Awkward title, and yes it did start out as "Who are women's bodies for?" but I couldn't bear to look at it.
This has been bothering me since The Sun's massive and "hilarious" page 3 joke. They really got us there didn't they? It was a boob-rilliant joke. I laughed my tits off.
I have tried to justify and understand the whole page 3 thing but I really struggle to see it from any kind of feminist perspective. You can see boobs whenever you want, if you want. You can google them (lol). There is real porn for free on the internet. And there are boobs of all shapes and sizes pretty much all over the internet. The type you might want to see if you want a cheap thrill, famous boobs, photoshopped boobs, the kind to put you off plastic surgery, the kind to reassure you and young girls that you are perfectly normal and to be honest there are plenty of men ready to tell you that all boobs are good boobs. That is choice. Treating women's bodies as part of the news, something any of us have a right to see at any time of day is a bit, well, weird.
I can recall earlier in my own life and in my earlier teaching career asking students to bring in newspapers - when it was still a strong possibility that they would have them at home, to analyse how the news was reported. I used to deliberately ask students to bring in only the front page to avoid the sniggers and inappropriate comments around page 3. I remember the cubs looking through the newspapers that used to be stored in the scout hut for recycling, searching for the page 3s. Why should teenage girls (and younger) be made to feel so uncomfortable about their bodies, at a time when they are already self conscious? I remember those desperate attempts to cover up as everyone else became aware that some of the girls in the class were developing more quickly than others. I remember boys running their fingers down your spine to feel if you were wearing a bra yet.
That is not a message that we should be giving to young children. Girls' bodies are not for display, they are only just learning to look at themselves in a new light, why should they feel like they have to show them to everyone else? It would be impossible for boys not to see other people in that light. We have the right to look at these boobs and we didn't even ask to, why shouldn't we look at yours? Why won't you show me? I remember the sixth form boy, early in my career, asking if I would wear that particular blouse out of school, without the other top underneath.
This was brought back to mind today with the news that Barrister David Osborne has blogged that it is not always rape if a woman is drunk. I tried to google the original blog, as I don't really like judging based on only The Daily Mail's view but I was on the third page of search results and was still finding the outrage of The Telegraph, Huffington Post et al without finding it.
The fact that in this day and age, he feels he can blog this already suggests a certain disengagement from modern life but it does link to the same idea as women as product, as consumable. They put themselves on display, what was I supposed to do y'honour?
It is as disrespectful to men as it it is to women. I don't hear men claiming that they had to joy ride the shiny Bentley / BMW/ Nissan they passed in town, yes it was locked, but they just left it there; parked; yes I had to smash the window and the alarm went off but the car just sat there and let me sit in the driving seat. It didn't even break my fingers when I touched its steering wheel and slid it into gear. Eugh. Sorry.
I don't mean to get away from the point or conflate two complicated issues, I am just supporting the idea that we are w-a-y past the presentation of women as passive objects that are there to be stared at in a very everyday sense.
I can look at boobs whenever I want, I have never bought The Sun; I have choice and still haven't always managed to avoid them, so any step taken to avoid the irrelevant placing of boobs is welcome. Breastfeeding is not an irrelevant placing of boobs btw. But that would get me started on Farage and that's for another blog.
Sunday, 8 February 2015
Monday, 5 January 2015
Fuzzy bee logic
In my current work, I frequently support teachers who have had issues with their head teachers. One of my recent cases was a female teacher who is in a position of authority. Her headteacher had challenged her over the difficulty of her job, had questioned her over her level of commitment, had actually asked the question "What does your husband do?", and wondered what time she arrived in the mornings.
Oh yes, and it was a female headteacher.
According to some psychologists or business gurus this is the Queen Bee theory - that women don't help out other women, that we prefer to work with other men and have little sympathy for the problems other women experience in the work place.
It is easy to find cases to support this, they tend to be anecdotal and perhaps we have fewer examples with which to compare. Perhaps women are still more comfortable asking the questions which have been accepted as unacceptable and sexist. Everyday sexism (http://everydaysexism.com) reminds us of plenty of contemporary examples and anyone my age seems to be able to compare memories that were acceptable in the 80s...maybe...eugh.
Anecdotally, I can report very few problems with any of my female bosses, many of whom have surrounded themselves with other women, although the field of education is more or less 50:50 male : female and perhaps not representative of the wider world of business.
I wonder if it isn't women bosses that are the problem, but sometimes bosses in general. What does it take to get to the top in whatever field you work? Many people who are in charge have got there because of an absolute faith in themselves, their own ability and what they believe is right. That's kind of inevitable isn't it? If you prevaricate and procrastinate, considering both sides of the argument and worrying about whether you made the right decision , then you are probably a lot less decisive and probably move a lot less quickly than if you trust in your own judgement and don't feel the need to widely consult.If that were the case, then you wouldn't have a great deal of regard for anyone else's way of doing anything. If you have succeeded, if you have done things your way and it has worked then you do not always respect anyone else's life choices or even understand why anyone would not want to achieve what you have achieved.
This attitude seems also to exist in some middle class politicians attitudes to working class communities. About a year ago, David Willetts was engaged in a debate about white working class boys and their failure to thrive in our comprehensive system. People like me and some of the boys I have taught over the years do not see ourselves reflected in the political class, or for that matter the City and its working residents. They don't even always respect what they do; we've all read about those thieving expense and libor fiddlers. It's better to be happy. Getting a good job - like in the public sector - is more sensible, especially if you don't have family money to fall back on. No one we know is in those trades, nor can they provide us with work experience in the long summer holidays from independent school.
So if you are in a job that you enjoy and have got to the top, it is hard to see why others can't do it. They must be too lazy or distracted or unfocused. I have only gone for promotions when I have got closer to those positions and realised that the job isn't quite what I thought it was, or that the people who are doing it are not super human, or have simply realised that the person immediately above me is working less hard than me and getting paid more for it.
Back to the unsympathetic female bosses; they shouldn't only be promoting other women. They shouldn't be criticising other women for doing things in a different way, and as I have discussed here many times; things won't change until we accept that parents may have to work differently, and everyone should be working differently and it is no more acceptable for a man than a woman to work until way past his or her baby daughter's bathtime or the time that they could be helping to feed a confused or elderly parent.
We are still trying to balance a situation that has been continuing for a very long time. It took a very long time and a great deal of technology before people could claim that men running with no legs could be at an unfair advantage in a sprint. The originators of that competition did not set up the race fairly in the first instance, so why shouldn't women be given a leg up against this unfair backdrop? At first, runners without legs competed in events against one another and that is starting to change.
Oh yes, and it was a female headteacher.
According to some psychologists or business gurus this is the Queen Bee theory - that women don't help out other women, that we prefer to work with other men and have little sympathy for the problems other women experience in the work place.
It is easy to find cases to support this, they tend to be anecdotal and perhaps we have fewer examples with which to compare. Perhaps women are still more comfortable asking the questions which have been accepted as unacceptable and sexist. Everyday sexism (http://everydaysexism.com) reminds us of plenty of contemporary examples and anyone my age seems to be able to compare memories that were acceptable in the 80s...maybe...eugh.
Anecdotally, I can report very few problems with any of my female bosses, many of whom have surrounded themselves with other women, although the field of education is more or less 50:50 male : female and perhaps not representative of the wider world of business.
I wonder if it isn't women bosses that are the problem, but sometimes bosses in general. What does it take to get to the top in whatever field you work? Many people who are in charge have got there because of an absolute faith in themselves, their own ability and what they believe is right. That's kind of inevitable isn't it? If you prevaricate and procrastinate, considering both sides of the argument and worrying about whether you made the right decision , then you are probably a lot less decisive and probably move a lot less quickly than if you trust in your own judgement and don't feel the need to widely consult.If that were the case, then you wouldn't have a great deal of regard for anyone else's way of doing anything. If you have succeeded, if you have done things your way and it has worked then you do not always respect anyone else's life choices or even understand why anyone would not want to achieve what you have achieved.
This attitude seems also to exist in some middle class politicians attitudes to working class communities. About a year ago, David Willetts was engaged in a debate about white working class boys and their failure to thrive in our comprehensive system. People like me and some of the boys I have taught over the years do not see ourselves reflected in the political class, or for that matter the City and its working residents. They don't even always respect what they do; we've all read about those thieving expense and libor fiddlers. It's better to be happy. Getting a good job - like in the public sector - is more sensible, especially if you don't have family money to fall back on. No one we know is in those trades, nor can they provide us with work experience in the long summer holidays from independent school.
So if you are in a job that you enjoy and have got to the top, it is hard to see why others can't do it. They must be too lazy or distracted or unfocused. I have only gone for promotions when I have got closer to those positions and realised that the job isn't quite what I thought it was, or that the people who are doing it are not super human, or have simply realised that the person immediately above me is working less hard than me and getting paid more for it.
Back to the unsympathetic female bosses; they shouldn't only be promoting other women. They shouldn't be criticising other women for doing things in a different way, and as I have discussed here many times; things won't change until we accept that parents may have to work differently, and everyone should be working differently and it is no more acceptable for a man than a woman to work until way past his or her baby daughter's bathtime or the time that they could be helping to feed a confused or elderly parent.
We are still trying to balance a situation that has been continuing for a very long time. It took a very long time and a great deal of technology before people could claim that men running with no legs could be at an unfair advantage in a sprint. The originators of that competition did not set up the race fairly in the first instance, so why shouldn't women be given a leg up against this unfair backdrop? At first, runners without legs competed in events against one another and that is starting to change.
Wednesday, 29 October 2014
Castles on the air
There is never anything on tv at the moment. When I finish my marking, lesson planning, cleaning the kitchen, making the sandwiches and decide to relax in front of the telly to do my ironing, or my tesco order at 1130 in the evening I've missed all the good programmes.
At dinner last night with my friends, I was socially I'll-equipped to deal with a conversation about the merits of Bake-off. My babysitters tell me I would really like this. They promise me it isn't like X factor. They assure me no one is horrible. Oh and it's about cakes. How can I of all people, not watch. Next year, I say every year. But according to my book group, it's now ruined by being on BBC1. I grasped gratefully onto a discussion of The Motorway: Life in the Fast Lane http://www.bbc.co.uk/programmes/b04hfvcr which had been repeated at midnight.
So while babysitting for my childminder last Saturday, I was thrilled to see that I had missed most of the new series of Scott and Bailey. https://www.itv.com/itvplayer/scott-and-bailey This not only meant that I had more than one episode to watch on catch up while I marked year 8 books, but also meant I didn't have to wait a whole week until the next one. I love Scott and Bailey. Since becoming a mother, or since becoming a working mother, I'm not sure, I have slightly lost my taste for long running, US 24 episode seasons. They rarely last one season, and disappoint me every last episode, and the ones I do like they stop making. (I loved FlashForward!) I have enough unresolved issues in my life. I have experienced enough horror. I need resolution before I go to sleep. So I started watching CSI. And that is just enough catharsis for sweet dreams.
But at the moment there is Scott and Bailey. This is a police drama, and in some ways follows many of the conventions of police drama. There is a central partnership - unusual for crime drama in some ways, many detectives are unable to maintain partnerships for example Rebus, but many detectives have a sidekick of some description; Sherlock needs Watson, Chandler has Miles. There is a demon of a demanding boss they have nicknamed Godzilla, there is a series arc over a number of episodes involving the personal lives of the two central characters - failing relationships, over work, response to threatening situations and so on and there is also complication, climax and resolution every episode or every other episode as the crime is solved.
Oh and they are women. the central characters. Like Cagney and Lacey. Remember them? (No, I don't either,) Suranne Jones and Lesley Sharp are amazing as contrasting characters - Janet Scott the older, more experienced detective who tries to maintain a family life despite her long work hours and Rachel Bailey, the heavy drinking, smoking, fast-tracked maverick genius who has inappropriate one night stands and sometimes struggles to keep her aggression in check. And Amelia Bullmore is Gill Murray, their boss. Amelia Bullmore. I would watch her in almost anything after seeing her play a post-natally psychotic woman in festival. She also writes some of the episodes. Oh and her line manager is Pippa Haywood: Joanna Claw from Green Wing - possibly the best programme ever on television.
So they are women, but they don't act like women. That is to say the problems they face are primarily those faced by detectives, or fictional detectives at any rate, not those faced by women. Janet's marriage breaks down which is at least partly caused by her workload, but this plot has been used by other writers to show the difficulties of male detectives, Rachel's commitment issues are explained by her mother's inadequate parenting and her dodgy taste in men. I have heard it said that Janet's quiet interview style is more realistic than the Gene Hunt table thumping and having watched 24 Hours in Police Custody http://www.channel4.com/programmes/24-hours-in-police-custody
that would seem to be true.
The names; Scott and Bailey are surnames, but also potentially male names. These characters are not defined by their gender nor restricted by it. It suggests motte and bailey - the defence of the realm or at least society, a responsibility these women are not afraid of and equal to.
Did I mention Amelia Bullmore wrote some episodes? She was also responsible for Craven - the Radio 4 drama starring the equally wonderful Maxine Peake as another single, female, tough detective http://www.bbc.co.uk/programmes/b03vcqfb . All of these characters are detectives rather than female detectives, they are police officers rather than police women and because there are more than one of them, there is space to represent a number of different types of women - even if they are stereotypes. instead of fulfilling the one and only female character role. There are scenes where the crime is being discussed by three women in an office, or even solved. They sometimes solve collaboratively rather than competitively and when Gill was reported for drinking on the job, or Rachel found out she was asked to take on a promotion only after Janet said no, they talked about it. And carried on as friends.
It's a shame it's finished now. Suggestions please for what I can record to watch next term.
At dinner last night with my friends, I was socially I'll-equipped to deal with a conversation about the merits of Bake-off. My babysitters tell me I would really like this. They promise me it isn't like X factor. They assure me no one is horrible. Oh and it's about cakes. How can I of all people, not watch. Next year, I say every year. But according to my book group, it's now ruined by being on BBC1. I grasped gratefully onto a discussion of The Motorway: Life in the Fast Lane http://www.bbc.co.uk/programmes/b04hfvcr which had been repeated at midnight.
So while babysitting for my childminder last Saturday, I was thrilled to see that I had missed most of the new series of Scott and Bailey. https://www.itv.com/itvplayer/scott-and-bailey This not only meant that I had more than one episode to watch on catch up while I marked year 8 books, but also meant I didn't have to wait a whole week until the next one. I love Scott and Bailey. Since becoming a mother, or since becoming a working mother, I'm not sure, I have slightly lost my taste for long running, US 24 episode seasons. They rarely last one season, and disappoint me every last episode, and the ones I do like they stop making. (I loved FlashForward!) I have enough unresolved issues in my life. I have experienced enough horror. I need resolution before I go to sleep. So I started watching CSI. And that is just enough catharsis for sweet dreams.
But at the moment there is Scott and Bailey. This is a police drama, and in some ways follows many of the conventions of police drama. There is a central partnership - unusual for crime drama in some ways, many detectives are unable to maintain partnerships for example Rebus, but many detectives have a sidekick of some description; Sherlock needs Watson, Chandler has Miles. There is a demon of a demanding boss they have nicknamed Godzilla, there is a series arc over a number of episodes involving the personal lives of the two central characters - failing relationships, over work, response to threatening situations and so on and there is also complication, climax and resolution every episode or every other episode as the crime is solved.
Oh and they are women. the central characters. Like Cagney and Lacey. Remember them? (No, I don't either,) Suranne Jones and Lesley Sharp are amazing as contrasting characters - Janet Scott the older, more experienced detective who tries to maintain a family life despite her long work hours and Rachel Bailey, the heavy drinking, smoking, fast-tracked maverick genius who has inappropriate one night stands and sometimes struggles to keep her aggression in check. And Amelia Bullmore is Gill Murray, their boss. Amelia Bullmore. I would watch her in almost anything after seeing her play a post-natally psychotic woman in festival. She also writes some of the episodes. Oh and her line manager is Pippa Haywood: Joanna Claw from Green Wing - possibly the best programme ever on television.
So they are women, but they don't act like women. That is to say the problems they face are primarily those faced by detectives, or fictional detectives at any rate, not those faced by women. Janet's marriage breaks down which is at least partly caused by her workload, but this plot has been used by other writers to show the difficulties of male detectives, Rachel's commitment issues are explained by her mother's inadequate parenting and her dodgy taste in men. I have heard it said that Janet's quiet interview style is more realistic than the Gene Hunt table thumping and having watched 24 Hours in Police Custody http://www.channel4.com/programmes/24-hours-in-police-custody
that would seem to be true.
The names; Scott and Bailey are surnames, but also potentially male names. These characters are not defined by their gender nor restricted by it. It suggests motte and bailey - the defence of the realm or at least society, a responsibility these women are not afraid of and equal to.
Did I mention Amelia Bullmore wrote some episodes? She was also responsible for Craven - the Radio 4 drama starring the equally wonderful Maxine Peake as another single, female, tough detective http://www.bbc.co.uk/programmes/b03vcqfb . All of these characters are detectives rather than female detectives, they are police officers rather than police women and because there are more than one of them, there is space to represent a number of different types of women - even if they are stereotypes. instead of fulfilling the one and only female character role. There are scenes where the crime is being discussed by three women in an office, or even solved. They sometimes solve collaboratively rather than competitively and when Gill was reported for drinking on the job, or Rachel found out she was asked to take on a promotion only after Janet said no, they talked about it. And carried on as friends.
It's a shame it's finished now. Suggestions please for what I can record to watch next term.
Saturday, 13 September 2014
Digging for victory
Today I reached a massive milestone. I am so insanely proud of myself. As bucket lists go, this might not be up there for most people but for me...
Before I build this up too much, let me explain a little. I have no garden to speak of. Our house was some kind of business in the days when people didn't expect gardens. And they probably shared the land with the local pub to graze their geese or whatever. So we have a yard, not a yard like my aunties in Liverpool had at the back of their back-to-backs, or a "yard" like the baa baa of the family threatened to come round to when we argued, (I sense my working class credentials slipping into nonsense), but a yard. No lawn. Actually nothing but a few broken bits of staircase and some old bikes.
We do however, have a front garden. Not a yard, a garden. No grass, but no old skateboards either. And since it's south facing, and however good the weather we are still too English to consider sitting out at the front of the house, I decided to turn it into the vegetable patch. (Obviously our street isn't on an estate or we could be English enough to do that other kind of sitting out at the front of our house in our pink onesies - which just auto corrected as penises; try it; I was tempted to leave it - with a fag on, waiting for the kids to come home from school.)
So, back to the front of the house, metaphorically, whatever you might be imagining as a plot, half it. It's small. And not any shape recognised by a primary maths textbook. And in this space I have plotted. And I have toiled. And I have cultivated. And I have carted the bath water down in buckets everyday as we don't have a hose. Or an outside tap. Or a tap nearby as it's the front of the house remember.
And somehow, I have grown stuff. Enough to make strawberry jam, salad everyday. Rocket leaves on pizza, rocket leaves on everything if I'm honest, teeny tiny aubergines.
But today I have finally achieved my "Good Life" dream. Today I ate home-grown, home-made strawberry jam on toast for breakfast, home-grown,home-made leek soup, home-grown, home-made lavender shortbread and for tea it was pasta with home-grown courgettes in home-made pesto from home-grown basil.
This is not such a big deal to my friends with industrial sized allotments and perfect patches at the foot of their garden and those of you with a bent towards the practical will by now have realised that there probably aren't enough leeks in that tiny patch to see me through the winter and that very few of my tomatoes are red despite my early planting. Some of you may even be starting to echo my cynical husband who suspects I might not be recouping the cost of seeds at the moment, but to me this is the pinnacle. My children will eat the tomatoes grown in the garden because they grew them, they will even give aubergine another try, and courgette can, it would appear, be smuggled into lasagne in surprisingly high quantities. And every time I tend the tomato plants I am transported back to the greenhouse in our back garden and my Grandad, who my dad says would be proud of me.
And I'm writing this with a glass of Pimm's, savouring the last taste of summer with home-grown mint and home-grown cucumber. Message me your best courgette recipes.
Before I build this up too much, let me explain a little. I have no garden to speak of. Our house was some kind of business in the days when people didn't expect gardens. And they probably shared the land with the local pub to graze their geese or whatever. So we have a yard, not a yard like my aunties in Liverpool had at the back of their back-to-backs, or a "yard" like the baa baa of the family threatened to come round to when we argued, (I sense my working class credentials slipping into nonsense), but a yard. No lawn. Actually nothing but a few broken bits of staircase and some old bikes.
We do however, have a front garden. Not a yard, a garden. No grass, but no old skateboards either. And since it's south facing, and however good the weather we are still too English to consider sitting out at the front of the house, I decided to turn it into the vegetable patch. (Obviously our street isn't on an estate or we could be English enough to do that other kind of sitting out at the front of our house in our pink onesies - which just auto corrected as penises; try it; I was tempted to leave it - with a fag on, waiting for the kids to come home from school.)
So, back to the front of the house, metaphorically, whatever you might be imagining as a plot, half it. It's small. And not any shape recognised by a primary maths textbook. And in this space I have plotted. And I have toiled. And I have cultivated. And I have carted the bath water down in buckets everyday as we don't have a hose. Or an outside tap. Or a tap nearby as it's the front of the house remember.
And somehow, I have grown stuff. Enough to make strawberry jam, salad everyday. Rocket leaves on pizza, rocket leaves on everything if I'm honest, teeny tiny aubergines.
But today I have finally achieved my "Good Life" dream. Today I ate home-grown, home-made strawberry jam on toast for breakfast, home-grown,home-made leek soup, home-grown, home-made lavender shortbread and for tea it was pasta with home-grown courgettes in home-made pesto from home-grown basil.
This is not such a big deal to my friends with industrial sized allotments and perfect patches at the foot of their garden and those of you with a bent towards the practical will by now have realised that there probably aren't enough leeks in that tiny patch to see me through the winter and that very few of my tomatoes are red despite my early planting. Some of you may even be starting to echo my cynical husband who suspects I might not be recouping the cost of seeds at the moment, but to me this is the pinnacle. My children will eat the tomatoes grown in the garden because they grew them, they will even give aubergine another try, and courgette can, it would appear, be smuggled into lasagne in surprisingly high quantities. And every time I tend the tomato plants I am transported back to the greenhouse in our back garden and my Grandad, who my dad says would be proud of me.
And I'm writing this with a glass of Pimm's, savouring the last taste of summer with home-grown mint and home-grown cucumber. Message me your best courgette recipes.
Sunday, 31 August 2014
This Woman's Work
My husband is the best, most amazing man in the whole entire world. I knew this anyway, but let me explain why.
A few months ago; Kate Bush announced that she was doing a series of concerts. I would like to say that I have been waiting 35 years for this but I was 4 in 1979 and I hadn't heard of Kate Bush until I was about 8 and I didn't like "Running up that Hill". I may not have been 8, my encyclopedic knowledge of her back catalogue is no longer at the very forefront of my mind.
Many of my friends who I hadn't spoken to in years messaged me on Facebook. Even people I have only met recently posted the link. My obsession is more well known than I believed. Or perhaps,more worryingly, I look like the kind of person who would be a Kate Bush fan.
So, the day arrives. I have already given up hope.I am at work. At 9 o clock I look at my watch. I pace the room. I tell my year 13s what is the matter. I play them a clip. They are still none the wiser. I sigh and return to Chaucer.
The next day is Saturday. The weekend of mothering Sunday. There is a huge box from Thorntons delivered. Neither of us have mentioned the tickets. I can't help but feel a building anticipation about my Mother's day gift. The tension is too great to bear. The one amazing surprise present my husband has managed and I have to spoil it. I had to know. "No," he says. "I'm sorry. I had 3 browsers open, the tickets sold out in 15 minutes." I understand, of course.I head back downstairs. But less than 5 minutes later he is confessing, he did it. He got me tickets. The single most important event of my life. After my wedding, and the birth of our children. He is the most remarkable man. And he tried to do it just for me.
The first track I heard of Kate Bush that had resonance for me was "The Sensual World". On the strength of the track I bought the album; on vinyl, the 12" picture of her in black and white striking on the cover. At the time,I wasn't aware that the lyrics were based on Molly Bloom 's rapture from the end of Ulysses, but the lyrics were compelling. "He loosened it so if it slipped between my breasts, he'd rescue it" I had never heard anything so erotic,it was beautiful.
My boyfriend lent me the greatest hits album and from then on I was hooked. Throughout sixth form I trawled second hand record shops and record fairs to collect all the 7" singles, the blue Russian flexi disc of "Babooshka" and a marbled cassette of "Hounds of Love".
I seem to remember that Take That were famous at the time. I hadn't heard anything by them and I was experimenting with skinny black jeans, lace tops and back combed hair (still purple though) at the time. I later wore lots of stripey trousers and army style boots, (but definitely not Dr. Martens - everyone had them). Somehow Kate Bush remained consistent with all these other passions. "Wuthering Heights" was gothic enough to fit in with "Severina" and "Temple of Love", "The handsome Cabin boy" followed a folk tradition that The Levellers and The Tansads would have understood.
And she was on her own. For other girls like me who were on their own, hanging around with groups of boys. I couldn't follow a crowd of other girls screaming at Take That, and the subjects of her songs challenged standard topics - narratives of poisoning, gay lovers, dressing as a rocket,dancing with Hitler and very rarely falling in love . Many of her women were strong and independent and she seemed strong and independent too, she produced her own music and dictated her own terms.
As someone said on tv the other night, after the rave reviews of the first night, I think it was the former drummer of the Sex Pistols, she wasn't part of a movement, she had a fan base all of her own. I felt special being a fan. I was part of something bigger - I went to a convention and it was slightly scarier than a Morrissey gig. No one else was a fan. Actually that's not quite true, everyone was a fan of something by Kate Bush. But they weren't a fan. Not like me. Eventually I did meet some fans but after a few bizarre encounters I has to break off contact with most of them.
Oh, and she played the piano. You don't need even a band when you play the piano. As proved later by Tori Amos, but that's a whole new blog. I had been learning the piano for ten years and knew I would never be a pop star. I was too snobby to be a "keyboard" player, based on my experience of 80s two finger moochers at the back of the group. But I could be an artist. Or artiste. Or performer, or any of those things Kate Bush was.
She was a positive role model for a teenager, the independent woman I wanted to be. She even had children late and so we ended up almost as contemporaries. I will try and fit in a blog before I go, but I may be too busy being excited.
A few months ago; Kate Bush announced that she was doing a series of concerts. I would like to say that I have been waiting 35 years for this but I was 4 in 1979 and I hadn't heard of Kate Bush until I was about 8 and I didn't like "Running up that Hill". I may not have been 8, my encyclopedic knowledge of her back catalogue is no longer at the very forefront of my mind.
Many of my friends who I hadn't spoken to in years messaged me on Facebook. Even people I have only met recently posted the link. My obsession is more well known than I believed. Or perhaps,more worryingly, I look like the kind of person who would be a Kate Bush fan.
So, the day arrives. I have already given up hope.I am at work. At 9 o clock I look at my watch. I pace the room. I tell my year 13s what is the matter. I play them a clip. They are still none the wiser. I sigh and return to Chaucer.
The next day is Saturday. The weekend of mothering Sunday. There is a huge box from Thorntons delivered. Neither of us have mentioned the tickets. I can't help but feel a building anticipation about my Mother's day gift. The tension is too great to bear. The one amazing surprise present my husband has managed and I have to spoil it. I had to know. "No," he says. "I'm sorry. I had 3 browsers open, the tickets sold out in 15 minutes." I understand, of course.I head back downstairs. But less than 5 minutes later he is confessing, he did it. He got me tickets. The single most important event of my life. After my wedding, and the birth of our children. He is the most remarkable man. And he tried to do it just for me.
The first track I heard of Kate Bush that had resonance for me was "The Sensual World". On the strength of the track I bought the album; on vinyl, the 12" picture of her in black and white striking on the cover. At the time,I wasn't aware that the lyrics were based on Molly Bloom 's rapture from the end of Ulysses, but the lyrics were compelling. "He loosened it so if it slipped between my breasts, he'd rescue it" I had never heard anything so erotic,it was beautiful.
My boyfriend lent me the greatest hits album and from then on I was hooked. Throughout sixth form I trawled second hand record shops and record fairs to collect all the 7" singles, the blue Russian flexi disc of "Babooshka" and a marbled cassette of "Hounds of Love".
I seem to remember that Take That were famous at the time. I hadn't heard anything by them and I was experimenting with skinny black jeans, lace tops and back combed hair (still purple though) at the time. I later wore lots of stripey trousers and army style boots, (but definitely not Dr. Martens - everyone had them). Somehow Kate Bush remained consistent with all these other passions. "Wuthering Heights" was gothic enough to fit in with "Severina" and "Temple of Love", "The handsome Cabin boy" followed a folk tradition that The Levellers and The Tansads would have understood.
And she was on her own. For other girls like me who were on their own, hanging around with groups of boys. I couldn't follow a crowd of other girls screaming at Take That, and the subjects of her songs challenged standard topics - narratives of poisoning, gay lovers, dressing as a rocket,dancing with Hitler and very rarely falling in love . Many of her women were strong and independent and she seemed strong and independent too, she produced her own music and dictated her own terms.
As someone said on tv the other night, after the rave reviews of the first night, I think it was the former drummer of the Sex Pistols, she wasn't part of a movement, she had a fan base all of her own. I felt special being a fan. I was part of something bigger - I went to a convention and it was slightly scarier than a Morrissey gig. No one else was a fan. Actually that's not quite true, everyone was a fan of something by Kate Bush. But they weren't a fan. Not like me. Eventually I did meet some fans but after a few bizarre encounters I has to break off contact with most of them.
Oh, and she played the piano. You don't need even a band when you play the piano. As proved later by Tori Amos, but that's a whole new blog. I had been learning the piano for ten years and knew I would never be a pop star. I was too snobby to be a "keyboard" player, based on my experience of 80s two finger moochers at the back of the group. But I could be an artist. Or artiste. Or performer, or any of those things Kate Bush was.
She was a positive role model for a teenager, the independent woman I wanted to be. She even had children late and so we ended up almost as contemporaries. I will try and fit in a blog before I go, but I may be too busy being excited.
Sunday, 10 August 2014
The eye of the storm
I wrote a song once called "Katy the hurricane". Bit of oversharing really; I wrote songs, I called it "Katy" because of a girl I was in awe of called Katy who I thought my boyfriend might prefer, but mostly because I had just been reading Cixous. I couldn't believe I had never noticed before that hurricanes and natural disasters tended to be named after women.
I won't share the whole song with you, I couldn't cope with the awkward silence and feet shuffling that usually results from one of my songs/poems/readings, but the gist was that she was "turning/turning the whole world upside down...buildings and institutions come tumbling down" I'm squirming a bit just writing that actually, a bit like reading my teenage diary. I really admire Caitlin Moran for writing "How to be a woman" (Read it now...right now, if you haven't already..
http://www.amazon.co.uk/How-Be-Woman-Caitlin-Moran-ebook/dp/B0052CK5PQ/ref=sr_1_2?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1407682461&sr=1-2&keywords=caitlin+moran+books). I couldn't possibly be so reflective or use my young life to provide any insight into the state of the world.
Anyway, back to the point - I will explain the reason for my disjointed train of thought shortly. I'm not sure what bothers me about the practice of using female names,and I don't think it's done any more, it could be the accusation of random destruction, the repeated association of femininity with nature as opposed to the more civilised masculine/culture link, or perhaps it's that the power granted femininity is only "natural" or innate. What's caused is caused by accident.
All of which brings me to my distracted mind. Bertha, or whatever the tropical storm is called has caused very strong winds and rain making the children bubble over like cherry Pepsi max and so I am here, a generic soft play warehouse,with the car packed full of a tent, sleeping bags and gas stove, seriously impeding my fuel efficiency.
I once made one of my friends come to one of these places, she doesn't have any children and I don't suppose she'd go to one again. It was purely for my own sanity that I invited her. Parenting law dictates that you can, if alone,strike up conversation with another lone parent, as long as you are in one of the more middle class areas. And not a father, fathers must remain unmolested by their own and other children and adults, this is signified by a broadsheet newspaper raised in front of the face, a tablet; held up rather than rested on the table, or in emergencies,a phone. A new development I have only noticed today us headphones. This obscures screams and the usual panicked reaction to a cry of "mummy!" Before you realise it's not for you and lapse back into concentration.
So instead of reading a book, as I used to, I am typing on my new Kindle for the first time.it's nor easy. See?
I won't share the whole song with you, I couldn't cope with the awkward silence and feet shuffling that usually results from one of my songs/poems/readings, but the gist was that she was "turning/turning the whole world upside down...buildings and institutions come tumbling down" I'm squirming a bit just writing that actually, a bit like reading my teenage diary. I really admire Caitlin Moran for writing "How to be a woman" (Read it now...right now, if you haven't already..
http://www.amazon.co.uk/How-Be-Woman-Caitlin-Moran-ebook/dp/B0052CK5PQ/ref=sr_1_2?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1407682461&sr=1-2&keywords=caitlin+moran+books). I couldn't possibly be so reflective or use my young life to provide any insight into the state of the world.
Anyway, back to the point - I will explain the reason for my disjointed train of thought shortly. I'm not sure what bothers me about the practice of using female names,and I don't think it's done any more, it could be the accusation of random destruction, the repeated association of femininity with nature as opposed to the more civilised masculine/culture link, or perhaps it's that the power granted femininity is only "natural" or innate. What's caused is caused by accident.
All of which brings me to my distracted mind. Bertha, or whatever the tropical storm is called has caused very strong winds and rain making the children bubble over like cherry Pepsi max and so I am here, a generic soft play warehouse,with the car packed full of a tent, sleeping bags and gas stove, seriously impeding my fuel efficiency.
I once made one of my friends come to one of these places, she doesn't have any children and I don't suppose she'd go to one again. It was purely for my own sanity that I invited her. Parenting law dictates that you can, if alone,strike up conversation with another lone parent, as long as you are in one of the more middle class areas. And not a father, fathers must remain unmolested by their own and other children and adults, this is signified by a broadsheet newspaper raised in front of the face, a tablet; held up rather than rested on the table, or in emergencies,a phone. A new development I have only noticed today us headphones. This obscures screams and the usual panicked reaction to a cry of "mummy!" Before you realise it's not for you and lapse back into concentration.
So instead of reading a book, as I used to, I am typing on my new Kindle for the first time.it's nor easy. See?
Friday, 8 August 2014
I've been waiting all year for this.
Six weeks! It's that time of year again! What all teachers have been waiting for...
I've planned to go camping on Sunday. According to BBC weather; the only forecast I trust; there is "yellow rain" alert on the day I intend to go and it will rain for the rest of the week. Don't get me wrong, much of my camping life has been spent in the rain, most of it was in the Lake District; I once walked the Pennine Way, taking 19 days and it rained on every single day. Bar one. But the idea of putting the tent up in the rain, battling the remnants of a former hurricane, seems to be setting myself for failure. We will see.
So far the holiday has been delightful. I have successfully vacuumed one floor properly for the first time in three weeks in a post- marking blitz but strangely I feel like I am working harder then before. All I want is a cup of coffee, watching "Homes Under the Hammer" with everyone back at work. However, now Depressed Aggressive Neurotic husband is working from home I can't see that ever happening again.
I miss my Tuesday lunch time, my one day off - it's like my pub night. I haven't yet done enough work and I am so anxious about it that I haven't yet summoned up the courage to check my email. Any of my emails. There could be a whole load of unspent Pizza Express vouchers in there. Not quite sure when the relaxation begins.
Once again I have only myself to blame. What's wrong with me? I worked 5 days a week, Dan worked 3 before July. I did all the bedtimes, packed lunches and dinners, now it's the "holidays" and I am still doing all the bedtimes, all the dinners and, oh yes, the packed lunches! How are all these cheerful people so happy about not making cream cheese sandwiches, chopping up carrot sticks and wrapping oat biscuits in foil? We seem to be picknicking (Not sure about that verb...) every day. And these picnics seem more difficult than your standard packed lunch. (Actually, that is mostly my fault. I want salad which is more fiddly.) We have crisps. Crisps! And biscuits. And for some reason, we have plates. All of which creates more washing up and substantially more work.
I am rubbish at this. I should probably go back to work.
I've planned to go camping on Sunday. According to BBC weather; the only forecast I trust; there is "yellow rain" alert on the day I intend to go and it will rain for the rest of the week. Don't get me wrong, much of my camping life has been spent in the rain, most of it was in the Lake District; I once walked the Pennine Way, taking 19 days and it rained on every single day. Bar one. But the idea of putting the tent up in the rain, battling the remnants of a former hurricane, seems to be setting myself for failure. We will see.
So far the holiday has been delightful. I have successfully vacuumed one floor properly for the first time in three weeks in a post- marking blitz but strangely I feel like I am working harder then before. All I want is a cup of coffee, watching "Homes Under the Hammer" with everyone back at work. However, now Depressed Aggressive Neurotic husband is working from home I can't see that ever happening again.
I miss my Tuesday lunch time, my one day off - it's like my pub night. I haven't yet done enough work and I am so anxious about it that I haven't yet summoned up the courage to check my email. Any of my emails. There could be a whole load of unspent Pizza Express vouchers in there. Not quite sure when the relaxation begins.
Once again I have only myself to blame. What's wrong with me? I worked 5 days a week, Dan worked 3 before July. I did all the bedtimes, packed lunches and dinners, now it's the "holidays" and I am still doing all the bedtimes, all the dinners and, oh yes, the packed lunches! How are all these cheerful people so happy about not making cream cheese sandwiches, chopping up carrot sticks and wrapping oat biscuits in foil? We seem to be picknicking (Not sure about that verb...) every day. And these picnics seem more difficult than your standard packed lunch. (Actually, that is mostly my fault. I want salad which is more fiddly.) We have crisps. Crisps! And biscuits. And for some reason, we have plates. All of which creates more washing up and substantially more work.
I am rubbish at this. I should probably go back to work.
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