And I’m like Baby, Baby, Baby

Dear Mum,

I am a grumpy young woman.

Can you really blame me? January is like a rich tea biscuit dunked in a brew – limp, soggy, and lacking the varied texture of a hob nob or a choc chip cookie. Somehow commuting in January is worse than commuting in any other month.

Before you remind me of my New Year’s resolutions, I’ve been very good and controlled myself by refraining from rolling my eyes at noisy and space-hogging commuters.

Yet one cannot help but listen in on telephone conversations on a train. One is very much privy to the private lives discussed during telephone conversations in the confines of a train carriage.

On one late commute home, for example, a young teenage girl sitting across the aisle from me told her friend on the dog and bone, mid conversation, “Oh, by the way, I got my first period at the weekend.”

Woahhhhhhhh!! Not cool train talk, my naive friend. Excuse me while I throw you a disgusted of Tunbridge Wells look and change carriages.

What is really bothering me is phone conversations between lovers.  (Yes, I can feel the stirrings of an anti Valentine’s Day blog already). And even more irritating, the pet names used over the blower.

Pet names are a tricky thing. I fully understand there are moments when a lover finds their partner’s name is not enough. Moments of poignancy, total infatuation, and excitement – these moments often require a more lyrical or emotionally weighted term of address that seals the moment and binds these two people in their affection.

‘Baby’ is not one. ‘Baby’ makes me want to slap the phone out of the commuter’s hand or pull the emergency alarm so that they’d have to abandon their conversation, unable to hear one another over the driver’s announcements and alarm siren. Or simply chunder into my handbag.

Perhaps part of my issue with ‘baby’ is that Kate calls me this. This is because I’m the baby of the family, like ‘baby’ from ‘Dirty Dancing’. Kate also fulfils the older sister stereotype of being motherly and protective and therefore the nickname ‘baby’ fits.

(It is, however, very ironic that my friends call me ‘Luce’ which has connotations that absolutely contradict the innocence of ‘baby’. I emphasises the word connotations - this is not a nicknamed gained from certain behaviour. End of.).

Due to this familial relationship, this term of phrase is endearing, sensitive and logical because I’m the youngest and consequently the least experienced.

A guy calling his girlfriend this, or vice versa, is rather patronising. And due to its referencing the most innocent of humans, it’s also a bit pervy, unlike in a family where ‘baby’ is naturally part of that dynamic.

Using this pet name in a relationship is dangerous – it implies one partner is dependent upon the other, like a baby is upon its mother and, in my case, sister.

Furthermore, in recent years this word is most used in a Justin Bieber song, which heads this blog. Who wants to think of 17 year old, baby-faced Biebs when their lover rings them? “And I’m like baby, baby, baby - NNNOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!”

Which brings me to the three shortened versions of this pet name – ‘babe,’ ‘babes’ and ‘bubba.’

Firstly, ‘babe.’ This is a hideous word that calls to mind a baby pig, thus once more referencing an innocent as well as a farmyard animal. How charmingly romantic.

‘Babe’ equals a bad word.

‘Babes’ is only acceptable when used either ironically or between girlfriends. Pippa affectionately calls me ‘babes.’ I call female friends ‘babes’ when they’re complaining about something petty. “Oh, Babes, your boyfriend only put 5 kisses at the end of that text rather than the normal 8? Bastard!”

I shun those I hear on trains cooing this word down the phone.

And, finally, ‘bubba,’ wrong on so many levels.

Firstly, this is not a shortening – it has exactly the same number of syllables as ‘baby.’

Secondly, this is not a real word.  Just like ‘snufflelump’ and ‘cootchy-cootchy’ aren’t words. If you overheard a woman gushing into her Nokia ‘I can’t wait to see you tonight, Mr Rinky-tinky-pinky” you would think “That is not cool”. The same can be said for ‘bubba.’

Thirdly, it reminds one of Hubba Bubba chewing gum or Bubba Gump shrimp. Neither of these foodstuffs are aphrodisiacs.

And, finally, ‘bubba’ sounds like ‘hubba hubba’ which has never worked as a successful chat-up line or sexually excited sound effect.

Ergo, ‘baby’ and its entire vocab offspring should be forbidden.

‘Baby’ is not alone, however. ‘Dear’ will never be the same after Michael Winner told a woman to calm down. It is now a condescending word that puts any man that uses it when addressing a woman at a disadvantage because it suggests he is abusing his position as a male to exercise his Patriarchal power. Thanks, Michael.

‘Darling,’ now makes one think of Craig Revel-Horwood extending all of his vowels. “Daahling that chaaa chhaaa chhhhhaaaaaa was ghaaaaaaaaaaaaaastly!!”

And “precious” or “my precious” echoes a possessive hobbit sub-human panting over a cursed bit of bling.

To conclude, objective pet names which list inhuman, non possessive objects are A-Okay to use, specifically, ‘petal’, ‘sweetie,’ ‘sweetheart,’ ‘honey,’ ‘poopsey’ (jokes!) and ‘sweetcheeks.’

But baby has officially been put in the corner.

A mini blogger biog

Dear Mum,

It has occurred to me that I have never directly addressed the nature of this blog. It being over sixth months since my first blog, I think it time that I stand on my blogger soapbox and make a bit of an introduction.

Let’s face the music, Mum, this blog isn’t really for you. These are actually mock letters, rather like Anne Frank’s “Dear Kitty”, although I’m not suggesting my rudimentary musings are on a par with authentic reactions to fascist tyranny. Rather, the epistolary or diary style allows me to do what I do best – which is talk.

And so this blog is, actually, just a blog, disguised as a diary or collection of letters, but a blog nonetheless.

It offers honest truths about my existence written in a tongue-in-cheek style but, ultimately, with argument and reasoning.

And so to whoever stumbles across this, you’re not to worry that you’ve happened upon personal familial confessions. You’re very welcome to read all, because this isn’t really intended for my Mum. Although she is my biggest fan. Cheers, Mum.

I also think I ought to introduce new readers to Lucinda – my middle-class alter ego. Lucinda manages to creep into my life and subsequently into my writing, a bit like Mr Dick in ‘David Copperfield,’ finding himself unable to avoid the voice of Charles I in his memoirs. Except I don’t fly a kite after writing my blog to free myself of my doppelganger.

Readers ought to be aware of my split personality complex and accept my apology now if at any point Lucinda should grab the keyboard from my clutches and furiously type her bourgeois ponderings.

This aim is to one day write something of worth, something that people will read and ask their friend “Cor, did you read that blog/column/novel/playscript? [I’m not sure which but hopefully one will be of note]. Lucy made a good point, eh?”

“Yes I did read that article/poem/novella/post-it note?” [Again, not sure which, though I might stretch to a profound post-it note]. And it was good.”

In my opinion, there aren’t really any iconic or even noteworthy Lucy’s in the Land of Literature. There are great Janes (Jane Austen and Jane Eyre) great Elizabeths (Elizabeth Gaskell and Elizabeth Bennet) and there are great Margarets (Margaret Mitchell and Margaret Schlegal).

But there are not any great Lucy’s.

Take, for instance, the Lucy we all grew up with – Lucy Locket. Lucy Locket is not a great advert for Lucy’s. She’s forgetful and a careless spender.

There is Lucy Steele in ‘Sense and Sensibility’ who is downright irritating. Her constant fawning over Elinor Dashwood is creepy and manipulative, yet she’s also thick, not recognising the fact that Edward Ferrars has ‘given his handkerchief’ (and other such euphemisms) to another woman. Twerp.

There is also Lucy Snowe from ‘Villette’ who is a bit of a mystery. Her surname, Snowe, reflects her cold and aloof personality, hardly inspiring the fiery sentiments in readers that her fictional relative Jane Eyre does.

The only Lucy of any real note is Lucy Pevensie from ‘The Chronicles of Narnia’. Crowned ‘Queen Lucy the Valiant’ she is the greatest beacon for fictional Lucy’s but her nosiness in investigating a bit of furniture lands herself and her siblings in no end of trouble.

Unsurprisingly, hanging out in a beaver hunt, on the run from a deranged ice Queen threatening her prey with Turkish delight tricks (bleurgh!) isn’t for me.

To conclude, therefore, the world needs a new Lucy. One to lead the way on paper, one who uses language to inspire and encourage and be all-round brilliant.

Then again, we could also do with a new Pip (Pip Gargery is too self-centred), a new Edmund Rochester (he’s racist), a new Nancy (one without the psycho boyfriend), a new Penelope (one who doesn’t sit around crying all day, waiting for her unfaithful husband), a new Hercule Poirot and Jane Marple (how unfortunate that death follows them everywhere they go), a new Scarlett(one who calls it a day when Rhett leaves her)...

I love you Caitlin Moran

Dear Caitlin Moran (sorry, Mum, I’ll write next week),

Would you please be my best friend? Pretty please?

I ask because last night I closed the back cover of your book debut ‘How to be a Woman’ and I wanted to stand on the table of my train carriage and shout ‘I am a feminist’.  

What really held me back were my heels. Which, as you eloquently point out, are impractical footwear and are not ideal for scrambling into a jolting train surface.

I would, however, disagree with you, dear Caitlin, that women wear heels to make their legs look thinner. The reason that I choose the tottering footwear is twofold.

Firstly, being 5”2”, any extra height is gloriously welcomed (almost as warmly embraced if you were to step through my office door).

Secondly, I am the youngest in my office and so (combined with the 5”2” thing) I feel I require a little more authority.  Because, let’s be honest, an adult giraffe wields more power than a young meerkat.

Which brings me, Caitlin, to the mission statement of your manifesto. Your Bible to women’s position within society concludes that what feminism boils down to is being pleasant and polite to one another – men being nice to women, women being nice to men, women being nice to women.

If this is what feminism is, by and large, I once again declare myself a strident feminist. In my short life, I have already experienced chauvinism, oppression and straightforward rudeness and I’m ready for a positive change.

I begin with ‘The Patriarchy.’

As previously established, I am petite. I am also blessed with a fast metabolism, meaning I can pack three slices of cheesecake away without great physical effect. Lucky bitch, I know.

(On a more negative not, however, I look younger than I am and purchasing clothes can be a genuine practical issue, everything hanging off me like a toddler wearing it’s father’s suit jacket. My friends, for example, joke that my wardrobe is purchased in Mothercare while supermarket staff say, “Sorry love, you just look fifteen” as they pass a bottle of wine and my driving license back to me).

Plus my 5”2” frame means I am insubstantial. A vigorous gust of wind causes me to lose balance and a standing journey on the Underground throws me from side to side and in to other passengers, like a shuttlecock.

As a result of my petite frame taller male friends see it as their privilege and right to pick me up and spin me around like a living and breathing rag doll.

You yourself point out, Caitlin, that our bodily forms are the scientifically weaker of the sexes. As a result, all I can do is use my female wit and charm to disarm them.

But this does not work. Despite screaming “‘The Patriarchy’ will not control me!” at the top of my lungs, as I’m hurled around in a fireman’s lift, I can’t seem to get through.

I thus find heels to be excellent weaponry. Already being the ideal height for kneeing men in the Frankie Cocozza’s, pointed footwear is a wonderful resource because heels can be utilized as a scratching devise.

I don’t get any of this trouble from gay men. Like you say, Caitlin, gay men are excellent advocates for feminism. One of my best friends is gay and he is the most polite, most supportive and sweetest bloke – he makes me feel like a woman, despite me looking like a seventeen year old. Even when I appear distinctly ‘unfeminine’ he is all charm.

When I learned an ex-boyfriend played away, I didn’t do the “Oh no he didn’t!” finger snap while Aretha Franklin’s ‘Respect’ played. I rang Tim, who held me in bed as I blubbered over him all night, held my hand whenever we left the house for fresh air, cooked for me, got me drunk on red wine and changed my bedsheets when I drunkardly sloshed red wine over the bed. A true hero and feminist to boot. (He calls Sylvia Plath and Virginia Woolf his ‘homegirls.’ Whole-heartedly feminist.)

But I digress. Heels and women are the topic. And I find heels do also give me a bit more authority with women. When I clip-clop into the office in my pair of leopard print heels (which are only comfortable having been broken in) I can’t deny that I feel like Erin Brockovich, despite being just 21.  

I once worked in an office with a particular woman who had the incredible ability to be both sickeningly sweet and grateful and yet terribly bitchy and insulting. I’m not sure which was worse – the patronising arse-kissing or the blunt rudeness. She hardly promoted the female cause.

As I sat at my desk, ignoring her whispering and backhanded comments, I envisaged channelling Ness from Gavin and Stacey – a real feminist, wearing boots on her wedding day because they’re comfortable.

I dreamed of shouting across the packed office “Oh! ... Oh! ... OH! Sinead! Shut it, alright? You're being a wench and I don't like it. So Just. Pipe. Down."

But I did get my own back. I quickly realised the way to colleagues’ hearts is to offer a cup of tea or coffee. Besides which, if you’re making one for yourself it’s only polite to ask if anyone else wants one.

I used the fact that she patronised me to my advantage by always getting her drink order wrong. If she asked for a coffee with one sugar, I’d put three in; if she asked for green tea, I’d make peppermint; if she asked for a glass of still water, I’d pour sparkling, each time plonking it down on her desk and saying “No?! I got it wrong again?! What’s wrong with me, eh?!”

I might be just 21 (yes, for the final time, with the appearance of a teenager) without much life experience, with an appreciation for heels and a hatred of oppression, and I might not be quite what you had in mind when writing your book, but I would like to join your sisterhood.

Together we can instruct all vulgar repressive men and women to go swivel. And go for a drink afterwards, perhaps?

All of my sisterly love, Lucy.  

It’s time for the climb

Dear Mum,

What a dreary weekend. No offence is meant –taking down the Christmas decorations is just a bleak affair. This is not how I would chose to spend my first weekend of the New Year.

But the 6^th had passed and duty called thus I came to yours and Dad’s rescue to assist with the undecking of Halls and subsequent winter clean.

It has transpired that, with Dad working and Kate having flown the nest, you and I have been the most practiced in retrieving the Christmas decorations from their storage space and, a month later, putting the same decorations to rest. Lucky us, eh?

Saturday’s Christmas undressing began with the fetching of The Ladder. I dread this contraption because, in fact, it cannot simply be ‘fetched’ but instead heaved, wrestled and restrained. This monstrosity is, as you well know, huge, heavy and not designed for the use of two 5”2” females.

Thus, when you say the words “I think it’s time to get the ladder”, I scamper away to hide in the toilet with fake female aches.

But my moral compass always directs me back to you as I know The Ladder cannot be managed with one mere set of hands. After battling with the apparatus and positioning it underneath the mini loft in the utility room, we then begin the climb.

This involves me holding the ladder as you ascend the first three steps. When there is enough space between my face and your rear to make me feel more comfortable I then stand on the bottom step, offering some anchorage to The Ladder.

Every year, it is guaranteed that at this point The Ladder will toy with your emotions by rocking, causing you to nervously ask, “Can you hold the ladder steady by standing on the bottom step please?”

I assure you that I’m already on it. This offers no assurance, instead provoking you to ask, “You’re on it?!! Have you lost more weight?” which is followed by a discussion, still on The Ladder, about my eating habits and you insisting I eat something after we have finished putting the decorations away. I agree to this.

You reach the top point, a thin pole running from one side of The Ladder to the other. You take a large breath and quickly push yourself from it, wedging one foot against the side of the hatch and propelling yourself into the loft.

This is followed by THUMP and “OUCH!” I peer up at you from the bottom step to see you grimacing and clutching your head.  

And so it begins. You lower Pickfords boxes which are falling to shreds, a varied assortment of strong House of Fraser bags and bin liners, Fortnum and Mason hampers, old faded hat boxes and baskets, all smelling of damp and cinnamon candles, waiting to once more receive their Christmas contents.

Everything is ferreted away, lovingly wrapped in torn and yellowing tissue. Negotiations ensue as to what goes where before being stacked into boxes. You orchestrate the affair, each year replacing dilapidated boxes with new crisp ones and leaving yourself notes inside for next year’s successful Christmas feng shui.

You say the dreaded words “I think it’s time to put it all back in the loft. To The Ladder!” I scamper away to hide in the toilet with fake female aches. But my moral compass directs me back to you, knowing you once more require my anchorage.

And so you mount, reach halfway, I mount, The Ladder rocks, we discuss my weight, you propel, THUMP and “OUCH!”

Ready to go, I start handing you boxes, bags and baskets, giving you a quick briefing of their weight. I can hear you crawling about above me, pushing items aside and rearranging for maximum storage space.

We keep one another company by discussing how much we hate this tradition and compare gained injuries from this exercise.

“Ow! My shins are battered, Mum! Christ!”

“Don’t swear, darling. Besides, you should feel this lump on my head, it’s sodding huge!”

We agree the worst bit is the Christmas tree. Hated because it is heavy, awkward to hold and scratchy. It is at this point that, every year, we agree we should get a real one next year and relish the thought of having it sent to the chipper rather than battling to fit it through the hatch.

Suddenly, our rants are accompanied by ‘O, Come All Ye Faithful.” There is a resulting pause in our conversation. Mystified, I secretly wonder whether a heavenly host is descending upon us to scold me for taking the Lord’s name in vain, just two weeks after his birthday.

“Oh for heaven’s sake!” I hear your muffled cry, “It’s a musical decoration in one of the bottom boxes! Oh, leave it for now, let’s get the rest up.”

And so I continue passing stuff up, to me to you, to me to you, serenaded by the Christmas carol on a continuous and tedious loop.

“It’s all up, Mum.” I say, sitting down, defeated, on the bottom step.

“Right. I’m going to find and stop the music.” There are shuffles and thumps. The music suddenly grows a bit louder, obviously having been unearthed. Apart from the music, all is silent as you clearly try to identify the off switch.

Then, out of nowhere, WHACK WHACK WHACK! The music abruptly stops.

“There, that’s done” you say, your facing popping from the hatch, looking down at me on the bottom step. “Can you hold the ladder steady, please?”

And so you tentatively descend with me waiting on the bottom step. As your bottom inches closer to my face, I trust it is ok for me to leave the last step.

We emerge from the utility room. Covered in dust and renegade shreds of tinsel, you pick the fake pine needles from my hair and make me feel the lump on your head.

We both head for the Nurofen. Dad appears, tangled in a tumbleweed of Christmas lights, random bulbs resting in his open palms.

“Time for a glass of cider?” 

My New Year's Resolutions

Dear Mum,

2012 has dawned – Happy New Year! May it bring you and everyone who reads this blog good health, good fortune and bucketfuls of happiness.

One of my colleagues commented in December that 2011 was a pretty poor year, with flooding and tsunamis left, right and centre across the globe, worldwide rioting and a shaky economic climate.

This is, of course, all true and bloody rubbish. But commenting that 2011 as a whole was a poor show is a massive generalisation.

After all, we saw the Royal Family accept love into its fold, witnessed the fall of cruel figures, including Osama Bin laden and ColonelGaddafi, not forgetting glorious visual moments, such as Obama’s ‘birth’ video and Fenton the dog running riot through Richmond Park to the frustration of his owner. Joyous moments!

365 days cannot be categorised into either a good or bad year, just as a person cannot be singularly good or singularly bad.

Perhaps, however, if each human stuck to their New Year resolutions, which generally last all of two days, 2012 would be a major success. Our family are guilty of this – we don’t really follow the culture of New Year resolutions. So, this year, I’ve decided to pen mine as a contribution to the improvement of the world as well assisting me in my own happiness. Lucy’s resolutions are thus as follows...

1)      Eat as much cheesecake as possible. This way there will be less cheesecake for others thus reducing others’ weight gain and tooth decay.

2)     Be more patient when commuting. Don’t tut when middle aged men push to get on the train before you. Don’t sigh when fellow travellers turn the pages of their newspapers particularly loudly. Although it is most distracting and irritating, it achieves squat.

3)     Don’t panic that you don’t know what you’re doing in life, that you’re not 100% sure what you want from life, or that you don’t have a Big Plan, or that you aren’t sure what a Big Plan (which all adults ask you about) actually entails. Does anybody? Are there any 21 year olds who have the next ten years organised in a strict plan and stick to this plan religiously?

4)     You’re flying solo now. Deal with it. Be free, single and ready to mingle. With bells on.

5)     Accept that people love their pets as if they’re a member of their family. You should appreciate that you don’t look great when you roll your eyes at owners going ga-ga over their feline or canine companions. Not cool, Lucy. (Well, let’s be honest, these people aren’t cool either but, still, let it go).

6)     Go on holiday. This probably won’t massively contribute to humanity’s progress but you’ll feel a lot better for it and so that’ll make you calmer/kinder/patienter and generally more pleasant to be around.

7)     If you’re going to spend fistfuls of cash on clothes, books, vodka and other favoured pleasures do it locally rather that in massive chains. You’ll thus do your bit for local businesses. (But, generally, avoid spending money as, let’s be honest, you’re sitting in a shed load of debt and are hardly the sultan of Brunei).

8)    Stop shortening words e.g. ‘potentially’ into ‘pontench,’ ‘details’ into ‘deets,’ ‘probably’ into ‘probs.’ You sound like a pretentious pillock.

9)     Ease off the vodka. Try a new tipple.

10)  Accept that you won’t marry Johnny Depp, you won’t win the lottery and you won’t win a Nobel Prize in Literature because a) Yours and Johnny’s paths have never crossed and he is happily married to a total hottie b) You don’t buy lottery tickets – you have other things to be spending your cash on (e.g. 2012’s unaffordable travel fares) and c) You haven’t written anything, let alone anything of note.

With your support, Mum, I will carry out these resolutions with great success and so do my bit for 2012. Wish me luck!