Just Not Cricket

This conversation happened last night:

Me (looking out of the window): Gosh, Lord's really is a lot smaller than I thought it would be.
My friend Tim:  Er, that's not the actual pitch.  It's just where they practice.
Me:  Oh.  (long pause)  So, this wine is nice, isn't it?

which tells you all you need to know, I think, about my grasp of cricket.

If you know Lord's, incidentally, we were in the Nursery Pavillion, which overlooks the Nursery Ground.  If you don't know Lord's, the Nursery Ground is where they do drills and things (what do you mean, that's not a proper cricketing term?) and some minor club teams play there sometimes.  It looks like this:

 
This picture doesn't do anything to show how small it was, in fact it looks bigger here than it did in real life.  Stupid picture.  Or, more accurately, badly chosen picture which I don't have time to replace.  You'll just have to believe me when I say: the Nursery Ground is pretty small. (Yes, yes, I know: the clue is in the name. I see that now. Hindsight is a wonderful thing.).

Anyway, back to the wine.  It was all from Portugal, where they make nicer wine than you might think, but don't export a lot of it (nearly all of the producers I spoke to were still trying to find UK agents to sell on their behalf) which is a shame.  Did you know, by the way, that Cliff Richard owns a vinyard in Portugal?  Me neither.  I do now, although I didn't get to try any of his wine.  I am now fighting the urge to make a lame joke about mistletoe.   I did try lots of other wine, and some particularly spectacular white port. (Still fighting the urge, with every fibre of my being, but it's a struggle.  Be warned.)

So, I saw less interesting parts of Lord's than I thought I would last night, but 'less interesting' is a relative term and the wine was less 'less interesting', so I'm not too worried. Plus, the media centre, which looks a bit like a giant space-ship, is quite cool. 

Here's a photo:

It's not the media centre at Lord's (you'll have to Google that) but it does also looks a bit like a spaceship, and it reminded me that I have a ton of 'here's a cool building / sign / whatever ' photos from New York I still haven't got around to posting yet. 

Tonight (Matthew) I'm going to be.....

.......tasting wine (and by 'tasting' I mean 'drinking', because my Mum always taught me it was rude to spit) at Lord's Cricket Ground.  Which is a much nicer and all together more sensible thing to be doing  at Lords than watching cricket is, if you ask me, but that's just me.  

No particular reason for mentioning this, really, but I'm in a rush. Also, since blogging is proving quite a handy distraction from doing the boring but necessary tasks which it was meant to be keeping me accountable for in the first place, I'm keeping it brief this week.  At least that's the plan.


 

Anyone know a good tattoo artist?

Spotted this on goodreads.com earlier today, and I think it may just be my favourite review of anything, ever:   "Requires some skimming, but still, I would have parts of this book tattooed on my body." 

The book in question is  The Journal of Jules Renard and I haven't read it but I really want to.  Jules Renard was a French writer, more specifically this one:

Somerset Maugham was a fan:  he enjoyed the journal so much that it inspired him to publish A Writer's Notebook, but not so much that he got a tattoo.  Like most of what I know about Jules Renard, which is not much so far, I read this on Wikipedia, so I suppose I ought to say (through grittted teeth, becuase I like Wikipedia and think it gets a bad rap, but that's for another time) that you may want to double check if you are relying on the information in a life-or-death situation (unlikely).  Also, I'm only guessing about the tattoo.

What I do know about Jules Renard is that I like some of the things he has to say about writing.  I've mentioned this before, but today I saw him quoted again, which got me curious enough to find out more about him, which is how I discovered he published a journal, and why I looked at goodreads.com, and.....well, now here we are, talking about tattoos.  There are more of his quotes here, if you're planning on getting inked any time soon.

I had forgotten how much I like good quotes.  I first started collecting them (metaphorically, not on various body parts) as a teenager, embroiled in the heady and ultra-competitive world of interschool debating.  At 15 we took our debating, like most things, very,very seriously: it was more or less a blood sport and some carefully chosen witty words from someone dead famous (sorry, dead and famous) were our weapons of choice.  Even better if she was a dead and famous woman (we were feminists, after all).

The bloodiest battles of all were waged against a team from the local boys' school, who raised the stakes when they literally invented an entirely fictional 19th century Baron. He had quite a back story, which developed as time went on, but his main occupation seemed to be making wise and profound statements which, coincidentally, summed up their entire argument in one foul (and, I can't emphasise this enough, fictional) swoop.  Geography and hormones alone probably would have made for a fair amount of friendly rivalry, but with the invention of the Baron, those boys became our nemesises (nemesee? nemesii? whatever...)  It still irks me, ever so slightly, that they used to win more than us.  Also, that they had the idea first.

I don't care much for Torry-Ann (pt 2)

I've worked out why, now. 

Early in my teaching career, a boy who I'll call Jamie (not his real name) joined my class. He was brought into the classroom on his first day of school by his Aunty Alice (also not her real name) who told me that Jamie, age 9, was one of a set of triplets. His parents had just decided that three children were harder work than they thought, and that they'd keep the girls, thank you very much, but they didn't really fancy being Jamie's parents any more. Alice, who wasn’t actually his Aunt, but knew the family, was looking after him instead.

It wasn't an official adoption or fostering arrangement, for reasons I can't quite remember and am not sure I ever really knew in the first place. Nevertheless, Jamie lived with Alice and she was the one who brought him to school, and picked him up, and packed his lunch, and took him to the doctor, and made him do his homework and took on all of the other duties and decisions that are part of parenthood. If there was an issue, or Jamie got into trouble, it was Alice who came in to see me.

Alice came in to see me a lot that year. Jamie, you see, had fairly severe attention deficit disorder, plus a very short temper, and a tendency to hit anyone who annoyed him. A killer combination. It meant that the other kids in the class learnt quite quickly (certainly a lot more quickly than they learnt most of the things I was trying to teach them) that they could get a reaction out of him. And, because that’s exactly the kind of thing that nine-year-olds, especially en masse, tend to find hilariously funny, Jamie had a tough time.

I am not saying that he was never at fault, or that he was easy to manage. He was, a lot of the time, a complete pain in the neck. But, after teaching hundreds of kids (and by teaching I mean sorting out arguments between, which is something you spend a lot more time doing than you might think as a primary school teacher) I don’t think I have seen one as genuinely sorry for his behaviour as Jamie was when he realised that he had done something wrong. Usually the penny dropped much too late, but once he had calmed down after whatever catastrophe had erupted, the realisation that he had done the wrong thing would smack him in the face, and he’d become distraught, often devastated by his own actions. He accepted punishments graciously, and did his best to make amends. Jamie was hard work, but he was a good kid.

He was particularly good, or at least he tried to be, if it was a Friday. On Fridays he would arrive at school almost bouncing out of his skin with excitement, and all day long he walked a bit taller, almost fell over himself to be helpful and polite, and practically turned purple from the extra effort he was making to concentrate on his work and stay out of trouble. The strain would be written all over his face. The reason for this was simple: Friday was the day that Alice took Jamie to go and stay with his parents and sisters for the weekend.

The weekend never went as planned, and inevitably the Jamie who arrived at school most Monday mornings was, at only nine years old, a broken man. He would arrive silently and trail slowly behind Alice, wearing his disappointment like a weighted vest. Alice would tell me that she’d taken Jamie to his mum and dad’s house, and that he’d managed to get into trouble or that he’d fought with his sisters too much, or something else had gone wrong, and that his parents had sent him back to her early. She’d leave, looking anxious, and we’d try and cope with the rest of the day.

Some Mondays, Jamie was just a bit sad and forlorn, other times he was a tense, simmering ball of anger and resentment. Either way, it was a rare Monday if he hadn’t managed to get into some kind of scrape or bust-up with someone before morning break. We’d deal with it, and he’d face the consequences and move on, and by the time the following Friday had arrived, he’d be bouncing with excitement and full of expectation all over again. As he left school you could practically see the big thought bubble appearing over his head: If I’m really good this time, they might let me stay.

We muddled through the rest of the school year like this, and he came back the following year to muddle through year 6, all the while still living with his Aunty Alice. Thanks to her, he coped. But it couldn’t have been easy, and it certainly wasn’t fair.

I thought about Jamie when I read the story of Torry-Ann Hansen, and the little Russian boy she decided she didn’t want any more. I can accept that it must have been a difficult decision to make, and that she may have had her reasons, and that there could me more to the story than we’ve been told. But I can’t accept that it is, in any sense, fair.

I don't care much for Torry-Ann

There's probably a snappy title somewhere in this, along the lines of no return policies or similar.  But I'm not in the mood for jokes.  It's my own fault, really, and I should have known better to click on this headline.  My blood is still boiling.

Basically, an American woman called Torry-Ann Hansen adopted a seven-year old Russian boy and he went to go and live with her in Tenessee. So far so good. Then, six months later she decided she couldn't cope with his bad behaviour, and didn't want to be his mother after all. So she sent him back. On a plane, on his own, with a note.  Also with (and I include this information purely in the interests of fair reporting, which is more than Torry-Ann deserves, if you ask me) some colouring pencils and snacks.

The snacks and stationery don't do a lot to change my opinion of Torry-Ann, but maybe that's just me.  There's also a reason that this particular story has hit a raw nerve, which I am still sorting out in my head and which I may post later.  For now let it be known: I don't know that much about Torry-Ann Hansen.  But I do know that I don't care for her much.

Swans *probably* have teeth

I was talking to a friend last night who swears they do.  Now I'm not saying I didn't believe her, but I have just Googled "do swans have teeth".  Just because, you know, I was curious.

The first result was from WikiAnswers, where someone had conveniently asked the exact same question that I had (I love it when a plan comes together!).  This was the answer:

Yes swans do have teeth. i have a picture with a swans mouth open trying to bite and it clearly shows they have teeth.


I would dearly love to see that picture.

Zombies, balloons and the NHS have more in common that you might think

Edited: May 2020

I wrote this post a long, long time ago. At the time, it did accurately reflect my feelings about Twitter, and various other people who were using it as a platform.

A lot has changed since then. Twitter is a very different place than it once was, and there are certain individuals in particular who use it in ways I feel very uncomfortable about, and certainly would never condone. 

In fact, at the start of this year, I would have told you that this post was describing a version of Twitter which was completely unrecognisable to me.  It definitely wasn't a place I could say I really, really loved. It was no longer even a place I even liked, very much, and was somewhere I was starting to actively avoid.

And then the Covid-19 pandemic hit.  If there are any silver linings to be found in the current situation - and I do think it's important to seek those out - one of them is that Twitter has, in very broad terms, become a lot  less toxic again. I don't think we're anywhere near that warm, lovely heyday from over a decade ago, but over the last few months I have started to witness, and become directly involved in, the types of conversations I used to know and love - full of wit, wisdom, joy, generosity, kindness, and sometimes just downright silliness.  It has been really, really, nice. 

So I do stand by most of what I wrote in this post. But not all of it. In particular, the specific Twitter account I mention in the final paragraph  is being used in a very different way now from how it once was, and is an account I not only no longer follow but have also muted. Of all of the changes I've seen on Twitter in the last decade, I think this is the one I find most baffling, and which I am the saddest about. And while I know it's unlikely that anyone will read, or care about, how I felt about this over a decade ago - even if they do stumble across this post - I'd still like to distance myself from the sentiments expressed in that  final paragraph.


I discovered the other day, through means which will eventually become clear, that this blog has an actual, proper, someone-who-isn't-me reader.  (Hello Paul, if you are still here.)  I was quite excited.

The means-which-will-soon-become-clear involved the wonderful world of Twitter.  "Wonderful world of" might sound a bit glib, but it isn't meant to. I genuinely do really, really love Twitter.  A lot.  Partly I love the fact that it has given clever, creative people a new platfom to play with, and as a result they've made lots of silly things.  (I imagine (and really, really, hope) there are more of these I have yet to discover.  The possibilities are endless.)

Also, hashtag games are fun.  And through people I follow I've picked up some brilliant recomendations for films, and music, and blogs, and books, and articles, and restaurants and iPhone apps, and......well, you get my point. I follow some very funny people, and I've laughed out loud at their tweets and RTs. I've seen behind the scenes of some of my favourite TV shows. I've found some great writing advice.  I've heard about work opportunities and bought my current favourite t-shirt. (If you clicked, that's not my actual t-shirt by the way.  There's a different design each day and for all I know the one you have just looked at could have been horrible.  The one I bought was *much* cooler (probably)).

Becuase there are, unbelievably, more important things in the world than the contents of my wardrobe, I'm also really glad that stuff like the  #WeLoveTheNHS campaign and, to a lesser extent, the Jan Moir/Stephen Gately backlash, happen on Twitter.  These, in my book, were both Very Good Things.  (For the most part, anway, in the case of JM/SG).

Basically, from what I've seen, Twitter is bursting at the seams with Very Good Things.  As a general rule, people who tweet seem to be kind, and witty, and wise, and warm, and helpful, and generous, and funny, and in posession of a fair amount of common sense. (What would an unfair amount of common sense be, I wonder?)

I know that I'm making a massive generalisation (always dangerous, making generalisations, absolutely always) and that there are some exceptions to this.  And yes, there have been some well documented and pretty unpleasant 'Twitter Wars', (I'm not linking to them here: what's the point?) and yes, sometimes people set up fake accounts claiming to be other people and the other people they are claiming to be don't like that very much (who can blame them?). 
I've noticed, though, that the people who do try and inject the occasional bit of nastiness tend to get shouted down pretty quickly. Usually, more politely than in some other online environments. (Once again, I know I'm generalising massively here. It's still always wrong to do so.  Are we sick of this joke yet? No? That's lucky.)

Maybe if I was a famous celebrity (I'm not) who had thousands of followers (I don't) and a constant stream of @replies (ditto) I'd come into contact with more of the ugly stuff than I do now.  I'd like to think though, that proportionally I wouldn't. There is very little chance I'll ever test out this theory. 

So for now, I'm very happy to keep believing that the Twitter world is, by and large, a shiny happy place, full of pretty decent people, where goodness and common sense rule the land. That's exactly my kind of town.

Mainly what I love about Twitter is this: I dip in daily, and in doing so have seen hundreds, if not thousands of tweets from people answering questions, giving advice, speaking words of encouragement, sharing jokes, offering sympathy, retweeting charity requests, and doing all sorts of other lovely, lovely things for no obvious reward. Often for people they don't know. Occasionally, for me.  I know this sort of stuff goes on in the real world too. But with Twitter you get to see a lot more of it in a much shorter space of time. It's like a shot of espresso to the soul. 

 I have been thinking about all of this ever since Monday, when a complete stranger not only offered me advice about a fairly mundane, domestic issue I was dealing with (broken toaster, since you ask) but then went on to say some really kind words in response to some of the things I have been blogging (more to the point, moaning) about lately.  Like I say, there are many Very Good Things to be found on Twitter.  My first actual, proper, someone-who-isn't-me reader is definitely one of them.

The NHS campaign, by the way, was masterminded by the brilliant Graham Linehan, whose tweets were also the source of a couple of of the recommendations mentioned earlier.  (See if you can spot which ones.  Or don't. It's up to you, really.).   I have him to thank for a lot of things, not the least of which is the ridiculous title of this post.