Minnie’s Musings

Random ramblings of a middle aged, middle class, middle income woman

recent posts

about

  • Tics not Toks

    Best Beloved and I have been drawn back down Memory Lane by the dodgy editing row following the BAFTAs on Sunday.

    The faces of the two black actors when a rare and precious moment in the awards spotlight was blighted by the involuntary but nevertheless explosive use of the n-word were heartbreaking to witness, reminding us all of the power of a single word.

    There may well be an element of human error in the editorial process. It happens, particularly as – having listened to it – it was loud enough for the actors on stage to hear, but it wasn’t picked up with clarity by the recording mikes.

    Now for memory lane: About 15 or so years ago His Nibs developed a thumping crush on Ariel’s daughter from the Little Mermaid spinoff. He spent a good year or so charging up to any girl with black hair, shrieking “black girl” repeatedly. Including a large group of Japanese students in a European hotel.

    We spent a great deal of time apologising to a lot of young women. Asian girls tended to frown and move on, when we said it was all about the colour of their hair. Not so much black Caribbean and African girls. Rightfully, while they could perhaps accept the mental disability., there was a clear suspicion that he had picked this up through “dinner table” racism.

    It took me a long time to understand that a thirty second explanation was ineffective against a lifetime (however long or short) of absorbing everyday and sometimes overtly aggressive and/or violent racism. This still makes me sad. Not because I could not make these young women understand. But because society has treated them so badly, they do not have the capacity to accept the word of a flustered, embarrassed white woman. With a ridiculous and somewhat nonsensical explanation.

    Luckily the phase ended and he moved on to yelling at the twin arches. He’s now onto construction sites. “New house! “New house! Over there!” Accompanied by frenetic tapping on one’s shoulder as one tries to focus on keeping the car one the road.

  • Going After the Girls

    There is a point when a campaign for accountability turns vindictive. When guilt by association or unthinking youthful participation in an event organised by your parents becomes punishable as a hanging offence. Where understanding and any sense of proportion are set aside in favour of blame and all encompassing righteous indignation.

    I was struck this morning by a BBC piece on the future of Princesses Eugenie and Beatrice in which some bright spark wanted to hold them to account for their participation in some of the activities of their parents. This individual cried out that these two are grown adults and need to be held to account.

    Yes let’s all do that, shall we. Be held to account for growing up in a household we didn’t choose, for loving the parents we were born to, for going along with a plan to entertain someone who we were introduced to as a benign family friend only to discover some insalubrious truth years later. For our parents discussing us and our private lives in vulgar and inappropriate terms.

    Few of us are fans of Sarah Ferguson – who is the queen of dreadful PR advice and Mills and Boon historical romance. We all had a fine old time with her fashion choices for herself and her girls at the odd royal wedding.

    Her children are the product of a a family whose whole existence is subject to public scrutiny. One of the “spare” who has persistently failed to read the room, the writing on the wall, or the anything, seemingly, at any point, which might have given him pause for thought.

    If ordinary parents cause excruciating embarrassment to their children just by appearing in the same room at an event populated by their peers (school plays, parent consultations, graduation ceremonies) , Lord knows what it is like having your father plastered on every front page on both sides of the pond, behaving in a grotesque and sleazy manner with someone half your current age.

    Most of us would rather believe that we are delivered by that stork from Dumbo (the one with the harmonicas) rather than admit that inflagrante pro gratis was involved in our conception. Imagine how these two feel. Your mother has already been seen having her toes sucked by a balding Texan by the pool you were splashing about in. The trauma of your father crouched over a girl lying prone on the floor, must have brought bile to the throat. ,

    But no, the witch hunt must extend to third parties, caught up in this fiasco by accident. While we all wait around for a man to be called to account, handcuffs slapped on his wrists. But no, boys will be boys, as their locker room talk is waved aside and their involvement obscured with a big black marker.

    And don’t start me on he who absolves himself of any responsibility for standing by watching it all, doing nothing, by using his sexuality as a shield. One can only think that the massed ranks of homosexuals who have strived to live ordinary lives, sputtered into their macchiatos on hearing this self righteous dismissal of the very idea he had known or been involved, recognising as they do thby standing by is not an innocent act. It is one of complicity.

  • The King’s Touch

    Absolutist monarchs proffered their paws in an act of divine healing known as The King’s Touch. Whatever was up with you could be cured with a royal fist bump, apparently.

    One got the distinct impression that the Orange Baffoon is susceptible to something similar.

    Initially I thought he had been stirred by Harry’s outrage at his slighting of allied efforts in Afghanistan (clearly not understanding that loss of HRH indicates decline in status and therefore clout).

    But no, we have Charlie Boy to thank for eliciting the exclusive corrective statement.

    By exclusive, I highlight that his effusive praise for our “warriors” (we call them soldiers, thank you very much) was solely aimed at Brits, as he continues to insult the rest of the NATO alliance.

    This was tricky as the convention is minimal political interference by our constitutional monarchy. However as Commander in Chief, the King I has a particular obligation to say something in such circumstances and the resounding lack of republican bleating following this intervention is a sign of how well it was judged.

  • Good Riddance

    Said the happy rats… or “good riddums” as my speech impaired sister used to shout, turning herself into an affectionate family legend.

    Suella has fulfilled her promise, finally! After several years of making like a Reform candidate on speed, she has taken the plunge. Presumably so she can squabble with Jenrick over who is next in line for that party’s top job, while being continuously frustrated that the current incumbent will only leave feet first under a white sheet.

    Badenoch, meanwhile, has rid herself of a noisy thorn in her side. I expect she is treating herself to a sticky bun as we speak.

  • Attention Garnered

    One can view our Mr Burnham from up t’North as a straight up bloke who does a good job up in Manchester where he is making a name for himself doing presumably good things. He is popular as a metropolitan mayor.

    Good for him. Long may he carry on doing good things as Mayor of Manchester.

    He is also doing a good job of garnering himself a whole lot of attention. He did it at the Labour Party Conference in the Autimn. So much so that several of his colleagues got to the point of muttering that he Gould pipe down and stop causing so much distraction.

    He has done the same this weekend by waiting until the very last minute to proffer himself as a candidate for the newly vacant seat in Manchester, supreme in his confident that he can keep it from the dastardly clutches of Reform. Hmmmmm

    My first thought was that his confidence may be misplaced. He no doubt had a host of reasons as to why he lost his seat previously all of which may ignore the fact that he didn’t do a good enough job as an MP to get reelected.

    My second was that he has had a fine old time with positioning himself as the victim of Starmer’s allies who have now blocked his ambitions. After all he promised to work with this much maligned group rather than undermine them. Yeah, right.

    He has made a calculated move to ensure that he either benefits from being a voice of disruption inside The Commons, ready to launch his power bid. Or a victim of political machinations who can grumble vociferously from his still powerful and high profile position as leader of England’s third city(though Leeds might squeak “fourth”). All with a stolid good bloke Northern accent that marks him out as one who is down with the common man. Unlike his target who – however many tools were fashioned at the mill – still sounds like an export reject from Hampstead.

    Win , win for our Andy. Lose, lose for that Kier bloke.

    Unfortunately for this floating voter (and we floaters are the ones whose x on the ballot paper is needed
    person that our Mr Burnham reminds me of the most is BoJo.

    Bear with me…

    After all who made a bigger name for himself as mayor of a major city and then zipped back into being an MP at the first available opportunity (when it was worth a punt).? And whose political machinations got him into the highest office while trampling on friends and colleagues along the way.

    And then look how he behaved…

    There is a fundamental problem with overwhelming ambition. It messes with your priorities. And coupled with an overestimation of one’s own abilities and sense of popularity it can lead to a mighty downfall.

    Andy is also falling into the trap of being too quick to unleash himself from the trap. Who remembers Heseltine? He shot his bolt way too early and never got the high office he had his eye trained on despite the open goal created by Margaret Thatcher.

    Meantime there are plenty of us who want the focus to be on pulling the country back from the economic brink. Not to mention the abyss that Europe and the World is currently faced with…

  • The Knee Doth Jerk

    Anyone who thinks a ban on social media for under 16s will work is surely whistling in the wind. Do they know teenagers? Are they aware how ingenious they can be in pursuit of their hearts desire.

    As I was want to observe to the odd Year 9 or 10, “If that homework platform was a level in Fortnight you’d have worked out how to make it function in an instant.”

    The motivation behind this radical action is one of concern and compassion, particularly for those who have lost children under the influence of suicide sites or ones promoting eating disorders. And let’s not start on the misogynistic claptrap that was the hot topic last year.

    It is a mystery to me why social media platforms are seemingly immune to the strictures that impact on the activities of their print and broadcast cousins.Libel and slander are about dissemination. You can sue the paperboy for delivering (literally) an untruth for crying out loud.

    Public backlash has caused powerful editors to beat a rapid retreat. There is a reason that only a fraction of the country saw the “GOTCHA” headline on the front page of The Sun following the sinking of the Belgrano. They literally stopped the press as the proverbial hit the proverbial.

    The big problem is twofold. Firstly these platforms operate globally so individual states take different approaches to “freedom of speech” etc. secondly, the proprietors of said platforms are peddling a lie that they are not publishers that they seem to believe themselves.

    In the short term we, as adults, have collective power. We have in the income that advertisers are targeting. We can collectively say we don’t want to see damaging, violent, sexist, racist, homophobic content. We can boycott sites that promote misogyny. We can stop clicking on the bait. The advertisers will lose revenue. They will investigate why. They will apply pressure. And the content will disappear. Simple.

    But we don’t. Not because we can’t, but because we are bemoaning the effects of this poison while we cheerfully click away, unaware of the example we are setting. We do not see the hypocrisy and impact of our own behaviour.

    The appeal of forbidden fruit won’t evaporate. A teenage boy won’t miraculously decide that a monastic existence is infinitely more appealing than viewing porn. Teenage girls and boys will always compare their appearance with an ideal, whether it’s the popular miss sashaying down the corridor or a beauty influencer bearing her sculpted behind on any available screen.

    So when you are next presented with a smartphone screen by a colleague/friend/partner gasping “Have you seen this?!” In a tone of shocked horror that invites fetid interest. Think about whether you want to see it, whether a young person should see it, whether it is appropriate to be “out there”. And walk away, without a glance, without sharing, without participating. And polish your halo as you have just joined the land of the thoughtful, responsible and conscientious.

  • A Small Great Help

    Around the time my third child was born the government introduced paid paternity leave.

    I recall sitting in an ante natal group and observing that they would be better saving the money and paying for six weeks of a cleaner. There were a couple of raised eyebrows.

    Years later an acquaintance from that group observed how very right I was.

    Now, do not get me wrong. I am married to someone who does his fair share. Particularly so when I worked as a full time teacher. I could not have done that without his support. Similarly he does shift work so has either been able to the children to school or pick them up. This has cemented an extremely strong relationship with our brood.

    However my point was and remains that housework is a chore that can become burdensome when you are up against it. Like when you have a new baby or you are working either full time or while your children are at school. It gets in the way and cannot be put aside unless you want to drown in crumbs and dirty knickers.

    I was reminded of this during a Today item on fostering. A writer and foster carer who had grown up in care was advocating for repairing the fostering system by investing in it. Her argument was that as foster carers decline in number, the best solution was not to do a recruitment drive but rather put in adequate support for existing foster carers so they would be happier and work as walking, talking advertisements for this valuable but neglected group of people.

    In order to attend the training and meetings, complete paperwork and have the time and space to meet the needs of troubled children and young people, there was a need for time.

    And the easiest way of gaining time was to pay for a cleaner. Once or twice a week. Just to keep on top of the housework and free up half a dozen hours or so to fitting everything else in did not become so onerous that people threw in the towel.

    And you know what? Giving a person a cleaning job can turn them into an employee who can contribute to the system. Particularly if they are paid directly by the local authority.

    QED money well spent: happier foster carers who can keep up and stay in the role; happier children and young people whose needs have some chance of being met; and a happy cleaner who has a job and is contributing to their own upkeep and possibly even the tax system.

    What do you bet that such a sensible idea falls on the deaf ears of the ignorant and impractical?

  • Worth a Watch

    Last night I failed to go to bed early as planned and instead caught ‘Lollipop’, a heartbreaking film about a single mother who comes out of prison to discover that she cannot simply get her children back and move on with her life.

    This had been trailed in Women’s Hour earlier in the week. And yes, it was quite brilliant. Not just because it highlighted the barriers prison leavers experience to rebuilding their lives but also the detailed nuance of relationships between the women (the only male character is the younger child). Love, resentment, affection, selfishness, compassion, callousness vied for supremacy. It was beautifully crafted and showed the complexity of life and family.

    The point where I looked up and frowned however, was where the presiding judge at the custody hearing praised the mum for apologising to her children for she staying in an abusive relationship.

    This goes to the heart of widely held attitudes towards women who stay, epitomised by the oft heard question, “Why didn’t she just leave?”

    Good Lord, if it was that easy the country would be full of abandoned men beating each other up because the women in their lives have put themselves out of reach.

    The reason this is not the case is because the physical strength of men and the deeply ingrained expectations of both men and women that women don’t leave, women try to please, women forgive, endlessly.

    And the fact that the presiding judge was a woman stuck in my craw. Because when we don’t understand the issues faced by our own gender, we know the mountain is chucking boulders down on our heads.

  • An Essential Component

    It helps if you put the tea bag in the mug…

    I thought as stared into the abyss of crystal clear boiling water and contemplated what was missing.

    Is this a metaphor for my life? Is something essential for a satisfying brew absent from my personal mug? Should I plot a new course and sail into the future with the wind behind me?

    Nope.

    It’s a tea bag.

    It goes in the mug.

    Before the boiling water.

    AND it comes out BEFORE the milk goes in.

  • It’s A Matter of Pronunciation

    In my efforts to complete my data analysis course I have been listening to the delightful Robin, who talks a lot of sense in a very strong Southern accent, for which read she is from somewhere in the Deep South of the USA.

    It has long been observed that all we share with American’s is a common language, so great can the cultural distances be. However I would also add to this, a whole host of different pronunciations of the same word. Some of which make you giggle.

    This morning I am in the process of doing my final lesson on master data management. I am chuffed that I am now on lesson 18 and have not quite lost the will to live. I also require a little rest break, hence random post.

    The fact that I have just spent five minutes listening to the delightful Robin talk about Masturbation Management with all the conviction of someone deeply frustrated by people’s inability to follow an inputting protocol is an added bonus to a fruitful morning.