
***
Goodness. It's past NOON! Alas, I feel I am on my way to becoming a different kind of Swing Obsessive.
Monday, 18 May 2015
London Lovely London
I have written 800 words on visiting the Benedictine Sisters of Saint Cecilia at Ryde for the Toronto Catholic Register, and now I can tell you all about wonderful London. I will tell you about Saint Cecilia's later, or link to CWR if I convince them they should pay me to tell them all about it. Frankly, I think they should because if there is something Catholic girls in the USA and Canada should know, it is that there is this WONDERFUL abbey in England where they can live safely and happily for the rest of their earthly lives singing to God, sewing habits, baking communion bread, reading theology and tending to bees. They can even see their worldly friends if the worldly friends come to visit on the right days. The worldly friends bring their babies, too, which seems to be a great treat for one lovely older nun I spoke to, who poked through the grille at a blond toddler as if she wished to eat him.
However, now I will tell you all about London, which was full of excitement and handsome men. But first I will ask the heavens why I knew so few handsome Single Catholic men when I was 27 but know so many now that I am 39++ and married to boot? Were they hiding under rocks until I was safely married to someone else? (I don't mean the current crop, who were still in school. I mean my generation of Single Catholic men; surely there were some good-lookers among them? Now that I think about it, I am reasonably sure there were.) I suppose what it is, is that the Handsome Single Catholic Men of the World now agree that I am a safe sort of woman to know, whereas perhaps I was not when I was in my twenties. Which, to be honest, was perfectly true.
Meanwhile, I am married to the sort of man all these young men like, which is also tremendously helpful. And to cut to the chase, when I was still on the train to London's Waterloo Station, I texted the famous Andrew Cusack and suggested we have a drink. Andrew very kindly dropped everything, met me under the big clock at 20.20 h, and whisked me away on foot through the drizzle to the Scooter Caffé. There he bought me a marvellously strong Gin and Tonic, and we got caught up on news.
When I realized I must check into my hotel, Andrew gallantly accompanied me back to Waterloo Station, helped me buy the Oyster (transportation) card so essential to London life, and taught me the way to King's Cross station. That one Gin and Tonic had rendered me rather drunk, so it was a good thing I kept chanting his instructions in my mind. The London Underground is one of the wonders of the modern world and more complicated than the human digestive system.
My hotel was the Tune near King's Cross, and it is one of the cheapest options in London that is actually clean and safe with hot running water. I recommend its spartan joys wholeheartedly. By the way, I travelled only with a light knapsack, a small leather shoulder-bag and a plastic shopping bag with my sunhat in it. I put all my clothes in freezer bags, squished the air out, and put them in the knapsack. I brought only a guide book and my travel diary and no other books. The only way to travel, mes amis.
The next day was Friday and I woke up feeling excited and adventurous. My first port of call was Aux Pains de Papy, which has the best croissants outside France, and you can watch the bakers baking as they shout to each other in French. There is very little seating, but I managed to score a seat and write in my diary as I sipped and munched, watched and listened.
Then back in King's Cross Station, I met my dear friend Calvinist Cath, who commutes to London every day (!) from her new husband's home in the south of England. We went to South Kensington and sat outside a delightful looking café until the Victoria and Albert Museum opened, and then we went to its café. The service, dispensed resentfully by Continentals, was terrible, but the Morris Room, in which we sat, was very pretty. William Morris himself designed it, and I love his stuff, and I am sure he would have loved me on account of my hair.
We had a marvellous chat, I telling her all about Berenike being walled up alive in a Romish convent, and both of us pondering the obsession of traditionalist men with feminine modesty, our make-up and clothes, etc. Free Presbyterian ladies almost never wear make-up, which yet another contrast to Catholic me and my inconsistent attitude towards Aquinas on the issue. We said good-bye at 13.15. Cath scurried off to meet her husband for lunch, and I ambled up Exhibition Road to meet my dashing Polish Pretend Son at Ognisko.
Ognisko is a restaurant in the Polish Hearth Club, which was founded during the Second World War to house snazzier Polish refugees raising funds to help less snazzy Polish refugees. Naturally they were all penniless, but some were princes and princesses, which still meant something in 1940, and if you were a Polish princess, you had to raise funds for others, even if you yourself had nothing to eat. There is an exciting membership board out in front with the names of princes and princesses written on it. Today it is a good idea to become a member if you can, for then you get 20% off your bill at Ognisko, which is delicious but expensive. PPS surveyed the menu grumbling and then arguing that pork crackling isn't Polish.
Being a super-trad, I have done the research, and in the Old Days you could drink animal broths on Friday and eat animal fat; you just couldn't eat animal flesh. And that is how I justify ordering the Polish pork crackling; truly one of the most delicious foodstuffs I know, and after eating some PPS slowly began to agree without giving up his central argument. I also had chłodnik, which is a cold beet soup, whereas PPS had eel, and we both had the kopytka (dumplings) with forest mushrooms, and drank three shots of vodka each. PPS voiced some concern that this might be a lot of vodka for me, but I had had a heavy lunch and the only effect it had was to give me the courage to speak Polish, which I did slowly on the way to our postprandial café, like this:
"I would like--to go--to Ola's wedding--with B.A.--but--I fear--that we will not have--enough money. If--we will have--enough money--I will go--to Ola's wedding--with B.A.--but--if--we will not have--enough money--I will go only with [other female guest]."
I do not know where we had coffee, for I was thinking about Polish grammar and then about Polish politics and then about whether the chap beside us was listening to PPS's political opinions and then about how to get PPS to stop talking about them before we were torn apart by a mob. Anyway, PPS gallantly got the coffee, and it was very good coffee, and afterwards he saw me to South Kensington Station, for I had said, "Next--I wish--to go to--the swing-dancing shop--for shoes."
Sadly, the shoes I found at the swing-dancing shop were made in China, overpriced and of poor quality, so I didn't get any. Instead I got lost, but then I found myself and went for a walk down Oxford Street (very noisy, ugly and cheap), St James Street (I changed my heels for flat shoes), New Bond Street (much more my sort of thing) and Old Bond Street (over-the-top expensive) and along Pall Mall to Trafalgar Square where I found the National Portrait Gallery and had a glorious two hours. The Gallery was free, and the locker only £1.
At 19: 15 h I rushed to the Underground and went by various trains to Greenwich, to stay with a Polish physicist. She made me a lovely supper and gave me her bed, sleeping on the floor as the ultimate expression of Polish student hospitality, which deeply touched my Scottish-Canadian soul.
The next morning I met Seminarian Pretend Son at Liverpool Street Station, and we went to the "Pop-up Vintage Fair" in Old Spitalfields Market. We didn't think much of it, though, so we went to Brick Lane, and after a fruitless quest for swing dance shoes, we had a scrumptious lunch at the unassuming and very authentic Amar Gaon: Authentic Bangladeshi Restaurant and Sweets. SPS paid, and he said it was very reasonable, so I recommend it as a nice cheap place to eat if you find yourself in Brick Lane. (No. 50 Brick Lane). Brick Lane has a bewildering number of curry houses, each claiming to have won various awards, including one for best curry house in Brick Lane. We picked Amar Gaon because of its picturesque cones of grains and dried fruit, plus the cafeteria-style counter and the men sitting in the back watching Bangladeshi TV.
Afterwards I said a fond good-bye to Seminarian Pretend Son, who would have made any one of you a good husband had you thought to snaffle him before he went into the Sem, and don't say I never told you about him, because I did, photo and all, and went back to Greenwich.
In Greenwich I met a handsome (but engaged to my excellent Polish hostess of the night before) blond, blue-eyed Polish Astrophysicist for beer. After two half pints of good English beer, I was led through Greenwich Park and then showed the street to Maze Hill station and left to get on with it. And so I took various trains back to King's Cross station and got on the 18 h Virgin-East Coast train for Edinburgh. I went to the First Class Lounge, but the mean man said I had to pay £5 because I had an "advance" First Class ticket, so like any proper Scot I thought that was outrageous and went back downstairs to await my train for free.
And let me tell you I was so tired, I was deeply deeply grateful I had bought the £55 advance ticket for First Class, for when you go from London to Edinburgh by rail, First Class is the way to go. You get food and drink and space to move.
I have not yet worked out how much my London trip cost, for I know only the cost of the whole trip south overall, from Edinburgh to Southampton to Ryde to London to Edinburgh again. However, I can tell you that you are very fortunate if you can find a good London hotel room under £80. (Do reserve in advance.) I did not pay the £5 for a towel, by the way. I used my jolly old t-shirt and hung it up to dry. Next time, however, I will remember to bring a bit of soap.
My big luxury was lunch at Ognisko, which became a smaller luxury when PPS insisted on paying half. I strongly recommend buying sandwiches as you go; you can get good tasty sandwiches in any grocery store for £3 or less. Naturally your biggest expense--for many top museums and art galleries are free--is likely to be transportation. From Thursday night to Saturday evening, I spent approximately £22 on Tube trains and the Docklands Railway, £5 of that being the deposit for the Oyster card. Meanwhile, if anyone buys you a beer, cocktail, meal or anything else in London, you should express your sincere gratitude, for in general London is ex-pen-sive. And, thus, I thank Andrew, Calvinist Cath, Polish Pretend Son, my Polish Physicist Hostess, Seminarian Pretend Son and the Polish Astrophysicist for their kindness. London is splendid, but what I really love best about world travel is sitting down at tables with friends.
P.S. Apparently I missed a King's Cross football riot by minutes.
Update: Just remembered: the Ognisko waitress gave me the "Who are you?" double-take when PPS began to order in Polish, as if up to that moment she had taken me for his aunt/mother/older sister. Hee hee! What joys await my younger readers as you get older! Woot!
Update 2: Of course it might have been something he said, e.g. "Hrabina [Historical House] jest taka głupia, ona myśli, że skwarki to polskie." That would do it.
However, now I will tell you all about London, which was full of excitement and handsome men. But first I will ask the heavens why I knew so few handsome Single Catholic men when I was 27 but know so many now that I am 39++ and married to boot? Were they hiding under rocks until I was safely married to someone else? (I don't mean the current crop, who were still in school. I mean my generation of Single Catholic men; surely there were some good-lookers among them? Now that I think about it, I am reasonably sure there were.) I suppose what it is, is that the Handsome Single Catholic Men of the World now agree that I am a safe sort of woman to know, whereas perhaps I was not when I was in my twenties. Which, to be honest, was perfectly true.
Meanwhile, I am married to the sort of man all these young men like, which is also tremendously helpful. And to cut to the chase, when I was still on the train to London's Waterloo Station, I texted the famous Andrew Cusack and suggested we have a drink. Andrew very kindly dropped everything, met me under the big clock at 20.20 h, and whisked me away on foot through the drizzle to the Scooter Caffé. There he bought me a marvellously strong Gin and Tonic, and we got caught up on news.
When I realized I must check into my hotel, Andrew gallantly accompanied me back to Waterloo Station, helped me buy the Oyster (transportation) card so essential to London life, and taught me the way to King's Cross station. That one Gin and Tonic had rendered me rather drunk, so it was a good thing I kept chanting his instructions in my mind. The London Underground is one of the wonders of the modern world and more complicated than the human digestive system.
My hotel was the Tune near King's Cross, and it is one of the cheapest options in London that is actually clean and safe with hot running water. I recommend its spartan joys wholeheartedly. By the way, I travelled only with a light knapsack, a small leather shoulder-bag and a plastic shopping bag with my sunhat in it. I put all my clothes in freezer bags, squished the air out, and put them in the knapsack. I brought only a guide book and my travel diary and no other books. The only way to travel, mes amis.
The next day was Friday and I woke up feeling excited and adventurous. My first port of call was Aux Pains de Papy, which has the best croissants outside France, and you can watch the bakers baking as they shout to each other in French. There is very little seating, but I managed to score a seat and write in my diary as I sipped and munched, watched and listened.
Then back in King's Cross Station, I met my dear friend Calvinist Cath, who commutes to London every day (!) from her new husband's home in the south of England. We went to South Kensington and sat outside a delightful looking café until the Victoria and Albert Museum opened, and then we went to its café. The service, dispensed resentfully by Continentals, was terrible, but the Morris Room, in which we sat, was very pretty. William Morris himself designed it, and I love his stuff, and I am sure he would have loved me on account of my hair.
We had a marvellous chat, I telling her all about Berenike being walled up alive in a Romish convent, and both of us pondering the obsession of traditionalist men with feminine modesty, our make-up and clothes, etc. Free Presbyterian ladies almost never wear make-up, which yet another contrast to Catholic me and my inconsistent attitude towards Aquinas on the issue. We said good-bye at 13.15. Cath scurried off to meet her husband for lunch, and I ambled up Exhibition Road to meet my dashing Polish Pretend Son at Ognisko.
Ognisko is a restaurant in the Polish Hearth Club, which was founded during the Second World War to house snazzier Polish refugees raising funds to help less snazzy Polish refugees. Naturally they were all penniless, but some were princes and princesses, which still meant something in 1940, and if you were a Polish princess, you had to raise funds for others, even if you yourself had nothing to eat. There is an exciting membership board out in front with the names of princes and princesses written on it. Today it is a good idea to become a member if you can, for then you get 20% off your bill at Ognisko, which is delicious but expensive. PPS surveyed the menu grumbling and then arguing that pork crackling isn't Polish.
Being a super-trad, I have done the research, and in the Old Days you could drink animal broths on Friday and eat animal fat; you just couldn't eat animal flesh. And that is how I justify ordering the Polish pork crackling; truly one of the most delicious foodstuffs I know, and after eating some PPS slowly began to agree without giving up his central argument. I also had chłodnik, which is a cold beet soup, whereas PPS had eel, and we both had the kopytka (dumplings) with forest mushrooms, and drank three shots of vodka each. PPS voiced some concern that this might be a lot of vodka for me, but I had had a heavy lunch and the only effect it had was to give me the courage to speak Polish, which I did slowly on the way to our postprandial café, like this:
"I would like--to go--to Ola's wedding--with B.A.--but--I fear--that we will not have--enough money. If--we will have--enough money--I will go--to Ola's wedding--with B.A.--but--if--we will not have--enough money--I will go only with [other female guest]."
I do not know where we had coffee, for I was thinking about Polish grammar and then about Polish politics and then about whether the chap beside us was listening to PPS's political opinions and then about how to get PPS to stop talking about them before we were torn apart by a mob. Anyway, PPS gallantly got the coffee, and it was very good coffee, and afterwards he saw me to South Kensington Station, for I had said, "Next--I wish--to go to--the swing-dancing shop--for shoes."
Sadly, the shoes I found at the swing-dancing shop were made in China, overpriced and of poor quality, so I didn't get any. Instead I got lost, but then I found myself and went for a walk down Oxford Street (very noisy, ugly and cheap), St James Street (I changed my heels for flat shoes), New Bond Street (much more my sort of thing) and Old Bond Street (over-the-top expensive) and along Pall Mall to Trafalgar Square where I found the National Portrait Gallery and had a glorious two hours. The Gallery was free, and the locker only £1.
At 19: 15 h I rushed to the Underground and went by various trains to Greenwich, to stay with a Polish physicist. She made me a lovely supper and gave me her bed, sleeping on the floor as the ultimate expression of Polish student hospitality, which deeply touched my Scottish-Canadian soul.
The next morning I met Seminarian Pretend Son at Liverpool Street Station, and we went to the "Pop-up Vintage Fair" in Old Spitalfields Market. We didn't think much of it, though, so we went to Brick Lane, and after a fruitless quest for swing dance shoes, we had a scrumptious lunch at the unassuming and very authentic Amar Gaon: Authentic Bangladeshi Restaurant and Sweets. SPS paid, and he said it was very reasonable, so I recommend it as a nice cheap place to eat if you find yourself in Brick Lane. (No. 50 Brick Lane). Brick Lane has a bewildering number of curry houses, each claiming to have won various awards, including one for best curry house in Brick Lane. We picked Amar Gaon because of its picturesque cones of grains and dried fruit, plus the cafeteria-style counter and the men sitting in the back watching Bangladeshi TV.
Afterwards I said a fond good-bye to Seminarian Pretend Son, who would have made any one of you a good husband had you thought to snaffle him before he went into the Sem, and don't say I never told you about him, because I did, photo and all, and went back to Greenwich.
In Greenwich I met a handsome (but engaged to my excellent Polish hostess of the night before) blond, blue-eyed Polish Astrophysicist for beer. After two half pints of good English beer, I was led through Greenwich Park and then showed the street to Maze Hill station and left to get on with it. And so I took various trains back to King's Cross station and got on the 18 h Virgin-East Coast train for Edinburgh. I went to the First Class Lounge, but the mean man said I had to pay £5 because I had an "advance" First Class ticket, so like any proper Scot I thought that was outrageous and went back downstairs to await my train for free.
 |
| It's really there! |
I have not yet worked out how much my London trip cost, for I know only the cost of the whole trip south overall, from Edinburgh to Southampton to Ryde to London to Edinburgh again. However, I can tell you that you are very fortunate if you can find a good London hotel room under £80. (Do reserve in advance.) I did not pay the £5 for a towel, by the way. I used my jolly old t-shirt and hung it up to dry. Next time, however, I will remember to bring a bit of soap.
My big luxury was lunch at Ognisko, which became a smaller luxury when PPS insisted on paying half. I strongly recommend buying sandwiches as you go; you can get good tasty sandwiches in any grocery store for £3 or less. Naturally your biggest expense--for many top museums and art galleries are free--is likely to be transportation. From Thursday night to Saturday evening, I spent approximately £22 on Tube trains and the Docklands Railway, £5 of that being the deposit for the Oyster card. Meanwhile, if anyone buys you a beer, cocktail, meal or anything else in London, you should express your sincere gratitude, for in general London is ex-pen-sive. And, thus, I thank Andrew, Calvinist Cath, Polish Pretend Son, my Polish Physicist Hostess, Seminarian Pretend Son and the Polish Astrophysicist for their kindness. London is splendid, but what I really love best about world travel is sitting down at tables with friends.
P.S. Apparently I missed a King's Cross football riot by minutes.
Update: Just remembered: the Ognisko waitress gave me the "Who are you?" double-take when PPS began to order in Polish, as if up to that moment she had taken me for his aunt/mother/older sister. Hee hee! What joys await my younger readers as you get older! Woot!
Update 2: Of course it might have been something he said, e.g. "Hrabina [Historical House] jest taka głupia, ona myśli, że skwarki to polskie." That would do it.
Monday, 11 May 2015
Ticket to Ryde
Here I am. I have been baking and icing a cake for Benedict and some wandering historians, who are currently wandering through the Historical House. One came wandering upstairs to use the loo, and he reminded me very much of the bearded British academics who used to come wandering into my childhood home. La plus ca change, la plus c'est la meme chose.
Yesterday I busied myself with staring at maps and railway and ferry schedules, for I am soon going on a journey to the South of England. First I shall fly to Southampton, and then I shall take a train to Portsmouth Harbour. From there I shall take a boat to Ryde on the Isle of Wight, where I shall meet my friends Aelianus and Notburga in our B&B. We are gathering to celebrate our great pal Berenike as she takes her First Vows as a Benedictine nun. And of course we will visit her and another great pal, Boeciana-as-was, who is now Sister Mary Something, OSB.
After the wild shindig that is the Cloistered Convent Parlour Visit, I shall rush off to get the return boat to Portsmouth Harbour and take the train to GLORIOUS LONDON. (I hoped to go to Maidstone, but I was defeated by the compilers of train schedules, who quite obviously do not want anyone ever to travel there from anywhere but London.)
I am so terribly excited about going to London I feel less guilty that B.A. has to stay at home. I feel terrible that B.A, who works 9 to 5 (or, really, 10 to 7), cannot go South with me. But on the other hand, LONDON! Eeeeeeee!
Have I mentioned that I really adore London? B.A. does not. He thinks it is too big, which is what all Canadians not from Toronto say about Toronto. At any rate, I do not think London is too big, especially as I do not plan to traipse around the whole thing, but just the parts I like best, especially South Kensington.
More on this anon. Now I must rush off to the Historical Stable-block Contemporary Art Exhibit.
Yesterday I busied myself with staring at maps and railway and ferry schedules, for I am soon going on a journey to the South of England. First I shall fly to Southampton, and then I shall take a train to Portsmouth Harbour. From there I shall take a boat to Ryde on the Isle of Wight, where I shall meet my friends Aelianus and Notburga in our B&B. We are gathering to celebrate our great pal Berenike as she takes her First Vows as a Benedictine nun. And of course we will visit her and another great pal, Boeciana-as-was, who is now Sister Mary Something, OSB.
After the wild shindig that is the Cloistered Convent Parlour Visit, I shall rush off to get the return boat to Portsmouth Harbour and take the train to GLORIOUS LONDON. (I hoped to go to Maidstone, but I was defeated by the compilers of train schedules, who quite obviously do not want anyone ever to travel there from anywhere but London.)
I am so terribly excited about going to London I feel less guilty that B.A. has to stay at home. I feel terrible that B.A, who works 9 to 5 (or, really, 10 to 7), cannot go South with me. But on the other hand, LONDON! Eeeeeeee!
Have I mentioned that I really adore London? B.A. does not. He thinks it is too big, which is what all Canadians not from Toronto say about Toronto. At any rate, I do not think London is too big, especially as I do not plan to traipse around the whole thing, but just the parts I like best, especially South Kensington.
More on this anon. Now I must rush off to the Historical Stable-block Contemporary Art Exhibit.
Wednesday, 22 April 2015
The Hustings in Plato's Cave
Not long ago, I went to a hustings. What is a hustings? I'm glad you asked, for I had to myself. A hustings is a political meeting in which candidates for office sit at at table and present themselves and their ideas to the electorate. It might be sponsored by this group or that.
I was invited to go to a hustings sponsored by "Women for Independence" and the very unusual thing about it, I thought, was that only women were invited. The only men in the lecture hall were candidates. The other unusual thing about the meeting, for me, was that there was a cash bar open, and I was very glad of it, for I was hot and thirsty by the time I walked to the town and wanted a gin and tonic. The women could take our glasses into the lecture hall, too, to my great comfort and joy. I guess it never occurred to anyone that a fight could break out, "Women for Independence" (and I, a unionist) glassing each other left and right.
Being so much of a part of my new Scottish community as to attend political meetings is a great thrill for me. I have met very interesting people through politically active friends, people I would never have met through church or the university because, not to put too fine a point on it, these have mostly been left-wing, non-Catholic Scots. And being Scots, they are very friendly and chatty and enjoy a nasty bit of gossip or joke about some ideological rival, and it would never occur to me to contradict their political opinions or, indeed, to discuss them. I was a pro-life activist in ab*rti*n-mad Ontario and an orthodox Thomist at Boston College, and I have learned that the best way to get on with most people who hold left-wing opinions is either to keep my mouth shut, or to shut it at the least sign of trouble, or to agree with them as far as I can. After annoying people my whole life, I really do like getting along, to say nothing of feeling like I really do belong to my community, no matter what I think or believe.
At the hustings were a male Independent candidate, a female Labour candidate, a female Lib-Dem, a male Scot Nat, a male Green candidate, and a male Tory. The local UKIP candidate refused the invitation, and if he wasn't just booked up already, I can certainly see why he might have. Whereas Tories are feared and despised in most of Scotland as the great oppressors of our race, Kippers are mocked as racist English uber-Tory nutters.
The Independent candidate did terribly badly, poor man, despite saying up front he had not come from a privileged background. He was a unionist, which naturally put him at a disadvantage, but instead of trying to charm the "Women for Independence" he mulishly argued with them. It was rather like he was in some horrible pub argument instead of trying to win votes. His worst moments came when he said there was nothing wrong with the NHS in Scotland and that men and women already have equal pay. Great murmurings ensued, and the Independent looked vexed. By the end of the debate, his shirt was undone to the third button as if he were so clueless about his audience, he had resorted to winning our votes with chest hair.
The Labour candidate was shallow and glib. Whereas the Independent was no politician, she was too much of one. She played the "woman card" at once, jibing at the no-show UKIP man, saying that perhaps he thought we should all be at home cleaning behind our fridges. Ah ha ha ha. (Meanwhile, if she doesn't employ a cleaner, I will eat my kitchen sponge.) She told a lot of sob stories about what this sad man on the doorstep told her, and what this sad woman had told her, and wasn't it awful, and Labour would do something about it. And I thought, Labour has been in charge of this area for over 40 years, so if the area is miserable, that could be Labour's fault. Staggeringly, she spoke as if the SNP (Scottish Nationalist Party) were the Establishment, which just goes to show the brass of the Scottish Labour machine.
The Lib-Dem candidate did very well. She spoke honestly and clearly, and never pulled any "women card" nonsense despite being deeply interested in such woman-dominated issues as respect and pay for caregivers. She had spent her life as a community activist and an environmental activist and as a carer for ancient parents, her children, etc. She looked like an aged hippy, but the kind that has kept the hippy faith since 1967 and you sort of respect when she turns out to be your new boyfriend's great-aunt. She wants to do away with oil, which seems impractical for the Scottish economy, however good for the environment that might be. Her audience thought it an admirable idea, however.
The Scot Nat candidate was very brainy. (Full disclosure: he is a friend of mine, a very decent and open-minded old bean who lost his temper with my conservative views only once, when I was very drunk and casting aspersions on Andrzej Wajda, of all people. He is deeply committed to social justice, including for the Middle Eastern Christians.) The Scot Nat was obviously an economist, for he talked a lot about numbers, and kept up a steady flow of facts, figures and concrete ideas and plans. It was slightly dizzying, but he was the only one who talked to the group of women as if we were actual thinkers, actually weighing ideas and proposals, instead of just having an interesting evening out, judging people on their performance.
The Green candidate also did very well. In the charm department, I would say that he won with the audience, and I was not at all surprised to find out afterwards that he had had a career in radio. A really splendid public speaker, and much too attractive in himself to need to undo his shirt buttons. Like the unbuttoned Independent, he hinted at a background of deprivation--and indeed the place he is from is deprived--although both are army/air force brats, actually, which can't be THAT horrible. He said the benefits system is broken, which it certainly is.
The Tory candidate was a walking Tory stereotype, and so I thought he was terribly plucky to show up and air all his unpopular views. He was young, callow and English and had the wrong accent for a chap announcing that his father was a "Tyneside shipyard worker." Apparently his family "worked their way up" from its working-class roots, which was not a felicitous thing to say to a left-leaning audience. (That "up" was a terrible blooper.). But at least he didn't describe welfare as a "begging bowl" like the Independent chap, eek. At any rate, he was almost charming in his apologetic stance although actually, now that I think about it, if he had been an Old Tory type, he would have been even more charming with it, like Clarissa Dixon-Wright. Maybe his accent was more Geordie than my untutored ear could detect, for he certainly sounded Public Schoolboy to me. At any rate, I would have liked him better if he had worn the Young Fogey uniform of tweed-wool-pullover-tie-and-red-cords instead of that horrible blue suit.
As for the ISSUES, the women seemed to be most interested in improving life for those on benefits (welfare), in affordable housing, in the much-hated bedroom tax, in the much-hated Trident nuclear deterrence program, in the proposed "right-to-buy" council housing at a tremendous discount which, of course, leads to much less council housing, in issues surrounding the aging population, in respect and decent pay for carers, in federalism (i.e. all the countries within the UK having home rule), in centralization (e.g. of the police force), in protection of historical landscapes (that was my question) and, to my great shock and discomfort, in ab*rti*n.
Blast. I had been having such a good time, too. Someone had to bring up aborti*n, and it wasn't even a pro-lifer, as far as I could tell, although I was busily trying not to listen because I was hideously embarrassed by what was about to happen.
DISCUSSION OF AB*RTI*N FOLLOWS WITH SAFE-FOR-WORK IF ANATOMICALLY ACCURATE ILLUSTRATION
To explain, the right-to-life is almost a dead issue in the UK. Despite the efforts of SPUC, legal ab*rti*n isn't going anywhere. Women who want (or whose parents/partners/mothers-in-law want them) to get rid of the baby growing inside them have to get two doctors to sign the certificate attesting to this being a good idea, and technically a baby can't be ab*rted after 24 weeks or just because she is female. However, there are people who want to get rid of the checks and balances, and spare the doctors from all the winking-and-nodding going on, and just have ab*rtion-on-demand. The question at the hustings seemed to be about whether or not ab*rtion rights would be more or less restricted in Scotland if the issue was devolved here.
By the way, here is an illustration of a living 24--no, let's make it a 21 week old unborn baby:
Anyway, one after the other, the candidates all burnt their pinch of incense before Moloch. I made my notes in thick uncompromising words and symbols: "Labour-pro-aborti*n; Lib Dem-ditto; Green--ditto; PC--pro-ab*rti*n, however doesn't want a change to the time limits, or there to be different time limits across the UK." (Scot Nat: There already is, i.e. Northern Ireland). The Scot Nat wants "termination" "evolved", whatever that means, and I bet it doesn't mean what I would mean. My idea of evolving the issue is extending human rights to all humans, especially before extending them to chimpanzees.
I didn't bother writing down what the Independent thought. And Labour got the microphone back so she could spout all the code words through her heavily lipsticked mouth: "It's not a health issue, it's a woman's issue." (The Lib Dem, who was not made-up, didn't feel a need to repeat shopworn slogans.) Then there was all the stuff about "human rights", such a sick joke to anyone who allows herself to admit that unborn babies are human and as such perhaps ought to have rights.
And I was sad because I was reminded that I live in a civilization that keeps two sets of books when doing the human life accounts. There is the book for expectant mothers who intend to keep their babies, and there is the book for unhappy women who want to have them removed. In the first book, the baby is a baby, and in the second book, the baby is an embryo or a fetus. In the first book, the baby is human, and in the second book, the baby is subhuman. In the first book, the baby is growing, and in the second "a pregnancy" is "terminated."
In British society, as in Canadian society, it is considered extremely rude to talk about unborn babies being killed, although that is exactly what happens to them, without anaesthetic--which might be an issue to the 2% of ab*rted babies killed at or after 20 weeks (i.e. an estimated 3,706 in England-and-Wales in 2013).* No decent Brit--the Brits love animals--would do to a frog what happens to unborn babies.
Of course, many doctors really, really hate doing those things, and although the time limit is (almost always) 24 weeks, I see that the NHS advises it before 12 weeks, and really would prefer before 9 weeks, when the pregnancy has fingers.
Well, I'm sorry to have brought up such an unpleasant subject, and I know all the counter-arguments about all the horrible things women will have done to themselves if they don't have access to "aborti*n services", and I am horrified that women have ever felt they "had" to do that, just as I am horrified that palliative care is still so unevolved that people want doctors to kill them. We should be creating a society in which women never want to undergo ab*rtions, for this is the only way to stop them. What would a world in which women never want to have them look like?
But the world we have now is the world in which we live, and justice includes admitting what it looks like, even if I kept my mouth dead tight shut at the hustings.
*Then again, it might not. So far as we know right now, we can at least hope that the poor things don't feel it.
Update: And here's a Canadian baby born during his 22nd week, just so you know.
I was invited to go to a hustings sponsored by "Women for Independence" and the very unusual thing about it, I thought, was that only women were invited. The only men in the lecture hall were candidates. The other unusual thing about the meeting, for me, was that there was a cash bar open, and I was very glad of it, for I was hot and thirsty by the time I walked to the town and wanted a gin and tonic. The women could take our glasses into the lecture hall, too, to my great comfort and joy. I guess it never occurred to anyone that a fight could break out, "Women for Independence" (and I, a unionist) glassing each other left and right.
Being so much of a part of my new Scottish community as to attend political meetings is a great thrill for me. I have met very interesting people through politically active friends, people I would never have met through church or the university because, not to put too fine a point on it, these have mostly been left-wing, non-Catholic Scots. And being Scots, they are very friendly and chatty and enjoy a nasty bit of gossip or joke about some ideological rival, and it would never occur to me to contradict their political opinions or, indeed, to discuss them. I was a pro-life activist in ab*rti*n-mad Ontario and an orthodox Thomist at Boston College, and I have learned that the best way to get on with most people who hold left-wing opinions is either to keep my mouth shut, or to shut it at the least sign of trouble, or to agree with them as far as I can. After annoying people my whole life, I really do like getting along, to say nothing of feeling like I really do belong to my community, no matter what I think or believe.
At the hustings were a male Independent candidate, a female Labour candidate, a female Lib-Dem, a male Scot Nat, a male Green candidate, and a male Tory. The local UKIP candidate refused the invitation, and if he wasn't just booked up already, I can certainly see why he might have. Whereas Tories are feared and despised in most of Scotland as the great oppressors of our race, Kippers are mocked as racist English uber-Tory nutters.
The Independent candidate did terribly badly, poor man, despite saying up front he had not come from a privileged background. He was a unionist, which naturally put him at a disadvantage, but instead of trying to charm the "Women for Independence" he mulishly argued with them. It was rather like he was in some horrible pub argument instead of trying to win votes. His worst moments came when he said there was nothing wrong with the NHS in Scotland and that men and women already have equal pay. Great murmurings ensued, and the Independent looked vexed. By the end of the debate, his shirt was undone to the third button as if he were so clueless about his audience, he had resorted to winning our votes with chest hair.
The Labour candidate was shallow and glib. Whereas the Independent was no politician, she was too much of one. She played the "woman card" at once, jibing at the no-show UKIP man, saying that perhaps he thought we should all be at home cleaning behind our fridges. Ah ha ha ha. (Meanwhile, if she doesn't employ a cleaner, I will eat my kitchen sponge.) She told a lot of sob stories about what this sad man on the doorstep told her, and what this sad woman had told her, and wasn't it awful, and Labour would do something about it. And I thought, Labour has been in charge of this area for over 40 years, so if the area is miserable, that could be Labour's fault. Staggeringly, she spoke as if the SNP (Scottish Nationalist Party) were the Establishment, which just goes to show the brass of the Scottish Labour machine.
The Lib-Dem candidate did very well. She spoke honestly and clearly, and never pulled any "women card" nonsense despite being deeply interested in such woman-dominated issues as respect and pay for caregivers. She had spent her life as a community activist and an environmental activist and as a carer for ancient parents, her children, etc. She looked like an aged hippy, but the kind that has kept the hippy faith since 1967 and you sort of respect when she turns out to be your new boyfriend's great-aunt. She wants to do away with oil, which seems impractical for the Scottish economy, however good for the environment that might be. Her audience thought it an admirable idea, however.
The Scot Nat candidate was very brainy. (Full disclosure: he is a friend of mine, a very decent and open-minded old bean who lost his temper with my conservative views only once, when I was very drunk and casting aspersions on Andrzej Wajda, of all people. He is deeply committed to social justice, including for the Middle Eastern Christians.) The Scot Nat was obviously an economist, for he talked a lot about numbers, and kept up a steady flow of facts, figures and concrete ideas and plans. It was slightly dizzying, but he was the only one who talked to the group of women as if we were actual thinkers, actually weighing ideas and proposals, instead of just having an interesting evening out, judging people on their performance.
The Green candidate also did very well. In the charm department, I would say that he won with the audience, and I was not at all surprised to find out afterwards that he had had a career in radio. A really splendid public speaker, and much too attractive in himself to need to undo his shirt buttons. Like the unbuttoned Independent, he hinted at a background of deprivation--and indeed the place he is from is deprived--although both are army/air force brats, actually, which can't be THAT horrible. He said the benefits system is broken, which it certainly is.
The Tory candidate was a walking Tory stereotype, and so I thought he was terribly plucky to show up and air all his unpopular views. He was young, callow and English and had the wrong accent for a chap announcing that his father was a "Tyneside shipyard worker." Apparently his family "worked their way up" from its working-class roots, which was not a felicitous thing to say to a left-leaning audience. (That "up" was a terrible blooper.). But at least he didn't describe welfare as a "begging bowl" like the Independent chap, eek. At any rate, he was almost charming in his apologetic stance although actually, now that I think about it, if he had been an Old Tory type, he would have been even more charming with it, like Clarissa Dixon-Wright. Maybe his accent was more Geordie than my untutored ear could detect, for he certainly sounded Public Schoolboy to me. At any rate, I would have liked him better if he had worn the Young Fogey uniform of tweed-wool-pullover-tie-and-red-cords instead of that horrible blue suit.
As for the ISSUES, the women seemed to be most interested in improving life for those on benefits (welfare), in affordable housing, in the much-hated bedroom tax, in the much-hated Trident nuclear deterrence program, in the proposed "right-to-buy" council housing at a tremendous discount which, of course, leads to much less council housing, in issues surrounding the aging population, in respect and decent pay for carers, in federalism (i.e. all the countries within the UK having home rule), in centralization (e.g. of the police force), in protection of historical landscapes (that was my question) and, to my great shock and discomfort, in ab*rti*n.
Blast. I had been having such a good time, too. Someone had to bring up aborti*n, and it wasn't even a pro-lifer, as far as I could tell, although I was busily trying not to listen because I was hideously embarrassed by what was about to happen.
DISCUSSION OF AB*RTI*N FOLLOWS WITH SAFE-FOR-WORK IF ANATOMICALLY ACCURATE ILLUSTRATION
To explain, the right-to-life is almost a dead issue in the UK. Despite the efforts of SPUC, legal ab*rti*n isn't going anywhere. Women who want (or whose parents/partners/mothers-in-law want them) to get rid of the baby growing inside them have to get two doctors to sign the certificate attesting to this being a good idea, and technically a baby can't be ab*rted after 24 weeks or just because she is female. However, there are people who want to get rid of the checks and balances, and spare the doctors from all the winking-and-nodding going on, and just have ab*rtion-on-demand. The question at the hustings seemed to be about whether or not ab*rtion rights would be more or less restricted in Scotland if the issue was devolved here.
By the way, here is an illustration of a living 24--no, let's make it a 21 week old unborn baby:
Anyway, one after the other, the candidates all burnt their pinch of incense before Moloch. I made my notes in thick uncompromising words and symbols: "Labour-pro-aborti*n; Lib Dem-ditto; Green--ditto; PC--pro-ab*rti*n, however doesn't want a change to the time limits, or there to be different time limits across the UK." (Scot Nat: There already is, i.e. Northern Ireland). The Scot Nat wants "termination" "evolved", whatever that means, and I bet it doesn't mean what I would mean. My idea of evolving the issue is extending human rights to all humans, especially before extending them to chimpanzees.
I didn't bother writing down what the Independent thought. And Labour got the microphone back so she could spout all the code words through her heavily lipsticked mouth: "It's not a health issue, it's a woman's issue." (The Lib Dem, who was not made-up, didn't feel a need to repeat shopworn slogans.) Then there was all the stuff about "human rights", such a sick joke to anyone who allows herself to admit that unborn babies are human and as such perhaps ought to have rights.
And I was sad because I was reminded that I live in a civilization that keeps two sets of books when doing the human life accounts. There is the book for expectant mothers who intend to keep their babies, and there is the book for unhappy women who want to have them removed. In the first book, the baby is a baby, and in the second book, the baby is an embryo or a fetus. In the first book, the baby is human, and in the second book, the baby is subhuman. In the first book, the baby is growing, and in the second "a pregnancy" is "terminated."
In British society, as in Canadian society, it is considered extremely rude to talk about unborn babies being killed, although that is exactly what happens to them, without anaesthetic--which might be an issue to the 2% of ab*rted babies killed at or after 20 weeks (i.e. an estimated 3,706 in England-and-Wales in 2013).* No decent Brit--the Brits love animals--would do to a frog what happens to unborn babies.
Of course, many doctors really, really hate doing those things, and although the time limit is (almost always) 24 weeks, I see that the NHS advises it before 12 weeks, and really would prefer before 9 weeks, when the pregnancy has fingers.
Well, I'm sorry to have brought up such an unpleasant subject, and I know all the counter-arguments about all the horrible things women will have done to themselves if they don't have access to "aborti*n services", and I am horrified that women have ever felt they "had" to do that, just as I am horrified that palliative care is still so unevolved that people want doctors to kill them. We should be creating a society in which women never want to undergo ab*rtions, for this is the only way to stop them. What would a world in which women never want to have them look like?
But the world we have now is the world in which we live, and justice includes admitting what it looks like, even if I kept my mouth dead tight shut at the hustings.
*Then again, it might not. So far as we know right now, we can at least hope that the poor things don't feel it.
Update: And here's a Canadian baby born during his 22nd week, just so you know.
Wednesday, 12 November 2014
Is It Really All Right to Cry?
I have a theory that babies cry because that is all they can do. Poor things. There they are, helpless and hungry and/or uncomfortable , and most probably bored. No wonder they cry. I would cry. In fact, I am sure I did cry. There I was enjoying non-existence, insofar as one can enjoy non-existence, when suddenly I had being, which was okay for the first nine months, if a bit cramped for the last two or three, and then there I was in the bright, cold and scratchy world, feeling hungry and with no-one to talk to for most of the day except this frightened 24 year old girl.
WAHHHHHHH!
The 24 year old girl probably cried, too, although I am not sure because the only public crier in the family over the age of 10 is your humble correspondent. This may be because, as far as I know, I am the only one who ever saw a therapist and my therapist was keen on crying. The theory was that I was pretty messed up and could not be tidied down until I cried out all the mess. Of course, it wasn't that I should cry in public, but that I should cry at all. Apparently crying is good for you, even if the social norm in Commonwealth countries is to cry in private. And apparently never crying is a sign of great mental distress. Crying, therefore, is a sign of mental healthiness, the natural response to anger or grief.
The last time I cried was on Sunday during the homily. It was Remembrance Sunday and the day began with the BBC playing "O Valiant Hearts". The homily was on the young men of the parish who were killed in the First World War. The priest had looked up their obituaries and addresses, etc. He mentioned, by the by, that some of their mothers hadn't long outlived them. Indeed, perhaps being bereaved had killed them, motherhood being a very powerful and special thing, as the Church has always taught...
Sniff, sniff, sniff. Sniff, sniff, sniff. Poor old Mrs McAmbrose began to search her pocket for a tissue. We know she is a nice lady, but we didn't know she was so compassionate that she would cry along with long-dead suffering mothers.
In fact, she isn't. She was crying for herself because she has no children and therefore will never discover what a powerful and special thing motherhood is. Sniff, sniff, sniff. She thought perhaps she might flee the church and just go to the Polish Mass at 1 PM. But that would be Making a Scene in Church and her mother husband would be greatly annoyed. Weep, weep, weep.
"This is self-indulgent nonsense," thought poor old Mrs McAmbrose, dabbing away with her tissue, so oblivious to the collection basket that she didn't remember she was supposed to put something in it until an hour later in George Street. "I am not the only childless woman in this church. I can think of five just off the top of my head." Sniff, snort, sniff, snort. Honk.
Too much crying is from neither grief nor anger but plain old feeling sorry for oneself. I learned that in therapy, too. Authentic crying (in the opinion of my therapist) came from deep in the gut. Inauthentic crying, which really means poor-me-I-feel-so-sorry-for-myself-you-should-too was shallow, coming from the top of the chest. She may have said that to goad me into authentic, deep-gut wailing, of course.
During the homily, I was never in any danger of authentic, deep-gut wailing, so running away would have been very self-indulgent indeed. (Deep-gut wailing in Church is, however, 110% against my cultural norms, so if there had been any danger of that, sneaking out as if to the loo would have been the right thing to do.) Ladies are allowed to sniffle and weep a bit at Mass, after all, and I think elderly men are too, on Remembrance Sunday at very least, although perhaps they are only supposed to mop their eyes a bit.
When it is truly appropriate to cry is, in fact, a very important question, for as we have unfortunately found out, emotional incontinence does indeed bring civilization to a crashing halt. The facts that over 40% of Britain's children are born out of wedlock, and thousands of others are killed before they are born, are not because the British have such wonderful emotional discipline.
The British--and I include myself among them--are inwardly bestial savages painted blue who need as many checks as possible to our natural inclination to live entirely for war, booze, sexual excitement and pretty foreign objects. Helped by Christian missionaries, we developed self-control beautifully over the last two thousand years and were greatly respected by all the world (except the Irish) for it until 1997, when Princess Diana was killed and the island disintegrated into a great bathetic puddle.
Do away with the stiff upper lip, the phlegm, the false cheer and the sexual hypocrisy, and what you get is a large, bald, drunk, sunburnt, shirtless man with a painted face chanting "Ingerland, Ingerland, Ingerland. Ingerland, Ingerland, IngerLAAAND" at a quiet tram of passing Germans.
I do not entirely blame Princess Diana for this. She was, after all, born in 1961, after the rot was already setting in, and she was only two when the brakes came off the roller coaster that plunged us all into.... But I digress.
Our subject is crying, and my therapist convinced me that it is natural (and even healthy) to cry when we are angry or sad. Crying just because we feel sorry for ourselves, however, does not occupy the same moral plane. Indeed, it can be deeply manipulative, especially if we do it in public.
I have seen my brothers cry as little boys, but I do not remember them crying to manipulate. They were actually splendid little boys, as I am proud to remember. One had a particularly sunny disposition, so the evils of the school playground were a terrible shock to him, and when he cried it was out of real disappointment, grief and loss. The other was born frowning and suspicious and so was better equipped for this vale of tears.
I have never seen my father cry. I have never seen my brothers cry as adults. Well, okay--one did at my grandmother's funeral and at B.A.'s and my wedding. But as far as I know, that was it for any of them crying in public. Possibly they all enjoy a good weep behind locked doors, but I may never know because they were all brought up strictly in the Men Are Not Women school of thought. Oh, and they are not manipulative so-and-sos.
Because I have indeed seen men, men not as manly as my father and brothers (or my husband), weep and wail before me, and it was not because they were overwhelmed by grief, loss, anger or their sister getting married, but because they felt deeply sorry for themselves. Often they were crying to stop me from doing something I wanted to do or to move me to do something I didn't want to do. And once I figured that out, I despised them for it.
I also despise scriptwriters who still think it is ground-breaking to force men to cry on television and in the movies. Once upon a time (i.e. before 1963) it was considered a terrible imposition to show an Englishwoman crying on television. Now it is de rigeur to get anyone and everyone to do so. The baying mob who regressed to 54 BC upon the news of the death of Diana even demanded that the Queen herself--the mother of the man Diana publicly humiliated on multiple occasions--burst into sobs. How ridiculous, and what a betrayal of Britishness. Never mind the poor migrants--why can't UKIP do something about all the English crying on the screen?
It was once (and still is in isolated pockets like my family) considered unmanly to cry, and although women were always allowed to cry in public on the grounds that we were not men, it wasn't exactly encouraged in British countries, either. Private howls were quite alright, as long as nobody was made uncomfortable by them. If you mentioned them to anyone, you made a joke of them. The whole point of keeping crying private was not to indulge your own emotions at someone else's expense. That was, and is, the true hallmark of an English gentleman and an English lady.
I do think it was a bit much to expect English-speaking men never to cry, or to suppose that they were letting down the entire nation by crying like Frenchmen, Italians, Russians, et alia, But I quite agree that crying in public was a sign of "unmanly weakness", except at funerals and weddings (NOT sporting events). Men have many privileges--excellent shoes that can be kept in good repair and worn for twenty years or more, the right to wear the same suit every day, the freedom to walk through the woods after dark without once thinking about sex maniacs--so I think, in general, they ought to leave public (or, really semi-public) weeping to us.
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