inceptional

A tweet this afternoon reminded me that after going to see Inception at the cinema recently, I was all set to write down my thoughts about it.  It’s a couple of weeks on now but it was certainly a film that gave food for a good few days’ thinking.

I’m not going to review it; similarly to many of my blogs this is a more personal response to certain aspects of it.  Suffice to say that I enjoyed it but perhaps not as unreservedly as some.  I didn’t find it particularly confusing, it took an enjoyable amount of concentration to watch and an equally enjoyable amount of disbelief-suspension.  My favourite thing about it was the final moment of the film: I have never before seen the black screen elicit such a universal and audible gasp of frustration and appreciation from its audience.  It reminded me a little of the noise my dog makes when I pretend to throw the ball for him but really hide it behind my back.

So – don’t switch off – to the other part of my response: the female roles.  I was caught in a dichotomy: on the one hand, the film contains strong female characters; on the other, not very many.

I have nothing against nudity or sex scenes in general but how positive to see the main female leads, played by Ellen Page and Marion Cotillard, as fully-fleshed out characters without flashing the, well, flesh.  I had assumed that Page’s character would become a love interest for Leonardo Di Caprio (perhaps as a catalyst for him to leave aside his grief) but aside from a brief kiss with one of the team in a light-hearted moment, she was allowed to get on with her work as a serious member of the team.  Likewise, Cotillard played the beautiful and loving wife but pointed out clearly that this was an idealised, flaw-free version of herself in Di Caprio’s own dreamworld.  Yet the film was sexy, dynamic and stirring to watch without relying on actual sex.

On a more negative note, that was really it for women.  The male actors in the team were bloody brilliant and I would not begrudge a single one his part.  However it would have been so much easier on my eyes to see a few more women on the screen.  If you are a man and are still reading this (hello), I appreciate it might sound a bit picky, but watching a great film and seeing no women in it can make you feel that in some way you’re not welcome. It’s an instinctive response rather than an intentionally arsey one and one that minority ethnic groups can probably relate to.

My other thought was that as a film that seemed to be marketing itself as an intelligent thriller rather than a shoot-em-up, it did seem to tend towards the explosions and violence of the Big Dumb Movie more and more as it progressed.  Again I have nothing against the BDM, I like a good boom-splat-kerpow, I just felt that it ended up with fight after fight and this lost any effect or appeal.  Maybe the (chiefly-male) security dream-team needed something to do.  Or maybe the director was compensating for the lack of the other kind of physical contact.

Either way, I’ll definitely watch Inception again on DVD and I’m sure I’ll get even more from it.  I’ll just have to invite lots of people round to watch it with me so I can recreate that essential gasp-moment as the credits roll.

not dead yet

They are a common sight: in cities you have bill posters, in towns you have plastic notices stuck to lampposts on roundabouts.  They entice you to come to OCEANA or other hellish-sounding places and see DJ EZ (it’s always him, I don’t know why.  Possibly Mr EZ is affiliated to Hertfordshire and other areas have their own regular pull-ins, or perhaps he got a job lot of corrugated plastic and figured it was as good a way as any to lure A-road drivers to see his unique brand of plate-spinning).  Sometimes they are for an underage night, you can imagine Georgia and Luke* scribbling down the address in the back of their homework books, ready to bargain with Mummy and Daddy later.

They always look slightly illicit and temporary and perhaps that is their success, although if you believe you are going to an underground rave on a Thursday night in an Oceana, you probably need to revisit your expectations.

The one that caught my eye earlier this week as I headed up the A41 to Watford was for an OVER 30s NIGHT at a GOLF CLUB in RUISLIP.  I get the point of underage nights, but one for the over-30s?  I have not been able to get this idea out of my head and can’t stop wondering what such a thing might entail, and why.  Speaking from this age bracket myself, instinctively it sounds like the most unappetising offering for a Friday night I can imagine; even worse than staying in and watching Pete Vs Life.  Maybe.

Is it for ageing ravers who hate seeing their scene overtaken by meow-meow kids dancing to faux-techno and want to get down and dirty to some more purist beats?  That can’t be it, it clearly states on the poster: SMART DRESS – NO TRAINERS.  I’m thinking the soundtrack will be more James Blunt and Coldplay, drugs of choice Valium and omega-3 supplements.  Perhaps Dizzee Rascal and a line for the more daring.  Guests will consider themselves sophisticated but have an air of premature-ageing desperation.  Perhaps the venue is a clue.  Wood-panelled walls, fluorescent lighting in the trophy cabinets.  Do these people congregate to discuss their swing and their, er, iron? (My golfing knowledge is limited.)  But if so, then why advertise so broadly?  They might get people turning up who prefer squash, or bridge.  Horrors**.

Maybe they are just bitter about being OVER 30 and don’t want to risk bumping into any joyful 23-year-olds, casually enjoying life with no interest in mortgages and teething issues.  Maybe I’m being unfair and they just want to avoid people who think Nick Grimshaw is cool.

I suppose it could be a singles’ night, but somehow to me it says very loudly, couples only.  The only people I can imagine seeing the sign and attending are called Charles and Tilly*.  They pull up at the lights and clock the notice.  “Blimey!  Write that address down, Tills.  We’ll give it a go next Friday night.  There might be swingers!”.  Ah yes, that’s it.  That’s what that notice says to me.  All that remains is to book the babysitter and dig out the rubber underwear.

*Some names have been changed.

**Not The Horrors.  Maybe Jamie Cullum if things need livening up a bit.

come together

I went to a feminist summer school this weekend.  You may laugh, if you like.  There were things that made me laugh, like the badges for sale saying ‘Menstruate with Pride’.  I didn’t part with the pound it would have cost me, I figured if I really wanted one, perhaps @simontkey could make it for me next time he is feeling generous with his creativity.  To be honest I prefer to menstruate with subtlety.  I’d rather have one saying ‘it’s not PMT, I just really hate you’.

I digress, because I am tired.  Empowerment is exhausting.

I won't attempt a review but these are my thoughts and responses after two days of #femschool.

I signed up for the event some time ago because I have been interested for a long time in women’s issues but had no idea how to get involved, or what sort of involvement I wanted.  I knew I didn’t want to shout slogans and wave placards; I also knew I didn’t want to have endless negative discussions about things that were unlikely to change.  I’m not a ranty person but I still wanted my voice to be heard against the injustices I saw in the world.

So this seemed to be an opportunity to find out what was out there and if there were any people thinking similarly to me.  Also, it was free.

I nearly didn’t go: after a low week the thought of spending two days in the company of strangers was terrifying.  What should I wear?  What should I say to people?  Will I be judged or branded unfeminist for some of my views (or indeed for worrying about what to wear)?

The event was being held at the Amnesty offices in Shoreditch.  One of the sessions was led by a woman from Amnesty who had led a campaign for a change in law to assist women who need to leave a violent partner but are ineligible for public funds.  During this talk it occurred to me that saying one is a feminist often results in an eye-roll or derogatory comment whereas saying one is a supporter of human rights issues does not.  Sitting in the auditorium, the stage flanked by banners featuring the barbed wire-wrapped candle, it suddenly seemed blindingly obvious to me that feminist issues are human rights issues.

This thought stayed with me all weekend and coloured my views of everything else I saw.  This morning I found myself watching a film on female genital mutilation, which was less funny than the menstruation badges.  A recent Guardian article about this happening to British girls highlighted the subject which is often my counter to the assertion that feminism’s job ended with the vote and the pill.

I will admit that I had bought a packet of ten Marlboros on the way there as a prop: smokers’ corners are good (if unhealthy) places for the networking-shy to hang out in the hope of either joining a conversation by osmosis or else looking nonchalant about not joining one.  In the event I overheard someone mention Snog Marry Avoid and accidentally blurted out the opinion that it is quite a feminist programme, thus finding myself mid-debate.  This led to a discussion about inclusivity in feminism: should it welcome people who are anti-abortion, glamour models, men?  This was a conversation that seemed to be popping up all over the place and one that particularly interests me.  Unless you are interested in feminism, or you know me, you are perhaps unlikely to have read this far (if you have, thank you).  But that is what I would really like to change.  Being at the summer school clarified those thoughts for me and made me feel that it is possible to take some action that I can identify with.

I'm glad I braved it.  I met interesting, thoughtful and welcoming people.  Recently I reviewed a play from which my favourite quote was ‘we shouted, not shrieked’.  There was a lot of laughing, debating, clapping and cheering this weekend.  But no shrieking.

shredding

Incoherent with tears

Grotesque, bloated

Shades of pink and pink

Sitting with a pile of paper

A shredder

Unable to destroy

The last traces of a life

The dog licks away my tears,

Because he likes the salt.

He brings me toys,

Because he wants to play.

A guttural, throaty groan,

I do not recognise the noise

Of my own laugh

I try to let it all out

It’s healthy, they say

But the pain in my temples

Grows more intense

I feel blinded, migrained

I try to locate my synapses

To send a message: stop

A reply comes back: leave

Walk away from the pictures and words

Reprieve for another day

I abandon the scene of destruction

Wait for my body to catch up

Listen to the sobs clutching me

Watch the drops fall from my cheeks to my knees

Later, my eyes are throbbing

I can taste the salt on my lips.

Women, Power and Politics

a review I wrote: http://www.thefword.org.uk/reviews/2010/07/women_power_pol

reasons to be feminist cont'd

http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/world/south_asia/10220920.stm

sex and the vitriol

Ah, the Sex And The City premiere, brilliant. Hacks of both sexes must be ejaculating uncontrollably into their M&S pants. For what else can provide an opportunity quite as good as this to talk about how rubbish women are?


First, the film. I have no doubt that it is execrable, utterly without wit or wisdom, blah blah. It probably has no more plotholes or flimsy characters than The Matrix Reloaded, or Pirates of the Caribbean FFS, or Saw 43; but those were films with special effects and guns and stuff. What does this have? Shoes?


Some women might really enjoy it, which proves they are stupid. Some might concede that it is shit but claim that the TV series was much sharper, which proves they are stupid. Some women might argue that they never watched it anyway, which proves that they are probably ugly.


Then – oh joy – the actresses and their characters. According to your article, you can cry that these squealing brunchers are cariacatures of stereotypes of cartoonish puppets, or completely representative of all women. Whichever angle you take, don’t forget some outrage at them having either no wrinkles or too many; being too beautiful or too imperfect. That Sarah Jessica Parker, daring to take her place on our screens with a longer-than-average nose and face. Her character, Carrie, a writer? As if anyone with an interest in shoes can string a sentence together. And Kim/Samantha: I mean who the fuck does she think she is, enjoying sex at her age? Don’t forget to talk about how large her vagina probably is. Cynthia? Ginger and lesbian, ‘nuff said. If you’re taking an indignant quasi-feminist angle, you can point out what a bad role model her character Miranda is for giving up her job; if sexist, you can use it as proof positive that women should stay out of the boardroom. Ditto Charlotte, with her perfect wife-and-mother act. The keyword for all four, chaps, is desperate.


We come to the premiere itself. The four women on the red carpet. Look at them smiling. We know they hate each other because they are women. Look at their frocks. Look at their hats! Look at their made-up, shiny faces. It’s almost as though they feel the pressure of a thousand keystrokes on the back of their necks, reminding them that any flaw will be highlighted, every pore pored over.


Other famous women go to see the film. They also wear frocks and frightened smiles. They too will be pawed at and pored over, tweeted and blogged. Someone will hate Peaches Geldof. Someone will wish that Amanda Holden would shoot herself rather than wear a possibly-misjudged homage frock. Everyone will despise them. Anyone who doesn’t; well, they’re probably stupid enough to go and see the film.

put a smile on your facebook

Since being on Twitter I have found a fair amount of vitriol for Facebook, variously described as a dinosaur (@simonpegg), twatty (@indiaknight) and a tree for cats to piss on (@SanyaV, shamelessly paraphrased). As previously discussed I’m not very good at Angry; often I feel this is a failing but in this case I do think it’s not that difficult to enjoy the various forms of social networking on offer to us today without having an apoplexy.

Facebook is a place for friends. Twitter is a place to say random stuff. MySpace is a place to look up bands you have heard on the radio. Let’s all co-exist man, yeah?

Privacy
This is very dull. Facebook has admittedly cocked it up a bit, and will doubtless change its policy soon. In the meantime, if you are bothered about privacy, this is what to do:
1. Go to settings, select all and change to ‘friends only’. It will take less than a minute.
2. If there are things you don’t want anyone to know, don’t fill those fields in.

Applications
Many of us hate our news feed being clogged up with Farmville, City Life, Mafia Wars and the like. But many of our friends enjoy playing these games. The important thing to remember is, they don’t hate us. They just want other players to help them raise their barn, or sting a cartel, or whatever. For a happy life:
1. Click ‘hide’ by their post on your news feed. Hide the application, or the person if they are a repeat offender.
2. If their use of these games has moved you to genuine hatred, delete them.

Friends
As previously said, that’s what Facebook is for. I used to accept friend requests from people I didn’t like that much, just to be polite. But I have since deleted them and I am confident that I could tell you why I am friends with every single person on my friends list. I may not chat to them all every day but I have a genuine interest in seeing their updates. We used to lose touch with people unless they were directly in their lives. Old friends aren’t always old friends for a reason (@carrozo). In this case:
1. Don’t be friends with people you don’t like.

2. Take an interest - you never know who you might catch up with.

NB Don't be friends with companies - they will just send you endless crappy marketing messages.

Photos
Ok. So you don’t like endless baby/wedding photos. But here’s the thing. People who have got married/had a baby/holiday/new dog want to share their pictures. You know what I’m going to say.
1. If you know someone has got married/had a baby lately, hide them from your news feed. You can always reinstate them once they get over it and start bitching about their new spouse/brat.
2. Same goes for emotional status updates.

Event invites/Quizzes/Things To Like
I can’t do anything about these. Let’s get over it. You can always get Tweetdeck so you can just have a status feed and never check the actual site – but we’re trying to stay happily connected, right?

With love to friends, foes and followers all xx

winning words

The lights come up. The three men look a bit pink, is it the lighting or has someone ordered too many red rads to keep them warm in the cavernous setting? DD has a jaunty tie, like AS and the other one before. The acoustics are great; or awful, depending on your point of view. They are not assisting Nick in his attempt to personalise each answer. He gazes at me, meaningfully. They all say ‘children’ a lot. Stop saying children. Have Dave’s teeth always looked like that? Twitter is concerned over his shiny chin. Gordon has the nicest voice, but to be fair he doesn’t have to share one like Nick and Dave. Dave says ‘damn’. The room heats up. Gordon speaks of pent-up needs and offers help in squalid rooms. Nick Clegg’s words have stopped.. words.. people… person. Breathe, Nick. Someone should wind up that key in his back. Gordon says he will scratch my back, just there, below the surface. Nick offers friends with benefits and promises to respect me in the morning. Dave says that if I have a perfectly serviceable boyfriend, I cannot fuck Nick Clegg. I start worrying about the Swingometer: how will it work in a three horse race? Tax is dull. Whoever gets in, everyone will end up feeling hard done by. Why do the 76 rules not include one for not telling questioners about how much they respect their career choices? Gordon claims that Dave will cut children’s hair to unacceptable levels. Dave says he has some children. Did you hear that? Actual children. Nick splits an infinitive. Gord says ‘millyons’. I love it when he says that. Dave says he loves me, really he does. If I get pregnant he will rub my back. He will keep things fresh between us. Nick says he loves me. Really though. If I get pregnant, he will deliver the baby himself. He will find new approaches. Gordon says he loves me. Millyons. He will pay for an emergency caesarean. He says we match, belong together. Grr. I am exhausted, spent. So many words, so much said. I feel light-headed. Thanks, boys.
p.s. the words in this review may not have appeared exactly as quoted.

you came on your own

I went to see Editors tonight at Brixton.

I feel a lot of the questions they raise could be answered by Professor Brian Cox.

chiaroscuro

Driving through dark
End of winter
Evening draws in
Pulls the sun down

Violet dark
Red lights white lights
Amber glow
Palette of night

Heart through darkness
Fast slow slower
Beats race past
Further than you thought

Dark till home
Thought miles ahead
Gravity holding down
Acceleration forward

Head rushes light
Grey orange blue
Streetlights shop lights
Flashes stop there

reasons to be feminist: 1,2,3

Ok. So it’s International Women’s Day. What do we do to celebrate? Knit a cake perhaps? I’m looking forward to the Women show on BBC4 tonight, not least because it assuages my guilt about how rarely I use that channel, a bit like 6Music, but also because the programme looks interesting, relevant and hopefully will increase my understanding of female history. On Twitter I follow Subtext magazine, who have linked to a review of said programme, which complains in-depth about the lack of black and minority ethnic women featured. Without having seen it, I’m sure it’s an issue worth taking up, however my first response to seeing the topic was exasperation. One of the reasons girls – and women – now don’t want to be classed as feminist is because it conjures up images of nit-picking, humourless, angry battleaxes who find reason to take issue with everything. Sounds rather like a description of Daily Mail readers and surely no good feminist worth his or her salt would want to sit in a boat with them? I have always been glad that there are people prepared to be angrier and more extreme than me (on any subject), as it opens debates and asks questions of us woollier liberals; but let’s see the positives as well as raising those important points. Essentially there is no point in preaching to the converted: appealing to a wider audience does not mean compromise or loss of integrity, just wisdom to separate the issues according to what is appropriate.

Back to the Day in question, what exactly is it for? Something we hear a great deal is that feminism has done its work, basic equality exists; again it is hard to disagree without negativity. In this country, a great deal more equality exists than did when I was born, and a vast amount more than thirty or fifty years before that. There are no dealbreaker issues for people to get excited about: the vote, the workplace, the pill; we have the right to all these. Yet conversely we can see that in some ways this is the least women-friendly time to live in: intellect and strength valued far less than physical attributes; men encouraged to be boorish or risk the inevitable epithet. No-one, or perhaps everyone, is to blame for this. We have all allowed it to happen because, to a certain extent, raunch culture suits both sexes and can be a positive part of sexual liberation. But most men I know, while appreciating the amount of flesh on offer, are not really delighted with a future of vapid, opinionless women with whom to share their beds. And women do not really want to continue with the size-zero permatanned big hair model, paranoid about losing their looks because that is all they have of value.

That’s another blog really. But if we break that problem down, it is made up of small issues, some of them deeply personal. We cannot get angry at the men and women who are happy with the status quo, just keep carving out our paths and finding positives elsewhere in order to be an inspiration rather than a nagging voice in the ear (go Kathryn Bigelow!). Similarly, a recent article on the feministing website covered the issue that if people are not interested in watching women’s sport, tv companies are not going to cover it and pay will remain low. An American website has started a campaign to encourage people to attend live events which seems a more healthy attitude than whinging about it.

Sport is of course not the only area where the pay gap is an issue; in this country women work for, on average, 17% less pay, which the Fawcett Society have a campaign to reduce. Equality legislation has meant that this is less than in the past but further legislation would run the risk of making women worth far less in the workplace than a man. Anecdotal evidence tells us that there are already plenty of employers who will avoid employing women because they will cost the company money in the long run. So to my mind, as above, we need to break it down into reasons why this gap still exists and find many small solutions that build to a whole. The blog I was writing when this one interrupted is entitled ‘Equality for Men’, which may seem a strange subject for Women’s Day but I feel it is essential in the move towards a future where men and women are equally recompensed for their labour.

Aha. But now we come on to what was meant to be the main point of this piece. Brevity has never been my strong point. It’s not Women’s Day, is it? It’s International Women’s Day. And if you want to find something to get angry about, worth fighting for on a big, worldwide scale, try clitoridectomies, try forced marriage, try honour killings. These things happen here and abroad, on all continents, often in the name of religion. As a liberal I am meant to be terribly tolerant of other cultures and religions but the people carrying out these atrocities have chosen to do so out of their extremist interpretation of scripture or history and I feel no need to respect them. I feel, in fact, very angry. To read about the women who commit suicide rather than endure a life of subjugation, the women who run and are caught and tortured, the women who set up help for others and risk becoming a target themselves, is an education. The women who are fighting to eradicate these, who stand up for themselves in the face of rape, violence and mortal danger are the true suffragettes of our day and they are the ones I will be celebrating this International Women’s Day.

environmental

the sky is dark

the clouds are white

below them, shining, business lights

to see the stars

a resolution

to 'Click!' goodbye to light pollution

going places

There is a certain freedom in a full tank of petrol. When I have filled the tank and see the dial swing to full and the display tell me I have 336 miles before the car will come to a quiet halt of its own accord, I wonder how far that would take me (geography's not my strong point) and if one day I might just take the opportunity to drive off the forecourt and keep going until that happens. Ignore the red light springing up around the 50 mile mark and keep going until I find myself wilfully stranded and work out what to do from there.

A lot of people would hate to be in that position but, like a significant minority, I feel the opposite. I like the possibilities to stretch out in front of me in all directions; it makes me jittery to see things mapped out too clearly, speed cameras and service stations marked along the way. I have had to admit the usefulness of a sat-nav device in the car but loved my old method of getting around by following road signs and buying a map in the local area when I get there; it took me a while to get over my reluctance to tech up. To be fair, I used to get lost and late and it probably wasn't terribly efficient but it was educative, a mini adventure and, when there were no external time pressures, it could be quite exhilarating. Perhaps for the same reason, on filling in my tax return today I find I am unlikely to owe Moira Stewart much cash. Time to give in to the clutches of the 9 to 5? Or keep getting lost and seeing where it takes me.

the politics of indecision

I can never understand how people find politics obvious, or easy; for me it's a struggle. Every time I read a news article from either side I have to sift through so many layers to find the place I think it has come from and from there my response to it. By the time I get to that point I am never sure whether my opinion has been in some way clouded by a moral or other subjective judgement. Am I making the decision based on a true instinct, on what I want to believe, or intellectual and objective observation?
I would love to have the passion to believe in a cause, to take something at face value without cynicism or my default reaction of trying to see the alternative viewpoint. It's painful having to spend so much time sitting on a fence. I wish I could march through the streets with absolute conviction in the slogans I am shouting, to adopt a radical lifestyle or to change my appearance to reflect my allegiances. But here I am, the ultimate woolly liberal, keen to believe in anything that brings people happiness. Immigration, gay marriage, free sweets for all. Unsurprisingly, the hardest extreme for me to relate to is right-wing hysteria, the Mail/Express philosophy that health and safety has gone mad and Diana would solve political correctness. Yet I can't buy into the hippy, communist ideology either, no soft-soaping of reality (and no ethnic skirts). My views have bits of both and bits of neither. Earnestness is equal to humourlessness and even those with opinions close to mine, if given with no hint of a smile, can make me itch to bat for the other side. Lazy sexism can sharpen my feminist polemic but reading a po-faced article in Guardian Women can turn me into a laid-back ladette. I become Newton's Law of Motion, trying to ask unanswerable questions, move goalposts, widen viewpoints. Or, as my parents would have said, argue back. It is instinctive, not premeditated or superior, although it is hard to explain or dissect without appearing that way. I suppose we each believe our own understanding of the world to hold more truth than others. Perhaps my understanding of the world is 'it's not as simple as you think'.

stop press

People keep asking why we are still talking about the snow, why it is headline news. Part of me agrees but at the same time it is so there, all over the country; rarely is a news story so relevant and directly visible to everyone. It is there on my street, no gritters here. It provides endless possibilities for skidding and sliding and crunching and crashing. Snow, the beautifier, the silent, the sinister aggressor. It is there in the park, draining my energy and straining my muscles to keep balanced while dog-walking (or dog-skiing, as I have come to call it). Falling can be a comedy pratfall or a sudden blow to the head.
The trouble is, there is no news. Nothing new to say. No-one really wants to hear politicians argue about whose fault it is. The occasional human interest story of devastation grabs us by the head and dunks us into cold water but trickles away as we move on to pictures of snowmen and sledging children.
I was reading The Day of the Triffids recently (balm after watching the ghastly TV adapatation) and a scene of the book that really appeals to me is the apocalyptic vision of London just a few years on from its being abandoned. It seems to me that snow is one of the few times, the few weathers, when we can see how quickly the natural world can overwhelm us. It reminds us that our intrastructure is based on a daily fight against nature, the weeds in the driveway, the cracks in the pavement. That given a short space of time, undiscouraged, nature would return things as it found them.
I am no fan of 'what if' news stories. We haven't run out of grit, or gas, yet. A man did not get further than the runway, did not have explosives and was not there on the same day as the Queen (yeah that's an old news story but it still grates). However, I think the snow story is current and its prevalence forgivable. To paraphrase an esteemed friend, it awakens something primal in us (often the urge to hibernate). It feels like the whole country is under siege (not under neige). We can't get to where we want to be, wear what we want to wear, we have bumps and bruises and red noses and pink skin. It burns us and freezes us. We want to play with it, fight with it, feel it on our nose and eyelashes. People talk to each other in the street, or exchange news of snow days on Facebook. We get to enjoy it AND complain about it (and complain about complaining about it); what can be more satisfying than that?

overheard

The sound is sharp, an icicle in the air.

‘YEAH, WELL. I KNOW WHERE YOU LIVE’.

A face-off, squaring up to each other. Think headlines, knives. But these boys are dressed in neat uniforms with football rucksacks crammed with files and socks. Children trying on their teenage selves for size. But there’s no pushing, no tightened fists. Confusion, mostly.

‘But we always walk home together’

‘Well not any more’

‘I thought you were my friend’ (now where have I heard that before)

There are three on each side. One of the three larger boys has, for some reason, disowned one of the smaller. He wants to hurt him, cut him. Win. The other boy wants to walk away but senses somehow that bravado is what is expected of him in some bigger picture he can’t see. At the moment the situation resembles the type of falling-out he will come to believe that only girls have: men are say things to each other’s faces rather than behind closed doors; fight it out rather than mysteriously ditch a mate. For now, he has no context to put it in, just feels an unfamiliar hurt and sense of public humiliation, he has realised he is naked.

Obviously, I am trying not to watch, for social and moral reasons and also for self-preservation; but I am also trying to watch, because it is an unfamiliar situation for me to witness. I wonder what it must be like to be a twelve-year-old boy, utterly confusing I imagine (just like being a twelve-year-old girl) but really, what is it actually like? To go to a boys’ school and be boys amongst boys. You can imagine the stereotype of pressure against girliness (perhaps more so at that age than later when you realise girls like a bit of sensitivity?), ‘gay’ as a euphemism for anything outside of certain parameters (sport, computer games), but that can’t be the whole picture. There must be enough poets and painters and scientists among them to create a balance. Or maybe the poets and painters have to take it until they find their own ways out, maybe they even need it as an impetus. How would you feel if you were gay, or thought you might be, and had to defend yourself against it as an accusation for totally unrelated behaviour several times a day?

The boys are still clumsily battling it out, the two other small ones have an air of ‘leave it, mate, he’s not worth it’. The rejected friend is trying to think of something clever to say, something that will make him seem clever and uncaring and that will hurt the other’s feelings. He can’t, though.

‘I never wanted to be friends with you anyway’

The factions separate, the bigger child with his big new friends. Is he feeling victorious or just as confused and hurt as his ex-bff seemed? The smaller boys go a different way, the two bystanders more confident and less self-conscious as they head up the road and kick a few leaves. The third looks dazed, he wants to look back but he doesn’t and runs ahead to catch up the others.

I wonder if he’ll remember it in days or weeks or years to come, or if it will melt into an awful or happy childhood, depending on how his counsellor encourages him to recall it. I reach the top of the road a minute later (still walking slowly) and they are gone.

2010

It's been pretty sunny so far.