Galanthus and gall

I have spent the last 5 years working in the health and social care sector, during which time I’ve met people living in the most challenging of circumstances, dealing with money worries, illness, disability, loneliness, addiction, depression and myriad other issues. Despite their situations I have been impressed with the resilience and optimism many of these families display and have met some amazing people who have taught me a great deal. Better still, I have never been harangued or threatened by any of them, which is in marked contrast to my time spent working for the National Trust, which you would expect to offer an altogether more civilised perspective on the world.

The reason this is on my mind is down to the time of year. As I drove to work the other morning my eye was drawn to the drifts of snowdrops blanketing the grounds as I left the estate. It was impossible to remain unmoved by such  a dazzling floral display in the bleak midst of winter.

“Bloody snowdrops,” I thought. I’ve never felt the same way about them since the ill-fated Snowdrop Tea event held at a nearby Georgian mansion many years ago when I was employed as their Admin Assistant. Back then the property was closed over the winter months but the decision was made to open for a one-off event where visitors could take a tour of the landscaped grounds with the gardener, enjoy the many exciting varieties of snowdrops on show, and finish their afternoon with a splendid selection of tea, sandwiches and cakes in the restaurant. Due to my own inexperience I had submitted a press release about this forthcoming event to the local paper which entirely failed to mention that pre-booking was essential as there were only limited spaces available for the tour and tea. I never made that mistake again.

As it was a Sunday in February no senior management were on duty so myself and the conservation assistant headed down to the ticket office and directed those who had pre-booked tickets to the assembly point for their guided tour. Unfortunately we were soon presented with the problem of how to manage those visitors who had arrived without booking first but who really, really wanted to look at snowdrops. Despite the fact they had driven past thousands of them growing on the verges of the lanes approaching the property their lust for small white winter flowers remained unsatiated.

Upon learning that the tour was full one apoplectic gentleman and his wife took up positions either side of the path from the car park to the ticket office and accosted other visitors as they arrived, regaling them with outrage at our failure to accommodate them and urging them to join their impromptu protest. Eventually those lucky few with tickets already booked had to shoulder their way through a picket line of angry middle-aged, middle-classed, Barbour-clad activists. It was on a par with the time I was accused of being worse than Hitler for refusing to unlock the gates restricting access to the lake during nesting season for the resident herons. “I fought a war for people like you,” said the disappointed patriarch of this particular family, shaking his head sadly at my failure to show my appreciation of not having to speak German by unlocking the gate and flicking the Vs at the Wildlife and Countryside Act.

“I am a member!” would come next, the inevitable cry, the top trump card, the reason for any unreasonable request. In some cases “I am a life member!” would  be deployed as proof positive that rules applying to lesser mortals are simply inapplicable when one has such irrefutable entitlement and a small piece of card with a picture of an acorn on it.

We did our best to defuse the snowdrop situation, my colleague and I, but it was a long time before the mob disbanded. Even then they went home and wrote angry letters of complaint. It taught me valuable lessons in managing expectations.  The legacy it has left is the knowledge that while the popular media likes to portray less affluent sectors of society as being uncouth and aggressive the worst behaviour I have ever encountered has been from those perceived as privileged. To this day a dribbly spout on a teapot can give me trauma-filled comment card flashbacks. There is a lot of anger beneath those waxed jackets, a lot of barely suppressed rage in a Range Rover.

Bertie, the then-Property Manager’s cat, who would savage staff and visitors alike in a blur of  teeth and claws, posing peacefully among the must-see-or-we-riot snowdrops. I did see the snowdrops; they were all right but not worth the aggro.

The Day or Two of the Dead. Couple of Months, Tops.

My love of all things zombie began by chance, as I idly flicked through the TV channels late one night. This didn’t take long, it being the 80s and only having 4 channels to flick through, but to my great good fortune Dawn of the Dead was being shown on one of them. My thumb instantly froze over the remote control as I gazed in fascination at my first screen encounter with the living dead. The scenes featuring zombies riding escalators and falling over on the ice rink, all to wildly inappropriate shopping mall muzak, became instant favourites. It’s a blend of humour, horror, pathos and social commentary that I find  irresistible.

Since then I have watched a great many zombie films and TV series, read zombie fiction, been the recipient of many Z-themed gifts and have even created my own, knitting the undead in a burst of woolly creativity. It’s fair to say zombies are one of my interests.

I made this. Truly, I am gifted.

That said, my enthusiasm is not indiscriminate. There are a couple of zombie deal breakers for me. The first is that I am firmly of the belief that zombies, much like myself, do not run. They are dead. Their muscles are rotting. They don’t consume carbs, energy drinks or performance enhancing drugs. Sprinting seems highly unlikely. They should shamble and stumble, lurch and moan in the grip of the terrible life hangover they are undoubtedly experiencing. The slow, relentless inevitability of their approach is what the zombie, as a metaphor for death, is all about. You can dodge and weave, outrun it for a while but eventually it will get you. Super speedy zombies are like sparkly vampires, a modern twist on an old classic which takes a genuinely creepy premise and transforms it into a pile of laughable wank.

The other issue that occurs to me is that a zombie outbreak simply wouldn’t last very long, especially if it occurred in the summer months. We may be into season 6 of the Walking Dead but I’m not convinced it would last so long in actuality. Certainly not long enough to grow a luxuriant beard and build a new world. A key fact most zombie fiction ignores is that nature is amazingly efficient at recycling dead stuff. Insect activity, carrion-eating birds, hungry dogs, would all make short work of an exposed carcass. My cat will start to tentatively eat my face if I nod off on the sofa for more than 5 minutes so there’s no way a zombie could wander the land unmolested by scavengers. Zombies are a self-limiting problem, eventually they’ll decompose. Obviously if the apocalypse happens during a cold snap you may have to stock up on more canned goods and keep the door locked until spring, but if you live in a region with wolves or bears you’re laughing.

I may have to redress the balance and write my own short short story featuring slow moving zombies and an afternoon at the safari park.

Beached whales. Bigger than zombies, eaten by polar bears. And seagulls. Up your game, zombie fiction writers!

A Life in Cats, Chapter 2, That Difficult Second Act

Tiddles was a hard act to follow. I grant you that. Any cat would have struggled to match her levels of loveability. A vicious bundle of fur and razor-wire was always going to be more of a challenge to cherish.

She was cute enough when I first got her, but she was a tiny, tiny kitten at that stage and not yet weaned. At the time I lived next door to my Great Aunt, sister to my irrepressible Gibraltan Gran, and she had an unsentimental attitude to animals. She kept bantams in her garden, so she always had a plentiful supply of eggs. Occasionally she would slaughter one for the cooking pot, and I well remember her not wasting any useful part of that bird, showing me the semi-formed eggs in their various stages of development inside the oviduct, holding them aloft like a mutant bunch of orange grapes, then scraping them into a bowl to use later for cakes or omelettes. It was very educational. She also had a cat, which lived entirely outdoors, kept solely for pest control purposes. Semi-feral, it had never been neutered and one day Great Aunt Vicky called me over to her shed, to show me the miracle of nature which had just occurred. There, on a bale of straw, was proud mother cat and one tiny tabby kitten.

Sadly, a few days later we discovered the mother cat had been knocked over by a car and killed. Great Aunt Vicky, pragmatic as ever, gave me the kitten on the understanding that it was probably going to die, it was far too young to make it without its mum. Undeterred I immediately retrieved my Tiny Tears baby doll bottle and started giving routine feeds. The loss of Tiddles had hit me hard so I was determined to save this kitten if I could. She was so small she fit entirely into the palm of my hand, her tail was a stubby triangle, yet she consumed her milk from the doll’s bottle greedily and positively thrived. She grew bigger, stronger and even Great Aunt Vicky had to concede she was a survivor.

You might imagine that this heartwarming story of tragedy to triumph would have forged an unbreakable bond of love between cat and human but no, not a bit of it. As she grew this little furball took every opportunity to express her gratitude through the medium of tooth and claw. She shredded her way up curtains and legs alike. She could clamp herself around an outstretched hand like an alien facehugger on John Hurt, ferociously biting while all four paws raked interesting new designs up your forearms.  Somewhat euphemistically I named her “Frisky”.  Her true cat name should have been Slasher, Bitey or Ungrateful Git Cat but I was young and optimistic that she would get through this boisterous stage and settle down into serene adulthood. There would be cuddles, songs and endless purrs, the lacerations and repeat prescriptions of TCP would be a thing of the past. Ah, the naivety of youth.

Don’t be deceived. Do not attempt to pet this cat. Even making eye contact is risky.

Frisky made it clear she pretty much loathed humans, yet was unfortunately cursed with a similarly strong aversion to being outdoors. She would venture outside the back door a few feet, look around, be upset and disappointed by the universe at large and run back inside. This was especially problematic when she would do the desperate “I’m going to be sick, quick let me out” yowl and run to the door, where I, having hurdled the coffee table and several chairs to get to her in time, would fling it open only to have her run out, immediately remember that she hated the outdoors, run back inside and promptly yak up all over the mat before I could close it again.

An agoraphobic cat, trapped indoors with people she despised, Frisky spent a lot of time sitting on the stairs, where she could quickly dart out a paw between the bannisters and give you a swift twatting as you walked past. Her violent ways only began to wane when she reached extreme old age and her failing eyesight and arthritis put an end to her stealth attacks. Finally, after a lifetime of random hit and runs, she started to slow down and spend her days quietly napping in sun spots around the house. It seemed a bit cruel to still be calling her “Frisky” in her latter days, when she could barely jump on and off the bed anymore, but her tenacious hold on life hadn’t waned since those early days sucking milk from a Tiny Tears bottle. She lived for an astounding 21 years and died at home of old age, the only time she did anything peacefully.

I admired her stubborn refusal to take to me over the decades and was reluctantly fond of the old bat, but she was no soulmate like her predecessor. If Rainbow Bridge existed she’d only be waiting for me there in order to give me a quick claw in the face before legging it to the Pearly Gates. She was consistent though, and I respected that. I could only hope my next pet would have a friendlier disposition. Anything that didn’t routinely draw blood would be fine by me.

Dragged up

Given the fact I grew up in rural Norfolk in the 70s and 80s I had a remarkably liberal time of it. I mean, OK, there wasn’t much diversity to experience in terms of different cultures, but there was a lot of freedom to enjoy. Freedom to use my imagination, freedom to learn from my own experience, freedom to explore (I’d be off on my bike from dawn til dusk in the summer holidays, my mum relying on hunger to bring me home again in those times before mobile phones were essential kit for every child). I was led to this particular train of thought after watching RuPaul’s Drag Race and realising that I first went to see a drag show when I was about 9 years old.

Yes, back in the 70s we had a big family outing to Great Yarmouth to see an end of pier show. This show to be precise:

I was transfixed. The sequins, the glamour, the big feathery headdresses! This gorgeous vision arriving on stage with a deep voiced “wotcher mates!” This self proclaimed “comic in a frock” kept my irrepressible Gibraltan granny cackling so much that he repeatedly singled her out from the audience for a bit of banter and to check on the state of her seat.

I kept the programme from that show for many years. In the middle there was a Danny centrefold, staples through his spangly midriff, beautifully made up as a Vegas-style showgirl. I gazed upon those long, fishnet-clad legs in awe, then forlornly considered my own chubby knees, bruised and battered from numerous scrapes and falls. It seemed unlikely I would ever achieve similar levels of femininity and I was right.  My knees have steadfastly refused to be anything other than battered, bruised and chubby and, ironically, on the rare occasions I wear high heels I walk like a crossdressing truck driver. It seems to bring out my inner man. Worn by me fishnets and feathers are more burly than burlesque.

Along with my steadfastly sturdy legs I also retained my fascination with drag queens. There is something intriguing in that exaggerated femininity which allows these exotic creatures a freedom of speech not generally accepted from their everyday counterparts. There’s a strange sort of alchemy which allows a man in lipstick to get away with so much more than I could, no matter how much slap I put on.

I watch today’s generation of drag queens with great interest. There’s a lot more emphasis on lip synching and less on belting out old music hall numbers like “On Mother Kelly’s Doorstep” but I wonder what else has changed? Is the world a more accepting place nowadays, with drag on mainstream TV being watched by millions, or was it more so back in the day when you’d take the whole family to watch a show at the seaside?

I’m just grateful my family were Danny La Rue fans and couldn’t stand the Black and White Minstrel Show. I was dragged up right.

I’m sorry, what?

“Sorry, I didn’t catch that, you must have been on my deaf side.”

“What?”

Cue barely contained mirth at this stunning example of witty banter.

It’s a depressingly familiar conversation and one of the most annoying facets of being deaf – even more so than not being able to hear things – having to go through this tedious “what? Pardon?” routine every time I am forced to tell someone I have a significant hearing loss. Deafness is seen as a comical disability in a way that other conditions are not. If someone told you they were blind most people wouldn’t respond with “I see!” and then fall apart laughing. If somebody told you they had problems walking and needed to use mobility aids most of us would not respond with “oh, wheely?”  I think because being deaf has been used as a comic device so frequently it’s quite hard for some hearing people to take it seriously.

That said, the episode of Fawlty Towers with the deaf woman who won’t switch on her hearing aid because it runs down the battery always makes me laugh, despite being so very stereotypical in its portrayal. Misunderstanding forms the foundation of so much humour that deafness is comedy gold for setting up hilarious situations. I’ve had enough mishearing-related mishaps to know that for myself.

As my hearing loss is not total I pick up certain parts of speech but not others. My brain then fills in the blanks with what seems to be a good fit, a bit like playing Hangman, only with sounds instead of letters. When combined with lipreading it’s a technique that works astonishingly well. (So well most people don’t know I’m deaf and then we have that whole tired “what? pardon?” routine to navigate.) I will know instantly if I’ve misheard by the laughter that meets any response I might make. An innocent acceptance of an offer of sausages can be surprisingly funny if you were actually being asked about holiday cottages.

It’s even worse on the phone. I’m loathe to use it unless absolutely unavoidable. If I don’t know the person on the other end of the line it’s a complete lottery as to whether I’ll be able to hear them or not. Some voices fall more within my hearing range than others and some are just unfathomable. Answerphone messages left for me often have to be listened to as part of a team activity as it can be very hard to make out names and numbers if you can’t hear the difference between certain consonants. I may as well have been called by R2D2.

Is it on?

Certain alarms are also out of my range. I can remember sitting on the steps of Berrington Hall one day, back in my National Trust days, chatting with my colleague, when she suddenly got up and ran. I was mystified but went with it and ran along with her,. Turns out we were heading for the alarm panel to see which part of the house was triggering the siren sound that I still couldn’t hear. A few years later I slept through a similar alarm at another historic house, snoozing soundly while the Property Manager and two policemen shone torches through the downstairs windows to see if I’d been coshed by burglars.

I do have specially adapted alarms in the house now which flash bright lights and a pad for under my pillow which vibrates if the alarms go off, so I no longer sleep through potential disaster. I also have hearing aids, which I hate. When I finally caved in and went to audiology they informed me I was completely deaf on my right side and had only limited hearing in my left. This didn’t come as a total surprise, given I’ve been pretty deaf for as long as I can remember. The hearing aids brought a whole new auditory dimension to me and, unlike those cute videos of young children hearing for the first time and being overwhelmed with joy and wonder, I responded by flinching, scowling and the revelation that birdsong is vastly overrated.

What I’ve learned over the years is that my hearing loss is more problematic for others than it is for me. My disinclination to use the phone can be vastly inconvenient, though less so now that text, email and instant messaging are so integral to communication. Having to repeat things more than once can be irritating for those trying to talk to me. I am blissfully unconcerned. The only real annoyance for me about my deafness is having to deal with the comedy “what?” twats, but this may be where good use of sign language comes in.

Signing, the Jarvis way.

A Question of Sport

I was watching the local news the other evening when they raised the question of whatever happened to the 2012 Olympic Games legacy? What became of the promise of a healthier nation, millions of us newly inspired to participate in sport? The presenter seemed much more surprised than I was to discover that the nation had not become super fit and sporty after all, despite its propensity for watching hours of televised running about.

The reason for this is no mystery to me. There are those who would argue that this unforeseen age of austerity has led to cuts in funding so that many sporting opportunities now no longer exist. I would argue that even if there was a free sports hall on every corner most of us would still fail to make it through the door on a regular basis once the novelty had worn off. This is because sport is dreadful. It’s infinitely less enjoyable than having a nice sit down and a cake, which is why sofa and cake consumption is as high as ever, as opposed to swimming pool attendance. You only have to look at the legacy of the Great British Bake Off and compare it to that of the Olympics to see where, as a nation, our passions lie.

I have never been the sporty type. School and its compulsory PE lessons were a torment for me. I never really understood how anyone could actively enjoy the perversity of having to take off your perfectly warm clothing to go and freeze on a rain lashed field, mottled legs bare and vulnerable to flailing hockey sticks. I was nearly always last to be picked for any team, which was fair enough as I made no bones about my unwillingness to participate in anyway whatsoever. I would not attempt to catch or hit any projectile that came my way and I Do Not Run. Individual sports fared no better, I would simply walk through the high or long jump, stroll though hurdles or go for a cross country sit. PE was the one subject for which I used to get terrible school reports  – “Susan’s surly and sullen attitude is not what we expect from a 4th year” – but since my parents rated PE as highly as I did, this was never a cause for concern.

I didn’t care, they didn’t care, the nation doesn’t care.

Sport to me conjures up images of horrible clothes, the smell of sweat, unpleasant showers and changing rooms, swimming pools with unspeakable fluids in the compulsory footbath, sticking plasters and hair swirling around the filter, chlorine up your nose, being uncomfortable, hot, sweaty, having a stitch, needing an oxygen tent. I understand that if I stick with it at some point the endorphins will kick in and I will feel amazing but I also feel amazing after half a bottle of Pinot Grigio and a Kit Kat. It’s not a tough choice is it?

The only exercise I enjoy – walking across the Downs, preferably to the pub.