Lapland, we have a problem

I HATE CHRISTMAS. Now that I’ve got your attention, I’ll lay off the histrionics and be a little more candid: I don’t hate every Christmas, I don’t even hate the impending one but I am indifferent to it. Inordinately so. My disengagement with the forthcoming festivities is so acute that it’s actually taken me aback. I don’t know how or why it’s happened but one thing is certain: I’ve been well and truly Grinchified.

Let’s put things into perspective: I once kept my Christmas tree up (unilluminated between February and October because otherwise: hello weirdo!) for fourteen months straight because I couldn’t bear to take it down. Not as out there as you’d think; basically a chintzy art installation enlivening the corner of your living room. Unconventional, maybe, but undeniably fun (ignore the fact that we’d anthropomorphised it to such an extent that entering or exiting the room demanded a cheery “Hello, Christmas tree,” “Goodbye, Christmas tree” every single time).

Bizarre peculiarities aside, you get the picture: I was a Christmas fiend. This time around, for the first time in years, I haven’t bothered to bake my fabled cake (key ingredient: an aniseed-flavoured Ibizan liquer). A few weeks ago I even mooted the idea of forgoing a tree altogether. I’ve purposely avoided Xmas 24 (previously unheard of), the Food Network (ditto) and the music channels. You can keep your Christmas joy and cheer, I simply don’t want to know.

So, what’s prompted this Yuletide volte-face? I can’t pinpoint any specific cause but here are a few theories:

• This year has already been eventful (illness, new baby) by anyone’s standards. Christmas involves so much *doing*. Could it be I just want a little peace and quiet? Hmm, maybe but I’m not convinced.
• Have I finally been smothered by the deluge of all things Christmas that inundate us from August on? Possibly. I mean, who the hell wants to hear Shakin Stevens when it’s 25 degrees outside?
• Consumerism. Hardly an original gripe but the whole thing has become so unbearably commercial. Don’t even get me started on Black Friday. What a swizz. People smashing each other over the heads to get their hands on a massive telly they probably don’t need equals a very sad Baby Jesus, indeed. That I probably acquired repetitive strain injury refreshing the Tesco page in my vain attempt to procure an obscenely reduced coffee machine is entirely beside the point.
• The ads. They tug at your heart strings while stealthily loosening the ones on your purse. That cuddly flightless bird? He’d steal your wallet, he would. No doubt about it.
• The neighbour from hell. In a neighbourhood that’s 75% pensioner, 24% young family, trust me to live next door to the hard-partying night-owl whose only purpose in life is to give me a nervous breakdown. He plays football. Indoors. At 2am. While shouting. And drinking. And singing. On a Monday. Or Tuesday. Or any other day. And he won’t stop. Even when I complain. Did I mention he’s about forty? Is it any wonder that festive cheer eludes me?
• It’s still November! Maybe I’ll have an epiphany come December 1. At the risk of contradicting almost everything I’ve just said, the signs are there: The Snowman might have already had a surreptitious viewing; I may have looked wistfully at the spot where a tree once proudly stood for more than a year. I might have enquired in passing about local Carol services. We’ll see.

Maybe this Grinchitis isn’t as season-threatening as I first feared? Could it be that rather than being apathetic about Christmas, I’m simply not ready for it yet? Perhaps I really have become an incorrigible old grump, more ‘Bah Humbug’ than ‘Jingle Bells’? Maybe I just need a good night’s sleep? Come back to me in a few weeks but, for now, enjoy the rest of your Advent Eve as I’m definitely not calling it. No way.

Thanks for reading! x

Who are you calling “wet”?

One downside of not drinking: what the hell do I blame the hat on?

Firstly, I want to apologise for my absence (I *know* you’ve noticed), I’ve had The Ear Infection To End All Ear Infections. Is it a coincidence that my ear implodes the week after I resolve to eschew all sugar-based treats? Science may say yes but I remain unconvinced. Fear not, my friends, I’m not here to exhort you to renounce your daily (was that just me?) chocolate fix. Rather, to commemorate Alcohol Awareness Week, I’m going to tell you why, as of 1/1/13, I don’t drink:

1.  Quitting alcohol is not for everyone but it was the right choice for me. No, I haven’t always been a paragon of temperance. Quite the contrary, in fact, and that’s exactly why I stopped. While heedless hedonism might have a certain louche allure when you’re in your twenties, who wants to be a thirty year old “fading party girl”? Why not drink in moderation, then? You haven’t met me. I’m very much an all-or-nothing kinda gal. Plus…

2.  …I don’t actually like the taste. It’s true, I don’t. Never did. I tried to. I wanted to. So many of my heroes were prodigious drinkers: Humphrey Bogart (alleged last words: “I should never have switched from Scotch to Martinis”), Dorothy Parker* (“I’d rather have a bottle in front of me than a frontal lobotomy”), Graham Greene, Billie Holiday…Me? After ten years I finally faced up to the truth: I like tea, coffee, hot chocolate, water, milkshakes and Capri-Sun. That’s it.

3.  I am not that weird. Most non-drinkers aren’t and the ones that are would probably be just as strange sitting at a bar cradling a large G&T. Try telling that to everyone I’ve ever met! “What do you mean you don’t drink?” I’m asked in disbelief. I just don’t. “What do you do if you don’t drink?” my interrogator inquires, eyes narrowing distrustfully. Why, I do everything you do, Nosey Nora…as long as I’m tucked up on my sofa by nightfall. I’m not joking.

4.  I am not boring. Okay, that’s a lie. *I’m* incredibly boring but I’m definitely in the minority. As far as I’m aware, most non-drinkers don’t have the same immobilising fear of being out after dark as I do. The majority of them will happily while away the hours doing whatever it is the more socially-minded amongst you do. Just because I’d gladly decamp to Eastbourne in the morning to play lawn bowls and join the local Ramblers’ Association doesn’t mean that my fellow abstinents would. Although, why on earth not?

5.  I am not a saint. Nor am I a zealous missionary intent on recruiting adherents to my cause. I don’t have a cause, I just don’t drink. I still stuff my face with gleeful abandon sort of like a female Depardieu (minus du vin obviously) or a pig. I still swear like a sewer rat would if he had the same combination of lungs, vocal folds and articulators as I have. Until recently I was vehemently opposed to conserving the world’s rapidly dwindling cocoa supply. Between you and me, I only stopped eating chocolate because I read it causes wrinkles, not out of any honourable sense of duty to the cacao tree. I’m quite awful really.

6.  I don’t need alcohol to have a good time.  There was a time when the prospect of a drink-free get-together would have stopped me dead in my tracks, paralysed with horror. “What will we do? WHAT WILL WE DO?” Turns out my fears were unwarranted. I am quite capable of engaging in reasonably compelling conversation fuelled by caffeine alone. I don’t need wine-oiled loins (nice image, that) to walk into an unfamiliar room. Everything I’ve ever done while under-the-influence I can do sober. Better. And, believe me, FAR less annoyingly.

7.  I don’t have hangovers, which is nice and more than convenient when you’re mother to the world’s clingiest (and loveliest) baby. Occasionally I overindulge on rich food to such an extent that I feel like I’m being repeatedly kicked in the stomach. I’ve had a disgusting chocolate mousse and almond cake hangover. I’ve crushed my soul from watching hours of trashy telly. I still have hangovers, they’re just not caused by alcohol.

8.  I’m intent on proving South Korea wrong. Not all of my “kind” are rampaging alcoholics, you know. Some of us are even capable of doing a day’s hard graft. Belee tha…

9.  I couldn’t drink even if I wanted to (heart condition etc etc) so it’s a good thing I don’t, then.

*Dorothy Parker was always good for a quip, here’s another:

“I like to have a martini,
Two at the very most.
After three I’m under the table,
after four I’m under my host.”

Thanks for reading! xx

Say NO to sexism: we owe it to our daughters

(Image : seeitsayitstopit.com via Google)

Ten days ago I had no idea who Dapper Laughs was. If the name still means nothing to you, here’s a quick synopsis: “comedian” whose show Dapper Laughs: On The Pull has just been decommissioned by ITV2 (back slaps all round for the people who commissioned it in the first place!) for being, well, a misogynistic pile of sexist drivel, basically. Act or not, and there’s quite damning evidence to suggest it’s the latter, his repugnant brand of “comedy” has no place in a progressive society that values its female inhabitants.

Well, rejoice, womenfolk, victory is ours: Dapper Laughs is no more. Don’t overdo the champagne just yet: we may have won this battle but the war is far from over. Just because I’m, erm, inquisitive, I decided to have a wee gander at Dapper Laughs’ Twitter page. 34.7K favourites. My initial thought was, “Jesus, you’re not very discerning,” quickly followed by, “I bet this loser favourites every last bit of praise he gets.” I was right, he does. So I investigated further. I wish I hadn’t. Mucho depressivo.

What follows are some of the more congratulatory tweets he received:

Downloaded @dapperlaughs Christmas Album. Funniest thing I’ve heard for ages. It got me #ProperMoist#FuckTheDoGooders

Why would anyone slate @dapperlaughs not only is he doing amazing charity work he is gorgeous.

I’m a woman, i watch dapper laughs show every week, and I love it, he’s a babe! Grow a sense of humour!

@dapperlaughs #Haters go back to your cave Bought the T, tickets downloaded the album #Charity #Funnyas #Fitas

calm the fuck down and go get @dapperlaughs album that way your helping the homeless and you get the comedy, some people have no humour

Really?! Just chill out and loosen up a people, it is just a bit of banter! Don’t like it? Dont buy/watch it!

Dispiriting, aren’t they? I can’t even blame them on spotty, pre-pubescent boys, who’ve barely talked to a girl, let alone had their first girlfriend. Although they’re there in their dozens. Nor are they the work of beer-swilling, groin-grabbing “lads”, still mourning the demise of Nuts magazine. No siree, though I suspect they’re there in their abundance if you look hard enough. No. All of the above were written by girls. Imagine that. Hoards of young women, sitting at home, composing fawning panegyrics in honour of their hero, a man whose brand of humour consists of telling a female audience member that “she’s gagging for a rape.” WTF? I mean, how do you deal with that?

What makes the above series of tweets all the more depressing is that some of them were directed at a female journalist who dared to criticise Dapper Laughs on Twitter. So much for the sisterhood, eh? Worryingly, they also appear to insinuate that being easy on the eye (their opinion, NOT mine) somehow absolves you from any kind of wrongdoing. Not to mention that any dissenting voices are accused of sense of humour bypasses. Honestly, it’s all I can do to stop myself banging my head against the wall.

I don’t know about you but I’m funny. Well funny. I’ve seen what I write, I’ve heard what I say: funny, funny, funny! Rape isn’t funny. Joking about rape isn’t funny. Supporting someone who does either: EXTREMELY UNFUNNY.  I’ve never thought of myself as particularly prudish (my native language is a charmingly idiosyncratic blend of English and Swearing and we all know that prudes don’t swear. They just don’t) but if I saw that my daughter had tweeted some tragic neanderthal that she was #propermoist (his catchphrase), I’d be beside myself.

I was a young girl once (I know, right!). Having fallen into just about every pit imaginable, I know what the pitfalls are. I know what I’ll be preaching to my daughter: don’t shave one of your eyebrows; don’t try to fix bad home dye-jobs with more bad home dye-jobs; don’t walk home alone at 4am every morning (eek); respect yourself; NEVER EVER EVER think of misogyny as being somehow trivial, okay or acceptable. Because it isn’t. It’s downright despicable and, like I said earlier, completely incompatible with a forward-thinking society that appreciates its women.

All is not lost. I’m going to give these misguided little fangirls the benefit of the doubt. Hopefully in time they’ll see the error of their ways. Until then, take heart in the fact that our daughters have role models like Charlie Webster and Jessica Ennis-Hill, two women prepared to put their heads above the parapet in the fight against misogyny, sexism and the objectification of women. But remember, our daughters (and sons) biggest role models are us, their parents. The fight begins at home. Only when we disabuse the plagues of sexism and prejudice will the last laugh be ours.

 

The week that was

The singularly most important thing that happened last week: Raffles successfully wore a hat. Show-off.

I’m writing this from the cafe downstairs because that’s what real writers do, isn’t it? Though I doubt many of Hemingway’s tours de force were penned to a soundtrack of insipid a cappella renderings of ‘What Makes You Beautiful,’ ‘Teenage Dream,’ and, somewhat incongruously, ‘Would I Lie To You?’ More’s the pity, eh. Anyway, let’s not beat about the bush. Here’s a list of seven things I learned in the past week:

1.  I think I quite like this blogging malarkey, you know. I’d be very interested to hear other people’s reasons for starting their blogs. Mine was quite simply a way of impelling myself to write on an everyday basis. Even though I haven’t quite managed to fulfill my daily obligations (my irascible scamp of a daughter is determined that I won’t hold a pen, or any digital equivalents, until after she’s left home), I am writing more than I have in years and, do you know, it’s bloody enjoyable.

2.  It’s THE BIGGEST BUZZ to receive positive feedback on something you’ve written. I think I can understand why fame goes to some people’s heads. I’m about five plauditory comments away from never making my own tea again; ten more and I’m hiring my own personal hair brusher (Dome Polisher, if this postpartum hair loss continues unabated). Fortunately, Her Upstairs is distinctly unimpressed by even the tiniest act of showy pomposity and will undoubtedly propel me earthwards if I exhibit the first sign of getting too big for my boots. Spoilsport.

3.  I have a very unbecoming jealous streak. How do I know this? One word: Blogfest. I hadn’t even heard of it until a few weeks ago and yet I spent a not inconsiderable amount of Saturday bristling that I wasn’t there. Me, who only started blogging just over a month ago. I swear these boots are starting to pinch…(Shoutout to my #notatblogfest buddies – a fine time was had by all).

4.  The Queen of Sheba (from hereon in, I’ll just call her Raffles, she’s confused enough as it is) has a beautifully hat-friendly head. I must admit I did breathe a sigh of relief when I saw that she looks just dandy with her head covered. You wouldn’t think it to look at me (at least I don’t think you would. Oh God, maybe you would. Could it be that everyone I’ve ever met has been so disinclined to stray outside the confines of basic common decency that they’ve neglected to mention my freakishly misshapen bonce?) but I have quite a generous-sized head. Hats that aren’t supposed to perch, perch. So unfair. Anyway, at least Raffles has been spared a similar fate. Small mercies.

5.  It’s not as horrific as you’d imagine when someone dribbles clean into your mouth or projectile vomits all over your head. I say ‘someone’, clearly I only mean my daughter. If anyone else did either of these things, so convulsed with rage I’d be that I’d literally never recover my bearings. With Raffles, though, it’s somehow okay. Cute, even.

6.  There are no depths of trashy television to which I won’t plummet. Ladies of London is the latest addition to this role of dishonour. If you’re looking for an inspirational portrayal of fabolous female friendship then, move along sister, you won’t find that here. If, on the other hand, catfights, bitchiness and depressingly savage competitiveness are more your bag then, pull up a pew. Though remember, I’m only watching it so you don’t have to. And because I’m ill.

7.  I’ll mutter this last one under my breath in the hope it goes unnoticed: that penguin, you know the one, left me decidedly unmoved. This, however. An actual deluge.

Have a good week! x

Great goods in small parcels.

Warning: This post couldn’t have less to do with Hallowe’en if it tried.

I think I’ve cracked the whole motherhood conundrum. No, really. Raffles is fast approaching six months and she’s still here, alive and kicking, Especially kicking. And scratching. And punching. And head-butting. And eye-poking. And hair-pulling. But, hey, what are a few troublingly feral tendencies between friends? The main thing is that she has changed beyond all recognition from a puny little waif who spent her first week in an incubator to the fizzing bundle of vitality who now thrusts her beaming face at me first thing every morning. I am positively jubilant at the progress she’s made. So why, when I should be rhapsodising ad infinitum on developmental milestones met and surpassed, am I beset by nagging feelings of mild trepidation?

Because of this (The Times’s firewall deftly circumnavigated, I’m sure you’ll agree), my friends. Another day, another study to scare the bejesus out of the, already harried, child-owning population. Don’t get me wrong, any research that aims to further the advancement of prenatal care is a fundamentally very good thing. But, God, the last thing we need is yet *another* thing to worry about. (P.s. Copy-editors, Big babies grow up to be healthier than little ones, really? Bit of a sweeping generalisation, there, don’t you think? We get that you need to create saleable copy but, come on, stop scaring us!)

There is good news: these new findings “may be the first step along a path to very early disease prevention in the womb.” All very promising but as Napoleon once said, “men are moved by two levers only: fear and self-interest.” I’m not a man but I reluctantly concede that the little fella may well have been on to something. What benefit is this new research to me, right now? Not much, I fear. Not as far as my beloved little Raffles is concerned.

Low birth weight is generally accepted to be 2.5kg (5lb 8oz) at birth. Raffles was 2.708kg at birth but dropped to 2.46kg in the subsequent weeks. For what seemed like an absolute age she surfed the line between the o.4th and 2nd percentiles. At one stage she hovered precariously below the 0.4th percentile. I shudder at the memory. Even now, while there’s no denying her petiteness, her strength is something that has to be seen to be believed. She’s like a tiny ox! And that is why I’ve decided to take all these findings (and these findings and these findings) with a very large pinch of salt.

I’m not disputing them, not for a second, nor am I going to steadfastly ignore them. I’d be foolish to, given my own history: low birth weight – gestational diabetes – heart valve disease. (Hmm, seems like I’m the very case study that corroborates the research). I had always intended to be militant with her diet and lifestyle (lucky Raffles!). I may not accept that her diminutiveness automatically relegates my daughter to a life of illness and disease but I firmly believe in mitigating the risk factors. But I would’ve done that anyway, even if she’d been a 9lb 8oz behemoth like her dad was.

It’s actually the scaremongering I take the most umbrage with: “Big babies grow up to be healthier than little ones” etc. In this instance, the fault lies squarely with the print media. Don’t generalise, don’t be so brusque. Consider your loyal readership, some of whom must include new mothers of smaller than average babies. They’re panicky enough as it is, they certainly don’t need it bellowed from up high that their tiny children are forever doomed. It doesn’t help anyone.

“Oi, who are you calling small?”

As for my Raffles, well, she continues to be hale and hearty. If this early robust vigour is anything to go by, she’s going to turn out just fine. Good goods, no scratch that, GREAT goods come in small parcels. Remember that when anyone tries to tell you otherwise.

Thanks for reading!

Maria x