Tuesday Club

Tuesday Club

As a child I had a burning ambition to be an actor. I begged my parents to send me to stage school to no avail. I languished, invisible, at my primary school, waiting for someone to recognise my star quality. When I auditioned for the school play they were so impressed by my talent that they put me in the choir.

My opportunity to shine appeared in an unexpected place. I’d started attending something called Tuesday Club, with my friends, after school. This was a youth club run by a well-meaning bearded man and his two teenage daughters, Cheryl and Hazel. My friends favoured Cheryl, who was chatty and ebullient but I preferred her younger sister, Hazel, who was softly spoken and shy. The club took place in an inauspicious, low red brick building at the end of our road.

Tuesday Club involved a lot of energetic games, the most memorable one being ‘Ladders’, where you had to run in and out of the other kids’ outstretched legs, hopefully without stamping on them. I didn’t enjoy the games - I was a reader, not a runner.  I was only there to hang out with my pals and partake of the weak orange squash and custard creams that they passed round at the end of the evening. They read us a story at the end of the evening too, but I didn’t pay too much attention to what it was.

Around Christmas time Cheryl approached me to ask whether I’d mind taking the lead role in that year’s festive play. No, I didn’t mind - I’d be absolutely delighted, I told her gleefully. 

My character’s name was Lee, she and her family had to escape from an unspecified, dangerous country and seek sanctuary in England. I think I was aware, even then, of why they had asked the only brown skinned child at the club to portray this character but it didn't bother me. Whatever gets you the gig, eh?

‘Lee’ didn’t actually have that many lines but the most memorable one was, ‘Please, what is Christmas?’ The English kids (within the play) then educated her on Jesus and the Nativity. 

A girl called Vicky*, who I found deeply annoying, had problems with some of her lines and fudged up the word ‘refugee’. Despite this the performance was a glowing success and I was congratulated on my part in it.

*not her real name.

A man in a suit asked me if I went to Sunday school. I answered, bemusedly in the negative. Sunday school was a church thing, we didn’t go to church. In fact, my Sri Lankan, Hindu father was so paranoid about my brother and I being converted to Christianity that there was a period in infant school, when I wasn’t allowed to attend assembly. Me and this blonde kid called Benjamin(his family were Jehovah's Witnesses, I later discovered), had to sit outside the hall while the assembly took place. My Welsh mother had been gradually shedding her Catholic upbringing, when she moved to London, and totally jettisoned it when she married my Dad. 

My Dad lived in a state of constant vigilance, lest my Irish Granny or any other ‘religious nut’ got their hands on our soft, vulnerable brains and forced us to take Holy Communion. I’m not sure why he allowed me to attend Tuesday Club but my presence there was tenuous. One day, one of the club leaders gave us a huge piece of white card, on which we were instructed to draw a shepherd. I looked forward to this task as I was much better at drawing than I was at ‘Ladders’. I would have preferred to be drawing an Elizabethan woman, with puffed sleeves, but you can’t have everything.

I laid my card on the kitchen table that evening.

‘What do you have to draw?’ My dad asked.

Before I had a chance to reply, my mum, who has always had an irascible sense of humour, said:

‘Jesus, they have to draw Jesus.’

And that was the end of Tuesday Club.

The Court

The judge looked about ninety six years old and straight from ‘comedy judge’ central casting. He was an antiquated specimen - posh, self-important and a serial interrupter.

We got led into the courtroom and told to line up.

‘Now they’re standing in exactly the wrong place for what I want them to do,’ the judge said, querulously. ‘I need them to see the defendant and say whether they recognise him or not.’

I was startled to see that there, in a huge glass box behind us, stood the defendant. A small, slight, dark haired young man, who seemed to come straight out of ‘little, scrotey villain’ central casting. He had very dark hair, an olive complexion, a slightly pockmarked face and small, furtive eyes.

Our quandary was how to look at him and make it seem as if we weren’t looking at him?

We were asked - did any of us recognise him?

No - we all shook our heads.

Did any of us know the _ estate in _?

No, once again a collective shaking of heads.

Did the defendant recognise any of us?

‘No, your honour,’ the defendant replied, sounding surprisingly deferential. He had a slightly high, slightly nasal voice. Dickensian villain.

‘He is accused of being in possession of a firearm,’ the judge said.

I flinched, involuntarily.

But he’s so small and slight and deferential! I thought.

‘Did any of the jurors recognise any of the other names in the case?’ The judge asked.

The first barrister looked surprised.

‘Ah, I wasn’t going to name the individual names connected with the case but the arresting officers were…’

This barrister reeled off a list of names. He was presumably the lawyer for the prosecution. He was slightly plump and middle aged with close cropped hair (just visible beneath his wig). He had a kind, humane-looking face. How can a person give the impression of kindness and humanity? I don’t know, but he did. Wouldn’t someone like that be better suited as a defence lawyer? I thought.

The defence lawyer himself was younger than the one for the prosecution and fiercely attractive, with sharp cheekbones. He was lounging arrogantly in a chair. Perhaps he’d done modelling to support himself through university and law school. He did not look kind.

The court clerk was very pretty. She had long, one length, straight black hair and sculpted eyebrows and she looked remarkably similar to one of the jurors. I wondered if she was alarmed to meet another of her species in here.

There were fifteen of us prospective jury members and, as they read out the names and assigned everyone a jury number, I realised that I hadn’t been picked. After all those days of interminable waiting around, being searched and that horrible feeling of confinement, I was disappointed. I never got to see the machinations of the trial and I never got to decide whether _ was guilty or innocent. 

Back up in the lift, along the endless, prosaic corridors and back into the hideous holding pen, which was like a combination of an airport lounge and a hospital waiting room. A Science Fiction purgatory.

A snapshot of the legal system.

The Other Side

I was going to pretend that this is about the other side of Christmas but it's probably more accurate to say that it's about the other side of 50.

In my last post I said that I wouldn't be doing new year resolutions and I'm not but, like many people, late December saw me feeling the ill effects of too much alcohol and rich food so I have cut back on both. Cut back, I say, rather than eliminated, because that's when the feelings of deprivation and mad cravings set in. I am currently making my way, slowly and modestly, through a wonderful cache of posh chocolates that I'd received for my birthday.  I love having this treasure trove of confectionery, which says a lot about me and a lifetime of dieting. What happens though, when the last box is eaten? No more chocolate? 

Please see above re cravings. Perhaps only posh chocolate, and only at weekends. Although I did see that T.V doctor bloke who has written a book about ultra processed food, talking about the dopamine highs that come with eating foods high in fat and sugar and how they keep you coming back for more so perhaps it would be better not to buy it….argh, I feel the grip of diet culture tightening it's hold again.The thing about ultra processed food is that we all know that food that hasn't been messed around with too much is better for us, but we haven't all got the money, time or resources to make meals from scratch. I work part time and my kids are a bit older now, so theoretically, I have more time to cook, but sometimes I just can't be arsed. It's such a bore and a chore, especially when your efforts aren't appreciated. To give him his due, T.V doctor wasn't suggesting a complete elimination of upf, but a change to 60% natural, 40% ultra processed. He reckoned that if you made your own biscuits they’d be more satisfying and you’d eat less of them. Not so sure about that.

Some biscuits the me and my daughter made - deliciously addictive!

January has hit like a bastard, with its usual prison guard, playground bully, bad energy. I know that ‘Blue Monday’ is a marketing fallacy and that you shouldn't wish your life away, especially after you’ve hit 50, but eurghh January! In the last few days I have been blighted with a hideous rash on my face, close enough to my eye to make it close up a little. It's sore and hurts worse when the cold wind hits it. The rather unsympathetic G.P I saw thinks that it's a cold sore and that there's nothing I can do about it. I know it could be much worse but I am feeling a bit sorry for myself. I think I would have felt better if the doctor had had a softer bedside manner. Perhaps I just wanted someone to say, ‘Oh, poor you, that looks sore.’ (If you do bump into me, please can you say that, rather than ‘ew, what's that thing on your face!’) Anyway I look like one of the plague victims who live in the cellar in ‘Ghosts’ at the moment.

Curated snapshot of 'the rash'.

I'm trying not to spend much money because I'm post-Christmas skint, again, I am aware of how much worse it could be, thanks. But I did buy some new pyjamas with one of my birthday vouchers, and they are nice and soft. I also have a hefty pile of books to be read, which will take a good while to get through as I'm currently chewing my way through ‘Middlemarch'. I’m enjoying it but it's not something you can just pick up and put down, lightly. I can't believe that the first time I read it was on a beach in Greece, aged 20, and I veritably flew through it. But I was a leaner, keener beast then. Man, I love books though, they make me happy. Not quite the same dopamine hit as a chocolate truffle but fairly close.

I have signed up for an in-person writing class. I am quite anxious about this and have my usual worries. This misplaced worrying is not focused on whether I'll learn anything or how my work will be assessed, but whether anyone will like me. I wish I didn't worry about this but I do. The problem is, I have realised, that I often go into situations expecting to be ignored and/or disliked. This probably comes across on my visage - an alarming combination of fear, neediness and hostility. Couple this with the plague rash and we’re on to a loser. Perhaps I should make myself a badge which reads ‘I'm quite nice when you get to know me’ (most of the time). I wish I didn't think like this. Philippa Perry says that you should go into a room full of strangers with the attitude ‘everyone here is attractive and interesting, including me’, but I'm not sure if that will work. I think that people who are anxious focus far too much on themselves. Perhaps I should pay attention to everyone else. Perhaps I can reinvent myself as the kindly, motherly one in the group, making sure that everyone is hydrated and warm enough and knows what time their train is due. Perhaps I should take baby wipes and mini rice cakes with me.

Anyhoo, that was a bit rambling. Thanks for reading. Chin up, hot drinks, jigsaw puzzles and meetups with friends. Long walks and comfort T.V. That's the way to endure the winter. Oh, and the other side of 50 isn't too bad.

No Year's Resolution

I’ve stolen the title, and articles like this have been written before but someone asked me if I had any New Year's resolutions and I felt the need to write this.

I am not going to cut anything out. New Year's resolutions, as the person who asked me observed, set you up for failure. Why start the new year (which is an arbitrary, preordained marker anyway) with a booby trap, designed to make you feel terrible about yourself? Rather, I would urge you, gentle reader, to look over the last year and think about the things that made you feel good, and incorporate more of them into your life. Like, really good, as opposed to the temporary high offered by eating a doughnut or downing a shot of sambuca.

So, for me, this would be:

• Eating avocados.
• Yoga - have joined a class recently and will continue going to that once a week but will also try and do yoga at least two other times a week. I have the lovely, squashy, purple yoga mat, the little anti-slip socks and now, a pair of ‘yoga pants’, purchased by accident.
• Reading in bed.
• Reading and writing in cafes.
• Telling people when they look nice/have done something well/ have cooked something delicious.
• Standing on one leg.
• Walking through nature.
• Saying no to things I don't want to do.
• Saying ‘hello’ to strange dogs.
• Going to the theatre 🎭.
• Hugging people, whilst respecting their boundaries.
• Buying really nice scented candles and hand cream.
• Dancing.
• Looking in the mirror and telling myself that I look fucking fabulous. (I don't currently do this but plan to implement it).

Actual footage of me doing yoga

Life can be stressful and there are a lot of scary and depressing things going on in the world. Capitalism feeds off your self-loathing so try sticking it to the man by not giving in to all that bollocks. :D 

Milestone

Why does fifty feel so momentous? So milestone-ish, compared to the other big birthdays that end with a zero? I can’t remember ten, at twenty I was at university, thirty in a settled job and living with my boyfriend, forty, dealing with very young children. The ‘dealing with young kids’ thing is significant because I was far more focused on their milestones, than on my own. Now they are a bit older, what’s my excuse for not having (gulp) achieved more? 

My younger child asked me why I didn’t work full time and when I explained to her that that would mean her going to after school clubs she did a quick volte face and specified that she wasn’t saying that she wanted me to work full time, just that she was asking why I didn’t! When I was forty and my children were very young, I was happy to work two days a week - keeping one toe in the adult world, while still spending a big chunk of time with them. Now, obviously they don’t need me as much but the younger one is still not quite of an age where she can walk home alone and come back to an empty house. It’s a bit of a limbo time. I am quite happy to have left the world of soft play centres, nappy bags and pushchairs behind, but am not sure how full time working would fit with family life. (nd, if I’m honest, I’m not sure how much working full time would cramp my own style) I find trying to work from home, when the kids are around, quite trying. Whilst we are lucky to have a roof over our heads, our house is as small and untidy as the garbage compactor from Star Wars. 

My living room

As the walls squeeze in on you a little voice chimes up, asking if they can have a snack, or if they can put something on TV, or if you can take them and their friends to the bubble tea place. To say that they are like wasps at a picnic would be very mean. Maybe sheep blocking the road would be a kinder analogy - picturesque and charming, but mildly annoying when you are trying to get somewhere. I find working from home kind of irksome. I haven’t got that foot firmly in the world of adulthood and have to leave my laptop, at 3, to go and stand at the school gates, feeling irritable and exposed. Lockdown has had a deleterious effect on my ability to socialise, especially with the other mums. They all have their little tribes, I am a pariah, on the outside. I ought not let it bother me, but it does.

Racing towards a sense of achievement

While I’m on this point, where is this ‘couldn’t give a shit what other people think of me’ attitude, which is supposed to come with age? Why am I getting the downsides, like a wrinkly neck and aching knees, without the supposed benefits? I remember a dear friend, who was significantly older than me, telling me that when you got older you cared less about the opinion of other people and did your own thing. Not that I’ve actually stopped doing anything for fear of the disapproval of others, but I feel that I’m missing the devil-may-care’, ‘when I am older I shall wear purple’ state of mind? Why do I sometimes think, despite being a feminist who has embraced the body positivity movement, hmmm would it really be sooooo bad to get some botox? And start researching how expensive a mysterious ‘neck refresh’ would be? All this is merely focused on superficial things, what about the ‘achievements’?

Aaargh! Well, I never wanted to be in banking or senior management anywhere. I think, did I even say it? That I just wanted to be happy/ content. But yes, there are things that I’ve wanted to achieve that haven’t materialised yet. I’ve looked up celebrities born the same year as me and discovered that I’m the same age as Neve Campbell, James Marsden, the guy who plays Sheldon in ‘The Big Bang Theory’, Nas and Sean Paul, Noel Fielding and Peter Andre, among others. And I’m thinking - why haven’t I co-written ‘The Mighty Boosh’, rapped on MTV or had kids with Katie Price….?  

The famous women in my age bracket look fabulous because it’s their job to look fabulous and are under a considerable amount of pressure to still look the same as they did thirty years ago.  I don’t want or expect to look like them. For a good few years I felt that the greatest goal and sign that you were #livingyourbestlife was self fulfilment.  I still think this but now the spectre of fifty is standing in my tracks, waving two of those racing car flags with the words ‘what have you achieved?’ emblazoned across them. Despite knowing how fortunate I am to have a loving family and the aforementioned roof over my head there is the nagging doubt/professional disappointment. Can you relate? Or do you think I’m a whining, entitled twit? Having just watched the rather weird and wonderful The Change on Channel 4 I’m wondering whether I should buy myself a motorbike and go and live in a caravan on the edge of a forest…Failing that I could retrain as something - chocolatier, zoo-keeper, arborist…

The sensible part of me knows that landmark ages are arbitrary markers that we impose on our lives but if the spectre of that milestone gives me the necessary kick up the bum to finish something/make some changes/move house, then it won't necessarily be a bad thing.

In Search of Balance

I ventured into the inky night to do Tai Chi,

In the bid to get a better me.

Unfortunately it reminded me of P.E,

As the movements are quite difficult to follow.

Hello there! How are you, my friend?  I’m not too bad, thank you for asking. 

I wrote the poem above last November, when the nights were long and inky (instead of being short, bright and insufferably hot!). Eight months on I still find the movements difficult to follow but I’m persevering with Tai Chi. According to Harvard Health publishing, the benefits of Tai Chi are as follows:

Tai chi is often described as "meditation in motion," but it might well be called "medication in motion." There is growing evidence that this mind-body practice, which originated in China as a martial art, has value in treating or preventing many health problems. And you can get started even if you aren't in top shape or the best of health.

I enjoy it despite my woeful lack of coordination and I'm still optimistic that the ‘form’ will eventually come more easily to me, and insert itself into that mythical creature - muscle memory.  Surely Tai Chi is meant to be easy? It’s something that the elderly do. In fact my daughter, who mistakenly thought that I was doing some kind of combat sport, and bid me goodbye with the words ‘Have fun throwing people about!’ Amended her words to ‘Have fun throwing old people around’, when I tried to explain that it was a more gentle form of exercise. The instructor is a lovely man and the class is a safe, friendly space to be in. A mixture of ages, athletic ability and body shapes. 

I’ve tried yoga over the years and I like it but am trying to find a class which is suitable for true beginners, with a gentle, undemanding instructor. When I say undemanding, I don't mean someone who doesn't push you, physically, I merely want someone who doesn't bark at you when you get it 'wrong'. I’ve had two terrifying yoga instructors. One who, years ago, asked me why I stood with a squint! (Those who read my last blog would know why I found this so unsettling). Another one, more recently, who was just generally a bit fierce and scary. Her class was hard and I came away with a pain in the hip. I’m still on the quest to find a gentle class with a calm, non-threatening teacher. Someone who closes their eyes a lot, says Namaste and tells you how to breathe. Do you know anyone?

This post is about a quest for physical balance. I feel like Mrs. Doyle in Father Ted, when she makes an awkward descent from the bay window.  

The warm up in Tai Chi involves a fair bit of standing on one leg and kicking or rotating the opposite leg. I often falter. The instructor tells me that balance is very much affected by the tension we carry in our shoulders. So obviously I need to work on this tension. Short of CBD oil, I am not sure how to work on this.

I don’t know if I mentioned it but I’m turning 50 at the end of this year. As detailed in this article, sent to me by a much younger friend, one of the most important things to focus on as we age is balance. 

https://www.theguardian.com/lifeandstyle/2023/apr/07/life-changing-daily-moves-that-will-keep-your-body-happy

They reckon you should stand on one leg as you brush your teeth. They also advocate sitting on the floor more and other not particularly alarming, but still somewhat annoying habits. Can you get up from the floor without supporting yourself with your hands/arms? Oh you can, good for you!

So anyway, the next time you see me I'll be looking wonderfully calm, smiling as if someone has just told me that they've filled my freezer with pistachio Magnums, standing on one leg as I delicately sip at my lemon verbena tea.

Namaste

Skin Deep

Dear Reader

It’s been a while hasn’t it? And, as one says in a tiresome amount of emails, I hope this finds you well. 

I know I said that I was retiring the Blog but I’ve decided to start posting again - lucky you!

 At the end of this year I’ll be turning fifty. Yes, I’m sorry to disillusion you, as you thought that I was thirty seven, but it’s all too true. 50 - a big round number. And, like many landmark ages, it’s making me take stock. I’ve had a bit of a breakthrough about something recently and I thought I’d share the love.

It seems appropriate to talk about this because at the age of fifty, many women are going to be preoccupied with their appearance. This might seem like an irrelevant detour, as it’s not about ageing or wrinkles, but it’s something that it’s taken me a whole lifetime to come to terms with.

I’ve found this enormously difficult to talk about and I didn’t think I’d ever write about it but actually, like ripping off a plaster, it’s probably best to get it out into the air. When you find out what it is, you’ll probably think - eh - is that all?

I was born with a squint, otherwise known as a lazy eye. It was operated on when I was a baby, I’m not sure exactly how old I was. The operation hadn’t completely fixed things and I used to have to go to a clinic with a kind lady with short grey hair, who made me do slightly odd things like ‘put the lion in the cage’, while looking into a machine. I also had to read pages of terribly boring text, with a patch over one eye. Even if I hadn’t attended this clinic, I would have known that I still had the squint as the kind children at school were more than happy to alert me to it. One of the things I’d been told was that there were no baby pictures of me, because of the squint. The person saying this had good intentions but the message I received (and remember that all communication is about decoding and applying our own meaning to things) was that I was ugly and deeply flawed. I grew to dread seeing pictures of myself.

Now, in the great scheme of things, this isn’t a big deal. I wasn’t beaten, starved or locked in a basement, and I didn’t have a disability. But in terms of my psyche, it had a great effect.  I would fantasise about losing weight and somehow, I didn’t know how, having the squint fixed. I was very taken with the Ugly Duckling/Return to Eden fantasy, where all the woman had to do was get mauled by a crocodile, after her husband had tried to kill her, then have transformative plastic surgery and reinvent herself as a model. Seemed reasonable enough.

https://www.imdb.com/title/tt0085079/?ref_=fn_al_tt_1

Often, when I went for an eye test, the optician would point out the squint, as if they’d made a rare discovery and I hadn’t noticed it myself! It wasn’t until I had kids that I realised that there might be something I could do about it. A midwife who visited after I had my second child, mentioned that they used Botox nowadays, to correct squints. She brought this up because I told her that I was paranoid about passing the affliction on to my children. Long story short, the doctor referred me to the eye unit at the hospital. They did try the botox thing (very unpleasant) but it wasn't effective, so they decided to operate instead. At the age of forty I had the operation to correct the squint. The surgeon said he was very happy with how it had went but that the ‘brain was very stubborn’, which I took to mean that my stubborn, ornery brain would decide to sabotage me and the squint would return. (between the lazy eye and the stubborn brain I was on a bit of a losing streak) I also lost a lot of weight. So my childhood fantasy had come true - was I happy? Kind of but I also started to focus on the lines on my forehead.

A kind of happy ending, right? Well, last year I went to the doctor about some digestive problems I was suffering from. A G.P I’d never seen before said to me; “I know this is nothing to do with it (the digestive issues) but is that a new squint? Because if it is, that can be a sign of a brain tumour.” 

I was shocked and dismayed. All sorts of thoughts shot around - just how bad did the squint look? I could tell myself, from photos and the mirror, that my stubborn brain had chosen to reinstate it but didn't think it was wildly pronounced. But also, although I knew that it wasn’t a new squint, of course I knew that, what if I did have a fucking brain tumour!

I told the optician at my most recent eye test about this interaction with the G.P. She tutted and said that there would be other signs of a brain tumour, before the squint became a signifier. She referred me back to the hospital.

I waited several months for the appointment and recently spent a few hours at the Royal Eye Unit, at my local hospital. I saw two lovely women - one of whom took extensive measurements and gave me a test to see whether I could see things in 3D. The second person I saw was the consultant. They both told me that the squint didn’t measure that badly and certainly not enough to justify further surgery - which might make the situation worse. Because I don’t have double vision and can (sort of, sometimes) see things in 3D, it’s not really a problem. The consultant then conducted a few strange tests, including pushing against her hand with my shoulder and said; “There are no signs of a brain tumour.” 

I could have kissed her.

I came away from the hospital feeling massively alleviated. I was worried about wasting precious NHS resources but they didn’t treat me like a time waster. 

The thing is, my eyes will never look perfect (and I’ll probably feel happier talking to people when I’m wearing sunglasses) and the squint will never be totally fixed but that’s O.K. As someone who has tried to embrace body positivity I should have come to this conclusion a lot sooner but it was deeply ingrained. It’s O.K not to look perfect. My eyes are not perfectly aligned, my feet are slightly different sizes and one of my breasts is bigger than the other! So it goes. 

Thanks for reading, Babe! x