Saturday, 1 August 2015

The missing tweets: tents, Tolpuddle and traffic jams


HOLIDAY SOUVENIRS

I promised myself when I went on holiday that I would stay off the internet. (And much of the time, we had no phone signal so I had no choice.) But I couldn’t help thinking of what I might be saying if I was back on Twitter. So here is “what I did on my holiday”, 140 characters at a time.

Day 1 of #holiday. Traffic jam. Car overheats. Nice man selling cherries in lay-by says “turn on the heating”. People overheat.

Interim campsite. The good news: a pub down the road. The bad news: it’s closed for a private party. We twist their arms, and buy cider.

#Holiday, day 2. Why does every car journey in July take four hours?

Campsite (booked for the week) has great views over the sea. And sea breezes. It takes two hours to put up the tent.

Not sure about this campsite. There’s piped music in the loos. And different piped music in the kitchen. Why??

Campsite woman explains why they only have UHT milk in the shop.

Walk to beach. It’s fab. Find the best chippy ever. And a café that “overlooks nothing but the sea”.

Day 3. It’s been hot for weeks. Now it’s stopped.  And the view has disappeared.

Campsite woman explains why they can’t offer wi-fi.

Campsite woman explains why they can’t open public areas for campers to shelter when it’s raining.

We find hotel bar with wi-fi so I can check BBC weather app.

Day 4.  These mad Cornish roads are terrifying. Especially in the rain.

Day 5. These mad Cornish roads are terrifying. Especially in the fog.

Day 6. Wake up to birdsong and shadows. Amazed at being in the light again. Find fantastic beach, with rock pools.

Day 7. Wind has broken zip on tent. It’s raining again.  Give up and leave a day early. Campsite woman explains why we can’t have a refund.

Leave and go somewhere nice instead. It takes four hours.

Day 8. Air BnB. Shelter, and a real bed. And a pub on the corner.

Day 9. #Tolpuddle. Everyone seems to be wearing #Jeremy4leader T shirts.

Local history tour about Tolpuddle Martyrs. Someone’s left flowers in the churchyard “for Tony Benn”.

Villagers are selling cream teas. This is a very civilised festival.

There’s a band on in the kids’ area like a punk Wurzels: rewriting classics with a cider theme. “Viva Lyme Regis.”

This song from @Jonny_Baptists makes me laugh: “Let’s bury Thatcher every week”. 

Day 10. @NaomiBedford is on when we arrive at #Tolpuddle. She sounds great. Plus, guest is Justin Currie out of Del Amitri.

#Tolpuddle. I fucking love being called “Comrades”.

Enjoying my free copy of the Morning Star. Info/chattering ratio much better than the Guardian.

No banner from my union so I’m marching in the rally with the local Methodists. Never felt prouder.

I miss Billy Bragg cos I’m at church, and miss Jeremy Corbyn cos waiting for bus. What a fab festival though.

Day 11. Drive to favourite campsite. It takes four hours.

Day 15. Home (four hours). It’s still raining.

Friday, 3 July 2015

Book review: The Invisible Woman – Taking on the Vintage Years

“Middle age is not the problem – how we think about it is”.

There’s this weird thing that happens when you’re on Twitter. You follow someone because it looks as if you’ve got things in common, maybe even chat now and again, and then you find out they’re someone. Which, in my world, means they write for a proper newspaper or have a book out.

The Invisible Woman felt like a friend before I realised she had a Guardian column (The Vintage Years) and she feels even more like one now that I’ve read her book.

Not just because she likes swearing, Twitter and salted caramel ice cream. But also because she speaks for me and all the people like me.

There are many times when I have nearly screamed at a young person – usually on the crowded streets of my nearby university town – “Am I fucking invisible?” That’s one of those true clichés, but the book isn’t just about that.

Invisibility means being written off. It means being ignored if you don’t conform to stereotypes.

One of the most unrealistic stereotypes is that older people are “gilded with comfortable privilege”. People who want our money would like to think we are all like that.

Well, Helen (who wrote the book) isn’t, and neither am I. The day I finished reading her book I saw this on Twitter: “Over-55s are more likely than anyone else to try new things, so, what are you waiting for?” Turns out their idea of new things is going on an expensive holiday. And the article’s in a magazine that exists to sell things to people who’ve got that elusive “grey pound”.

Well, there’s a lot of us who don’t have anything like that kind of money. And even if we did, we’d do something more interesting with it.

Helen’s philosophy of “carpe the fuck out of the diem” is a different sort of “trying new things”, and it’s at the core of the book – part memoir, part rant, slightly inspirational (but not in a bad way), and very much in the “personal is political” field.

There’s so much in this that rings true. Not admitting you’re middle aged til you’re almost out the other side. Being annoyed by cheerful coffee shop staff (“You do not know me and I do not know you. Let’s keep it that way.”). And some childhood memories (going to a birthday party in your old bridesmaid’s dress).

Then there’s the deeper stuff. She’s honest about the problems that come with age. The “little griefs” as you say goodbye to your younger self, the bigger ones as you face losses of different kinds. The culture of “ageist misogyny”. The patronisation and the prejudice, particularly in the job market. She’s got research to prove her points (medical, political, sociological, the lot), and her own life story to illustrate them.  Like many of us, she went from having a good job (PA to the editor of the Guardian) to having none – even after 500 job applications.

There’s the plus side too: the chance for self-affirmation and reinvention. And the knowledge that it’s not us who are the problem: it’s “a world that hasn’t caught on to the worth and brilliance of the middle-aged”.

It’s a good read, because she writes with energy and humour. There’s also sorrow, frustration and anger but ultimately defiance and hope. It ends with a rallying cry.

So what happens next? What are we rallying round?

Is it Gransnet? There are some good things happening there, although I hate the name because excludes the childless and the men. Is it the Age of No Retirement? It looks very bureaucratic. It’s probably not the government or PRIME. Is it us? Probably, but I don’t know how it’s going to happen.

I think there will be more books like this. There have been some already: Jane Shilling gets it right; India Knight gets it wrong. There are more things to be said about the reality of ageing and the knowledge that it’s not us that’s the problem.

The cult of youth must end some time. After all, the average age in Britain is now 40 (and guess what: it’s a problem). I don’t know where that leaves those of us closer to 60, though. And I expect 40 will become the new 20, or something.

Anyway, I’m ready for a fight and I know I’m not the only one. So what happens next?

Friday, 8 May 2015

1992 and all that

I’m crying as I write this. It’s the morning after the election and everyone I know is in despair.

I’m not a political person. I can’t even do office politics. I don’t like game-playing and I’m rubbish at lying. I hate it when politicians, or political pundits, are on the news. It feels like a game, or a spectator sport.

It’s not a game. It’s about real life. Reality for people who need homes and healthcare. Reality for people who can’t make ends meet. Reality for people who are ill or disabled or unemployed. You know all that stuff, you don’t need me to tell you.

Everyone I know knows that stuff. None of them wanted the Conservatives to win. I still don’t understand how it happened.

I literally don’t know anyone, online or off, who wasn’t desperate to avoid a Conservative government. How can so many good people be out of step?

Did everyone else believe the lies? Or does everyone think that destroying the welfare state is a good idea? Or didn’t they realise that’s what it meant?

Do I have to believe that the majority of people in this country are blind or stupid? That would mean me being cleverer and better than the rest of them, and I don’t think like that.

I don’t know what to think now. I just know what I feel: as if someone has died. I’m not being melodramatic. I tried to work out this morning why I felt so weird and what my body was telling me and it was telling me: grief. I feel numb, but I can’t stop crying.

I care for myself: I don’t want to grow old without a decent health service and a welfare state. That frightens me. I care for the country: I don’t want to live in a divided, Dickensian world. That frightens me too.

It feels like 1992 all over again. When we hoped for change, were told it was coming, and saw it snatched away. This time it’s worse, because there doesn’t seem to be any hope for change now, ever, in the long term. In my lifetime, even.

People are talking about fighting back. I’m too sad today to think about that. But when I get my strength back I will think about whether I want to be frightened of what happens when I’m old. Or to be like this.

Photo courtesy of Riccardo la Torre.