Turning over a new page

Dear Mum,

Do you remember when Biff and Chip were my Jane Eyre and Rochester? When Brambly Hedge posters lined my walls? And the Mrs Large stories were piled beside my bed?

You’ve always said I was destined to do English as a degree because, even from a young age, I was an avid reader. I loved story time as a child; curled up on your lap, the ladybird pram loaded with precious literary cargo beside us.

My children’s future, however, is bleak. It seems I will read to them from a miniature computer screen.

I’d be the first to admit I can’t bear to be without the insurance of my mobile and I’m restless if the internet is down when I want to check my emails.

But it seems we’ve become obsessed with replacing parts of our lives with technology. Such as the Kindle...

Man has read from paper for hundreds, nay thousands, of years. It seems perverse that a natural and, until this decade, successful way of reading has been put on the backburner for another bit of technology to put on our gadget wish-lists.

Sales pitches for the Kindle include it’s lighter weight than a paperback. Let’s be honest, things are pretty bleak when you’re too lazy to lift a paperback.

The kindle screen is, apparently, easy to read because, unlike a computer screen, it is non-reflective. But hey, here’s news, so is a book page!

It’s not like checking a website on an iPod where you scroll down the screen – you can turn the pages on a Kindle. Alternatively, you can turn the pages of the actual book.

When finishing for the day, the kindle saves the part of the novel you stopped at. Alternatively, you can use a bookmark in a book.

You can also make notes on a Kindle. Alternatively, you can use a pencil on a book.

An e-book is cheaper than a paperback. Fair do’s, here I can see the appeal. But, e-books don’t come with contents pages, introductions or even page numbers. They also don’t include any pictures, not even a book cover. To me, a book cover and a book’s written contents go hand-in-hand. I like to see novel spines lined up beside one another, advertising their contents - a list on a screen simply doesn’t tickle my fictional fancy.

The Kindle means you can have all of your books with you. So what? Unlike an iPod, this doesn’t mean you can make your way through all the works of one artist in one sitting. And surely having so many texts with you means one would be tempted to change the novel one is reading rather than sticking it out?

No, I like my thumbed material novels, with forgotten photographs tucked in their front covers and corners folded to mark a phrase or character that struck a chord with me.

If none of these arguments in the book vs. Kindle debate convince you, Mum, I turn to Alfred Hitchcock, who once said “The paperback is very interesting but I find it will never replace the hardcover book - it makes a very poor doorstop”. If Hitchcock was alive today he would be horrified by the Kindle...

Atishoo, Atishoo

Dear Mum,

I type this as I clutch a hot water bottle to my body. The season of runny noses approaches and, to your relief I’m sure, I’m doing my utmost to avoid colds and viruses that are beginning to plague the nation.

I slight tickle in my throat inspired my advantage card and I to dance around the aisles of Boots at the weekend and stock up on potions. 

Paracetamol, tissues, Soothers, cough medicine and Lemsip galore were tossed into my basket.

I did not overlook, of course, First Defence. Which our family will never be able to forget since the time you wrote ‘First Response for Lucy’ on Dad’s shopping list.  It was not funny at the time.

When it comes to feeling poorly I’m game for anything pumping around my body to better the situation (Vodka included).

My best friend, Nat, swears by paracetamol and codeine tablets. On discovering codeine was the sister pharmaceutical drug of heroine, Nat’s boyfriend made her stop taking it.

Swearing it improved any ailment (understandable on account of its origins) she proceeded to take it behind his back.  

Perhaps it was wrong to ignore someone who is only concerned for your welfare. But I understood that, when you feel utterly ghastly, you’d (grudgingly) kiss a pigeon if it was going to make you feel well again.

And this is where my purse strings are not only loosened but well thumbed. I’ll pay pretty much anything for medicinal items and I don’t understand those who won’t.

Take the holy grail of medicines; Night Nurse. It may be thirteen times the cost of a box of paracetamol tablets but a night with Night Nurse is like taking ambrosia with the Gods.

If I’m honest, I’ve taken Night Nurse even if I just fancy a good solid night’s sleep. Once I took it before an exam just to ensure I wouldn’t lie awake for hours contemplating the language of Browning’s poetry.

My friends used to tease me that Night Nurse was my alter-ego.

So you’ve nothing to fear, Mum. My bedside cabinet is chock-a-block with pharmaceutical goodies and that will last me throughout the winter.

Night Nurse stands conveniently and invitingly at the front...

You shall go to the ball... just this once

Dear Mum,

At the weekend, I attended work’s Summer Ball with my colleagues.

I may have been exhausted after a day’s nine hour shift and desperate for a wallow in the bath but I prized my swollen, tired body into a Little Black Dress and reintroduced myself to heels. As I immerged from the changing room in my LBD and leopard print heels, encouraged by wolf whistles from my titivated girlfriends, I felt fabulous.

This was short-lived.

Stumbling inexpertly to the Underground as blisters surfaced on my feet, I clung to the arms of my nimble girlfriends.  I was bundled up in a coat while the other girls’ heads, shoulders, knees and toes were exposed to the fierce winds.

On arriving at the venue, I was pretty disenchanted. Our soiree was located in a poky bar where a few measly balloons had been strung up for decoration. The words “Free Weekend Hire” were emblazoned on a blackboard wall, meaning the £15 entry ticket was questionable.

The ‘complimentary’ glass of champers did soften the blow of the location and comforted my bruised tootsies. But on pursuing a further beverage I was horrified to learn a Malibu and coke would cost me £6.50.

The characteristics of this bar were not what I would identify as typical of a ball. This seemed more like Freshers week, particularly when one guy vomited fountain-like eruptions on the street outside, which, I hasten to add, I gained the backsplash of on my carefully fake-tanned legs.

 If this atmosphere was not enough, one of my supervisors rang for an ambulance to have the chunderer’s stomach pumped. It was at this point that the bar’s manager asked everyone to vacate the premises – an hour before the closing time specified on the ticket.

Perhaps it was naive of me to presume this affair would’ve been more glamorous and ‘ball’-like.  But I have done the whole being squashed and jostled on the dancefloor, getting home at 3am, rubbing my friends’ backs while they vomit.

I struggled to understand this claustrophobic, binge-drinking atmosphere when experiencing it at uni. Why anyone would drink to the point where they’re convulsing and vomiting is beyond me.

And how this ambience inspires men and women to smack lips and grope one another amidst a crowd of other party-goers is disturbing. Particularly for those nearby who are subjected to these occurring passions.

Now that I’ve graduated and I’m earning a salary, I am simply too tired for such shenanigans. Call me crazy, but I don’t desire to blow my hard-earned pay on achieving this bodily experience.

Thank heavens these ‘balls’ don’t happen every weekend. 

Split-personality complex

Dear Mum,

Unless its’ someone I respect or care about, I couldn’t give a toss what people think about me. What I wear, who I’m friends with, why I can’t stand the Twilight films; those who object can go on their merry way.

There is, however, one part of my identity that I do cringe at. My middle class alter ego.

She is named Lucinda.

This dual identity complex was arguably inevitable.  Coming from a leafy Kentish town, where country walks in Hunter wellies and quilted jackets is a common pastime. Where families call dinner ‘supper’ and employ a cleaner, even though mother will do a quick whip round before the cleaner arrives because she cannot bear the thought of the cleaner judging her for a messy abode.

Before university, I wasn’t ever conscious of Lucinda’s voice.  When I was immersed in the huge and diverse community of a university campus, Lucinda’s expression was palpably conspicuous.

On one such occasion I was at a friend’s watching a film.  One girl, a raving Tory, was wearing a part of velvet slippers adorned with a shiny ribbon.

“I love your slippers,” I said, “where are they from?”

“Boden,” she replied pointing her toes.

“E-ow My God, I LOVE Boden!” I cried as I clasped my hands together and clutched them to my chest. Lucinda had materialised and the others in the room gawped at her in horror.

This statement was typical of those women who shop in M&S food halls with a wicker basket hung in the crook of their elbow. The same women who visit the local independent cafe to flirt with the Italian manager and exclaim, “Oh, Giuseppe, do say you’re attending my dinner party on Saturday, I can’t wait for you to try my homemade pesto.”

I roll my eyes at the sight or sound of these individuals. But Lucinda lurks in the Cath Kidston papered corners of my mind, waiting to exercise her middle class voice like these local homemakers.

I have come to terms with the fact that Lucinda is a part of my constitution. I am conscious of her existence but am prepared to both suppress and embrace her.

Once, when I was revising for my finals and went for a break in the library cafe, I bumped into a guy I went to secondary school with. He was once a shy, nervous boy who cried, utterly mortified, when he accidently walked into the girls’ toilets.  

Today, we couldn’t be more different.

There he was, on his way for a nicotine fix, the cigarette tucked behind his ear, clearly whispering enticing encouragement. Since school he has had an ear pierced and his trousers have lowered a further three inches down his backside.

He also follows this popular youth fashion of having a spare white t-shirt dangling from his back pocket. Fair do’s, he’s prepared for a grubby t-shirt emergency, but why it can’t be folded and placed in his bag, I don’t understand.

There I was, fulfilling the archetypal image of a middle class female student - a pashmina arranged extravagantly around my neck, a cafe latte in one hand and a copy of ‘Wuthering Heights’ balancing on my knee. “So good to see you,” I smiled as he quickly jerked his head upward in my direction and swaggered outside.

Not sure whether this was Lucinda or Lucy, I must confess I was glad to be either one. I knew he was probably thinking something similar to my attitudes about those pesto and wicker basket women.

“Jog on,” was forefront in my mind. 

Brain Training

Dear Mum,

I’m accelerating though Kentish countryside. An Autumnal mist levitates above extensive fields and mystifies my vision of settlements beyond it.

My mind fills with fictional thoughts; Bobbie running toward her long-lost father in ‘The Railway Children,’ Dickens rescuing his ‘Our Mutual Friend’ manuscript from the wreckage of a train accident, Margaret Hale first glimpsing Milton from a railway carnage in ‘North and South.’

Why does a train inspire one’s imagination? No other form of transport encourages such romantic ponderings.

Car journeys are pretty mundane – there is certainly nothing rousing about the M25.  As for aeroplanes, we invest our time in napping or in-flight entertainment. And the constant expanse of cloudy space is arguably less enthralling than the elaborate landscapes that run parallel to railway lines.

It could be the vantage points a train offers. One cannot help but marvel at the new sights and topography a train offers.

Or perhaps it is the escapism. Leaving the slog of working life and tedium of the real world, one must simply witness a realm outside of one’s own world.

I think the speed of the train triggers the acceleration of my mind, as neurones attempt to catch up with the locomotion.

Bobbie and Margaret are joined by foreign creatures who inhabit the environment my train passes through. These are the workings of my imagination. They dance about my mind, desperate to tell me their story and accompany me.

My train pulls into the station and the creatures evaporate.  I will have to return for my return journey to greet them once more...