Tuesday, June 25, 2013

Shocking Pink.

I have toothache. Actually I'm not sure if I have toothache. Yes I am. No I'm not. See?
There's something going on with a crown-bridge combo in my mouth and it could either be a passing issue or something more sinister.
Point is, toothache is toothache and I'm cranky.

Therefore, for my safety and the safety of those around me, I am wearing a lot of pink.
But, Lynn,  isn't pink a ridiculously girly color?
Yes it is and that is why I'm wearing it.
It's impossible to take anyone too seriously when they're wearing pink.
It makes your skin look all fresh and it has a look of all summer innocence, and pretty flowers and...it's a color that if you're not careful, can make you look faintly ridiculous (that's why golfers wear it). Someone in pink swearing at you is like being cursed at by a giant hydrangea. Ridiculous  but not menacing.
So, if you were to meet some pink attired lady with a grumpy expression caused by something like...say...for example, toothache and she's a little short tempered with you, it's not that bad really.

You could say I'm being pink-ist or say that i'm not fooling anyone. You could.  But I've warned you, I have toothache.

And I'm blaming the toothache for me even reading about Ian Brady - working on the "Distract yourself from something horrible by looking at something more odious" theory.

Now if you don't know who Ian Brady, it's pretty simple. He's a child killer. Oh for sure he's been painted as a crazed troubled soul. An evil manipulator. As all manner of things that make him more exciting/interesting than he really is.
But he's a common killer, who brought immeasurable grief and suffering into a whole load of innocent people's lives when he, and his accomplice, kidnapped children, because they were smaller and weaker than him, then tortured and murdered them and buried them in Saddlemouth Moor, near Manchester, UK during the 1960s.

Brady and Hindley. Their crimes were so horrific, my parents didn't like their names mentioned in our house, like the very sounds polluted the air and left a stench you'd want to bleach out of the room.

So Brady is currently having this tribunal, because he'd like to be released from a psychiatric hospital because he doesn't like it there. He wants to go back to prison instead, and so he's trying to prove he's not insane.
And I know what you're thinking, because I am too.
Who gives a rat's ass what he wants?  He's not a freakin' rock star.

But in his tribunal -the first time he's spoken publicly since 1966 - Brady explained how he's spent his time: He's read Plato, and memorized pieces from Shakespeare, mentioning how he knows the works of Stanislavsky.
Wow. You think someone that smart, would know that being pretentious, doesn't negate murdering kids.

There's no photographs or live video coverage of the hearing but the court drawings are addictive. This guy has supposedly been on hunger strike for 14 years, yet he's surprisingly tubby (and when I say "tubby" I don't just mean tubby for a hunger striker, I mean tubby for a three meals a day, meat-potatoes-two-veg diet)
Then it transpires he enjoys toast in the morning.
Bloody hell, if that's hunger strike, I've been a hunger striker for years.

Honestly, if it weren't for the horrific deaths of those kids, and the unbearable torture he inflicted on Winnie Johnson, he would be nothing more than a ridiculous buffoon.  Without the 'evil' persona,  nothing but a pathetic,  inconsequential idiot.
Maybe he's not insane after all.

His defense argue that he has a narcissistic personality disorder, the hospital label him a dangerous, paranoid schizophrenic - one argues sane, the other insane.
I actually don't care.
Toothache is toothache.

I reckon he should stay where he is (because why should he get to choose?)
And learn how to stick to his diet (cheaters never win)
And before he shuffles off the last breath of his, pretty appalling, mortal coil, he should justify the mistake of his existence, by telling Keith Bennett's family where his body is.
In between times,  he would be allowed to further enjoy the works of Shakespeare, Plato and Stanislavsky  in the certain knowledge that all three of these great masters, would regard him as a complete prick.

Obviously though,  I'm not the judge. I'm just an angry woman wearing pink.

Monday, June 10, 2013

Mirror Mirror on the uhm...whatever.

OK I apologise. (especially to you Iain Dunlop :) )
It's been ages since I last blogged but, it's been odd of late, and it's been tough to know what to blog about.

It's not that I have nothing to say.
If you know me, you know that I have never nothing to say. In fact, if I ever say to you,  "I have nothing to say," that means, pretty soon. I'm going to have a lot to to say, and it's not going to be pretty when i say it.
(Add "indignant sulk" to my list of natural talents.)

And it's not that nothing's happened of late.
(If anything it's the opposite)
It's been a month of extreme happiness and sadness. Four weeks with great intelligence and great foolishness.

For a start, my youngest turned 6.
That there's enough for a whole series of blogs.
About how 6 years seems to have flown by so fast,  and yet because he's so strangely worldly wise, it feels like he's been here a whole lot longer.
About how we stressed about having a pool party and the hiring of lifeguards and safety in general. And whilst we were stressing, how all he cared about was cake and water-pistols and what present he could open next.
Same event. Different perspectives.
Then how his six year old body suddenly broke into a dance routine, Gangnam style:  All on his own, without a care in the world,  eventually leading a little dance-a-thon.
And then all perspectives were the same.

But these past four weeks were not all stories of birthday parties. For Colette and Mark, and for Carl and Jo, I wish so much it could have been. And nothing can be said to make it better. No words will repair.

My dad, was a firm believer that if there's nothing to say then don't say it.  It used to drive my mother crazy.
My mother was like me. The only time she was saying nothing, was directly before she was properly going to be saying something - pretty loud!

They never experienced Facebook,  but I've often thought about what their pages would be like if they had.
My Mum's full of inspirational memes and random diets from Doctor Oz, and features as to why cream cakes might be good for you,  and pictures of grandchildren.
My Dad's pretty inactive: Perhaps the odd Youtube video of Shirley Bassey.  Something about bowling. Pictures of grandchildren.

I used to have great talks with my mother. In my head, I still do.
We'd talk about all manner of things from the right way to make a clootie dumpling,  to the effect of the Romans in Britain and on random stuff like, do you think trees get apprehensive about Winter or about how a person's skin could become mirrored.
(It's nothing to do with sci-fi. It's to do with words.)

For example. You announce you're pregnant, everyone you meet will talk about their pregnancy. You decide to get married, people talk about their marriage. You say you hate your boss, you'll hear about everyone else's boss. You get bullied -so many other people were bullied too. You deal with a bereavement... that there are some points in life that when a person speaks,  the person listening to them will only be able to see themselves

It used to drive me crazy. "Why can't people be allowed to have their stories? Why is it that when something happens to someone, everybody else has to chime in about when it happened to them"

My mother was much more charitable:  "Because people want to connect to one another. Especially in big life events.   That's why it's important to talk," she'd tell my dad, "Because when one person speaks, others respond and amazing things happen when a person is brave enough to open their mouth"
And my Dad would nod and smile and say, "Especially if that person  is an idiot"

This week my eldest came home from school after what has been a very tricky year, armed with a special commendation certificate for reading and a math one to match.
And I was so proud.
And then I discover he was awarded them at a ceremony I forgot to go to.
And then so ashamed.

(Amazing how rapidly his show of success could become about my failure)

I set his certificates down of the dining room table and picked up my mobile phone to take a photograph.

"What are you doing?" said my other half, irritatingly,  because he could see exactly what I was doing.

"Taking a picture of Ferg's awards."


"Because I thought I'd post them on Facebook."


I looked across at him. His face wore that expression of "Wtf" that had nearly been included in our wedding vows.
"I, Mark, promise you , Lynn, that I will try not to do that 'wtf' face that pisses you off so much"
 In the end, I'd only relented as he claimed it was down to allergies.
10 years on,  I know the truth. Anyway...

"Because I want to show him how proud I am of him."

"He doesn't have a Facebook account."

I found myself distracted by a potential scratch on the dining room table.

"Yes. I know but..."

"You could just tell him. He's in his bedroom."

I decided the scratch was possibly just a trick of the light and headed for my son's bedroom instead.
I opened the door to find him (as usual) engrossed in Minecraft on the computer.

"I took a picture of your certificates to post them up on Facebook."

"I don't have a Facebook account" he said.

"Yes. I know."

"I wanted one but you said I was too young and..."

"Yes. I know I know. And you are. I'm not posting the pictures up. But, I just wanted you to know how proud I am of you."

"Thanks. Can I have a Facebook account then?"

"No. And I just wanted to say I'm sorry for completely forgetting to come to the ceremony."

"No problem. When can I get an account?"

"When you're old enough."

"Ok. Well you should probably hold off on posting the pictures till I'm old enough."


"Though by then I could just post them up myself."

"Good idea."

I've kept the pictures on my phone. They remind me that my son has his own story. That the event is not about me forgetting, it's about him achieving.  His skin is not mirrored.

And that it would be pointless posting them anyway.  My parents can't use Facebook.