The day started out quite well; the normally crowded two-carriage train from the Fens to Birmingham was waiting at Leicester station and there were plenty of seats. Things took a wrong turn when the first taxi driver at New Street station denied all knowledge of the Birmingham Conservatoire and asked me to leave the cab. The second driver was more patient, asking another driver for directions and gently explaining to me when we arrived at the Conservatoire that I hadn't needed a taxi at all as we were just at the top end of New Street. But it was cold and pouring with rain and had I walked, I would have been soaked through which would not have done at all as the Adrian Boult Hall was freezing. It puzzles me that the event organisers did not give more thought to the well-being of the audience, or delegates, or whatever we were. The tickets were expensive, yet the toilets were blocked, there was no lunch and the queues for coffee were long. Worst of all, two of the 'headline' acts had cancelled. A nightmare for the organisers, certainly and they had done well to find replacements but I would have liked to have known, so that I could have made a choice whether it was worth going at all. For me, a wasted day is worse than a wasted ticket, especially as trains, taxis, lunch add extra cost.
During the first session, I became sure about my ability (or lack of) to process aural information. This was a persistent problem for me at school but I have only recently become aware of the problem again at Writers' Club where members read their scripts aloud. I can only process what I'm hearing if I visualize the words and then 'read' them in my mind, which is hard work. Consequently I stop listening. As a psychologist, I pose three hypotheses for this problem: a slight miswiring in the brain, a lack of experience of being read to as a child and a difficulty controlling my own thoughts, which tend to crowd in if my eyes aren't occupied. I suspect there is a problem in all three areas but the latter is the worst offender. During aural processing I start to 'ruminate', which can be more colloquially described as 'wool gathering.' Gradually, my mood darkened, so that by the time we broke for lunch it was close to its' 'Black Death' phase. I had tried to listen to some pleasant readings from some no-doubt well written books but I realised that there is absolutely nothing new to say about the process of writing. With minor variations, it's a fairly samey process for everyone. What also deeply irritates is hearing about the trials and tribulations of authors who have all day to write. What can possibly be useful or worthwhile about having to listen once more to the 'tyranny' of getting up in the morning to face the keyboard, the excitement of the postman, the staring out of the window, the guilt over not starting to write until three o'clock in the afternoon. I say to them, 'get over it'! Many of us fight to squeeze writing into corners of our lives but still think of ourselves as writers. P.D James worked full time as a civil servant until she retired.
I went for lunch in a dark, brutal shopping mall cynically called 'Paradise Forum.' I haven't tried Nando's before but their mushroom and halloumi cheese wrap was delicious; warm and spicy and mood enhancing. Outside the mall, the rain had stopped and I knew where I was. To my left, the Birmingham Central Library and facing me the art gallery. I was feeling better; still grey but reflective. I was a student in Birmingham in 1975 and the Central Library had been my safe haven in a city that was reeling from the New Street bombings. At the time, I hadn't noticed that the architecture of the library was so grim, even though I was in deep culture shock from having left behind the ancient streets and crashing, north sea beaches of St. Andrews to learn how to teach in Birmingham schools, where our tutors told us there was nothing they could say about behaviour management, it was 'sink or swim'. I sank.
I did go back after lunch to hear Stuart Maconie, as his radio show with Mark Radcliffe is my companion when I'm working in the evenings. He was a good raconteur, full of stories and humour and not much about the writing process, except the advice to be on your own, watch, listen and make notes.
After that I left, taking my visual processing skills first to a cafe, where the people interacting around me were ten times more interesting than anything I had heard during the day and then across to the art gallery 'disguising misery as aesthetic appreciation' (Salley Vickers: Dancing Backwards). I'm ashamed to say that I didn't stay for Carol Ann Duffy but with my new understanding, what was the point? I own a book of her poetry I can read whenever I like. Besides, I couldn't wait to get home to my warm house, my flushing toilet and my own novel.
Saturday, 29 May 2010
Monday, 17 May 2010
Night Train
Here's the autobiographical piece I read at Short Fuse this month:
Night Train
Somehow I’d only made the connection between paedophiles and girls. This was 1969 and I was fifteen. With my younger brother, I’d taken the overnight sleeper from Glasgow to Kings Cross many times before. Our compact cabin was like a doll’s house, everything miniaturised and tucked away. We lay awake and heard the stations announced to empty, echoing platforms as we rocked and jolted through the night: Edinburgh, Newcastle, Crewe. In the grey light of early morning, tea and digestive biscuits were brought to our cabin by a steward in a white jacket. We would roll up the blinds and watch the countryside emerge from the mist.
It was just before Christmas and the taxi ranks in Glasgow had queues that were long and slow. We needed to cross to the other side of the city to catch our train and as time crept by I was afraid we would miss it. It was dark and late. In a crowded, busy station, we were alone.
I asked my eleven year old brother to stand at one taxi rank, while I stood in the other line on the opposite side of the concourse. It was risky but he was always visible, even if we couldn’t communicate except by hand signal. Separately, we stood twice the chance of getting a taxi I explained, sending him off alone.
After about twenty minutes, when my line seemed to have grown no shorter, he waved to me, beckoning, a man at his side.
‘He’s got us a taxi,’ my brother called out as I staggered across, dragging our heavy suitcases.
I thanked the man, grateful for the kindness of a stranger. But glancing out of the rear window as our cab pulled out of the station, I saw him climb into the next taxi. I felt immediately afraid. He might be following us.
At Glasgow Central, his cab pulled up behind ours and although I tried to walk fast, he caught up. He appeared normal, even kind and fatherly but I didn’t want any more help. He ignored my protests and picked up our suitcases, carrying them to the ticket barrier. At last, I thought, he can’t come any further. But the ticket inspector made the natural assumption that the man was our father and waved him through. Would children today have protested? I hope so. I hope they would have shouted, ‘he’s not with us, he’s not our father!’ In the fifties and sixties, children like us were brought up to be compliant, not to question adults or make a fuss. Children like us would certainly have died of politeness, given the chance.
He can only come with us to the train door, I thought, trying to push down my panic as he carried our cases down the platform, my brother chattering comfortably at his side. The steward won’t let him on without a ticket. He did. The man, this intruder, insisted on carrying our cases onto the train and into the compartment. By now I was very anxious and certain that he wasn’t safe. I realised he was one of the ‘strangers’ I had been warned about for years but even then, I thought I must be the likely focus of his interest.
He sat down on the bed next to my brother and looked at his watch. ‘I bet you two are hungry,’ he said cheerfully. ‘There’s plenty of time before the train leaves. Why don’t I take your brother away with me to get some fish and chips?’ He leaned across and touched my brother’s cheek.
My brother looked at me, keen for my approval. At that moment I understood. If I let him go I would never see him again. In a split second I became an adult. Anger swelled in my chest. He had no right to harm us. I pressed the bell for the steward, praying he would come quickly. If we were left alone for any longer, I might not be able to stop him taking my brother by force. He could kill us both, to stop me telling.
The steward came at once, filling the doorway with authority and re-assurance. I can’t recall the words I used but I know I told him that the man was a stranger and that I wanted him to leave us alone. He was escorted from the train, leaving without remorse or explanation and waved goodbye to us as he passed our window.
I did tell my parents but they took no action. Perhaps I downplayed the story to protect my brother as he had no understanding of how vulnerable we had been. Or perhaps I felt responsible for putting him at risk and was afraid of criticism. When I think about that night, I know I almost let him go.
Now, I wish our story had been reported as the man might well have been caught. He will almost certainly have tried again and may have been successful. I know I saved my brother’s life and possibly my own but for a moment, our future had hung precariously in my hands. I made the right choice. That I might have got it wrong is the stuff of sleepless nights.
Night Train
Somehow I’d only made the connection between paedophiles and girls. This was 1969 and I was fifteen. With my younger brother, I’d taken the overnight sleeper from Glasgow to Kings Cross many times before. Our compact cabin was like a doll’s house, everything miniaturised and tucked away. We lay awake and heard the stations announced to empty, echoing platforms as we rocked and jolted through the night: Edinburgh, Newcastle, Crewe. In the grey light of early morning, tea and digestive biscuits were brought to our cabin by a steward in a white jacket. We would roll up the blinds and watch the countryside emerge from the mist.
It was just before Christmas and the taxi ranks in Glasgow had queues that were long and slow. We needed to cross to the other side of the city to catch our train and as time crept by I was afraid we would miss it. It was dark and late. In a crowded, busy station, we were alone.
I asked my eleven year old brother to stand at one taxi rank, while I stood in the other line on the opposite side of the concourse. It was risky but he was always visible, even if we couldn’t communicate except by hand signal. Separately, we stood twice the chance of getting a taxi I explained, sending him off alone.
After about twenty minutes, when my line seemed to have grown no shorter, he waved to me, beckoning, a man at his side.
‘He’s got us a taxi,’ my brother called out as I staggered across, dragging our heavy suitcases.
I thanked the man, grateful for the kindness of a stranger. But glancing out of the rear window as our cab pulled out of the station, I saw him climb into the next taxi. I felt immediately afraid. He might be following us.
At Glasgow Central, his cab pulled up behind ours and although I tried to walk fast, he caught up. He appeared normal, even kind and fatherly but I didn’t want any more help. He ignored my protests and picked up our suitcases, carrying them to the ticket barrier. At last, I thought, he can’t come any further. But the ticket inspector made the natural assumption that the man was our father and waved him through. Would children today have protested? I hope so. I hope they would have shouted, ‘he’s not with us, he’s not our father!’ In the fifties and sixties, children like us were brought up to be compliant, not to question adults or make a fuss. Children like us would certainly have died of politeness, given the chance.
He can only come with us to the train door, I thought, trying to push down my panic as he carried our cases down the platform, my brother chattering comfortably at his side. The steward won’t let him on without a ticket. He did. The man, this intruder, insisted on carrying our cases onto the train and into the compartment. By now I was very anxious and certain that he wasn’t safe. I realised he was one of the ‘strangers’ I had been warned about for years but even then, I thought I must be the likely focus of his interest.
He sat down on the bed next to my brother and looked at his watch. ‘I bet you two are hungry,’ he said cheerfully. ‘There’s plenty of time before the train leaves. Why don’t I take your brother away with me to get some fish and chips?’ He leaned across and touched my brother’s cheek.
My brother looked at me, keen for my approval. At that moment I understood. If I let him go I would never see him again. In a split second I became an adult. Anger swelled in my chest. He had no right to harm us. I pressed the bell for the steward, praying he would come quickly. If we were left alone for any longer, I might not be able to stop him taking my brother by force. He could kill us both, to stop me telling.
The steward came at once, filling the doorway with authority and re-assurance. I can’t recall the words I used but I know I told him that the man was a stranger and that I wanted him to leave us alone. He was escorted from the train, leaving without remorse or explanation and waved goodbye to us as he passed our window.
I did tell my parents but they took no action. Perhaps I downplayed the story to protect my brother as he had no understanding of how vulnerable we had been. Or perhaps I felt responsible for putting him at risk and was afraid of criticism. When I think about that night, I know I almost let him go.
Now, I wish our story had been reported as the man might well have been caught. He will almost certainly have tried again and may have been successful. I know I saved my brother’s life and possibly my own but for a moment, our future had hung precariously in my hands. I made the right choice. That I might have got it wrong is the stuff of sleepless nights.
Sunday, 25 April 2010
A Little Nerd Music
Yesterday, I went alone to see 'I am Love' at our new Phoenix Square digital media centre (or cinema). I thought it was incredible; the filming was fabulous and caught the oppressive, formality of a wealthy Italian family with great authenticity. Much of the first fifteen minutes or so focused on the house, as if the family were just bit players. The stilted mausoleum of the palazzio was contrasted with the sensual fecundity of the garden/farm in the mountains, where the affair happens.
Afterwards the place was buzzing, so I decided to stick around for a bowl of pasta and a glass of wine. The next film started at eight, so I was soon left alone, the sole customer. Around me, a band were setting up for a gig. I thought I'd stay a bit longer and maybe hear some of the music and the musicians themselves seemed worth a bit of scrutiny. There was a tall one with a ponytail. So far so good. But what was this? A boy of about seventeen assembled a drumkit and then two guys who could have been Ph.D students studying physics, set up three AppleMac laptops. It was like Kraftwerk but scruffier: check shirts over t-shirts that had seen better days and chins struggling to establish a healthy beard. I wasn't going to stay and listen to laptops. I paid my bill and left.
Afterwards the place was buzzing, so I decided to stick around for a bowl of pasta and a glass of wine. The next film started at eight, so I was soon left alone, the sole customer. Around me, a band were setting up for a gig. I thought I'd stay a bit longer and maybe hear some of the music and the musicians themselves seemed worth a bit of scrutiny. There was a tall one with a ponytail. So far so good. But what was this? A boy of about seventeen assembled a drumkit and then two guys who could have been Ph.D students studying physics, set up three AppleMac laptops. It was like Kraftwerk but scruffier: check shirts over t-shirts that had seen better days and chins struggling to establish a healthy beard. I wasn't going to stay and listen to laptops. I paid my bill and left.
Sunday, 21 March 2010
Incredible Acts of Kindness
The woman stops and rolls down her car window. Oh no, what now, I think.
'Do you want my car park ticket? It's got a couple of hours left.' I accept, graciously. This is the second time this has happened to me. The first time was in a dark multi-storey, with heavy, low ceilings. I was alone. A man ran towards me, his hand raised. I froze. 'Take my ticket,' he panted, 'I've paid for too many hours.'
I have experienced many of these small, inexplicable acts of kindness, particularly from women when my children were small. The passenger on the train who fetched drinks for us when I couldn't leave three children alone and go to the buffet, the strangers who helped me on and off buses, the people who returned dropped toys and the woman who found and looked after a child I had lost at the American Adventure Theme Park. The most amazing example I witnessed was on a bus in Manchester and it followed a completely explicable act of cruelty. I wrote a poem about this for the recent Big Issue poetry competition. Needless to say it didn't win but here it is anyway:
Manchester Heroine
I am impatient,
with a driver who speaks no English,
with a man who eats a burger,
with the boy whose ipod whistles.
I am impatient when the bus halts,
too long.
A man tries to buy a ticket from
our driver, who speaks no English.
We wait, stilled,
hit by invective, then silence.
The driver cannot move.
He is diminished.
A woman stands, walks to the front,
touches his arm, soothes with words.
He was drunk.
It's not your fault.
Take your time.
We can wait.
She apologises for Manchester,
for us, the passengers on this bus,
the number 43 for West Didsbury
and Northenden. We smile, proud.
No longer impatient.
Not now.
I wish I'd had the courage to be that woman.
'Do you want my car park ticket? It's got a couple of hours left.' I accept, graciously. This is the second time this has happened to me. The first time was in a dark multi-storey, with heavy, low ceilings. I was alone. A man ran towards me, his hand raised. I froze. 'Take my ticket,' he panted, 'I've paid for too many hours.'
I have experienced many of these small, inexplicable acts of kindness, particularly from women when my children were small. The passenger on the train who fetched drinks for us when I couldn't leave three children alone and go to the buffet, the strangers who helped me on and off buses, the people who returned dropped toys and the woman who found and looked after a child I had lost at the American Adventure Theme Park. The most amazing example I witnessed was on a bus in Manchester and it followed a completely explicable act of cruelty. I wrote a poem about this for the recent Big Issue poetry competition. Needless to say it didn't win but here it is anyway:
Manchester Heroine
I am impatient,
with a driver who speaks no English,
with a man who eats a burger,
with the boy whose ipod whistles.
I am impatient when the bus halts,
too long.
A man tries to buy a ticket from
our driver, who speaks no English.
We wait, stilled,
hit by invective, then silence.
The driver cannot move.
He is diminished.
A woman stands, walks to the front,
touches his arm, soothes with words.
He was drunk.
It's not your fault.
Take your time.
We can wait.
She apologises for Manchester,
for us, the passengers on this bus,
the number 43 for West Didsbury
and Northenden. We smile, proud.
No longer impatient.
Not now.
I wish I'd had the courage to be that woman.
Saturday, 13 March 2010
Stupid Boy
There was a mum, a dad and two little children, one a baby in a highchair, the other a little boy about three years old. I'd already exchanged a smile with the mum as she spooned goo into the baby's mouth. I didn't see her leave the table but she must have taken the baby to change its nappy. Something about the dad's tone made me glance across. 'You stupid, stupid little boy' he hissed. The child had spilt his father's coffee. The dad noticed me watching but continued his lecture, lowering his voice. The child's face crumpled and he cried, head in hands. When mum came back, the child didn't lift his head from the table.
Come on mum, I urged her silently, please repair this. Instead she listened to dad's complaints about the child and ignored the boy. The waitress heard the story too, dad sneaking a look at me to guage my reaction.
Roll the tape on twenty years. Dad will despair of his son. 'He's a great lad but no ambition. Doesn't have a clue what he wants to do with his life.' Well, that's because he's stupid, Stupid.
Come on mum, I urged her silently, please repair this. Instead she listened to dad's complaints about the child and ignored the boy. The waitress heard the story too, dad sneaking a look at me to guage my reaction.
Roll the tape on twenty years. Dad will despair of his son. 'He's a great lad but no ambition. Doesn't have a clue what he wants to do with his life.' Well, that's because he's stupid, Stupid.
Sunday, 7 March 2010
The Hammam
The Marketing Department at Rituals may well have made a mistake, linking their latest product line to the Hammam, a Turkish bath. I went to a Hammam in Wadi Musa, Jordan, at Christmas and the experience was as far from our 'pampering' spa days as an hour on a rugby field is to an aerobics class.
I chose the women-only Hammam, not because I'm a prude but I thought that if there was going to be embarrassment or worse, humiliation, in the bare-naked department I would rather deal with it in front of my own gender. The staff were plump women in black swimsuits who ordered us about with single-word commands normally reserved for dogs. I sat where I was told, on a hard bench in a room full of steam; 'sit!', 'wait!'. The other punters were vague, pink shapes in the mist and as I peered at their vapourous gestures, I understood that I should first try the sauna, once there was a space, then sluice myself with what I hoped was warm water. I hadn't managed to get to the water bit when somebody grabbed my arm and I was taken to another room where bodies on slabs, not unlike gravestones, were being vigorously scrubbed by the attendants. One beckoned cheerfully and pointed to a vacant slab.
'Lie down!' I climbed on with difficulty and lay on my back, the hard stone pressing into the back of my skull. The attendant scoured my face with a rough cloth, soaked in something that smelt of Vim. Stupidly, I had kept my make-up on. I hadn't been washed like this since I was a child and my mother was fed-up. I had forgotten how it felt, that particularly ferocious scrub unique to mothers who are at the end of their tether. After my face, all my other parts followed. 'Turn over!' Do you remember when you last had your bum washed by someone else?
'Get down!' I heaved myself off the slab. Another hand led me through the steam and I stood gasping as I was doused in cold water. More hands. 'Come!' Another room, another slab. Now the oils. No! Not through my hair! Too late. The oils smelt like fly spray. I was pummelled, squeezed and pinched, as if by bullying hands in a school playground. My legs and arms were pulled into positions they hadn't seen since I was six months old and could suck my own toes.
'Finished!' I was pulled off the table and wrapped in a towel. Pushed through a door I stood, blinking, in front of a quiet group of women sipping herbal tea. 'This way!' Back in the changing room, I sat blinking on a wooden bench. I couldn't get dry. The oil clung to my skin and hair and no matter how hard I towelled my skin, it stayed wet. My clothes had to be peeled back on. There was a hairdryer but my hair was so tangled, my brush shed bristles in despair. Looking like Worzel Gummage, I slid onto a bench amongst the other women to drink my tea. They murmured softly to each other in German, calm and relaxed. One of them turned to me and smiled, her eyes scanning my disarray. 'First time?'
I chose the women-only Hammam, not because I'm a prude but I thought that if there was going to be embarrassment or worse, humiliation, in the bare-naked department I would rather deal with it in front of my own gender. The staff were plump women in black swimsuits who ordered us about with single-word commands normally reserved for dogs. I sat where I was told, on a hard bench in a room full of steam; 'sit!', 'wait!'. The other punters were vague, pink shapes in the mist and as I peered at their vapourous gestures, I understood that I should first try the sauna, once there was a space, then sluice myself with what I hoped was warm water. I hadn't managed to get to the water bit when somebody grabbed my arm and I was taken to another room where bodies on slabs, not unlike gravestones, were being vigorously scrubbed by the attendants. One beckoned cheerfully and pointed to a vacant slab.
'Lie down!' I climbed on with difficulty and lay on my back, the hard stone pressing into the back of my skull. The attendant scoured my face with a rough cloth, soaked in something that smelt of Vim. Stupidly, I had kept my make-up on. I hadn't been washed like this since I was a child and my mother was fed-up. I had forgotten how it felt, that particularly ferocious scrub unique to mothers who are at the end of their tether. After my face, all my other parts followed. 'Turn over!' Do you remember when you last had your bum washed by someone else?
'Get down!' I heaved myself off the slab. Another hand led me through the steam and I stood gasping as I was doused in cold water. More hands. 'Come!' Another room, another slab. Now the oils. No! Not through my hair! Too late. The oils smelt like fly spray. I was pummelled, squeezed and pinched, as if by bullying hands in a school playground. My legs and arms were pulled into positions they hadn't seen since I was six months old and could suck my own toes.
'Finished!' I was pulled off the table and wrapped in a towel. Pushed through a door I stood, blinking, in front of a quiet group of women sipping herbal tea. 'This way!' Back in the changing room, I sat blinking on a wooden bench. I couldn't get dry. The oil clung to my skin and hair and no matter how hard I towelled my skin, it stayed wet. My clothes had to be peeled back on. There was a hairdryer but my hair was so tangled, my brush shed bristles in despair. Looking like Worzel Gummage, I slid onto a bench amongst the other women to drink my tea. They murmured softly to each other in German, calm and relaxed. One of them turned to me and smiled, her eyes scanning my disarray. 'First time?'
Wednesday, 3 March 2010
My working life (2)
Right now I'm troubled by a six year old who is about to be permanently excluded (expelled) from school. He was excluded from another school when he was four. What is an educational psychologist to do? Running off isn't allowed. I have to try and hold everyone's distress; the school who are coping with staff and children being hurt on a daily basis and the parents who cannot bear the rejection of their little boy. It's really too late. There is a sense of failure and defeat all round. I am the still voice at the centre; I listen, I advise but there is little I can do to prevent this. The school have had much advice from teacher support services, the child has generous support from the local authority and I try to help the school and the parents but the answer lies in getting rid of this child's 'ghosts' from the nursery. Here is a ferocious, angry little boy who has to control everything and everyone around him through verbal and physical aggression. He cannot allow himself to be a child; being little and vulnerable is a terrifying place to be. When he's angry with his mother, his voice becomes hard and cold, he calls her by her first name and says she's 'stupid'. He moves like a tornado and his reach is like quicksilver. I have asked for help from Child and Adolescent Mental Health Services (CAMHS) but there is a long waiting list. The parents and child need lengthy, quiet, calm work on their relationship. While this happens, the child needs education in a small, nurturing class where he can safely practice the art of childhood. And pigs might fly.
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