- “I don’t have time.” We all have 24 hours in the day, seven days in a week. Unless we’ve got a debilitating illness – apart from the obvious, terminal, one of life – the only thing that determines what we do or don’t do is how we order our priorities. What we really mean is “This particular thing is not high on my list of priorities.” Which is fine, but it’s not the same as not having time.
- “I’m useless at maths.” Nobody says “I’m useless at reading” yet being bad at maths is almost always said as a boast. What we’re really saying is “I’m a caring, feeling person, not a geek who cares about numbers more than people.” Scientists, doctors, nurses, engineers and nuclear physicists all have to be good at numbers. We could all benefit from trying to be better at them; instead we cover up our laziness by telling ourselves it’s beneath us.
- “I’m a people person.” My favourite cartoon quote of all time is from a character (can’t remember which) in Schulz’s Peanuts cartoon strip: “I do love humanity: it’s people I can’t stand.” Judging by the number of times it’s quoted on Facebook and elsewhere (do a Google search) it’s a lot of other people’s as well. Somebody also said “If everybody knew what everybody else said about them there wouldn’t be two friends left in the world.” How true. Most of us aren’t people people at all. We like some, befriend a handful, get irritated by many. But all people? Just look round the average railway station.
- “I’m a shy person.” Unless you’ve got a true psychological problem this is almost certainly rubbish. Even I find myself saying it from time to time, which really is rubbish. What I really mean is “What if I go and talk to that person and they run a mile?” Most of us can’t bear rejection so instead of risking it we tell ourselves we’re shy – for which read “humble, gentle, non-intrusive, sensitive.” No: read “self-conscious, self-centred, fearful and lazy.”
- “It’s better to give than to receive.” This must be right. Jesus said it. Didn’t he? Paul says he said it (albeit in slightly different words: “It is more blessed to give than to receive” – Acts 20:35) but there’s no evidence in the Gospels that Jesus actually did say it. And if he had, he would not, in my view, have been right. It must be better to be generous than mean but giving and receiving is a tricky business. We feel good when we give something, vulnerable when we’re at the receiving end. Otherwise, why do we always – but always - feel we have to give something in return? Why is it so hard to ask somebody to do something for us, and why does it feel so good when somebody asks us? Because, quite simply, it makes us feel needed and valued.
- “I’d rather be happy than rich.” As if the two things were mutually exclusive. We probably also add: “Money doesn’t make you happy.” We like to think that rich people, however they’ve come by their wealth – the sweat of their brow, or inherited from daddy – must be suffering as they wallow in their gold-plated baths. We love the image of the poor little rich girl: the celebrities who have everything but whose marriages still break up. But I’m pretty convinced that for every celeb whose marriage ends in misery, there are 10 poor people whose relationships founder on the rocks of mounting bills and unpaid rent. Most of us wouldn’t rather be happy than rich: we’d rather be both.
- “I don’t watch television except for wildlife documentaries.” When Elsie Tanner died (who doesn’t know who Elsie Tanner was?) there was a Bryan McCallister cartoon in The Guardian. Two people standing at the water cooler and one is saying -”That’s the trouble with pretending you don’t watch the Street. You can’t talk about Elsie’s death.” Amazingly, these same people who claim only to watch David Attenborough, are frequently to be heard saying “I just happened to catch the tail-end of . . . ” or “I came into the room while so-and-so was watching . . .” and then proceed to tell you the entire 20-year back story of Eastenders or Corrie. Come to think of it – that is wild life. Or at least, life on the wild side.
- “I never voted for Margaret Thatcher.” Well, somebody did. She won three successive elections and when she resigned in 1990 she was the longest-serving prime minister for 150 years. Yet I’ve never met anybody who admits to having voted for her. Except me. Yes, I actually did, in 1979. Even though I was a paid-up member of the Labour Party.
- “I did it my way.” The Frank Sinatra hit. Could anything be further from the truth? Nobody, but nobody, does “it” – by which is meant “life” – their way. Of course we like to think we are people of total integrity: honest, true, incorruptible, brave in the face of adversity, stubborn in defence of what we believe, willing to go to the stake for those beliefs. The truth, I’m certain, is that we spend our whole lives compromising, telling half-truths to protect our own reputation or others’, pleasing other people rather than ourselves, because we want – pathetically – to be liked, not realising our dreams, not putting our lives on the line. Certainly not doing it “our way.” In other words, making the best of this gargantuan struggle which is called living. Come to think of it, if we all did do it our way, the world would be in an even bigger mess than it is.
- “I love gardening.” Yeah, right. OK – I concede that for a lot of people this is true. But for me it means “I love my garden. Will somebody look after it for me please because if there’s one thing I hate more than cleaning the lavatory it’s digging up worms and getting soil under my finger nails.”
‘REV’, THE GAY ARCHDEACON AND THE ANGLICAN CHURCH
This week saw the last episode in the present series of the BBC’s ‘Rev’, the half-hour comedy/drama about an inner city vicar – liberal, loving, and a very long way from being successful in any way the world would recognise – which has been our Tuesday night treat for the past seven weeks. Totally unmissable. Ian, an atheist, loves it as much as I do and we’ve both been moved nearly to tears by it a few times, none more so than in the penultimate episode shown last week.
The archdeacon, played to painful perfection by Simon McBurney, turns out – to no-one’s great surprise – to be gay. As he seeks to become a bishop, we witness his increasing desperation to silence those who might betray his secret. In the end, though, it’s he himself who gives the game away. When confronted in the interview with a direct question about his sexuality this vain, precious poseur, with his dinky little quiff, emerges as a man of total integrity, unable to deny his true self no matter what the consequences.
The 30-second scene in which he tells Adam (Rev of the title) what he has done, and his realisation of what it will cost him, says more about the Anglican Church’s attitude to gays than any one of the endless reports and commissions it has produced and presided over: The Lambeth Commission, The Windsor Report, The Windsor Continuation Group, The Listening Process, The Panel of Reference – if words were money they’d have paid off the global debt, never mind the national one, many times over.
And it’s all been in the name of maintaining this precious thing, the Anglican Communion. Which isn’t a Communion any more, anyway, because there are within the church those who not only won’t take communion from a woman priest, but from a male priest who was ordained by a bishop who’d been ‘tainted’ by ordaining women. There are also those who accept openly gay priests, ordain gays to the priesthood, and have no problem at all with offering blessings in church to gay couples. So the split is not only already there, but has become a yawning chasm. (I have actually attended a bizarre ritual called – and only the Church of England could dream this one up – ‘a Mass of the second integrity’). So the church for the past 10 or more years has tied itself in knots trying to hold this non-existent thing together, in a bid to appease those who oppose gays in general and gay priests in particular: they’ve even managed to come up with a formula that says it’s ok for a priest to be gay as long as he doesn’t actually have sex. It’s bonkers, and it’s shameful.
I like the Archbishop of Canterbury. I’ve heard him preach, I’m in awe of his massive intellect, his ability to speak (I think) at least 10 languages: his gentleness, his genuine concern for the poor and the dispossessed. I cannot imagine what agonies he suffers daily for the sake of the church he leads, and the God he loves. But I think on this issue, as on any other, he should have put truth and integrity above everything, and spoken up for gay couples everywhere, instead of presiding over this agonising, damaging, and ultimately futile exercise of trying to hold together a non-existent communion, thereby denying a whole group of people their basic human rights.
Rev has been a gentle, sympathetic portrayal of the Church of England at its best. It hasn’t ridiculed it, or portrayed its people as the usual ludicrous stereotypes. It’s the best bit of propaganda the church could have had. I just hope somebody in the hierarchy appreciates that.
“FRANKLY, MY DEAR, WE DON’T GIVE A DAMN”
Not being an economist I can’t pretend to know what’s brought us to the precipice of global economic collapse or indeed what it’s going to take to stop us all tipping over the edge. Oh, just a minute: correction – not being an economist means I am perfectly qualified to pronounce on these matters. It must be the economists who know nothing, otherwise we’d never have got to this point. Simples . . . a meerkat could work that one out. Or a mere woman. Me.
So here it is in a nutshell. My answer to everything that’s wrong in the world. One word – service.
Ok, maybe not everything but quite a lot. A man on Radio 4 the other morning said it wasn’t all doom and gloom, things didn’t have to hit rock bottom, but if we were going to survive the economic tsunami we’d need to be “sharp, focussed, and giving it everything we’ve got.” In the good old days – ie when we were all spending money we hadn’t got, individuals as well as governments – service didn’t matter that much. People would buy anyway, from anybody. But now, we all had to go the extra mile, look after our customers and each other, and realise that the world didn’t owe us a living. We were in danger of talking ourselves into an even gloomier scenario than the one the pundits predict and people would stop spending completely. Or so he said. He sounded like he knew what he was talking about and as he was a businessman not an economist or a politician, at least there was a fair chance.
Well, I have to say I haven’t seen much evidence of this dramatic change in attitude. Quite the reverse.
“We’ve been waiting 20 minutes to ber served. Is there a problem?” we ask in a small seaside cafe – a bustling hub of entrepreneurial activity. “Sorry – the chef’s having his break.” Truly – this was 12.20 in the afternoon. And yes indeed, there he was at the table, enjoying a sandwich and reading the paper.
At the next we waited another 20 minutes. Still no service. “Five minutes,” the manageress (presumably) told everybody who kept enquiring what had happened to their lunch. “There’s a problem in the kitchen.” This was the first time she’d mentioned it.
In a pub in Kirkby Stephen five of us drop in for lunch. “We’ve stopped doing food,” says the barman. “We were so successful we bought another place down the road and all the food’s down there. They took it yesterday” Was he serious? Yes, apparently. So we head a mile to the next pub – possibly the one he’s referring to. No food although it’s still only 1.30pm. Why not? “The chef didn’t get here in time to clean the fryer this morning.” After some persuasion they manage to produce a few stale, white bread sandwiches.
At the opposite end of the scale I go to John Lewis’s. We’re thinking (just thinking) we might need a new kitchen if we’re going to continue with the bed and breakfast which, despite the economic downturn, is thriving. If we and others like us keep it up, people really might decide the Yorkshire countryside is preferable to Ibiza. Or the Canaries. And that’s got to be good for the local economy, to say nothing of the national one.
After 15 minutes of hanging meaningfully around the kitchen displays being totally ignored by smart-suited assistants – sorry, Partners, which is what they are in John Lewis – chatting to each other, I make an approach. “Would you like to sell me a kitchen?” I enquire, hopefully. I can almost see the calculation in his eyes as he decides it’s not going to be a high-end, all-singing, all-dancing £25,000 job, because my hair’s a mess, I’m wearing no make-up and I give the appearance of having just popped out to the corner shop in the middle of doing the cleaning. (It’s not far from the truth: but guess what? I am still a customer). They want to charge £50 for a planning visit – after a 10-minute, below-stairs consultation to see if they will even come out to such a distant rural area – and they’ll charge an extra £300 on top of the normal fitting charge because we live so far away.
The point is this: I see no evidence – none whatsoever – that they are hungry for business. They’re not exactly rude or dismissive, but they are just not engaged. It’s difficult to put into words, but they are definitely not making any effort to sell me anything. Nobody is, because – so it seems – nobody cares.
Finally, the friend I’m shopping with gets to the counter with her goods – among them a glass jug, which she notices has a fault. “Oh no,” she says (she’s loaded with bags). “I’ve just brought this all the way down from the third floor!”
“Oh,” says the assistant (correction, Partner) dismissively. “Well there’s nothing I can do about that.”
But there is, my dear, there really is. You could have said: “Oh I’m so sorry. Hold on and I’ll get someone to bring you another one.” And you could have picked up the phone and done just that in, probably, two minutes flat. But you didn’t because it was just another customer, buying just another glass jug and a roll of wrapping paper or two. So instead of a happy customer saying “Wasn’t that nice of them” you have a disgruntled one saying “****** John Lewis. I thought they were supposed to be world-beaters on customer service. Might as well have gone to IKEA.”
And that’s what’s wrong with this country. Or maybe the world, for all I know. Not enough people care; about their customers, or about each other. Rhett Butler spoke for us all.
NO DOUBT AT ALL: IT’S A GREAT PLAY
The Georgian Theatre Royal in Richmond – again – this time for DOUBT, a play by John Patrick Shanley which I originally watched (twice) as a film. It started life as a stage production (it won the Pulitzer prize) before Hollywood got hold of it and cast Meryl Streep as Sister Aloysius and Philip Seymour Hoffman as the charismatic priest whom she suspects (with no firm evidence, but a terrifying confidence in her own intuition) of sexually abusing an altar boy.
As a film, rather than a theatre, fan, and as someone who could watch Meryl Streep reading the phone book and still be entranced, I approached the play with expectations just above floor level. A tiny set – a desk, two chairs and a pulpit – and a cast of four actors I’d never even heard of, did nothing to lift my spirits. So my surprise was magnified a thousand-fold when it turned out to be one of the most gripping and powerful productions I’ve seen.
Clap Trap Productions (its website gives details of the cast and plays, but says little about itself as a company, which is a shame) did a superb job: the writing, direction (by Gareth Jenkins), set design – everything was pared to the bone: a supreme example of less being more. As the suspicions of Sister Aloysius (Cal Stockbridge) grow and her consequent mental pursuit of Father Flynn (brilliantly played by Simon Waley) intensifies, his confident demeanour crumbles, and the man whose personality and joie de vivre has dominated the stage, shrinks into himself in front of our eyes. It’s an extraordinary performance.
So – did he do it? Did he sexually abuse the vulnerable and innocent boy who idolises him? The more I see it, the more I think that to ask that simplistic question is actually to miss the point. The play invites us, instead, through a fine and multi-layered narrative, to reflect on issues of exploitation, both sexual and emotional, faith, morality, authority, homosexuality, compassion and human frailty.
It’s a play that follows you home. Ian and I – very different people, with different interests and often diametrically opposed perspectives on life (he an atheistic church lover, me a Christian non-attender) – are still talking about it three days later. This amazing theatre company is restricted, as far as I can see, to taking it only to Northern venues: Richmond was its opening night. Which is a shame: it deserves a much wider audience. But if you can’t get to the play (see the website for dates and venues) go for second best and get the DVD. Either way you won’t be disappointed.
CHEKHOV AND THE BRONTES: A TALE OF THREE SISTERS
Just seen a fantastic play – went with Ian and Charlie. It was We are Three Sisters by Blake Morrison. I loved his family memoir, And When Did You Last See Your Father, so had high hopes for the play. I wasn’t disappointed. It’s about the Bronte sisters and it was a Northern Broadsides touring production at the tiny but beautiful Georgian Theatre Royal in Richmond (North Yorks, not London). We had the most uncomfortable seats in the house (all that was left by the time I booked) and could see only 2/3 of the stage but still it didn’t spoil our enjoyment.
There’s a strong connection with Chekhov’s Three Sisters, apparently, which in itself is an incredible story: he apparently read a biography of the Brontes and there’s a suspicion he may have based his story on the family at Haworth. The writing is superb – despite the gloom of life in the vicarage, it has moments of hilarity – the acting terrific, the set simple but effective. It’s on tour ’til the end of November so catch it if you can. The website’s here www.northern-broadsides.co.uk.
‘ONE OF NATURE’S GOOD GUYS’
This was how Clive Crickmer, a former Mirror journalist and ex-colleague who died last week, described my late husband in a letter he wrote to me shortly after Malc’s death in 1991. It’s an indication of Clive’s brilliant way with words that I can think of no better ones now to describe the man himself. Yesterday, 20 years to the day since Malc’s memorial service, Ian and I were privileged to be among the 400 or so people who gathered at South Shields Crematorium for Clive’s funeral.
He had been diagnosed with lung cancer just a few weeks earlier, but no-one imagined he would die so suddenly: we’d all thought the treatment he was receiving might prolong his life by at least a few more years. So everyone was shocked and saddened and I can’t have been on my own in reflecting on the unfairness of life. Clive was 71, a ‘good age’ – whatever that means – but he had so much more living to do: a funny, kind, active man still writing for his local paper well into his retirement from national newspapers, still caring for his family, still keeping his old mates and ex-colleagues informed about each others’ well-being. Clive was the one who sent us all emails whenever someone was ill, or indeed had died. Just a few weeks ago he’d written to tell us of another friend’s admission to hospital – mentioning only as an afterthought his own illness, and expressing the hope that the treatment he was about to start would allow him to ‘chug along for a year or three yet.’ It wasn’t to be.
So, all in all, Wednesday should have been the saddest of days. It wasn’t: it was a true celebration of a life well-lived by a man who was greatly loved. His local rugby club, where the wake was held, was buzzing with the chat and laughter of hundreds of people who’d enjoyed, in one form or another, the privilege of knowing a truly remarkable human being. Ian had a particular reason for wanting to be there. Clive had said to me so often: “You must bring that new man of yours to meet me so we can have a few jars.” I promised I would but never found the time, somehow, and now it was too late. “I never got chance to say hello so the next best thing is to say goodbye,” was Ian’s way of putting it.
RIP, Clive. You were, as so many people said, a lovely man.
MY FAVOURITE THING
It’s not original – it’s done its endless rounds on the internet, but it’s still one of my all-time favourites.
EXCERPTS FROM A DOG’S DIARY . . .
8:00 am – Dog food. My favourite thing!
9:30 am – A car ride. My favourite thing!
9:40 am – A walk in the park. My favourite thing!
10:30 am – Got rubbed and petted. My favourite thing!
12:00 pm – Lunch. My favourite thing!
1:00 pm – Played in the yard. My favourite thing!
3:00 pm – Wagged my tail. My favourite thing!
5:00 pm – Raw, meaty bones. My favourite thing!
7:00 pm – Got to play ball. My favourite thing!
8:00 pm – Wow! Watched TV with the people. My favourite thing!
11:00 pm – Sleeping on the bed. My favourite thing!
EXCERPTS FROM A CAT’S DIARY . . .
Day 983 of my captivity.
My captors continue to taunt me with bizarre little dangling objects.
They dine lavishly on fresh meat, while the other inmates and I are fed hash or some sort of dry nuggets. Although I make my contempt for the rations perfectly clear, I nevertheless must eat something in order to keep up my strength.
The only thing that keeps me going is my dream of escape. In an attempt to disgust them, I once again vomit on the carpet.
Today I decapitated a mouse and dropped its headless body at their feet. I had hoped this would strike fear into their hearts, since it clearly demonstrates what I am capable of. However, they merely made condescending comments about what a ‘good little hunter’ I am. The Gits !
There was some sort of assembly of their accomplices tonight. I was placed in solitary confinement for the duration of the event. However, I could hear the noises and smell the food. I overheard that my confinement was due to the power of ‘allergies.’ I must learn what this means and how to use it to my advantage.
Today I was almost successful in an attempt to assassinate one of my tormentors by weaving around his feet as he was walking. I must try this again tomorrow — but at the top of the stairs.
I am convinced that the other prisoners here are flunkies and snitches. The dog receives special privileges. He is regularly released – and seems to be more than willing to return. He is obviously retarded.
The bird has got to be an informant. I observe him communicating with the guards regularly. I am certain that he reports my every move. My captors have arranged protective custody for him in an elevated cell, so he is safe.
NOUS SOUFFRONS POUR NOTRE ART
- Norma, Ian and Betsy acting it out
Or “suffering for our art” (thanks to Google translation – though I’m not convinced it’s right) in the French class at the Yorebridge Centre. Ian plays the part of a heartless Frenchman leaving his grieving lover with never a backward glance. Oh well – that was the idea, anyway. Judith brought along a poem – in French of course – which I had to read while Ian acted it out. “Betsy will read it and you have to do what she says,” Judith explained. “No change there, then,” muttered Ian into his beard. But once the spotlight was on him and he’d donned a fetching polka dot pink mac – putting him, rather worryingly, in touch with his feminine side – he was soon in character, smoking his Gauloise with a nonchalant air while affecting a cold disdain for his one-time lover. Norma played the part of the spurned mademoiselle with true grit. Or grip.
OUT OF THE CLOSET – MY BEAUTIFUL MAC
My little old Mac
Good old WordPress – they’ve introduced a new theme for bloggers (Retro Mac) as a tribute to Apple founder, Steve Jobs. His death yesterday inspired me to get my lovely old Macintosh Classic out of the attic, just to remind myself what a genius this man was. I discovered Apple in about 1984 and it was a true revelation. After battling with the old IBMs – standard issue at British Gas – we were given a demo of this truly revolutionary machine. Acquiring them, against the wishes of the BG bureaucrats whose feet and minds were set in concrete, almost cost me my job: I was officially reprimanded and threatened with dismissal.
But, eventually, I won: and once they were installed the workplace was transformed. I bought one for home, too. The smiley face that greeted you on start-up, the beautiful graphics (still black-and-white in those days) – little folders, documents that looked like real pieces of paper, not a complicated computer code, a little waste basket, and black print on a white screen, instead of that hideous green on black – all spoke of a computer that worked for you, not one you had to do battle with daily.
Steve Jobs said “Never trust a computer you can’t lift.” He was so right – to be able to pick one up, put it in a bag, carry it home and actually get to work on it immediately, was like a re-birth. I would echo Steve Jobs’ words, but might put it slightly differently: “Never trust a computer you can’t love.” I still love my old Macintosh Classic, and I love my MacBook. Next stop – an i-Pad. Christmas isn’t too far away, Ian . . .
PLEASE DON’T CALL ME A CUSTOMER
It’s not often I’m moved to blog in the middle of cooking and serving breakfast for seven; it’s not often I’m moved to blog at all these days except on my church/village website. But an item on the Today programme catches my attention. A Labour MP is complaining that cuts have affected the Inland Revenue to such an extent that they are no longer able to provide a personal service, whereby an officer from HMRC sits down with a ‘customer’ to discuss his/her tax affairs face-to-face. No: instead, they are having to resort to inviting us all to telephone or write – and guess what? They don’t have the the time or resources to answer either our letters or our ‘phone calls. The result? Morale is at rock bottom at HMRC because they can no longer offer a personalised, sympathetic service. But we’ll all be pleased to hear from a spokesman for the beleaguered Revenue that they are continuing to do all they can to improve the service for the benefit of their customers.
My memories of sitting down with a friendly taxman – sorry, person – are somewhat outweighed (I wonder why?) by those of receiving a stream of incomprehensible letters and demands, crying, and then deciding after the fifth unanswered telephone call that it’s easier just to write a cheque. This is one reason I have no money. And also why they ended up owing me more than £3,000.
I have no problem with the concept of income tax, no illusions that the people who work for HMRC are anything other than real people with grannies and children and spouses, working within a totally dysfunctional system. All of this I can live with. No – what really drives me up the wall is that they have the bress neck to call us customers.
Customers have choice. Customers, having decided the service they receive is rubbish, can go elsewhere and find better service (if they’re lucky). John Lewis has customers. Sainsbury’s and Tesco and Argos have customers. Habitat had customers who voted with their feet and went to IKEA. Rail companies think – wrongly – that they have customers; they don’t. They have passengers with little choice of rail operators to take them from A to B: though even with the railways there’s a modicum of choice – we can go by car or bus or stay at home.
But with the Inland Revenue we have no choice. The last communication I received from them threatened me with prison if my tax form was late which it actually never is. They didn’t mention the little detail that they’d over-charged me over three years by £3,500 and – five months, several telephone calls and numerous letters later – they still hadn’t paid up.
And yes, I did eventually complain, about three months ago. I’m still waiting for the reply. Meanwhile I am weeping into my tea knowing how distraught their customer relations team (I wonder how many are in that?) must be that one of their most valued captives – sorry, customers – is not entirely happy with that oh-so-personal service they used to offer. Before the cuts, of course.
