Archive for January, 2007

Ask, and it shall be given unto you

Tuesday, January 30th, 2007

Dear Friends,

And this very afternoon, I received an email offering me a place at Prestigious University.

I’m going back to school. I am going to be a student again.

Eeep.

[That's torn it. She's now too nervous to speak - Ed]

That Which I Have Been Doing When I Wasn’t Doing This

Monday, January 29th, 2007

Dear Readers,

It won’t have escaped your careful attention that I occasionally wander off for, oh, up to a week or so. Should any of you be so very sweet [and/or touched in the head - Ed] as to mind my absences, I apologise unreservedly. I am a lazy little toad who cannot cope with more than a handful of claims on my attention without becoming, on the instant, inert. Like a possum.

As it happens, while I was doing NaNoWriMo, I was also applying to A Prestigious University, to do an MA in Librarianship. I hate application forms with the loathing terror that most people normally reserve for Neo-Cons. But I completed it and the 50000 words, and felt jolly pleased with myself, if slightly frayed. And then of course Prestigious University spent December driving me mad by pretending I hadn’t sent in my references, and then, oopsie! finding them, and then, writing to say, oh, but you haven’t sent them, and I’d phone up and point out they’d already told me that they had arrived, and they’d promise to check and then email me to say they hadn’t got my references and I’d hyperventilate a little. In the end, they agreed that they did have my references, and had had them all the time, and asked me to come for an interview.

I’ll spare you the running about in small circles, the frantic revising [And why the revising? Surely the point of going to Library School is to learn cataloguing, not to sit bored mindless while everyone else learns cataloguing?], the odd bout of disorientating self-pity.

I had the interview last Friday. And yes, I got lost looking for the Library department, but made a cute joke about how finding the interview room was obviously an intelligence test, and everyone laughed nicely, and yes, I twiddled my hair, but only once, and yes, my throat was tight and I got increasingly husky as the interview went on and I can only hope the interviewers were keen on Eartha Kitt. And of course I sat in a tea-shop afterwards very nearly beating my head on the wobbly table with frustration when I realised all the things I had said and all the things I hadn’t said and the beautifully impressive way I tripped over my own scarf on getting out of the chair at the end of the interview.

Anyway. Either I do get in, which gives me eight months to perfect the Beastly Detective Novel, and, incidentally, chat to you lot, before my life goes super-crazy for a year, working AND studying all together in one glorious I-have-no-social-life extravaganza. Or I do not get in and have all the time in the world to faddle about with the Writerliness and of course feel small and silly and worthless. Either alternative is bloody terrifying.

Hypocrescendo

Wednesday, January 24th, 2007

Let me see if I have got this correct. The Equality Act, due to come into effect pretty shortly, outlaws the denying of goods and services to a person because of their sexual orientation. Adoption agencies, therefore, may not automatically deny a gay couple the chance to adopt based soley on the fact that they are, in fact, gay. So, Cardinal Cormac Murphy-O’Connor, head of the Catholic Church in England and Wales, has written a letter to the government declaring that should the Equality Act fire up unopposed, Catholic adoption agencies will have to shut up shop. You can read the full text of the letter here.

Read it? Yes? Oh, but it gives me far too many things to scream about. I have spent all afternoon mentally reviewing the troops and carefully adding, say, sarcasm, to the weapons pile, eyeing it, taking it off again and laying it down next to swearing, sighing, chucking it back on again. I have certainly carefully removed foul-mouthed personal abuse from the pile several times but it does keep recrudescing [Oh, hey, don't look at me. I'm trying to keep you out of trouble - Ed]. So. Let’s get this exploration of the acme of hypocrisy over and done with, it’s giving me heart-burn already.

  1. The worthy archbishop begins: ‘The Catholic Church utterly condemns all forms of unjust discrimination, violence, harassment or abuse directed against people who are homosexual. Indeed the Church teaches that they must be accepted with respect, compassion and sensitivity.’ Yes, well. Note careful use of the word ‘unjust’, which neatly leaves a loophole in which one can be just as discriminatory as one likes as long as one can argue that it’s ‘just’. (Also, note use of word ‘accepted’. I don’t know that many gay couples who want to be ‘accepted’ any more than they want to be ‘tolerated’. I think they’d all rather be so far within the continuum of normalcy that the whole issue of having to to be ‘accepted’ does not arise. How would you, oh straight married readers of mine, feel if some nice vicar or other told you he ‘accepted’ you and your relationship? Well, quite).
  2. Despite the Church teaching that homosexuals ‘must’ be ‘accepted’, he then points out that it also teaches that homosexuals are not adoptive parent material. Basically, acceptance of a homosexual most certainly does not include acceptance of his or her being a parent, a role that is not only accepted in but expected of, if not outrageously forced upon, straight women, no matter how young or unfit or unwilling to bear a child, in a kind of Munchausen’s-by-Proxy of reproductivity, by yet other Catholic teachings. Which makes NO SENSE.
  3. Cardinal Murphy-O’Connor then goes on to point out that: ‘We place significant emphasis on marriage, as it is from the personal union of a man and a woman that new life is born and it is within the loving context of such a relationship that a child can be welcomed and nurtured. Marital love involves an essential complementarity of male and female.’ Oh. These kiddies that need new homes, they were not welcomed and nurtured within the loving context of a personal union of a man and a woman at all. Yet, nevertheless, this ‘personal union’ is the Cardinal’s prerequisite for a loving relationship. This sorry, messy, biological, instinct-driven, ungoverned, thoughtless, even violent and cruel, personal union, is somehow a better foundation for a loving relationship than the fact that two people, in a minority, in the face of discrimination, bullying, a whole media-fed nation of mindless jeering stereotypes and ugly expectations of misery and disaster, have nevertheless found in each other the love and strength to make a family. I, oh, but… [Words have failed her. She is currently biting her nails and muttering 'argh argh argh'].
  4. Moving swiftly on [Chance would be a fine thing], the Cardinal announces that it would be ‘unjust discrimination against Catholics for the government to insist that if they wish to continue to work with local authorities, Catholic adoption agencies must act against the teaching of the Church and their own consciences by being obliged in law to provide such a service.’ Yes indeedy, unjust discrimination. I did say the distinction would be important. You see, it is perfectly just for a Catholic adoption agency worker, funded, no less, by the bloody government, to refuse to consider a gay couple as potential parents, but it is unjust for said government to ask them to spend our taxes in a manner consistent with the laws of the land. I am running out of fingernails here.
  5. And for the full what-the-bloody-buggering-fuck moment, apparantly, ‘Homosexual couples are referred to other agencies where their adoption application may be considered. This “sign-posting” responsibility is taken very seriously by all Catholic adoption agencies.’ Let me see if I, lapsed and atheistical as I am, can understand this. A Catholic agency will not let gay couples adopt their own batch of kids, but will tell them where they can go and find other kids to adopt. So, a Catholic, who deeply believes that homosexuals should not adopt, will nevertheless make a discrimination not only between who can and can’t parent, but between which kids they are and are not prepared to protect from the horrors of GayDad. And they take this sorting of the infant sheep from the goats very seriously.
  6. Finally, well, probably not finally, but really, the subject is beginning to make me boke, this Cardinal Cormac Murphy-O’Connor, who is so anxious to protect his Catholic staff from having to face the repellant task of agreeing that a gay couple could actually be decent responsible parents, is the same man who ‘naively’ shuffled a child-abusing priest to a fresh parish a few years ago. (Because, allegedly, his Church taught him to, which is a whole ‘nother rant, but it unavoidably involves mentioning the current Pope’s track record and I just. Can’t. Do. That [Not without a great deal of beserker foaming and gnawing of shield rims, at any rate, and she never can remember what she did when the fit was on her]). A vicar of Christ, therefore, may be allowed any amount of contact with small vulnerable children, regardless of how inappropriate or horrible that contact, and the Church shall carefully pretend that there is no problem at all in this, but a couple who might show the child that homosexuality is not incompatible with having only the one head with no horns on it, may not have any contact with said child at all.

Gentle Readers, if I were not already a very lapsed Catholic indeed…

And yet smugness is so unbecoming.

Saturday, January 13th, 2007

I am memeing, as a way to deal with the vast echoing blankness that is the inside of my head. It’s still, vaguely, Resolution Season, so here is one I found over at Helen’s, which she found at Charlotte’s, which Charlotte created after reading this Newsweek article listing ten tips to help save the planet. I had always thought of myself as irritatingly, primly, green and eco-friendly. So this has been… interesting.

1. What do you for the birds and the bees? Nothing. I live in London, I have three house-plants and a tarmacked yard with two cars parked in it. My main interaction with the local wildlife consists of me leaning half-naked out of the bedroom window at three am to scream abuse at the exuberantly noisy mating foxes.

2. Household products. Chemical or organic? Organic, biodegradable, made lovingly by hippies and bottled in refillable and recycled and recyclable bottles. AND I use a lot if vinegar and bicarbonate of soda. As far as cleaning goes, I am the planet-loving queen. And too lazy to do much cleaning in the first place, which is also good.

3. Do you junk? We registered with the ’send us junk mail and we will SUE your asses’ services, we recycle the inevitable ‘to the occupier’ rubbish and leaflets that turn up anyway, and mostly we fantasize about shredding a year’s worth, finding the company owner’s home and using a leaf-blower to cover his front garden irretrievably with it all.

4. Air-dry or tumble-dry? What is this tumble-drying of which you speak? I personally, after a hard childhood spent washing my own smalls by hand in the bathroom sink and wringing them out in the salad-dryer, find having a washing-machine the height of luxuriant decadence. And we wash at low temps with ecologically friendly detergent. Smug mode.

5. Old gadgets. Recycle or toss ‘em? My current and beautifully functional mobile phone is approximately the size and weight of a house-brick and can just about do predictive texting. I will keep it until it breaks irretrievably. We also still use the stereo (with tape deck and no CD player) I inherited when I went to University. So, what old gadgets? Ooh, even smugger mode.

6. Lightbulbs – incandescent or fluorescent? Speak to my landlord. Him and his snazzy multi-bulb light-fixtures. Bah. Though we do have a several-year-old florescent bulb in the hall, and it does just about cast enough light to let you see if those are your keys you are clutching, or random cutlery.

7. Meat or veg? We only buy organic meat. I grew up on an organic farm (by default. My parents were mostly too cash-strapped and too soft-hearted to have more than a few outrageously pampered animals). I could no more buy battery chicken than I could buy the Daily Mail. But, yes, I should probably eat less meat [Or just eat less - Ed].

8. Loo paper. Virgin or recycled? But totally recycled. We’ve even found a brand sturdy enough to prevent the dreaded finger-goes-straight-through-when-it-gets-the-least-damp problem that has been my friends’ main objection to recycled.

9. Tap or bottled water? At home I drink tap. I feel twinges of guilt whenever I buy bottled water when out and about. I realise feeling a twinge and buying the bottle regardless is not good.

10. Dating – metrosexual or ecosexual? He’s about as green as I am, especially now that I have brow-beaten him to jelly as regards electronic gadgets, purchasing of when old one is still intermittently functional. Oh, and he’s better than me at turning lights off, and worse about leaving gadgets on stand-by.

Incommunicado…

Monday, January 8th, 2007

…until I’ve finished my tax returns.

Sorry.

In honour of my first day back at work

Thursday, January 4th, 2007

Why you should fall to your knees and worship a librarian.

Just saying.

Do you like me? Do you?

Monday, January 1st, 2007

This is, of course, where I retrospect, elegantly, no doubt while clad in satin pyjamas and sipping espresso from a Wedgewood coffee cup.

I won’t disillusion you, the reality is far too squalid for a sunlit New Year’s morning. Let’s just say, Rita Hayworth does not belong in the same sentence as Vicks.

And I do not know what to say about 2006. The year I became, finally, so cynical and fed up I found myself merely going ‘huh,’ at the News, rather than breaking into my usual ten minute full-volume rant on the personal integrity and intelligence of the smug politician leaning back in the chair and circumlocuting the question. Though I did have a highly therapeutic and energising shout at the Archbishop of Canterbury’s New Year’s Message yesterday morning, spineless platitudinising disappointment that he is. So perhaps 2007 will be the Year of Passionate Re-Engagement [Ooh, yes, watch Reed bore entire pubfuls of the politically apathetic into going out and voting just to get her to Shut. Up. - Ed].

I had tried to keep this blog ‘pure’ ['monotone'] by trying to stick to the subject of all that is writery and leave my political views out of it. You know, so as not to annoy anyone or find my comments full of people I really rather liked telling me what a raving asswipe I am. [You big jessie]. I have also utterly failed to do any of that book reviewing I kept muttering about, for much the same reason. I think my need to be liked is turning me into a giant rice pudding.

NaNoWriMo rather rubbed my face in that. I didn’t have time to run through my usual mental check-list of ‘is this too smug? Too culture-vulture? Too prim? Nobody’s going to like the female lead except me, are they?’ I did find the male lead unbelievably tedious. I couldn’t work out why. I ran out of time to work out why and had to keep going. He became increasingly interesting to me. Good, thought I. I wonder why? And then, over Christmas, the dispiriting truth dawned. He had been so insufferably blank because I had carefully amputated any character trait I thought The Readers wouldn’t like [And who the hell are you going to show this novel to, if not A Reader? Market realism, my petal]. Being me, I am not talking of the usual unpleasant traits detectives are supposed to suffer from, such as alcoholism, world-weary foul temper, a tendency to live on takeaway and be vile to their side-kick, insubordination, un-PC language and attitudes, border-line personality disorders, and being nevertheless devastatingly attractive to posh bints. Oh no. My ‘tec was shy, quiet, bookish, good with children, somewhat depressed and lacking in self-esteem, and rather sly and secretive. He can also cook, and eats salad. So of course, I was trying to make him more ’sexy’, more obviously troubled and angry when he is naturally sulky, more ‘me against the world’ when actually he quite likes his bosses, more rock’n'roll’n'whiskey when really, truly, he’s quite keen on Science Fiction and mocha lattes. He is genuinely nice and diffident, and the story arises out of the moral problem of being nice and diffident when faced with a story of two generations of illicit passion and thirty-five years of repressed rage, anxst and lust. In rushing to the finish, I just had to let him read Lord Dunsany and eat chocolate and quote from The Screwtape Letters.

[Is this not getting a little long-winded?]

So, the point is, this point that I am finally, digressively, getting about to making, is, err, if you lot don’t mind, of course, and it’s not too much trouble, my New Year’s Resolution could be to just expand the remit of this blog a little, and, maybe, opinionate a tad. And should any of you lot disagree with me, rejoice and vociferate, for there shall be Thinking, and possibly even a Changing of Minds. And less rice-pudding and tepid fretting about just how very cute I am, or am not, or could be, or would be, or should be.