Viewing Men as Sex Objects....

... is completely acceptable in this case. Oh Roque. May I spend many more hours giggling childishly with Monky, as we admire your wanton loveliness. Sigh.

Late Nighter

Rescued what could have been an entirely wasted bank holiday weekend by going to the Natural History Museum with Troy, to look at the Wildlife Photography of the Year exhibition. Was very very very busy, of course, but totally worth it. There was one photo by Chris Packham. Hubba!! Then we went to see "Lars and the Real Girl"which was a completely unexpected treasure. I kinda thought a film about a loner falling in love with a sex doll might be full of cheap laughs, but it was actually very sweet. You had to slightly suspend your disbelief but, if you went with the flow, it was hugely moving, and I had to hold back the old tears on more than one occasion. Strongly recommended!

Troy was very good company, of course, and we discussed the usual old subjects: our attempts at adult learning, and the wonderful world of singledom. I mentioned the fact that I have embarked (very tentatively) on the murky world of internet dating. It came about as I whiled away yet another dull weekend, and decided that I couldn't just let life pass me by any longer...

The result was frankly frightening, as I suddenly started getting "winks" from all sorts of interesting characters. Clearly "fresh meat" (Troy's term but very apt) get a lot of attention, when they register, from all the undoudtedly disreputable characters that hang out on these sites hoping for cheap sex. Still, once I'd got over the panic of various weird faces and profiles popping up and haranguing me, I started to enjoy gawping at some of the odd bods who had taken an interest. I have put a reasonably pleasant but true-to-life photo of myself on my profile (no make-up, glasses on etc) as I think people might as well see me as I am, but some blokes clearly don't have any quality control on their own profiles ... I mean they don't seem to mind that their photos make them look like serial killers!! Is there seriously any need for extreme close-ups of crumply old faces, or your eyes pointing in different directions, or wearing dark glasses and a wig?!? And no, I am not going to respond to a 49-year calling himself BIGBOIJESUS#1 or some such crap. Ha ha ha ha ha.

As I trawled through the ranks of winking romeos, I realised that my absolute worst nightmare would be sombody I knew finding my personal ad or, in fact, vice versa. Just as this horrible thought crossed my mind, I practically choked on my bass shandy as I noticed that someone had just winked at me, giving their location as a VERY SMALL village which is home to practically the entirety of my mother's family. There was no photo on the profile, only a username which had heavy metal leanings. That certain members of my mother's family (married, quite a close blood relative, but of exactly the right age) are quite into heavy metal and live in said VERY SMALL village suddenly made me feel quite sick. It is perfectly possible that it is some random person who is unknown and unrelated to me but I did have the very queasy thought that one of my cousins might be trying to pull me, or take the piss out of me, on the internet. I am sure it is a coincidence but with no photo to prove it, I might never know... the curious part of me wants to email this person to find out for sure, but the sensible part of me knows that that is a very stupid plan. Either I would accidently embark on incestuous internet flirting, or I would let on to a stranger from my family's village that I'm a loner dredging for a date over the internet, news that I've no doubt would spread faster than wildfire to my entire family via the village grapevine, much to their great amusement and my humiliation.

Oh dear. I might regret this! But I'll let you know.... anyway it is really past my bedtime, and suck suck suck I have to go to work tomorrow. Oh well.

Thursday's Child

Bassers crematorium is miles out of town, and the weather was blowy and bleak for my granddad's funeral. Having felt quite fine about the whole thing in the immediate days after his death, I found my mood deteriorating, on the day of his funeral, the nearer I got to my parent's place. When my Uncle Reiki starting chatting to me about how he knew granddad was in a better place, the emotions really started to set in. I believe what he says (in a completely different sense from him) but it is more the stirring of old memories that sets me off, when people do readings, and recall anecdotes about the departed and how, even if you had no personal involvement in the recollections, you get a sense of the richness of the most ordinary of lives. I realise I knew next to nothing about the quiet, unassuming old man that was being laid to rest.

As for the extended family, the old Cowes didn't fail in their ability to engage in a petty and tasteless argument, even at the burial of the family patriarch. The disagreement centred over my grandmother who has quite advanced dementia, and who the majority of the siblings did not want at the funeral. It was less about her potential distress at the burial of her husband of 60-years, and more about whether she might create a scene and be difficult. My Uncle Reiki, however, who has distanced himself from the entire family because of the bitterness and pettiness, and zenophobic attitude they have to his non-British partner, was adamant that she had the right to come, something which my mother supported. So, against the wishes of the other siblings, they brought her to the service and wake. Naturally, this resulted in certain people clustering together, muttering, bitching and actually refusing to talk to their own kin over the grave sin of letting a wife be present at the burial of her husband. These are the same people that practically circled like vultures over my grandparent's house, when they were put into care, to make sure that they got the best of the spoils, taking away possessions from people that were/are still living, with a quite contemptable zealotry. it was extremely upsetting for my mother, who is sensitive to things anyway, and Uncle Reiki (who is more zen about this family breach) admitted that he was "ashamed" by his own family, after the event.

For the record, my grandmother was wonderful, chatty with old friends, respectful and quiet during the service, and after my mother read out a beautiful poem that she had written about my granddad, she took mum's hand and said "thank you, that was lovely" with absolute lucidity. I hardly need to mention the irony of a Alzheimers-ravaged 80-something having more dignity than some of her own offspring...

I do think it is a shame, though, that I find it so immensely difficult to engage with my extended family. Our little branch has always been a little bit "outside" of the family, as we grew up in a different town from most of them, and took different paths (in terms of education and career). However, I know that these are my blood and that we share a lot in common, and ought to get on better. The truth is, however, that certain bitter and beligerant characters make me indifferent to trying, and that any small attempts to chat with various cousins is usually met with a look of shock and awe that I would even bother coming over.

Thank the lord for your family, and then curse them.

An Old Bull in Winter

Well things have happened. My granddad died last Thursday and although I am sad that I did not know him better (the visits were too seldom and he was not a talkative man) I think he died as one should, having had all his children with him in the last few days, and not alone when the end finally came.

Spent a lovely weekend with Choc Chip on lake Windermere living out my National Trust fantasy in a beautiful cottage on the lake shore. We tried to cripple outselves on a walk that I wrongly guestimated at around 8 miles, but turned into about 15 by the time we dragged out sorry arses home. Visited a couple of NT properties - one a lovely dark yeoman's house hidden in the hills above the lake, another a gloopy brown square of 17th/20th century uber-richness, manned by about 100 pensioner stewards determined to make sure that you visited every fucking corner in the exact order they demanded. It houses one of the best art collections in the UK but I like to browse these things in the order I wish to, and at whatever pace I wish to, and got a little annoyed by the sheep herding. I personally think they were suspicious of me and Choc Chip because we're under the age of 80 and don't wear tweed.

Now have had to face work which has made me feel leaden with apathy. The upcoming funeral and general slog of the next few months on the personal front have imbued me with mindless pity. The fact that an attempt at delapidation (which I have done many times before without ill effect) has left me with the face of an adolescent glue sniffer has in no way improved my mood. BAAAAA.

Threadbare (notes on my class)

I love my embroidery class, more and more because it is attended by a bunch of hilarious, gossiping and friendly eccentrics. Sometimes it is utter chaos, and if that sounds like an exaggeration, believe me it is not.

• Bag Lady is a former senior nurse with bipolar, who produces sample after sample of crude bold designs but has no idea how to mount or organise them in a sketch book, and labours into each lesson carrying about five bags and her kitchen sink, muttering about how the stress is bringing her out in cold sores, and what an old twit her husband is.
• Blackbird is a quiet, enduring rock of good sense, whose esquisite, delicate work hides years as a punk loving anarchist, and who was over-the-moon to receive a vintage parka for her recent 40-something birthday.
• Tintin is a sweet old lady who spent 20 years stuck in her home suffering agoraphobia, tempted out lately only by the embroidery class. She is wryly accepting of her husband's 30-year affair, grateful for the occasional lifts her gives her when she does leave the confine of her own four walls.
• Jack is a wonderful, self-depracating chef, who married a younger man, refused to have children, and declares herself staunchly catholic and pro-life, whilst also admitting (without so much as a blink) that "of course" she had two abortions when she was young because her parents would have gone wild if they'd found out she was pregnant. She is reeling from the news that her husband has had just been disgnosed with inoperable cancer of the oesophagus, and admits to secretly asking her priest to say prayers for him (her husband is strongly no-faith) whilst warning his parents (Jehovah's Witnesses) that they shouldn't try and exert their beliefs on him just because he is dying. I have no doubt that she will look after him well, if in her own peculiar and brusque manner, as he endures his final months.
• Seashell is a vulnerable epileptic, who was beaten so badly by her ex-husband that she was partially blinded, and left with the mental age of a nine-year-old (according to the courts). He also kidnapped their children, who were eventually put in care because she was no longer deemed fit to look after them, due to her injuries. Once an artist, she now lives in a bedsit with a full time carer, and embroiders intense, painstaking and rich embroideries (against the wishes of the doctors) even though she can barely make out the colours, and her weak eyes get further strained. She was born to Muslim parents in Belfast, and was delivered by a British soldier, who laid down his arms when he found her mother in labour. Her birth-story sounds like a fairytale (and may well be) but her life is so extraordinary that you just can't rule it out. She can be both moody and gregarious and heartbreaking.
• Hornsey is a creative Caribbean spirit, whose only vice is men and smoking like a trooper, and who is at the heart of all things arty, creating community craft groups, and fashioning amazing designs out of paperclips, rubber bands, any, in fact, that she finds lying about her house.

And finally my teacher, Mrs. Essex, who is the life and soul of the class - chaotic, dyslexic, fun and irreverant. She refuses to do any exercise (despite the constant badgering from Jack), curses her children lovingly, and gently encourages everybody to push themselves, to ignore traditional boundaries, and to enjoy themselves. She doesn't think the Embroider's Guild would have her, because she is too "common" and remembers saving her pennies as a child to get pie and mash from Le Manzes in Walthamstow.

It is difficult not to love each and everyone of them. And, for that reason, I thought I'd dedicate this blog entry to them. If I feel gloomy or bored or cynical about the world, they always remind me of why it doesn't have to be. Which is really rather lovely.

Crisis of Faith

Finished "God is not Great" on the train this morning, convinced myself (with the pathetic warm glow of someone who things they're being really rebellious when no-one actually gives a shit) that I was getting evil stares from all the religious nutnuts sitting near me...

I am genuinely wondering if I should give up Christmas....? I understand that it is no longer really a faith based event for most people in the UK but, if anything, it has become something worse ... an act of worship to the god of consumerism. It also happens to be a nice break in the heart of the dark midwinter and an opportunity to connect with your family (love 'em or loath 'em it's nearly always the right thing to do). But maybe next Christmas I'll strip it back to it's pagan basics, abandon the giving and recieving of gifts, offer a small sacrifice maybe of time or money, and, for once, do the right thing by my conscience...

I've offered to send my copy of "God is not Great" to an old friend (with whom I've lost contact over things said and done, or more accurately not said and not done) because it reminded me of a conversation we once had where I realised that we shared exactly the same views and pecularities on this very subject, and I rather enjoyed that fleeting connection. It didn't prove a very special connection I soon discovered, and I question (rather gloomily) if they'll even reply to my offer. At times like this I wonder how I reached this place where I feel so HUNGRY (capitals very much on purpose) for an intellectual and spiritual connection with people. If that sounds dreamy bullshit, then so be it, but I don't know how long I can trudge through this life without meeting a soul (my few lovely friends excepted of course) who even begin to understand how much I want to know and feel and learn and wonder and not find that thirst weird, uppity or desperate. I remember going to a small gig with an ex many years ago, and getting completely caught up in the music, and dancing and enjoying myself. He said how much he liked me when I let myself be myself. I went on, being young and rather cold, to treat him in a pretty unforgiveable manner. But however much that was not destined to be, I will never forget how much those words meant to be, and how much I would like that to be true again.

God is not Great

Am currently obsessively reading this book by Christopher Hitchens (I've been waiting impatiently until it has come out in paperback for cheapness purposes). Of course the old chap is preaching to the converted in my case, but it is such a pleasure to read something scholarly, witty (and unapologetic) that confirms that my world view is not heretic but actually quite sensible. And I'm happy to say that Hitchens doesn't hold back on putting the boot into Islam as well as Christianity, Buddism and any other kind of religious shenanigans that anyone dare care to mention.

Freedom of thought is the one human right that you can never truly take away from anyone, despite the best efforts of zealots and tyrants everywhere, and it is an incredible shame that so many people simply choose to hand their minds over to the petty rules and regulations of world religions and (more importantly) the leaders of these religions. I would never ask or expect anyone to give up their faith or stop believing in whatever deity it is they think is the big pie in the sky, because their own thoughts on the meaning of life are theirs by right ... but I do feel the world can only be a poorer place for those who act under it's illusionary jurisdiction.

I have prayed (or had the urge to pray) to God as an adult, but on those rare occasions I was acutely aware that it was my weakness pushing me to it. When my Granddad was taken seriously ill I remember wandering the streets of Belfast looking for a Church of Ireland church to say a prayer in (the fact that I wasn't comfortable in churches of another denomination says enough by itself really...). I never found that church or said that prayer, but the time I spent trooping through the empty Sunday streets of Sandy Row and Shankhill, just thinking, was enough to restore me. The other times I have prayed have been in those magnificent, thumping periods of despair that follow someone (often *ahem* yourself) letting you down, and consequently all your rational thoughts abandon you. I am happy to declare that, my Granddad did recover (as have I) proving absolutely fuck all really.

If God did exist, I would hope he wouldn't single out my prayers out for answering anyway. I mean, come on, has he nothing better to do than solve a bit of petty, temporary heartbreak and the everyday reality of living and dying?? As for the supposed comfort of the afterlife, if the Christian (or indeed Islamic / Judaic big fella) is really in existence, as the holy books describe him, I wonder if I (as a heathen who has somehow managed to get good morals despite myself) would actually want to take my place in his misogynistic / violent / mind-numbing / sycophantic dictatorship of heaven? Perhaps hell and old Nick have something better to offer me??? The assumptions made by the big religions are simply outstanding and often dense.

I prefer to think that when I die I am simply absorbed, as matter, back into the world from which I was born, and live on as a tiny little part of this amazing big and beautiful unknown universe.... that is an afterlife worth taking part in surely?