What is the Big Society?

This is a biscuit-and-a-cuppa post, I’m afraid.

There's a lot of guff in the British press these days about the 'Big Society'.  According to the powers that be, the Big Society will devolve power to local authorities and (I quote) "is the responsibility of every department of Government, and the responsibility of every citizen too. Government on its own cannot fix every problem. We are all in this together."   

Oh yes, all very dig-for-Britain but the truth is that most people feel that it's simply a way for the government to stop funding local services and in fact we're NOT all in this together – we’re dumped on and being asked to like it. 

The thing is though that the Big Society isn’t some government fiction – it exists and is everywhere around us – people have always looked after each other and this is what it boils down to – all of us taking care of each other and of our environment - streets, gardens, local bits and bobs.   People take care of each other all the time – no government initiative is going to change that.  Yes, we should all step up; but not as part of a government cost-cutting exercise designed to bail out rotten financial institutions; we pay taxes so the government can support us – they serve us, not the other way around.  If we serve anyone, it should be each other.

Horace and Edith (not their real names which is ridiculous, but there you go) have lived on our street for going on 50 years and are both about to hit 80.  We’ve lived next door for the last six and a half and have struck up a genuine friendship.  Horace was a handsome bugger in his day and Edith a slip of a girl, they’re easy-going, friendly, funny and great neighbours.  They braved a mixed-marriage in the 50s at which point much of her family cut her off, however they have a wide circle of friends, a son, grandchildren and quite a bit of extended family.

Last year Horace was diagnosed with a massive tumour and had extensive, successful surgery; however had to return recently to have two massive hernias done.  On her way to visit him a few weeks ago, Edith fell in the street and damaged her shoulder so badly she’s had to have it replaced; so they are in adjoining rooms on the same ward of our local hospital at the moment.  The same week, they lost their son to a heart-attack.

We have always sort of looked out for them and they for us. In the snow we sweep their pavement, we occasionally do their heavy shopping, we drive them to hospital and generally, along with quite a few of our neighbours, check in on them.  In return they keep an eye on cars and front doors when people are on holiday, do occasional cat-sitting and can be relied on to know any bit of relevant gossip in the area.

A few Saturdays ago we had a panicky call from Horace’s hospital bed telling us the bad news about Edith and begging us to feed their trio of rescue cats.  We have each other’s keys and this was no problem, however on entering their flat I realised why we’d not been invited over for a while – this is Edith’s second broken arm in 8 months and with Horace suffering from hernias, the last year has seen them barely coping and too proud to say.  So, with their permission we’ve cleaned and renovated their kitchen so they can reach things and have more storage space.  We’ve run errands, we’ve mowed the lawn, we visit them in hospital, they’re recovering fine and should be home soon.

I tell you this not because I want to wave a flag about how lovely we are, but sort of as a caution.  The Big Society works – it works because we are social animals and we like to keep in contact with people (or most of us... frogs excepted J) and it works because 80% of the human race are actually decent people and another 19% will step up if pushed. 

The Big Society works and further, it needs to keep working.  Horace and Edith have family and friends – loads of them.  However, due to recent family deaths and either the extreme youth or extreme age of the remaining people, they are effectively alone.  This, my friends, could be any of us.   You might think you have a strong support network around you but ask yourself – will that hold up?  Will it be there in 40 years?  50?  Will your children be on the same continent?  Will your friends be fit enough to help? 

The truth is that you just don’t know these things – you can’t know.  For many of us, we may never need to know – we may keep our network local and strong.  But for more of us than we might like to consider, the Big Society is what is going to keep us going – government directives or not.

Buns of Brixton

At last the sun is out and Brixton is booming - in more ways than one.  The only riots we're having now, thirty years on from the events of April 1981, is a riot of parties and picnics.

Brixton is a great place to live - ask anyone who actually lives here. I can't say anything about the riots, or about whether or not Brixton is a better place to live than it was back then - I'm a newcomer and I'm from entirely the wrong background to comment.  What I can say is that we would never live anywhere else in London.

The moment the sun comes out in Brixton it's as though the light is pouring out of the pavement.  Everywhere you go you hear music, people smile at each other.  Charlie and I went to a playground the other day that we don't normally get to; it's small and there was only a man and his son, a little older than Charlie, throwing snaps at each other and laughing at the bangs.  Charlie was transfixed, he tried to play on his own but it was too much fun and frankly, I felt the same.  We joined in, they gave us a box of our own and we spent a very happy 10 minutes talking about Brixton and throwing miniature explosives at the ground and cheering as they landed with a crack.

In that 10 minutes I learned a little more about Brixton, met someone new who also loves the place (and who has lived here 40 years and ought to know what he's on about) and walked away feeling, once again, that I am absolutely living in the right place, given that this is London and that actually I'd quite like to get out of the city one day.

Today, the park was mad with people, it was great.  There were two, count 'em, two ice-cream vans outside the gates, a circus across the way and the playground was packed.  The park was a counter-pane of picnic blankets and kites, dogs, footballs, boom-boxes and hot cross buns.

Today, the only riots were by 4-year-olds on the slide and the only explosions were 25p packets of fun snaps; perhaps not the most appropriate things for pre-schoolers to play with but frankly, in this day and age, the least of our worries.

Brixton, I bloody well love you.

The yearbook pic...

The yearbook pic... I don't think I had a single good one, although by the last year of school I had mastered at least the art of gentle makeup and hair and may even have found a decent photo angle, so it probably sucks less than the others... however pretty much every earlier one is absolutely rubbish.

My favourite is this one; my first ever, as far as I know.  Note the impossible hair, the gappy teeth and the askew school tie... and the slouch, ever the slouch...

 

Anyway, this is my entry for Tara Cain's 'Bloggers Yearbook' - although I suspect I may be quite a bit too late to actually get in.  I don't mind really, I'm quite keen to see everyone else's though.

What blows me away slightly about this is that this is me, aged about 2 years older than my own son is at the moment... which means that in a few years I'll be posting this up side-by-side to his one. Actually I'll be posting his next to one of my brother at the same age - scary.

Anyone fancy posting me a link to theirs?

Hoppity Hop

OK, clearly it's not Easter but I have to say I feel that it is looming, in much the same way Christmas looms once October spills out of bed and cracks open a withery eye on September's breakfast.  Already the dandelions are up in my lawn, winter must have gone.

I'm ambivalent about Easter.  One the one hand, the whole rolicking pagansism of new chicks, painted eggs and hares and the rebirth of light (combined, of course, with all the chocolate) makes me deeply happy.  On the other, this ancient and most awe-deserving of holidays has become just one more retail cash cow.

However, Easter, like All Hallow's Eve is, I think, powerful enough to overcome the crass consumerism that envelops some of our other old holidays like Christmas (Yule) , Valentine's Day, Mother's Day and all the other calendar-based excuses to spend needless money.  Oh yes, we are inundated by invitations to spend money on cheap tat at Halloween and Easter, but critically, the things that sell on these two festivals, really, are absolutely relevant to the ancient intent of the dates.

What this means in fact is that at Easter, the biggest selling things are all to do, pretty much, with joy and happiness - and chocolate. Egg decorating, chocolate bunnies, cheesy bonnets, baskets of sweets, egg hunts - I have no issue with Easter as a commercialised event; because with the exception of a few very serious types, we don't celebrate death at Easter, we celebrate new life; joy; happiness - we turn our noses up at winter and possibly dance around the odd field.  Or is that just the hares?

Anyway, all this preamble started off as an explanation as to why we accepted a PR invitation to go and see a screening 'Hop' the other week - because it looked like it was in the right spirit.  And you know what?  It was. Yes, the whole concept is as light and fluffy as the main character and one could fit  the whole cinema into some of the gaps in the plot; but hey, this is a children's film.  About Easter.  It has rabbits and chocolate in it - and the evil chick is not Angelina Jolie in a leather corset but something yellow and ridiculous with a beak.

The screening was sponsored by Lindt and there is seriously nothing like walking into a room and finding a man in an apron surrounded by chocolate rabbits to make everything OK but I would have loved this film anyway for what it is - a little bit of celebratory confectionary; a bit funny, a bit sweet, perfect.  It's not the world's greatest anything; but if you have kids, I'd be willing to bet that they'll like this film. Charlie and his mate Einstein, who is fairly discerning for 4, loved it.  Go see it.

And that's that.  Easter is coming, dig out the bonnets, dig up the garden, all that dies will be reborn.  Especially, if you look at my garden, the dandelions.


****This is a review, for which I received 4 tickets to the advance screening of Hop, along with not-inconsiderable amounts of chocolate bunnies and some fluffy bunny ears.  For Charlie, people...****

screaming heebie jeebies

Charlie has developed a new weapon in his 4-year-old arsenal.  While it's not as funny, or frankly inventive, as blowing fart noises out of his bottom with the aid of a plastic hose (see last post) it does however have its own humour value.

I picked him up from a late playdate, having given him a 15-minute warning that turned into 30 while I had a good old gas with his friend's Mum.  This however Was Not Good Enough and on the announcement that it was past bedtime and therefore time to depart, he tried pretty much every trick.  He hid.  He clung to the bannisters.  He wailed and screamed and lay on the floor.  He went limp when I tried to get his coat on and when it was clear he had to go, he stumbled out of the front door in a sort of 'C' shape with his head practically tucked under his arm in despair. 

The moment the door closed, the litany started, like listening to the chanting of a Catholic priest, only sung at top volume whilst walking through darkly silent residential streets.  It went something like this... "I-DONT-EVER-WANT-TO-GO-ANYWHERE-AGAIN-BECAUSE-YOU'LL-ONLY-TAKE-ME-HOME-AND-I-JUST-WANT-TO-STAY-IN-OUR-LITTLE-HOUSE-I-LOVE-OUR-LITTLE-HOUSE-I-JUST-WANT-TO-STAY-HOME-AND-I-DON'T-WANT-TO-SEE-MY-FRIENDS-BECAUSE-YOU'LL-JUST-MAKE-ME-LEAVE-AND-I-WANT-100-SLEEPOVERS-AT-NOLAS-HOUSE-AND-YOU-CAN'T-TAKE-ME-HOME-EVER-AGAIN-AND-I-DON'T-WANT-CUDDLES-AND-I-WON'T-EAT-DINNER-AND-YOU-MUST-NEVER-EVER-NEVER-NEVER-EVER-EVER-SPEAK-TO-ME-AGAIN"...

It went on nearly all the way home while I walked beside him biting my lip... eventually I interupted him to ask if he'd like to have one or two stories for bedtime and he went from 60 to zero in one second flat, answering me in a perfectly sane voice "I want three stories Mummy.  And do you know?  Max has a new car!" 

He then chatted aimiably at me for the duration of the walk home.

It's like living with a mad person.

I'm not sure I'll ever keep up

I am pathetic

...because I find this SOOOO fucking funny...

...so you strap what to your feet and go where?

OK, so my attitude to skiing, based on encounters with the smug, orange offspring of the rich during my impoverished and geeky youth, used to be that it is a sport undertaken by awful people.  This attitude changed radically when I realised that actually, some of my favourite people ski; but I never for a second felt the urge to participate.

At the age of 39, however, I married a skier (I'm not actually sure which was more surprising).  Anyway, it became clear that there was a silent clause in our vows in which, apparently, the JP said 'and will you take this man skiing' just before I said the two dangerous words.

I dutifully followed the Frog off to the slopes with somewhat predictable results, ie, I hated it and only went back on extreme suffrance.

I fell down and couldn't get up, like a living, breathing old lady joke.  I shouted.  I threw things.  I fell over again.  I may have cried.  3 ski trips later and I could actually ski successfully, albeit with scant enjoyment.  I became resigned to my fate, I purchased ski boots - then, mercifully, I fell pregnant and have managed to avoid skiing for more years than I could ever have hoped.

However, time has a sort of relentless thing about it and we now have a son big enough to be strapped into skis and thrown down a snowy hill - so, an uncharacteristically cheerful Frog booked a ski weekend recently and that's pretty much what we did to Charlie.  Poor boy.

 

 He fell over and couldn't get up.  He shouted.  He threw things.  He cried so much his sunscreen washed off.  He did, however, actually ski, loved it and is dying to go back.  The Frog says he is clearly my son.  I say, on evidence, he is clearly his Father's boy.

Importantly however, I've discovered that I have become a better skier simply by not skiing.  It's true!  I've not been near a slope for 6 years now and I can actually ski like a proper skiing person.  This is great. 

Perhaps, if I stay off the slopes for another 6 years I may actually become world class... however given I am outnumbered in this house by remorselessly keen ski people, I don't much fancy my chances.

A civilised day out...

We've been doing a few things... and not just in my head either; that's just how I'm updating this god-forsaken offering to the lord of the internets.

Charlie and I sometimes meet a group of mates for outings where we basically get the kids outside, crank 'em up and let them run themselves down so far that they sleep for a month. We tend to end up at places like Barnes Wetland Centre where we like to imagine the civilising effect we are having on our offspring; although in fact we are actually there for the awesome playground and the cafe.

This time it was Wisley and it was brilliant - you can walk around all day and every 5 minutes something new heaves into view that the kids want to jump on - and, critically, there is a cafe hidden in every corner. It was a wonderful day out - bracing, educational, lovely flowers, butterflies... and here are the pictures of this civilised and inspiring venture:

Is that the time?

I envy those who manage to blog frequently... so often these days I either have

a - nothing to say or

b - no memory of what it was I thought I had to say earlier when I was doing something else.

So here I go, trying to wrest some content out of the shallows of my brain pan.  I've been trying to learn how to relax recently.  You know those bogus questionnaires that ask stupid and meaningless questions with the goal of either promoting some dreadful product or wasting a slack 10 minutes on the bus?  You know the ones 'if you were an animal, which animal would you be?' - at the end they tell the reader that one is a wolf with killer instincts or something equally flattering and one bounces off to work feeling all empowered; only to realise that one is in fact a mouse, or perhaps some sort of invertebrate lagoon dweller and one's day is swiftly shot to hell, along with one's self image.

Anyway, I suppose I've always quite fancied myself as some sort of romantic creature; perhaps a deer, swift and mysterious; or a cat, cunning and fast - or perhaps something terribly laid-back and calm.  The truth, I realise, is that I'm more like a rabbit; I'm constantly flitting about in a state of high nerves and am capable of long periods of deep hibernation.  Actually, I'm pretty much always in a state of high activity.

I've tried a few things to combat this; exercise, booze, meditation;a friend has recommended some NLP techniques which occasionally help.  Sadly my brain is a match for anything I throw at it and the result is that sometimes it sort of goes into overload and bits of it disconnect from other bits; which is where I find myself at the moment, with some sort of internal disconnect.  I just can't make things match up, as thought two parts of my brain are thinking independently and I just can't communicate with myself.

Which means, of course, that communicating with this blog is hopeless... which won't exactly stop me but might just keep slowing me down.

London Days

Finally, I feel like spring might actually be arriving.  Come Imbolc there was still the threat of snow, and while snodrops were up in the park, the ones in my garden hadn't even popped their cherries.

Today, however, I looked out the window and there they were, or most of them, the Frog has stabbed a garden light into the middle of the patch but most of them seem up and bobbing about.  Not only that, but yesterday we had actual sun; and the magnolias are out on the next street and a few other blossoms are stinking up the air something lovely.

Tomorrow it's Friday - Charlie day.  It's not my day off, it's the one day I spend alone with my son.   I can't say how cool Fridays now that the boy is actively involved in plotting them out - sometimes we spend all week planning.

This year we've already been to the Natural History Museum and the Science Museum - and the Transport Museum twice;  last time we even found something new.  It was sort of a great day; it was pissing down with rain and we rode at the top of the bus to Trafalgar square.

He loves the square even when there's nothing going on; he loves the fountains, mainly.  Once there was an ice bear; once some great big tree trunks; once the fountains were full of flowers.  The changing sculpture on the 4th plinth has been great - he loved the big ship in a bottle.  Last time it was so wet that I splashed out on a taxi from the square to the museum.  As I sat, driving through London in the back of a taxi with my four-year-old raving about everything he could see out of the windows, I felt sort of brilliant, to tell the truth.  Afterwards we had pizza in Covent Garden and watched the street performers.

London has opened up; we're not just after open spaces and playgrounds anymore; we're on the hunt for new things. I've promised him a trip to the Tower of London when the weather clears up, we've got the Zoo in our sights and the Musieum of London might get a look in .  Sometimes we just hang local - last week it was lunch with friends around the corner, sometimes it's just the park or a clear up in the garden.

Suddenly my urge to move out of the city doesn't seem quite so pressing now that all this cool stuff is on the agenda.  I don't know what I'm going to do when he goes to school in September.  Work I expect.  Miss him, probably.