Words and Civilisation: The Kiss X or the X Kiss?

Posted on January 15, 2012 by Scribe Doll

Who was it, that first had the idea of putting an x by the signature, to symbolise a kiss?In every social missive we receive, be it an e-mail, a card, or a text message, our contact’s name is appended with an x.  Sometimes, the x brings a friend along; sometimes two.  At other times, there is a troika, or even an entire party, standing in a row.

 

How did x mutate from the signature of illiterate people, to a smack of the lips?

 

For years now, I have been trying to solve the riddle of the x etiquette, without success.  Do you put an x whenever – given physical proximity – you would apply an actual kiss?  A former boss of mine, a stern man of, shall we say, inexpressive emotional expression, once signed my birthday card, adding an x.  I stared at the incongruous symbol, fully aware of the fact that the possibility of a physical peck on my cheek from said boss could only take place in a universe manifested through absinthe laced with gin.  More recently, a literary agent I approached sent me a text message and added the x next to his signature.  I shuddered.

 

Then, of course, there is the eternal question: how many of these little blighters do we put, and when?

 

x = Easy.  One kiss on the cheek.

x x = Two kisses.  One on each cheek.

x x x = Three kisses.  One cheek, the other, then back to the first.  Russian style.  Or does the third steal a kiss on the lips? Perhaps we had better not go there.

x x x x = ?

x x x x x = ???

x x x x x x x x x x x x… Aaargh! Help!

 

That’s it.  Let teenagers and twenty-somethings study the numerology of the x.  I am going to ignore it from now on, and dispense with its services.  My signature does not need accessorizing.  It does look a little naked on its own, though.  That’s all right.  It’s just a withdrawal symptom.  I can do this.  😘

 

© ScribeDoll

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Double Standards: 7 Inconsistencies for the First Week of the Year

Posted on January 8, 2012 by Scribe Doll

Saturday: The country is being squeezed by financial cuts.  Child poverty is rising sharply.  The rate of unemployment is high.  The cost of living is escalating while salaries are dropping.  Yet, last Saturday, a six-figure sum (I could not find the exact figure) was spent on the official New Year’s Eve fireworks, in London alone.  The expression “money going up in smoke” comes to mind.

Sunday: London Transport fares have risen by approximately 7% with the start of the year.  I understand that the Government considers this a fairer option than funding the increase with Taxpayer money.  What I do not understand, is – don’t commuters pay taxes? Aren’t they taxpayers?

Monday: Some blame our current economic mess on people borrowing money from the banks, which they are unable to repay.  I popped into my local bank branch just to ask them to print me out a statement, since the machine was out of order.  Totally, unsolicited, the personal banker informed me that I qualified for a loan… I held up my hand, gave her a dirty look and said, “Don’t even finish that sentence.”

Tuesday: We are told that it is wicked to waste food, and that the planet’s resources are depleted.  On London markets, they sell large bowls of fruit and vegetables for a mere £1.  Try saying that it’s far too much food for you, and ask if you can buy less.  The seller will inflict the whole lot of you.  Inevitably, you end up throwing much of it in the bin but you have been practically forced to waste food.  In my limited understanding of Economy, prices rise when an item is in short supply.  Since there appears to be such a surplus of bananas, apples, ginger, potatoes, etc. that they are sold for next to nothing, why are there people starving in so many parts of the world? Why aren’t the planet’s resources distributed more efficiently?

Wednesday: I met a lady in the park.  We got chatting about garden wildlife.  “I got rid of all the magpies,” she said.  “Nasty birds.  They eat the young of other birds.”

That is, indeed, harrowing cruelty.  Humans would never eat the young of other species.  Never would they serve up lamb, veal, suckling pig, or split cut the entrails of a pregnant fish to eat thousands of unborn fish (that’s caviar, to you and me).

Thursday: Adopting children in the UK is a gruelling, tortuous process.  All too often people over the age of forty are deemed too old to adopt.  Yet doctors liberally provide fertility treatment and IVF to women in their fifties and even sixties.

Friday: A lady saw me feeding crows in the park.  “Horrible birds,” she shuddered in disgust.  “They eat carrion.”

I was tempted to ask her how many weeks or even months she kept meat in her freezer before eating it – but engaging with stupidity seemed a foolish exercise.

The great Ivan Andreyevich Krylov, known as Russia’s La Fontaine, has a fable about a monkey who catches sight of her reflection in a mirror.  She nudges the bear.  “Look, my dear friend, at that muzzle! Look – what grimaces and contortions! I would die if I looked like that even a little!”

The bear suggests the monkey take a look at herself; but his counsel falls on deaf ears.

© Scribe Doll

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Odds & Ends: New Year’s Eve

Posted on January 1, 2012 by Scribe Doll

When I was nine years old, and we were living in Nice, I would sit by the window, in my pyjamas, and watch the neighbours leave home to go to various New Year’s Eve festivities.  The men all wore black tie, and the women slunk and sparkled.  I gazed and sighed, with occasional interruptions by my mother ordering me to bed.  I visualised them dining in the carpeted, glittering rooms of the Hôtel Negresco, then sipping pink champagne, watching golden fireworks reflected in the night sea of the Baie des Anges.  Once in bed, I projected on the dark screen of my closed eyelids a film of my New Year’s Eves to come.  I carefully designed my evening gown, in midnight blue satin.  I imagined gliding down a palatial staircase on the arm of a dinner suit.  The contents of the dinner suit were a rough sketch of someone tall and skinny, and a wonderful dancer.  Someone very intelligent and very shy (my nine year-old self’s taste in men.)

 

I could not wait to grow up.

 

… Except that, by the time I did grow up, the fashion had changed and I felt rather short-changed.  Outside a few echelons of Society, beyond my immediate reach, New Year’s Eve party goers are now generally clad in ‘smart casual’ attire.  The women, at least, make a visible effort by donning aggressive-looking footwear and the odd sparkling shawl.  Men, however, go for the I-am-being-myself look (with apologies to well-groomed men – do come up and introduce yourselves, later.)

 

For several years now, I have been trying to infiltrate groups where formal dress on New Year’s Eve is a strict requirement, but without success.  Any tips? Go on, humour me.  Help make a girlish fantasy come true.

 

I love New Year’s Eve.  A new beginning.  A clean slate.  A page full of possibilities.

 

One of my favourite New Year’s Eve tasks, is to update my Filofax (yes, Filofax.)  I ponder over every name.  Has he/she been in touch in the past year? Has he/she returned my calls or responded to my e-mails? No? Then he/she gets omitted from the newly transcribed database.  All right, all right.  In some cases, I apply a two-year rule.  Why don’t I keep people’s details, just in case? In case of what? Bring on the broom; let’s sweep the house clean.  Fling open the doors and windows, and let new people in!

 

In parts of Rome, people used to throw old furniture over the balcony, down into the street.  They still set off loud firecrackers.  The more noise, the better, to boot the Old Year out.  They hang miniature broomsticks over their front doors, scacciaguai to keep the house clear of troubles.

 

31st December is also a time for New Year’s resolutions.  How I love writing those! I feel unstoppable and more than capable of keeping every resolution I write down on every line of an A4 sheet of paper.  There will be time enough to review my stamina and edit the list on 2nd January.  For now, everything is possible, including next New Year’s Eve perfect party.  A live orchestra, a roomful of dinner suits and evening dresses, including my own (I can’t decide between claret red and holly green), pink champagne in fine crystal flutes, fireworks dancing on gently rippling waters.  A Venetian palazzo would be the ideal setting for such a party.

 

Invitations welcome.

 

And, talking of resolutions, perhaps you might find a wee space for a request on my part.  If you enjoy my posts, perhaps you could consider slipping a compliment into the Comments section, or even just click on the ‘Like‘ star? (Some of you already do it, and ‘bless your hearts for it.)  Writing a blog is like walking on a deserted field with a sack of words over your shoulder.  A you walk, you take a handful of words, and toss it in the air, not knowing where any of them will land, or where the wind will carry them.  ScribeDoll exists thanks to you.  You make her real by reading her.  Every encouraging comment, or star will be like a flower suddenly sprouting from the ground where a word has landed.

 

I wish you all a perfectly happy New Year.  May 2012 bring you the Horn of Plenty, and allow you to stretch your talents and opportunities to the full.

 

© Scribe Doll

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Odds & Ends: Christmas Eve (Claws Sheathed – Promise!)

Posted on December 25, 2011 by Scribe Doll

My Russian-Armenian grandmother celebrated on Christmas Eve.  That was when she served the special dinner, after which presents were unwrapped.  Christmas Eve was also full of mystery and magic.  It was when Gogol’s witch flew out on her broomstick, plucking the stars from the sky, and tucking them down her ample sleeves; when the devil tried to steal the moon by throwing a cloth sack over it, scorching his fingers in the process.

 

A night for telling fairy tales.

 

Christmas Day was the anticlimax, when we ate the leftovers and lounged around, watching MGM musicals on television.

 

As I grew up, my English half took over for a while, and Christmas Eve became the time for fussing and preparing for the Big Day.  A night for frantically peeling Brussels sprouts and parsnips before sealing them in freezer bags, ready to be cooked.

 

In recent years, I have worked out the perfect balance between my Eastern and my Western sides – I celebrate both Christmas Eve and Christmas Day.  For two days, I feast and make merry.  No, I do not feel guilty about enjoying copious amounts of delicious food.  My ancestors celebrated Christmas for twelve whole days.  That leaves me plenty of room to feel smug about my comparative frugality.

 

On Christmas Day, I like to be in the company of others.  The more, the merrier.  Friends are marginally preferable to family.  On Christmas Eve, on the other hand, I prefer a few hours of solitude, so that I can re-enter the magic world of my grandmother’s Christmases, undisturbed… Just as I am doing, this afternoon.

 

It is nearly three, and I am nearly ready.  The miniature Christmas tree on my desk is lit up with white fairy lights; the Advent candle flame is slowly burning into the number 24 stamped in gold on the red wax.  Next to me, a mug of hot chocolate – with a pinch of cayenne – and, on a plate, a large wedge of panettone.  The Radio 4 announcer is giving us the annual historical background to the Festival of Nine Lessons and Carols, which began in 1918.  Then, silence but for a brief, almost imperceptible cue from the organ.  I hold my breath and strain my ear.  Will the treble hit the first syllable, “Once in Royal David’s City” with confidence? Will he make it through the rest of the opening verse without faltering?

“… her little child.”

Good lad.  He did it.

 

I picture the darkening stained glass windows of King’s Chapel, where I have spent many an evening, and many a Christmas Eve, the flickering candle flames dancing on the faces of the choral scholars, the attentive frowns of the little boys, all eyes on conductor Stephen Cleobury.  The multicoloured sound of men’s and boys’ voices weaving through the air, rising up to the fan vaulting.

 

a lake of fiery goldOutside my window, the setting sun splashes a lake of fiery gold behind the black outline of the rooftops.  Within seconds, the gold has mutated into brush strokes of rose and apricot that spread across the sky.  On the black shape of the tree, in the garden, the inky silhouettes of two crows.  They await the signal.  As the sky darkens, they fly away, past the rooftops.  Once a year, on Christmas Eve, they are freed from the corvine bodies they inhabit the rest of the year.  The first crow turns into a handsome man with the proud looks of the Caucasus, and an aquiline nose.  He sings with a velvet voice, and dances with passion and grace.  The second crows is transformed into a woman so beautiful, no fairy tale can illustrate, nor pen describe.  Her eyes burn bright, like sun rays on obsidian.  She is a storyteller, and her tales bewitch all who listen.

There is no sign of the squirrels.  They, too, on Christmas Eve, turn into histrionic acrobats and spend the night feasting and leaping over a bonfire.

 

Night has thrown her cloak over London.  I pour myself a glass of mead.  The crows and squirrels will be tired after a whole night of revelry.  I must go to the  park, in the morning, and take them some Christmas breakfast.  Perhaps a wedge of panettone.

 

In the unlikely event you are reading this on 25th December, then I wish you a Merry, Happy, Cosy and Fun Christmas.

© Scribe Doll

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Words and Civilisation: Words of ‘Comfort’?!

Posted on December 18, 2011 by Scribe Doll

You’ve just had a major disappointment, heartbreak or mishap; or you’re just having a bad time.  You’re feeling low, sad, upset or angry.  Whatever the reason, you’re basically in a lousy place, from which the view is – begging your pardon – crap.  You need a friendly ear, so you decide to blow off steam to a friend.  Your friend responds as follows:

 

 “Oh, well, never mind”

How dare they belittle the magnitude of your woe or even the magnitude – even if slightly disproportionate – of your reaction to it?

 

“C’est la vie”

What’s with the sudden French? Unless you’re Cary Grant addressing Deborah Kerr, chances are, you cannot pull this one off.  And even Cary Grant added “etc.” at the end of the remark, to send up the platitude of it.

 

“That’s life”

No kidding.  So glad you’ve told me, since I come from a different planet.  No, it doesn’t work in English, either, sorry.

 

“Aww… Would you like a cup of tea?”

Contrary to this three hundred year-old British belief, tea does not help.  A glass of Baileys, on the other hand…

 

“Oh, sorry to hear that.  By the way – did I tell you? – I’ve just bought a Picasso”

… And why is this supposed to make me feel better? Oh! Were you going to give the Picasso or – even better – its proceeds to me?

 

“How awful! The same thing happened to me… (follows an account the length of James Joyce’s Ulysses)

I don’t want to hear your story.  I want to talk about me!

 

“It’s a lot worse for some people”

At this moment I am the most important person on this planet and my problem is the worst in this solar system.

 

“Don’t worry, you’ll get over it.  You never know what’s just around the corner…”

You’re a psychic, now?

 

“Why don’t you ask so-and-so? Perhaps s/he can help you”

How generous of you to volunteer someone else’s help.  Or is this an exercise in delegating?

 

“Maybe it’s not as bad as you think”

Now, you’re doubting my judgement, on top of everything else?

 

… And the prize goes to:

 

“It could be worse”

Aaaaaaaaaargh!!!!!!!!!!

 

Just pass the jar of Nutella, and a teaspoon.  No, it doesn’t help the situation.  But it is comforting.  Yum!

 

© Scribe Doll

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Pet Hates: (Some) Christmas Cards

Posted on December 11, 2011 by Scribe Doll

No, I am not one of those people who get grumpy, depressed or reclusive at this time of year.  I love, and always have loved, Yuletide.  No, I do not like to see tinsel and baubles adorning the shops in October.  From 1st December, however, I am willing to sleigh into the Christmas mood, with bells on.  I put orange and clementine peel on the radiator to scent the room; I burn pine needle essential oil; and I start drinking from bone china mugs painted with Christmas scenes featuring cats.  ‘tis the season to be cosy.  Starbucks gingerbread latte with extra ginger, hot ale with cinnamon, cardamom and honey, fir trees with white fairy lights, if we are very lucky – snow, Bing Crosby modulating “It’s beginning to look a lot like Christmas…” and – last, but by no means least – the unmistakeable, moonbeam sound of King’s College Choir singing my favourite carol, Noël Nouvelet.

 

Christmas cards.

 

There it is.  The sound of the sapphire skidding on the vinyl record.

 

During the season of love and goodwill towards our fellow creatures, few things can make you feel as un-special, as a Christmas card.  Tell the truth now.  How many Christmas cards do you receive, which reflect true effort – let alone care – on the part of the sender? Mostly, all you read in the card, is the one-size-fits-all platitude (such as Season’s Greetings – is the Season a person entitled to a grammatical possessive, now?).  All the sender has added in his/her own handwriting, is “To (your name)” at the top of the page, and his/her signature at the bottom.    It is about as personal and caring as a pair of socks that happens to have your first name initial on them.  You picture the sender frantically topping and tailing dozens of such impersonal cards, doing his or her annual social duty.  That’s right – you represent yet another obligation.  Your friend/relative/colleague has given you a card – what else do you want from them?  A personalised message?! Don’t you know how many more cards your friend/relative/colleague has to write?!

 

I never understand the point of giving cards to people you actually see during the Christmas season.  People hand over these envelopes, sometimes saying something pedestrian, such as “Christmas card” (just in case you assumed the envelope was full of bribe money).  What is exciting about people giving each other bits of paper with red-breast robins or Nativity scenes, which contain nothing noteworthy, when they could just speak the good wishes – live?

 

Another point of interest.  I wonder that no environmentalist group – to my knowledge – has ever devised a campaign to cut down Christmas cards to safeguard trees.  Just how many tons of paper are used on Christmas cards, every year? I can see some of you suppress a self-satisfied smile, and proudly announce that you use only recycled cards.  Congratulations! Never mind the energy used on recycling, and the ensuing pollution – at least, you’re recycling.

 

How about this for a Christmas resolution.  Perhaps, if we are pressed for time, we could dispatch fewer cards, but make the effort of adding a few handwritten lines to those we do send, to make the recipients feel we actually thought of them as we wrote the cards.  Otherwise, there is always the perfect, tree-friendly option – the e-card.

 

© Scribe Doll

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New Header Image

Posted on December 4, 2011 by Scribe Doll

Hi, Y’all.  I have just changed my header image on the Home Page.  I hope you like it.

Photo of Corby Nero by kind permission of Bishop’s Park Corvus Corvae Community.

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Pet Hates: The Devil’s Demand (or Direct Debit)

Posted on December 4, 2011 by Scribe Doll

When I took out a contract with my existing mobile ‘phone company, I was told that I could have the package I wanted only on condition that I paid for it by direct debit.  No, a standing order was not acceptable.  Nor payment upon receipt of the bill.

 

My landline provider charges me an extra fee, every month, as a form of penalty for not paying by direct debit.  Every year, I have to pay for my television licence upfront, because the only payment in installments they accept, is through direct debit.  Again, they do not accept a standing order.  It is almost impossible to take out a magazine subscription, and spread you payments, unless you set up a direct debit.

 

Just in case there is anyone left out there, who does not know the difference between a standing order and a direct debit (I found out – the hard way – only a few years ago) – or calls them something else in another country, here it is, in a nutshell:

 

A Standing Order: You instruct your bank to make regular payments from your account to a third party.  The transfers remain under your control.  In case of any mishap, the bank should be able to fix it.

 

A Direct Debit: You give a third party your bank details and grant them permission to help themselves to an agreed some of money.  You thereby hand over control of your money to this third party.  If anything goes askew, the bank is powerless to do anything, since you have willingly relinquished control to someone else.

 

 

Companies bully you into paying them by direct debit because that gives them the guarantee that they will get their money.  I cannot help but read, in this attitude, the implication that they do not trust you to settle your bills for their service promptly and accurately.

 

And yet, you are expected to trust blindly that they will provide you with faultless service.

 

There is often a sentence in the magnifying glass requiring section of many agreements (for example, with a telephone or broadband supplier), which stipulates that the company does not guarantee uninterrupted service.  Strangely, the customer cannot, however, add to this contract the proviso that payment will be withheld or the amount altered in the event that service should prove unsatisfactory.  In fact, another aberration, in an economic system in which the purchaser’s power is rapidly waning, is that the Law should allow telephone companies to lock you into a minimal eighteen-month contract.  Of course, they have got you over a barrel.  They know that you need a mobile ‘phone, or whatever else it is that the 21st Century Westerner cannot live without.

 

 

We, customers are no longer the free agents.  We are the beggars who become the willing slaves of the very organisations which are supposed to serve us.  This brings back to mind the tribute-demanding dragons of Mediaeval legends and lays.

 

As far as little me is concerned, I persist in my refusal to set up direct debits wherever I can.  I resent the companies’ suggestion that I am either a crook who will not pay, or a scatterbrain who will forget to pay.  If I am expected to trust the company’s honesty and integrity, then the company should, in return, trust me to pay the bills.

 

Otherwise, the relationship strikes me as somewhat unequal.

 

© Scribe Doll

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Words and Civilisation: You Lucky Thing!

Posted on November 27, 2011 by Scribe Doll

You tell a friend you are going on holiday to New York.  This person is most likely to exclaim (at least in England), “You lucky thing! I wish I were going!”

You may find this reaction offensive on two fronts.  Firstly, the suggestion that you have done nothing to deserve the holiday.  Secondly, the blatant, unashamed expression of envy on the part of this friend.

Once again, I turn to my faithful desk companion, The Concise Oxford.  It defines luck as success or failure apparently brought by chance.  In other words, something that happens to you without the slightest contribution on your part.

The annoyance you feel about your friend’s remark throws a momentary damper on your excitement.  Is he or she sneakily implying that you do not deserve your New York holiday? You decide to smile and let it go.

Actually, no, you will not let it go.

You reply, “Actually, this is my first holiday in six years,” or “I lived like a monk for a whole year to save up for it.”

You restrain yourself from snapping, “Lucky?! What the hell do you know about my life, to assume this has just fallen into my lap?!”

Then, there’s the second barb: “I wish I were going!”
Short, seemingly anodyne – but full of those tiny, sharp thorns which remain embedded in your skin after pricking you.

A friend of mine has recently walked out of his job; a decision which – given the current economic climate – is seen by some as an act of great courage and by others as an act of great stupidity, though all agree that it is an act of madness.  Yet, on his final day in the company, many of his colleagues told him, “You’re so lucky you’re leaving this place.”

Now this comment could be appropriate if he were quitting his job because he had just inherited a fortune, or won the lottery.  He did neither.  He simply made a choice and, with it, a number of sacrifices.  A choice his co-workers were equally free to make but which, for valid reasons of their own, they opted not to.  There was nothing lucky or random about this man’s decision.  He simply exercised his free will.

People are quick to say how lucky you are, without knowing what having or doing something is actually costing you – whether financially, mentally or emotionally.  Everything comes at a cost – sometimes high, at other times negligible.

I find this slight put down reaction to someone else’s success or happiness particularly common among the British, for some reason.  A Middle Eastern person would not like to be told he or she is lucky, lest the remark – clearly born of envy – should cast an evil eye on you.  In Italy, you would be congratulated on your luck if you had just – at the very least – narrowly escaped being hit by a car.

The English – masters of self-deprecation – are often prompt to justify their assets as “luck”.  “I’m so lucky to be married to this person” or “I’m lucky to live in this house” or “”I’m so lucky to have ‘this’ or ‘that’”.  I hear this daily and listen out for the gratitude in their voice but cannot detect it.  Instead I sense a subtle apology, as though they do not feel they really deserve that thing they have; almost as though it is bad manners to have something wonderful.

As for the friends who react to your good news with “You lucky thing!”, you are lucky they have let their true feelings slip.  It allows you to look away from them and direct yourself to those friends who will, instead, say, “I’m so happy for you! You deserve it!”

© Scribe Doll

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Odds & Ends: Commitment – Just a Couple of Thoughts

Posted on November 20, 2011 by Scribe Doll

I have an issue with commitment – or, rather, the lack of it around me.  That is, commitment as I define it.

 

More often than not, we equal commitment with promise; with the ability to stick things out.

 

There was a girl at my university, engaged to be married.  A few weeks before the wedding, she told her fiancé and the vicar that she could not, with a clear conscience, “promise to have and to hold till death [them did] part.”  It was not that she did not love her boyfriend.  She just felt dishonest promising something about which she knew nothing.  She could not promise to remain a wife forever when she did not know what it was to be a wife.  She asked if, instead, she could promise “to try her best” but the vicar said that would not be acceptable.

 

On her wedding day, as she spoke the prescribed words, a cloud drifted over her face.  She committed to the unknown, but broke her commitment to herself.

 

For years, I heard this word “commitment” be listed as a virtue, without ever fully understanding what it meant.  Then someone came into my life whose whole being defined the word for me.  And then I began to meet other committed individuals.  I am honoured to know these people.   And so lucky.

 

Committed.  Engaged.  Present.  Standing up to be counted.  Never elusive.  There.  Fully there – in every inch of their bodies.

 

You look me straight in the eye, with the full weight of your person in your eyes.

You shake hands with me, and your whole person in your hand.

Even if forced by circumstances to act against the grain – you are always fully aware of your true feelings and thoughts.  That means, you are always true to yourself.

You do not run away from yourself.

You say “yes” or “no”.  Always a solid, committed “yes” or “no.”

You apologise to me wholeheartedly.  You do not say, “Sorry you feel that way.”

You acknowledge me.  You respect me.  You listen to me.

You may choose to walk away from me, but you do so with a sure step.  You do not evaporate, on tip toe.

You have that unfashionable quality – Honour.

You reject or you accept but you never avoid.

I want to be like you.

© Scribe Doll

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