Somebody Else's Problem

Speaking of SEPs, I did a terrible thing a few weeks ago.

Felix had a friend round after school. The first thing he does when he gets home from school is demand a snack. Fuck knows where he gets that from. *cough*

So we had a look in the fridge, and his friend spotted some cheese triangles (small cheesy snacks). Felix doesn't like them but his friend scoffed happily away. And after they'd eaten about half of it, they commented that it was kind of wet. And it was then that it occurred to me to check the Use By date. Which was February 2007.

Oops.

So I had a bit of a sniff, and it smelt fine. And those things are packed with preservatives, right? And it had been in the fridge all that time? And... er...

Well, you see, and this is where I do become very ashamed, honest I do, but what I thought was... if they get ill, it won't be me who has to clear up the vomit. And anyway, if I make a fuss I'll only plant the possibility of psychosomatic illness in their head.

So, rather than take the cheese away from them instantly and alert their parents, I let them eat it. And kept quiet.

And spent the next few days worrying they were going to die of food poisoning and it would all be my fault. And wondering whether to dispose of the evidence (remaining cheese triangles, now relegated to the bin) or keep them for the health inspectors. And forgetting to ask my son whether his friend had been in school or not, despite setting myself several reminders ("Ask F: X still alive?") in my phone.

They're not dead, by the way.

So that's all right then.


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Time Takes Time, and Love Makes Love

Note that the most recent Girls' Fun entry journals the sort-of-almost-maybe loss of my virginity, back in 1985. I never was sure if it counted or not. It continued for a while, the not-quite-losing-it thing.

But isn't it quite synchronicitous, what with me about to give birth and all that? No? Oh. I thought it was.

Other time-related musings: I have lived in this house for nearly twenty years now. TWENTY YEARS! Blimey.

When I moved in I was on crutches, what with having been run over by a bus a couple of weeks previously. In the same way that I insist on redecorating bedrooms single-handledly, climbing ladders, putting shelves up and generally being hyperactive when 9 months' pregnant, I found myself that evening, balanced on one leg on a rickety chair and piling boxes on a high ledge above a built-in cupboard. Nineteen years old, one bedroom in a shared flat.

And then the flatmate moved out and I got the place to myself. And then the house came up for sale, and I bought it (for eight thousand pounds!) (I know!). And then I bought the yard next door and turned in into a garden. And then we converted the attic. And now I have moved, in 20 years, from a single room in a shared flat to a five-bedroom house... without moving house.

But anyway. That room, my old bedroom, is now Felix's new bedroom, and I am having another baby. I wish someone could have played me a video of the future, that night I moved in. Look! In 20 years you'll still be here, and this will be your 6-yr-old son's bedroom, and you'll be popping another one out!

If someone had showed me a video of this house, or if I could have been transported here without being told where or when I was, would I have recognised it as the same house? I suspect not. In many ways, it isn't. But this house and I share so much history. It's 136 years old, so approximately 15% of its past belongs to me. Or partly to me. And over 50% of my past belongs to it.

I was at Uni, it was typical shared student accommodation, the walls were mouldy. The bathroom floor collapsed into the flat below the day I moved in, and I had to use the woman-downstairs' bathroom, on crutches, navigating the pile of rubble and looking up through the hole to our toilet above. I wasn't anticipating longevity. Things just happened.

I like that.

Things just happen. The future is an adventure.


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Breast Holes

I heard something on Radio 4 yesterday which fascinated me. I was on my way to a midwife appointment and filed it away in my head, thinking the midwife would find it as interesting as I did. But there's a hole in the back of my head and the story fell out, until I found it on my shoulders just now.

The presenter was being taken round an old mill, where she was shown a small arch-shaped hole in the wall. She was asked what she thought it might be. "A doorway for elves?" she asked, astutely. The role played by elves in the industrial revolution is of course well known.

But no, it was a breast hole. Because the women who worked in these mills would return to work within days of giving birth, leaving their babies to be minded by grandparents, or informal community creches. But the quality of non-breast-milk was very poor, not to mention the minimal sanitation available for cleaning bottles and the like, so the mortality of non-breast-fed babies was high. It made sense for the capitalists to safeguard the lives of the future working generation, as well as the productivity of mothers who were not bogged down by bereavement, and were benefiting from the mild contraceptive effects of breastfeeding.

So, they provided a hole. So that hungry babies could be brought to the factory gate, there to take advantage of the exposed mammaries of their poor hugless mothers.

Suddenly the torture of breast-milk-expressing contraptions, used in the toilets at work whilst baby is gurgling happily on some nursery floor, seems slightly more bearable.


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My Name is Clare

Clever Sarah (who can claim Neil Gaiman as one of her fans, something which impresses me every time I'm reminded of it) has been doing a series of posts about names.

Yesterday she wrote about Clare, and included a big quote from me about how sheep regularly talk to me. They do though, they do it all the time. And in such plaintive voices, too. "Claaaare," they call to one another across the fells.

I put something in her comments box about the record Clair, by Gilbert O'Sullivan, too. I've been meaning to write about that. It's the lyrics, you see. They're a bit questionable.


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I Took my Clothes off, Mummy

I was just reading this, during which the writer describes one of those memories, of a moment. When your child is crying, and you know it is all your fault.

I have one of those memories, one of those moments. It's incredibly strong. I doubt I'll ever forget.

It was such a small thing, and I doubt my son shares the memory. I hope he doesn't. He'll have others of his own, no doubt. That he remembers, but I forget.

Like me and my mum. When I was a teenager, my sweet tooth was strong, just as it always had been, just as it still is. And I knew where my mum kept her secret chocolate stash. In a drawer, her drawer, that contained only her things, that I was not supposed to enter. I don't remember what else was in that drawer. I don't know how far I explored (I've always been nosy). But I know that now and then I would steal her chocolate. When the urge to binge was strong, and I had no money or couldn't be bothered to cycle the half mile to the corner shop.

I replaced it always, as soon as I was able. She was a hoarder, a nibbler, a saver, just as I am now. She didn't dip into her chocolate supplies as often as I did. I wasn't found out.

Until I was.

Maybe there were other things going on. Maybe I'd annoyed her already. I'm sure I was generally infuriating. That the parenting of me, as with all teenagers, was at times distressing and difficult. Not to mention my twin crimes of both theft and invasion of privacy. But anyway she found out, and confronted me. And slapped me across the face, six times. Left cheek, right cheek, fronthand, backhand, one, two, three, four, five, six. This was the only hand she laid on me, apart from the occasional slap on the back of my legs when I was little. It was shocking, arresting, I remember where I stood. In the hallway, my back to the front door, the Forbidden Drawer in my sight.

And she has no memory of it.

And so to this other moment, my parental shame, the memory I hope is mine alone. Not shared.

It was bedtime, and my son was small. Two years old, I think. Maybe three. I was tired, grumpy, wanted to sit down and chill out. The bed needed making. Possibly I expected my partner to have done it and I was in a mood about that, I don't know. That's conjecture.

My son was mucking about. I'd asked him to take his clothes off, but instead he was jumping all over the bed I was trying to make, leaping on my back, being silly. I got stern, told him to take his clothes off. Let it be known that now was not playtime. He paid no attention. I lost my temper. I shouted at him to take his clothes off. I kept my back to him. I ignored him for some time.

Until I heard his little voice.

I took my clothes off, Mummy.

I looked round, and there he was. Shivering, crying, naked.

I took my clothes off, Mummy.


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People Whose Heads Are Full of Stuff

I'm reading a Tom Robbins book at the moment - Fierce Invalids Home From Hot Climates* - and boy, has that man got a lot of stuff in his head.

I periodically get paranoid about how little stuff I have in my head. This last fortnight or so I've had a spurt of such angst-ridden meanderings, for five main reasons:

(1) Mr Robbins' book, as mentioned above. My work was once compared to his, and I read Half Asleep in Frog Pajamas as a result. And loved it. And happily repeated the comparison a few years later. But now that I'm reading him again, I'm embarrassed to have claimed any such connection. His head, his words and his writing are all much fuller than mine.

(2) Reading my 1985 diary. This was written when I was 16, and was first discovering 'extreme' politics - as well as getting the inspiration for my subjects at Uni (maths and philosophy, joint honours). I don't know if my head was fuller then, but I did at least make the effort. For a few years.

(3) That article I wrote about popular culture the other day. I stand by everything I said, but one of the reasons I get defensive about my lowbrow cultural tastes, and my tendency to give up on dense prose (not in the case of Mr Robbins though), is because of this angst I have. About my head not being full enough.

(4) Him Indoors, who spends most evenings at my side on the sofa, tapping away furiously on his laptop, reading political articles and thinking / arguing vigorously about, well, serious stuff.

(5) Writing my third book, and getting all the usual angst about whether it's any good. It's probably not bad at all, will stand up as a goodhearted entertaining read and might even be the making of my career. But, I suspect, it's the least thoughtful of my books. It's not exactly deep. And this trend worries me, helps to smash this idea I have of being an intelligent, thoughtful, philosophical person.

Theoretically, supposedly, I'm clever. I know a lot about politics and philosophy. I can, when pushed, hold my end up in discussions. And I think of myself as being interested in it all. But in reality... I run away from it. Fast, and far. And often don't hold my end up in conversation, unless things are confined to the strictly abstract. As soon as I'm required to know / remember any facts, I'm buggered. I can't remember a thing. And anyway, I'm generally too busy running away to get into conversation in the first place.

Why do I run away? It's partly because, although I love abstract rumination and open-mindedness, hate assumptions, love to question everything... I hate the up-its-own-arsishness that often goes with it. I speak plainly, I write plainly, I hate obfuscation for obfuscation's sake. But it's also because, oh, I just can't be bothered. It's hard. I might get shown up for being stupid. I'd rather watch Coronation Street.

And when it comes to politics... I know we're all surrounded by shit. I still believe, in theory, that the world can be changed, but... not by me. It's too hard. I don't want reminders of how crappy everything is, don't need to be convinced that things could be so much better. But I don't want, personally, to be responsible for making those changes. And I'm deeply ashamed of my apathy, my demoralisation. So I avoid political discussion, avoid being reminded of how useless I am, as well as how ignorant and prejudiced and downright wrong so many others are.

I could blame it on motherhood. It certainly encourages my tendency to be inward-looking, to be tired, to focus all my energies on my own small orbit and my own small son, and sod the rest. But the rot had set in long before I gave birth. Indeed, far from resenting the constrictions parenthood placed on my life, the reason I finally took the plunge after putting it off for so long was that I was ready. I was bored of thinking, bored of partying, didn't want to look outwards any more.

In some ways, I've never been any different. I may well have been thinking about these things when I was 16, but you only have my word for that. There's barely any mention in the diary. I've always tended to skim the surface. I've always, for instance, preferred to absorb information through one-to-one teaching, through lectures and documentaries, through conversation. I've never enjoyed weighty academic tomes and my worst memory of being a student was having to read Kant's bloody Critique of Pure bloody Reason, which was torture from beginning to end. Wittgenstein, on the other hand, I loved. He was snappy and to the point. I knew what he was on about.

And when I'm feeling good I defend myself on the basis that I'm not stupid, I just like simplicity. Elegance. Straightforwardness. And am not impressed by the stultifying atmosphere that can exist in academia, where people... well, like I said above. Obfuscation for obfuscation's sake.

But oh, my head. Is it too empty? Maybe. And do I want it to be fuller? Well no, that's just it. I'm impressed by the idea of it, but...

Ooh, look! The cats are playing in a cardboard box!

Aw. Cute.



* That's a fascinating interview, I recommend it. As I was reading it I kept coming across great lines that I wanted to copy and paste here, but in the end there were too many and I gave up. Here's one, though:

"At the end of every writing day I feel like I've been wrestling in radioactive quicksand with Xena the Warrior Princess and her five fat uncles."

It was also a reassuring thing to read, as I'd imagined him writing super-fast, with all these ideas tripping over on top of one another. But it turns out he writes very slowly, and thinks long and hard about each individual sentence. And I refuse to go up yet another oh-I'm-so-rubbish avenue by concluding that I don't write slowly enough...


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Funny Time

I'm supposed to be editing a review I wrote, of the Alabama 3 gig I went to the other week. But I'm putting it off because when I got it out and looked at it the other day, it looked rubbish.

So instead I've been meandering around the internet, catching up on blogs I haven't visited for a while. And I found this interesting post re genealogy, on Hydragenic's blog. And ended up writing a comment so long, it seemed worth creating a blog post all of its own.

It's fascinating to think of all those generations of blood, stretching back in the past to incomprehensible times - yet having some connection with yourself.

But it gets particularly engrossing / meaningful when you turn it on its head and think of it the other way around. Six generations from now, there will (maybe, probably) be large numbers of people who can trace their family tree back to me and my kids (amongst others). Their lives would be incomprehensible to me, and yet in some sense they'll have come from me. And then I get a bit of a jolt. I think I live in modern times. I imagine those ancestors of mine, and how confused they'd be by my life and experience, and there's a patronising edge to my thoughts. Poor unsophisticated old-fashioned folk, bamboozled by me and my future.

I imagine them living in sepia landscapes, where nothing was as colourful as now. But of course it was. They thought of themselves as modern. They will have teased the older generations, taken advantage of their slownesss. And will have seen things around them as bright and new, not faded and old.

Time travel is one of those unobtainable things, but oh how I would love it if it were possible. Both forwards and backwards, near and far, to visit ourselves and our relatives, as well as strangers. I used to fantasise about a 31-yr-old future self turning up on the doorstep when I was 16, and wonder whether I would recognise her or not.

She never came, or at least I didn't see her when she did. She's there now in fact, but she can't see herself.

Funny old thing, time.


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School Soup

My days are like soup.

School soup.

Soup that smells of canteens and sounds like a hundred spoons banging, chairs scraping, voices grating.

My mouth tastes of it. Everything I raise turns to school soup between my lips. My saliva creates it, at night when I wake and shove bread-turned-soup in my gob and lie there, waiting, for the school soup aftermath to subside.

I am a school soup factory.

By day my legs, my arms, my mind move slowly, blearily or not at all. Through the soup which clings to elbows and synapses, clogging and clagging, preventing thought or creation or smiles.

School soup sticks in your throat. It pulls acid from below and fear from above and places a veil before you, blocking you from the future and into a neverending school-soup now.

I hate school soup.


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Fluffy the Bear

We have a teddy bear called Fluffy. She's a pyjama case really, but she's well disguised as a bear. She's called Fluffy because we acquired her at around the time there were big demos against the Criminal Justice Bill, and everyone used to argue about which protesting approach was best: fluffy or spiky. I came down a little more on the spiky side than Ally, but we were both pretty spiky really. And fluffy as well. We had a band called Fluffy v. Spiky. I was the singer, he was the guitarist. We were pretty rubbish but we enjoyed ourselves. We wrote our own songs and defined our own genre: techno blues. And we had a teddy called Fluffy. Who was really a pyjama case.

Anyway, Fluffy lives in our bedroom these days, just in case we ever need a pyjama case. Which we don't because we're not that type of people. We don't wear pyjamas, and even if we did we'd throw them on the floor or if you're really lucky stuff them under a pillow. We wouldn't tidy them away in a case. But Fluffy doubles up as a hot-water-bottle warmer, as long as it's only a small bottle, so we keep her handy. For those times when you fill a bottle with water too hot, and it becomes uncomfortable to cuddle and makes big red patches on your skin.

I'm the same with cups of tea. They're always either too hot or too cold. If I make a cuppa I want instant gratification; I don't want to wait. But I have a stupidly-soft mouth that can't cope with either type of hot, so I add cold water to get it right. But then I get distracted and suddenly it's too cold again. At least with Fluffy you can remove the bottle when it stops being warm enough and - hey presto! - it's warm enough again. Except of course by that time you're probably asleep. And we have decent central heating now and don't need them any more.

Felix (our 5-yr-old son), when he spots poor old Fluffy, lying dusty under the bed or forgotten under a pile of unworn pyjamas in the corner, brings her to us helpfully. He thinks we must surely be lonely in our big bed with no cuddly toys. He says we can borrow some of his if we like. He brings them up to us, making us promise to give them back and getting hurt and bewildered when he finds them dusty under the bed a week later.

There is also a teddy bear called Sarah, who is only five years younger than me. She lives on a wide arm-swivel-chair in my study, which I never sit on, even though it's in a good spot with a good view. Sarah sits there instead.

Sarah's called Sarah because of Margaret Thatcher. Sort of. I didn't like boys much when I was five, and I believed fiercely in women's lib, although my sister said I didn't because if I did I would think girls were equal to boys, rather than vastly superior. Me and my best friend Mandy Berkeley would march around the infant playground arm in arm, shouting "Boys are rubbish, put them in the dustbin!" I made that chant up myself. I was very proud of it. And I was very pleased when Mrs T got in, cos she was a woman and therefore brilliant. And I didn't see why teddies had to be boys. I still don't.

Felix doesn't understand why cuddly toys live dusty under beds or on their own in studies. I think he worries for them.

Poor Sarah, I've always felt sorry for her. She never quite looks happy. I used to give her a cloth doll called Belinda to snuggle up to so she wouldn't get lonely, but she never looked very happy about that either. But she's only a toy, so she's probably fine. She's very cuddly, although Felix doesn't agree. He has very exacting standards of snuggliness. He's spoilt. He has a million snuggly toys (for heaven's sake people, try to be a bit more imaginative when your friends have babies - those bloody snugglies were the bain of my life. What on earth was I supposed to DO with them all? Clothes would have been much more useful. Or biscuits.) (Then again, Felix loves all his snugglies now, it's just when he was an oblivious baby they were all rather pointless) (and how the hell was he supposed to choose a favourite, with so many?), yes, thousand upon thousand of them, and many of them are made of Superior Modern Stuff which is a million times more snuggly than anything we had when we were kids. Which is why I was surprised when he took Fluffy off to bed with him the other night and announced she was the snuggliest thing he had ever snuggled.

And that's why I'm snuggling her now, which was supposed to be the point of this post. And is. I just took longer getting there than I intended. I'm cuddling Fluffy and thinking about how it turns you into someone else, when you nuzzle up to a Very Snuggly Thing. You become a young child again.

It's very nice. I recommend it.


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You're Not My Friend Any More

Right. So, this post here got me thinking about the whole people-being-nasty-to-each-other-on-the-internet thing.

The thing is, people say nasty stuff about each other all the time. It's not restricted to the internet. And yes, some examples are more extreme, so much so that police intervention is required, and I'm not talking about them.

It's hard, but if you're going to survive in the world of the public-access internet - which is a world where everything that anyone says (including you) gets broadcast indiscrimately to the whole fucking planet - it's vital you get perspective and a sense of humour, or you'll drive yourself mad.

Because the internet isn't that different from everyday life. People bitch and snark and complain about each other constantly at work, in their homes, down the pub, on the radio. And you know it happens, and unless you're super-insecure or paranoid you put it out of your mind and don't let it bother you. And that's easy enough, because normally it happens behind closed doors and you don't get to eavesdrop.

On the web you get to listen in on every single fucking conversation people ever have about you, and that's hard to deal with UNTIL you remind yourself that this is what we all do (and I don't believe there's a human being anywhere who doesn't occasionally bitch or whinge about their fellows, in a way that would be hurtful if the target were to overhear or be told of it). It's normal, and the best thing is to ignore it and move on.

Or laugh! Occasionally the snarkiness is funny and astutely observed, and being able to laugh at yourself is an enormously useful skill. Or laugh at the insulters, or at the whole bloomin' situation.

Sometimes a silent deletion of a comment is a judicious move, because it stops other people from wading in and the comments box turning into gang warfare. Sometimes there are extreme examples which require different handling. But try, try really hard, to step back and imagine whether anybody really means you harm, or whether they are being, well, just a bit stupid. And forgetting, like we all do, that the internet is not the same thing as the pub.


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Arguments With Myself

I've been trying very hard to foster this new living-in-the-present attitude. It's difficult. But necessary. All my attention is so focused on the future and I'm missing out on all the positive stuff that's happening right now. Instead of noticing the beautiful autumn sunshine as I walk the dogs, for instance, I'm always thinking about what's going to happen next. What will be in my email inbox when I get home? Will I get published? Who by? Etc etc.

But the result of my new efforts is that I'm now possessed by two warring factions. There's "Relax, chill out, have fun" Clare and there's "Get busy! Sort it out! Plan! Panic!" Clare who keeps giving Relaxed Clare big Tickings Off for not paying enough attention to the future. In practice it goes like this:

"Oh help, I feel so stressed out, I don't know what the future holds, I don't know what I'm doing with my life, I can't bear all this waiting, help!"

"Stop worrying. Everything's fine. You've got loads of fun stuff coming up, you don't have to go to work, you have an agent and several potential book deals in the offing, and THIS IS WHAT YOU'VE WANTED FOR AGES. Stop fretting. Enjoy it."

"But what about all these things on my To Do list? And what if I get a full time IT contract starting the week after next and don't have time to do all these things I'm supposed to be doing? And what if I DON'T get an IT contract but I DO get pregnant and then I get ill and then I don't get any publishing deals and we plunge head-first into a big pile of debt?"

"There's nothing you can do about any of that. Let go. Chill out. Have fun."

"But I've got so much to doooooooooooo!"

You get the picture. I've been focusing on a supposed future containing Baby II and Publishing Deal II for so long now (at least three years), God knows what'll happen if either of them arrive. I'll probably implode - pop! - and all that will be left is a little puddle. So. Down with that sort of thing, and up with Clare Here And Now, as long as she can stab Clare Tomorrow firmly in the back.

In other news, this post here got me thinking about the whole people-being-nasty-to-each-other-on-the-internet thing.

The thing is... oh hang on, maybe I better make that a separate post.


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NOW

But never mind all that what's-going-to-happen-in-the-future rot, what about NOW?

Right now I'm sitting in a relaxed fashion at my desk. I've just taken the dogs for a walk through a lovely autumnal park. I don't have to go to work. I have a literary agent. I have a home, a gorgeous boyfriend, a lovely son. And biscuits. I have biscuits.

I have a new plan. It won't be easy, because there is so much of me embedded in the future that if I try to pull myself back, bits of me might snap off. I'm not as elastic as I used to be, and my Tunnel to the Future is all jammed up with rotting former plans, which are wedging me in. But still, I'm going to try and pull myself back to the here and now, or maybe the bits of me that aren't so tightly stuck. An arm, maybe, and a leg.

Sod the future. The present's where it's my arm and leg are at.


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Do They Think What I Think They Think?

I've never been a shy person. I’ll happily march unaccompanied into large groups of strangers, and don't worry in advance about how things might go.

It's afterwards that the doubts creep in. When I analyse the events of the day and wonder why this person didn't laugh at my joke, or what on earth possessed me to say that to someone else.

And so here I am, thinking back over the week I just spent on a yoga and meditation retreat in Andalucia. And instead of remembering the blue skies, the yoga on the rooftop with stunning mountain views in the background, the incredible thunderstorm, the lizards and wild boars or the glorious food, I pick over the less successful of my social interactions.

Not the shared hugs or laughter, the moments of intimacy or the entertaining tales of interesting people's lives. No, I think about the time when I heard laughter and went to seek its source, only to find a small group of people engrossed in a conversation I couldn't join. At first I tended to my own business and left them to theirs, but then I sidled closer and made myself available to be included. Except that I wasn't, so I drifted away again. Apparently nonchalant, but feeling ostracised.

And it didn’t stop there. Once I'd given up and removed myself altogether, I started to stew. Did they ignore me? Were they purposefully cruel? Did they hate me? Did they laugh about me behind my back?

Did they find me irritating and transparent? I've been there myself: Happily enjoying a conversation when a new person arrives, someone who isn’t party to the things we discuss. But they hover and look hopeful and I think, argh, come on. You can’t be part of everything. Take your blatant requirements elsewhere.

Naked need makes everyone uncomfortable.

Or maybe they had no thoughts at all, took my presence at face value, assumed I would understand that the discussion was about things I knew nothing about, and therefore why should I be included?

This is the most likely interpretation, particularly when you know how I’ve edited events. I wasn't ignored. There were various small interactions with me, pleasant ones, friendly ones, ones which I choose to forget.

But I liked these people, and I wanted them to like me too. Approve of me, seek me out as their friend. Because although they weren’t unpleasant, they bonded with others more than me. And that's just the way life is. And what about the conflict between my desire to make friends and my need for my own space? The fact that I kept disappearing and sitting on my own with a book? The pre-emptive strikes, when I assumed I was going to be excluded so removed myself before it could happen? Maybe people thought I was stand-offish, or that I was rejecting them?

Another time, we arrived together in a place but they quickly moved away. They walked ahead, but they were still visible, still within reach. What to do? Pretend / assume it was an accident and chase after them? Melt away on a different path? I caught up with them. There were some awkward moments, until finally I excused myself. Alone, I brooded again. Did I imagine it? Was there a sigh of relief when I left?

I found myself a seat and sat down, and angsted and stewed some more, until I was crying, alone, in public. Torn between grief at my loneliness, frustration at my hypersensitivity, anger at their insensitivity, confusion at what the hell just happened and who thought what and who did what and wasn't I just being silly and stupid, all over again? I wanted them to return and find me like that, to realise what they’d done (What? What did they do?), for it all to be resolved in a giant hug. I thought about passive aggression, something I've often been accused of and always struggled to define.

One of the messages repeated throughout last week was, "Be kind to yourself." But how should I do that without sinking into self-indulgence? Would it be kind to tell myself, never mind, they're not worth it? Or to say, you imagined the whole thing? Or you're not stupid, you're just human?

It's bloody complicated sometimes, this being human lark.

I'm coming back as a pig.


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On Being Me

I had an email from a very well-meaning person recently, who was worried about this page here, which is my new home page.

Previously claresudbery.co.uk just pointed straight at this blog, because this is where all the action is and I so rarely update any other parts of my site. But now that I'm attempting to make a living as a writer, it makes sense for claresudbery.co.uk to be, first and foremost, a place to advertise all the clever things I can do.

To be fair the website changes have happened sooner than I intended due to technical complications, so the home page is still pretty rough. There are loads of ways it can be made better, and more appropriate for its intended purpose.

But one of my well-wisher's concerns was about the picture in the background, and the link to this blog, and the fact that erotic fiction is mentioned, and various other things which might not be suitably businesslike.

Since receiving that email I've changed the background picture. It was me and my boobs (the same as Boob Pencil), but now it's some innocuous jumping fishies.

But I've been thinking about it, and the wider attitude it represents, which is that as soon as you start touting for work or doing anything businesslike, you must remove personality from the equation. When you go for a job interview, you wear bland clothes that don't make you stand out too much. Suits, black shoes, maybe a flash of colour here or there but nothing too outrageous. And the same goes for CVs. Make yourself look trustworthy, serious and reliable, and the way to do this is to edit out huge swathes of whatever makes you who you are. Of course, you list your "interests" and, ironically, you want these to make you look "interesting"... but not too interesting.

And then I remembered the quandary I had in the last two jobs I applied for: I wanted to work a four-day week. This kind of thing is unusual in IT, where traditionally the hours are long and the overtime is unpaid. But I thought sod it, and explained at the outset that I wanted this unusual arrangement, and I wanted it so that I could write a novel. I was always myself in interviews, and this means loud, with a big laugh, a lot of honesty, and a tendency to interrupt and go off at tangents. And I got the job, each time. Not only that but I was explicitly told it was my "unusual personality" which landed me the job.

Some employers want employees who don't stand out, who always do as they're told, who are safe and nice and boring. But some don't. And they are ones I want to work for, or with, and should be given the chance to find me.

I did change the boobs for fishes, and I will need to lay things out better, with more info that's easier to find depending on the needs of the browser. And I may need to eat my words... but for now I'm happy that www.claresudbery.co.uk leads quickly to the real Clare Sudbery, and not some sanitised version of me.

Hmmm. I just read this post back and it sounds horribly big-headed. Well, that's me too I suppose. Or at least, it is when I'm not hating myself. Hating myself for loving myself, that is. Hmm.


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More "Philosophisering" Stuff

There's more! The posts on this page aren't the only "Philosophisering" posts.

For all posts labelled "Philosophisering" and posted before September 2007, please go here.


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