Parental Advisory: Explicit Lyrics

Patience is a virtue I have never owned. Why take a deep breath and count to ten when you could just burst a blood vessel and scream?

I'm afraid it's an absolute myth that pregnant women exist in a calming pink aura, spreading smiles and love to the world in anticipation of maternal perfection. If the pink aura exists, it's because she's eaten a truck-load of hash-brownies to pry her mind out of the aching, swollen, tension-filled mass of pastey waste she's still trying to mold some kind of body from. 

'Glowing'. There's another stretchy ball-sac of a lie. Pregnant women don't glow. They've merely spent a month's wages on Estee-Lauder and Chanel make-up rather than the Superdrug's own that would usually fill their blue plastic basket. They get up 45 minutes earlier, praying that by the time they actually have to leave the house, they can be reasonably assumed as human instead of walrus. 

Women 'with child' often then spend the rest of the day trying to act normal - showing the world that it's possible to be pregnant and still participate in society in some kind of productive way. I was doing so well. I only had to keep it up for four more days. Four days and then I was on perma-leave of my job and my senses. Feet up, tea in hand, Jeremy Kyle on the TV. The universe, however had other ideas. Fate's laughing - cackling at me this morning after a series of well-constructed mishaps culminated in a cataclysmic melt-down in the face of a cyclist who had made the unfortunate mistake of verbalizing her displeasure at nearly dying under the wheels of my Peugeot. 

The morning, which can usually be relied upon to start with the annoying and incessant shrill of an alarm clock, actually started with a sharp and painful stab to the left side of my right foot. Shifting and wriggling my way into a sitting position under the weight of the two-tonne baby I'm carrying, I lifted the duvet and raised the offending limb, squinting and out of breath, trying to get a better look. Getting a look at your toes in the ninth month of pregnancy is no ordinary task under normal circumstances - on a very squishy bed, it's even harder. Finally, after balancing carefully so as to not land myself on the floor while trying to elevate my legs, I caught sight of the problem. A large shard of glass* had worked it's way into the side of my foot, leaving a steady flow of blood trailing down my skin. Now. If you thought seeing your toes was difficult enough while pregnant - wait until you have to try and reach them with some tissue. 

*The large shard of glass was, I assume, from a pint glass that had literally leapt out of my hands the day before - spewing water and shattering itself over an astonishingly wide portion of my room. 

After this gentle wake-up call, I hobbled to the bathroom, and tried to re-establish some order to the morning by brushing my teeth and putting the shower on. First, the toothpaste ran out, leaving me doing that squeezy, rolly thing with my fingers trying to choke the tube of the last remaining drop. It was all going well until I over-enthusiastically squeezed at the last second and ripped my thumb nail right down at the join. 

Through expletives, I climbed into the bath, heading towards the beautiful, near-scolding water that promised to wash away the woes of the last fifteen minutes. So very nearly there, I stood on a wayward bath-toy of Izzy's. Not one of the nice, rubber squeezy toys you might expect of a toddler - but a hard plastic, replica cow. 

Now thoroughly fed up, I threw my head underneath the water and expected to feel at least a little better immediately. But the only thing I felt was freezing cold. The beautiful thing about DIY project showers, is that they're extremely unpredictable. This shower in particular, usually runs at a very acceptable standard - temperature, water-pressure, etc... all fine. But every now and again - and yes, this morning turned out to be one such occasion, it periodically runs in temperature from near-arctic to volcanic ash. This leaves me with an approximate window of 30 seconds during which the water is okay to put human skin under without the risk of frost-bite or third-degree burns. The result, which I'm sure would have been hilarious had anyone else seen it, was some kind of bizarre pregnant-lady shower hokey-cokey - stuck on the line 'You put your whole self in, your whole self out.' 

Other incidents before even leaving the house included burning my ear with my hair-straighteners, dropping an earring under the bed (which was NOT easy to retrieve in my current physical state), and using foot-cream instead of moisturizer on my face. 

It's imperative for the Oxfordshire public at large, that I finish work soon. With my current zero-tolerance policy, driving is not sensible. In fact, the 40 minute commute to work involves several hundred angry outbursts - and the usual uneasy feeling I get at the prospect of confrontation (though I'll still give it a go if I need to) is now replaced with a tidal wave of hormonal rage wherein it seems I'm actually willing people to start something. While pregnant with my first child, I got into a fight with a lorry driver over which one of us should be allowed to go first when merging into a single lane on the dual carriage-way. During that fun five minutes, I cared not that I had put my Renault Scenic up against a haulage truck. All I saw was the red-haze of self-righteousness and the possible injustice at having him pull in front. 

This morning, I think I made a cyclist cry. This offense is committed so often by cyclists that a friend and I had a rant about it not four days ago. We work in a part of Oxford littered with speed-bumps - the kind where the road actually narrows so you have no choice but to go over them with all four wheels. The good people of Oxfordshire County Council, have very thoughtfully accommodated for cyclists by creating bicycle lanes around the speed-bumps - though very few cyclists actually use them - choosing instead to piss drivers off by blocking the entire lane while they negotiate the bumps. As explained, I was in no kind of mood this morning to think rationally and so, in my fit of rage, I revved my car up onto the bump with the offending cyclist, forcing her to do a pretty nifty and swift maneuver to the side and nearly knocking her off on to the road. Unfortunately for her, my window was wound down this morning:

Cyclist: F**king twat!

Me: (screeching car to a halt and looking back at her) Excuse me?

Cyclist: You need to watch where you're going!

Me: Do I? See I was under the impression this was a ROAD. I was also under the impression that the path over there - you see the one around the speed bump (pointing emphatically by this point) was the cycle path. It's difficult to tell, isn't it? What with the BIG WHITE BIKE PAINTED ON IT. (At this point, cyclist's lip trembles and she starts to ride away). And where's your f**king helmet? (yelling after her like a proper crazy-lady) Or are there simply no brains to protect?!

In retrospect, this seems a little harsh and I probably should have just let her go through the speed-bump and taken the high road. Alas, rationality and sense are not my strong points at the moment. 

I had hoped that Tuesday might start to get a little better after that. But since being at work, I've spilt coffee down my top, cracked my knee on the underside of my desk and some little wanker from Dictionaries took the last chocolate croissant from the espresso bar. 

So yeah. Today's an unmitigated bastard so far. Roll on Wednesday. 

Fame, Fortune and Roadkill

Sonia, You'll Never Stop Me From Loving You 

Once upon a time, I wanted to be a singer. No, I'm not kidding. With the beautiful lie "you can be anything you want to be," tucked firmly under my belt, I was utterly convinced that I would eventually be  very successful and very famous. I loved to sing, mediocre voice or not and would, perhaps a little too enthusiastically, wail along with whatever happened to be playing. One of my favourites at the grand old age of seven, was Sonia.

No? Not coming with me on that one? I'm shocked. However, Sonia was a big ginger inspiration to seven year old me. I had her album on cassette tape and listened to it until I not only knew all of the words, but had worked out fairly complicated (and I must say, jazzy) dance routines in my head to go along with them. I have a distinct memory of singing along to one of her songs - back of the car, headphones in, bopping wildly from side-to-side as one of our many caravanning holidays began, wondering what my parents were laughing at in the front. I assumed it was a grown-up joke, though now of course, I realise it was probably my singing and bopping that had them in near hysterical tears.

My singing career progressed with the meeting of friends at the beginning of secondary school. A few of us would sit on the field at lunch-breaks doing what we thought was a good impression of harmonizing to Gabrielle songs. I'm fairly certain we called ourselves "Illusions" and even solicited the advice of our music teacher, Mrs Rundle. She seemed unconvinced of our obvious talent.

Alas, Illusions, broke up shortly after year seven was done. As with The Beetles, all good things must, I'm afraid, come to an end. However, my passion for music was not quite done (Hurrah! I hear you shout) and by the time I reached my tenth year of school, I felt I had matured as an artist and was ready to climb back on the proverbial horse. I thought a good way to ease myself back into it, would be performing at my school's end of year award ceremony. Not until my microphone was being assembled, and one of my closest friends at the time mouthed 'good luck' at my as she set up her violin, did I realise that singing in front of people was definitely NOT something I wanted to do.

Too late by that point however, and so I stood in front of a 700 strong crowd of peers, teachers and parents willing the songs to be over. Unfortunately for me, one of the chosen tracks was 'Everything I Do' by Brian Adams. I don't know if you've ever noticed this, but that is THE LONGEST SONG IN THE WORLD. I also developed a nervous twitch during the performance wherein I tucked my hair behind my ears about 70 times a second. This wasn't the usual butterflies-while-doing-something-you-loved fear. I was terrified.

Luckily, the performance was received quite well - meaning of course, that people were generally complimentary and I didn't have to kill myself to avoid the onslaught of ridicule I was certain was coming my way. However, after the revelation that singing brought about a particularly hideous form of stage-fright, I decided it was time to let the dream go. I came, I sang, I shit myself. Brush self off. Run AWAY.

Alongside the singing, I also fancied myself as an actress. Oh, yes. I know what you're thinking - is there no end to Gemma's creative flare? For a few years, I enthusiastically threw myself into whatever small part I was given in drama lessons - no doubt looking like a prize bell-end in the process. I even wrote a play after school had finished to reunite our cast of 'Arsenic and Old Lace'. It wasn't until I saw how successful that was in production (sold out for three nights, thank you very much), that I began to understand that perhaps writing was where I wanted to be.

And so as I explained in the first entry of this blog, I came full circle and got back into writing.

It occurred to me this morning though, that there is a lot of competition and my life of mediocrity may well never produce the fruit of my passion for the tap, tap, tap of a keyboard. And so, I have decided to concentrate on more achievable prospects.

These are the first few - I will update whenever another perfectly mundane, yet satisfyingly easy life-goal occurs to me:

1. See a badger, before it has been hit by a car (this was inspired by my journey to work this morning)
2. Sit and watch every Lord of the Rings movie (hindered thus far by my ability to stay awake through the first one)
3. Get through a Jamie Oliver recipe without uttering the F-word and setting the smoke alarm off
4. Attend a divisional Sales Briefing without playing Solitaire on the iPhone

Living the dream, people. Living the dream.

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.