Weddings

I watched a programme last night where a lovely young woman went around the country talking to people about why and how they wanted to get married. She was planning her own wedding, and questioning her reasons for getting married (she already had a baby and was in a long term relationship) and was interested in other people's motives for tying the knot.

As well as finding out the why of marriage, she covered such things as the cost, the statistics of success for various age groups, wedding accessories..

Her first visit was to a girl of 16, who was engaged to a boy of 15. The boy's mother was very keen on the idea and didn't seem to think there was anything strange about committing yourself to someone for life at the age of 15/16. She'd been married at 18, she declared proudly, though 'it didn't work out', but this didn't dampen her enthusiasm one bit. SHe liked weddings, thought it was lovely and sweet. The girl's mother (who wasn't interviewed) was obviously more reticent and had persuaded them to wait until she was eighteen. Sensible woman. However, they'd already bought the dress.

I have to say, the girl was not the most articulate, but the boy was even less so. Also, as he chatted (if it can be called that) to the interviewer about what he found attractive in his bride to be, he was busy pinching her nipple. Cringe inducing stuff - we actually had to turn away. The girl seemed relieved that she wouldn't have to sleep with anyone else, she'd 'been around' she declared, not altogether proudly, but 'not as much as her fiance, you can't beat his score.' It turned out he'd had about twenty partners. For a fifteen year old, that is fairly shocking. Call me an old fashioned middle aged bigot, but.... To give her credit, the interviewer took everything they said in her stride and tried not to judge, though couldn't resist pointing out that the boy was much more 'under confident' (a code for moronic) than she'd expected.

Her visit to the fiance of a footballer was shocking in a different way. Her dress alone was going to cost something like £8000.00. Her ring would weigh down any hand, and she unashamedly said that if he'd got her a smaller one, she would have refused to marry him. So, a lot of love going on there. Her father seemed pleased to 'get rid of her', claiming she was very demanding. Really? I hadn't noticed!

Probably the most touching was the Indian lady who had resisted years of potential arranged marriages and waited till she was thirty to choose her partner. But she was still traumatised about leaving her parents' home and there was a touching scene of her brother, this huge, robed young man, weeping as they drove off in their marital car, having kissed goodbye to their family.

And the born again Christian couple who were saving themselves for their wedding night, who talked candidly (and quite hilariously) about how they controlled their obvious ardour. The woman confessed she couldn't wait to get her hands on him. I hope their honeymoon lived up to expectations!

I concluded from the various stories covered that for most people, marriage is a combination of social expectation, a chance to spend some money and have a big day devoted to themselves, and love, which did come into it, thank God.

Crazes

I was going through my junk recently, 'de-cluttering', and realised how many different crazes I go through which involve buying large quantities of equipment, most of which gets used for about two weeks and then stored, somewhere, for when I'm re-inspired with that particular thing.

I've always been a seeker of something I can be good at or a group I can be a part of.

My mother bought me:

- brownie outfit (though I inherited the 'sash' - I was a US brownie - from my sister, complete with all the sewn badges, which I then claimed as my own. Not a good start for the moralistic brownie pack);
- a guitar, (on which I learnt three chords, enough to play 'Blowin in the WInd' over and over again. I did have classical guitar lessons, but they were a disaster.
- a melodica, (I didnt' have lessons on this, but picked up a few paltry little tunes)
- a rock polishing machine (I am probably personally responsible for the increase of the ozone layer. That thing took months to polish rocks, which I hadn't chosen with any care, just picked up randomly around the city. Needless to say, the end result was a bitter disappointment).
- Endless small animals.

In adult life:

- I have enough wool to insulate our entire house. One day, I'll just accept that my knitting/crocheting days our over - I have done neither since I gave up smoking (Ironically, perhaps).
- Paints. Sacks of them. Watercolour paints, oil paints, acrylic paints. You name it, I've got it. For my 'art' and my paper mache craze, when I sat at the kitchen table constructing useless objects which were usually unidentifiable. Most of them rotted (my husband was so grateful) because I used the old fashioned paste, ie flour and water.
- Bits of broken crockery. For the mosaic I will create one day.
- Single earrings. See above.
- Keys. When I was teaching, these were good for stimulating children's imaginations. Teaching makes one a terrible hoarder, because having props is very comforting.
- Material. I do sew, on occasion, usually curtains or putting the odd dart in a too large garment. I have made my own clothes, but tents aren't very flattering on a slightly overweight fifty year old, so I've stopped. My latest acquisition of material was ear marked for the making of some bunting. It cost a fortune and now sits in a bag, waiting for the long winter months when I have nothing to do. Yeah, right, that's really going to happen!
- A cowbell, shakers and various other bits of samba drumming acoustic instruments.
- Another guitar. I learnt three more chords before I put it away.
- Endless bits of small gym equipment ie. weights, a large elastic band thing, something with handles you stretch, a huge ball.

Do I ever use them? Of course not.
But, the point is, I just might.

Moans

To my one fan/follower (thanks Jan) I hope you haven't felt abandoned. I have my moaning blog up and running on www.sstopford.blogspot.com But since no one reads it, I'll start including them on this.

So, my moan of the day is to do with the Inland Revenue. I expect lots of people have their complaints about this revered organisation, but mine goes as follows.

In January I got a huge tax bill which I couldn't pay all at once, so arranged a direct debit.... so far so good.

After a month, I got a letter saying I hadn't paid my outstanding tax and I must do so immediately. I phoned up straight away and was told to ignore this letter, they went out automatically until the full amount was paid.

I did wonder why they couldn't give you a code or something which told the computer that you had arranged an alternative form of payment to save these letters going out, but, satisfied with what they'd told me, I ignored it. The following month, I simply threw it away without even opening it. Big mistake.

The next month, I got another letter, which I opened. This threatened me with all sorts of horribleness if I did not pay up IMMEDIATELY. It also warned me that the bailiffs would turn up within days and this might 'cause embarrassment', not to mention distress!

I phoned up again, quite distraught and furious, but as their systems were down, they could not access my account. They didn't really know what to say when I asked them what I should do if the bailiffs appeared at my door that day.

Enraged, I wrote a letter to them, asking why on earth they didn't sort out their computer system so that these letters did not come automatically, as well as having a diatribe about how distressed such letters could make people, especially elderly or vulnerable people. Apart from all that, it's a total waste of money - how many people get these letters month after month?

I got a very apologetic reply, explaining that whoever had set up the original direct debit had basically cocked up and they should have told the computer to leave me alone. I wondered why, after two phone calls, they hadn't rectified the original cock up, but couldn't be bothered to write and ask them that.

The irony was that, accompanying the sorry letter, was another letter extolling the virtues of paying ones tax by direct debit. Yeah, right.

Pantos

I was recently involved in a panto. I was coerced into it initially, with great reluctance, knowing the appallingness of my acting skills. 'Wooden' summed them up, plus a lack of memory so profound I was having difficulty learning my lines. All 3 of them.

However, as the weeks got closer to the actual performance (and we got our costumes), I began to feel a certain swell of excitement. Plus, the acting ability in our village was phenomenal. I can't believe how much talent there is when you scratch the surface of such a small community.

In the end, it was a triumph, and from behind the stage all we could hear were endless guffaws of laughter. Everyone said it was what a village panto should be; full of references to local things, quietly mocking local personalities and generally making total tits of ourselves and everyone else.

By the final performance, even I, who initially had stood like a zombie delivering my words read from a script, was beginning to improvise. I doubt I'll have any Hollywood agents knocking at my door, but I am definitely a convert and ready and waiting for the next one. Though everyone in the world now wants to be involved. We might have to audition!

Funnily enough, an American friend who saw my facebook status after it had all finished:
'No panto, no life',
asked me what a panto actually was.

I explained and discussed with a fellow English/American why she thought they don't have pantos in the States.

I agree with her analysis. 'British men love dressing up as women; American men don't'.

Steve

Has anyone else with AOL noticed, on the home page, a guy called Steve, sitting, on a stannah stairlift, waving at you? I've inspected him carefully and he scares me. He's an engineer for the company, but he has an alarming twitch in his left leg and a smile that catapults across his face and then disappears, before it has a chance to properly work as a smile. It looks like he's a prisoner in the chair, a piece of tape runs either side across his lap. Does he need rescuing? I'm sure he's way too young and fit to actually need a stannah stairlift.

I'm wondering whether AOL, in some voodoo mystical way, knows that Rob is now 60 and may, in the future, be a prime candidate for a stair lift? Spooky.

More lane rage

I've just resumed my swimming regime, after a break of over a month. Not a day went by when I didn't feel guilty about abandonning my ritual, but my excuse was I had a cough and cold. In reality, it was the warmth of my bed which lured me to stay in it. All its fault! Naughty bed.

Anyway, I had pushed the dreadful memories of lane rage deep into the innermost caverns of my psyche, only to have them dredged up again the minute I stepped into the pool (or at least, 5 lengths after I did).

I was feeling pretty damn smug. It was Sunday morning and I actually had to wait for the attendants to open the ladies changing room to let me out. I was that keen.

The pool was entirely empty. All mine. You can't believe how good that feels. I chose the lane nearest the steps and plunged in and immediately set about my routine, which is fairly dull, breast stroke up and down, obsessively counting lengths. I was slightly put out when a group of men emerged from their changing room, spilling out like so many caged animals, but they very politely left me alone and chose other lanes to occupy.

So, I was lulled into a sense of false security, and even felt quite content, until I saw 'the enemy' approaching. A small, large lady, donning goggles, stood by the bar at the shallow end, RIGHT IN MY PATH. I was outraged, couldn't believe it. Surely she would move before I trawled right into her.....?

But no, she stood her ground, not an eyelash was batted, which meant I had to swerve to avoid her. Surely these are not the rules? To make matters worse, she then claimed my lane as her own, and proceeded to plod along, at a very leisurely pace, which meant that I had to veer to avoid her. At one point, just as I pushed myself off from the side to turn into length number 28 (where she was having yet another little rest) she started to follow me, but, of course, I didn't realise, because she was behind me.

Though it was not intentional, but simply because the stupid woman was following me too closely, I was quite pleased when I managed to kick her in the head. Hard. It felt good, and of course I could rest assured it had been an accident. I longed to manufacture a few more of such 'accidents', just to make my point. Or poke her goggled eyes out. I had to make do with mentally forming her into a voodoo doll and stick a great deal of pins in her.

I haven't heard of a drowning at the local pool, but I didn't see her when I went again today. But the big fat man made up for her. He did exactly the same thing. What is it with people? I'm beginning to feel persecuted.

Slavery

I was waitressing the other day at the pub, at a table with two young boys, who had ordered a seafood platter, which I thought was very sophisticated of them. As I removed their plates and wiped the debris of crab, prawns and mussel detritus, one of them looked up at me and asked in a very serious voice: 'Are you a slave?'

That was quite a hard question to answer. It did make me chuckle.

I wish I'd said yes.

New Year again

What goes around comes around, so they say, and here I am again, pondering resolutions. I reread what I wrote last year and basically have the same resolution, which I never achieved, so don't know exactly why I'm bothering to try again. This time it's 'drink only four times a week and limit my drinking to 3 glasses of wine.' I know what Zoe will say. 'YEah, right Mum'. Such faith she has. But I actually believe I can do it, and now that I'm 50 I need to start conserving as many brain cells as possible.

Anyway, I am in contemplative mood, thinking about Josh sitting on some paradise beach in Goa, but also experiencing the English form of paradise in a crisp, sunny winter's morning with frost underfoot and everyone in the world walking their dogs and looking jolly.

So, life is good and I have a surprisingly optimistic feeling about 2010, which is most unlike me, because normally I live my life in fear and trepidation.

This is what I want from the coming year:

I would like my book to be published, or at least on the way to being published.
I would like Zoe to achieve her ambition to pass her course with a merit and find herself an interesting/challenging job.
I would like Yes Sir Boss to find a manager and be given the recognition they deserve.
I would like Ben to get back to Antigua and learn more Spanish and fulfil his dream to own a salsa bar so we can go and see him.
I would like someone to start buying Rob's photographs to give him the confidence to continue.
I would like peace in the world, the end to poverty and deprivation, the end of global warming... and a very small pay rise.

I'm not asking much, I know.

I just hope I'm not tempting fate.