Let us put aside, for now, the tedium and vexation of all things political. Instead, I shall shine a light on two minor aspects of my life, one a cause for mild sadness and world-weariness, the other an antidote to that weariness.
Today, LittleBear's football team had a friendly football match. It's half-term and there are no "official" fixtures, so Coach arranged a friendly against another local team. Our boys played well, had fun, encouraged each other, listened well, and were generally a source of great pride. And at the end, the opposition coach refused to shake hands with us. Apparently, there was some level of misunderstanding that was certainly not down to us (I've read the thread of messages exchanged before the match). The opposition were expecting us to be a "development side" and at the end we were sworn at and told we had "wasted their time" by being more experienced than expected.
I was dumbfounded to start with. I haven't even bothered visiting "angry" but have just moved to deep sadness. Why are people so horrible? Why does sport have the tendency to bring out the worst in people? Is this what I will continue to face if I stay in voluntary coaching?
And now for the brighter side of humanity...
Earlier this term, LittleBear's school had a harvest festival. Fortunately(?) this year I didn't have an opportunity to listen to them singing about broad beans in blanket-y beds, or big, red, combine-harvesters. Unfortunately, because of the absence of this auditory treat, I also didn't have the mental prompt to provide LittleBear with a donation of food for the local night shelter. I discussed this with LittleBear over dinner one day, and he told me that it probably didn't matter as they had a huge pile of food collected. We then mused that perhaps that in itself wasn't ideal, and that perhaps they end up with lots of food at Harvest and Christmas and not enough the rest of the year. And it was at this point that LittleBear warmed the cockles of my old and jaded heart.
"Mummy? You know how last year we did that reverse calendar thing* at Christmas and put food in a box?"
"Yes? Would you like to do that again this year?"
"I think we should do that but not at Christmas. Can we do it for the month running up to my birthday, and then again running up to mid-summer's day? I don't think many people will donate things in November or the middle of summer."
And so it is that today, while putting in an on-line grocery order, I have been transcribing a list of things in my lovely boy's handwriting to buy for the local food bank. Every day for the last ten days he has added an item to the list, after consulting the food bank website to discover what they need.
So, yes, some people are horrible. But I am blessed beyond measure that my LittleBear is not one of them**.
* My attempts to make sure Christmas isn't simply a festival of consumerism involves us having a reverse advent calendar - every time LittleBear opens a day of his calendar, we put something into a box to go to the food bank. Sometimes it's a nominal "put a thing in the box" and actually we buy several things at once and put them all in, having written them down on the day.
** Maybe this counts as the most appalling level of bragging about what an angel my son is. He's not, he's just a small boy with a big heart. And sometimes that big heart, and excess of empathy, means life is difficult for him to cope with, but sometimes it means he makes choices I think are bloody brilliant, and I love him to bits. And this is my blog, so once in a while I'll brag about my baby.
Saturday 26 October 2019
Friday 18 October 2019
Micro-blogging
Foolishing I followed the news today and became increasingly despondent at the idiocy, self-interest and flagrant ability to tell bare-faced lies that our politicians seem to possess.
I'd been promising myself I would make pie for dinner tonight, and had been looking forward to it for several days. (I take my small pleasures where I can).
By the time dinner was approaching, I felt so gloomy and apathetic, I simply couldn't be bothered to make pie. I sat on the sofa and stared at the wall. Then I sorted out LittleBear's three(!) Rubik's cubes*.
And then I made a conscious decision not to let the Brexit shit-weasels ruin the highlight of my culinary week, so I got up from the sofa and made pie anyway.
It may be my only victory over the Brexiteers, but it was still a victory. I will not allow them to break my mental health.
* I would like to claim that my genius allows me to solve the Rubik's cube with ease. My genius extends only as far as an ability to use the internet.
I'd been promising myself I would make pie for dinner tonight, and had been looking forward to it for several days. (I take my small pleasures where I can).
By the time dinner was approaching, I felt so gloomy and apathetic, I simply couldn't be bothered to make pie. I sat on the sofa and stared at the wall. Then I sorted out LittleBear's three(!) Rubik's cubes*.
And then I made a conscious decision not to let the Brexit shit-weasels ruin the highlight of my culinary week, so I got up from the sofa and made pie anyway.
It may be my only victory over the Brexiteers, but it was still a victory. I will not allow them to break my mental health.
* I would like to claim that my genius allows me to solve the Rubik's cube with ease. My genius extends only as far as an ability to use the internet.
Friday 4 October 2019
The depressing side of humanity
Having had a moderately stressful week already, as a series of minor incidents piled on top of each other to make me feel overwhelmed and anxious, what I really needed was another stress-filled encounter.
I went to our local shop last night, while BigBear bathed LittleBear. We'd run out of bread and needed some before morning. It seemed a good opportunity to pop out. While in the local shop, there was what can only be described as a kerfuffle. I wasn't really aware of what was going on, though perhaps someone had tried to leave without paying, or perhaps they'd had an argument with the security man at the door, or perhaps it was nothing. There were a couple of mildly over-excited young women, rushing in and out and squealing to each other in the way young women sometimes do. I stood waiting my turn at the checkout, glancing occasionally towards the doors, along with the cashier and the other customers, wondering what was afoot.
The cashier commented that there didn't seem to have been any theft, and it was all OK. But a new customer had just entered the shop who made the off-hand remark that, "the bigger problem is they were trying to get the girls in the van." And while he rightly saw this as a "bigger problem" he clearly didn't see it as a big enough problem to get involved. The cashier and I saw things differently. She immediately called one of the young women over to find out what had happened and whether they were OK.
The girls were fine. They stayed in the shop, with bright lights and middle-aged women.
The men in the van had been calling them closer, trying to get them to come right to the doors of the van. They'd suggested the girls should, "come with us for a sesh".
The suddenly-maternal cashier and I both encouraged them to report the events to the police, to make sure they'd got the numberplate of the van, to take it seriously in case someone less sensible was approached in the same way. Once I was sure the cashier and the girls were sorting things out, I set off for home. But the van was still there. So I walked round to the front of it, mentally noted the numberplate and went back into the shop to give the cashier the numberplate so she could help the girls with the reporting.
Then I left again.
"Mind your own fucking business, you slut!"
Slut.
Really?
That's the best you can do?
Slut.
I set off for home and the van zoomed past me, obviously giving up on their quest to acquire female company at Tesco.
"Slut!"
I'm a middle aged woman wearing trousers with an elasticated waist and a beige jumper. But I'm a woman, so I'm fair game. And the obvious insult is slut.
I went home. I reported the whole thing to the police. I did my civic duty. But I felt tired, and depressed, and shaken, and disappointed with humanity.
All I wanted was a loaf of bread.
I went to our local shop last night, while BigBear bathed LittleBear. We'd run out of bread and needed some before morning. It seemed a good opportunity to pop out. While in the local shop, there was what can only be described as a kerfuffle. I wasn't really aware of what was going on, though perhaps someone had tried to leave without paying, or perhaps they'd had an argument with the security man at the door, or perhaps it was nothing. There were a couple of mildly over-excited young women, rushing in and out and squealing to each other in the way young women sometimes do. I stood waiting my turn at the checkout, glancing occasionally towards the doors, along with the cashier and the other customers, wondering what was afoot.
The cashier commented that there didn't seem to have been any theft, and it was all OK. But a new customer had just entered the shop who made the off-hand remark that, "the bigger problem is they were trying to get the girls in the van." And while he rightly saw this as a "bigger problem" he clearly didn't see it as a big enough problem to get involved. The cashier and I saw things differently. She immediately called one of the young women over to find out what had happened and whether they were OK.
The girls were fine. They stayed in the shop, with bright lights and middle-aged women.
The men in the van had been calling them closer, trying to get them to come right to the doors of the van. They'd suggested the girls should, "come with us for a sesh".
The suddenly-maternal cashier and I both encouraged them to report the events to the police, to make sure they'd got the numberplate of the van, to take it seriously in case someone less sensible was approached in the same way. Once I was sure the cashier and the girls were sorting things out, I set off for home. But the van was still there. So I walked round to the front of it, mentally noted the numberplate and went back into the shop to give the cashier the numberplate so she could help the girls with the reporting.
Then I left again.
"Mind your own fucking business, you slut!"
Slut.
Really?
That's the best you can do?
Slut.
I set off for home and the van zoomed past me, obviously giving up on their quest to acquire female company at Tesco.
"Slut!"
I'm a middle aged woman wearing trousers with an elasticated waist and a beige jumper. But I'm a woman, so I'm fair game. And the obvious insult is slut.
I went home. I reported the whole thing to the police. I did my civic duty. But I felt tired, and depressed, and shaken, and disappointed with humanity.
All I wanted was a loaf of bread.
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