Pet Hates: “We” Couples

Posted on June 19, 2011 by Scribe Doll

I have the privilege of knowing couples whose relationships (at least as far as I can see) are an inspiration.  In some cases, I have a friendship with both partners; in others, just with one – generally because I either know him or her better, or simply have more in common with him or her.  Either way, I do not think of these partnerships as ‘couples’ but as individuals who hold hands fast but look outwards.  To refer to Kahlil Gibran, they are like the pillars of a magnificent temple.  To support the large roof which shelters them both, they stand well apart.

Then, there are the “we” couples.

I asked a new colleague if he had a pleasant holiday.  “Yes, thank you, we went skiing.”

Who is “we”? Is it a royal “we”? Or did he go skiing with a platoon?

My particular favourite is the glowing announcement that “we are pregnant”, which evokes the image of conjoined twins expecting a new arrival.

Mind your own business, Scribe Doll.  Stop being so judgemental of how others choose to manage their relationships.  I wish I could.  Except that the “we” couples choose to make it my concern.

A friend invited me to a party.  “Bring someone,” she generously offered.  At least, I thought it was an offer.

“That’s very kind but I’ll come alone.”

She sounded alarmed.  “Oh, no – you must bring someone, or you’ll have no one to talk to – they’ll all be couples.”

A bring-your-own-conversation-partner party? It seems hardly worth the effort of dressing up and taking the Tube to get there.  I nearly asked if I could bring a book as my “someone”.  Instead, a few days later, I rang and told my friend something unexpected had come up…

At one point, a few years ago, I was the only sole occupier of a block of flats lived in by couples.  I spent many a happy afternoon having tea and cake with the wife components of my neighbours.  I even entertained the notion that the four of us had become quite good friends.  Every so often, there would be trips to the cinema followed by a pizza.  I never joined in.  I was never invited.  Apparently, an odd number of people looks untidy.  Or perhaps they thought I was not able to provide sufficient conversation single-handedly.

Time and again, men and women introduce their other 49% as “This is my wife/girlfriend” or “husband/boyfriend”.  I smile, shake hands, and say, “Lovely to meet you, Husband” or “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Girlfriend”.

I am still trying to work out whether the slight is directed at the nameless appendix, or at me.

I have a suspicion that the hotel and catering industry is also in the grip of the “we” mafia.

During a recent trip, I stayed in a hotel where, on my first morning, I was served breakfast in the main dining room.  I noticed I was the only guest.  Later that day, more visitors checked in.  The following morning, as I made for my table, the manager asked me to “take a seat next door” and directed me to the second dining room, where just one single table had been laid.  I asked why I was being exiled like that.  “Because next door is full,” said the manager.

That was untrue.  There was only one elderly couple at a table.  I pointed that out.  The manager grew impatient.  “Yes, but everyone else had dinner, last night, so I’m keeping the same tables for them, this morning.”

So was it just a question of my not having paid the dinner supplement? Or are solo travellers not entitled to respect?

The other guests drifted past me with quizzical looks, no doubt wondering why I was sitting all alone in a room apart.  I could not swallow my breakfast.

Over the years, I have learnt that, as a lone traveller, more often than not, I am allocated the hotel room overlooking the smelly back alley, the train seat with no window, the restaurant table by the noisy kitchen or the door to the loos.  Hoteliers have pointed out the inconvenience of bestowing upon me a double room because they do not keep single ones.  One bed and breakfast actually allocated to me the only table on a rostrum, and simply could not understand why I felt quarantined sitting there, on prominent display (or was it as an example) and wondering if they were about to start stacking dry twigs around me.

The solution to beating this discrimination? Training classes at the Jerry Herman musicals school of thought.  Single woman descends wide staircase to a swelling full orchestra, and is universally applauded and adored – and given the best table in the house.

Scribe Doll

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Reacquaintance with Rome

Posted on June 12, 2011 by Scribe Doll

Say, “Rome,” and people start gushing.  The Sistine Chapel, the Coliseum, the Spanish Steps.  By a whim of the gods, I was born in Rome.

I have a T-shirt with a drawing of the She-Wolf nursing Romulus and Remus.  One of the babies is suckling avidly.  The other one – much to the consternation of the She-Wolf – is spitting out milk in spiteful disgust.  That’s me.  Say, “Rome,” to me, and I think of moody public transport, a cobweb of bureaucracy, clocks that are merely decorative (the following of any kind of order went out with Mussolini), and the endless queuing which takes up one third of every Roman’s lifetime.  Also, the fact that everyone accepts this state of inefficiency as though it’s divinely preordained.

If you throw a coin into the Trevi Fountain, they say your return is assured.  I have stood there on the eve of my departure on countless occasions, defiantly refusing to toss in a coin, and yet have had to go back over the years.  It’s not fair.  Perhaps the trick is to take a coin out of the fountain.

For various reasons, I had to be in Rome again, so I decided to try out a novel technique.  If hating Rome bound me to it, then perhaps getting to like it would break the chains.  What did I have to lose?

I had forgotten that when Romans tell you that a place is a mere ten-minute walk, you should triple that.  My suitcase took a half hour assault course through jagged sampietrini cobblestones (as their name suggests, they date from Saint Peter’s times), and the crevasses in between, along the Lungotevere to the heart of Trastevere.  My lodgings, recommended to me by a colleague, were a guest house run by apostolic oblates.

The back pocket of my suitcase was torn off but for a couple of inches of fabric by the time I made it up two flights of shiny marble stairs up to my room.  The furnishings, with crucifix on the wall above the bed, suggested an ascetic lifestyle but the room  was impeccably clean.  I opened the window and was met by tree tops swaying in the breeze.  Large white seagulls criss-crossed the sky, emitting plaintive shrieks, while swallows swooped low with their high-pitched cries.  Everything about the place radiated peace.  A place to heal wounds, appease doubts and disable fears.

In the street, the air is filled with roast pork and rosemary, wood fired pizza dough, the clinking of cutlery, the buzzing of the odd vespa.  The street is so narrow that I stand flat against the wall to let a car through.  It clunks past me on the cobblestones.  Roman drivers are notoriously unruly.  They seldom stop but simply swerve around you as you cross the road.  I used to find that terrifying.  Now, it gives me an odd sense of security.  People who do not rely on rules are open to options and have quick reflexes, constantly on alert.

There are faded frescoes under the arched gateway just past Villa Farnesina, which is decorated by Raphael.  Shadows of once vivid angels and ascending Madonnas.  Further down, the oldest parish church in Rome, Santa Maria in Trastevere, with its Byzantine mosaics.  Under the portico, a beggar woman, clad in black from top to toe, holds out her hand, palm up.  Her other hand pushes into a walking stick to support her quaking frame.  In a weepy tone, she utters prayers and blessings on your head as you walk past. Later in the week, when there is hardly anyone in the square, I see the woman straighten up, hand the walking stick to a friend, and stride away erect, with an assured step.  I smile at her resourcefulness.

My friend Francesca and are looking for somewhere to have dinner.  We rule out all the restaurants displaying signs in English or a Tourist Menu.  We stand outside a rustic trattoria  with wooden tables on the cobbles.  Before we even sit down, Francesca tells the waiter, “Look, I am Roman – born and bred ­– so don’t go giving us any tourist stuff.  We want some good food.”

The waiter launches into an earnest assurance of authentic dishes fit even for the locals.  He brings out a bottle of red wine and gives a spectacular performance of uncorking the bottle and pouring a tiny amount of wine into our glasses.  He then swills the wine around the glasses, as though it were brandy, then pours out the contents into a third glass which he takes away.  We try not to stare, pretending we have seen this trick before, but wonder what on earth he is doing.  We clink glasses.  The wine is tart but drinkable.  Our pasta arrives.  Francesca’s amatriciana has bits of limp bacon drowning in overly liquid tomato sauce.  My cacio e pepe is dry and gritty.  Tourist feed, after all.

My new friend Maria Alessandra has read my blog on the English and food, and treats it as an incentive to invite me to dinner at her home.  She promises me that her husband, Gianluigi, is nothing short of a cordon bleu.  I am handed a glass of golden wine called Donna Sole, from a local vineyard.  It is delicately fragrant and mellow and – with a name like Lady Sun – cannot fail to please.

Gianluigi serves up a seafood themed feast.  He starts with marinated shrimp.  “It’s raw, ” he says.

My heart sinks and I plan how I can leave the contents of my plate untouched without causing offence.  “But it’s totally safe to eat because the marinating process neutralises any potential health risks of raw fish,” he continues.

I lift a small amount on my fork.  The taste of fish is imperceptible.  Instead, it is a blend of honey and herbs.  I eat everything on my plate.

Follows a pasta dish with white fish and capers from Pantelleria.  Maria Alessandra urges me to feel at home, and not feel I have to eat anything I do not like.  “Nobody will be offended,” she says.  The fresh capers give the mild fish a subtle twist, and the pasta – hand made – is full of the rich flavour of natural grain.  I polish off my plate.

To finish, sliced kiwi fruit sprinkled with orange infused olive oil.  I lack the vocabulary of a food critic; I just know the combination works.

My attention is drawn to a dozen or so bottles of extra virgin olive oil on the kitchen shelf, all award winning presses.  A range to suit different occasions, like fine wines.  Food not just to fill a physiological need, but as an art form, a caress to the senses.

Strolling past Piazza Colonna and the Parliament, I stop at my favourite ice-cream parlour, Giolitti.  There are over twenty flavours to choose from, and I opt for my favourite, Marrons Glacés,  with caramelised figs.  I am offered a swirl of whipped cream on top.  “No, thank you, I don’t like whipped cream.”

The waiter in white jacket and black bow tie frowns.  “But our whipped cream is famous!”

“Yes, I know, and it’s truly unique, but I just don’t like whipped cream in general.”

He hands me my wafer cone and looks away.  I might as well have said I do not like Bernini’s fountains or Michelangelo’s statues.  Outside Giolitti, I take a moment to go through the first necessary action of the Roman ice-cream eater.  I twist the cone quickly against my tongue to smooth the ice-cream into a dome shaped mound.  Only now can I resume my stroll with decorum, having averted the risk of the ice-cream dripping.

I look into my favourite shop, Papyrus, where I have loved browsing since I was a teenager.  It is an Aladdin’s cave of paper goods, but not just any paper.  It is handmade Florentine paper, hand painted with marble patterns and peacock tail designs.  The Florentines learnt the technique from the Turks, centuries ago.  Once the paint is dry, the colour does not run, even if in contact with water.  I pull out the wooden drawers.  Each is piled up high with layers of thick, crisp sheets of paper with peacock tail swirls and marble patterns, in sienna, turquoise, cobalt, amber, terracotta, crimson and gold.  The colours have bled onto the edges of the underside.  From time to time, I treat myself to a sheet of carta pavone I then use to bind notebooks.  I look at the price labels on the drawers.  Not this time.

I decide to go to San Luigi de’ Francesi, the French church.  King François 1st’s emblematic salamander is carved into the stone facade.  The church is a meeting point for French expatriates, who gather there.  I remember them from my days as a pupil of the French Lycée.  Exchanging gossip about their compatriots, complaining about les Italiens, struggling with the language in spite of years of residence.  St Louis des Français is famous for its Caravaggios.  Standing behind a guided group of tourists, I crane my neck to look at The Vocation of St Matthew.  Christ, accompanied by St Peter, is calling St Matthew to follow him.  The latter points a finger at his own chest, incredulous.  Do you really mean me? His other hand is reluctant to let go of the gold coins on the table.  An adolescent boy in a doublet rests his arm on St Matthew’s shoulder, and watches the scene with teenage remoteness.  His face is innocent in spite of his all-knowing pose.  He is curious in spite of himself.

On my last day in Rome, I decide to take a trip down memory lane, and pay a visit to my old school.  The Lycée Chateaubriand secondary school is divided between two buildings along Via di Villa Patrizi.  The younger pupils are in what looks like a pink miniature castle, complete with turrets and gothic windows.  The older ones have classes in a three-storey brown building with green blinds.  The only school in the world occupying a former convent and a former brothel.

The morning of my flight back to London, I visit Villa Farnesina, the former house of a banker and, subsequently, of a cardinal.  The Church paid for a lot of good art.  I buy two prints of Raphael’s frescoes.  I realise I have never seen Villa Farnesina before.  I realise that, in spite of so many visits to Rome, there are so many places I have not yet seen.  Places off the tourist beaten track, hiding jewels of Baroque art.

I really must go and explore these hidden places.

Next time.

Scribe Doll

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In the Mountains of Abruzzo

Posted on June 6, 2011 by Scribe Doll

The plan had been to spend a week in Tuscany. Then, I closed my eyes and opened The Rough Guide to Italy at a random page. No, not Tuscany. Abruzzo. The National Park of Abruzzo. 400 square kilometres of rugged, unspoilt mountains. Home to the Marsican bear, the Apennine Wolf, the Royal Eagle, chamois, deer and the odd lynx.

I weighed my options for at least five seconds. Tuscany’s appeal suddenly waned. Who wants to go and see a landscape featured in every olive oil commercial? Mountains full of wildlife… I pictured myself in the midst of a Nicholas Evans novel underscored by the Alpine creations of Rodgers & Hammerstein.  I dreamed of strolling through thick forests, sitting and writing the next Booker Prize winner on a sunny mountain top overlooking luxuriating valleys, with eagles and falcons swooping over my head, and even scratching a wolf behind the ears.  He would let me, of course, because he would sense that I am an animal lover, and trust me implicitly.  Above all, I would have a break from my fellow humans and that, in itself, was irresistible.

The two and a half bus ride from Avezzano to Civitella Alfedena – where I had decided to set up base – was free of charge because of a staff strike (London Transport staff, take note!!) The journey was all twists and turns.  We snaked up uncompromising mountains, then dipped respectfully towards sun-filled valleys with glistening streams. Teasing the mountains, pretending we were not really presuming to reach their peaks.  I wished I possessed sufficient vocabulary to name the myriad different greens.  Lime, olive, emerald.  Clusters of brilliant red poppies.  Silvery sunlight.  Mediaeval towns sprouting from the rocks.  Derelict stone towers perched on cliffs, slumbering but still watching out.  Dark shadows of drifting clouds gliding down mountain flanks streaked with snow.

Civitella Alfedena

It takes a while for me to find a human to ask for directions. I drag my suitcase up a steep hill of challenging cobbles which toss my suitcase up and onto its side every few inches of the way. I try not to slip and tumble backwards as I struggle to hold onto it.  The sky darkens and the surrounding mountains rumble with thunder.  Slumbering giants, gently snoring to a lullaby of cattle bells.  Swallows and red tails swoop down the narrow winding alleys, past sand coloured stone houses with terracotta tiled roofs; past the locked church which is supposed to contain frescoes; past the post office, which is open three mornings a week, on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays.

I unpack my luggage in my hotel room, and go to explore.  The few inhabitants, sitting on benches outside their houses and shops, greet me as I pass them. The outsider.

I feel strangely light-headed, as though in a dream, and an unexplainable urge to giggle.  In the park, I take in the panorama and pick up two young pine cones from the grass.  I need to feel their sharp edges against my palms.  Totally un-self-consciously, I spin around.  “The hills are alive with the sound of m-.” I stop.  Two elderly ladies have paused in their late afternoon stroll to stare at me.

I put the pine cones in my pockets, and go to the Tourist Office.  Even though I am an almost native Italian speaker, I cannot seem to absorb the information.  I ask for it to be repeated but it flies out of my memory once again.  “I’m sorry,” I say, “I feel giddy.”
The nice woman behind the desk observes me with indulgence.  “It’s the altitude,” she says.  “Everyone feels strange when they first arrive here.  Ringing in the ears, blood pressure problems, or just feeling woozy.”

Or, in my case, just drunk on too much oxygen.

Luckily, by morning, I am sober again.

The Lynxes

The National Park of Abruzzo has enclosures for a few wild animals who – for various reasons – cannot be returned to the wild.  Either because they were born in captivity, or because they are physically unfit to fend for themselves.  At Civitella, there are two such enclosures.  One for an elderly she-wolf; the other, for a pair of lynxes.  Needless to say, neither specimen is keen on photo ops, and tends to hide in the vegetation, away from human eyes.  I cannot blame them.  I watched with open irritation a group of visitors lean over the wall, emit Hammer Horror howls, and wonder why the wolf did not show up.  I had no luck there, either.

In the quiet of the early afternoon lull, I went to sit above the lynx enclosure.  Nothing for a while.  Then, something brown stirred at the foot of the hill.  I pointed my theatre binoculars.  A large tobacco coloured doe was looking at me, ears twitching.  I was amazed that she could be aware of me from such a distance.  I sat as still as I could.  After a while, the doe resumed her grazing.  Then, an unfamiliar sound travelled over the air.  Something between distant thunder and the deep vibrato of a purr.  As slowly as I could, I slid my binoculars away, and met the gaze of a lynx.  The awe of it prevented me from shrieking with joy.  The lynx stared at me for a long time, motionless.  Apparently reassured, he looked away, and strolled through the vegetation.  Every muscle rippled with lazy grace.  Reddish brown coat, pointy ears with black tips, white tufty beard.  Further away, his mate.  Both paced along the fence, eyeing up the doe.  I wondered if they had ever hunted.  The doe, clearly trusting the safety of the fence, grazed on unperturbed.

A couple of visitors walked up behind me.  “Is it true there is a pair of lynxes down there?”
“Yes, there they are.”
I pointed but there was nothing now, except tall grass and thick bushes on both sides of the fence.

The Mountains
One thing that had not crossed my mind, is that I would walk along the designed mountain paths for kilometres without encountering anyone else.  I admit it is inconsistent to yearn to be away from humans yet need them to feel safe.  The locals told me that they had never heard of any unpleasant incidents befalling ramblers, but then neither did they know of lone ramblers.  One or two people warned me against wolves and vipers, if I strayed far away from the designated paths.  “Oh, I’m not worried about the animals,” I said, “I’m worried about the people.”

Long, puzzled, wary looks.

I guess the paradox lies in the right number of people.  Either a large number or the cast iron guarantee of none.

I assumed there would be some tourists around over the weekend.  So, on Sunday, I parked myself on a rock at the start of the marked path and waited.  And waited.  Black squirrels with tufty ears and white bellies scurried along the branches above me, studying me with curiosity.  A gorgeous tortoise shell cat strutted up the path, and we indulged in a half hour of caresses.  Finally, after about an hour and a half, people.  A group of friendly-looking people of a wide age range.  In an attempt to combine safety with solitude, I pushed ahead.  Occasionally, I would pause and listen out for their distant voices, then walk on.  I lost my advantage when I reached a creek.  The rocks were sharp and slippery, and my natural lack of a sense of balance added to my insecurity.  The group caught up with me.  As naturally as though I had always been a member of their party, they chatted to me and helped me across.  Introductions were made.  It turned out to be a most welcome encounter.  Among my new companions were wildlife artists, ornithologists, botanists and sympathisers.  One of the painters picked up a four foot beech branch, and gave it to me as a walking stick.  Having a third leg to steady me increased my self-confidence on the slopes.

We sat to eat our packed lunches by a bubbling stream that looked like liquid diamonds in the sunlight.  Venus slippers grow on its banks, and the artists sat to draw them.

Not wanting to outstay my welcome, I said goodbye to my new acquaintances, we swapped e-mail addresses, and made back for Civitella.  I was told it was seven kilometres of paved road.  For the first kilometre or so, there were other people about.  Then, as I reached the main road, they vanished into thin air.  I felt increasingly anxious.  The road was narrow, that the odd passing vehicle zoomed past me with only a couple of feet to spare between us.  Motorbikes in particular whizzed past me at breakneck speed, their engines shrieking.  I was not even sure I was walking in the right direction.  I started screening the faces of the drivers.  When I caught a glimpse of a woman with children, I waved my arms frantically.  She stopped and offered me a lift to the next junction, ‘bless her heart, sparing me a good three kilometres.

Pescasséroli

Dominated by the ruins of a 12th Century castle, Castel Mancino, Pescasseroli is larger and more tourist orientated than Civitella (well… The Tourist Information Office was shut, and no one knew if or when it would reopen).  I imagined, and hoped, there would be more visitors and so more people trekking in the mountains.

My first goal was lunch.  A good lunch.  I found a good tavola calda on the main square.  A large red setter I had stroked on my way accompanied me to my table.  My lunch arrived.  The setter gave me one of those lingering ‘nobody loves me and nobody ever feeds me’ looks.  Right.  I pushed his muzzle away from my plate.  He whined.  I took a deep breath and blew into his nose.  Outraged, he lifted his paw and slammed it imperatively on the edge of my plate.  Grilled aubergines, courgettes in breadcrumbs, roasted red peppers and juicy mozzarella bounced up in the air.  Once they landed back on my plate, I sent the setter packing.

In the afternoon, I visited the National Park infirmary.  They have two bears and a wolf cub.  I had never seen a wolf up close.  The custodians told me that Dacia (named after the writer Dacia Maraini, who found her in her garden) cannot be released back into the wild because she has problems with her hind legs.  Her pale, slanted eyes are full of understanding.  She knows what I cannot even imagine.

The local tour guide office had no day excursions planned during my stay.  Also, they advised me not to walk in the mountains on my own.  “What if you fall or twist an ankle?”

Hoping to encounter other ramblers on my way, I had no choice but to venture up Castel Mancino alone.  Except that I was not alone.  A little way from the main square, I came across three dogs lying in the sun, bored, clearly at a loss for something to do.  Two little pooches – one white and one black – and one large dog with the tan coat of an Alsatian and the pale slanted eyes of a wolf.  Perhaps the fruit of an illicit one night stand between a wolf and a sheep dog – there are many such canines, I was told.  I cuddled the trio and they suddenly sprang into action.  All tail wags and grins, they began following me.  When I say following, it would be more accurate to say that they lead me up the mountain.  They ran ahead, then paused and waited for me to catch up before bounding forth again.  Once, I failed to take the right turning.  The wolverine dog ran after me and, taking my fingers gently between his teeth, pulled me back onto the sign posted path.

Later that day, I noticed the wolverine dog outside a shop.  “Is this your dog?” I asked the owner.  I told her about the morning mountain excursion.
“Oh, I wondered where she’d been all morning.”

On my last evening, I heard of an organised night excursion in the mountains, to listen to wolves howling.  €20 seemed excessive but, at least, this was my one chance to go deep into the woods in perfect safety.  The tour guide looked approvingly at my walking boots.  She motioned my moleskin jacket.  “Do you have a thick jumper and a waterproof jacket?”
I did not.
“You can’t go like this.  You’ll freeze.”

Bum.  Blast.  Damn.  Next time take warmer clothes, go only during high season, and recruit friend.  Till then, I had better stick to museums.

Scribe Doll

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Odds & Ends: The English Food Complex

Posted on May 22, 2011 by Scribe Doll

Of course, not all the English are like this.

“Is this all right, my dear, or is it too much?” The hostess looks in earnest.

You stare at the minuscule mound before you, and resist the temptation of lifting your plate to check if there is more food hiding underneath.  You refrain from asking if it is served with a magnifying glass.

In England, there is no need to fight off repeated and insistent offers of third and fourth helpings.  When the hostess asks if you would like a second helping, her tone is one of intellectual curiosity, rather than encouragement.  In fact, all you need to do, is glance at the remaining contents in the serving dish to realise that the cook did not build in the possibility of all the guests having second helpings.

The English pride themselves with abhorring waste.  Hence, there is no wild and carefree scooping of food onto guests’ plates.  The menu is implemented with minute precision.  Eight people for dinner, eight cutlets, eight bread rolls, sixteen new potatoes (two each), eight individual trifles (here’s hoping one glass doesn’t slip off the tray), and four avocados (half each – no need for extravagance).

Ours is the only country in the world where you are asked if you would like “a” biscuit with your tea.

Some say this frugality is a leftover trauma from the privations of the Second World War, but we were not the only European country to suffer from it.

Others would venture that the English have a naturally small appetite.  Interestingly, though, the same people who offer you a single, lonely biscuit, will nonchalantly wolf down the entire contents of the tin if you tell them to help themselves, or if you keep proffering the tin.  Of course, there always is the possibility that they are too polite to refuse, and are causing themselves great intestinal discomfort just so as not to offend.

In England, food is not an everyday right or legitimate need.  It is a luxury.  Hence, much fuss is made over the offering and accepting of it.

“Would you like a little bit more?” (note the “little” and “bit”)

“Oh… I shouldn’t… That’s so naughty… Oh, well… All right… You’ve twisted my arm – just a tiny, tiny bit more… Oh, dear, I’m being greedy…”

It is not a gift of 50% shares in an oil company.  It is food.  Just take it.

Sometimes, they will invite you over for a meal, only to apologise profusely for either the insufficiency or poor quality of the food.

“Oh, I’m afraid there’s only a small piece left…”

Then why didn’t you buy more before inviting me?

 

“I’m afraid it’s only cheap and nasty white bread from the supermarket…”

I am more than happy to eat it but since you’re clearly so embarrassed by the cheap and nasty white bread from the supermarket, why didn’t you buy the crusty multigrain from the Farmers’ Market, and save yourself the guilt trip?

I have long been trying to understand the psycho-socio-politico-historical reasons behind the English complex relationship with food.  Is it Protestant austerity and shunning of physical pleasures? Is the giving of food linked with emotional openness (or lack thereof)? I am still at a loss.  In the meantime, when invited for a meal by a traditional English family, I take the precaution of eating a hearty, guilt-free meal beforehand.  This way, I can be as ladylike as a Mammy-admonished Scarlett O’Hara, pick at my food with the delicacy of a blue-tit and, when offered a second helping, reply, “Oh, no – I couldn’t possibly” with the sincerity of a full stomach.

Scribe Doll

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Pet Hates: Pet Likes: London Transport 2

Posted on May 15, 2011 by Scribe Doll

Last week, Adrian challenged me to come up with a list of ‘likes’ about London Transport.  So, here we go:

Pet Hates Likes: London Transport 2

No. 1

Teenagers on the bus.

The smaller boys grab the overhead bars, swing off them, asserting their budding masculinity. The girls squeal with pleasure at the sight of glittering blings.  Nobody seems able to keep his or her hind legs off the seats.  They do not communicate  in convoluted, drawn-out sentences, or elaborate idioms.  Instead, they emit monosyllabic interjections and organic grunts.

The pleasure of it: Watching Darwin’s theory of evolution and human ancestry played out live before your eyes.

No. 2

Football fans.

Faces painted with the proud colours of their team.  They wear its insignia on lustrous polyester shirts.  They chant the hymn of victory, like their forebearers the Saxons, the Vikings, the Celts.

The pleasure of it: A sense of History and continuity.  The comforting evidence that the raw, primitive instinct survives through the ages.

No. 3

Ladies on their way to Ascot.

Tropical birds turn green with envy at the sight of so many feathers and bright hues.  A perfect example of women as creatures of nature.  Wide brimmed hats shading diminutive frames, like wild mushrooms.  Natural bulges of flesh rebelling out of constricting dresses.  Brave porcine thigh defying short hems.

The pleasure of it:  An animated version of Grotesque Art.

No. 4

“Mind the Gap.”

Big Brother’s younger sibling warns you each time you board or step off the Tube train.  No matter how deeply absorbed you might be in your thoughts, you do not have the added pressure of having to watch where you walk.  The voice is always there to guide your steps.

The pleasure of it: The comfort of knowing that Nanny State never tires of watching over you, no matter how grown up you are.

No.5

Passengers sitting with their feet on the seats.

The soles of the heels of their shoes, which have kissed the biodiverse London pavements, are now communing with the bus or Tube upholstery.  The said passengers swiftly (or sometimes languidly) remove their feet to allow you to sit down.  You rest your posterior on the same seat, savouring the London pavements second hand.  Later that evening you will plant the same posterior on your bed, which will get to know the London pavements third hand.

The pleasure of it: Enjoying one instance of free germ and bacteria expression before doctors get their hands on that, too.

No. 6

Women who put on their make up on public transport.

Their make up cases are like Mary Poppins’s carpet bag, full of weird and wonderful things.  One by one, they pull out pots, sticks and brushes, and proceed with painting their faces.  They grimace into their hand mirrors, as they blend in five subtly different hues of eyeshadow, dab in specs of concealer, and rub in foundation.

The pleasure of it: Watching this spectacle, entranced, hoping that the Tube or bus might suddenly brake just as they are tracing lines with the liquid eyeliner…

No. 7

When the Tube train unexpectedly stops in a tunnel.

… And remains there for several minutes.  The engine falls silent.  The air in the carriage grows still and thickens.  You become aware of the natural physical aromas wafting from your fellow passengers.  You listen out for the voice of the driver but the loudspeaker is mute.  Is the driver dead?  Or has he been abducted by aliens? When the silence is finally broken, the voice is crackly and distorted.  The diction is slurred.  A message from outer space.  You are none the wiser as to how much longer your ordeal will last.

The pleasure of it: A moment of suspense worthy of Alfred Hitchcock.

 Scribe Doll

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Pet Hates: London Transport

Posted on May 8, 2011 by Scribe Doll

No. 1

On the Tube, men who mark their territory by spreading their knees so wide, you have less room in the seat next to them, than entitled to by train designer.

Solution:

Wait for the train to brake and, at the appropriate moment, allow yourself to be thrown as violently as possible against their offending thigh, with a well-timed high heel suddenly digging into their foot.  At the outrage on their face, smile naively with an imperceptible eyelash flutter and say, as loudly as possible, “Oh, sorry.”

The invader will retreat into his portion of the seat.  Works every time.

No. 2

Women with long hair, standing with their backs to you on a crowded train, who keep tossing their heads, whipping your mouth with their mane.

Solution:

Make a show of spitting and coughing out the offending split ends, then demonstratively wipe your lips with the back of your hand. Works 50% of the time.

No. 3

Individuals sitting next to you who wear enough perfume to fill the auditorium of the Royal Opera House.

Solution:

Start doing Irish setter impersonations by sticking your nose up in the air and sniffing in air with a swishing sound effect.  Follow up immediately with a couple of sneezes and a throaty cough. Do NOT look at the person at any time during this procedure.  We are still awaiting clinical test results on this one.

No. 4

iPods.

Dream solution:

A quick snip at the white earphone wires, with a pair of sharp, gleaming manicure scissors.

Realistic solution:

Start staring intently at their ear next to you.  Try and keep it up without blinking for as long as possible.  Success rate resulting in said creatures turning down the volume: 30%

No.5

City men discussing stocks and shares with their Hong Kong office on their mobiles at 7.30 a.m. GMT within earshot of the entire carriage.  This experiment is particularly successful if the finance geek in question is conducting his business transactions in a foreign language you just happen to speak.

Solution:

Listen attentively to the conversation whilst pretending to be dozing.  At the appropriate moment “wake up” and shout at the businessman in the same foreign language, “No! No! No! Tell him NOT to buy those shares! Bad idea!” I only tried this one once, but the objective was achieved.  Within seconds, the City man dropped the tone of his voice to say, “I’ll call you later”, then promptly disconnected the call and replaced the phone into his breast pocket, finally enabling me to catch up on my sleep.

No. 6

Women talking on their mobiles for an entire bus ride, discussing mind witheringly boring subjects like shopping, boyfriends or holidays.  Why does no one ever hold an interesting conversation on the bus?

Solution:

Still working on that one.

No. 7

Women who get on the bus, late at night, and who think it is ever so cute to toss their hair and giggle at the driver while foraging at the bottom of their oversized bags (what can they possibly be carrying? Chick lit volumes are not that large) for their Oyster cards, holding  up the bus for everyone else who wants to get home.

Solution:

Train the driver to say, “Get your act together, love, or get off the bus.”

Or, heck, just ban all women under thirty from public transport.

Scribe Doll

Posted in Pet Hates | 9 Comments

Odds & Ends: Isn’t It Romantic?

Posted on May 1, 2011 by Scribe Doll

Two days ago, the nation was swept into a pink fluffy cloud of romance.  The Government encouraged this mass adoration of somebody else’s wedding by decreeing a Bank Holiday.  The country was momentarily distracted from economic problems, Britain’s increasing involvement in foreign military actions, unemployment, the gradual axing of the NHS and the chipping away at Legal Aid.  The British who, only a few weeks ago, marched in protest against the Government’s cuts and austerity measures, were blinded by a puff of romance to the detail that this wedding cost £7 billion in security alone, and that this bill is being settled by the Taxpayer.  Not only did they not raise objections to this expense, they embraced it in a mass display of buntings, plastic Union Jacks, street parties, and the British trademark that is the wearing of monstrous ladies’ hats.  Panem et circenses.  At least, our Government does not throw people to the lions to entertain the crowds and, I must admit, the atmosphere in London on Friday was full of joy and goodwill.

What struck me was that it was not just the British who celebrated the wedding of the now Duke and Duchess of Cambridge (why Cambridge?) but hoards of foreigners.  Not just US Americans and Australians in sleeping bags outside Westminster Abbey, but television viewers abroad.  Yesterday’s edition of El Pais had no fewer than five pages dedicated to the Royal wedding.  My first question is, what makes British Royalty so noteworthy? When a Scandinavian Royal gets married, there is nothing but a small picture in the Saturday glossy supplement.  My second question is, why do people get so wrapped up in the wedding of a couple nobody actually knows personally, and has no chance of ever even meeting?

Is it a way of living one’s own unfulfilled romances through someone else’s? Is it safer to show excitement at someone else’s romance because we live in a society where it is not acceptable to be too thrilled at our own?

No, being truly romantic is not acceptable.  Red roses on Valentine’s Day are institutional, but if an unknown man comes up to you in the street, tells you your eyes sparkle like stars, and hands you a flower, the helpful people around you will call it ‘cheesy’, ‘naff’, ‘silly’, ‘weird’ or ‘over the top’.  They will laugh and ridicule.  These same people will shriek with pleasure when a couple they have never met kiss on the balcony of Buckingham Palace.

What is romantic about red roses?  They are ordinary.  Everyone gives them on Valentine’s Day.  Dinner date in a candlelit restaurant? Mundane.  Text message? Positively vulgar.  Being romantic is being and doing the extraordinary, and that is what people shy away from.  They also shrink from taking that leap forward which exposes them, and from which there is no turning back.  Hiding behind a pre-printed card or a tradition followed by millions does not put you at risk.  You can always blame it on social conventions.  Once again, it comes down to the courage to be different, to expose your heart in all its vulnerability without stopping to think – even for a second – of the consequences.  Without any precautions against the possibility of someone kicking you or, worse, ignoring you.  A totally uncalculated gamble that puts everything on the line.  A sacrifice.  A unique gesture to acknowledge and honour the uniqueness of the other person.

We go all gooey over the kitsch of Hollywood manufactured romance because it is coated in comedy.  We read and marvel at Shakespeare’s sonnets as emotions from another era.  We watch Gene Kelly tap on rollerskates as something unrealistic.  We read about Courtly Love as legend.  It does not have to be so.  Truly romantic gestures are like explosions of sunlight, like fireworks.  They can be blinding and overwhelming… So not for the faint hearted.  Only like can appreciate like.

Taking a job just so as to be near someone; not thinking about whether the job pays enough.  Learning a new language just so you can communicate with someone; not stopping to think about the time it will take to learn to converse with ease.  Travelling across a continent to tell someone that you are in love with him or her; not considering the expense of the trip, or that you might realise, within minutes of arriving, that you have misread the signals.  Taking a leap into the unknown with the absolute certainty that you will be carried to safety on the wings of love… Even if, sometimes, you land flat on your posterior.

It takes guts to be truly romantic.

I hope you all remembered to wash your hands and face with dew, this morning.  ‘Tis said it invites love for the year to come.

Happy May Day!

Scribe Doll

Posted in Odds & Ends | 5 Comments

Pet Hates: Doctors – the New Priests

Posted on April 24, 2011 by Scribe Doll

First, there were the priests.  Now, there are the doctors.  Has anyone else noticed the similarities between those two?

Along with lawyers, they have always formed the most loathed and derided professional triumvirate in literature and the theatre.  Anton Chekhov, himself a physician, said, “Doctors are the same as lawyers; the only difference is that lawyers merely rob you, whereas doctors rob you and kill you too.”

Anyone who has spent any time in Italy will have come across the numerous witticisms about the Church and its ministers. Boccaccio portrays clerics as lecherous, wealth-chasing gluttons.  In Assisi, gift shops are littered with ceramic figurines of pot-bellied Franciscans and Dominicans downing tankards of beer or stuffing their faces with food.  In Rome, locals will let you in on the fact that the Vatican car number plate S.C.V. (Stato Città del Vaticano = State City of the Vatican) actually stands for Se Cristo Vedesse! (=  If Christ could only see!)

An ancient Roman proverb warns that “The doctor is to be feared more than the disease.”  In the Commedia dell’Arte, the Plague Doctor is a figure of fun.  Molière, a true life hypochondriac and, therefore, experienced patient, observed that “Doctors pour drugs of which they know little, to cure diseases of which they know less, into patients of whom they know nothing.”  Napoleon Bonaparte said, “Doctors will have more lives to answer for in the next world than even we generals.”

An obvious practice doctors and priests have shared over the centuries, is using multi-syllabic phrases – often in Latin or Greek – to dumbfound and scare into submission ignorant folk in order to cover up their own ignorance or their sometimes their less than altruistic motives.  Both brandish language as a tool of power.  By using terminology the punters do not understand, they place themselves outside the reach of contradiction, and become inaccessible to a fair fight.  It is impossible to challenge someone who is speaking to you in a foreign tongue.  Prior to the Reformation, when mass was exclusively in Latin, hoards of people said “Amen” to precepts they did not actually understand.  Just as billions of people now swallow tons of tablets without knowing what they are actually made of.  It is what we call an act of faith, “faith” being also something we are supposed to have in our doctors.

Both medicine and the priesthood are professions whose authority has always been feared for the power it possesses over us (the priest, over our souls; the doctor, over our bodies), rather than genuinely respected.  Both demand that their orders (“doctor’s ‘orders'”, like in the military) be obeyed to the letter, without deviation or questioning, on pain of losing that without which you could not be human – your soul or your body.  How many times have we heard people say, “The doctor says I can’t”? Millennia of Greek philosophy, Latin thinkers, the Renaissance, the Enlightenment, the Sturm und Drang and Darwin, and we still lack the most essential of freedoms – the freedom of thought.  Instead, we delegate the responsibility for our thinking to others.  “The doctor say I can’t” instead of “I can’t because it make sense to me that I shouldn’t.”

Doctors enjoy their authority because we concede it to them so readily.  That is evident by the ruffled and peeved reaction you get from a doctor when you query or contradict him or her.  They are clearly not used to being queried or contradicted, and the shock of it puzzles and disconcerts them.

Both professions have a strict hierarchy.  Wherever they go, the Pope and the Archbishop of Canterbury are accompanied by a retinue.  When visiting the hospital wards, the Consultant travels with a court of junior doctors ready to push you back if you attempt to address the Consultant directly.

As children, we were told by vicars, priests and nuns to be as good as the Child Jesus.  The same vicars, priests and nuns told us that Jesus was the Son of God.  I figured that, my father being a man, I lacked that inborn advantage, that head start to be as good as the Child Jesus.  So how could I possibly even try? When I was a child, I asked the school chaplain.  He frowned and said faith was a mystery.

As an adult, I asked several doctors why a part of my body was engaged in sabotage activity.  They frowned and said, “It’s difficult to explain.”

Nicolas Boileu was unequivocal: “Ce qui se conçoit bien s’énonce clairement”.  In other words, if it is clear in your mind, then you can explain it clearly.

The last thing I wish, is to offend in any way all those who owe their health and even their lives to a doctor.  I respect their choice and their experience.  I, on the other hand, am alive and in relatively good health in spite of a few.

My principal disagreement with the medical profession is on a matter of focus.  Ashley Montagu phrases it perfectly: “The doctor has been taught to be interested not in health but in disease.  What the public are taught is that health is the cure for disease.”

The doctor’s focus is hardly ever on the building, but on the destroying.  Disinfecting.  Cutting out.  Removing.  Taking out.  Killing.  Not Healing, Building up, Creating, Empowering.  Doctors tell us that we live in a dangerous world where mutant viruses and hostile bacteria are lurking behind every corner, ready to attack us.  They tell us a that the organs in our body are time bombs ready to blow up any minute.  Be afraid.  Be very afraid.

Another proverb, this time from China: “The superior doctor prevents sickness; the mediocre doctor attends to impending sickness: the inferior doctor treats actual sickness.”  It reminds me of a joke on a ceramic plate I once saw in Rome.  “When you’re ill, go to the doctor and pay him.  The man needs to make a living.  Then go to the pharmacist and buy medicines.  The man needs to make a living.  Go back home and throw everything away.  You need to stay alive.”

Some early Protestants denied the existence of Free Will.  Everything was predestined by the Grace of God.  The evils of the world were caused by the Devil.  Doctors have done away with past superstitions, and opened our eyes to the existence of the D.N.A.  So, instead of being preordained, our lives are now genetically predetermined.  The Devil has been usurped by the Genes.  It’s not my fault.  It’s my genes.

Rabbi Jonathan Sacks put it exquisitely on BBC Radio 4’s Thought for the Day.  I only wish I could quote him verbatim.  When God told off Adam for eating the apple from the Tree of Knowledge, he delegated his guilt.  “It’s my wife’s fault.  She gave me the apple.”

Eve promptly passed the buck.  “It’s the serpent’s fault.  He gave me the apple.”

God glared at the serpent.  The poor animal glanced around in vain.  There was no one around for him to blame.

Scribe Doll

Posted in Pet Hates | 5 Comments

Words and Civilisation: Being Realistic

Posted on April 17, 2011 by Scribe Doll

When I first started writing this blog, and announced it to just about everyone I knew,  one of my acquaintances declared – point blank – that she would not be reading it.

“Nobody reads blogs, anymore,” she said.  “There’s too many of them.  I don’t know why you bother.”

My response was, “It’s my new project, and I’m very excited about it, so please don’t be a wet blanket.”

She reparteed, “I’m not a wet blanket – I’m being realistic!”

Have you noticed? People only ever throw that word at you when you are expressing a hope, sharing a dream,  or embarking on a new venture.  According to them, apparently,  entertaining a belief that something could be wonderful, is unrealistic.

My trusted friend, the Concise Oxford Dictionary, defines realistic as: 1. having a sensible and practical idea of what can be achieved or expected.  2. representing things in a way that is accurate and true to life.

Consequently, is it realistic to state that hopes are never met, dreams never come true, and new ventures never succeed? I think I can safely assume that every sensible thinker and life observer will agree that it is unrealistic to make such a generalisation.

Why do people feel more comfortable equating realism with pessimism than with optimism? Is it a desire to shield themselves from disappointment? Or a handy excuse for not getting out there on a limb? Going after a dream requires a leap into the unknown.  You could fall down and hurt yourself.  Ouch.  Better  stay put.  The best way to guarantee never to make mistakes, after all, is not to do anything.

In their book Remarkable Recovery, oncologists Caryle Hirshberg and Marc Ian Barasch list case studies of patients recovering from cancer without chemotherapy or radiotherapy.  They cannot explain it medically but are broad-minded enough to accept it as sometimes possible, in reality.

Is it realistic to imagine that one young man driven by despair to set himself alight could spark off civil uprisings in several neighbouring countries?

History is full of individuals who defied their peers and gave the boundaries of realism a well-deserved kick forward.  T.E. Lawrence wrote, “All men dream: but not equally.  Those who dream by night in the dusty recesses of their minds wake in the day to find that it was vanity: but the dreamers of the day are dangerous men, for they may act upon their dream with open eyes, to make it possible.  This I did.”

Or, in the words of Oscar Hammerstein II,

You’ve got to have a dream.

If you don’t have a dream

How you’re gonna have a dream come true?

Scribe Doll

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Words and Civilisation: Yes and No

Posted on April 10, 2011 by Scribe Doll

Rule Number One to be truly English.  Banish at once the following two words from your vocabulary: ‘yes’ and ‘no’.

They are unsightly, un-English, and compromising.  They state an absolute, and that is bad-mannered.  After all, who gives you the right to dogmatise.  Also, they are risky.  You could be proved wrong and so be embarrassed.  Moreover, they force you to commit yourself, to stand up and be counted and, therefore, leave yourself wide open to attack; in a position from where it is impossible to backtrack.

Throughout History, the English have demonstrated unparalleled skills in military and diplomatic strategy.  India was not conquered by brute force but with subtle insinuation.  The Spanish Armada was defeated by ruse.  ‘Yes’ and ‘no’ are strategically unsound because they paint you into a corner, and it is always better to keep your options open.  You never know.  At some point in the future, you might change your mind and wish to escape, so better stay within easy access of the emergency exit.

You can see this strategy in action in the seemingly most anodyne daily occurrences.

You leap into the District Line carriage at Earl’s Court just as the doors are about to slide shut.  You ask, “Is this going to Wimbledon?”

Time is of the essence and, given the English talent for Economics, you expect a succinct answer.  Instead, you get, “I hope so” from one passenger, and “I think so” from another.  You are caught up between an act of faith and an intellectual assumption, when all you wanted was the resounding ‘yes’ or ‘no’ of certainty.  It is too late to act now.  The train doors are firmly closed, and you are left to pray you are on the way to Wimbledon, and not Richmond.  Your fellow passengers clearly do not care where they are going.  They just enjoy riding the London Underground.

A couple of days ago, I bought some herbs.  When I got home, I could not remember whether I had to steep them in a teapot, on simmer them in pan.  I rang the shop.  The sales assistant pondered.  “I imagine you would simmer them,” she finally said.

As politely as I could, I explained that I was not asking her to flex her creative muscles, but to provide specific instructions.  On cue, she consulted her more experienced colleague.

At the department store,  you ask if the grey chino trousers you want are available in your size.  The sales assistant “thinks” they are out of stock.  Well… Does she “think” or “know”? Does she “think” she could possibly check for sure?

I once asked a superior of mine if she had an issue with the quality of my work.  She answered, “It’s not that.”

… Then… What is it?

Other variations on ‘yes’ and ‘no’ substitutes include:

“Probably” / “Probably not”

“I’m afraid not”

“I would have thought so”

and my all-time favourite “I should think so” (by whose authority?)

One of my teachers at school used to say, “Que ton ‘oui’ soit an ‘oui’ et ton ‘non’ soit un ‘non’.  Le reste appartient au Diable.”

Yes.  She was French.

Scribe Doll

Posted in Uncategorized, Words and Civilisation | 3 Comments