Withering Argument Wins Day

When we had three children under ten years old my husband and I moved to a Greek island.  Their ages were 4, 8 and 10.  To survive we took whatever jobs, that were available.  It often entailed both of us being out at work at the same time.  Being new to the island I found it hard to trust my children to a complete stranger.  Mostly, we could cover the childcare between us but for the times that both of us were committed I felt that actually the only person I could really trust on the island was my eldest son.  He was intelligent and articulate.  Very much in charge of himself and much older than his years.

In some ways, he had already hit adolescence and entered the stormy waters of rebellion.  He hated being on the island and was vociferous in complaining of the injustice of it all.  My other sons suffered probably more but did so in steadfast enduring silence.  My eldest son was furious with our decision to drag him out of his UK school across Europe to an island school where pupils and teachers spoke only Greek.  In typical fashion he combined withering argument with practical intent.  While blaming us for this miserable choice he immediately set himself the task of learning Greek.  Obviously, his campaign of a speedy UK return might not succeed so he was concerned his back up plan would be up and running.  Unknown to us, he was making friends and learning the new language fast.  School helped and a good mind when combined with a competitive edge brought him quick success.  Within months he became the family translator.  Some of the dialects he found hard to follow but even then he preserved.  After all, many of the island Greeks themselves struggled with the peculiar village accents.    So when it came to leaving my children I decided there could be no safer hands than this obstreperous elder son.  When leaving, I would announce to his siblings, “Obey your brother as you would me!”  After all, leaving a ten year old in charge was dangerous enough, without authority it would be impossible.  He turned out to be fair and firm.  Much more even tempered than myself.  I once returned to find the four year old banished to his bedroom and ran to find a sobbing child howling pathetically.  However, when I questioned him as to the fairness of his punishment, the four year old reassured me by announcing that he’d been a very bad boy indeed and deserved his punishment.

This ten year old’s zero tolerance of bad behaviour was combined with a level-headed approach.  No huge swings in emotion like his mother.  He was a pragmatic child-minder.  Marshalling his considerable skills to this task just as he had to the Greek language barrier and with equal success.  He did not believe in corporal punishment or verbal abuse. H seemed to have twigged at a young age that when you have a modicum of control over yourself, control of others becomes easier.  What pleased me was the good humour he brought to the task.  He may have hated being on this island and furious with his parents for transplanting him but he did not vent his fury on his younger siblings.  A sense of justice was a reassuring quality to find in this rebellious youngster.  His capacity as a major caregiver meant over the years he felt empowered to point out my inadequacies as a mother.  These, I had to take on the chin.  If someone has filled your shoes with skill and good humour they are entitled to point out your failings.  It has long been apparent to me that my mother, of the generation above, and my son, the generation below were infinitely better at this is parenting business than me.  I brought a lot of love to the task but very little practical ability.  My sons have proved themselves long suffering and remarkably loving in response.  They are much nicer human beings than I, thanks goodness!  As a parent, I look on in amazement that I was given the privilege of having such lovely characters in my life.  It has been epic to share life’s journey with them.  Never, in all the years of working in UK and Europe did I ever experience the quality of these three very different individuals. I suspect all mothers feel the same, but I feel duty-bound to be thankful for the gift they have been. 

To my eldest son thanks for being that odd mixture of intelligence and lightness of spirit.  To my middle son for the loving creative intuition he brings to all encounters.  For my youngest I can only celebrate his fearless passion and honesty.

But, I know with a deep certainty that we were not left alone on that island.  A marvellous array of wonderful people flooded into our lives.  From all walks of life they surged around our home.  Jimmy and Eleni, Tzampika an George, Ursula, Harold and Arline, Lyndsay. Maria, Dimetrious, Una, Karen, Zeni, Themis, Eleni, Vasilis, Leive, Mary and Nizam the list goes on and on.  My sons were surrounded by gems in the community. I can only bow my head in appreciation for all those who stepped in and stayed in our life, filling it with love and laughter.

We could have been contenders!

Every Boxing Day when we called up around Armagh direction with relatives in Keady, Markethill, Caledon, Tynan, Killylea we entered a strange border territory that was almost foreign to us.  Down long endless lanes to farms we found doors flung open and hoards of relatives would fill rooms eager to learn your news and share theirs.  The yearly pilgrimage coincided with the Killylea hunt on Boxing Day and I was fascinated with the huge steaming horses prancing around Main Street.  My eldest brother felt differently and referred to them as big smelly animals that could fart from both ends.  Years passed and my attitude hardened.  I disliked these fancy folk on their steeds who took perverse pleasure from hunting wildlife to death.  Deep inside, I have to confess it was their ‘Hurrah Henry’ accents, crisp riding outfits and tilt of their heads that got up my nose even more than their hunting proclivities. To me they represented the landed gentry, rich folk that were the polar opposite to my ‘poor pig farming’ background.  In contrast to the hunting fraternity, my relatives like Uncle Archie were genuinely impressive; he intrigued us children, by having a conversation with us each year consisting solely of farts.  Auntie Sally fed her grandchildren with huge lambing coke bottles with a teat on the end and the babies were all huge beaming Buddas on her lap.  Auntie Eve winded her babies by holding their bare bottoms to the fiery range and we were intrigued by the engine ‘put, put’ sound they made.  Their earthy good humour had us in stitches of laughter.

The welcome at each farm remained as warm as ever each year and it always shocked me how the bloodline of family breaks down all social barriers.  Every Boxing Day when we travelled down from Dungiven, high in the northern Sperrins, I felt embraced by a clan I hardly knew but one that claimed me as their own.  Chunky chickens (a name for particularly fat birds) were smuggled into our boot along with boxes of biscuits and sweets.  It was akin to a family hunting party on a raid.  There were strict rules that needed to be abided by.  If we called into a warm kitchen bathed in heat from a massive Aga and failed to consume a good tea – ham, salad, beetroot with lashings of hot tea, followed by freshly baked cakes my father would be scolded solemnly at the door as we left.

“Sure, this doesn't count as a visit, son!  You hardly had a crumb.  Now, mind you, it wasn't a proper call at all.  You'll have to call again and have a real tea.”

The scolding was intense and serious with deep disappointment that the social niceties had not been adhered to.  My father would bow his head and admit he’d failed his hosts and duly promise to return for an extra call before next Boxing Day.  Given that we called at half a dozen farmhouses on Boxing Day our appetites were phenomenal.  You couldn't get out off a meal by saying that Auntie Annie had already fed you to the gills.  That wouldn't do at all.  So, we learned to develop appetites that consumed all that was presented on plates.  My brothers and I became skilled at clearing table after table.  Only when our bellies ached, bloated beyond bearing did we call a halt.  Dreading the terrible scolding our father would endure, if we were rude enough to leave with only a cup of tea in us.  It was part of our cultural identity to eat meal after meal with gusto.  If only eating had been an Olympic sport we three would have been contenders.  I was, years later, at a Christmas ‘work do’ and had consumed a huge plateful of food.  My colleague next to me was feeling indisposed and could not touch their equally enormous pile of turkey and stuffing etc.  It was second nature to immediately consume their dinner and desert straight after my own.  Their appalled expression said it all.  Training and endurance, I called it.  Sure, hadn’t we as a family eaten our way across Co Armagh for decades?  A powerful appetite is the only proper response to a generous host.  Sure, any kith or kin of mine knows that!

Lost in Translation - what they really mean

We often hear what others say but do we actually understand?  Here are tips to getting clear translation and free advice on good responses.

When a boyfriend says, referring to an ex, "She means nothing to me!"
translation - he's fixated on this woman, drop him like a hot potato

When a girlfriend says. "My previous boyfriend had many faults but he was generous."
translation - she will bleed you of every penny you have

When a man says, "I am a man of few words"
translation - I have nothing interesting to say

When she says, "Why do you always look at other women?"
translation - beware the green eyed monster, unless you enjoy control, get your ass out of there!

When anyone says any of the following they mean the same

1. 'Sorry I forgot my wallet."
2. "Sorry, I don't have change."
3. "Didn't you say you'd get this?"

translation - they are a mean bastard and you will be expected to pay all bills and be grateful for doing so.

When she asks, "Does my ass look big in this?"
Translation - Do you think I'm getting fat?  Do not tell her she takes after her huge Mum and sisters.  Do not agree.  The only response that is fairly safe is to complain bitterly that she has lost too much weight recently.

When he says, "I've had to sort out your kids!"
translation - he has been agressive towards your children because he is angry with you.

When she says, "I think I've got the prettiest hands."
translation - the rest of me is extraordinarily ugly and in comparison the hands look good.

When he says, "I've a fine physic!"
tranlation - This is always said by the over endowed to those who think otherwise.

When he/she says "You never listen to what I say!"
translation - is invariably said by those whose conversation is akin to a dentist drill.

When he says, "Things may be tricky now but...."
translation - means there is much more bullshit ahead.  Whatever rapids you are encountering now are nothing to the drop ahead.

When he says, "Do you want to finish that?"
translation - the beggar is after your food, fork him immediately!

When he says, "You are very clever!"
translation - I cannot stand intelligent women, dumb down or else!

When he says, "Why have you got that face on?"
translation - this means that you no longer have the right to certain expressions.  The only correct response is a beeline for the nearest exit.

He says, "For goodness sake, for once can you make a decision yourself!"
translation - usually said by an over controlling freak who  is bored by having total control.

She says, "Your trousures are caught up in your socks."
translation -  why did I end up with the smuck?

He says, "I like your hair the way it was."
translation - don't change a hair of your head without consulting me beforehand

I am sure you have your own insights on what is behind the words we hear.  Sorry that on reading this, it came across as rather critical.  People sometimes mean exactly what they say, I am sure.

Self Discovery and balloons

At a certain age you make discoveries about yourself.  Above fifty you realize mirrors are far too prevalent.  You have begun to appreciate comfort over appearance.  So clothes and footwear reflect that.  It is the slippery slope, which will end eventually with you shopping in your pyjamas and slippers, but you have decided to be realistic instead of in a state of denial.  

Other people become sources of amusement.  The types you recognise bring a knowing smile to your face.  Those you don’t bring a curious welcoming grin to your face.  Those who you vaguely suspect you know but may have forgotten get an odd smile but with raised eyebrows.  Small children and babies are delightful to watch and bring a strange happiness to your heart.  After all, it seems only yesterday you were climbing frames and sitting on swings yourself, shrill with excitement. 

Your grown up children now view you as unreliable, forgetful and naïve.  When did they stop needing you to hold their hand crossing roads and suddenly start lecturing you on traffic safety?  It was only yesterday you were terrified of them being abducted by strangers.  Now, they lecture you on directions, details of time, appointments and behave oddly protective of you in crowded city centres.  You took them for their jabs for measles etc now they ask in cross tones ‘Did you remember to take your medication?’  They are embarrassed by you on a regular basis because you have no longer the self consciousness of youth.  Not giving a darn about what others think has severed the control reins.  Things that used to embarrass you no longer make a dent in your ego.  It helps that the balloon-like ego of your youth has gone.  That feeling of being brighter, chosen, special has sunk down to a wrinkled prune.  Making a dent means just rearranging the folds and has little effect.

The good news is you understand how quickly life passes.  You can appreciate good friends because you know how exceptional they are.  Reasonable health is a call for celebration and thanks because you know how rare that is.  No longer taken for granted.  You have more relatives and friends in the next world than in this one.  That makes dying less fraught.  It also makes living a sweet privilege.

You don't suffer from youth’s primary complaint – boredom.  A scene in your head or a taste can bring alive your past.  A scent can drag memories out of the shadows.  When you meet old friends you greet each other like veteran warriors, sharing stories of triumphs and displaying wounds of bitter defeats.  You lift your cheek to feel the breeze, to soak up the sun’s rays and sigh with the bliss of it all.  To be alive and to relish each second that passes.  What a richness!  If life is wasted on the youth it is embraced and enjoyed by the rest of us.

love has now become more like a plague.

It is a new rage here in Malta.  People in love, buy locks put their names or initials and paddock them to structures.  Perhaps, in an age of transitory relationships such locks symbolise a statement of solidity.  Tattoos are a more visual demonstration of affection and harder to eradicate than marriage in some ways.  How many Daves have tattooed ‘I love Mary’ on their chest only to find years later, they cannot stand Mary and would laser her off the planet as they do their unwanted tattoo.  As, I wander around the rusting love tokens in Malta it is plausible that some would now, with the benefit of hindsight, like to take a chainsaw to remove all evidence of their past liaison.  However, there is something sweet about the desire to so visibly proclaim ones love.  It is after all a beautiful spot to visit.

How better to cement a romantic walk than with a lock and physical statement of your closeness. 

Once you return home from holiday you will be able to imagine your token here forever.  Rusted but strong despite the elements.

While rain pours down in northern climes you can picture your lock on the beautiful coastline beside a statue proclaiming LOVE in capitals.  What is more appropriate?

The desire has spread along the coast to one of the loveliest places with a clear view of the medieval city Valetta across the harbour.  In fact, what began as an innocent declaration of love has now become more like a plague.

Official signs warn that such tokens will be removed if they are placed on the sides.  All to no avail.  Lovers fear no such restrictions.  Having bought their lock in suitably thick metal they search for a noble location to claim.  Buying a small lock obviously denotes meanness or a lack of devotion, so the right love token is critical.  Some proclaim full names of both parties, as if in a wedding certificate, other prefer initials, keeping things semi-secret but also half proclaimed. 

In this copycat world once a trend is begun it develops a life of its own.  Officialdom has learned to play a cautious game.  

Too 'Big Brother' in tone creates a reaction that is worse than the first gambit.  Better by far to accommodate the madness and let it blow it’s self out.  Already, placing a lock amidst the hundreds of others has begun to appear just a little pointless.  

Are the couple not just one of many, all with the same dumb idea?  Another depressing thought is how many times have one or more of the partners already placed a lock with an alternative named partner?  Isn’t a lock much cheaper than a bunch of flowers, meal out or even a card?  Then, there is the worrying notion that a ball and chain have long been associated with an unhappy pairing.  Locks and chains have long been bedfellows, who knows what inner symbolism is being conveyed?  It is frightening to confirm the practice is worldwide and spreading faster than an infectious disease.

Prague

Poland

Germany

 Sigh....I will say no more!

Startled by the kindness

Armchair twitter aficionados managed to track down a gang of thugs who had put two victims in hospital after a brutal beating.  Within eight minutes of the police releasing CCTV footage (remarkably clear compared to the usual hazy footage) of the gang walking down a Philadelphia pavement.  The sleuths used Facebook pictures to find the first thug.  Success in tracking down the rest soon followed.  The thugs like all of us post photographs on Facebook of them in large groups celebrating.  This perennial desire to take selfies, share personal information, names and details online became a breadcrumb trail to all the gang members.  The whole thing triggered by a single twitter on the attack.  The police were able to arrest the whole gang swiftly.  A tale of success is a rare event in our online existence.  Usually, online presence is a contributor to bullying, abuse, an invitation to porn, a conduit to online gambling etc none of which have outcomes usually of much benefit to mankind.

My mother’s hometown of Ballymoney in Northern Ireland has spent money buying huge live-like photographs to stick in shop windows in derelict streets.  

It has become all the rage and Belfast etc abounds in these fake shops.  You drive past a camera shop, flower shop, an old fashioned bakery that remind you of villages of childhood. All completely fake.  

Instead of boarded up premises you seem to see quaint country life around you.  Even a fake walled garden with flowers peeping around corners.  One old cinema has for several years had pasted across it an optimistic sign across its front in foot high print proudly boasting “New hotel to be built here 2012”.  No one bothers to change the date so the lie continues to boost of forthcoming non-existing developments.  

I’m not sure why but all of this plunges me into despair.  It reminds me of Catherine the Great’s 18^th century triumphal procession through the streets of Russia.  When fronts of buildings on the route were made to look grand and areas spruced up to create a pleasing spectacle for the Empress as she passed.  These hid from her sight the destitution and poverty that existed (or so the legend goes).

When was it that we learned to shut off our brains to the truth?  That having a pretence of normality was better than acknowledging facts?  In these days when the gap between the rich and the poor has never been wider, the general public’s time is channelled into buying someone else’s rubbish or lining the pockets of the rich via clever schemes.  Our virtual online web placates us while a growing proportion (perhaps 37%-70%) is devoted to porn.  Turn to the local newspaper (tabloid) and find what illuminates the general public today.  They are aimed at those with an average reading age of 11, I kid you not!  The Sun is famous for many tragic covers, but remains the most popular tabloid.  For example “The Sun's coverage of the Hillsborough football stadium disaster in Sheffield on 15 April 1989, in which 96 people died as a result of their injuries, proved to be, as the paper later admitted, the "most terrible" blunder in its history.”  They claimed “ that some fans picked the pockets of crushed victims, that others urinated on members of the emergency services as they tried to help and that some even assaulted a police constable "whilst he was administering the kiss of life to a patient.”  All complete rot but it took over two decades before the truth was allowed to emerge.  Another memorable release was On 17 November 1989, The Sun headlined a page 2 news story titled "STRAIGHT SEX CANNOT GIVE YOU AIDS – OFFICIAL."   

Oh yes, indeed these guys have no morals or squeamishness about publishing complete lies.  The Sun remains popular to this day but in Liverpool because of the Hillsborough coverage it is still not favoured.  The northern populace has a long memory of the Sun’s betrayal of the truth and many newspaper shops to this day refuse to even stock the paper.  Such tabloids brimming with salacious titbits and massive misinformation are I fear unlikely to produce an enlightened populace.

I started this by pointing out how technology was used to solve a crime.  There are things that, with the right call can be used as a force for good in this world.  Behind the curtain of distracting smoke screens, fears, fancies lie millions of good people.  Start talking to someone/anyone in the supermarket, on a train, bus, visiting the hospital and you will be startled by the kindness that is there in almost every heart.  So, I choose to look at all the crap we are awash with in video/print/audio and feel it has become the scum on the surface of society.  It no longer reflects the reality of what lies within but the churned up pollution that floats to the surface.  Just beneath, I want to think there is an ocean of kindness.  Good people all around the world who do their best in spite of a system that seems to play by its own corrupt rules.