A Question of Character

my son and I are creating characters for his story. So that we have nice, rounded characters that feel real, these are the questions we have asked ourselves:

1) what is your character called?

2) how old are they?

3) are they male/ female/ neither, are they human, and if not, what are they?

4) do they run away from danger, or run towards it?

5) if somebody is hurt, does the character stay to help, go and get help, or run away?

6) would they rather look after a small child, or fix a machine?

7) which characteristic is dominant (there are two words to describe similar but slightly different attributes): 

– bravery/glory hunting,  

– wisdom/seeking knowledge, 

– ambition/ seeking power or 

– kindness/loyalty?

8) would the character prefer to solve a problem alone, or with their friends?

9) does the character trust people immediately, or are they suspicious of others?

Thinking about these elements gives great opportunity to set up conflict, which is essential for any story. For example Maisie is an eleven year old, she doesn’t like dangerous situations, and would prefer to run and get help than fix a broken ankle by herself. She is clever enough to know what she is good at,  she’d rather help a person than rebuild a machine, and would always rather be with her friends, sharing knowledge to solve a problem. 

Therefore, Maisie’s conflict situation would separate her from her friends, make her rely on only herself to help someone and possibly mean she has to make something rather than use her knowledge to solve the problem. Voila, instant plot developed through character!

Turning to my own novel, which is complete but could alway use another edit, my main character is a twenty year old called Saffron. She has a comfortable, safe life (boarding school education, rich parents, nice friends, enjoying studying) and she doesn’t challenge herself much. When this is undermined (she finds out who her real father is), her sense of self is shaken too. She discovers that she runs towards danger – she has to know who he was and what he did even though knowing will upset her and others. Her quest is for knowledge, and she seeks it alone, closing herself off from friends. However, to do so she has to rely on others to tell her, and they are not always willing to share, in order to gain an advantage, or to protect her or themselves. She also needs help to get a crucial piece of evidence that will help her help someone she immediately cares for. Learning to trust and feel a positive connection with others again will help her develop on her journey.

A few years ago, I wrote a character who I felt I knew well, and I decided to put him through a Myers-Briggs test to see if I knew how he would react in different situations. I did, and he felt like a real person. I guess the above is a simplified version of that.

Jake’s Ghost

Jake’s Ghost. It’s finally done. 130,000 words, perfect for holiday reading… Here’s the synopsis…

Jake Goodman is dead.

The women most affected by his life are dealing with the fallout, not least finding out about each other.

Zoë, left behind by Jacob as a teenage mother. She has a fantastic new life with the famous Pat Meadows. But will Zoë’s relationships survive the revelations?

Rachel, Jack’s ex wife, is mother of his two young children. Heartbroken over the divorce two years ago, Rachel has been barely surviving, raising her children with the help of her oldest friend. Living with Jack the stand-up comedian was no laughing matter. Can Jack’s death give her closure and help her choose to move on?

Jessica thought she was the love of Jake’s life. He was the perfect trophy partner for her, the antidote to her stressful, high-flying career. Will knowing more about Jake help her or destroy her?

And then there is Bex. What she knows about Jay will change everything.

Who was Jake Goodman? He seems to have lived many lives, reinventing himself as he moved on.

Saffron was Jake’s biggest fan. Now she is his daughter and nothing about him seems to make sense. She sets out to piece the story together, following the tale from tropical islands to Parisian garrets, from deep in the English countryside to live on stage.

She hopes that, in finding out who her father was and what happened to him, she will find herself too. Then perhaps she can lay the ghost.

Morpurgo, Music and the Mozart Question

IMG_1935How do you explain the holocaust to children? If you are going to try, the good news is you can do it as engagingly and sensitively as Michael Morpurgo does in his current stage show “The Mozart Question”.

In a rare treat, the former children’s laureate was in Ashford, Kent today at Revelation St Mary‘s (the town centre church which is a stunning arts venue in its spare time). Accompanied by Alison Reid, violin soloist Daniel Pioro and the Storyteller Ensemble string quartet, Morpurgo tells his short story with drama and humanity.

The Mozart Question is NOT in the Da Vinci Code mould, using a famous historical name to build an improbable and inexpertly written thriller.
Instead it is the fictional story of Paulo Levi, a fifty year old virtuoso violinist who is interviewed at short notice by a cub reporter who has heard him perform and knows only that she must not ask the Mozart question.
Using well known classical violin music (which was slightly different from the selection featured on the 2012 CD of the show) to tell the tale, with Pioro stepping into the roles of both Paulo and his father.
The music left my 7 year old totally unable to sit still (sorry if you were there and thought he was fidgeting, he finds it easier to listen to music while moving I found out today!) His absolute favourite’s were Monti’s Czardas and Winter from Vivaldi’s Four Seasons – super fast violins-  and something he referred to as a Barber’s Shop Quartet. I explained that this last one is actually completely different music, but it’s a good term to use without totally giving away a nice surprise scene.

There were some lovely moments of humour, real poignancy and Morpurgo’s love of both language and music shines despite the potentially difficult material about the role of orchestras in Nazi extermination camps. I managed not to cry. But this was a performance primarily for children, so I asked my son to name his favourite bits:
– “I liked the story. It was really sad and happy at the same time”;
– “the fast music was really good. I played air violin when it came on”;
– “Mummy bought me the book, so I could read along a bit. The pictures in the book helped me listen a bit more”;
– “I was a bit scared about going to meet the author, but he was really nice and shook my hand”;
– “I wasn’t completely sure what The Mozart Question actually was, but I think there were three really… why did that music calm people down when they were going to die? Does that bad thing happening with the music make the music bad to listen to? And was his daddy silly to not want to hear it?” (These three questions emerged over the hour after we saw the show).
Once home, it was also the perfect opportunity to explain about Naziism and what happened to Jewish people, gay people, disabled people and more who didn’t fit in with that world view. He was a bit worried about using the shower tonight, a bit sad, and didn’t think anyone should decide that four million people should be killed. Then he decided to play Star Wars figures. It’ll be interesting to listen in and see if those games change as a result.

As always when taking a child to a performance, you have to be relaxed about how they are. At the beginning, my seven year old said loudly “Which one is he?” I replied that the author was the one in the red shirt. “Oh. He’s really old, isn’t he?” says my son.
He asked repeatedly why one violinist wasn’t playing at first (this became clear five minutes later), and later, during a quiet moment e asked why one spotlight wasn’t on.
But for a 75 minute performance without interval, I was really impressed that he basically listened, even if he squirmed.

At seven, my son reads confidently but has so far only read Morpurgo’s “Kaspar, Prince of Cats”. He was inspired with today’s performance though, so I expect we’ll have the full library soon.
Having bought the book that was performed, we hoped to get it autographed but it turns out Morpurgo is a fellow sufferer of RSI. Instead, he handed out signed book plates and came around chatting to everyone and shaking hands. What a nice man!
I mentioned how much my wriggling child had loved the music and Morpurgo asked if he learned an instrument.
“Not yet.”
“I think you will very soon,” says the author.
When we got home, my son announced he wants to learn the violin at school next year.
And he wants to play the Monti.
That alone was worth the entrance price.

Three screens: Sherlock silliness

Following a prompt on the Writer’s Circle Facebook page, here’s a short scene featuring my favourite consulting detective…

You find the last room when suddenly three monitors turn on at once. What do you see?

I removed the hood and looked around shakily. Three screens.
The first screen showed my face, in black and white. I moved my hand and felt and unfamiliar momentary confusion as the image moved its hand on the other side, an image not a reflection.
I found I was staring at my hair. Is that what I looked like to other people? Used to mirrors, it felt as if my parting has changed sides. Unlike the Biami tribe of Papua New Guinea, I resolved my psychological anguish in microseconds, the specular image morphed seamlessly with the referent self. A process accomplishable by the average two year old of course, but only the most unfortunate toddler would have experienced chloroform and behooded abduction.
Out of the corner of my eye, I caught movement in the second monitor. It was me, monochrome again, this time in profile and from a distance. I found I was drawing in my stomach. Did I really resemble a runner bean when viewed side on?
A flash of colour drew my eyes to the third monitor. The image was of my back (again, the hair!) but unlike the other two, this image was moving, the unseen camera encroaching, unstoppable.
Almost at the last moment, i realised that the momentary flashes of colour were a warning. A red dot, sliding back and forth across my back before stopping, the target acquired.
I spun on my heel, facing my would be assailant.
“For the last time, I don’t want to go on Big Brother. I’m a consulting detective, not a performing seal.”
Mycroft put down the gun, removed the night vision goggles and frowned.

Creating our own worlds

It’s been ages since I did a writing course. I wasn’t sure anything could top the last one I did – I persuaded my employer to take one Wednesday afternoon a month off to attend a course at the ICA. I really did not think it would happen, but working an extra week of overtime a month was the norm there for all us bright young things, and developing writing skills was considered staff development, so it worked out well as a way for me to be out of the office and still doing something useful as well as enjoyable.

The course was led by creative writing teacher Greg Mosse, husband of author Kate Mosse, and used as a point of reference a book she was writing at that time. It turned out to be Labyrinth, book one of her now famous Languedoc series. It was fascinating to see how the ideas around research, character development and world building that we explored played out in her novel – and how different that book was from the book I thought she was writing.

Ten years on, I have lived abroad, married and had children, but I still haven’t had a novel published. I have one complete one, which I’m starting to talk about with agents and publishers. I have one that’s nearly there, but I couldn’t decide if my lead character deserved a happy ending and it rather paralysed me. I have one written in partnership with a friend that has a climax at the Beijing Olympics, so its time has passed – or it needs a substantial rewrite. There’s a time travel novel aimed at the Percy Jackson/ Harry Potter market. There’s also a promising series, again for younger readers, on which my son is my main consultant…

So to encourage me, and get back on the developing and editing track, I’m doing the FutureLearn online introduction to creative writing course.  I’m relieved and pleased to find that I have kept up the basics – my writer’s notebook is still beside my bed, my phone full of thoughts and observations, my Facebook status a mess of little notes I know I will one day pull out and use again. I can still respond to a writing prompt, pull meaning from a paragraph of someone else’s text, play the word games prescribed as homework.
I may not “need” a creative writing course after completing such a superior one before, but FutureLearn is free, easy to access online and each module is reminding me how to think about what I am trying to convey.

Of course, the best way to write a book is to write it. Style, technique, creating worlds… these things matter, but – as Dorothy Parker is supposed to have said, “writing is the art of applying the ass to the seat”. Or Kingsley Amis: “The art of writing is the art of applying the seat of one’s trousers to the seat of one’s chair.” Or Mark Twain. Or Mary Heaton Vorse. If you haven’t written it down, you haven’t written a book. It’s that simple.
So I probably better get on…

Lego Egg-on-face shaped silliness

 

 (Image from blog at today’s parent.com)

Over the past week there has been an absolute outcry about the latest issue of the Lego Club magazine. I don’t have my own copy because my little Lego club subscriber gets the boy-oriented edition in which the item didn’t feature.

The item in question was something you would see in any women’s magazine, how to get a haircut that flatters your face. I’m sure when producing the magazine the Lego team just thought, well that’s what girls like, beauty tips, spa days, cupcake recipes… And do you know what, they do.

They didn’t really have spa days as a thing that normal people did when I was growing up. Spas were health farms- dreaded places with austere diet regimes and hard work, not pampering and luxurious body oils. If someone had told me about spas, I would have loved it. My best birthday present when I was seven was some pink, brush on peel off nail varnish and a bag of eleven brushes and combs (30 years on I thought I had broken the last brush, but no, my mum turned up with two more!) 

The thing is, while my best friend and I wanted to be Snow White and Rose Red (now there’s a fairy story that Disney hasn’t covered), we also liked imagination play, running around, reading, cooking, trying to find a climbable tree, building space buggies with Lego Technics, played with Sindy (Barbies were too vulgar),  dressing up as all sorts of things and people, maths games, fuzzy felt pictures, making potions with all the stuff in the bathroom… Obviously we liked clothes, and playing pop stars, and curling our hair and girly things too, even ending up as models for painter Dianne Flynn but – and this is the important bit- we did all of these things.

My experience of growing up was multifaceted, and I know I am lucky that my childhood sounds like a Joyce Grenfell sketch. It was a time of confidence and happiness. I didn’t worry about how I looked, and even pre-Harry Potter getting glasses was ok for me – if they called me speccy four eyes at school I must’ve been too busy off doing fun things to hear it.

Which is why it is sad that girls today are being pigeonholed. Why should their toys be pink plastic irons (mine was cream coloured metal!), why should their science kits be for making lip gloss rather than indoor firework snakes, why are  building blocks coloured pastel pinks and purples “for them” rather than part of the whole rainbow available to all kids? Why are there now three girl-oriented Lego ranges, one linked to Disney princesses and two in the same limited palette offering spa options?

Can’t girls be interested in more than just how they look nowadays?

Which brings us back to the Lego Club magazine. Haircuts to suit face shapes.* Because girls of seven ought to be worried about whether their hair looks prettier cut a different way? No, Lego, just no. Your are best when your figures are standard, yellow faced, interchangeable. Where what the best hair looks like is a question of which one clicks on that matches the character the player is building for the story they are telling. Stay in the games, get out of the real world. You have already made long-haired, big-eyed special (non-compatible with normal Lego) Lego Friends figures, then shortened the Lego Friends clothes, exposing midriffs, showing more leg. Now you are explicitly making those Friends characters tell our girls about what is beautiful. Just no. I think the backlash is telling you you have egg on your faces with this one. I hope you have haircuts that make them the prettiest they can be…

* sorry about the link to the Daily Mail. The reader comments underneath show what the problem is! 

Tits up

So, as we feared, the disappearance of the topless Page 3 girl for one day was a publicity stunt.

Perhaps merely covering the expected daily vision of a young woman’s nipples with bikinis somehow didn’t result in a massive surge in sales from women? But wasn’t Page 3 the only thing holding back these potential readers? What did those wretched Feminazis want? 

It was a piece in The Times, the sister paper to The Sun, that set out that this was the end for page 3. The proprietor Rupert Murdoch had tweeted that, after 44 years, page 3 was looking “old fashioned” and ”aren’t beautiful young women more attractive in at least some fashionable clothes?”

The Sun treated it all today as a big joke: a “mammary lapse” in fact, a correction and clarification. The editor tweeted that they had never said bare boobs on page 3 were going.

Jodie Marsh tweeted to say that perhaps No More Page 3 campaigners should put their campaigning effort into something that matters more like ending FGM… and that’s a point worth looking at just a bit more.
The vitriol about some of the population asking a mass circulation newspaper please to stop portraying them merely as decorative objects or giving them twee little snippets to say about world events shows us that there’s a problem here.
Comments on feminist stories online range from go knit your lentils in the kitchen and make me a sandwich, to don’t you get it it is all just supposed to be like this… If it’s not go away and campaign about female genital mutilation, it’s you’re putting female models and photographers out of work, not very sisterly of you is it? Or you should be concentrating on low pay for women not this metropolitan elitist obsession. Or well it’s not stopping Boko Haram so shut up, and even suggestions that somehow this apparent prudery in only showing female celebrities in skimpy bikinis rather than full-on naked nipples on a nineteen year old from Northampton was brought about by pandering to the fear of religious fundamentalists – as if the key argument here were let’s publish bare tits or the terrorist have won!

Bare breasts mean – what? Babyfood and sex.
But breasts are political. Although breastfeeding in public is not only allowed but is supposed to be encouraged given that breastfeeding passes on nutrients to babies, people are embarrassed about seeing a breast doing what it is naturally supposed to do. They concentrate on the breast as a body part emitting milk rather than that the baby is using its food source to gain sustenance (which explains why people think it acceptable to ask that breastfeeding be done in a public loo, comparing breastmilk to urine rather than thinking what it would be like to ask them to eat their lunch in a smelly cubicle) and demand it be covered because breasts have become so sexualised in society that seeing them is rude. Tits for titillation only.
This is what Page 3 perpetuates.

No More Page 3 is a totemic campaign.
It’s a small thing in the big scheme of things, yes.
Except it is not, is it? 50% of the population is being told that what matters is their beauty and their breasts, not their brains.

Some are probably ok with that. Women as well as men.
No, really, it’s a judgement thing.
Imagine a kind of scale that has Disney Princesses at one end of the scale (the old fashioned ones with their passivity and waiting to be rescued, the modern ones with the sass they have in the movies drained out of them to be pretty dolls, still with unrealistic and unattainable figures etc.) and pornography at the other (women as objects, to be used, for the sexual gratification of others).
Somewhere in the middle like a complicated bubble is freedom to dress how you want, live how you want, do what you want. Something we in the West apparently stand for.
Everyone has a point on that scale at which they stop thinking that’s ok, and that point will be different for each individual.

For example, some women treat themselves as living dolls, pump themselves with silicone, publish multiple biographies that read basically like soft porn with themselves as the star. Everyone likes soft porn (maybe some don’t. Maybe it depends on the storyline).
Well, good for them, exploiting the patriarchy to make themselves a fortune.
But maybe, just maybe, we should recognise their business sense as a great thing and still not be too happy that the product they are selling is themselves as a woman.
This is objectification.
And the thing about an object is that it is there to be used.
It sits right alongside the concept of entitlement: e.g. she owes me sex because I bought her dinner. She’s putting it on display so I should be able to have it. I want her so she ought to comply.
Oh.
That’s a message all women should be afraid to see sent out into the world.

Maybe that all feels a long way from a teenager’s tits on Page 3.
But really, it’s not.
Focus on being pretty and happy, say the glittery, pink girls babygros and t-shirts. Have domestic chore related toys!
I’m a princess! I’m a princess! Yes but apparently one that’s going to have to do her own ironing and hoovering with pink plastic appliances.
You want construction toys? Have pink meccano to build wands and butterflies! Have Lego Friends, so that you only have a female-focused consumerist world to play in, and your male friends never get to see that as a normal part of life.
Computers? I only do the design ideas, I need Steve and Brian to do the programming, says Barbie.
“I’m too pretty to do my maths homework” says your next t-shirt.
Science is hard, why not ice a cupcake or make a lipgloss from a special science for girls kit?
Music! Blurred Lines! He said WHAT now? Hang on…
You’ve worked hard, got a degree, got a job (statistically with a slightly higher starting salary than a man’s, don’t worry, that changes)…
You fall in love…
Sex tapes! Break up – you did delete it, didn’t you?
Working hard again, new relationship, proposal…
Wedding! OMG bridezilla, I must have a £2000 dress and a balloon arch otherwise it’ll be the worst day of my life.
Working hard… it’s a blue line, look, a blue line!
Baby – wow – was everything really this blue or pink when I was little?
Oh wow – childcare, childhood illnesses, actually it’s only my hours I’ve reduced my brain still functions perfectly well, yes I’m still ambitious, constantly tired, constantly trying to balance everything… And I couldn’t cope without the support of low paid nursery workers, a cleaner etc. and can’t afford a nanny or househusband…
Another baby! Have you seen the size my incredibly painful boobs have swollen to? I need to feed her for my own relief as well as her hunger…
Sorry? Cover her up when she’s feeding? Go and sit in the toilet?
Because my breastfeeding tits are rude?

It was always a risk that the end of Page 3 wasn’t for real, and it is a shame.
There’s such a swirls of things going on… and we haven’t eve touched on the fact that society doesn’t value parenting because the adult is not in the workplace, or how race, disability or LGBQT makes this even more tricky…
You can’t take on everything all at once. You can’t expect everything to succeed. You shouldn’t be told by others why are you doing this, there are other bigger problems you ought to tackle instead. Winning any tiny battle won to get women treated like equals not objects is like pebbles on a slope – if enough of them move there’s a chance of a landslide.

So it hasn’t gone tits up for feminism because there are nipples on Page 3 again today. One little pebble didn’t shift this time, that’s all. It doesn’t mean we should stop kicking them as we walk along life’s beach.

PS What about the men? OK, well, men are affected by the patriarchy too.
Page 3 is part of you being told to judge women by their attractiveness rather than listen to what they have to say. That’s the patriarchy, setting out what you “should” think.
You are told from a very young age that you need to be into building, computing, vehicles, war games, dinosaurs, have “here comes trouble” on your dark coloured t-shirt, that it is wrong to love a kitten or butterflies because they are for girls (even though male butterflies are the ones with the most beautiful wings!), that you need to be tough or a geek, play football not dance, skateboard not choir, that you can get any woman you want and if you can’t that’s her doing something wrong in holding out on you.
You may be entirely comfortable with all this- if so, good for you. I hope you have the job and the relationship you want if that is what you want, and are very happy.
Or you may not. You might think it is odd to have your choice limited in that way. In which case, hello. If you think men and women are different but equally important and have equal rights, feminism is here to help. The word might be a barrier to you, but as comedian Aziz Ansari says:
“People think feminist means like, some woman is gonna start yelling at them. … If you believe that men and women have equal rights, if someone asks if you’re feminist, you have to say yes because that is how words work. You can’t be like, ‘Oh yeah, I’m a doctor that primarily does diseases of the skin.’ Oh, so you’re a dermatologist? ‘Oh no, that’s way too aggressive of a word! No no not at all not at all.’”

Late Fragments and life

Imagine you have picked up a book.
The heroine of the story is a freckled, grinning girl, you know you are going to want to be friends with her. She is also seriously clever, well read and confident. You could feel jealous, but she’s too nice for that.
Where would you want that character to take you? Imagine she takes you into the world of politics, into 10 Downing Street, listening to opera as she works late into the night, briefing the Prime minister on horribly tricky issues, becoming the youngest ever female senior civil servant.
Then out, giving it all up for love and pursuing a Masters Degree, then out again, chosen by the former Prime minister to head a charity working to alleviate poverty in Africa. She thrives, it thrives and all is going brilliantly.
As you root for this woman, working hard and surely with a brilliant future ahead of her as a stateswoman, she becomes pregnant. Like Margaret Thatcher, she produces twin boys, a Lean In-friendly efficient way to have a little family and return to a career. She lives on her blackberry, “changing the world one paper clip at a time” as she puts it.
If you thought the book best as a happy story, you might end it with a wedding to a soul mate with a shining star in the ascendant.
But life doesn’t just stop with a wedding. The woman has cancer. After remission, it returns and it is terminal. The husband, the boys, the amazing life will all be left behind. All this achievement before death, on Christmas Day, at the age of just thirty six.
The title of this blogpost is a clue.
This is not my story. It’s not a novel.
This is an obituary.
Kate Gross, my fellow civil servant. We worked together for just one year in a small but intense, intensive and high powered team in the Cabinet Office. Ridiculously more talented than me, inspirational to me in her working life and – I discovered one day after I ran into her at Victoria Underground station and we stopped to chat, then renewed our acquaintance on Facebook – a charity CEO, talented writer and cancer blogger whose words at www.kateelizabethgross.wordpress.com draw you into her world. Poetic, poignant, witty and yet so hard to read when you are of the same age and have children that don’t understand why you are suddenly hugging them tight with tears in your eyes.
I realised how big an impact Kate had had in the world not just by the national press coverage of her death, the lives changed in Africa, the social media flurry, but when talking about her with my own family after Christmas, my brother said “you knew that Kate? She was in the paper- the blogger who was at Addenbrokes? She had loads of followers for that blog.” Kate Gross, making a success of dying with dignity and spreading the calm, the peace that she found (and some thoughts on practical organisation for afterwards) for people around the world who may have faced or yet may face what she did.
My heart aches, not just for Kate but for her family, and everyone more closely in the spiral that she describes who by definition are more affected than I am by her death.
I am cross that the world has lost someone of such talent, sad that her writing is confined to the blog and to just one book, “Late Fragments”.
Kate had just started the publicity for publication of “Late Fragments” and appeared on BBC Radio 3 in “Private Passions” telling more of her life through music. I defy you not to cry when she talks quietly about her recent baptism and the show ends with “Dear Lord and Father of Mankind”. She said she didn’t want to be told she was brave, courageous or I don’t know how you do it. But she was, in everything she put out to the world, and many people wouldn’t do all that she did to make it all just a little bit better for everyone else.
But rather than just read a short obituary by a former colleague, please pop over to Amazon or drop into your local bookshop and buy “Late Fragments” and read for yourself the words of the frankly scarily awesome Kate Gross.
It is named for a Raymond Carver poem, perfect, poetic and short. There’s an irony there.
Kate, I wish I had got to know you better in the short time we overlapped in London. I’m so glad you found happiness, and felt blessed.
You probably didn’t know it, but an act of kindness from you changed my life. In the pain of a relationship that broke up, I needed to find a new church. You suggested one your friend went to and arranged for her to meet me so I didn’t have to walk in alone. That church rekindled my interest in my faith.
And, well, heaven is supposed to be a place of contentment both with proximity to God and because he loves us, allowing us personal fulfilment- I’m certain that If God needs something done he has just gained the perfect person to do it.
You inspired many, including me, with those words on life, and I intend to use my year off work to make the most of my family, smell the roses, write the book, and live, really live.
Thank you.

A new chapter

As I leave work tomorrow, for the first time in over fifteen years I am unsure whether or when I will be returning. It is scary but also liberating.
I have an idea of a direction of travel. I know my responsibilities. I want to give time to my children. I am blessed with a supportive husband.
But for the first time, I am not thinking about my profession, climbing the career ladder. I am Leaning Out.
Or am I leaning in? Much as I dislike the onus being put on women to achieve in business via the Lean In concept, Sheryl Sandberg is right that for women mid-career, it’s not a ladder but a jungle gym.
So I will be playing in the ball pit for a while.
I am a rubbish house wife, I am too in touch with my inner child and will live with the mess if there’s dressing up to be done.
I’m not totally opting out of the adult world- I have voluntary things that also fill my time.
And if you are a publisher looking for Relationship Lit rather than 50 shades, send me an email and we can talk Jake’s Ghost.
But there are little people that need me. It shouldn’t have to be something to worry about, wanting to raise my children. It shouldn’t mean a permanent set back in my career. It shouldn’t be that my worth is determined by my paid work activity- why is caring for my own children not socially useful? It shouldn’t be that only richer households can choose in this way to opt out for a while.
There are votes out there for parties willing to recognise that raising your own children is a worthwhile pursuit for both women and men, that childcare availability is not the only family issue that people want to hear about, and that this is something that should be an affordable option no matter what your family set up. We talk about education but forget to value parenting.
It is a new chapter for me, a choice not an imposition. I know how lucky I am.
But that doesn’t stop it being just a little bit scary.

Cars with character

My son got me thinking. When we changed car, he cried and he hugged the old one goodbye. He wanted to know where it lives now, whether the garage who took it as part exchange is treating it well and whether, crucially, as the new one is a different marque, would it get a chance to be with ones the same or have to get used to being the odd one out?
We tried explaining that, as a car and not a person or animal, it wouldn’t notice, but he was insistent.
He noticed that the new car’s face – two headlamps, grill and number plate – was lower and wider than the old one, and it looked less open and friendly. He is right. The old one was an SPV, an designed to be loved by families. The new one is designed for drivers who happen to need to transport their family and lots of stuff. Its face is rakish, louche , all twirling moustache and controlled power under the bonnet. This is not a family friendly face, and it is so much more fun to drive!
A week or so after changing car, singing Buck Rogers every time we get in, I asked my son if he missed the old car. “No. Can we open the sun roof and get out the cup holders?”