Mum's not EVERY word.

I've had two separate conversations over the last couple of weeks with friends about mothers who, perhaps, 'over-share' with regard to their children. It's a curious hole that some women fall into. Up to a point, they are humans in their own right - able to conduct a semi-coherent conversation with other adults, go out for a drink, etc... when suddenly, they get pregnant and it's like life - existence in its entirety up until now - is erased. Full, normal brains are sucked out through one ear and sludgy, gooey mulch is poured into the other by way of replacement. Suddenly, replacing the first letter of any given word with a 'w' ** and discussing the consistency of human excrement (more specifically, the contents of a nappy) becomes acceptable. I don't want to be harsh, but in this instance - to be anything else would be a complete lie.

Because you know those friends - the ones you had pre-pregnancy? The ones who held your hair back while you were drunkenly sick in a bush, listened to you wail like a banshee when your boyfriend broke up with you, laughed until they cried when you fell over in the six inch heels they had encouraged you to buy? Them? Yeah. They all think you're a twat now. 

Izzy

I have a little girl myself, and I fully admit that to me, she is the most adorable toddler on the planet. There is nothing she does that I don't find heartbreakingly cute. She's also hilarious. She repeats sentences like "Daddy's a mong" with the verbal finesse of a four year old at just under the age of two, and squinty-eyes me when I won't let her play with a pen. She's awesome. 

BUT. I'm very aware that she doesn't belong to everyone; that not everyone in the world cares if she has nappy rash, or a cold, or throws a plastic brick at my head. I remember how it felt - trying to pry myself out of the cold hands of a coma when someone talked to the side of my head about sterilizers and walkers, teething and colic. Ladies, I implore you - save these conversations for the friends of yours who also have children. Only then will you be talking to a willing audience. You are, and I promise this, boring the shit out of everyone else. 

Try not to update every single Facebook / Twitter / Other-generic-social-networking-site with news of whether your child managed to eat some cereal or went five hours without throwing a tantrum. The chances are, only a very small percentage of the 200-odd people you're sending this information to are not rolling their eyes. 

Try really hard not to open that social networking profile on behalf of your child. It's not cute. It's not funny. It's actually kind of awful. Your friends will feel obliged to befriend them. They will die a little inside by doing so. You will never be able to redeem yourself. 

Children are a blessing. I love the one I have and the one I'll be meeting in a few short weeks. They are not, however, an excuse to mentally disintegrate. It is possible to be a person and a parent. Knowing the difference will save you some friendships and some sanity points. 

** example: "I wove my wittle boy"

It's Like Caramelized Sunshine. Honest.

My husband is concerned that we are not a particularly romantic couple. What's more, he has decided that this is my fault. He claims a 'fear of raised eyebrows' as his reason for not whispering sweet nothings and reciting Shakespeare from the garden while I lean 'skeptically' out of an upstairs window.

I always assumed that this was just the kind of couple that we are - everything said with a heavy sense of humour and irony - we have discovered the Peter Pan of relationships. No insecurity is above ridicule, childishness is actively encouraged and we are more likely to push each other in front of oncoming traffic than we are to declare undying love on Facebook or engage in slushy, public affection. I'm starting to wonder now, if I have this all wrong and actually, I've just been beating him into romantic regression with my big, metaphorical, cynical mallet.

He said yesterday that he was baffled by a conversation at work wherein the rest of the lads were having a discussion which started with the sentence:

"You know when you just want to spoil the missus, so you cook some dinner and light some candles...?"

Baffled.

"Do couples do that, then?" he asked, incredulous as we walked around a farm with our tiny person. It seems he believes that such evenings are reserved for Hollywood trickery and have no place in reality at all. Now, I know people that do regularly make time to spoil each other and exchange loving glances across dimly lit tables, but I always assumed we were just 'not that kind of couple'. But I'm starting to wonder - is this an important part of every relationship that we're missing out on? Should I be making the effort to buy oil incense burners and books of romantic poetry to recite next to roaring fires on cold winter evenings?

I'm ashamed to say that I'm smirking at the mere thought.

My head is now filled with flashback memories -

Valentines Day somewhere in the early 00's...

Francis: So shall I book a table for tomorrow night then?
Me: Why?
Francis: Well - it's Valentine's Day, isn't it?
Me. Hmmm. OR, we could get pizza and stick a movie on.
Francis: That's not very romantic.
Me: You could put a flower on the pizza?

A day out in Oxford a few years ago:

Francis: I bought you a teddy!
*Produces giant stuffed Teddy from a BHS bag*
Me: Aw, thanks! He's very cute.
Francis: What are you doing?
Me: Putting him back in the bag.
Francis: Why?
Me: So I don't have to carry a giant teddy around in public.

Last year:

Francis: So, here's the ring.
Me: It's gorgeous - thank you!
Francis: Shall I do this properly then?
Me: What do you mean?
*Francis gets down on one knee*
Me: Oh, GOD, no. Get up. We already know we're getting married.

The trouble is, my problem with this kind of earnest language is not saved for romantic (or not so romantic) conversations with my husband.

On Human Planet (BBC), the other day, a man said some honey was 'like caramelized sunshine'. Seriously? How did he manage to get that whopping turd of a sentence out without gagging? 'Caramelized sunshine.' Oh, sod off.

Any emphatic, passionate declarations, regardless of subject matter make my insides scream for mercy. My eyes squint up and I physically recoil in disgust. I would say that I was born in the wrong era, but that doesn't fit either. My intolerance for flowery, sincere language seems to be something I've developed over the last ten years. Prior to that, I could often be found with a note-book, writing the kind of poetry that I'd happily be sick over today.

So what have we learned?

1) We should probably all feel a little bit sorry for Francis.
2) Efforts should be made to be less of a cynical, scathing naysayer.
3) There is no excuse for using the term 'caramelized sunshine'. Ever.

Behind Enemy Lines

Books have been an integral part of my domestic landscape for as long  as I can remember. Bookshelves proudly bearing everything from ratty old paperbacks to pristine hardbacks line every available wall I can get away with before, inevitably, whoever I'm living with declares me financially and spacially irresponsible and bans me from entering Waterstones.

My earliest memory of a book is not a particularly dignified one. My grandmother perched on the side of the bed my sister and I were sharing in her spare room, trying desperately to read us tales from One Hundred-Acre Wood before we went to sleep. Exasperated, she eventually gave up when we fell about laughing every time she uttered the word 'Pooh'.


Peter Rabbit



I am pleased to report that my reading material, along with my sense of humour matured and very soon, I was glued to Beatrix Potter and devouring Enid Blyton (The Wishing Chair and The Far-Away Tree, my absolute favourites). I adore(d) Dahl and eventually developed the typical teenage fascination with vampires. My tastes remained fairly eclectic though - favouring mixed genres and swinging between Charlotte Bronte and Stephen King by the age of thirteen. Every now and again, I would find a book that was to become part of my affair with literature for life. Flowers in the Attic by Virginia Andrews and it's following series was one of these stories. I've now lost count of the amount of times I have read them. Always the same tired paperbacks, lined and brittle with flaking covers. They are the true veterans of my book case. Every time I look at them, I want to read them again.

My passion for books has never wavered. Even my desk at Oxford University Press is cluttered with advance copies I am fairly certain I will never get round to reading - but I love to look at them anyway. My environment is that much more comforting with them than without.

 

The Folk of the Faraway Tree

So it will come as no surprise, that when e-readers began to surface on the market a couple of years ago, I jumped on my high-horse faster than Clint Eastwood had ever managed. I ranted and raved - pointed fingers, picked up my scythe and in the very best damning voice I could muster, declared them the work of Satan and his minions. Reading screens instead of books? Pressing buttons instead of turning pages? NO. They were the very essence of technology over-stepping it's boundaries and going too far. Where would we be next if we allowed e-readers to declare the book redundant? I was plagued with visions of children with giant headsets sitting idly in chairs - their brains playing hopskotch or '123 in' while their legs twitched in tired protest of the neglect. I was certain. E-readers marked the end of everything decent, pure and traditional.

I may have overreacted. Slightly.

Just after Christmas 2010, I got the beginnings of gadget envy. I recognized it in myself and tried to quell the temptation - reminding myself of all of those sound, revelation-style arguments I had been so vehement about. Still, I couldn't quite get rid of it and began to see the potential of a device such as Amazon's 'Kindle'. I could store 5000 books on the comparitively tiny piece of equipment and save my precious bookshelves for beautiful editions of the novels I trully cherished. I could purchase with one click and be reading mere seconds later. The lure was almost overwhelming.

Scrap the 'almost'. I lasted two months and last week was in receipt of a shiny new Kindle. My husband has threatened to disown me. He's holding fast to the scripture of doom I was guilty of spouting myself just weeks ago. I am a heathen and a traitor and he eyes my Kindle with shrewd, mistrusting eyes. I've not once felt secure enough to leave them in a room together unsupervised yet.

Suddenly, this new medium has refreshed my love of reading and the TV glares at me, betrayed, whenever I have a spare ten minutes to myself. I am converted - I love the e-reader.

Look at me - I'm evolving.

Supermarket Matters

I know a lot of writers. It's primarily because of their love of writing that I have bonded with them; gotten to know them and continued to stay in touch. 

Mark Chatterley - Supermarket Matters

Mark Chatterley was not one of these people. He loves to write - he's also very good at it, despite his protestations to the contrary - but this friend was one I met at the peak of adolescence. We got drunk with mutual friends, made our Religious Studies teacher wish he'd had the sense to stick to Maths, and generally bounced back and forth in an easy, and thankfully, lasting friendship. 

Through being linked on social networking sites, the term 'Supermarket Matters' is very familiar as Mark's latest writing project. I'm ashamed to say I hadn't really taken the time to investigate until this morning. To be honest, now that I have, I'm blown away by his commitment and productivity since the idea was first conceived. 

So many writers, myself included, dream of the far off day that we can begin to make a living from stringing sentences together. We read books, talk knowledgeably and perhaps even start blogs so that we don't feel the creativity is completely wasted. So very rarely, one of us breaks the rules and actually does something proactive. 

Supermarket Matters was Mark's brain child - "originally a vehicle to help me – and others like me – break into ‘the industry'" as self-described on his blog. A series of script-based pod-casts following a no doubt amusing story line through the running of a Supermarket. What has emerged though, is a strong network of script-writers, techies and enthusiasts - making this a very real and very credible project. Having invested talent, time and money into Supermarket Matters, this post is simply my way of raising a glass to an old friend and budding script-writer - also sending potential writers in the right direction to either get involved with Mark's creation, to simply see how it's done, or to shame themselves into also doing something a little more proactive with their writing talents. 

Things to have a look at:

The Blog - Supermarket Matters

Mark on Twitter

Supermarket Matters on Facebook

The Politically Correct Adventures of Huckleberry Finn

I hope, that wherever Mark Twain hangs out in the afterlife, he has somehow managed to avoid hearing about the latest crime against literature - not least because it involves his own master-piece. Would he be rolling in his grave, I wonder? Or simply rolling his eyes like I am?

If you haven't already been linked to one of the many articles detailing this story, I'll outline briefly: In Professor Alan Gribben's new edition of the classic (publishing under NewSouth Books), some 219 instances of the word 'nigger' will be replaced with the word 'slave'. They also plan to replace the colloquial 'injun' with 'indian'. 

Far be it for me to keep my mouth shut. 

I hold great affection for Huckleberry Finn - and though that affection was originally born out of gratitude (it was one of the only assigned texts for an American literature course that didn't make me want to put my head through a wall), I grew to love it for the incredible work that it was. 

So needless to say, I would always have had opinions - loud opinions - about altering such a classic. More than that though, I believe the decision represents a much deeper problem within society today. 

Huckleberry Finn is an anti-racist book. Twain deliberately used the offensive terminology to give his readers a very stark view of racial attitude in the 1800's. Huck begins his fictional journey by befriending slave Jim while both running away from the same town. Huck's main motivation for escape is that his guardian intends to 'sivilize' him - Jim simply doesn't want to be sold and plans to buy his family out of slavery. Throughout the story, the characters become firm friends and through verbalising his troubled life, Jim radically alters Huck's view on race, slavery and life in general. If ever there were a more blatant message of anti-racism portrayed in a novel, I have not read it. 

The act of replacing the terminology, is far more offensive than the words themselves. Not only are NewSouth Books putting new words into the mouth of a dead man, they are doing so under the thinly veiled guise of 'updating'. Forgive my cynicism, but I suspect it has far more to do with sales. Consider this: 

Our world stock of literary classics are fair game, which is why most large publishing houses have their own editions. No one publisher has the rights - allowing a variety of texts to be published with different branding, introductions and notes - effectively, giving a consumer the widest of choices. They will inevitably chose the edition which best suits their needs - whether that is making a book-shelf look well rounded and chic, or obtaining the most comprehensive scholarly annotations for course purposes. It's a happy position to be in if you're a customer. Not so much, if you're a publisher competing with everyone else. Because of the racial connotations in Twain's work, Adventures of Huckleberry Finn has been banned in hundreds of schools across the world. A tragedy for teachers who long to place the master-piece on the curriculum, but a potential gold-mine for the publisher who dares to alter history. Under this new edition, constrictions within these schools may be lifted for Huck and Jim - in fact the text may well be adopted and taught annually. There is scope for a good year of high sales targets here before the rest of the publishing world eventually gives in and follows suit. My Lord, I hope the rest of them have a little more integrity. 

So would that not be worth it? To have younger students studying a book which I, myself have described as incredible? 

No. It would definitely not be worth the sacrifice on a variety of different levels - the very least of which is the equivalent of scribbling on the Mona Lisa. What I would most like to know, is why this particular book? Why now? And where on earth will it end?

Peter Griffin and Huck Griffin - Family Guy

If we accept that the potential for offense is an acceptable reason for censorship, where do we draw that line? Russel Brand certainly wouldn't have a publisher. Jimmy Carr wouldn't be allowed to make rape victims the butt of his jokes. Family Guy would become a children's cartoon - one which did not mercilessly mock race, gender, disability, disease, obesity and a further list of categories so long I can't possibly remember all of them. And here's the exasperating issue - all of the above seek to mock. Twain sought to educate. As funny as I find Family Guy, I still know which is less offensive. 

And this word - this abhorrent word, which causes so much offense... "The 'n' word." Or simply the term 'nigger' to anyone not terrified of uttering a pronounceable group of letters, is now one of the most popular lyrical additions to rap albums world-wide. Films, books and music all still continue to include it - is it acceptable if it's said by the 'cool kids'? To mock and to glamorize is fine, but to use this word to outline racial attitude and drive home the realities of slavery and oppression is not? 

To edit Twain's book is criminal. To take his story out of its context and claim to have updated it is to have missed his message entirely. It's also an attempt at re-writing history among pages we have no right to edit. Not since Baa Baa Black Sheep was officially condemned and re-taught as Baa Baa Rainbow Sheep have I been this incensed about todays absurd obsession with political correctness.

Avoid this edition like the literary plague it is, people. We'll be sorry if we don't. 

Writing for Winter

Winter words are, without question, the most inspired. It's the season of onomatopoeia: crisp, sparkle, crunch, etc... and for those who shun the bah-humbug, Winter holds Christmas in the palm of its hand like a warm, beating, festive nugget. One full of presents and turkey.

Blankets, open-fires, mugs of hot-chocolate, red noses, and mittens. Summer holds the most enthralling memories of childhood for me, but Winter will always be my true love. Frost and thin blankets of snow turn mundane, ugly housing estates into perfect postcard scenes; breath escapes in cloudy plumes as soon as the front door is opened. And though youth holds dear the snowball-fights the snowmen, and the sledging; contemplative winter tranquility - the kind that sets in during your teenage years and nestles in until you're hooked - wins hands down.

I wonder if, like me, everyone else spends the Winter months trying to recreate that sense of peace and utter contentment we hear in the poems and songs of yesteryear. Does anyone actually roast chestnuts on an open fire? Celebrate in warmly lit houses with Mistletoe and Wine? Does that inner exhale, the 'this is exactly how I wanted it to be', actually exist?

For me, it does. I'm not saying that everyday from November to February exists in an exuberant joy-filled bubble - in fact, the moments I'm talking about are very rare. They are unexpected. And they are priceless.

This year, I had just moved out of the flat I shared with my husband and daughter. It was, to put it nicely, a complete hole. One which would have been bearable if it weren't for the rotting floorboards that soaked all clothes, linen and furniture with a sickly mildew smell. After months of badgering our estate agent, our kitchen floor still sank a few inches in the middle and the smell continued to exacerbate my already chronic morning sickness courtesy of offspring numero-deux. Finally, we decided to admit defeat and temporarily encroach on my parent's hospitality. The move itself was hell in a snow-globe. The heating wasn't working, so our fingers were stiff and painful while carelessly throwing possessions in boxes and eventually transporting them down the flight of slippery concrete stairs to the car. Seven hours, two sandwiches and not one cup of tea later, the last load was done and I collapsed in a big girly heap on my mother's sofa, shuddering and feeling very sorry for myself indeed. In typical mum-style, she immediately sent me off for a hot bath with a large mug of strong, sweet tea; my toes and my mood began to thaw out as the hot-tap threw steam akin to a small volcano around the bathroom.

This all seems important to mention; I suppose a feeling of utter relief, calm and introspection often comes as a direct result of a few horrible hours you're happy to say goodbye to. I was red and wrinkled - wrapping myself in a thick toweled dressing-gown when laughter from downstairs floated into ear-shot. Company. Warmth. A large double-bed with linen that did not smell of floorboards. That was my moment this year - when I sat back and asked myself if I had ever needed anything more than that to feel completely whole and content.

Writers recognise how glorious minutes like that are - which is why they try to recreate them. Characters curled up with hot-chocolate watching the rain through dark windows; protagonists watching their family's festive cheer full of nostalgia and love. We spend a lot of time trying to articulate something which for all intents and purposes, completely defies explanation.

It seems odd - that this is a winter-exclusive experience for me. For some reason, that kind of inner warmth only ever materializes when it's cold outside.

I've not written in ages...

... and much like the typical flakey friend you wish would just get her act together, I'm full to the brim of sincere excuses and justifications. I'm not going to write them all here, you understand - I have to get back to work.

But. 

I shall write something soon. It'll be profound, I promise. For now though, I'll ask Robert Frost to be my guest blogger and entertain you with a poem. 

Lovers, forget your love,
And list to the love of these,
She a window flower,
And he a winter breeze.
When the frosty window veil
Was melted down at noon,
And the cagèd yellow bird
Hung over her in tune,
He marked her through the pane,
He could not help but mark,
And only passed her by,
To come again at dark.
He was a winter wind,
Concerned with ice and snow,
Dead weeds and unmated birds,
And little of love could know.
But he sighed upon the sill,
He gave the sash a shake,
As witness all within
Who lay that night awake.
Perchance he half prevailed
To win her for the flight
From the firelit looking-glass
And warm stove-window light.
But the flower leaned aside
And thought of naught to say,
And morning found the breeze
A hundred miles away. 

~ Wind and Window Flower, Robert Frost