The More I Learn The Less I Know

The more I learn the less I know

I’m sure that’s a quote from someone but if it’s not, it can be now, from me. Since being away from my family I’ve realised that there is a lot they haven’t taught me—not in a “wow why didn’t you tell me this stuff?!” kind of way but more in a way where I realise most people around me have a better understanding of social situations and general knowledge than I do. Don’t get me wrong, I’m full of random crap that couldn’t help you in an exam but would make you winner of the ‘random shit’ quiz 5 years running. I’ve described my knowledge before as knowing as much content as I would need to get an A* at A-Level, but in things that would never come up in an exam. Think of it like: Stephen Fry and I would never be beaten in a pub quiz. But since coming to this new place with new people, I’ve realised there is a lot of ‘stuff’ that I don’t know about: for instance, whether it’s okay to ask certain questions, or do certain things. One thing that has been prominent in my life as socially unacceptable for many years is lying down on the floor: in school, at home, shopping, wherever I am, I just like being on the floor, sitting or lying. Obviously I’ve never just lay down in the frozen food aisle, or in the middle of the road (apart from when it’s super quiet like in the height of summer or the middle of the night, because who hasn’t dared themselves to lie down in the middle of the road?!) but at 6^th form at lunch time when people start talking about things beyond my comprehension (see this post), or in church when trying to explain to a 3 year old why my hair is so long. Since coming to drama school, however, it’s suddenly 100% okay to lie down in the middle of the corridor, or read a play upside-down in the common room (hats off to the 3^rd years who never bat an eyelid when I do this). But I still get asked if I want to sit on a sofa at friend’s house when I’ve chosen a nice little seat on the floor. One of my acting tutors often talks about when his past students or colleagues have realise they do something, and why, and I’m waiting for the day I understand why I prefer the floor to anywhere else. I’m sure there is a reason, I just have yet to find it.

Lying down isn’t really what this post is about though, it just demonstrates one of the things that gets me tied in knots. It is okay in some places, but not in others, to do certain things or ask certain questions, and I’m often left wondering why such a dramatic change in dynamic is created. You have to dress like ‘this’ ‘here’, and ‘that’ ‘there’. I was talking to a friend about whether it’s okay to ask someone if they’re a virgin, and she said if you’re on a personal level then yes. I was left with two musings after that. Firstly, my relationship with my class-mates isn’t necessarily all-round personal but we almost all know who’s had sex and who hasn’t. Secondly, how do you know if you’re ‘on a personal level’? Now all I hoped for was a yes or no answer, but I was left with a provoked thought and another question. This is one thing I haven’t learned—what questions are okay to ask. I spend a lot of my time asking others if I’m allowed to do things; I wonder actually why I need constant reassurance that my actions are sound; someone offers for me to sit on a sofa and I ask if I’m genuinely allowed to. I ask if it’s okay to ask the question I’m about to ask. Why can’t you ‘mix’ alcohol, and what even is ‘mixing’? How do you know what alcohols are different, because even two spirits are made in different ways and why is it okay to drink milk with baileys but not anything else because at the end of the day they’re both alcohol.

I remember the first time I actually ‘drank’ alcohol. My parents had gone away for the weekend, and my sister had a friend round. They wanted to have a drink and offered to make me one. I didn’t understand why my sister would give me alcohol and she said that our parents wouldn’t condone me drinking, but she would rather give me my first drink in the house, when she’s around and can look after me, and for me to be able to safely find out what I do and don’t like, and what does and doesn’t agree with me. I liked this because she was teaching me one of those things my parents didn’t, and wouldn’t have thought to teach me. There are things in my mind these days though that aren’t taught, and as I say I find myself asking more and more questions which people often don’t have the answers to, so of course my family couldn’t have taught me because they’re general questions about complicated matter. But I do wish I had an understanding of the ‘time and place’ for other questions, or indeed the ones I have.

The complicated questions I have, I don’t know who I can ask. I have friends I have made who I have only recently met, who I don’t want to overwhelm with all of my confusing thoughts, and I have friends I have known for years who I know for sure can’t answer my questions. I often want to just write them down so I don’t forget them, so I can remind myself that I have thought about these things (again like the other blog post). One question I had tonight was ‘how do we know what questions are?’

‘How do we know what questions are?’ is very loaded in itself, and there are several aspects I would like explaining to me. Firstly, how do we know when a question is asked? I’m not talking about punctuation, but how do we know that someone has said a something we are required to think about and respond to? The language of course! But again, language is but a symbol of what we’re actually trying to do; how do we know what the words mean? Where did the intent behind these words come from and how is it that we recognise them as inquisitive or probing words? Define ‘how’, is one of the things I would like to do. Another word I have often wondered about defining is ‘it’: what does ‘it’ actually mean? These things get me wrapped up in feelings and thoughts and once again leave me having an existential crisis. The next part of my question is about the answer. How and why do we respond to questions the way we do? This is all very confusing to me and I’m sure it’s no clearer to you but if you’re a philosopher who has any thoughts on this then please do get in touch via my blog email so we can have a chat! How do we understand our own responses, how do we have the freedom to think on what has been given to us, how is that formulated into a response, and why do we give it?

Another thing that has me all confused at the moment, is friendship, liking and loving people. Our first project on our foundation was a devised piece of theatre on the theme of ‘love’. Such a vague theme brought so many different approaches, but once again left me with more questions than answers (which I suppose is what good theatre aims to do, but I do find it often frustrating, how stupid or insignificant I feel). The only person I know I truly have ever loved is my brother, Joshua, who I mentioned in my previous blog post. I only know I love(d?) him because of how much I miss him in mourning. Because of the physical sensations I get when I think of him, or my emotional reactions to when I remember that he is gone and is never going to come back: I won’t ever see his face again in life or feel his tiny arms hug me. So how do I know who I love in living and waking? I tell Heather, my friend from Nottingham, that I love her very often, and my sister, and even these days my parents. But I don’t know how I know that feeling. I have no discernible image or gesture that tells me I love them, or even how I feel about them. In terms of liking people and forming friendships, I have formed many friendships since moving to Birmingham, but I don’t know how they happened. I have friendships with Heather, Stefi and Karen, all of whom I met at Christian Union, and Bobbi, Anna and Emma who are on my course. I don’t know how I know that I like these people though. I struggle to define how it is that I want to talk to them, or see them. I’m not sure what the feeling of attachment is, or whether I have it towards these people now, or ever will. I mentioned about how I’m not homesick in my previous blog post, and how the only person I miss is my brother, and that furthers my feeling that I don’t know who I love, like or am friends with. People usually ‘miss’ their friends, and I often tell Heather and Meghan and Karina that I miss them, but in reality I don’t understand what that is. For me, saying it, it could be that at that moment I wish I was playing Minecraft in Meghan’s bed while her mum cooks kickass wedges, or that I was drinking tea with Karina after that bloody freezing December morning photoshoot which saw me wearing several sleeveless dresses, or snuggled under a blanket with Heather playing one of the many films we recommend to each other but never get round to actually watching. I don’t know how I know these things, but I do, and I don’t understand how I can feel the things that cause me to think these things, but I can say them and believe them so they must be how I feel. I asked Stefi how one knows if they’re friends with someone. She responded with a couple of comments, one about just knowing you like a person, another about feeling certain things, as if you get a sense that you and this person will get on well. I understand about the feelings of ‘this person and I are going to get on well’. I have the same sense with others but negatively—I meet a person and feel something not necessarily that I would choose to feel. I do wait before I consciously think that don’t like them, but somehow I feel I just don’t get a spark how I do with other people (like I did with Stefi and Bobbi), then they do something or say something which I feel gives me almost a reason to dislike them, or it could be something they don’t say. It could be that they use an opinion I disagree with, or something as shallow as they kept scratching the back of their hand when answering questions I asked. In terms of forming relationships, some people I don’t necessarily feel anything for immediately, but the second or third time I see them I realise I want to talk to them or them to talk to me; that happened with Karen. That’s another feeling that I guess is construed as friendship. I hope it is, as these people are nice and I do enjoy their company; another deal in the package of friendship I think? I just think it’s interesting the different ways ‘friendships’ form, and confusing about what these feelings and ‘friendships’ actually are.

Tonight (26/11/15) I was going to ask a friend my question about questions, but thought on it for a little while and realised what I briefly mentioned earlier: I didn’t actually want an answer, I just wanted to write it down so I could remember that I had thought it. Sometimes people think a question, then answer the question. Have you ever forgotten something, only to remember it later and kick yourself that you didn’t remember when it was relevant? Have you ever realised you know something, perhaps someone asks a question and you know the answer and it surprises you? I feel like I’m writing this in the hope that a combination of those two scenarios might happen, or neither in fact. I didn’t intend for this post to be so long, and congratulations if you’re still here, I only just am, to be honest with you. If I ever come up with an answer for my ‘questions’ here, I may or may not share them, I may or may not write them down and I may or may not even remember why I thought of them. This much I can say for myself though:

The more I learn, the less I know. Today or tomorrow, when I have thought more thoughts than before, and learnt more things than now, I will be a different person to who I was, but the old me will still be there, contributing to who I am now.

How to Adult?

Hello internet, I’m back.

I haven’t been around for quite a while (as I’m sure you won’t have even noticed to be honest). A lot of stuff has happened in my life in the last year, some you might know from social media, some you might not, and that’s okay because to be honest you don’t know much about me as a human being, just my internet presence—which isn’t astounding—with my opinions and anectdotes on various aspects of life. One thing that’s happened since I last blogged is that I’ve moved out, to go to drama school. I’m at Birmingham School of Acting, studying a foundation in Acting which will hopefully lead me to a place on a BA Acting course in September next year (2016). I’m loving my course, my independence and the experiences I’m encountering since moving away from home. As someone put in one of our induction seminars though: “The best things about university are independence, new friends, and living away from home for the first time. The worst things about university are independence, new friends, and living away from home for the first time.”

For me I’ve done more learning than I thought I could in the short time I’ve been away. I thought I’d share my thoughts with you about this time in my life.

At home I sometimes wash clothes- I know where the powder goes, where the liquid goes, what buttons mean what wash, how long each wash takes, when it's finished and how to tell, light loads/ heavy loads, towels and linen, lace, bras, jeans, you name it, I know how to wash it-- at home. Unfortunately what I didn't logically deduce from being able to use our current washing machine but not our old one: not all washing machines work the same... So the first and most important thing I've learnt from moving is not how to wash, but to READ INSTRUCTIONS.
I've also realised (today in fact) that the earlier you get up, the better your day will be. I know, I know; you're not a morning person. But getting up, even 15 minutes earlier than normal, gives you extra time. Even if you leave in plenty of time normally for work or school, it will improve your mood when you look at the clock after you leave and notice that you have time to spare. If you're someone who leaves on time regularly, you might think you don't need even more spare time, but there is no such thing as spare time. Time is so very, very precious and not even 15 minutes should be wasted. Take the opportunity to really get a good look at your route to work or school- purposefully seek things you haven't seen before, chase the sunrise and listen to the birds as if you can understand what they're saying. Being present in the world- whether in nature, in traffic or just when washing your clothes, is a psychologically proven exercise to improve mental health and relaxation (DBT: Mindfulness). So whilst you be a little grumpier in the morning, your overall well-being will improve. If you're someone like me, however, who leaves at the last minute consistently (I'm never late, though; I might show up to your class or afternoon tea party soaked in sweat from running, but dammit I'm on time) then you will feel the benefits right then and there- if your train or bus is on time, you'll be in plenty time to get it, if you bus or train is late, you'll be in plenty time to get it, and if you walk, you can do the aforementioned mindfulness. 

Here’s a short fire list of a few things I've learnt from moving out:

- Remembering to lock the door

- Responsibility of possessions

- How to search for a lost item

- How to use internet resources to help me

- That don't know infinite stuff

- You can't fit a Virgin Media cable in a Telewest socket (despite what Virgin say)

- Cloths are more hygienic to clean with than sponges
- Sponges clean better than clothes

- Some grease just doesn't come off worktops

- The extractor fan in a kitchen is important

- Rewards cards with supermarkets are useful

- Shopping lists are an infinitely good idea

- Meal plans help shopping lists considerably: if you know what you're buying for, you know what you're buying

- How to dry cloths when it's raining outside

Speaking of drying clothes in the rain, I will add at this point that even if you have school or work 9-5 Mon-Fri washing lines are a good investment. If you can't be home to watch the washing in case of rain, do it at the weekend: clothes dry a lot better outside. Whilst radiators and clothes' horses are good, they can bring issues with condensation, which means your room will be super muggy and also can damage the walls- hence your landlord probably advises against it.

I mentioned there that I’ve learnt about locking doors. That doesn’t mean I remember to do it—last week I messaged my housemate in a blind panic because I couldn’t remember if I’d locked our front door or not. Turns out I probably did, but he didn’t check so my housemates have either all been slaughtered in their beds and I’m speaking to their ghosts each day, or I did lock the door… Or no murderers came into the house whilst the door was unlocked. It’s anybody’s guess really. I’m currently sat on the sofa in sight of the back door which I’ve been meaning to lock since I remembered that I hadn’t done so, about 3 hours ago. But my housemates are out, all my chores are done and the sofa is actually quite comfortable. I hope no one reading this is a burglar sat outside my door. Guess we’ll just have to chance it!

Memory is one of my big struggles—I’m not naturally a forgetful person, but a medication affected my short term memory mildly a couple of years ago and it’s never quite been as sharp as it used to be—so I’ve learnt some good techniques to help me remember things. For example, after the door incident occurred, I do something funny after I’ve locked the door, like turn around a few times then itch behind one of my ears, or try say the name of my road backwards: anything that I’m not used to doing, because my brain will remember the out-of-context things I do, not usually the mundane ‘auto-pilot’ things. If you find yourself forgetting things like this, try it—it also makes me laugh when I remember what I did to remind myself that I had brushed my teeth in the morning. One thing that I think everyone I know who's moved out into a house is struggling with is remembering to put bins out! I do not know how my parents do it, because there four of us and already we've forgotten to put them out (only once have we completely forgotten, but often I find myself struggling to get through our side gate in my slippers in the rain at 11pm because I've remember just as I've crawled into bed. So if you move out, perhaps make a note of when the bins are collected and write yourself a large note in red, bold lettering so you don't forget.

Another thing I’m finding hard is being responsible for myself. I’m happy and independent when my parents are away and I’m left home alone, but living without someone to help look after you is difficult, especially for me having been quite poorly over the last few years. I do take care of myself though, and I have a good network of people around me who I can call on if I do need a bit of extra help. I’ve made quite a few friends through my Christian Union, which I would recommend joining if you’re a Christian at University or drama school. It just gives you a network of friends outside your course and generally gives you a chance to unwind with people who have a different perspective of life. Getting involved in societies is probably equally as good, but as I don’t have time for extra-curricular things, the CU is fine for me. In terms of practically taking care of myself, I’ll go back to that shopping list on my ‘list of life lessons learnt’. I don’t just sit down and decide I want 60 types of banana this week, I look at what I want to eat, then work out what I need to buy for that. Weekly shops vary in price for me, and if I have a particularly hard week, I’ll be tempted to cut back the next week. This week a big struggle was the fact that I couldn’t afford milk so went a week without tea, and if you know the British, you’ll know how crappy your life immediately gets without being able to stick the kettle on and settle down with a cuppa, bourbon and a book. Last week my shop cost £8—this week it was £21 and that included £6 of meat which I barely ever buy (meat) and two bottles of sauce which will probably last me the rest of my time in Birmingham. Shops vary for me, but a usual week will generally cost £10-£15. Anyway less about the prices more about the shop itself. I used to find doing the weekly shop with my dad fun as a little kid, I remember how incredibly expensive it could get, and I remember my ad often sending me to pick carrots. I remember various things he taught me from when shopping was a fun trearue hunt where the longest dates get the biggest rewards, and I also remember the ‘mares of childhood when on several occasions I was found crying by my trolley because my dad hadn’t returned from his hunt for milk or apples. I also remember one time waiting with thr trolley because he had forgotten his wallet or cool box or something from home, and I crossed my arms on the trolley, put my head down and cried for what felt like an hour, because I didn’t realise dad was going to get something and thought he had left me (he didn’t return within 2/3 minutes like he would if he was getting something in the shop). By the time he came back I was a wreck. Anyway, once I got to about 12 or 13, shopping each week wasn’t as fun. And now I try to think of it as that treasure hunt, a game of hide and seek where the long life soya milk is never where it says it is, turkey mince is in the halal lamb section and bread apparently doesn’t exist. I have yet to cry in my local supermarket, but I’m sure it will come. The important thing is what I do next, not how long I cry for or why.

The ‘doing next’ is another thing I struggle with. Some of you may or may not know that I lost someone very special to me before coming away, which makes everything 10 times harder for me. I can’t go near certain shops or foods because they remind me of him, and sometimes I feel sad for no reason and want to call him but I can’t. I haven’t been getting home sick but I am missing him incredibly, which I think takes over from the feeling that I might be missing people I can just call up or message on facebook. Talking to people who aren’t in the city sometimes makes my feelings harder to cope with, because they will answer the phone or their photo will come up against my message saying they’ve seen it. But I’ll never have him answer the phone again, and I’ll never see a little bubble with his picture in again when I IM him on facebook. A blog post I was working on before this happened was a collaborative post with my good friend Heather, about having critically ill or dying family members- needless to say this post was put on hold, but I would like to finish it and show it to you at some point, because if anyone is going through what me and Heather are, I would love them to know that they’re not alone.

Anyway, I realise we’ve drifted off the topic of living independently, but hey, it’s my blog post and if you’re really bothered, you needn’t read!

If I have any other pearls of wisdom about living alone, or recipes, I shall share them in updates to this post, so keep your eyes peeled and watch this URL...

I'm Using Anti-Wrinkle Cream and I'm Not Even 19 Yet...

As much as I blog about strange things, funny things and serious things, I think it's generally more about how I view the world and my thoughts and opinions on life, not about myself. However, those of you who are super attentive, geeky and/or nosey will have deduced that I am about 19 years old-- in fact I'm 18, and will be 19 next month... and as the title of this post suggests, I am also using anti wrinkle cream. The reason for this? Apparently my default face or reaction or SOMETHING is just raising my eyebrows, because I have rather obvious 'worry lines'. At least I think they're worry lines? There are three (with a fourth appearing) and they go across my forehead, parallel to my eyes. If they're are worry lines, it's a stupid name for them, because my worried face is either furrowing my eyebrows (suggesting the 'angry old lady' face is actually worry lines) or narrowing my eyes. So whilst I'm not constantly pulling a worried face, I must be raising my eyebrows for a significant period of my life. Perhaps I sleep with my eyebrows raised? Who can tell. At any rate, I thought I'd blog about it. I initially set out to do this post more of random things that I do which aren't really suitable for my age group, for instance: using anti wrinkle cream. I think I might do that at a later point, but I guess it'll just be a relatively short, different 'breed' of post- as it were. I think I might start a series of short posts about me- just things that have little relevance in my life so that you have a bit more insight into what sort of a person I am, rather than just assuming I was a blood-thirsty child who tried to kill herself and her brother's best friend, who now muses deeply about the meaning of life...

So today's post I guess is about facial expressions. Okay I lied, it's about my favourite cosmetic's range: Nivea Pure and Natural. It's a fresh-smelling cosmetics line which does moisturisers and the best lip care you could dream of. BUSINESS SABOTAGE: CARMEX SUCKS. Carmex- whilst smelling delicious and making your lips tingle, therefore making you believe it really is good for my lips- actually dehydrates your lips faster, making them dependent on the substance, and so making you use more and thus buy more. Pink rose Vaseline also does this because it's hybrid of lip balm and lipstick. It probably contains fish-scales yo. I think of Carmex more like a drug- you get the tingling when you first start using it, but the more you use it, the more often you have to use it, which gets your lips accustomed to the ingredients and, eventually, they stop tingling when you use it-- another ploy to get you to use more of it, desperately trying to get that first tingle back, when in reality the tingle never really existed... *0*

Nivea's Pure and Natural lip balm though, milk and honey, is so simple and good (like Glinda the Good) that babies can eat it. Not only can babies eat it, they enjoy eating it. Not in a "Yum I want that tingling tongue again" way, more in a "feels good on ma hand, taste good in ma mouth" way. I have a stick of milk and honey lip balm with a well in it to prove this. The 9-month-old discovered the cap first, and spent about 20 minutes pulling and pushing it off and on, then discovered that she could dig her nail into it... then eat the delicious lip balm from her fingertip. IT was a fun morning. She was so happy to have discovered Nivea. I got a Pure and Natural gift set for Christmas in about 2012, and never really used anything from it, until I got really dry lips one time and realised that Carmex was NOT the way, and plucked the lip balm from the little travel bag (which also contained hand cream and body moisturiser). It sorted my lips after using it about three times. It still does, but I like to use it often because it makes my lips feel nice and soft. The hand cream is something I never thought I would use, because I get Dermatitis, an eczema-like skin conditions which reacts to various things. It also makes my hands sweat more when I'm having a flare up (and one of the things I'm sensitive to is the sun so summer is never fun for Sweaty-Hands-Betty). This means that if I have an allergy, hand cream/moisturiser doesn't dry because of all the sweat, but if I'm not having an allergy I run the risk of triggering a reaction and, again, never having the lotion dry on my hands and moisturise my skin. After my success with the lip balm though, I thought I'd give it a try as the skin care line is advertised as being 95% natural. It also has the usual schpeil about no parabens, enzymes or preservatives. It was good, and has been ever since! The moisturiser is quite nice as well, though I don't use it very much because I don't often get dry skin on my body. It's just my knees and elbows generally; everywhere else I tend to have quite soft skin, especially my forearms. So when I made the decision a few weeks ago that I should start using anti-wrinkle cream to prevent further premature iron-lines, I decided I would try a nice natural product- most certainly not a 'contains collagen and pro-ben-zymes' or something else that sounds sciency but actually does nothing to help your skin (and occasionally makes it worse so you think you need to buy more of the product) ((I need to write a blog post about my branding conspiracy theories at some point, see if anyone else is on my wavelength)). I most certainly did not want filler, or anything that says "plump" "fill" "elasticity" or "inject".

Today*, when I was shopping for far too much stuff that I probably don't need in Home Bargains-- LOVE THAT SHOP-- I spotted the face cream and decided to go for it: today was the day; today I turned 65 in my own mind; today... I bought anti-wrinkle cream.

AND WAS THRILLED THAT IT WAS NIVEA PURE AND NATURAL.

So this is the beginning of my journey. I will use it tonight as it is a night mask, and every night for the next week and report any changes I see. I will state now that if I see the wrinkles getting worse, I'm going to stop using the cream and will probably start advocating against anti-wrinkle creams. Wish me luck, I'll update on this post next week (Thursday 19th February) and every subsequent Thursday, along with my usual posts which will start back weekly on Monday 23rd February, which is also when I will probably do a bit of explaining as to why my posts and general internetting just stopped short in about November.

*Today for me is actually February 9th, this post will be out on Thursday which is today for you, so by the time you read this I will have been using it for 3 days. If I actually see any improvements I might tweet. But I probably won't.

Why Pink Spades Are Probably Trying to Kill You [alternative title: This is what an idiot would do]

As my most popular humerous post was a re-telling of a story from my childhood, I decided I would try another. This is a few different stories mashed up from my childhood growing up with one sister, two brothers and a Richard.

Everybody should have a Richard in their life, in fact, they probably do: that unfortunate guy whose parents gave him two first names; that unfortunate guy who has a nickname people giggle at the first time they hear it; that unfortunate guy. For my family, our Richard is all three-- named Richard Richardson, nicknamed Dicky and, of course, marred by all of those horrendously funny things that happen to the same person. Our Richard has taught us many things, ranging from why never to leave your drink at a night club, to how children's garden implements can be lethal. Probably.
One thing about growing up with plenty of siblings the same age is the entertainment you can provide yourselves with over summer (see this post). One of the many wonders my childhood world brought me was the ghost train.

For anyone who has never seen one of these, they were the best things since barbies and action-men as far as my siblings and I were concerned. This is not merely a tractor, though. This is the best seat on the ghost train. You travel at speeds of up to Ben's-Top-Running-Speed, are scared by 3D-real life Brothers-Friends-Jumping-Out-of-The-Shed-and-Screaming, and-- worst of all-- chased back out of the garden and down the street by both brothers... with a wheelchair going up to 4mph. And if that doesn't scare you sh*tless, you're probably not 6-year-old Frankie. It wasn't necessarily scary, it was just exhilarating to go that fast down a hill on a toy tractor that you don't have to pedal and damned if seeing your siblings and their friends jump around like lunatics wasn't the funniest thing to happen that Sunday.
I'm sure you've all heard about the bed antics, so I'll move on to when we were a bit older and not at all wiser, when parks were all the rage in the early millennium and not many kids' disappearances were broadcast on day-time TV. Josh had moved to secondary school and was most probably in year 8 by this point, dating these stories roughly at 2002. Dicky, a friend of Josh's and fast becoming member of the family, took to-- what can only be described as my family's war-spirit-- and began hanging out with us on school holidays. I guess it would have been a kind of 'bike riding after-school' friendship, if Josh was able to cycle, but as luck would have it Dicky had to be shared between Josh, Ben, Lizzie and my little old self. A sport me and my siblings (from now on, unless I state other wise, assume that siblings/family includes Dicky) enjoyed in the lighter months was Wiffle, a game I can't remember the rules to, but involved a light, plastic ball with holes in and... basically a really long, plastic baseball bat. According to Wikipedia it's similar to baseball but everything is lighter- including the nature of the game. We used to play Wiffle everywhere! On holiday, in the garden, in the park, in the street; me and my sister even used to play it in our bedroom. As I've aged I may have dropped my mind in the gutter and now-- even though the name means the same thing to me-- I hesitate a little every time I go to tell someone of my family's favourite childhood sport.
Changing the subject (necessarily) me and my sister used to have story time before bedtime, which is a pretty normal thing for children and parents to do. During the summer months though, when there was more light at a later time, play-time took presidence. We would often ask if we could substitute our story time for said play-time, and our parents always obliged; that is until... the Pink Spade Incident. To be fair, this incident was not the fault of us not reading a story specifically, but one could be forgiven for assuming that when our mother asked us to come inside, our chimed response of "story-time-for-bed-time?" put a spark into our brother's (assume 'brothers' includes Dicky, also) minds.
"No, no, no, we'll do your story for you, but it'll be a play!" called Dicky, having already made his mind up apparently, about the travesty that was about to unfold. Once the sun started going down, however slowly, the Whiffle bat and ball would go away and we would entertain ourselves once again with formerly mundane, useless items. Like a toddler's see-saw "being kept for the grandkids", or... a children's gardening set my grandma probably got reduced from the pound shop or the 'munitions factory.
"Don't try this at home, kids." My brothers chorused from the grass. Lizzie and I were sat on a plastic table on the patio, looking down at the dangerous things the skinny, energetic lads were doing, as Josh dictated what each should do. Turning the see-saw upside down and standing, balanced on the seats was fun to watch and pretty dangerous for kids. Balancing it upright on one of it's ends and leap-frogging over-- sure to end in a broken bone for girls aged 8 and under. But no one could have predicted the hilariousity (that's right, the moment's aura has created a new word in the comedy genre) that would ensue once my sister and I had 'gone to bed'. We were directly instructed by the director of the garden-implements facade (Dicky, actually not Josh) to go and sit in our room on my sister's top bunk to continue watching the show incognito. We turned the bedroom lights off, the nightlight on, shut the door, sat on my sister's top bunk, opened the windows, closed the curtains behind us and dangled our legs out of the window. We were watching, laughing and jesting, as Ben and Dicky talked us through in Zoo-Keeper-at-Feeding-Time style, the dangerous objects in out garden- the trees, the bees, the plants,
"And the garden wall" Shouted Dicky as he jumped off a very old, 4ft and questionably unstable wall.
"You're an idiot" we replied, with childhood innocence. At this point, Richard must have spotted the death trap that is a pink spade from that murder kit I mentioned my grandma had bought earlier; the paint was chipped and it had probably been out for a few days on the lawn. The metal, revealed under the paint-lacking patches, was rusty and flaking, and the whole spade just screamed tetanus. Not knowing this, he made a dive for the spade and swung it in an almighty bid to make us all laugh whilst saying the next sentence
"No, I'm putting on a show. Don't try this at home!-- This is what an idiot would do--" WHACK.
That almighty swing? Ended on his forehead. I don't know if he thought the spade would quickly crumble away on his noggin, leaving him impact free, or if he assumed it was one of those magical spades which pass straight through your head, but it did neither. It did, however, send out the loudest metallic clanging sound I've possibly ever heard, and rebound straight off his head onto the lawn, in the same fashion a tennis ball might bounce off a wall, but enough force to wrench itself free of Dicky's grasp and leave a very fast-growing egg, the size of-- well-- an egg, on the lad's forehead. My sister and I quickly assessed the damage. The singular "...Ow" which came from Dicky told us it wasn't good, but at the same time we couldn't just bolt down the stairs-- our parents would know we had been sitting up watching the incident. We couldn't resist the opportunity to see a cartoon head bump in real life. When we got downstairs (after hearing the boys were inside and tending to Richard's head) we acted surprised. 'What happened?' 'Oh my this is so unexpected!' Trained in the art of acting clueless, we gathered in the downstairs bathroom to see the shiner up-close. It actually looked like Dicky was growing a baby dinosaur on his head, but it was first nesting it's egg between his eyes.

"I fell."

And that was the story my parents knew for a good long time. Until the spade appeared in the garden one day and Richard screamed running from it shouting some obscenities about hit-men and all had to be explained. Still, not one of my family members can pass a small pink spade without laughing or exclaiming "This is what an idiot would do!"

Civil Rights, People, Civil Rights.

There are lots of ‘disgraceful’ acts which make their way up into our news; the lady who put a cat in a bin; people being charged with ‘public indecency’ because of wearing pyjamas in public; children being taken to court for not attending birthday parties. These are things that provoke people to say they weep for humanity or really worry about where society is headed. On a tangent and from an entertainment perspective, society is becoming more visually fascinated with the world, and whilst not many could withstand a silent theatre production, the intrigue of my generation lands far more on the ocular than other senses. That’s why we have 3D-iMax cinema, 4K and curved-screen TV’s. That’s why Disney Classics are being restored and released on a yearly basis; people hate the scratchy-tape look. Admittedly, the ears are far more easily offended than eyes, but the focus seems to be – at least overtly – more on visual effects. Is that the reason people are racist? I mean, yes, the world’s powers have become a lot more tolerant of different cultures, beliefs and looks, but unfortunately, racism still exists. Is that because it’s far easier to tell someone’s skin colour apart from their voices? Or is it simply a prejudice that clutches onto some people? At any rate, this story (a Portuguese commission for the 50^th anniversary of the Universal Declaration for Human Rights) just proves how the present generation have come on in leaps and bounds in terms of prejudice and acceptance:

A white woman sits down for a flight, looking uncomfortable with her travelling companion; a black gentlemen. The woman calls a flight attendant over and says she couldn’t possibly spend the flight next to a "negro". The flight attendant says there are no more seats in economy, but will speak to the pilot. She comes back and announces that there is indeed a seat in 1^st class and that the pilot agrees he wouldn’t have any of his passengers sit next to such a ‘despicable’ passenger. She then beckons the man to first class and the woman is left alone in economy.

See, in this day and age, prejudice should be combated like this; don’t accommodate the accuser, make more comfortable those being rebuked. A case of racism is agreed upon to who is being abused and who is the bigot; the person making preconceptions over the colour of another person skin is being racist, and should not be accommodated, but the victim – in this case the black man – should be apologised to on behalf of the racist, and if necessary paid compensation. After all, racism is against the law in England.

That’s why I was absolutely horrified to see the latest “cat bin lady” story. A young man with a horrendous, crippling and life-limiting condition (Muscular Dystrophy, a condition my own brother, Josh, has) was asked to leave a cinema after another viewer complained that his ventilator was apparently making ‘too much noise’. Firstly, let me explain about the ventilator and the vitality of this bit of kit.

1.   Muscular Dystrophy (MD) is a group of muscle wasting conditions, whereby the body either: cannot produce muscle fibres correctly; destroys its own muscle fibres, or; produces muscle fibres without the adhesive enzyme needed to connect them together. This causes muscle tissues to weaken and deteriorate. Lungs function only via the intercostal muscles (the muscles connecting ribs) and the diaphragm (a band of muscle stretching across the abdomen). When these muscles are wasted in MD the lungs cannot function: you lose your ability to breathe. A ventilator acts as a pump for your balloon-like lungs, and essentially keeps you alive by manually breathing for you.
2.     The noise a ventilator makes is a hushing sound, sort of like wind, or someone making a 'shh' sound. This type of noise is white noise, and the human brain usually blocks this out, or at least doesn’t focus on it, and the white noise descends into the background of your unconscious minds- basically, you shouldn’t notice it’s there.

So from this, we’ve established that a ventilator is essentially portable life-support, and the sound it makes is pretty natural and non-invasive. So why did Richard – a 31-year-old suffering with a condition which has a life expectancy of about 15 years; a miracle and a medical breakthrough – why was this fine gentlemen removed from an Odeon cinema screen in Epsom, showing a film to 198 others? Why was this stupid act of discrimination allowed to happen? Has the world not moved on from removing black people from buses in 60 years? I would hate to think that the world has an obsession with placing certain standards and social equity groups in every generation, to the extent that some prejudice always has to be prominent in order for people to feel better than others.

Sure, it might have been a mistake. The usher may not have been trained as to ‘how-to-handle-complaints-about-vulnerable-customers’. However, I’m sure their moral compass would have told them to evict the complainer, had they been asked to remove an Asian or black girl from the cinema. And sure, this isn’t the same situation – 6 people complained that the noise the ventilator made was a ‘nuisance’ (and maybe they could indeed hear the ventilator), but when I go to the cinema, I hear people laughing and texting throughout the film. If I had complained about a mobile phone, I still wouldn’t expect those people to be evicted, just to be told to keep the noise down; those people have a choice, and are perfectly able to turn their phones off. Josh and Richard don’t have the opportunity to turn their ‘nuisances’ off. If they did, they would die; that’s the reality of this situation. So the only option left, you might think, is to ask him to leave.

But the air hostess didn’t accommodate the racist, did she? She didn’t move the bigot to 1^st class so she wouldn’t complain any more, but rather, the Universal Declaration of Human Rights would believe the flight attendant to compensate towards the abused, and make him more comfortable. It’s not as easy to evict a racist from a plane, as it is to ask prejudiced movie-goers to leave a screen. I’m not looking for a 'sincere' apology to Richard – he’s already had this. I’m not looking for someone to explain why it happened. I’m looking for people to change their frame of mind. Don’t reward people with prejudices. Racism is illegal. Why isn’t prejudice against people with disabilities illegal? Or just a step away from that, why do people not think a little more -- not to be totally anal about what’s PC and what isn’t -- but just to find other solutions; if people can’t accept others’ differences, they should look away, get a little more perspective and come back another day. Not be allowed to continue in their reign of bigotry.

It’s not time for apologies, it’s time for change.