Somewhere in England in 2010
I'm feeling hounded. I'm a middle aged, hard working, tax paying, full time worker in the public sector. The newspapers are full of the financial crisis caused by the ginormous national debt which our (unelected) government says we must reduce by slashing our public services and reducing the benefits of the poorest in our society. To this end, the government has softened up the general public to the idea of huge redundancies in the public sector by systematically portraying public sector workers as faceless work-shy pen pushing jobsworths. This is making me very, very cross indeed.
I work in the public sector, the NHS to be precise. I'm a manager; I manage a team of people that provide a service to the organisation. We help other people in the organisation to work out the best, fairest, most efficient and effective ways of providing health services to the 300,000 people that live in this city. We have to ensure that every single man, woman and child can get their health care free at the point of delivery. Because that's what they expect and it's what they pay their taxes for. So if they need a doctor - they can see a doctor. If they need a prescription, they get a prescription. If they need an expensive test or drug, they get an expensive test or drug. If they need a dentist, there is a dentist. An eye test? - there you go. An operation? - of course. All this stuff doesn't happen by magic you know - someone has to work it all out - how many doctors, nurses, dentists, opticians, drugs, hospitals, wards, theatres will it take? How much will it cost, where should we add, take away. But no, according to the newspapers, if you're not actually mopping the brow of a dying child, we public sector workers are parasites on the face of society. Blood sucking bureaucrats sitting with out feet up on the desk, whiling away the hours and years til we can pick up our fat pensions and retire to our stately homes in the country.
Does the nation at large really think that the only conceivable reason anyone would choose to work in the public sector is because their burning ambition is to have an averagely paid job with an average pension at the end of it - as long as they stick it out for 40 years? To read the papers, anyone would think we public sector workers walked into our jobs through some privileged grace and favour scheme granted to us at birth. Rather than applying for them in open competition and getting through a fair interview process.
I saw my job advertised in the paper, many years ago now, and I thought 'That looks interesting'. And it has been interesting which is why I'm still doing it. I could have applied for a job in the private sector doing much the same thing (I analyse data) and probably have been paid a lot more. But its always been much more interesting analyzing health and the need for health care than analyzing the market for widgets and calculating how many people would need to buy my widgets for the company to make a nice fat profit ripping people off.
Now the powers that be have told us we're rubbish and the organisation we work for will be abolished because the private sector can do it so much better than we can.
That would be the private sector that ran the banks and brought us to the brink of ruin. The private sector that lent billions of pounds to people without two half-pence to rub together and went bleating to the government to bail them out when they couldn't pay it back? The private sector that took over provision of school meals and fed our children 'turkey twizzlers' - a combination of mechanically recovered chicken and fat so disgusting you wouldn't feed it to a dog? The private sector that took over hospital cleaning, sacked all the staff and re-employed them on minimum wage?
It makes my blood boil.
Wednesday, 24 November 2010
Tuesday, 7 September 2010
Letter to holiday letter
Dear Madame,
Thank you for your e-mail outlining your intention to relieve me of my €600 deposit.
You seem somewhat disgruntled that the house was not restored to perfection before we left. But that was because we had already paid you an extortionate cleaning supplement as we knew we would be leaving pre-dawn to catch the ferry. If your cleaner had an attack of the vapours because she had a bit more to do than wipe round with a damp cloth, that is really not our problem.
And if you will kit your undeniably stylish house out in the cheap and cheerful offerings from a popular Swedish emporium then it's not surprising that a couple of plates got chipped and couple of glasses got broken. I'm more than happy to pay for their replacement but I'm struggling to see how anyone could spend €600 on crockery in aforesaid emporium. It's not as if it was your best Sevres porcelain last used by Marie Antoinette for her last cup of tea before heading for the guillotine.
One minor point that may have been lost in translation. The english for WiFi is WiFi, not HiFi. How we laughed at the mix-up! Undoubtedly the enforced 3 weeks abstinence from the world wide web did us all the world of good. Equally, it was remiss of us to assume that there would be access to a CD player. Who needs a CD player when you have the Nana Mouskouri's greatest hits cassette? Apologies for the stained cushion cover caused by the hysterical cries of our children as they begged us to turn it off.
Our apologies for misunderstanding the terms of the holiday let. We foolishly assumed we had use of the house and it's contents for relaxing, cooking and enjoying pleasant meals with our friends and using it as a base for trips to the beach and surrounding attractions. Obviously, for the peppercorn rent of over €1000 week, we should have camped in the garden, made use of the public showers on the beach and simply peeped through the windows in awe and wonder at the splendours within.
We are, forever in your debt,
M et Mme Amer et Tordu
Thank you for your e-mail outlining your intention to relieve me of my €600 deposit.
You seem somewhat disgruntled that the house was not restored to perfection before we left. But that was because we had already paid you an extortionate cleaning supplement as we knew we would be leaving pre-dawn to catch the ferry. If your cleaner had an attack of the vapours because she had a bit more to do than wipe round with a damp cloth, that is really not our problem.
And if you will kit your undeniably stylish house out in the cheap and cheerful offerings from a popular Swedish emporium then it's not surprising that a couple of plates got chipped and couple of glasses got broken. I'm more than happy to pay for their replacement but I'm struggling to see how anyone could spend €600 on crockery in aforesaid emporium. It's not as if it was your best Sevres porcelain last used by Marie Antoinette for her last cup of tea before heading for the guillotine.
One minor point that may have been lost in translation. The english for WiFi is WiFi, not HiFi. How we laughed at the mix-up! Undoubtedly the enforced 3 weeks abstinence from the world wide web did us all the world of good. Equally, it was remiss of us to assume that there would be access to a CD player. Who needs a CD player when you have the Nana Mouskouri's greatest hits cassette? Apologies for the stained cushion cover caused by the hysterical cries of our children as they begged us to turn it off.
Our apologies for misunderstanding the terms of the holiday let. We foolishly assumed we had use of the house and it's contents for relaxing, cooking and enjoying pleasant meals with our friends and using it as a base for trips to the beach and surrounding attractions. Obviously, for the peppercorn rent of over €1000 week, we should have camped in the garden, made use of the public showers on the beach and simply peeped through the windows in awe and wonder at the splendours within.
We are, forever in your debt,
M et Mme Amer et Tordu
Sunday, 4 July 2010
How to clean a bathroom
You will need:-
Remove all clothing except gloves. Because you WILL spray them with bleach and get blotches on them.
Throw away all empty shampoo bottles, shower gel bottles, toothpaste tubes and scummy fragments of soap that are invisible to everyone in the house except you.
Spray mould with mould cleaner.
Open window and leave bathroom til choking stops and respiration is normal.
Spray tiles, sink and bath with limescale remover
Spray windows / mirrrors and and shower glass with glass cleaner.
Gives all easy to reach bits a good scrub.
The only way to get the bath clean is to get in and scrub on hands and knees to the rhythm of 'Why haven't we got a cleaner, why haven't we got a cleaner, why haven't we got a cleaner ....'
Then start on all those bloody chrome bits that looked so nice in the showroom.
Every inch will need to be sprayed with limescale remover and polished. Then there are the tiles. Every inch of grout will have to be scrubbed with a toothbrush. Then there's the mouldy sealant. Scrub viciously with toothbrush, swearing relentlessly under your breath. Or out loud. Neither works, there is no way to get mould out of sealant. Or to remove sealant.
For light relief, polish all the glass.
Have a bath in sparkling bathroom before anyone else gets a chance.
It's a great opportunity to deal with the hard skin on your feet as it will peel off easily after standing in caustic chemicals for half an hour.
- Mould remover
- Limescale remover
- Glass cleaner
- Any other caustic chemicals you can lay your hands on
- A scrubber
- An old toothbrush (or the toothbrush of your beloved if there are outstanding grudges to be paid off)
- Marigolds - the gloves, not the flower
Remove all clothing except gloves. Because you WILL spray them with bleach and get blotches on them.
Throw away all empty shampoo bottles, shower gel bottles, toothpaste tubes and scummy fragments of soap that are invisible to everyone in the house except you.
Spray mould with mould cleaner.
Open window and leave bathroom til choking stops and respiration is normal.
Spray tiles, sink and bath with limescale remover
Spray windows / mirrrors and and shower glass with glass cleaner.
Gives all easy to reach bits a good scrub.
The only way to get the bath clean is to get in and scrub on hands and knees to the rhythm of 'Why haven't we got a cleaner, why haven't we got a cleaner, why haven't we got a cleaner ....'
Then start on all those bloody chrome bits that looked so nice in the showroom.
Every inch will need to be sprayed with limescale remover and polished. Then there are the tiles. Every inch of grout will have to be scrubbed with a toothbrush. Then there's the mouldy sealant. Scrub viciously with toothbrush, swearing relentlessly under your breath. Or out loud. Neither works, there is no way to get mould out of sealant. Or to remove sealant.
For light relief, polish all the glass.
Have a bath in sparkling bathroom before anyone else gets a chance.
It's a great opportunity to deal with the hard skin on your feet as it will peel off easily after standing in caustic chemicals for half an hour.
Friday, 18 June 2010
Bike Rage
I cycle to work in a cloud of rage.
I rage at drivers; car drivers, bus drivers, 2 fingers in the air drivers.
Lorry drivers, van drivers, scooters and bikers.
The school run drivers; minds on kids, schoolbags, lunchbags, homework.
Late for work.
I rage at inappropriately placed street furniture; litter-bins, lamp-posts, signs and signals.
Bus stops, pillarboxes, kerbs and cobbles.
Junctions, traffic lights, potholes, broken bottles and broken bricks.
Tin cans, dog mess, take-away and vomit.
I rage at pedestrians; walking, talking, meandering and stopping.
Never looking.
Oblivious in headphones, mobile phones, texting and tweeting.
Never listening.
I worry that it can't be doing my blood pressure any good.
I rage at drivers; car drivers, bus drivers, 2 fingers in the air drivers.
Lorry drivers, van drivers, scooters and bikers.
The school run drivers; minds on kids, schoolbags, lunchbags, homework.
Late for work.
I rage at inappropriately placed street furniture; litter-bins, lamp-posts, signs and signals.
Bus stops, pillarboxes, kerbs and cobbles.
Junctions, traffic lights, potholes, broken bottles and broken bricks.
Tin cans, dog mess, take-away and vomit.
I rage at pedestrians; walking, talking, meandering and stopping.
Never looking.
Oblivious in headphones, mobile phones, texting and tweeting.
Never listening.
I worry that it can't be doing my blood pressure any good.
Sunday, 2 May 2010
What Women Do
I've always thought of myself as a feminist. Equality between men and women is something I strongly believe in. But just lately if been wondering if we haven't been barking completely up the wrong tree. We (meaning a collective we, full in the knowledge that I personally have done sod all except reap the rewards) have fought bitterly for equal rights with men and have achieved a great deal. But I begin to wonder if we've been fighting the wrong fight; the fight for equal status with men for doing the same things that men do; the right to work, for equal pay - for fairness and promotion and equality. And of course I want those things too. And have benefited from them. I've been one of the lucky ones. A free university education, a good job, good opportunities. A husband and children. I wanted to work and I did. I found a carer for my children - one of my best friends. She wanted to stay home with her children and offered to look after mine too. It worked brilliantly and I'm not complaining and I don't regret my choices. The children love her and she loves them. I wanted it all and I got it all. I've been lucky. But just lately I've been thinking more and more that the feminist movement has got the wrong end of the stick somewhat. Now we have equality at least in law if not in fact - it's illegal to sexually harass, its illegal to pay less for the same work, its illegal to promote a man just because he's a man. We have maternity rights and employment rights - just like men. Better than men, some would say. But we're still not equal. A man can achieve greatness, acclaim and fortune for doing what men do. And women also can achieve greatness, acclaim and fortune for doing what men do. But not for doing what women do. There is no social status attached to having children. We don't get paid for it. We don't get a medal or a bonus or a raise. We get poorer. I continued to work but paid for my childcare out of my taxed income. Then my friend had to pay tax on the pitiful amount I gave her. Me and the millions of women in the same situation paid millions of other women minimum wage or less to look after our children. I got paid 2 or 3 times more for writing boring reports that no-one ever read than my friend got for looking after my children. In the city where I live, well, all over the country I expect, but more so in cities because that's where the poorest in our society live, there are many government schemes designed a) to stop very young women having children and b) provide child-care schemes so those same feckless young women can leave their children and go out to work for minimum wage and stop being a burden on the state. And the best, unskilled low paid jobs they can get? Looking after other peoples children so they in turn can go to work. Is this mad or is it just me? And now the bankers and politicians are in a spin because there aren't enough children being born to replace their parents and pay our pensions.
Children in this country - the having and raising of them - is one of the lowest status activities there is. We bear children; we create new people out of thin air. It's amazing, astonishing. Men can't do it. Bankers created money out of thin air. They were feted and paid vast amounts. Governments fell at their feet. And look where it got them. A couple of blokes won the Nobel prize for discovering DNA (and I bet they never mentioned their mothers in their acceptance speeches); women create people out of DNA. Every minute of every day; give them life, nurture, care and raise them. And what happens? We're treated as second class citizens, encouraged to return to 'work' as soon as possible; have our pensions reduced if we don't. Kept out of sight in the backs of pubs and restaurants or even banned from entering. And the children; dear god, the things we do to children in this, one of the richest nations in the world.
Ancient civilizations used to revere women; worship fat, well rounded fertility goddesses. Artists would paint buxom, dimpled, statuesque, fecund (lovely word that) women. Now we aspire to skin and bone, worship at the alter of size zero. I'm sure there's a connection between media attitudes to body image and the denial of womanliness, fertility, fecundity. The lack of celebration, honour, acclaim, respect for this thing that women can do and men can't.
Children in this country - the having and raising of them - is one of the lowest status activities there is. We bear children; we create new people out of thin air. It's amazing, astonishing. Men can't do it. Bankers created money out of thin air. They were feted and paid vast amounts. Governments fell at their feet. And look where it got them. A couple of blokes won the Nobel prize for discovering DNA (and I bet they never mentioned their mothers in their acceptance speeches); women create people out of DNA. Every minute of every day; give them life, nurture, care and raise them. And what happens? We're treated as second class citizens, encouraged to return to 'work' as soon as possible; have our pensions reduced if we don't. Kept out of sight in the backs of pubs and restaurants or even banned from entering. And the children; dear god, the things we do to children in this, one of the richest nations in the world.
Ancient civilizations used to revere women; worship fat, well rounded fertility goddesses. Artists would paint buxom, dimpled, statuesque, fecund (lovely word that) women. Now we aspire to skin and bone, worship at the alter of size zero. I'm sure there's a connection between media attitudes to body image and the denial of womanliness, fertility, fecundity. The lack of celebration, honour, acclaim, respect for this thing that women can do and men can't.
Saturday, 27 February 2010
Happy memory
Based on a diary entry July 2006
How do you record a memory? Why even? By definition there's no need. It's a memory - I won't forget it. It wouldn't be a memory if I did. But anyway, it's a happy memory so perhaps what I really mean is that I want to share it.
A day in May.
I have 2 children, 2 boys, David and Michael. I was going to make up new names for them but I can't bring myself to deny them even by that much. Their own names, ordinary, but so carefully chosen to be just right for them. Against the fashion of the times for unusual, romantic, poetic names, Joshua's and Jakes, Ewens, Connors and Finns. Keep it simple we decided in the end. Good, old fashioned, ancient names.
David, as befits the eldest, is bossy, domineering and, to the despair of his little brother, Good At Everything. To such an extent that Michael will not even bother to compete with the god that is David.
And so it was with learning to ride a bike. He refused to contemplate it.
'I'll be able to do it when I'm 7'.
The power of birthdays, the experience of age. In his child's mind, no effort required, no skills to be learned, practised, developed. David was 7 and he could ride a bike. Ergo, when I'm seven, I'll be able to ride one too. No amount of reasoning could persuade him that his brother had actually had to learn how to do it too. To cling in terror and exhilaration as we pushed him along. To pick himself up time and time again til he 'got it'. No way. In Michael's world view David mastered the skill in a heartbeat, subdued the crazy machine with a contemptuous glance and pedalled off over the hill.
Seven came and seven went but the magic bike fairy never came and waved her magic wand. The bike flatly refused to co-operate, refused to be tamed; lay neglected in the back of the garage. And the years rolled by full of other trials and triumphs. And it annoyed me so much. That he was missing it - the freedom, the speed, the joy of riding a bike on a sunny day. The missed adventures, the reason we'd bought a house right next to a park, for heavens sake.
Then came a sunny day in May. Michael 10, David 13.
We all went to the park and I thought I'll just take his bike along - no pressure. [Yeah, right, you devious, persistent, stubborn, I'll get you on this bike if it kills me kind of mother. And you wonder where he gets it from].
Once in the park he couldn't resist of course. He had a few goes and we clapped and encouraged and showered him with advice so he hardly knew where to turn. Then David stepped in. I held my breath. This could go either way. Michael can spot condescension a mile off. Would he listen? Would he flounce off home in a huff? Would our afternoon walk be spoiled before it began?
But it was perfect. David took charge, we stood meekly by. He took Michael off to a grassy spot - soft landing if you fall off he explained. No teasing, no tricks or scorn, he was very patient for a change. It was very sweet to see them together, working as a team. Then he was off, sailing over the grass. It was fantastic. He was so pleased with himself. A real moment of pure joy and delight.
Perhaps motherhood is not so bad after all. They are growing up so fast and suddenly I want it to last forever.
How do you record a memory? Why even? By definition there's no need. It's a memory - I won't forget it. It wouldn't be a memory if I did. But anyway, it's a happy memory so perhaps what I really mean is that I want to share it.
A day in May.
I have 2 children, 2 boys, David and Michael. I was going to make up new names for them but I can't bring myself to deny them even by that much. Their own names, ordinary, but so carefully chosen to be just right for them. Against the fashion of the times for unusual, romantic, poetic names, Joshua's and Jakes, Ewens, Connors and Finns. Keep it simple we decided in the end. Good, old fashioned, ancient names.
David, as befits the eldest, is bossy, domineering and, to the despair of his little brother, Good At Everything. To such an extent that Michael will not even bother to compete with the god that is David.
And so it was with learning to ride a bike. He refused to contemplate it.
'I'll be able to do it when I'm 7'.
The power of birthdays, the experience of age. In his child's mind, no effort required, no skills to be learned, practised, developed. David was 7 and he could ride a bike. Ergo, when I'm seven, I'll be able to ride one too. No amount of reasoning could persuade him that his brother had actually had to learn how to do it too. To cling in terror and exhilaration as we pushed him along. To pick himself up time and time again til he 'got it'. No way. In Michael's world view David mastered the skill in a heartbeat, subdued the crazy machine with a contemptuous glance and pedalled off over the hill.
Seven came and seven went but the magic bike fairy never came and waved her magic wand. The bike flatly refused to co-operate, refused to be tamed; lay neglected in the back of the garage. And the years rolled by full of other trials and triumphs. And it annoyed me so much. That he was missing it - the freedom, the speed, the joy of riding a bike on a sunny day. The missed adventures, the reason we'd bought a house right next to a park, for heavens sake.
Then came a sunny day in May. Michael 10, David 13.
We all went to the park and I thought I'll just take his bike along - no pressure. [Yeah, right, you devious, persistent, stubborn, I'll get you on this bike if it kills me kind of mother. And you wonder where he gets it from].
Once in the park he couldn't resist of course. He had a few goes and we clapped and encouraged and showered him with advice so he hardly knew where to turn. Then David stepped in. I held my breath. This could go either way. Michael can spot condescension a mile off. Would he listen? Would he flounce off home in a huff? Would our afternoon walk be spoiled before it began?
But it was perfect. David took charge, we stood meekly by. He took Michael off to a grassy spot - soft landing if you fall off he explained. No teasing, no tricks or scorn, he was very patient for a change. It was very sweet to see them together, working as a team. Then he was off, sailing over the grass. It was fantastic. He was so pleased with himself. A real moment of pure joy and delight.
Perhaps motherhood is not so bad after all. They are growing up so fast and suddenly I want it to last forever.
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