A lack of football (Confessions of an eight year old).

“I think Dad and I don’t have so much in common . He  doesn’t like pink things or dolls. He prefers watching football and shouting at the television. 

George (who lives next door) and his Dad shout at the television together. I asked Dad to explain about football but he says girls don’t understand. The boys in school wouldn't let me play football with them either. They said I'd spoil the game. 
Apparently Boys understand things automatically about anything to do with balls, machines and cars. Maybe if I were a boy I would understand automatically.” 

This is what my eight year old niece told me about the issues she is currently experiencing with her father and male people in general. 

I had to inform her that years ago when I was a little girl I had exactly the same problem.

• 7 was the age I was when I got told that I should already know everything about football. 7 was the age I was told it was too late to learn. (For years I thought that there was some sort of special secret class where boys learn to play all the fun sports whilst girls aren’t watching, just to exclude us). 
• 14 was the age I was when I was told that I should already everything know about playing pool. Apparently all the boys in my class grew up watching "The Hustler" behind my back.  
• And finally 20 was the age I was when I was told that I should already know everything about darts. Darts was the last straw and because my aim has always been extremely good I hit the Bull’s Eye on my first go and was allowed to play. “They” thought I was exceptional. “They” are my peers who happen to have different genitals to me.

You see,  I wasn’t born knowing that we are not created equal. 

When I complained to the older (who I thought were wiser) men and women about not being allowed to play they reinforced what the boys had said and pointed me towards some dolls. 

Dolls ? I ask you? 

You will never get a sense of achievement from throwing a doll at a target and if you kick a doll you’ll end up breaking it which will usually frustrate some adult in your surroundings because they paid for it. 

So the advice I gave my little niece was this: 


"You can do whatever you want to do! And anyway when you’re eight you’re usually taller than all the little boys in your class. If all else fails get into a fight and win or puncture the ball.
It's called survival of the fittest! Trust me you are born knowing that. 
But do me this one favour, find out where and when they hold the secret football classes and let's crash one."

St Valentine's Teeth

The day was the 12th of February 2012 and in two days it would be the second most difficult day of the year for single people. (if you have to ask what the first one is you have either never being single or you're a Jedi).

His invitation came just in time and lifted her above the panic like a hot air balloon. 

Within seconds she became one of those people that said (with an air of petulance): “What’s the big deal? It’s only another day!”, as she looked at "The Dateless" through the safety of her  basket. 

It was only when she was alone, squeezed amongst the crowds of the Northern Line six o’clock tube (aka train aka metro for any International readers) that she admitted it to herself. 
She never would have accepted the invitation under “normal circumstances”.

On the morning of the 15th of February as she prepared her oatmeal breakfast in the office microwave she recounted her date. A tale of teeth and shoe trees. 

With her kind permission I share it with you - For Carol.(Names have been changed to protect the innocent).

-I knew it would never go beyond a first date when I saw his fillings. Even though everything else about him was perfect the black little squares colouring the bottom of his upper teeth made any attraction whatsoever impossible. 
I became fidgety. 
What was I doing here anyway?

These teeth betrayed a negligence that I could never learn to live with. He neglected that which he thought others could not see. 

On the contrary, everything that was on show was polished. 

He seemed to love his shoes more than his teeth. 

At some point during a lull in conversation (of which there were many) he told me that he was on the market for shoe-trees.

Shoe trees?.... 

At the time of this announcement I was happily unaware of the existence of such a contraption.  Unfortunately he “corrected” that.

I would rather have asked a five year old to conjure up a story about shoe trees rather than hear which shoes they would be keeping pristine. (That is what they do. They keep your shoes in shape - what joy).

What about your teeth? I wanted to blurt out but off course my manners would not allow such an outburst.

We were in a french bistro drinking a lovely Claret. Teeth and Claret don’t go together. 

Especially if they are wooden. His teeth had become stained by the claret so now when he arched his head to laugh at his jokes they were an amalgamation of red, white and black. 

A connection was made inside me that would last forever, between the wood of the shoe trees and teeth. Whenever I see stained teeth from now on i will think of shoe trees, but I will keep it to myself. 

Being knowledgeable of my own short-comings I periodically skipped to the bathroom to “powder my nose” but mainly (really) to give my teeth a little brush. 

How much of life can you bite off? I always like to give the impression that I can hack off quite a sizable chunk. Is that rude?

By the time I returned to the table I had made my mind up about two things: 

No 1. Sometimes our own company is better then tales of shoe trees. (Even on Valentine's night).

No2. I needed to book a check up appointment with my dentist.

An Oyster’s appreciation of Snow ©

Sometimes I feel like an oyster, just sitting there, half open at the bottom of the ocean. Open enough to be able to observe the other creatures, but not too open because then you can be disturbed. It’s best to observe and occasionally be driven on by deep ocean currents. Of which trust me there are many if you choose to let them lift you.  

I read the news every day - Oh Boy!*

Today the Guardian gave a title to what we are living through. They called it "The Great Recession". I think we’re meant to feel scared but also a little bit proud, like we’re finally part of something big. 

It’s nearly 10 p.m. on a Saturday when I begin to write this and it’s been snowing for a few hours. 

There’s a stew gurgling on the hob. I have it on a very low heat to help all the ingredients get introduced to one another slowly. I feel content but also like I’m hiding from something. It’s the effect the news has on me.     

I can hear the giggling of children outside. I poke my head out the window to have a look. They must have asked to go out and play with the snow millions of times in order to be allowed out this late. Or maybe the mother suggested it and they were all delighted? Or maybe the father is very childlike and likes playing with snow? All scenarios lead to happiness. 

I leave them to create their memory and sit back down. I don’t have to watch them to hear their giggles as I watch the snow falling outside my window. It’s exactly what I need.

I wonder if they know we're living through "The Great Recession"?

Snow has a calming effect. Maybe politicians and news writers could look at the snow before they make a decision or write something?

Just for tonight I feel like the snow has managed to keep the Great Recession at bay. 

If it does come too close when the snow melts away I’ll shut myself in my oyster shell and wait for the current to take me somewhere new.  

*http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EOcs0D5bZio