Banter

Henry Lloyd-Hughes: Wikipedia

I’ve been forced to reflect, recently on the nature of banter. What is it? Witty, Shakespearean repartee? Playful badinage? Verbal assault? When does it tip over into the last category?  

A simple cyber search throws up these as the top definitions of banter:

The playful and friendly exchange of teasing remarks.

The Urban dictionary goes further: Supple term used to describe activities or chat that is playful, intelligent and original.

Playful and intelligent? Do we hear a lot of that? Don’t get me wrong; I’m fond of a bit of witty sparing myself, and it’s a bit of skill, seeing how far you can push it. But do some people push it too far?

I once had a friend who could be really good company, a lot of the time  - wickedly funny, quirky, interested in lots of different things. When I first got to know him, he was a real laugh to go down the pub with. But he could also be devastatingly cruel (more Frankie Boyle than Michael McIntyre). He was like a heat-seeking missile; identifying perceived physical flaws in others:

‘She needs to sort out her teeth!’

‘She should wear a bra that fits her properly.’

‘She’s got these little blue veins in her feet.’

(All different ‘shes’ by the way; not the same person. Interesting that all the insults are against women though...)

He was like Mr Bennet’s defintition of Mr. Darcy in Pride and Prejudice; only looking at a woman (or a man) to see a flaw in them.

He was incredibly cutting. He once told a friend of mine that she would have noticed something, if she ever stopped talking! He told another mutual friend that the only woman they’d ever snag would be a mail-order bride.

He also had a real knack of finding your emotional Achilles heel and hacking it with a metaphorical axe.

‘Oh, that’s just him.’ People would say, heck, I would say. ‘You know what he’s like; he doesn’t mean anything by it.’

At a certain point, though, you had to wonder whether he did mean something by it and weigh up whether the laughs outweighed the insults or vice versa.

Ultimately the insults won out and this is someone I don’t see socially any more.

Does banter have its origins in playground insults? Sometimes it seems to be a main method of communication between men. Age doesn’t appear to be a barrier; even some older men seem incapable of greeting each other without a liberal sprinkling of insults. I get that in a culture of masculinity, where feelings have to be kept under wraps; it might be easier to slate one another, than to expose your vulnerable underbelly and say something like: ‘I’ve missed you.’ But when the insults get nasty and personal; criticising someone’s physical appearance; slagging off their partner and relations; is it a sign of insecurity?

When is a joke not a joke? “I’m only joking - where’s your sense of humour?” Call me a po-faced, humourless cow (I've been called far worse), but I don’t think there’s a lot of skill or originality involved in telling someone that they are losing their hair. But if you are not permitted to take offence at a personal remark, for fear of being accused of not having a sense of humour, then the verbal assailant has backed you into a corner. What can you do? Go down to their level and dismantle them; piece by piece. Or take the high ground, smile and turn the other cheek.

The thing is; I tell my children off for saying nasty, mean things to each other, so why should the so called grown-ups get away with it?

I'll leave the last words of this piece to my former friend; he'd seen them written on the wall of a public toilet and taken a photo of them: “Choose being kind, over being right.”

I wonder if he ever managed to take those words to heart.

Nostalgia

Nostalgia: the British disease. A longing for a past that never was. A misty look back at sunlit hills, winding lanes and church bells; a pre-industrial, pastoral idyll. Steam trains, cream teas, thatched cottages, picnic baskets, red checked tablecloths...An Ambrosia Devon custard advert. I’m all too guilty of this kind of nostalgia myself - I love a steam train! I also love costume dramas where the characters use cigarette holders and wear vivid red lipstick. It’s an escape, make no mistake.

Bette Davis Beyond the Forest: Wikepedia

We are also nostalgic about our own past and, in a society that fetishisises youth, this is no surprise. The scanning of photos; the obsessive analysis of the unsullied, un-creased skin, the constant reminiscences. A look back at a time when your friends were your family; when you were a tribe, a gang, and together you could take on the world.

I went to see T2 Trainspotting, the other day. I was worried about it. The original film was so good. Would this follow up be an ill-advised nostalgia-fest? A cashing in on a franchise? Would it be like those terrible Jane Austen spin offs - the ones that seemed more like a hollow mockery than a loving homage?

I think they pulled it off, though. T2 Trainspotting addresses the whole nostalgia trap head-on. A younger character berates the middle aged (Mark) RENTON and SIMON (Sick-Boy) for being 'tourists in their own pasts', as they reminisce, watch old video footage and sift through photos. Director Danny Boyle has a overlay of footage from the original Trainspotting film, obtruding onto the present-day experiences of the characters. Present day SPUD hallucinates Renton and Sick-Boy of the past, running past him in Princes Street. The characters, perhaps with the exception of Mark*, are looking a little worse for wear; they are blurry round the edges, less doe-eyed and have less hair. *Even Mark (Ewan McGregor) isn’t all he seems; he looks good but his body is bearing the legacy of the past and of his advancing years. His reworking of the ‘choose life’ speech, which functioned as the heartbeat of the first film, is genius and resonates heavily.

Of course the nostalgia of Trainspotting isn’t the pastoral-idyll type that I opened with; it’s the nostalgia of pumping music and fast-paced, erudite dialogue and the original glamour of the beautiful cast (They don’t look too shabby now; look out for the scene where Mark and Simon have to wear farm sacks as kilts to protect their modesty). The original film was criticised for glamorising drug use (although anyone who saw the death of baby Dawn might refute this). The film’s defenders said that it gave an underclass of people a voice.

What the follow up does is gives a believable portrait of what those characters might be doing now. There isn’t a lot of glamour; one of the prominent, recurrent shots is of a massive rubbish dump which sits beside the estate, but there is heart.

And, like the first film, the enduring impression is curiously life-affirming, if in a more slow-moving, domestic kind of way.

I watched the first Trainspotting film when I was at University; it’s a time I often look back on through a rosy-tinted filter. (I miss my Adidas Gazelles!) But I do realise that it wasn't all clubbing and laughs then and that right here is where it's at (man). (Global politics notwithstanding) You can run into danger if you're always looking back.

The Perils of Parenthood

I think my children are trying to kill me. That might sound over dramatic; histrionic even, but let’s look at the evidence:

1. The perilous placing of toys - in the middle of the floor, in dark corridors, if we had any stairs I dare say they’d put them at the bottom or the top - wherever was calculated to cause the most damage. Whoops!
2. The glacial pace at which they get ready in the morning which seems to be a deliberate ploy to induce either a nervous breakdown or heart attack or both, in their parent. Picture the scene - everyone is ready, clothes on, teeth brushed, snot smear removed from cheek. They are suited, booted, gloved and hatted but, BUT, despite the fact that you urged them both to the toilet in good time, before you left, you are halfway down the street when one of them suddenly, urgently needs the lav.

And they are creative in their stress inducing wiles, they don’t want you to get bored, they like to mix things up a bit, so one of them - the younger, more troublesome one, decides that she wants to walk to school backwards!

3) Same troublesome younger child tells you that she wants you to die. Yes, she’s only four years old, she (allegedly) doesn’t understand what she’s saying, but how old was Damien? She’s capable of glaring like him, too. And baboons go mad around her. (OK, I made that last bit up and I am starting to feel guilty for comparing my child to the one in The Omen*). But, despite the fact that I got up earlier, got everything ready the night before, used the behaviour charts to induce them to get dressed, we were still borderline late this morning. We covered the last leg of the school run so quickly that the kids were almost levitating. Left younger child at the nursery door, trembling with rage (her - not me, she objected to the pace we were going at). Gave an evil, internal chuckle.

*The old man watched the Omen the other day and looked it up afterwards, to see what the kid who played Damien is up to these days. ‘What does he look like?’ I asked. ‘Just a boring, middle aged man.’ He replied. That can’t be right - surely the actor should look like a middle-aged Sam Neill, right?

4) Their seemingly incessant fighting; involving biting, scratching thumping and walloping. (Please see above re. stress.) I might have a selective memory here, but I’m sure my brother and I didn’t fight this badly (sound of grandparents cackling all over the globe).

So, what do we reckon? Demonic children or just standard family life?

Tackling the Elephant

My spirit animal is a sloth; things don’t get done very quickly around here. Procrastination is an activity in itself and the slightest decision takes on monumental proportions. But that’s all OK because I’ve read a book about introverts and extroverts (I think it was The Successful Self, by Dorothy Rowe, HarperCollins 1996) and it said that introverts prefer to spend time thinking about things, rather than taking part in physical activities, whereas extroverts are doers, who aren’t terribly comfortable with introspection. I felt vindicated: I’m not a lazy bastard, more a thoughtful, slow-moving kind of a body - a ‘thinker’ rather than a ‘doer’.  I’m not really a vigorous, active sort of body; more a contemplative one. See how long it’s taken to even express that thought…

Some things are better off when there’s a lot of thought and reasoning gone into them - perhaps fewer countries would be invaded and more clemency would be exercised, if people thought about things more. And those drunken texts wouldn’t get sent, if you took a moment to consider whether you really wanted to say all of that…

The downside to all of this, of course, is that shit doesn’t get done. Or, if it does, it takes ages (and ages and ages) to get done.

When I discussed a particular, sprawling, overwhelming task with a friend of mine, (of trying to overhaul the first draught of my ‘novel’) she said that a lecturer of hers had told her; “You have to eat the elephant one slice at a time.” (I haven’t eaten meat for a long time but I’d imagine elephant to taste a little bit like overcooked and very dry roast beef.)

This year; rather late for a New Year’s resolution (but thoroughly in keeping with the theme of taking time in doing things) I’ve made a resolution to be more active. I’m going to put my work out there more, not overthink things, take more risks and galvanize myself.

My first step was writing to a magazine and proffering my services. My insides shrivelled with embarrassment, as I wrote them a letter, singing my own praises....eurgh! (Why is it so hard to sell yourself? Why is self-deprecation the default stance - not just for me but for many women? Yes, I know some men find it tough too - perhaps it's a British thing..? A class thing...?) But - they asked to see some stuff I'd written, asked for some pitches. I tried not to get my hopes up, tried hard to quash the images of myself sashaying into editorial meetings.
And...after all that it was a knock-back... But, BUT, I will get back on the horse. I’ve eaten my first slice of elephant. And, because I’m a vegetarian, let’s just say that it was an elephant made out of fudge.

(And that sprawling novel? Still languishing in a [virtual] drawer.)

What's my motivation?

Many years ago I had a bet on with my boyfriend; he was supposed to give up eating meat for a month, I was meant to stop smoking.  I think I managed about 5 hours off the fags (don’t worry, I’ve subsequently quit), whereas he didn’t eat meat for 18 years!

[Reader, I married him (sorry, I’ve already done that one…)] But the point is that, usually, he’s better at giving things up than I am. I don’t have his resolve. I think that the reason I was able to give up drinking for a month was that people had sponsored me, so I owed it to them and to the charity to stick to my guns. There’s no similar motivation for giving up dairy...

I met a friend for brunch the other day in a trendy, expensive cafe where the hype is actually well founded because the food is really good. I eyed up the vegetarian breakfasts with their eggs and pan-fried halloumi and wanted my friend to talk me into giving up on Veganuary (because I’m a spineless automaton who needs dispensation from others). My friend is a good influence though and a thoroughly good egg (excuse the pun) because, even though she’s not doing Veganuary, she joined me in some avocado on toast. (We eschewed the egg-based dishes completely and had some vegan, gluten-free cake for good measure!)

The other half (He of the supposedly cast iron will) gave up on Veganuary after a week. He had really thrown down the gauntlet to me, when he’d said, on the 2nd of January - “It doesn’t matter how long I stick to it, as long as I beat you!” That had strengthened my resolve - I had to win (just as I have to beat him when it comes to our weekly step count). Because he’s given up on it already though, what is there to motivate me? (Aside from a smug sense of satisfaction)

So the thing is, I have a confession to make, I lapsed today!

I did not eat a massive piece of cheese. I didn’t have a cow’s milk latte, and I did not eat a raspberry pavlova. No, this blunder came in the form of a sweet - a little mint humbug I found in my handbag. And I have to say that I thoroughly enjoyed it, on this Monday in January - purportedly the most depressing day of the year.

It could have been a truly depressing day. The rain came down in a deluge, it was cold and there was sewage spurting out from the sink in the staff-room at work. Yes, you read that last part correctly (I shit you not) raw sewage was coming up through the kitchen sink, spewing onto the counters and oozing onto the floor. It was like something out of a horror film. I don’t know if I’ve mentioned it but I’m something of a germophobe, so to have this happen in the place where people are supposed to prepare and eat food is extremely distressing to me. Indeed it would be distressing to anybody, right? My husband has called me Howard Hughes in the past, probably because I don’t like touching bins, but anybody would be upset by the health and hygiene implications of what had happened at my place of work today.

[And yet no one told us to go home. No One said - “leave this place of effluence and depravity” and I feared that the bad stuff would come under the door and encroach, insinuate itself under the office door (which is perilously close to the staff-room) and contaminate me. This is not the first time that this sort of thing has happened either, but, I digress.]

Solace came in the form of the Agatha Christie novel I read at lunchtime. I had treated myself to this book with the book token I’d got for my birthday (a delightfully retro present, so it seemed very fitting to buy a retro book with it) The book was a bit of a find, one I’d never read before which didn’t feature any of her well known detectives; Miss Marple, Poirot, Tommy and Tuppence, Parker Pine, and I became thoroughly immersed in it. It was wonderful to read about sunny Morocco and escape from cold, wet (sewage-y) Britain. I rummaged around in my satchel for a tissue and it was then that discovered the little, golden-brown sweet nestling there. A delightfully retro sweet to go with my retro book. I suspected that the humbug wasn’t vegan but I ate it anyway. My instincts proved correct; I looked it up afterwards and one of the ingredients in a humbug is condensed milk! Milk!
So, forgive me reader, for I have sinned, I don’t know whether I can go back on the wagon now, I don’t know whether it’s worth it...

Drowning in chickpeas

Oh, friends, I’m in danger of turning into a giant chick pea! I’m eating so many of them, in one form or another. Plus, post-Christmas I'm looking somewhat spherical...

Vegan food isn’t gruesome - it’s not that different to what I eat normally; it’s just that you have to be a little more creative with your cooking and vigilant with your food labels. What I am missing most is being able to have cow’s milk in my tea (and the odd coffee). The old man feels the same. Now that I’ve found vegan ‘milk-style’ chocolate, I’m relatively happy with the food (although I had a truly evil tasting ‘chocolate’ Santa earlier - half price from the health food shop...).

However, I was rather alarmed to learn that it’s impossible to get vitamin B12 from plant sources. I've just read in the Observer that: A University of Winsconsin study found 92% of vegans were deficient in vitamin B12.
You are meant to eat fortified cereal and/or fortified plant milks or take a supplement.

When we first embarked on the Veganuary thing, the old man said: ‘I don’t want to eat a load of Franken-foods’. I agree with him - I’d rather eat natural, whole food where possible.

This is the nut roast I made the other day:

And I didn't really want to reply on nutritional supplements. I shied away from taking vitamins a few years ago after reading ‘Bad Science’ by Ben Goldacre. HarperCollins, 2008, and they also make me think of Sheldon, saying to Penny, in The Big Bang Theory, when he goes shopping with her and sees her stocking up on a load of vitamin supplements, that she’s basically just purchasing some really expensive urine, as there’s only so much the body can absorb.

I’m starting to feel somewhat uneasy with the health implications of becoming vegan and here are my Top personal concerns:

1. Vitamin B12 deficiency - this vitamin is only found in animal products - meat, fish, dairy and eggs. Only veggie source (apart from algae!) seems to be Marmite - but how much do you need? A jar a day??
2. Weight gain - nuts, avocado, even the humble hummus, chilli heatwave Doritos, vegan chocolate...all pack a large energy punch. (The thing about trusty old, non-vegan quorn is that it’s low fat and low cal) I can almost hear you shouting at me - telling me to eat less and stop shovelling in the vegan chocolate, but let's get back to the real world, shall we? It's freezing, I'm worried about the future and my children woke me up at 5:20 this morning, let me have my 'chocolate'!
3. Unsociable - couldn’t have any of daughter’s birthday cake (do not want to impose Veganism on kids) - not a health concern, more a societal one.
4. Don’t feel strongly enough about this to maintain the sacrifice - see previous post. http://msmuddles.blogspot.co.uk/2017/01/no-animals-were-harmed-in-making-of.html Although I started out welcoming the challenge, I’m not really sure why I’m doing this. If it’s for health reasons then I shouldn’t have to worry about vitamin deficiency, should I?
5. Terrible, ferocious wind!

So….why am I doing this again…?

Oh yeah, so I'd have something to write about, wasn't it. ;)

No animals were harmed in the making of this hair shirt

This is what I wrote last night:
So - Veganuary: I'm sorry to be such a massive disappointment to you, reader, but I’m already regretting saying that I’d do it...
I miss chocolate, I miss having milk in my tea, I miss not having to scrutinise every single food label. (And I'm only one day in!!)

The jury is out on whether a vegan diet is a fundamentally healthy one; (whether it's healthier than one that is merely vegetarian, that is) it very much depends on what you chose to eat, I once worked with a vegan who seemed to subsist wholly on Hula Hoops and Square Crisps, that can't have been nutritionally sound. The bottom line is that people who go vegan, obviously do it for ethical reasons. I realise that when I listed my reasons for trying out the veganuary thing, I didn’t mention the animal welfare aspect of it. This is because, if I’m honest, I don’t really have much of a problem with eating products that have come from animals, I just don’t want to eat the animals themselves and I don't want them to be harmed on my behalf. When I gave up eating meat, 27 years ago, I didn't feel any comparable push to give up dairy products; as long as the animals were treated fairly, did it really matter? Of course a committed vegan would say that they aren't treated well or fairly and that we humans shouldn't be harnessing sentient beings for our own ends. They are probably right; there is no reason for adult animals to drink milk; milk is a food in itself, once you are weaned you shouldn't need it but I guess I've closed my mind off to this for all these years because I like the taste of cheese. Not just this though - it's so much easier to be a vegetarian than it is to be a vegan, as I'm only just finding out.

I’d gone to the health food shop, on New Year's Eve, with a palpable feeling of excitement; like the poor, misguided fool I was, I was actually looking forward to the whole thing! I bought my vegan ‘chicken’ pieces, faux-sage rolls and ginger tea and rubbed my hands together in delighted anticipation. (I didn't intend living on fake meat, just thought it would be useful to have some as a back up, to supplement all the hand blended bean pates and vegetable stews I was going to produce...) Walked out of the shop significantly poorer. Hello, healthy new me, I thought.

Only a couple of days in and I felt a bit miserable. What’s the big deal? I [don't] hear you ask, why should giving up eggs and dairy be so difficult? I found out why it should be so difficult as I made my first cup of tea of the day with rice milk. That rice milk did not turn my brew into the delightful pale terracotta I’m used to, in fact, it seemed to sink to the bottom of the cup and failed to change it into anything other than a muddy, murky brown. Coffee with rice milk is no great shakes either. I've found that I prefer to drink tea black.

We took the kids to the cinema on New Year's Day and got a coffee because we were early. I had a soy milk latte - the first sip was OK but the drink didn’t improve upon acquaintance and left a funny aftertaste. Then, in the cinema, just as I was about to pinch a handful of my younger daughter's popcorn, the older one hissed across at me;

“Daddy said to tell you it’s got butter on it.” My hand opened like a mechanised crane and the popcorn cascaded back into the box. I felt a little hard done by - the (rather oily tasting) rice milk porridge had been eaten a long time ago.

(We researched it later - the popcorn did NOT contain any dairy!)

After the cinema we went to a Lebanese restaurant for lunch (I’d already looked up the menu to see if they had any vegan options and there were a couple of things we could eat) and I had a rather nice falafel and fatoush salad, accompanied by a carrot and ginger juice - you can't get any more disgustingly healthy than that combo, can you? It looks a bit messy because I forgot to take the picture before I'd already attacked one of the falafel.

(Please don't contact me now to tell me that the salad isn't really vegan and that they rub the lettuce against the cheeks of goats to give it its flavour, will you.)
The lunch was very tasty although, if I ordered it again I’d get a side of humus. However, perhaps I’m imagining this, but isn’t everything somewhat vinegary and acidic when you don’t have any dairy?

We dropped the kids off at the in-laws and I regretfully declined a Ferrero Rocher. When we got home I ate loads of spiced oat cakes (vegan) and I discovered with alarm that the bucket of kids’ sweets that I’d been gleefully gorging on since Christmas, contained gelatine! Here I was, trying to be vegan and I found out for the last week of December, I hadn't even been vegetarian! I ignored the label on a bottle of wine as I poured myself a glass - by that point, I didn’t even care if it was vegan or not, I just wanted a glass.

Had a very carby dinner of faux-sage rolls, beans and oven chips and went to bed feeling bloated and somewhat disgusted with myself. This wasn’t supposed to happen - wasn’t I supposed to feel all light and saintly and sanctimonious?

Today has been a better day, I walked into town and stocked up on vegan brownies (really frigging expensive) and had a very nice lunch at the Vegetarian restaurant. I was able to order vegan garlic bread, without embarrassment, and had a rather delicious aubergine dish:
V, WF - Sweet Potato & Aubergine African Sweet Potato, Aubergine, Fine Beans, Carrots, Pineapple cooked in Peanut Butter & Tomato Sauce (no onion , no garlic)

Most of their dishes are vegan (including the desserts - even though I didn't have one, it's good to know).

Of course, I can't afford to eat out the whole time and it's only because it's a bank holiday weekend and we had a babysitter for today, that I've eaten out so much. I really need to get cooking next!

Red lentil kedgeree - one of the dishes that they do at the Veggie restaurant