Quick Wit's a Drag...

There was a story in the New York Post last week that got some attention online. The headline was OREGON MAN DRIVING STOLEN CAR CRASHES INTO WOMAN DRIVING ANOTHER STOLEN CAR. My timeline was full of tweets from people sharing the news story, all with a similar perspective. 'No one would commission that', 'I'd be told my pitch was too far-fetched', or, 'It's the perfect meet-cute!', were typical comments. It has to be said the majority of my timeline are writers and creatives so I smiled along at the shared joke and carried on with my day. Until I scrolled past the winning tweet, that was. The one that made me LOLZ for whole seconds of my life. After someone had shared the story with the comment 'Okay here's my pitch we open on...' someone rather witty had replied, 'Please call this "Bonnie and Collide." BOOM. I know, right? That was proper funny. I PMSLed and ROFLed and everything. 

I know now that Ed Solomon
doesn't need the exposure,
but hey, a gag's a gag.

The person with the 'Bonnie and Collide' zinger was unknown to me. Their Twitter name was @ed_solomon and I lamented on how marvellous their reply had been, before giving their profile a quick look. Yeah, so anyway, it turns out that Ed Solomon is a big-deal screen writer, responsible for films like Men in Black and Bill and Ted. I doubt he needs me to tell him he's good with words, but hey, I'll say it anyway. Amongst other things, Ed Solomon does a belting one-liner.

Of course there's a reason behind all this. You know me by now. I always have a point, even when I hide it behind pointlessly long paragraphs of build up. My point is, I am terrible at one liners. I am terrible at quick-witted puns, clever word play, and being playful with phrasing. I just am. I know my writing weaknesses, and the things I've just listed come under that category. Now before you get out your violins and offer up a heartfelt string accompaniment to my pain, it's all fine. I'm good at other stuff. Stuff like describing locations and settings in enough detail to awaken the imagination of the reader. Creating engaging characters that are flawed but likeable. Writing dialogue that feels authentic and hooks you in. I'm happy that I've got enough going for me to keep on with the writing. I just know that pithy phrases and one line zingers take me ages to dream up. This is why I would be a terrible political slogan writer. They rely on precisely this type of skill. Yes We Can. Deeds Not Words. I'd have been no use to Obama or the suffragettes. (Although even I would have spotted the obvious flaw in the Eat Out to Help Out campaign. Maybe Rishi Sunak's a bigger feminist than we all realised?)

All shit.

So, I'm no good at word play or slogans. We can accept that as a given. But I'm approaching the point in the writing process where I need to be. Why? Well, put simply, Book Three needs a title. It's time to work out what to call my current labour of love. And as I know from past experience, I find this bit really hard.

Book naming is a pain. It's a longwinded, ball ache of a job until you find the right one. And when you do, it's suddenly lovely. The unnamed project has an identity. You can label the folder on your desktop with something more personal than BOOK. I am not at the lovely stage yet. If I were, I'd be able to crack on and commission a cover, but I'm not so I can't. I'm in a bit of a fog about it all. The thing is, I've been here twice before (three times if you count my first unpublished practice novel.) I've written about finding the specific titles for both my previous books*, but that doesn't help me now. There are no short cuts. For me this is a process, and one that takes as long as it takes. The good news is, I have started. Here are my thoughts so far

1. This book is from the perspective of three characters. So I've gone through all the Rule of Three, Three's A Crowd, Best of Three style phrases. The thing is, they all sound naff and dated. My book isn't either of those things. And plucking a known phrase with the word 'three' in it, isn't really word play. It's just using a phrase that has a tenuous link to one aspect of the set up. So I've moved on.

2. The three characters are all dealing with something big. Divorce, bereavement, a mid-life crisis, getting older - that sort of thing. And they are all, in their own way, looking for change. So, I've got another short list going with things like 'Getting There, Any Time Soon, One Day Soon, Almost There' etc etc you get the gist. The trouble with this is the perfect title already exists. It's a Men At Work song called Waiting For My Real Life To Begin. This is a problem as it perfectly encapsulates the period before the characters have their breakthrough. But it's been done so I've moved on from that too.

3. I thought I had it. A paragraph at the start of the book details the difficulty of making new friends at a later age. One of the characters realises she needs some wing people. (Not wingmen. There's no need to limit herself.) So I searched my brain and came up with Hunting For Wingpeople. I thought that was it. That was the winner. Then I realised, about three minutes later that I had simply bastardised Taika Waititi's 2016 film, Hunt For the Wilderpeople. I mean, I know all of art is based on something, somewhere else, but that felt a little on the nose.

There are worse titles for Book Three than, 
Girls, Totalitarian Regimes and Other Steps to Madness.

The upshot is, I'm still looking at, and mulling over options. There are other things to consider, of course. This book will follow on from Carry the Beautiful, so ideally it should also be a three word title. I spent quite a bit of time listing other appropriate adjectives that could follow from Carry the... for this one, but it's harder than you think. Well, harder than you think to come up with something that makes sense to the book. Listing adjectives is easy enough. Carry the Scary, Carry the Ginormous, Carry the Powerful... I could do that all day. Maybe I'll keep it simple. Armistead Maupin called his follow up to Tales of the City, More Tales of the City. And then he wrote Further Tales of the City. As his words and his books are as good as they get, it's not a bad plan. I might just go with Carry the Beautiful II. Or Carry the Beautiful Returns. Or More Carry the Beautiful. Look, I told you this wasn't my forte. Just be glad I'm not a political slogan writer, or quick wit on Twitter. I know my limits.**

Have a lovely week, folks.

*Carry the Beautiful's naming process, from 2016

 Leeza McAuliffe Has Something To Say's naming process from 2018

**My greatest one-liner moment in recent times came last week. (Bear with me, I have to set the scene. It'll be worth it, promise.) My brother and I had driven into Wales in order to visit our parents who had been locked down since March. Because Wales had been stricter in its COVID procedures, we'd made jokes on the family WhatsApp group about border control, trench warfare, and breaking through barricades. (Because we are children.) That evening, I was typing about our successful return to England from the Chester services carpark as my brother got an emergency Maccies. My Dad, in reply to something I'd said about snipers said, 'Sounds like a war book is planned.' And QUICK AS A FLASH, I replied with 'All Quiet on the Chester Front?'

BOOOOOOOOM. MIC DROP. THANK YOU AND GOODNIGHT.

I can't lie, I was made up with myself. When Dom got back in the car, I told him how funny I'd been in the actual moment. Despite this being an obvious fact to those on the WhatsApp group, when I got in an hour later, no one had replied. No one had responded in any way, not even a laughing emoji. The chat had moved onto the best date for a post-lockdown BBQ. When I got in to bed that night, I checked again, and only Dom, the brother that had been with me at the time, had given my joke a few hand claps. He didn't mean them. He just knew I needed the affirmation when I'd been so chuffed with my EXCELLENT PLAY ON WORDS.

(I don't think they knew the book All Quiet on the Western Front. That must have been the reason. The problem must be them, surely?)

Soooo.  Anyhooo. I'll probably stop going on about my family WhatsApp grievances now. But you can see why I'm so concerned about my book naming abilities? Can't you??

(Seriously though. ALL QUIET ON THE CHESTER FRONT! Frigging hilarious.) 

One Day I'll See the Wood...

OK folks, it's book update time. You're joking. Not another one? Please insert your inner Brenda from Bristol voice where applicable. 

In the editing chair, not seeing the wood.
(To be fair it WAS a hot day.)

Back on March 2nd, I wrote my definitive guide to the novel editing process. I say definitive guide, but it was mainly a ranty howl about how horrific a time I was having. Feel free to refresh yourself by clicking the link above, or alternatively catch up in my TLDR bullet points below. Basically I decided that the three stages of editing are...

• The first stage - loads of fun, including the first big reread of the initial draft, with all the time in the world to make it better.
• The second stage - the grim, can't-see-the-wood-for-the-trees stage, where no amount of confidence or delusion will convince you this has been nothing but a big fat waste of time.
• The third stage - where it's all polishing and tweaking, ignoring the content and scouring for typos, spacing issues, and punctuation errors. 

At the start of March, I was just embarking on stage Two, and at the time of writing I am firmly entrenched in... Stage Two.

I know! I'm STILL AT STAGE TWO. The humanity! How can I get up every morning when I have that terrible experience waiting for me? Yeah, it's not the most fun part of the process, I can assure you. But it's getting better. Not being stuck in Stage 2 that is, but the actual text. It's getting better. I'm dispensing with waffly sentences every time I pick it up. I'm rewriting whole paragraphs to give a better flow. I'm making sure the character traits I give hints at in the early chapters, develop into fully fledged parts of personalities by the end. It's a long winded process, not least because a pesky little global pandemic rocked up in the middle of it all, and shut my brain down for the best part of six weeks. But it's a process. A long one. And I'm still cracking on and working through it.

A lovely person commented at the end of the March post but every time I try to
 reply, it never comes up on the screen. So, to the mystery poster, 
thank you for reading, and I hope your own editing is going swimmingly.

Sometimes I think I take too long with this stuff. When I poke my head into the indie-writing world now and then, I see other authors manage to crack out new books every few months. I have no idea how they do it. What about their research? Their beta readers? Their thinking time to create new ideas? I don't have a clue. For me, even though this feels long-winded and - at times - really frustrating, I'm still on schedule. I want to get the to the end of the second stage before the end of the year, give out Advanced Reader Copies after Christmas, then get polishing and tweaking, as well as commissioning a cover, in the first part of next year. Then it'll be released sometime in 2021. As that will be my third title since 2017, I feel all right about the hassle of rereading it 53684930 times before that. It's just part of the gig.

All the magic happens here. And all the
grinding, headache-inducing frustration 
 too.

You might be wondering, if you've made it this far, why I'm banging on about editing again. Well, mainly, because it's all I'm doing right now. I have nothing else to say! But when I look at the data for this blog, I can also see that the most read post in recents times, is my definitive guide to editing from March. This could be the case for several reasons. Perhaps people feel sorry for me in my deep distress of Stage Two. (Because drinking lots of tea and sitting in a comfy chair all day is probably just like working down the mines. Poor me? Boo hoo? Yeah, maybe not.) Or perhaps I've struck a cord with other writers out there who are experiencing equally frustrating periods of work. That post got picked up by a couple of other websites and was shared about a bit, and so far no one has told me they fundamentally disagree with it. So that's good. It just proves my point. Stage Two is awful. It's horrible, long-winded, demoralising, positivity-crushing, and needs to hurry up and leave me alone. And on that note, I have some more editing to do. If I want to stop being blinded by trees, that it.

Have a lovely week, folks.

Drawing a Line...

A selection of past blogs
that cover 'all this'.

Looking back over this blog since March, it seems I've written about 'the current state of the world' eleven times. Eleven! Blimey, I'm sorry. I usually try to mix things up more than that. Some weeks it's a book update, others it's a pithy look at a news item, and then there are those weeks when I just throw in a recipe. (AKA 'busy as frig' or 'can't be arsed' weeks.) Yet since March 16th when I wrote about the pointlessness of panic buying loo roll, the current state of things or 'all this' - as I stretch open my arms as if to capture the global mood - has been a theme that will not go away.

Image from this website.
It's well worth a watch.

Instead of seeing this turn of events as a dull slide into predictable bloggery, I'm going to focus on the main positive to take from all of this  It appears, to my mind at least, that I've become a modern day Dickens; a chronicler of our turbulent times. That Cummings character could be lifted right from the pages of his work, up there with Uriah Heep (very 'umble man of the people) or Seth Pecksniff (a big fat hypocrite.) You KNOW I am right. By being a bit one-note for a couple of months, I have inadvertently taken my place among the greats. A grave at Poet's Corner awaits me. Armando Iannucci will direct my words at a later date. (Side bar: His David Copperfield that's just dropped on the streaming services, is marvellous.) 

So, as a self-appointed voice of a generation. As someone that has her finger on the pulse of the country, as a woman who has... What? Get on with it? Oh. OK then. All I was going to say was, it's time to bring that particular theme to a close. Not because Coronavirus is over. Lolz. Obviously not. Despite the mixed messaging from senior politicians and health advisors, it's still very much a thing. But, so is the economy, and that's why theme parks are opening. And museums and cinemas. Not theatres or open air swimming pools though, because... no, not sure about that one. But there we are. It's been announced. July 4th - in England at least - will herald some sort of freedom from what we've had so far. It's also the day you have to start giving your contact details in at the pub, which doesn't sound very freeing at all. Hey ho. But with some aspects of society returning to normalish, lots of people are now acting normalish. It feels like 'all this' is coming to an end.

People acting normalish last week.
Image taken from this news story.

Whether that's true or not, only time will tell. From my own perspective, very little has changed. As much as I miss a proper pint, I can't see I'll be one of the thousands that head to the pub come Saturday. I'm not that keen on handing over my data these days. Likewise, as much as I know some restaurants are hoping to be open, I am in no rush to be the first through the door. It seems so counter-intuitive to everything that's happened so far. My own cancelled plans from the past months have included several theatre tickets, a holiday and a wedding. Most of those events have been rescheduled for next year. I'll feel back to normal when I'm able to enjoy all 2020's postponements in 2021.

So, to wrap up the last fourteen weeks of unprecedented doom-laden times, let's look at the positives. What changes have I made during lockdown, that I will carry forward into the future. It's not all been bad news. 

1. Food Shopping. I'm going to stick with a weekly food shop, rather than three or four mini grocery runs. It's made me be more organised about what's already in the cupboards and has helped keep waste to a minimum. 

2. More Chatting. I mean, obviously I prefer a face to face convo rather than a stream of messages, and heaven forbid having to actually answer my phone. What is it, the nineties? But Zooms, Houseparties, and Teams have meant I've had more contact with more people than usual. Granted, once we can all get out and about again, the necessity for this will stop. But having a fortnightly natter with my college friends that I only really spoke to en masse about once a year before 'all this', has been a lovely thing.

3. Garden Parties. Now look. We all know I hate the garden. Bloody hay fever and the potential of skin cancer at every sun-kissed turn. But, being blessed (grrr, pollen) with a large space outside the back of the house has been useful. Since we were told we could, I've had a couple of small gatherings out the back. One weekend assorted siblings and their kids came round. Another time, my college friends (those from the fortnightly chat) rocked up. Hosting an event in germ-ridden times is the easiest thing in the world. A fresh hand towel in the loo, hand sanitsier dotted about, and a pack of anti bacterial wipes for anyone that needs them. That's about it really. Easy. No clean up afterwards, either. It's all about the space these days, not the food, drink, or entertainment. None of that's expected right now and that's fine by me. I'm happy to host such low-level events long after the germs have gone.

Just like Malibu Ken,
except it's LA Nicky.

4. Blonde Bond. Yep, I'm keeping the bleach, for the time being at least. What started out as initial lockdown madness, has grown on me. A friend I chatted to recently told me I looked like the LA version of me. Despite this being hysterical, I will take it, no worries. 

So, there we are. Whilst COVID is still very much a thing, and a second wave seems more than likely, we've come to a crossroads in the pandemic's vibe. Whether you've flocked to a beach and will queue for the pub, or whether you're gingerly exploring your carefully selected bubble, let's hope we're all as sane and safe as possible. Meanwhile, I look forward to the eventual dramatisation of these times. We need a Quiz-style mini-series that will entertain as well as leave us slack-jawed with the stupidity of it all. Ah, but look at that, over the horizon. It's a-coming! According to Friday's Independent, there's a film in the works. Well that's something we can all look forward to, as the world resets itself. The only question now is whether Michael Sheen can pull off Boris Johnson, so to speak.

Have a lovely week, folks.

Hey Baby, Welcome to your Imagination...

Sometime during the last ice age (November 2016 to be precise) I wrote a thing about naming characters. In it, I confidently asserted that the only good reason to procreate, was so the child in question could wear hats with ears. Hats with ears are the only reason to have a kid. I still stand by that. Timeless wisdom you can etch in stone, as old as the hills. Buy why go so far back in the dusty blog files to remind the world of that particular gem? Well, I've found another reason to justify passing on genes to an unsuspecting blank slate. More of that in a moment.

My favourite for Baby B...

But first, in kinda related news, I'm an Auntie! Again! The fourth member of Bond: The Next Generation was heralded into the world just hours ago. (At the time of writing there are scant details, and I am unaware of the GDPR consents of the baby in question. So let's just say, welcome to Baby Number 4! Nephew Number 2! Another member of the team to visit me in my old age, sneaking booze into the old folks' home. The reason I bring this up now, apart from it being today's breaking news, is that it's kick started the Bond family tradition that takes place whenever a newbie is welcomed to the club.

 

...but with a clear disclaimer
inside. Not sure things have
changed that much in hindsight.

Prior to their birth, the older family members buy the new kid on the block, some books. It's a way of establishing a library right from the off, as well as a chance to pass on much-loved stories to a new reader. It means that for the fourth time in six years, I have been given the opportunity to immerse myself in children's literature as I consider the way I want to introduce myself to the niece or nephew in question. Because, just as a key query on a first date would be, 'What's your favourite book?', a person's reading choice highlights so much about them. If this is how my new niece or nephew first learns of me, then it has to be good. It has to be a considered and thought-out process.

For Baby C...

For the first baby, I chose all my own favourites, long before she was born. No one knew the sex, and it was nice to choose without being swayed by any unconscious gender biases I might have accidentally brought. So Baby B got some Enid Blyton (with a healthy disclaimer at the front about how times have changed since I loved them!) And she also got some kiddy Shakespeare, because it's never too early to lock down a soliloquy.  

...still sound advice.

When Baby C was on the way, a few years later, news from the scan informed us that a boy was gestating. So, I made it my mission to ensure he would not be troubled with toxic masculinity for a second. I chose Jacob's New Dress, The Sissy Duckling, The Boy Who Cried Fabulous, and Skateboard Mom. I like to think my plan worked. That kid has empathy in bucket-loads. And he's never arsed about taking his turn to role-play a princess either. Good work, books. You did your job! 

I was still in teacher mode
when I bought this...

Baby D was the last arrival before today, checking in to the family last Autumn. For her arrival, my MO for book purchasing was simply to spend a bit of time in the Waterstones' kids' section. At one point I narrowed down my shortlist to twelve, before putting a few choices back on the shelf. No child needs a full bookshelf from the start, with no room for their own choices. The aim is to encourage reading, not prescribe it. But still. Choosing books for tiny relatives is loads of fun. She got the books that shouted out to me, that had sumptuous illustrations, or whose stories grabbed me. She may end up hating every single one of them, but she has that choice. She's got a jumping off point from which to consider her own opinions. Hopefully she will have plenty of them.

...but I was right.
Shakespeare rocks.

And now it's this week. My book choices arrived a few days ago, before Baby Number 4 rocked up. It was definitely harder because of lockdown. Not being able to flick, browse, and wallow came with its own challenges but I came up with some crackers. I think the underlying messaging behind all my book choices, whether subconscious or not, is to open up the world beyond the patriarchal, heteronormative, white privileged constraints that exist in society*.  That, and gifting some fun reads. So, for newborn Baby S, who I have yet to meet - Grrrr you pesky Covid - here are his books. I like Myself! It's OK To Be Different, King and King, and The Great Big Book of Families. I genuinely love them. The gift of literature cannot be overstated.

All yours, Baby S! Enjoy the brilliant 
world in your head and beyond.

In another family with another Auntie, kids might get chemistry sets, gadgets or number games. Fair play, it takes all sorts. It's OK to be different, as the book title tells us. But to not actively encourage a skill that transports us into another world, that offers experiences  different to our own, that gives us an imagination filled with friends, places, and events that we can access any time we like? Well that would be a terrible oversight. Here's to Baby S and everything they read! And here's to me, experiencing the joys of welcoming new life once again. Hats with ears and book-sharing - procreation has a couple of perks at least.  

Have a lovely week, folks.

*I'm not sure where Enid Blyton fits in with that, but still. I've come a long way since then.

Always There and I Didn't Know It...

The world may be in disarray but here we are, chugging on regardless. I've talked at length about how I dealt with the early part of lockdown, when my head imploded with the unknownness of it all. Now, with the constant rolling news of awfulness, I'm looking for bursts of escapism. Utterly joyful and whimsical flights of fancy that provide sporadic respite and balm from real life. With this in mind, there's something marvellous I've discovered. Except I didn't discover it at all. It was under my nose this whole time. Let me explain. *Clears throat. Sips water. Begins.*

Whilst listening to a podcast recently, another podcast was advertised in the middle of it. Julia Raeside's voice announced Always There. A podcast that gave an episode by episode breakdown of every series of - wait for it - Howard's Way. I KNOW. She had me at Howards'. Julia! You had me at Howards'. When I climbed aboard, Always There had just started discussing Series Three of the show. Somehow, I had managed to let this absolute wonder pass me by for twenty-six episodes. I made a solemn vow to rectify that ASAP. So I did, and I have.

Image taken from this site.

Howards Way, for anyone not in the know or who's had a sleep since the eighties, was the most marvellous romp of a show. It showcased the comings and goings of upper-middle class Englanders who lived, worked, and loitered around the boat industry. Whether it was wood-enthusiast and traditional craftsman, Jack Rolfe, or smooth operator and speedboat-company-owning Ken Masters, this show had it all. The whole shebang hinged on the Howard family, where Jan's en point fashions and business aspirations threw in a zeitgeisty zing to the proceedings. She was a modern woman! This was a modern show! Champagne? Glug glug! Lovely!

Listening to the podcast bought it all back. And so, as was inevitable from the start, I rewatched the TV programme from Episode One. It's all there on YouTube and God, it felt therapeutic. Phone down, close laptop, and relaaaaxxxx. I've got into the habit of watching an episode at the end of the evening, and then going to bed to listen to the corresponding podcast as I drift off. And then, the next morning, after checking in with the news, I relisten to the previous night's podcast as I have a shower and throw on some mascara, just in case I fell asleep before the end. I highly recommend the whole process.

Oh it's such a perfect day...🎶

The Internet tells me Howards' Way was broadcast from 1985 to 1990. I don't remember if I took the story lines seriously at the time  (I do remember feeling indignant on behalf of Abby, for the way her nasty mother, Polly, treated her) but rewatching now has been an absolute tonic. After digesting a day of news, announcements, and bulletins, turning on Howards' Way has been the sweetest of releases. You know the scene in Trainspotting when Renton takes heroin and sinks into the carpet? It's that.

Soon I will have caught up with where the podcast is up to. Series Three. Then I will be rationed to one episode a week until the end of the series. And then it's a wait until Series Four. So, I have to think of my next YouTube retro binge. Something that can provide the escapist soothe that Howards' Way has done so far. My initial thoughts? There's only one option that springs to mind. Eldorado. I loved that soap. Play the music now and tell me it doesn't give you tingles. No, you're lying. It's impossible. Anyway, that's a plan for the future. For now, however, I'm still thigh-deep in the Solent, the Jolly Sailor, Jack Rolfe's boat yard, and wondering when they'll let Lynn wear proper clothes instead of a bikini all the time. She might fit in a quick solo navigation of the Atlantic for a couple of episodes in Series Two but she must be bloody freezing.

Have a lovely week, folks.

The Rightful Discomfort of White Privilege...

Last week I wrote about my anger over the Dominic Cummings story. I'm still angry. About all the little things that contributed to it, preceded it, or have followed from it. I'm angry at the government's incompetence at handling the Coronavirus pandemic. I'm angry at Brexit and that no one in power will admit the country is in desperate need of an extension to the transition period. I'm angry at the political game-playing by Rhys-Mogg, in his forcing only the well and physically-able MPs to queue all day in Parliament, and the ridiculousness of the Government announcing compulsory facemasks on public transport, eleven weeks after a national lockdown. I'm angry at it all.

Liverpool Tuesday 2nd July 2020.
Story here, photo credit: Liverpool Echo.

But that's a Downing Street-centric list of anger-making events. There's so much more to be angry about, and yet this is where I question how to express it appropriately. The anger I'm feeling is over injustices towards people whose experience I have never had. It's correct that I am angry. It's correct that I'm enraged. But it's wrong to feel like I'm the victim when I'm anything but. The killing of George Floyd in the US has prompted Black Lives Matter protests all over the world. There was one in Liverpool last week. It feels right that people are expressing their anger. Especially when it seems that it's having some effect. (The charges were increased for the police officers that killed or were involved in the killing of Mr. Floyd, a few days after the protests started.) And I get that despite us being slap-bang in the middle of a global pandemic, this is just as important. (As the writer Lucy V Hay* highlighted on Twitter, 'Both COVID19 and racism are pandemics and affect the BAME population disproportionately.') The trouble is, I am riddled with white privilege. I've known this for a long time but it doesn't make it any fairer. I've only ever been stopped by the police when I've been legitimately speeding. I've never been openly viewed with suspicion for walking, shopping, or going about my business. I have never once had to consider the colour of my skin in relation to unfair treatment. It's something I have no experience of at all. Not negatively anyway. I have, however, seen it work positively towards me - if positive is the right word for unfair treatment against others. A few years ago, I took an early morning flight to Portugal. In the quiet of the security lanes, there were three groups of people going through at the same time. Me and my white partner walked straight through within seconds. As we put on our shoes and sorted our bags, we saw the other two groups had been held up for a bag search. A black couple, and a brown family. It was stark and obvious and wrong. 

Exactly this.

I said I'm not the victim, and I'm definitely not. Yet society is worse for all when there's inequality and injustice. It benefits every white one of us to want power structures that ensure justice for everyone, not justice for some. We should all want to eradicate systemic racism, even those of us who don't feel its brunt in a million ways every day. We should, but we haven't quite got round to that yet. That's not good enough. And I think it is possible to empathise, if we try. We must try. I've experienced lots of sexism, and once or twice, real misogyny. I know the feeling of being treated differently because of something integral to my identity, something beyond my control. Perhaps my attempts at empathy are based on that. Because it shouldn't need to be said that black lives matter, but it is needed, and they do. And as a white person saying that, it feels woefully inadequate, but it cannot be taken for granted that everyone gets that as basic fact. Not if they struggle to put themselves in the shoes of others. 

Over the past week I've found well-meaning white people can sometimes sound a bit do-goodery online. Or else they emphasise their ignorance by commenting about an issue they think they know. Like, nothing any white person can say, can be worth hearing right now, surely? And yet here I am, trying to show my support and solidarity, without making it all about me and my opinions. I mean well but that's not enough for a free-pass. It's piggy-backing on someone else's pain and lived-experience. (This article by Natalie Denny explains very clearly what that lived-experience is.) I don't want to push my voice louder than those that protest for their own black lives, but nor do I want to be silent and leave them to it. In her speech to students last Thursday, The Duchess of Sussex said, 'The only wrong thing to say, is to say nothing.' So I won't do that. But I also won't pretend to know the feelings of people that have experienced either blatant racism, or the micro-aggressions of a systemically racist society, every day of their lives. As Sophie Hagen tweeted last week, 'Acknowledging your own white privilege is uncomfortable. It's not meant to be nice.' It isn't nice but it is easier done than you'd think. If you watch the short clip below, you'll see Jane Elliot - who was part of the A-Level Psychology curriculum back in the day - highlight very easily the privilege that white people can struggle to accept. 

So here's one practical thing I have done and others can do too. Donate money. It's a drop in the ocean, but it's something. I chose the Anthony Walker Foundation because it's local to me but there are many more out there. I particularly like the ones where bail funds get split between the different cities that need them. It feels like a positive thing to do. But in a society where some people that share my skin colour are literally getting away with murder, it's hardly anything at all.

Have a lovely week, folks.


*Lucy V Hay tweeted that via her script editing account, Bang2write.

Where To Put My Anger?...

Anger. It's a tricky one. Sometimes the gut-rise of indignation is enough to motivate change. Rubbish romances, flaky friends, joyless jobs - anger is the positive kick you need to make a choice for the better. But it can also be destructive. It raises blood pressure, can cause physical and mental ill-health and can turn in on itself. The anger becomes misdirected towards the person that feels it in the first place. Like I said, it's a tricky one.

On March 23rd, I wrote that it was a good idea to 'stick to the official news sources, check them once a day, and then move on.' Wise words. The trouble is, the official news sources now make me rage. A few quick dips into the daily briefing over the past week, and I find myself shouting obscenities at the television like I'm in the middle of a sponsored swear. I've been consistently angry at the state of UK politics for four years now. It's exhausting. (Not just in the UK either. Recent events in the US - as well as some not-so-recent ones - have made my blood boil and my heart break.) Looking away, switching off the news, distracting myself with something calming? Well intentioned, good ideas? Perhaps. Certainly better for my health, too. I look away on occasion when it's all too much, but it's not a long-term strategy. I want to be informed. I want to know what I need to know, to make the right decisions - whether that's during a referendum, an election, or when choosing broadcasters and journalists to trust with the facts. Turning away from the smoke and mirrors of political messaging is not for me, as much as it might be preferable at times. I use the anger I feel at the state of... whatever it is at the time, to make me read more, know more, and understand more. 

But isn't that the same for everyone these days? Before last year, who had watched the BBC Parliament channel for more than five minutes? Who knew what proroguing meant? Did any of us follow constitutional lawyers on Twitter and devour breakdowns of statements from Downing Street in the olden times? I'm assuming not, unless you have a particular kink for legal, political detail. And yet here we are. Last week I watched the Commons Liaison Committee quiz the Prime Minister for over an hour. I followed that with the Daily Briefing by the Health Secretary. After that afternoon of - let's just call it fun in inverted commas - I found myself storming out of the house for a power walk, working off my outrage as I huffed and puffed down the road. (Socially distanced! Nowhere near anyone else! Not in a car to Durham!) 

You see that's the problem. In the past, there have been ways of channelling anger constructively and collectively. I've bought the T-shirt, got the train, and marched through central London enough times over the last couple of years to realise that even when nothing changes as a result of it, the empowerment of actually doing something is like an icy sprinkler, dampening the white-hot embers of rage. It feels soothing even when the situation continues to burn. It's a positive act. Things feel better for a time.

But now, we don't have that. We can't congregate beyond a group of six, we can't march in the middle of a pandemic. Journalists are cut off on Zoom in a way they wouldn't be in person. The (minor) breaking of the regulations by a government advisor, is explained away as 'responsible behaviour' by a father who followed his instincts, one day, or 'a lot of the allegations turned out to be totally false', another. Millions of people, who would have loved to have followed their instincts, were stuck in lockdown when others weren't, and they are angry. Millions of people have witnessed live gaslighting via Daily Briefing, as rules and guidelines that were once repeated each evening to the country, are now reworded with much more wriggle room, presumably to accommodate anyone who might have broken them. Unless it's anyone in the general public, of course. Their fines and penalties stand.

I started this rant with anger because that's what I feel. And yet it is important to contextualise it. Last Monday I sat in the garden with a glass of wine, discussing my outrage about a news story whose furious bubble now seems to have reduced to a simmer. Despite the outrage, I recognise I am very lucky. I can have wine in the garden when I feel the need. My salary and that of my partner's has not changed. Despite increased working hazards requiring PPE, there have been no additional worries about employment. Being childfree means no concerns over home-schooling, going back to school, or what childcare is available. I'm not old enough to be in a vulnerable category. I've no health problems that required me to be shielded. On the other end of the scale, I'm not seventeen and longing to be in the pub, kissing boys, and having the time of my life. (I do long for a pint of draft pale ale, but I'm coping.) The point is, as far as a household in lockdown goes, mine has been as good as it could be. And yet - and here's the point I've been meandering towards - my life since March has been demonstrably shitter. Not as shit as a family that has juggled home schooling with working from home. Not as shit as having crippling financial worries because of the uncertainty of it all. Not as shit as losing a relative and being unable to comfort family members in person. Not as shit as the millions of other households that have dealt with tragedy and heartbreak in the midst of this pandemic. And yet, it's still been shitter than it was.

If I am angry at the hypocrisy and mixed-messaging of the current government, that can only be a fraction of what other people feel. The ones that have had to deal with far more life-changing situations than me. And I wonder where this rage will end? What will it lead to? Unlike previous political decisions that have caused outrage, this one has affected us all. A few contrarian columnists and creeping politicians aside, this has united everyone. We have all made sacrifices, some unimaginable to me. I hope the anger can be used for good. I hope it can be channelled positively into a force for change, so this level of either corruption or mishandling - you can choose your own stance - can never happen again. Because if it isn't channelled for good, then the alternative is even more concerning. Until that time, I'm left with angry power walks, wine in the garden, and not shutting up about it. Because once I accept it as normal, the next outrage will have to be even worse to register. Not on my watch. 

Have a lovely week, folks.