Gardening with Space Shuttles inside a library!

Now that spring has more or less made its tentative 2011 debut, my unruly garden is in need of attention. Like a dishevelled teenager it’s in sore need of a haircut, the weeds have made the most of my absence during the last few months. Unfortunately for them the grim reaper bearing garden tools is about to make their ruthless take-over a temporary reign. They creep all over the garden unbidden and without mercy. Then again they’re actually native flora, even if unwelcome most of the time. I think we forget this in our bid to have fancy gardens, though mine can hardly be described as such. Nature’s switch is on and there’s only so much I can do to keep the weeds at bay. Tools in hand I try to make a start.

The other half doesn’t garden at all – the last couple of times he attempted to tackle the greenery he managed to mow the lawn-mower cable and rendered it useless. On a previous occasion he killed the trimmer in similar fashion. Somehow he just kept missing the green bits despite their abundance. How he didn’t electrocute himself is a miracle and as a result he is now banned from using the tools. Fried husband, keeled over nice and easy isn’t something I want to have to deal with in future. The only time hubby goes into the garden these days is when he likes to treat the neighbours to a firework display on Bonfire Night. I usually hide indoors for fear I get to witness a repeat of the Armageddon of two years ago. He bought a ‘cake’, something that was meant to release little rockets up one-by-one, all very well. What we didn’t expect was the Blitz. The whole damn thing shot up in one go and created a colossal explosion.  I ran into the house hoping the roof hadn’t caved in. As it happens – divine intervention perhaps – it wasn’t. Subsequently he’s been banned from those too. Now it’s nice little fountains and catherine wheels. NO rockets! I’m convinced it was a ploy to blow up next door’s shed in revenge for a comment the old codger made once, but so far Mr C is winning the war, despite the near perfect attempt to demolish his vegetable patch. Rockets were strewn all over his plants, with little harm done. His cranky old eyes squint at us in disdain at times. Did I tell you he has a perfect garden? Our garden is a jungle compared to his, sacrilege in his books. No snail moves without him knowing about it. If he spies a weed out comes the weed-killer; he keeps it within reach and squirts it with relish looking for intruders - so much for our green attempts at keeping the wildlife happy.  I don’t think the hedgehogs like him much. They hang out in our garden, snuffling and snorting. No toxic snails and slugs at our place, it’s a veritable feast! Even the foxes leave a plop or two in appreciation of our wild garden. Take that Mr C! I suspect he has traps laid out all over his pristine garden. The creatures take refuge in ours. They know!

The garden is a symbol of renewal and change, the seasons come and go and time toils away leaving us scratching our heads wondering where it’s all going. I am acutely aware of the passing of time: time’s relentless waltz and the things that come and go. The people you leave behind, take with you or are yet to meet; the challenges that we are presented with good and bad; the personal history that we create as we move forever forwards; and the history we are witness to in the wider world whether it affects us personally or not. Spectators or creators we are all a part of this universal dance and we only get a very short time to participate within it. In the words of Carl Sagan:

“We are like butterflies who flutter for a day and think it’s forever.”

When you measure our time frame to that of the cosmos you’ll know what he means, and yet this last few weeks have been challenging. Despite Sagan’s philosophical and scientific truth, I can’t help my meagre human self from feeling the disquiet of change; change that has caused some sadness, some anger and much disappointment. What I thought was a respected profession appears to no longer be so.

The future of libraries looks bleak. There is much furore about the cuts and attempted closures of this public service, but for me it’s the human cost that grates the hardest. It’s not life and death, and it’s not such a big deal in the greater scheme of things but that shouldn’t render it any less important than anything else. Forget the politics, the monetary problems and the arguments for and against if you will, but think on this: how much is a human-being worth these days? It seems to me the governments/corporations of this world treat us, the ordinary folk, like weeds in a garden. We are dispensable and easy to cut down. All it takes is the loss of your livelihood and it can change your life irrevocably. Those resourceful enough will be fine and I do not worry for the future of my evicted colleagues. I have every confidence they’ll do very well, but it’s not right that some of my colleagues (to use a metaphor) have been put out to pasture and left to chew the cud of rejection after years of service and loyalty. The axe swung at them and executed their vocation. To have a profession so altered that it no longer resembles a respectable and proud one leaves me seething. To deplete our stock to nothing more than a handful of cloned bestsellers filling our once abundant shelves and losing our readers on a daily basis leaves me cold. Such a proud institution becoming so derelict and unwanted.

I feel a little bereft. People I have come to view as friends and in some ways my work family, have left a void that can never be filled. Not meaning to be derogatory, our libraries were once like zoos filled with a myriad of human specimens, both staff and public. All so different, all so fascinating – some we loved and some we disliked - but generally there was always an unspoken respect or ambivalence. We were all in this profession together doing our jobs. Now I worry for those of us left behind. We’re left with the memories and the nostalgia and the writing is still on the wall. If something doesn’t alter soon the future of the public library is dire, ultimately extinct. It is what change brings sometimes.  

History is often a personal odyssey. We create our own personal histories through life and call it experience. We bear witness to the events outside our personal spheres and watch as things come and go. On a lighter note I have been watching the Space Shuttle programme with interest. So far in our lifetime we have witnessed the Berlin Wall come down, Nelson Mandela becoming president of South Africa and the end of apartheid, the coming and going of Concorde to name just a handful of events (the more positive events). And now the end of a thirty year Space programme. I find the whole thing rather compelling, watching a 4 ½ million pound (approximately 2000 tons) machine soar into the heavens like a shooting star defying gravity. Maybe it’s just me but that’s a beautiful sight. It’s not perfect and it’s risky (think back to the Challenger and Columbia accidents) but it’s a hell of an achievement. The Hubble telescope the Galileo probe, missions to the International Space Station, if only we could always try to be altruistic and wise. Ok so Reagan had one or two nefarious ideas, but still, the Space Shuttle is the most complex machine ever built. A beautiful example of humankind’s achievements and ingenuity and once again I am sad to see the end of an era. The Space age has given us a perspective of this beautiful Earth unsurpassed by nothing else. We live on magnificence and a miracle.

And so....

Where to next? What happens now? Do we sit back and let things happen or do we get out there and make some history? We’re mostly weeds you know. But always remember the hardy weed is defiant and will always come back to give the gardener a headache. As I prepare to make short work with my shears I allow myself to enjoy the sun and allow the breeze to sweep away the gloom. Mr C has just squirted his arm. I suspect the aphid population have nestled on his scrawny limb in true kamikaze defiance.

 “We are legion” they whisper.

Beware the almighty temper!    

I have been out of sorts all week. Yesterday I couldn’t even think about anything without some vile temperamental feeling overshadowing my thoughts. I’m unfocused and forgetful: umbrellas in fridge, teabags in washing machine, putting things away and then forgetting where, keys lost and found, that kind of amnesia. The brain holes act like a sieve, with all matter sprinkling through leaving me blank. And then I get cheesed off, frantically trying to fit all the pieces together with the clock mocking me. A bad mood subsequently ensues.

No guys it’s not hormonal! Or at least it doesn’t fit into any kind of timetable. What the hell do I know about the mysteries of chemistry?

Women are often accused of imbalance (even though there are times when it’s true). I’m guessing it’s those mafioso clouds giving us the crap weather that are partially to blame. They’ve monopolised the sky and I can’t even blame Rupert Murdoch for this one. Good old British weather, always guaranteed to fart in your face. Last week we had glorious spring weather, this week it’s been all wintry again. I’m still wearing gloves! I’ve just about had it with this six month winter. Prolonged bad weather leaves me chomping at the bit. My teeth are going to keep my dentist busy. The last one I had (years ago) bought a Ferrari and retired to Marbella. I had better keep the chomping to a minimum, though I’m pretty sure it wasn’t just billing me that allowed for such a lavish retirement. The fact is - I need that yellow star like I need air to breathe. We all do! Other than that a lot of negative things have occurred: everything from natural disasters and wars to colleagues being made redundant and retiring due to the cuts. It’s nothing out of the ordinary, the media vultures are always guaranteed to keep us sensationalised, and political muppets love to keep us in check. It’s a gradual accumulation of sub-conscious negativity that eventually seeps out into the open when least expected. I’m such a sensitive soul *snort*.

If I’ve discovered anything about myself it’s my lack of tolerance where foolishness and injustice are concerned. Present me with stupidity and I’m likely to twitch uncomfortably in response. My hackles are worse than a porcupine’s erectile spines. For example, a newspaper that makes Kate Moss’ return to the catwalk front page news is not worth reading in my opinion. Who freaking cares! I also hate feeling helpless and at the mercy of what’s out there. The Japan tsunami (as with all disasters) was a low point. Then again, in a week’s time the media flies will have flown onto the next juicy cowpat of disaster. They will milk the story dry and leave an invisible residue when all is done and dusted. The media - ghouls of negative press - will be racing off looking for other stories to fill News 24. They’ll be hoping for a scoop somewhere. They’ll be praying something will happen so that they can delight in vomiting all the gory details at us.

And so a dragon is born, or, according to my other half, a Klingon (a warrior race of beings in the Star Trek universe with VERY bad tempers). I’ve just about lost all sensibility and patience.

First act of the day, after the school run, was to go and burn off some calories and any detritus floating around my mind. I had to go visit my deceased spectators and run the equivalent of something like 1200 metres round the cemetery. Those of you who have read previous blogs will be familiar with my running space up by the cemetery. It’s a calming activity and usually works off any stress or anger I may be feeling. So far so good and yet as I run my way up the hill to get there I find myself avoiding the mounds of dog dirt that inconsiderate dog owners choose to leave for the rest of us to contend with. It’s enough to make a horse jealous. What the hell do people feed these animals?  How many cans of Pedigree Chum does it take to produce this amount of poop? I start to feel my mood blacken. The vile thoughts are back. I imagine corks being shoved up certain canine orifices and the brainless human owner being slapped round the head with my ‘happy hand’ to try and instil some sense and respect into their thick skulls. Clean up after your dog, you disgusting cretins! There are bins provided. I don’t want my child running into dog sh*t, anytime we leave the house to go anywhere. Is this too much to ask? Understandably an animal will do its business where it will but we’re supposed to be civilised and thinking beings. Have a little consideration. It’s not really the animals I’m blaming but the bipeds. Alas, I live amongst neanderthals and idiots, what could possibly be expected?  Just wait for the rest...you may need a fall-out shelter.

So I’m set up for the day. This grumpy woman has just about had it. End of the week and I’m in no mood for funny business. I come back from my run and encounter a man with his two dogs. One animal has just cocked its leg and is peeing with gusto up against somebody’s doorstep. WHAT AM I SEEING? I’m indignant! Probably even releasing the proverbial fire and brimstone through my nostrils, but friends... it’s been a funny old week, this ends now:

“Excuse me, is that your house?” I ask.

The man looks at me, all puffed out and beetroot red from my running exertions.

“No.”

“Really, I thought it might be seeing as you’re quite happy to allow your dog to empty his bladder contents all over the doorstep. Do you allow your pets to excrete all over your house?”

He looks at me blankly and wonders who the hell I am. Perhaps trying to make sense of what I’m asking. I can almost picture him scratching his head trying to figure out what ‘excrete’ means. The blank face pretty much reveals a lack of connection between my words and their meaning. I just glare at him waiting for an answer.

“Erm... no... They’re dogs!”

 “Yes, well they certainly don’t look like cats. Do they p*ss and poop in and around your house?” I’m hoping the vernacular will trigger his comprehension.

“No”

So he’s monosyllabic. Perhaps a lecture wouldn’t be wise as I’m sure it wouldn’t register with this individual. I simply look at him and say:

“Next time I suggest you think first before allowing your dogs to do what that one’s just done. Alternatively, let it p*ss all over your doorstep instead, or better still all over you.”

It’s out of my mouth before I realise. I’m shocked at my insanity. Did I just say that? That was wrong on so many levels. I stand my ground even though my knees are about to buckle under the weight of my reckless words. Oh crap, I’m doggy fodder! My insolence is going to turn me into Pedigree Chum. I don’t feel quite so brave now but I try to quickly blab my way out of that last sentence with bravado.

“Please don’t allow that in future. Other people live here and it’s unpleasant. Do you understand? There are laws against this kind of thing, OK?”

What’s my name: Police Constable lunatic? I’m digging myself a bottomless pit. I back off and make to leave. I run in fact. A sure way to get yourself into serious doo-doo is to do what I had just done. I’m not sure what the guy shouted at me as I ran off; perhaps some suitable expletive telling me where to go. Who knows? All I know is that I was out of control and yet, was it not my right to comment on something I felt was wrong? Why do we allow these things to go on in our society and turn a blind eye: the lack of manners, respect and community, it’s quite literally non-existent. If you stand by your moral code you’re likely to get hurt, which is why this incident could have turned into a nasty encounter. Luckily for me, I ran before my legs were turned into doggy munching toys. I couldn’t take one more intolerable act. I am saturated with negatives.  Canine bowel/bladder waste just about edged me over the cliff.

I am inclined to put a sign up on my door:

Here be dragons. Beware!

I think I have reached the age of intolerance. Doesn’t every generation have gripes about the next? What did our elders think of our times (in my case the 70’s and 80’s)? I bet the Sex Pistols were like Beelzebub’s servants to a few. Still, here we are and my mood has lifted. The power of blogging eh?

The big M!

I was asked the other day by a rather nosey mother when I was planning on having my second child. Now, if I were to tell you this is not the first time I’ve been asked this question, but rather the millionth time, would you hold it against me if suddenly this rather nice person (aka Dragonwyck) were to death-glare this unsuspecting parent? I decide this would be inappropriate in the school playground. I couldn’t do it for my kid’s sake: “Poor child, she has such a bitch for a mother.” Besides, how does this mother know she happens to be only one of many asking me this 6 million dollar question? She doesn’t; it’s a perfectly innocuous question.

A very nice taxi driver once lectured me on how it’s healthy to have more than one child. He has four! His wife is a stay-at-home mum and according to him absolutely loves it. I’d like to ask her myself. I never take a man’s word for it, especially where childbirth is involved. So Mr So-and-So when was the last time you passed a watermelon through your penis? Failing that, any scars on your abdomen where the scalpel aided in birthing your child? I guess I’m being unfair, but I bristle like a frayed brush whenever I get lectured about only having the one child. It’s rude quite frankly and advice I’m not interested in hearing. He probably thought he was giving me wise counsel and I do not hold it against him. It’s a common thing to think that what is good for the goose is good for the gander. It’s so easy to impose your values on others’ - we all have our own way of living life. But do not lecture me on motherhood and how many children you think I should produce!

What is this obsession with the 2.1 kids anyway? Is it so abnormal to just have the one? Perhaps I’ll grow a horrible beard if I do not adhere to the biological urge to breed further. I did it once (and grew a rather modest moustache). Does this not suffice? I have had the usual: “But it’s selfish to just have one (child – not beard). What about when you grow old and she’s all by herself in the world?” Response:

I would hope she is able to create a life for herself without clinging to my apron strings or anybody else’s. What’s to say she’ll like her siblings and that they’ll get on? I myself have had a pretty volatile relationship with my own siblings and I have to say, as much as I love them (sometimes), we have very little in common. I also happen to have many friends and acquaintances who are ‘only’ children, and they turned out fine overall. Besides, she’ll inherit all the money, the house, the clothes and jewellery (ha), most likely my smelly old trainers and my last Rollo. Stop with the guilt trips already! What about those women who for one reason or another cannot have children or choose not to have any? Are they biological failures and lesser women? I hark back to Henry VIII and his obsession with siring a son to inherit the throne of England upon his death. He went through wives like a ferret through a tunnel, discarding them when they failed to produce the desired objective. Saying this there were other factors too, of course. I’m generalising and being simplistic just to make a point. But it’s not surprising that in some cultures women are indeed looked upon as breeding mares.

I am happy with the one child and my husband (which equates to two children really). I do not need to flaunt my fecund womb to all and sundry yet again (that branch of Tesco’s will never forget THAT day). Especially not to myself! 43 hours labour and post natal depression has seen to that. My daughter was so comfortable lying within my accommodating hips she didn’t want to come out; the effects of which I still feel to this day. I would have to be mentally deranged to have another. I have thought about it and we have discussed it. I’m not anti second child, just that for us it’s wouldn’t be the right thing to do. I do not judge anybody else’s choice in having more than one. Good for you if you can, if not, it’s no big deal either.

Motherhood is a very serious venture. I do not think it’s for everybody and it’s not something one should embark upon lightly. If you’re having kids because you want to keep up with the Jones’s then you’re an idiot. It’s tough; it’s about sacrifices and losing yourself somewhat in the nurturing and upbringing of another. Suddenly you cannot drop everything and indulge a whim, be that a holiday, a night out, a new car. This demanding little creature is the centre of your world and will be for a big chunk of your future. It will change your life! This is no cabbage patch dolly we’re talking about here.

I think back to the horrendous commuting when I went back to work 6 months after giving birth. For 18 months with child in tow I travelled in the cold, the heat, through crowds; the battles on the trains and buses, the unsympathetic stares and mutterings; the fatigue, the despair, the tearing my hair out in sheer desperation at having to live this insane routine. I was lucky to get 5 hours sleep a night. The stress was intense. I had just about got to grips with the practicalities of motherhood – everything having to be planned with military precision – when all of a sudden I was forced to practice my fortitude in an altogether different situation. I had to adapt quickly. It was literally sink or swim. And sinking was always close to the periphery. I nearly lost my mind!

On the plus side, aside from those crappy days where ibuprofen is your best friend and awful moments of despair have made me want to just scream out loud, the joy of watching my child grow and develop into the little lady she is today has all been worth it. There is nothing more rewarding than a child who affectionately puts their arms around you and tells you how much they love you. It’s unconditional and genuine... at least for now. She exacerbates me at times, tests my patience, pushes the wrong buttons to test the boundaries, but she is a joy to have around and lights our world. To see the world through a child’s eyes is a revelation and I have had to take stock and force myself to hold back my sometimes selfish inclinations and remember to be a mother. I have also learned to leave any kind of guilt behind when the need for some space is all the difference between me and my sanity. My daughter would not benefit from a grumpy malcontent in the house. We have a workable understanding. As well as being mummy I am Dragonwyck. And Dragonwyck needs to come out now and again. It’s either that or the broomstick makes an appearance. All mothers need time-out! Dad’s too sometimes.

When I whinge about how old I feel (her boundless energy puts me to shame) she’ll proclaim:

“Mummy you’re not old! You don’t look like a granny; they have wrinkles and no teeth!”

Yes, honey, your mummy will forever be grateful for that marvellous insight. May she continue to flame my lacklustre vanity. The ego is such a fragile thing.

So in answer to the 6 million dollar question and for the umpteenth time...No, I have no plans to have another child. I am content with the one (for this I shall be punished no doubt).

If that should raise an eyebrow or two then so be it. Ask me about it again and I might be a little cryptic in my answer. Better still, a resounding: “mind your own business” might do the trick. I sure as hell wouldn’t miss going to kiddies tea parties, where the topics of conversation make you want to seek out hard drugs, just to numb the banality of it all. Oops how un-motherly of me! How to lose friends and alienate people....oh dear....