Me. You
Page 11
I had to trust the process.
I had to trust my brain.
I had to trust myself.
It’s a risk, isn’t it, trusting? A risk we absolutely HAVE to take if we don’t want to end up alone and isolated. A risk we have to take repeatedly, even after our trust is violated. The only way we can guarantee never to be let down is never to trust. No thanks.
Ernest Hemingway said,
‘The best way to find out if you can trust anybody is to trust them.’
Trusting is tricky for a person who likes to be in the driver’s seat, like me. Trust is about being in the passenger’s seat. With the maps and the sweets. It’s about allowing someone else to drive YOUR car. And not just in terms of romantic relationships, but in every truthful, valuable human relationship we make. We trust people all the time.
We trust our friends will keep our secrets.
We trust our wine isn’t watered down.
We trust our dog won’t bite that new puppy down the road (misplaced trust).
We trust our kids will remember the lessons we taught them to keep them safe.
We trust our hearts in each other’s keep.
We trust other drivers to stop at a red light.
We trust our instincts.
We trust that humanity is essentially good.
We trust that our families have our backs.
We trust our pants to stay up.
We trust our comedy partner to remind us of the line when we forget it in front of 4,000 people.
One of the giant rewards for learning, gradually, to trust more and more as you travel through your life, is that more and more, people trust you. In that single privilege, I find huge happiness. The beauty of it, of someone believing you are trustworthy. It’s good, it’s really good. Being a safe place for someone, for anyone, is a proper grown-up responsibility, one to relish.
So, I am stepping forward into September, refusing to let shame be in charge of anything and allowing trust to flourish. My September is shame-less and trust-full.
Owzyours?
1 Things I am ashamed of:
2 Things I am proud of:
3 Things/people I don’t trust:
4 Things/people I utterly trust:
1. Kate Moss is very wrong when she says, ‘Nothing tastes as good as skinny feels’ because … pasties. Rest my case.
2. Toffee and beef just don’t go together, I need to surrender and give up trying.
3. It’s best to own up, and own it, when you’ve made a mistake.
4. False praise and unchecked hyperbole are poisons.
5. Only ever say ‘I love you’ when it’s true. It’s OK if it’s true a lot.
6. My love is eternal, my patience is not!
7. We are all 72.8% water.
8. We spend 10% of our life blinking … (What are we missing?).
9. Hurt people hurt people.
10. Death doesn’t alter love.
11. It’s OK to say no.
12. Books, music and art matter, they can change you.
13. Rage corrupts.
14. Our parents profoundly affect our self-worth.
15. Fred Molina is a truly great actor.
16. Women are mighty.
17. ‘Everybody needs a bosom for a pillow’… (Cornershop).
Now, some things you know for sure:
1. ____________________________________
2. ____________________________________
3. ____________________________________
4. ____________________________________
5. ____________________________________
6. ____________________________________
7. ____________________________________
8. ____________________________________
9. ____________________________________
10. ____________________________________
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OCTOBER
So, here it is. The month I turn sixty … that’s years of actual age … of being alive …
KINTSUGI – The 500-year-old Japanese art of fixing broken pottery with gold lacquer. Known as ‘golden joinery’, it is meant to encourage the embracing of imperfections, and to treat breakage and repair as part of the value of an object, to celebrate its beautiful history, rather than disguising it. The process usually results in something even more beautiful.
YES!
That’s the spirit in which I am going to sail into my sixties. Owning all my little brokennesses, accepting my imperfections and using my hope and faith as my gold glue which will fix me together enough to take me forward. I’m going to know that each crack on me, and in me, represents something I’ve learnt from, and is a clue to my history, a mark I’m proud to bear.
Here I is – flawed as f**k and fine with that. Fragmented and re-purposed, here I go into my future …
OK. That’s my aspirational grand narrative, but let’s get down to the nitty gritty of the birthday month:
I have absolutely no problem with the amount of years each birthday brings. My difficulty is with the birth DAY itself, especially when it’s a ‘big’ one with an 0 in it. That somehow indicates that we all have to go into a tailspin of chaotic stress organizing a party I don’t want to go to. Yes, I AM that pooper, the person who dreads pretty much every ‘party’. I have sometimes kidded myself that I enjoyed it retrospectively because I met this or that interesting person, or so-and-so said a funny thing, or the band was great or the grub was amazing or … something. The brutal truth is that, yes, there have been some memorable moments at parties, but without exception I have been longing to leave every single party I’ve ever been to from the second I’ve arrived. I can’t enjoy the melée somehow – there are too many distractions, and all those annoyingly fractured conversations that rarely get beyond trivial and polite. I find myself over-smiling and agreeing with anything, in order to get through it. I am not the proper me, I’m the party me. An alien creature. An awkward, obsequious twot.
It’s a bit like the instructions I remember getting when we went yomping on Dartmoor as youngsters, led by a friend’s squaddie dad. We were told we had to ‘walk at the pace of the slowest person’, so that we stayed together. It SOUNDS like good advice, building the bond of our group. Yeah. You would hope. What actually happens, of course, is that resentment sets in with the speedier ones. They don’t want to be held back, they don’t really want to be considerate or merciful. They want to stride out on their own and WIN. They come to loathe the slowest person. I know. I WAS that snail. To this very day, I really dislike enforced fast walking of any sort. Almost as much as I dislike parties.
The similarity to the party scenario is that at a party it’s best if you acquiesce, and interact in a lowest-common-denominator way, simply to keep the party going. People stand about in groups, keeping it going. Keep it going … don’t let anyone feel left out, don’t ignore anyone, have a little flurry of bon mots with each and every person, make sure you don’t forget her name, his last book, their divorce, that important thing she told you last time, how he knows the host, that important thing you told her last time, don’t retell a story they’ve already heard, don’t mind when they tell you a story you’ve already heard, don’t spit your food, keep standing up, shout over music you’d prefer to be listening to, have lengthy conversations with drunkards who won’t remember a single word tomorrow and I will never get those minutes back. The most important thing is that the host should never think for a minute that the party is faltering in any way. Even though it is.
What’s round and bad-tempered?
A A vicious circle.
B Me at a party.
At parties, I always seem to be trapped in a situation where it would seem rude to move away, and the person I’m talking to (usually someone I hardly know, whilst I can see my real friends, my safe harbour, out of the corne
r of my eye having a laugh on the other side of the room) probably feels exactly the same about me.
Now look, OF COURSE there is fun to be had at parties … just usually in the room I’m not in. (Note to self – maybe it’s my fault?!) I love it when there’s a focus like a band or a speech or something, a blessed relief from keeping the party going.
All this to say that I most definitely won’t be having a party for my sixtieth, but I will be celebrating in my most favourite way, with my chap, my kids, my best friend, my brother plus family, and my gay husband. A small gathering where we all properly know each other, where anything goes and no-one will be left out, where we genuinely RELAX. I hope for good music, food, wine, stories, kissing and cake. I hope there will be some excellent swearing. I’m sure there will be some tears from me, probably about three and a half minutes after the wine. If there’s all or even some of the above I will be happy.
Forgive my irascibility. I think I over-partied in my youth or something. Fact is, one of the truly wonderful things about this age is that I KNOW WHAT I LIKE. And. Time is short, so I ain’t spendin’ it doing stuff I don’t like.
Now. Presents. Oh boy, this is a tricky one.
I’ve been grumpy about parties.
Now I’m going to be ungrateful about presents.
The honest truth is that my favourite present is:
NO present.
It hasn’t always been like this, I LOVED receiving gifts as a kid, of course I did, especially at Christmas, when we always had one BIG present and then about four little ones. I think my daughter received upwards of thirty gifts last Christmas, including several quite big ones. When did we swell to this excess?
I find it overwhelming. I genuinely can’t cope with so much incoming generosity, YET, of course I am the worst proponent when it comes to the giving part. I LOVE looking for, buying and giving presents. I have a cupboard in my house stuffed to the rafters with various gifts I’ve found as I go about my business. I prefer to shop like that, gradually, all through the year, rather than have a desperate splurge two minutes before a birthday or Christmas. Anyone who knows me (ask Fatty Saunders) will attest to my massively out of control gift-buying addiction. I spent most of our tours doing it in different cities. I think it is a way to keep my beloveds close to me when I’m not with them, because I am thinking about them, and what they might like. So, why do I find it so hard to accept that this may well be the case the other way round? Dunno …
Something to do with not wanting people to spend dosh they might not have?
Something to do with dealing with so many bloody awful hideous unwanted odd gifts from Evil Granny when I was younger? So many times I smiled and thanked her politely for the dreadful things she gave me (e.g. two small birds of indeterminate breed sitting on a log. Log was plastic. Birds were mushrooms. YES, mushrooms).
Something to do with a need to be a facilitator, not a participator?
Something to do with the obscenity of excess, and how it feels impossible to appreciate anything individual properly if there’s too much?
Something to do with my dislike of clutter and tat?
Something to do with control?
Yeah. Probably the latter most of all. Interesting.
When I think back, my most favourite presents in the last forty or so years have been simple and personal. Birthday cards hand-made by my daughter. Heart-stones foraged from the beach, mounted in a frame by my husband. A tea cosy with a hilarious embroidered poem made by my son’s girlfriend. A candle in my favourite scent from my other daughter.
Myself, I am RUBBISH at making stuff. I have attempted to, but I don’t have the patience. I hurriedly dash at it with no skill or knowledge. The staples come out, the glue doesn’t stick, the paper curls. Somehow I have the ability to make a good idea into genuinely ugly crap very efficiently.
Once, as parents of an eight-year-old, we were asked by her teacher to ‘help’ her make a small Elizabethan building to contribute to a living map of London. The plan was to re-create the Fire of London scenario, depicting Pudding Lane at the centre, in the school field. After several failed attempts to build a small house (how hard can it be?!), I lost my patience, then my temper, and sellotaped some paper on to a beautiful house-shaped jewellery box that Fatty Saunders had given me years before. A much-prized object of great beauty and value. We drew and painted the house on to the paper, which was to be removed when the school project was over. We proudly carried our creation into school the next day and felt a tiny bit smug as it was chosen to be placed near the baker’s on Pudding Lane. Prime location. Job well done … Until the Head, after explaining all about how the fire started, decided to actually start a fire, liberally dousing it all in petrol, and setting the whole ruddy mini city alight! Somehow I had completely missed that this was the point of the exercise. First history, followed swiftly by pyrotechnic chemistry – how fire affects paper/metal/wood/… beautiful rare jewellery boxes. I stood helplessly by as my beautiful box went up in flames. That was the price I paid for impatience, laziness and utter incompetence.
So, I can’t make stuff, but I’m really good at buying it. I’ve always got my eyes open for an unusual little tchotchke, and I derive ENORMOUS pleasure from it, if I think I’ve found something just right.
As my kids grow, I realize that, like Evil Granny, I often get it quite wrong. Especially when it comes to clothes. DON’T BUY CLOTHES FOR ANYONE IN THEIR TWENTIES UNLESS YOU, TOO, ARE IN YOUR TWENTIES!!! That’s my rule now.
Or, at the very least, keep the receipt.
I was utterly delighted when it became de rigueur to give people charity gifts for Christmas. Y’know – here’s a picture of a chicken/cow/goat/toilet/teacher I have bought for you.
Well, not for you.
On your behalf.
For someone who needs it.
You get nothing, nada.
Except the pleasure of knowing someone else benefited.
You, personally, are giftless, ungifted, gift-light.
I thought this was a BRILLIANT idea and I spent a queen’s ransom buying various curious ‘presents’ for the whole family.
Never have I seen such a surprised and grumpy crew as the family that Christmas Day. Everyone tried to hide their dismay, tried to be selfless, but it was clear that joy had been hijacked by charity. If I do it again, and I intend to, I think maybe I will warn folk, so that they can rehearse their ‘Oh I see, yes, that is the right decision’ conceding faces.
A refreshing thing happened recently when I told my eldest daughter to be honest about a waistcoat I bought her. It was a substantial item of clothing, and I didn’t want her to pretend to like it if she really didn’t. Well, she didn’t, and she said so. In a perfectly reasonable, loving and decent way. Fine, that waistcoat can be returned easily and she can have something she likes. Everyone is happy. It’s WONDERFUL to have an easy discourse about it, I love that we can.
BUT.
Would I ever bring myself to do the same? Could I look my darlings in the eye and honestly say I don’t like/want/need something they’ve given me? I don’t think so. And that’s MY problem entirely. It should be possible, it should be easy, it should be open and honest, but it ain’t. It’s where my own rules don’t apply to me. It’s where I’m a supreme hypocrite. It’s where I am most British and ruled by laws of ridiculous politeness. It’s where I try out being gracious but end up feeling guilty.
Y’know what? THESE ARE GREAT PROBLEMS TO HAVE! Lucky me, for God’s sake!
Shuttup and deal with it, Frenchie.
Another outdated-manners habit that I am helplessly chained to by dint of my mother’s training is the ancient practice of writing thank yous. The joy of present-receiving as a kid was swiftly followed by the misery of the enforced homework that was thank-you-letter writing. I hated it once upon a long time ago, but eventually came to associate it with making Mum happy, and knowing it was, for us, undoubtedly the right thing to do. I seriously don’t mind or judge IN ANY WA
Y if other folk don’t, it probably means they didn’t have to undergo the grim Boxing-Day or Day-After-Birthday thank-you blues. But, like any family tradition, I now value the familiarity of it. My own daughter absolutely knows she has utter free choice about whether she writes thank yous or not … it’s also my free choice to lock her in a basement and beat her senseless with old Christmas trees if she doesn’t … so that’s that sorted then. Lovely.
One tiny little addendum I would just like to put out there. No-one EVER needs to write a thank-you letter for a thank-you letter. That way lies madness, and a never-ending spiral of hideous gratitude hell. Just … don’t, I mean that nicely …
SIXTY!
Blimey, what is being sixty like?
Does this mean that perhaps, finally, I really ought to do some of the growing up I’ve been meaning to do?
In some departments, I am HUGELY grown up, like: organizing logistics of travel, theatre tickets, etc., scheduling events, drinking bitter adult coffee, assuming responsibility for animals, paying a mortgage, getting life insurance, updating my will, driving a proper car containing many safety features, eating Brussels sprouts willingly, knowing some first aid including the Heimlich manoeuvre, not opening presents until the day, knowing when to wear a cardi so I can ‘feel the benefit’, wearing reflective strips if out walking at night, not using a Brillo pad on a non-stick frying pan, NOT sticking a wet finger in husband’s ear when he’s not expecting it … stuff like that. The important stuff. I’m very grown up at that.
The other bits that might need some attending to in the maturity stakes include stuff like: overlove of Ribena, sulking, cutting my food up into little bits, the feeling of homework-not-done dread on a Sunday evening usually synonymous with the opening bars of the Songs of Praise theme tune, resolutely refusing to use people’s titles if they have them, purposely dribbling on my brother, the desire to have glitter on my face and, if at all possible, wear strap-on wings. Crying too much. Not flossing enough. Giving everyone slightly unkind secret nicknames. Making low rumbling roaring noises when impatient. Being sarcastic too often, too loudly. Suddenly tickling people. Not eating anything with a shell or a tentacle. Having to have the last word, and putting fingers in ears and yelling if someone else attempts to. Oh, and on fingers – sticking a wet one in husband’s ear when he’s not expecting it.