I wonder sometimes what I am. I have lived the last decade on an inner city council estate, amid Oxford academia, in a remote country town and in London suburbia. In the first we were, with our relentless consonants and sagging bookshelves, regarded as aristocrats. In the second, as the 'squeezed middle'. In the third, as city sophisticates and now, sometimes, isolated in my tweed amid the Ralph Lauren and the hoodies, I feel myself a bumpkin. Class should no longer matter. Nowadays, for most of us, it's more a question of perception than birth. But the perception matters. My daughter battles to adjust speech, habits and dress to blend in with each new environment; the political parties compete to woo the amorphous throng they deem Middle England and Melvyn Bragg has started a television series on class and culture. The British, he decides, no longer define themselves by class, but by the music they listen to, the books they read. I listen to Dolly Parton and Beethoven....
Daily Mail columnist Liz Jones has provoked the ire of Twitter with by declaring that mummy bloggers are blinkered dimwits whose lives are spiced by Napisan. I'm afraid I have to sympathise with her, for all of her prejudices echo my own: Writing about my life has pretty much ruined it. Supper last night was an elderly carrot glued to the fridge shelf by a pool of brown mucus and the floor was flooded when I left the bath taps running because Blogger has diverted me from domestic essentials. I've had to shut the children in front of the television when a new post has assailed me and some family members no longer speak to me because Twitter interactions leave me no time to reach the telephone. But there is a big part of me that thinks writing should be hard: you should cringe whenever you press that 'publish' button. Artists – and I'm sorry, I do consider myself an artist – have to wrench the dirtiest, most disgusting part of their inner soul and show it t...
I have always done my own cleaning. Not very often, mind. Once every month or so keeps the funghi at bay. But, each time I've worked out where I keep the dusters, boy do I let rip! Skirting boards. Pelmets. U bends. With my portable radio in one armpit and a sheaf of Miele nozzles in the other, I stalk the vicarage assaulting cobwebs and secretly binning any infant possessions that can't be kicked to oblivion under the beds. But uncooperative lungs have prevented me terrorising the family filth since mid December and even the Vicar is noticing the dustballs that skim in his wake. Sensibly, he seeks out a cleaner for a day to tide us over. I am excited because someone else can fidget the grime out of my daughter's shell collection. And I am nervous because I'm not sure I can cope with someone toiling over my bacteria while I lie on my day bed. What if she forgets to tame the muesli-like stuff under the sofa cushions? (We don't buy muesli. How does it get there?) Wh...
People say that you are hard and cold, but to me you are my best friend.
ReplyDeleteOh No Mum...this is Narnia,here is the evidence of the Witch's work!
ReplyDelete'I've caught dinner'
ReplyDeleteCan we take him home? Please?
ReplyDeleteNo mum, I won't go shopping. You'll have to drag me.
ReplyDeleteand I will stay attached to this stone "thing" till you agree to buy me everything on my xmas list......
ReplyDeleteIn Harry Potter, these things fly!
ReplyDeletePleeeease can we take it home?? I'll feed it and care for it and fly it every day...
ReplyDeleteWhat's with the cold shoulder? C'mon, singalong with me...
ReplyDeleteI shall name him Hardwick!
ReplyDeleteI think I might be confused between Twilight and Return to Oz
ReplyDeleteI love you, i really *hic* love you I do.
ReplyDeleteIf I let go it's a long way down....AAARRRGGG
ReplyDelete'yes, my new necklace is 100% human child. It was expensive, sure, but totally worth it'
ReplyDeletePllleeeease can we take him home? Pllleeassse? He won't poop on the carpet!
ReplyDeleteI'm trying to eat this turkey mum but it's a bit tough...
ReplyDeleteBut mum, I wanted a teddy. This is not going to be comfortable to sleep with.
ReplyDeletei give you hugs everyday and you dont say anything, man you've a heart of stone
ReplyDeleteThey say if you pull a face and the wind changes, you will get stuck like that. Uh oh?!
ReplyDelete