Little Bones

Scotland Doesn't Need Murdoch's Endorsement

2012-02-27T10:56:00.001-08:00

Work as if you live in the early days of a better nation. (Alasdair Gray, on the Canongate Wall of the Scottish Parliament)

The progressive potential of Scottish nationalism, of a society championing solidarity, compassion and social justice, can no longer be left unsaid. The SNP must make it centre-stage, otherwise what is the point of independence? (Gerry Hassan writing for The Guardian, 26 Feb 2012)

source

I do not want to see my country in bed with Rupert Murdoch.

The Scottish Government, as well as the governing party, have put considerable effort into building credibility at home and abroad. To have that credibility destroyed by a whispering relationship between the FM and a despicable tabloid merchant who has no regard for the values embedded in the Scottish Parliament would be a disaster. To say the least. For Scotland, for the Scottish Goverment and for the SNP, a party I've supported for over a decade.

My support has wavered of course. I'm a natural sceptic, but I'm also a natural supporter of the centre-left, of gender equality, multiculturalism, social justice, of politics which do not patronise and of a nation's right to self determination. Much like the NDP in Canada, these are things the SNP has consistently kept to.

My support has wavered at times when the party has entered into relationships with the likes of Murdoch, Trump and Souter. People with lots of money and no discernable ethical code whose investment is big but not without strings. Nor is it needed; we can do without these people, with hard work and ingenuity.

More importantly, we can do without them because the price of their support is too high. Are we really willing to sell our souls for tabloid favours, for bullies who regard the world as their personal building site, and for the financial backing of bigots?

Particularly at a time when our international reputation is becoming increasingly important and the goverment is putting time, cash and effort into expanding international relationships and trade links, to have the premier allying himself with a world-renowned scumbag like Murdoch casts an ugly shadow on our country.

The last few months have shown us plenty of evidence that Scots won't pay much attention to the lagging politics of Westminster. We will pay attention to what's going on in our own government, who Holyrood politicians are allying themselves with and what this means for our future. If we're moving away from imperialism and toward equality, what use is Rupert Murdoch's friendship to us?

With the public consultation process for the referendum bill underway, Salmond's decision to tip off Murdoch in advance of the 5 million people who have a real stake in the future of the country is an appalling failure in judgement. One worthy of a Cameron, not a Salmond.

What Happens in Wiesthal, Stays in Wiesthal

2012-02-26T04:31:00.000-08:00

Frankfurt: where the banks are

My first German mini-adventure started when I got on the Frankfurt-bound train from Stuttgart on Friday afternoon with two colleagues.

In Frankfurt we spent twenty minutes watching a teenage boy standing nervously on the platform with a bunch of flowers. Then we got on a Deutsche Bahn heading in the direction of Heigenbrücken.

(Where the hell is Heigenbrücken, you ask? The middle of nowhere, is where. But a beautiful nowhere.)

Eventually our train rolled to a stop in the darkness, and the doors opened. K went to investigate and discovered we were (a bit earlier than expected, sans announcement) in Heigenbrücken. Me and H grabbed our bags and ran to the door but couldn't open it, and the bloody train rolled away as we were attempting to negotiate with the grouchy conductor who really could not have cared less about our slow progression (even further) into the middle of nowhere.

Wiesthal: not for people with wheelie suitcases or high heels

We got off at the next station, which turned out to be a place called Wiesthal. When I say 'place', I mean a train station surrounded by woods where I'm fairly sure they filmed that hideous scene from Inglourious Basterds. Fortunately, this is Germany, which means there was WiFi and a well-lit and up-to-date train schedule on the other side of the tracks, as well as a pristine ticket machine.

After a vain effort to get the hotel to send a taxi (there are no taxis in the middle of nowhere) and the best efforts of our colleagues who had driven to the hotel to get directions from us (no, there is no road), we decided to wait. Industrial trains thundered past. Nearly an hour later, after several attempts to identify mysterious noises in the woods and forget my earlier reference to Inglourious Basterds, some locals appeared from a secret doorway under the platform (unimpressed with the sight of us in our city clothes) and so did Deutsche Bahn.

Heigenbrücken: pretty

Wiesthal was a distant-ish memory once we arrived at the lovely country hotel in Heigenbrücken where dinner, wine, haphazard taxidermy and a lovely warm fireplace were waiting for us. I woke up early the next morning in an attic room with a window that opened to forested hills and a little stream, and spent the day talking about techy writing and eating lovely food with Nice New Colleagues.

In Helen's Handbag

2012-02-18T10:21:00.001-08:00

as you can see, Helen is fabulous

Helen is a Stuttgart-based corporate English trainer. She's from England and Japan and she studied in Wales and now she lives in Germany. International! Helen, a rally co-driver and wintergreen candy enthusiast, has been looking after me since I arrived in Stuttgart, and she enthusiastically agreed to tip the contents of her bag onto a sticky bar table for me last night. Let's look inside....

9 metal screws in varying sizes
2 nail files
3 packets of tissues (Tempo, Konetta and DM)
2 used tissues
purple smartphone
2 lighters (green and red)
Marlboro Gold cigarettes
keys
purse
Nivea repair and care hand balm
Eucerin lip balm
Maybelline Falsche Wimpern (False Eyelashes) mascara
hotel sewing kit
hotel toothbrush kit
hotel kit with cotton buds, make-up wipes and 1 nail file
Thai wet wipe
spare contact lenses (for boyfriend)
3 glasses cleaners
2 Neal's Yard anti-stress aromatherapy sticks ('relax' and 'energy')
nail clippers
Labella fruity shine lip balm
Burt's Bees lip shimmer
Minnie Mouse glasses cleaner
green and silver hair clip
2 pantyliners
2 dissolvable aspirin
2 feminine wipes

Bones of Valentine

2012-02-16T14:17:00.000-08:00

The first thing I received in the post in Germany, addressed to Frau Vaswani (a name my siblings find hilarious, but which is fast becoming as natural to me as Ms Vaswani and Мирьям Багвановна), was an envelope with an Austrian postmark. Inside was a torn ticket from a small Moscow theatre, dated almost one year before it wound up in my Stuttgart letterbox suspiciously near V Day.

I'm not a fan of Valentine's Day. The marketing of love, much like recent attempts to capitalise on archaic family values by godawful conservative politicians who think people are so terrified of economic collapse they'll be lured by sentiment, does not cheer my soul. So imagine my irritation when I became nostalgic at the sight of this ratty bit of paper. Or, not the bit of paper itself, but the fact that J kept the damn thing for a year and posted it to me on a pan-continental holiday we both dislike.

It smells like books, and winter, and Lada exhaust fumes.

Oscar Marzaroli's photo, now a Gorbals sculpture by Liz Peden

Bits of St Valentine are allegedly interred in the Gorbals. I lived not far away, in Govanhill, when I moved to Glasgow in 2001, and for several years worked for a company whose head office was in the area. One of my first impressions of my city was walking through the strange, windy landscape of rotting towerblocks next to new, expensive flats built over the former leper colony with a sculpture of a mysterious woman hovering above the street. It's a part of the city with an astonishing, immense, miserable history which in proper Glasgow style manages to wring out pure beauty at times. While explaining this to J one day (in Russia, at the deeply unromantic counter of Kroshka Kartoshka) we discovered that a relative of his had been an early migrant to the Gorbals, part of the Jewish diaspora who arrived about a century ago. An email from Vienna the next day confirmed the man had lived only a ten minute walk from my old flat.

After some gchat-based questioning, I discovered the theatre ticket had spent a couple months in J's winter coat pocket, then served as a bookmark in an Impenetrable Book of Law Stuff which was posted (posted!) from Moscow to Vienna. Despite the kleptocratic habits of the Russian postal service, the book arrived in Austria only three short months after being entrusted to a Pochta Rassi babushka in Chisty Prudy, and three days before J was due to move to a new address. No longer needed by that time, the book was taken to a second hand shop where the owner opened it at random, found the long-forgotten ticket and handed it back to J.

What does this mean? Nothing, of course. But it was far too good a story not to tell you.

Diagnostic Politics (by guest contributor Andrew McKernan)

2012-02-11T16:33:00.000-08:00

Andrew McKernan is a New Hampshire-based postgraduate student of creative writing. He blogs with great energy and sensitivity at Shadow Gestalt and you can find him on Twitter as @andrewmckernan. We first met at a 2009 Halloween party in Moscow, where Andrew was researching architects' rhetoric in 1930s-1950s Moscow as a Fulbright scholar and impressing me with his dancing skills. Andrew has been featured here before, wearing shorts, but on this occasion he kindly agreed to write a guest commentary on the US elections, and I agreed to value him for his intellect for a change.

by Andrew McKernan:

En route to the local Planet Fitness, in a 2001 Buick Century, in roads covered by an icy slush of a wintry mix, I came to a stoplight. (The make and model of my car will bear no further relevance to the story but to paint the absurdist cartoon of a young man in his mid-twenties bearing down upon the storm in a vehicle that is also, and more stereotypically, driven by my eighty-year-old neighbors.) When the light changed, and I pressed the accelerator, said roadster spun out. I lowered the gear, more cautiously applied pressure, and began to move.

Only at which time, when I had passed onto a clear patch of road, the indicator light came on: Low traction.

Yes. Yes. Thank you. I got that bit.

Eventually I made it to Planet Fitness and situated myself on a treadmill with equal views of ESPN, HGTV, and CNN; the gym panders, it would seem, to an equal cross-section of the American middle-class. How will the Patriots fair in their next match? When do I know which home to buy? And, on Anderson (hosted by Anderson Cooper, journalist cum anchorman cum scandalously-allegedly-closeted-paragon-of-bourgeois-virtue), a woman’s husband and two teenage daughters confront her on her shopping problem. How will they survive?

Now, this was interesting. Allegedly this woman spent $150,000 while shopping, last year alone. She admitted, in closed captioned repartee with Anderson Cooper, that she is a relationship-minded person; she likes the relationships she builds in the shops; she is worried about her daughters paying for college; her husband, you realize, had a business in 2007, but that business went under; they’ve been taking small steps to change their lifestyle.

“But,” said Anderson, “it’s been five years since then. Why don’t you address this head-on?”

The victimized woman with a shopping problem, makeup caked-on for the camera and the crowd, stared up at Anderson. The camera was close-up, the shot slightly from below; this was cinematography for the plaintive diva. She took breath for her lament: “This is not every day. There are days I can’t get out of bed. I have diseases. This is not an every day occurrence.”

Anderson asked, “Why don’t you get a job to support your habits?”

“My therapists,” the woman said, her eyes widening, “say I can’t – say I shouldn’t stress myself out any further. They say I should chill out.”

It went on, but still more tediously. I had watched enough to become perturbed, but not by the gross over-consumptive practices of American austerity, although a full treatise could elaborate upon this family’s economic philosophy. Rather, the disturbing moment came from realizing that the way this family works through their economic philosophy, and the mother’s over-spending, is by dealing her a clinical diagnosis.

Americans’ ability to diagnose and be diagnosed has assumed the role traditionally held for religious and spiritual leaders. Medicinal diagnoses exculpate as if by proxy, just as a demonic possession might once have done: I didn’t do it, the demon inside me did it. Likewise, I don’t have to take responsibility for my actions; these diseases do.

I appear to have gone wholly off-topic. Miriam asked me to write about the Republican candidates for president, those individuals who resemble nothing more than Walt Whitman’s demons of the American business class: the confidence man, the trickster, the seductress, who thrive in the industrial city like bacteria in a petri dish. When the candidates came to New Hampshire for the historic “First in the Nation” primary I almost heard the wheels of that travelling salesman’s horse-drawn buggy entering town, the clink of his glass bottles of miracle elixer. I could almost name the tricksters and the seductresses, and their newly iconic hairstyles and glasses, so often quoted by middle-aged and middle-incomed women who come into the cafes and restaurants of Portsmouth, the affluent tourist town I call home.

In the days before the primary it came that I couldn’t get through a workday without hearing multiple meandering genteel conversations about which politician one should vote for; the assumption, of course, being that one is addressing a fellow Right-minded individual, who of course shall be voting in the Primary, who of course is well-versed in the rhetoric of their Leader Potentiates, who of course finds all of these men – not folkloric ne’er-do-wells as I might be inclined to paint their picture – paragons of virtue, moral upstanding, and patriotism.

Meanwhile, I nursed a stubborn belief in the mythologized version of the Roman, Cincinnatus, the man who assumed the office of dictator only for so long as it took him to rid the city of the threat of invading tribes, at which time he resigned and returned to his farm. Returned to the idyll, to the past. That is, Cincinnatus was forced to lead, and he got out of office as soon as he could. As the pundits joke: The only person who would think he or she is capable of running this country has to be insane.

And, still meanwhile, all of the candidates, with their mythologized Beast of choice (the gay, the foreigner, the corporate, the upper classes, the lower classes, the Other), avoided elaborating upon issues belaboring America with feasible methods of attacking the problems. Because there is no answer that can be summarized in a two-minute debate; because none of us is engaged in a spectacle that resembles reality; because we are too good at diagnosing issues, instead of problem-solving.

As if we are reacting to indicator lights telling us something is amiss, diagnosing through an analysis of which lights are blinking when, without ever noticing what’s going on outside.

Andrew McKernan blogs at Shadow Gestalt and tweets as @andrewmckernan

Memini: An Act of Defiance

2012-02-11T02:11:00.000-08:00

Zainab and Sahar Shafia (image source)

Deepika Thathaal's web initiative Memini, spotted via this article in The Hindu, is a functional memorial to victims of honour killings, telling the stories of women whose families have attempted to end not only their lives but their memory.

Our wish is to ensure that the stories of victims of honor killings are told, thus defying the intent of those who wanted to erase them. (Memini)

The website conveys the idea well, with an evolving, interactive wall of images of dead and missing women. It's a dignified, clever and beautiful act of defiance. There's a refreshing lack of sensationalism about the project, which conveys a sound understanding of the social issues behind this particular thread of misogynistic violence.

These killings occur in societies where the men’s status is judged by their ability to control women’s behaviour, and by the level of which women are conforming to social norms. Expressions of independence by a member, particularly in seeking to make decisions around relationships and sexuality is perceived as effecting the family’s reputation becoming tarnished within the community. (Memini)

A sensible woman once told me, the thing you need to keep an eye out for is people who wish to take away your autonomy. It's the first aim of controlling people. Brave and clever people will encourage you to make decisions, even if those choices are contrary to the ones they would make for you. Simple advice, but I've found it useful in every corner of my life.

It's a hideous injustice that a lot of people don't survive the cruelty of others. It's a fact we'd do well not only to remember, but consider and notice, and to go some distance to understand the lives people lead (and sometimes lose) because of honour-based violence. It happens in my city and yours, to our neighbours and colleagues and friends.

-18 in Stuttgart

2012-02-06T11:05:00.000-08:00

-18 on the morning of my first day of work in Stuttgart. Just as well I stuffed all that fabulous knitwear in my suitcase, accomplished by kneeling on top of my suitcase and bouncing a bit while zipping it up.

I live in Germany now, in a city I've visited only once, when I came here for my interview. So, I shall be ranting from the CMT henceforth, most likely about the usual topics. Until I get my tiny head around German politics.

I know nine things about my new home. Here is a list, based mainly on information received in the last 24hrs:

(The first three facts involve wine.)

There are vineyards here, and a wine festival in August (potential visitors take note)
In the olden days vintners would tie a broom to their front door and turn their sitting rooms into temporary wine tasting places.
I'm having my very first glass of Baden-Württemberg wine as I type. Not bad, people.
Controversial everyone's-talking-about-it issue is Stuttgart 21. Edinburgh, you have a kindred city.
Everyone I've met thus far is a) exceptionally welcoming and b) possessed of a nice firm handshake.
Germany has a strictly observed north-south divide. Here we go again...
Stuttgart style=subtlety+quality fabric. Evidenced by a) people and b) my superminimalist flat.
'Stuttgart' means 'stud farm'.
I'm about an hour by train from Frankfurt, which means I can finally appease my inner Heidi and wander the city streets whilst pining for goats and hay.

-20 in Moscow

2012-02-05T13:04:00.000-08:00

Source

Well done, Russia. Another highly-attended, peaceful demonstration. And in the dead of winter, no less. I only wish I could be there.

In Chrissy's Handbag

2012-02-02T17:06:00.000-08:00

Chrissy Brand is a Manchester-based researcher, self-described frustrated writer and marvellous blogger.

She publishes a daily photo at Mancunian Wave, which was shortlisted as the best arts and culture blog at the Manchester Blog Awards 2011. She's from Wembley originally, and co-authored the book Wembley: Stadium of Legends. More of Chrissy's work is viewable on her radio blog, which I think is particularly fabulous.

Chrissy kindly met me in a Manchester cafe and tipped her handbag onto the table for me to itemise. This is what we discovered:

Cornerhouse magazine
pale blue knitted gloves
pink felt tip pen
green pencil
blue and gold pen
2 old-school phones-Nokia (for work) and Seimens
Bush DAB radio
keys
lime green 2012 diary
magazine clipping for Rembrant Gardens, Westminster
1929 MacMillan edition of William Wordsworth's poems, selected by Matthew Arnold, bound in blue leather
London tube map (used as bookmark)
blue wallet with red stitching
camera
reading glasses in silver case
polka dot tote bag
Cath Kidson honeysuckle hand cream
memory stick
lucky half penny from 1980
rechargeable batteries for radio
Southwest Trains pass
tiny silver notebook
1st May badge with hammer and sickle from a visit to the USSR
red make-up bag

Airport Observations

2012-01-25T03:21:00.000-08:00

Seven minutes before boarding. Time enough to communicate with you, dear reader.

Here are a few small observations from T1 departures (I recklessly type my location safe-ish in the assumption I'll be on the plane before any stalker-types read this).

11am is a civilised time to travel. Not many kids, lots of people (like me) travelling solo or in small groups on some work-type mission.
EVERYONE is talking about shipments. Does everyone's job involve shipping things? I've never shipped anything work-related. Am I peculiar?
There's a man with a fantastic moustache sitting near me. Like a moustache from the 19th century. He's also wearing Harris Tweed, I think.
Tie Rack employees are always women. These women are either a) matronly or b) young and beautiful. The premise being, I suppose, that men buy ties from their mums or beautiful women. But no one else.
There's was a very glamorous woman who went through the security check. She was so glamorous everyone in the queue stared at her in reverent silence. I've never seen an entire airport security queue stunned into silence before.
Some people take this free newspaper business a bit far. Who needs a copy of the FT and its equivalent from five different countries?
The smell of perfume means duty free, always, and every duty free smells like every other duty free and brings back airport memories, which are all identical. Like looking in one of those eternal mirrors.

I haven't forgotten it's Burns Night.

What's Going On In Jaipur?

2012-01-21T10:22:00.000-08:00

Update 23 Jan 2012: It seems the recent chain of events in Jaipur stemmed from a concocted story by the Rajasthani police...which I frankly don't understand. Does anyone understand? In retrospect, it seems what began as an inexplicable...something...has had the effect of highlighting the onging issue of freedom of expression. A thing which can't get enough publicity. Here are a few links in light of what we now (sort of) know, including English Pen's statement on the harrassment faced by authors who read from The Satanic Verses following Rushdie's cancellation at the Jaipur Literary Festival, Salil Tripathi's analysis of the actions of Indian authorities and Hari Kunzru's recount of events.

Original blog post below:

source

There's a scene in Zadie Smith's novel White Teeth set in the late 1980s, involving a group of awkward teenage boys filled with indiluted fury, travelling to another city to burn copies of a book. They all HATE the book. As they talk it emerges none of them have actually READ the book.

When I was seven or eight years old, around the same time The Satanic Verses was published, I arrived at my bizarro religious cult school with a book (not TSV). An item discouraged at the best of times, apart from prescribed propaganda. Nevertheless, I had one or two teachers sensible enough to realise Reading Is Good For Children, so didn't expect repercussions.

I was wrong; the book in question, an innocent enough thing content-wise as far as I remember, had on its cover a picture of a fairytale goblin and a fairytale witch. It was ripped out of my hands by a furious grownup malcontent, torn asunder and thrown in a bin, while the teacher-type-thing ranted about demons and such like.

I was only a kid, fortunate enough to realise some folk are a) batshit and b) express themselves in unhelpful ways. I was annoyed about my book, obviously...I hadn't finished it yet...but it wasn't the loss of property that enraged me. It was the display of ignorance (SHE DIDN'T EVEN BOTHER TO LOOK INSIDE THE BOOK) combined with my smallness/helplessness to do anything about it.

On a larger scale but touching on the same principle, I'm furious to hear Salman Rushdie (more interesting than my 7yr-old self) has pulled out of the Jaipur Literary Festival because some people who may or may not exisit may or may not be climbing aboard Ye Olde Rushdie Hatewagon according to intelligence which may or may not be reliable. Not furious with the author (who no doubt has sold a few more books than usual this weekend) or the festival organisers, who have made Jaipur one of the most diverse and thrilling literary festivals in the world. I'm delighted, in fact, to hear that other writers at the festival have been reading bits of The Satanic Verses in solidarity.

A senior cleric apparently told Indian journalists Rushdie has hurt the sentiments of Muslims all over the world, which I think is a bit presumptuous. The self-styled spokesperson for 'Muslims all over the world' clearly hasn't spoken with the millions of members of his faith who are acquainted with reality.

I'll tell you what hurts my sentiments. LOADS of stuff. The 18 years it took to convict two men of a racist murder, thanks to a racist police force. The dozens of people who die every day with no more than a brief mention. The Kardashians.

I suppose it's possible a few of the people wishing to avenge damaged sensibilities circa 1988 have actually READ The Satanic Verses. In which case, they're entitled to hate it, just as I hate Bridget Jones Diary, The Rules, The Game and every religious text I've read. Justifiably, non-violently, without the involvement of flying shoes and with far less venom than this sort of thing warrants.

William Dalrymple, JLF organiser, made a similar point (much more concisely than me) when he said the ongoing threat to Rushdie's safety was the result of a tragic game of Chinese whispers.

This has been going on since 1988, people. Nineteen. Eighty. Eight. Back in 1988 I was watching an emotionally disturbed teacher rip up my book. Since then I've done lots of things. I've climbed the highest peaks in Scotland and Sri Lanka, watched the sun rise in more than twenty countries, driven a rickshaw, bought and sold a flat and learnt to steam quinoa to perfection.

At some point, amidst all that activity, I forgot about the book-savaging lady and my hurt sentiments, until this incident reminded me of my early encounter with the blatant ignorance of censorship. Hasn't everyone else been doing stuff for the last couple of decades? No?

Are we STILL annoyed about this book?

(Side note: This is not, from my perspective, an issue of the extremist faction of a particular religion targeting people who think outside the box. It's an issue of extremism, period. Every ideology is afflicted with it, and every insecure person is vulnerable to it.)

Little Bones Meets the UK Web Archive

2012-01-20T12:15:00.000-08:00

image borrowed from

Little Bones is now being preserved in the UK Web Archive. How exciting!

What does this mean, you ask? Well. According to the good people at the British Library:

The UK Web Archive was established in 2004 to capture and archive websites from the UK domain, responding to the challenge of a ‘digital black hole’ in the nation’s memory. It contains specially selected websites that represent different aspects of online life in the UK. We work closely with leading UK institutions to collect and permanently preserve the UK web. (Source: nice email from the library folk)

A BIG thank you to the hardworking people undertaking this project at a time when library and public sector funding is under threat, and for including Little Bones. We are a small media empire, but where we lack in size/advertising revenue we compensate in sarcasm/ranty-ness.

For more on the importance of libraries, I direct you to this blog post on the subject by Bim Adewunmi, and this article about Margaret Atwood's campaign. For those with a special interest in preservation, superarchivist Dave explains website preservation here and recommends non-profit group The Archive Team.

And for goodness sake, get yourself a copy of the Men of the Stacks 2012 calendar. It's for a good cause.

Obituary for a Casserole Dish Lid (1978-2012)

2012-01-17T14:42:00.000-08:00

Here lies the lid of my mother's 2.8 litre Corningware casserole dish in French White. In the kitchen sink, where I gently placed the damn thing before it emitted a hideous cracking sound and splintered into a dozen pieces.

Donald Stookey, Corningware inventor

Sorry Mum.

Now listen, it isn't often you meet such an enduring piece of bakeware. The least I can do is provide it with a few dignified words before placing it in the recycle bin.

This casserole dish, I'm told, was a sensible 1978 wedding gift from Mum's then-sister-in-law.

Isn't that JUST the sort of wedding gift that would exist in the 70s? How the years have seen us changed, despite what the David Cameron creature says to appease the family values crowd. Easy to forget people getting married in the 70s didn't have a half-paid mortgage, an elderly cat and two kids in secondary school, nevermind all the Swedish kitchenware they could possibly want.

Moving along. The dish has travelled. It migrated from Manchester, England to Maple Ridge, British Columbia in 1982, in a custom-made wooden packing crate. It survived three years with two inquisitive children in a duplex with wooden shutters between the kitchen and sitting room. Then it travelled back across the ocean to England in 1985 for a short-lived stay in Birmingham. And then back to Canada, the east coast this time (Moncton, New Brunswick), where it lived in an attic flat above a hairdressers shop, a white bungalow with red shutters and a blue haunted house by the Petitcodiac river, until taking up residence in a pink house on a hill surrounded by trees. Until 1998, when it traversed the Atlantic Ocean in yet another crate.

After crossing the ocean four times, it lived happily in the renovated kitchen of a terraced house in south Manchester until this week, keeping company with a 1.8 litre Corningware casserole dish (also in French White) and assorted baking accoutrements. Its final food arrangement involved potato, leek and blue cheese.

May it rest in peace.

Songs of Good Cheer

2012-01-16T06:49:00.000-08:00

I sent out a distress signal to several friends (also one sister and one ex-boyfriend) to send me music. Results below:

Métal-Soupir
Pink Martini-Je Ne Veux Pas Travailler
Beirut-A Sunday Smile
Bob Dylan-Girl From the North Country
Beyonce-Freakum Dress
Whitney Houston-I Wanna Dance With Somebody
Baccara-Sorry I'm a Lady
RuPaul-Jealous of my Boogie
Olivia Newton John-Magic
Perfect Strangers-Theme Song
The Dance of Joy
Meatloaf-Bat Out of Hell
Потап и Настя-Чумачечая Весна
American Boys-Ilya Benton
Jay Z-99 Problems
Beastie Boys-Sabotage

I have wonderful people.

Canada Re-Opening Same-Sex Marriage By Stealth?

2012-01-12T18:34:00.000-08:00

Thousands of same-sex couples who married in Canada are in doubt over the legality of their marriage, after an abrupt announcement by the Harper Government.

A Department of Justice lawyer said that an Anglo-American lesbian couple who married in Canada in 2005, now seeking divorce, were not legally married because same-sex marriage is not legal in their countries of residence.

This leaves the thousands of couples who travelled to Canada to marry since same-sex marriage was legalised in 2004 in doubt about not only their marriage certificate, but immigration, tax, pension and child custody issues. The burden of not knowing and having no clear guidance on the issue will be, to say the least, confusing.

Not least confused is Conservative Prime Minister Stephen Harper, who said In terms of the specifics of the story this morning, I will admit to you that I am not aware of the details.

Very helpful, Mr Harper.

Martha McCarthy, same-sex marriage campaigner and lawyer for the couple being refused a divorce, said, It is scandalous. It is offensive to their dignity and human rights to suggest they weren’t married or that they have something that is a nullity.

Indeed, Ms McCarthy. To be married in Canada in good faith, only to find out years later it was all a…scam? Is that the right word?

Criticising the Harper Government’s reaction after the decision by the Justice Department, McCarthy said:

“It is appalling and outrageous that two levels of government would be taking this position without ever having raised it before, telling anybody it was an issue or doing anything pro-active about it. All the while, they were handing out licences to perform marriages across the country to non-resident people.”

A scam, then.

Speaking from a foreign relations perspective, former Toronto Mayor David Miller stated; I’m shocked, I’m saddened and, as a Canadian who does a lot of work abroad, I’m very embarrassed.

Seconded!

Vancouver Mayor Gregor Robertson, criticising the position of the Harper Government and the Justice Department, said:

“The current position of the Justice Department is embarrassing, it’s flat-out wrong, and needs to change. My hope is that the Prime Minister comes out forcefully against the Justice Department’s position and re-affirms his support for same-sex marriage in Canada.”

Hell yeah, Gregor. But don’t hold your breath…

Mr Harper told journalists on Thursday We have no intention of further re-opening or opening this issue,(referring to same-sex marriage law) while Justice Minister Rob Nicholson indicated the federal government will look at ways to ensure the right of same-sex couples married in Canada who wish to divorce.

Good heavens, this is confusing. Not least for those in the midst of emotional trauma after finding out via a social networking site their marriage was some sort of hoax.

The Harper Government’s response won’t be well received by couples who celebrated their marriages in Canada in good faith. Columnist Dan Savage, who was married in Canada in 2005 and frequently speaks favourably of Canada’s human rights record, said, When I got out of bed, I was a married man and as soon as I got on my Twitter feed I realized I had been divorced overnight.

Canada can expect less endorsement from Savage, who went on to say:

“…we’re not going to take it lying down. There’ll be lawsuits. There’ll be screaming and yelling. The only way to get gay issues off the front pages of Canadian newspapers is to grant gay and lesbian people our full civil equality and leave it alone.”

Apart from the immediate legal and emotional issues now faced by thousands of couples, there is debate over whether or not the Harper Government wish to re-open the issue of same-sex marriage by stealth. Despite Mr Harper’s immediate statement that the government won’t re-open debate, the government’s position is in doubt. Dan Savage said

“Hopefully this is just one rogue lawyer or two and not policy of Canada’s Conservative government. If it is Canada’s Conservative government then the issue has definitely been re-opened.”

Meanwhile, former Prime Minister Paul Martin, whose Liberal government legalised same-sex marriage, said

“… The government’s position…is causing an enormous amount of consternation around the world. And I just think for the government to put people through that is wrong.”

As do we, Mr Martin.

This article originally appeared in Morning Quickie, January 13 2012

It's a Referendum, Not a Death Star

2012-01-10T13:56:00.000-08:00

Autumn 2014 it is, then. Everyone, exhale.

The uproar which followed the UK government's ill-fated announcement two days ago left me with all the exhaustion of a news addict in a political crackhouse. Following a simultaneous wave of analytical disgust from the entire Scottish blogsphere, unionists and nats alike, those who tweet did so. Nicola Sturgeon did some much-lauded level-headed stuff on Newsnight (keeping an admirably straight face), and Johann Lamont was knocked off course by Jon Snow. Salmond, who according to the Torygraph is building a death star or something, was pretty low key throughout the clamour, until today's announcement of a referendum date.The Tories backtracked, the SNP website apparently crashed due to overload of interest and amidst all this, William Hill updated their referendum result odds.

A giftbox of idiocy from the Prime Minister, or a calculated maneuver ? D-Cam's amazing feat of further alientating absolutely everyone in Scotland will benefit the Conservative Party, who will likely (but by no means permanently) become more powerful if Scotland votes yes. Even if it's just to get the hell away from the Tories. The benefit to the SNP is clear, though they didn't really need the assistance.

The political party suffering from this madness is Labour both sides of the border, with the Scottish opposition party now caught between continuing to support unionism even if it means siding with a Tory-led UK Government, or the alternative. If I were Lamont I'd aim for the alternative, but what do I know?

We've arrived at this place in political history for a variety of reasons, amongst them a desire for equality and democratic rights. Scotland's political climate must remain democratic if we want a fair referendum, regardless of the number of questions or the end result. Knee-jerk nationalism would be neither sensible nor sustainable. It's an accusation which has mistakenly been levelled at pro-independence people for some time, but with this show of disrespect toward the mandate given to the Scottish Government by the populus, the UK Government may have inspired that very thing.

Nutshell: Not everyone in Scotland wants independence. Nobody, as far as I know, will accept the UK Government interfering with the right to make that choice.

As to the legality of a referendum, I defer to the experts. Also, we're having one. Get used to it.

Update: more of what the others are saying:
Jenny Kermode
Daniel Agnew
Jamie Maxwell (Bella Caledonia)
Brian Taylor (BBC Scotland)

Salmond v Cameron: Who's Afraid of the Big Bad Wolf?

2012-01-08T16:51:00.000-08:00

if I were a betting woman...

It's possible that David Cameron can find Scotland on a map, but that seems to be the extent of his knowledge of his neighbours to the north.

Giving an ultimatum to the Scottish Government on the timing of a referendum on independence and a directive on the inclusion of the devo max option is a misguided move. Almost as misguided as attempting to spin the decision as a big favour friendly Westminster is doing for the poor misguided Scots who are bewitched by smooth-talking Alex Salmond.

Regardless of how the Coalition attempt to (poorly) spin this move, it won't be regarded positively by many in Scotland. But perhaps that's not the point; the patronising tone and dubious legal arguments used by the coalition government might appeal to a different target group, who would like to see Cameron outsmarting a big bad wolf. Even if it's a fairytale wolf, rather than the real danger lurking in the economic forest.

Like many people, I would like to see a democratic referendum on independence and, if the result is yes, a diplomatic process of separation. Certainly not everyone who re-elected the SNP in 2011 will vote yes in a referendum, but the interference of the Westminster government in Scotland's self determination won't go down well, with nationalists or unionists.

Update: here's what the others are saying:
Stephen Noon
Severin Carrell (The Guardian)
Eye Edinburgh
Mike Small (Bella Caledonia)

Reading by Moonlight

2012-01-06T08:33:00.000-08:00

books in Moscow

This blog post about reading by candlelight reminded me of the days when I read under the Christmas tree.

The real meaning of Christmas for me was always books. In retrospect, I'm not sure if this made me an easy child to buy for or a difficult one. I wasn't expensive, but having chosen books over the years for a precocious teenage brother and now doing the same for the army of children my friends are producing, I can tell you it's not an easy thing to gauge. Even 3yr-olds have literary preferences.

That aside, one of my main objectives as a child was to be as invisible as possible while communing with my books. Thus, I needed as dark a space as possible but with enough light to read by. The Christmas tree served my purposes nicely, once the presents had been savaged and carted to other parts of the house. I lobbied for the tree to be placed in the corner of a room, which gave me a reasonably-sized space to crawl into with little visibility from the outside but maximum visibility from the inside.

Reading by tiny tree lights brings a couple of things to attention:

The angle of the book; it needs to be tilted toward the light, and undulated back and forth just a little bit. This made me aware of each line I was reading, the direction (left-right, left-right) making me wonder in those days if reading in Arabic or Chinese would mean I put on my tights or mittens in a different order. (I didn't say I was a clever child.)

reading in Glasgow

Another thing; quality of paper and ink. There's some ink that vanishes when light shines on it, so must be read with the words hovering between darkness and direct light. I liked cheap, grainy paper best, where the mashed edges of pulp could be seen. Slippery paper, like in older books, wasn't much good because it shone and verged on transparent.

Then there was the old flashlight under the bedclothes, for reading past bedtime. As I remember, I had a torch with three light settings. The two brightest were likely to be spotted, while the dimmest was just a bit too dim for reading. This problem could be countered if I made sure the sheets were white, and tented myself underneath with the torch angled to shine off the white sheets. Like a small campfire in the snow. This eliminated the problem of having to undulate the pages in order to see the font, though it sometimes led to eye strain and emotional trauma as batteries slowly died.

The (almost) first thing I did when I bought my first flat was buy/scavenge lamps for every room. I angled them on furniture and against walls, filtered them through houseplants and fabric. But on clear nights I'd often read by moonlight, with my bedroom curtains open. I had to lie facing the foot of the bed, or on my right side, with the book angled toward the window. I put a mirror across from the window to amplify the moonlight; then I could lie on my right side OR left side.

books in Laos

Having to pay attention to light quality and direction, the book becomes a more physical object. It isn't just a vehicle for a story but a thing to contend with in itself. The narrative doesn't wander out to meet the reader.

My friend Nick recently asked me what I thought of e-books; this blog post is mainly for him, since I failed to reply to his email.

I'm all for them. The book industry is in pain and must keep up with the way people live; global, mobile and often too busy or worried about utility bills and shit politicians to stand around bookshops inhaling the smell of paper. I also think there's no reason a child growing up with a Kindle will have a less profound experience of books than those of us who grew up with dogeared copies of Jane Eyre under our pillows.

I do wonder if paper books will become treasured the way vinyl records are currently.

I'm reading a draft of another friend's first novel on my laptop right now, and while I'm deeply engaged with the text, I long to hold it in my hands. This is just habit, or nostalgia. I think.

Trivial Pursuits

2012-01-04T14:11:00.000-08:00

Gayle Thomas' beautiful 1996 film Quilt, which sets computer animated traditional quilting patterns to music, got an incredible 13,000 views within a week of appearing on the National Film Board website, making it their most viewed film. The blog post by the NFB's Carolyne Weldon about the popularity of the film then became the NFB's most viewed blog post of all time. It was followed up by an interview with the film maker, whose original inspiration was a MoMA quilt exhibit. Thomas isn't a quilter and the film was originally marketed as part of a film series on geometric design, but the film was picked up by a huge audience of quilters.

One of the first plays that meant something to me was Carol Shields' Thirteen Hands, about several generations of women who meet to play cards. The dialogue is an experiment in gossip and overlapping speech, or what would probably be known as conversation if the characters were men. It focuses on middle-class, card-playing women, trivial and mildly silly characters whose voices are rarely heard. Except by one another. Usually.

Shields' fiction often touched on practical folk art; the quilting ladies of Nadeau, Ontario in Swann, for example, who stitched their husbands' names into their shared labour. Swann was also a story of domestic isolation, and lost communication.

The trivialisation of womens' talk and work is one of the great strengths of old-fashioned quilting or knitting circles. Women would meet to work; using old bits of fabric to create quilts and mend their husbands' socks. Particularly in rural communities, this was often the only gathering space women had away from children and husbands, hard labour and isolation. It's unlikely these gatherings were regarded as a threat. A few women gossiping and sewing rarely is.

The modern stitch 'n' bitch has been around for a bit more than a decade. It gained popularity first amongst young, urban women, then was marketed to...young, urban women. The first group met in venues with a dedicated feminist or environmentalist purpose, like the longstanding gathering at the Glasgow Women's Library. The second group were more attuned to pop culture, which is where the original point of the modern stitch 'n' bitch may have dissipated, but not necessarily in a negative way.

The more popular the trend became, the more it was regarded as a trend rather than a subversion, and the more trivial a crowd it attracted. But like with the characters of Thirteen Hands, or like the original premise of the Buffy the Vampire Slayer character, what seems trivial on the surface can be deadly effective.

So, why a stitch 'n' bitch? I went to one in Glasgow. We met in a city centre bar, most of us coming from work with a knitting bag which had been stationed on our desk all day. When I moved to Moscow I started what (I think) was the first modern stitch 'n' bitch in the city. We met in a bar. The thing that stood out in both groups was, none of us really needed it. We were at a point in history where traditional folk art is (ostensibly) no longer vital. Nor is a wholesome pretext for women to assemble.

Keeping a folk tradition alive is an overwhelming motive for these gatherings. I was taught to sew by my mother, and my grandmother was a seamstress by profession. I grew up in a rural province, pre-ebay. We had a thing called 'mail order' in my day. Options were limited, and by the time the clothes were shipped from Montreal the weather had rendered them unwearable. Because clothes in shops were not particularly stylish, I bought fabric and sewed my own, or altered weird things I'd found in second hand shops.

I stopped sewing entire wardrobes once I became an uban dweller, but retained a connection to sewing, practical and emotional. A lot of the others who came to crotchet or knit or quilt had similar stories. Our international group in Moscow shared knitting and crotcheting techniques learned from Finnish, South African and Russian grannies. Our group in Glasgow made quilts for baby nieces and nephews, knitted with chopsticks and made strange animals from felt.

It's partly to do with privilege. Our generation of third wave feminists don't have to fight very hard to dissociate ourselves from domestic labour. That was achieved to great effect by the second wave, who sensibly scorn our lack of regard for their sacrifices. We can do the things that were once imposed on us for pleasure, or turn what was once regarded as trivial into a form of activism.

But. Just because a thing is regarded as trivial, doesn't mean it is.

Anuj Bidve, Salford Memorial

2012-01-02T17:41:00.000-08:00

Tonight's memorial for Anuj Bidve in Salford was, I hope, some comfort to his faraway family.

There were a great many Salford and Manchester residents who came to Ordsall Lane this evening to pay respect to a visitor who was killed in this country. The racial tension which can so easily arise from violence such as this is clearly something that a lot of local people wish to avoid. This was a diverse, peaceful gathering based on shared sadness.

I went along partly because of a tenuous connection. Bidve came from Pune, a city I've spent very little time in but where my grandmother came from and raised her children.

I spoke with a local woman at the memorial whose family are also from Maharashtra, and was also raised in another country, with few Indian traditions as part of her daily life. We both were aware of the care Indian communities take to make contact with one another when in another country, and in light of this our connection became less tenuous. It's a difficult thing to explain, this need we both had to posthumously extend a hand of friendship based on shared geography.

But we did, and I wish it had been in happier times.

Defining Moments of 2011 (a List for Global Citizens)

2012-01-01T14:45:00.000-08:00

Happy New Year/Bonne Année/C Новым годом, readers. A guid New Year and mony may ye see.

I started 2011 in Moscow (but technically in Icelandic airspace), middled in Scotland, finished in good company in a Manchester bar, and was eased into 2012 with Miles Davis, Neil Young and a sore head. (#hangover is trending in Manchester, in case you're interested.)

Globally, 2011 has been a year of uprising, bravery, change and loss. It was a year of grassroots opposition and the coining of the 99%, which I suspect will be a longstanding part of our lexicon. All of it far more interesting than my own nonsense. We lost (amongst others) Vaclav Havel, Indira Goswami, Gil Scott-Heron, Jack Layton, Clarence Clemons, Kate Swift, Kabir Chowdhury, Russel Hoban, Susana Chavez, Amy Winehouse and Gerry Rafferty.

For no better reason than everyone else is writing one, here's my disorganised list of events which have characterised the year. There's a fair bit of my own perspective here. Notable ommissions have been left out for good reasons. Bear with me...

My List of Important Things from 2011

As usual, there were more efforts to suppress freedom of speech and information than I can possibly mention here. Iranian citizen Marzieh Vafamehr was given a jail sentence in Iran which included 90 lashes (later overturned) for her role in an Australian film criticising the Iranian government. Women protesters in Egypt were sexually assaulted by the army and military police. Egyptian-American Mona Eltahawy was sexually assaulted and beaten by military police while covering protests in Egypt. Much like last year's attack on Russian journalist Oleg Kashin, Eltahawy's hands were broken. Russian journalist and newspaper founder Khadzhimurad Kamalov was shot and killed outside his office.

The Arab Spring, of course. Aforementioned tough cookie Mona Eltahawy spoke at the Oslo Freedom Forum in May about the dangers of replacing one father figure for another in middle eastern countries. The traditional patriarchal leader who imposes brutality and censorship in citizens' 'best interests'. For me, the Arab Spring has highlighted two things; the risks people will take for freedom, and the power and bravery of women. The women targeted for sexual abuse by military and sometimes their male peers have made an impact as survivors, rather than victims. The women who demonstrated in Egypt following the publication of the notorious blue bra photo were powerful, inspiring and subversive.

The Russian pro-democracy demonstrations; not only a homegrown movement (despite assertions to the contrary from the Kremlin), but a peaceful event. The number might seem small from an outside perspective, but for Russia this is a huge act of bravery. I have high hopes that things will change because of this; it's clear that things already have.

The East African Famine was, as usual, talked about less than the state of the Euro and rich peoples' weddings. And as usual, this makes me wonder. Do developed nations ignore mass misery in the developing world because of racism? Is it because we're so used to the constant horror of Elsewhere it's impossible to feel the real impact? Or is it easier to look away from a situation we feel powerless to fix? A combination, perhaps.

The Delhi High Court bombing, the Domodedovo terrorist attack and the Norway Massacre. These are sadly a small sampling of terrorist attacks around the world this year, but the closest to home for me. The Delhi and Moscow bombings were another nasty reminder of not only terrorism, but the potential results of discriminatory government policy. The Norway massacre was a grotesque example of bigotry, and highlighted the growing threat from far right groups in Europe as well as the way we tend to typecast violent extremists.

This was the year Aung San Suu Kyi was released from house arrest. There are still an enormous amount of political prisoners being held in Burma by the ruling junta and life for rural and ethnic minority people might be getting worse, rather than better. However, Aung San Suu Kyi's release and high profile meeting with the US Secretary of State indicate change. We shall see.

The Edinburgh International Book Festival comes around every year, so I'm not sure if it belongs on this list. It's been a part of my working life for the last three years; I mention it because, each year I've wandered into Charlotte Square to write my little column, something a bit astonishing has happened. Both personal and book-related. 2011's big thing was listening to the the comments made by nearly every writer on the Arab Spring, each comparing the movement to the history of dissidence and radical change in their own societies. The bravery of people, the need for home-grown change and the danger of a power vaccuum were frequently referred to. The EIBF also left me a bit light-headed with wonder, following the end of my second (and final) year in Russia, where such an example of free speech would be unheard of. I'd personally reached a place where I could see and also feel the relief of that level of freedom.

The 2011 Nobel Peace Prize was awarded jointly to three women-Ellen Johnson Sirleaf, Leymah Gbowee and Tawakkul Karman.This is why:

The Norwegien Nobel Committee has decided that the Nobel Peace Prize for 2011 is to be divided in three equal parts between Ellen Johnson Sirleaf, Leymah Gbowee and Tawakkul Karman for their non-violent struggle for the safety of women and for women’s rights to full participation in peace-building work. We cannot achieve democracy and lasting peace in the world unless women obtain the same opportunities as men to influence developments at all levels of society.

Japan's earthquake, tsunami and nuclear crisis was a hideous time for Japanese people; globally the disasters brought about renewed discourse on nuclear energy. The Pakistan earthquake was also a hideous time, and put great pressure on a country burdened with natural disaster and unrest. The First Nations housing crisis, brought to the forefront of Canadian attention by the Attawapiskat crisis, spurred new and more focused discourse on the ways we've in some ways bitterly failed to move beyond our colonial past.

The US military and government's treatment of Bradley Manning drew attention to the rampant injustice in developed nations, and political terror of freedom of information. The scant attention Manning received globally in comparison with the ever-building cult of personality surrounding Julian Assange said a mouthful about what our society considers worthy of our attention.

The Scottish parliament election, which saw the re-election of the SNP with a spectacular 69 seats after a positive and fact-focused campaign. The (Glasgow) Berlin Wall fell down and all other parties apart from the steadfast Greens took a loss. So the party leaders had to be replaced, with intriguing results. Legislation which was/would've been blocked in the past has become possible, including the little-understood and much-talked-about referendum bill. Cue mass panic in Westminster and some outlandish Telegraph/Indy/Daily Rage headlines.

In another example of the power of positive, unpatronising politics, the NDP went from third to second place in the Canadian federal election, becoming the official opposition. Unfortunately the Conservatives were re-elected with a majority, making me wonder what has happened to my formerly egalitarian country. NDP leader Jack Layton's death not long after his party's success was a hideous loss for Canada and the debating chamber.

The hacking scandal. Thus far the Murdoch's (who, in case you didn't notice, own News International and the Conservative Party) and the Brooks/Coulson monstrosity have got away with it. A lot of innocent people at the reprehensible NoTW lost their jobs. The Leveson Inquiry doesn't seem very effective thus far. (It isn't ONLY about Hugh Grant. For the love of god.) But at least the whole business has been churned up. At least we're talking about it. Are we still talking about it?

Forced Marriage (Protection and Jurisdiction) (Scotland) Act 2011

2011-12-29T16:20:00.000-08:00

image from womensviewsonnews.org

Good news for a change.

Yesterday the Forced Marriage (Protection and Jurisdiction) (Scotland) Act, passed in March by the Scottish Parliament, came into force.

Based on Article 16 of the Universal Declaration of Human Rights, the act aims to protect vulnerable people from being coersed into a marriage or civil partnership.

I've been following this legislation from afar, and am impressed with the depth of consultation and the attention paid to groups representing the most frequent victims of forced marriage. The Forced Marriage Network was convened in 2005 and has heard from groups and individuals with expertise in domestic abuse, violence against women, race relations and issues affecting Muslim women.

Issues which mainly affect minority members of a society are likely to be a sticky topic. Forced marriage (as distinct from arranged marriage) and honour-based violence are easily misunderstood. That doesn't remove a government's obligation to protect women, regardless of race and culture, while respecting genuine tradition and cultural diversity.

This legislation is good news not only for people at high risk of forced marriage, but for everyone in Scotland. We all benefit from a freer, fairer society.

While this seems to be sensible legislation which follows comprehensive consultation from relevent statutory and voluntary organisations, ensuring women are protected extends beyond legislation. If communities and families remain silent about abuse, out of mistrust, a sense of obligation or cruelty, many victims will be overlooked.

Pookism

2011-12-26T15:50:00.000-08:00

I'd be more scared of a werbunny than a werwolf. A werwolf is predictable, a werbunny would just come out of nowhere. Then it'd rip your face off.

Pook Danforth, 2011

click here to view a previous Pookism

Ghosts of International Christmas Past

2011-12-24T14:23:00.000-08:00

Christmas market in Albert Square

The shops in Manchester have been stripped of all products containing alcohol, including the brandy butter and sanitising hand gel, leaving only a few solitary bottles of Buck's Fizz spinning on the shelves. The Christmas markets did a roaring trade in mulled wine, Bavarian fried meat concoctions and not much else. It seems hand-embroidered lederhosen are not an austerity purchase.

I tapped my last reserve of holiday courage (which came in the form of a festive email from J) and took myself to the shops on Christmas Eve. For last-minute gifts and Christmas dinner grub. Oh, what carnage. But to be fair, Manchester's M&S food purgatory isn't nearly as competitive as the Glasgow one. Where I once heard a posh-looking woman shout Haw you, gies back that organic feckin goose oor ah'll pan yer face in for ye.

festive tea at Tea Hive, Chorlton

Nor the Moscow ritual. Russian Christmas is a week into January, so the only people flapping around for last-minute gifts before diving onto the Aeroexpress are the foreigners. Or the expats, depending on your level of banal subculture observance. Or the Yevrowankers, as I heard my people hilariously referred to by a graphic designer from Smolensk. These can be found, on the last Saturday before the 25th, skidding around Ismailovo Market, selecting the perfect matrioshka for their granny in Devon or the gaudiest KGB hip flask for their brother in Wisconsin.

As I type, I can't aleviate the feeling there's something I forgot to do. Probably because 2011 is one of very few Christmases in my adult life which hasn't involved travel.

small angel from Glasgow

As I explained to a well-intentioned person who asked me if I miss the romance of Christmas travel, there is nothing romantic about a crowded Virgin Pendolino. Or a Moscow airport filled with bankers from Guildford stampeding the duty free and wiring last-minute cash to their Russian girlfriends.

Last year I had a Canadian Christmas, which involved a twenty-six hour journey (three planes, the Aeroexpress and a drive through the wilderness) each way. For an eleven-day visit it was a bit excessive, but worthwhile, mainly because my brother-in-law stocks the storage cupboard with dozens of bottles of homemade wine. It did make me appreciate the days when I lived in Glasgow and my sister lived in Halifax, which meant a mere five-hour flight over the narrow part of the ocean and no paranoid Russian/American customs agents.

There have been a couple of years which didn't involve battling my way into an overcrowded train with bags of breakable gifts, or fighting a 6' woman in a fur coat for Aeroflot's last copy of the FT. There were a couple of Christmases with the Glasgow friends, one with complete strangers in India and one snowed in with a Texan in a closed town in the Moscow region.

Those were nice, but of course there is a reason (my mother, two siblings and one sibling-in-law, who purport to enjoy my company) why I buy overpriced tickets and cram myself into uncomfortably small spaces with other grouchy and intoxicated people.

There, that's festive. Right?

War & Peace: Václav Havel on Kim Jong-il

2011-12-21T16:05:00.000-08:00

The deaths of Czech campaigner, politician and writer Václav Havel, along with decidedly less savoury character Kim Jong-il, have made an impression.

Not precisely the kind that would have been made by the death of either man alone. The two who are remembered for such polar qualities and achievements are, at least temporarily, linked.

The Globe and Mail unearthed a powerful article written by Havel in 2004, condemning the brutality of the North Korean dictatorship, comparing it with the Nazi Holocaust, Khmer Rouge and Stalin's Soviet Union, amongst others. The lengths neighbouring countries go to to appease the military dictatorship led by Kim Jong-il are also held up to the light. In a similar vein, Havel's comments criticising the actions of the Russian government were published in Novaya Gazeta shortly before his death and after the recent Russian election which triggered demonstrations all over the country.

Havel will be remembered as a dissident playwrite and human rights leader, while Kim Jong-il will be remembered as a tyrant and object of ridicule. It seems insensitive to include the deaths of such extreme representatives of human dignity and inhuman cruelty in the same breath, yet it's inevitable that this contrast of humanity will stir us in a unique way. At least for now.

Lamont v Salmond & the Future of Parliamentary Panto

2011-12-17T06:58:00.000-08:00

Writing about Iain Gray's last day as captain of a ship so leaky it'd be more use as a fishing net, the Herald's Shelagh McKinlay had a pretty effective eyeroll at the parliamentary panto that has replaced debate.

image pilfered from the BBC

Johann Lamont replaces Gray as Scottish Labour leader. A theme here, involving Lamont, the new leader of Scottish Labour, and Ruth Davidson, leader of the completely irrelevant Scottish Conservative party.

Neither Lamont (a former teacher) nor Davidson (a former journalist) come from a traditional political background, and therefore bring their own codes of workplace conduct to Holyrood. Lamont comes across as a woman of the people, but not in that horrendous Rosie Kane way; Lamont is likely to appeal to an increasingly diverse, centre-left country. Davidson's younger generation appeal, we've talked about already.

And, you may have noticed, neither are likely to tolerate backchat. Maybe because they come from tough and sometimes thankless professions, which require a heavy dose of creative problem solving prowess and leave little room for error. Maybe because they're women. Maybe because they're from the wild west (of Scotland). Maybe because they both have the nerve of a dragon.

Which brings me back to parliamentary panto. Earlier this year Salmond said the difference between Holyrood and Westminster is that Westminster is more staged. Fair comment; we've been fortunate to have more talk and less nonsense in Holyrood, but I suspect the recent descent into political theatre in Edinburgh has something to do with the lack of a good sparring partner for the FM.

Despite Davidson's shaky start in Holyrood, she has the ingredients of a good debater. Lamont, far more experienced and less self-conscious, has an even better chance at facing Salmond. Both represent something new for their parties, and I expect they'll bring that to the debating chamber. I'll be surprised if either manages to get the better of Salmond, but it would be all kinds of democratic to see someone putting up a respectable fight.

Bottom line is, none of the parties are taking chances this time around.

Positive Pregnancy Tests And Pixellated Priests

2011-12-16T11:02:00.000-08:00

A priest with pixellated face and the Virgin Mary staring aghast at a positive pregnancy test. Is this art imitating life, or is it offensive sensationalism?

Banksy’s Cardinal Sin sits amongst 17th Century religious art in Liverpool’s Walker Art Gallery. His face is sawn off and replaced with small, square bathroom tiles, creating a pixellated effect.

Meanwhile, in New Zealand, an Auckland church features a billboard with an image of Mary staring in horror at her positive pregnancy test.

Banksy, known for high-impact art, told the BBC; The statue? I guess you could call it a Christmas present. At this time of year it’s easy to forget the true meaning of Christianity – the lies, the corruption, the abuse.

The director of art galleries at National Museums Liverpool commented on the clear visual link between the sculpture and images of criminals on television with pixellated faces. The reference to sexual abuse scandals within the church is clear, though not everyone feels it’s justified. A Liverpool church leader, taking offense to Banksy’s statement, commented that abuse is present not just in the church.

In a departure from the usual Christmas messages, the vicar of the Anglican St Matthew in the City Church in Auckland erected the subversive billboard of Mary to remind people of the realities of life. He told Channel 3 News; It’s trying to make people think about Christmas and to then think compassionately and kindly about people in a similar situation.

I find the Banksy and the church billboard refreshing. Both are provocative and, arguably, more gimmick than social activism. But the message of both is clear, relevent and unpretentious. Sex abuse and secrecy must be acknowledged by religious groups, and the cult of motherhood is a thing of the past.

I’m impressed with the Auckland church’s willingness to confront its own traditions. Banksy’s effort has an impact that I haven’t seen from the artist in some time. Bravo, both.

this article originally appeared in Morning Quickie, 16 December 2011

Pookism

2011-12-14T11:09:00.000-08:00

I could say 'I've been to the afterlife, it's full of bunnies and unicorns', and you could say 'yes but they're werbunnies and vampire unicorns'. And we'd never know who was right.

Pook Danforth, 2011

click here to view a previous Pookism

Peter Kent Goes to Durban (& F*cks Everything Up)

2011-12-13T10:51:00.000-08:00

I have fond memories of a time when there was such a creature as 'The Canadian Government' on Parliament Hill.

Harper, possibly staring at portraits of himself

The Harper Government's decision to back out of Kyoto Protocol, while dragging what was once an egalitarian and responsible country into the ranks of the top ten polluters on the planet, is a low point.

Environment Minister Peter Kent says it's legal. Green leader Elizabeth May says it's a violation of domestic law. The David Suzuki Foundation says Peter Kent is a thorn in the side of progressive world leaders. Both May and Suzuki claim that, disturbingly, Canada's representatives in Durban went further than to back out of the agreement. They attempted to convince others to do the same.

Excuse me while I unstitch the maple leaf from my backpack.

Progressive world leaders. We used to have those, once upon a time. Though Elizabeth May is a hard worker and makes a targeted, fact-based argument against the gang of fearmongerers who've taken over The Hill, her party doesn't have the weight of the NDP. Who, sadly, are sans permanent leader and making less impact since the death of Jack Layton. With the lessened presence of the Liberals and Bloc Quebecois, it seems the Harper Government are doing more or less as they please. Law or no law, ethics or no ethics.

At least we still have Margaret Atwood.

Mockingbird

2011-12-12T13:19:00.000-08:00

Voltaire and Rousseau

My copy of To Kill a Mockingbird has had a complicated existence, deserving of its own little biography.

Orientation: there's a £2 price written on the inside cover with a dull pencil, and a smaller 75p sticker written in blue ink. It's a Penguin from a 1971 print run. It would've cost the person who originally bought it 35p.The pages are soft and faded yellow and it smells old. Ram's is written on the inside cover.

I bought it from my favourite bookshop (and Glasgow institution) Voltaire and Rousseau on Otago Lane. As I pulled a large sociolinguistics textbook from a pile, the much smaller copy of To Kill a Mockingbird flew out and landed on the floor, disturbing the cat.

I had dinner guests that evening who spotted the book on my windowsill. My friend's girlfriend, who I'd met for the first time that evening, looked at the signature on the inside cover. She laughed, then told us she'd owned the same copy of the book about seven years earlier when she was studying at Glasgow Uni. She'd borrowed it from another student called Ram who lent it to her and didn't want it back when he moved away. She sold it with a box of books when she moved flat a few months later. She was certain it was the same copy because she remembered the 75p sticker and, she claimed mysteriously, she'd 'recognise Ram's signature anywhere'.

When, in Moscow in 2011, J told me it was his favourite novel, I went digging through the shelves in my Soviet bedroom to find it. No luck. I was certain I'd taken it to Russia with me; I had a clear memory of lifting it from one of the boxes I've left at my mother's house in Manchester since packing away my Glasgow life in 2008. But I'd left it behind and didn't see it again until J was back home in Vienna and I was on my way back to Scotland.

This small disappointment reminded me that on the day I bought it, I took it to a coffeeshop near Byres Rd. I'd stopped on the way to buy sunflowers which left bits of pollen on my green cardigan. As I was leaving the cafe to get the subway, picking bits of pollen from my sleeve, a woman ran after me with the book, which I'd left on my table.

Don't worry, there's no moral to this story.

Russian Spring

2011-12-11T04:44:00.000-08:00

image borrowed from peopleunlikeus.com

Attempting last night to explain to a friend what a demonstration of this size, with this level of cooperation, means for Russia, I had to say that I don't really know.

It's a brave thing to publicly oppose the status quo in Russia. I can't predict what will happen now, but the silence, fear and resignation surrounding discourse on state corruption has cracked.

Never have I been so proud to be a temporary Muscovite.

image via openspace.ru

Pornographic Parsnips

2011-12-08T11:46:00.000-08:00

Sainsbury's is a minefield.

Just today I was innocently wandering through the produce section when my eye caught a heap of stiff, attentive bananas. Suddenly, my mind was adrift in a sea of vitamin-rich smut.

I moved on quickly, but the flesh is weak. The carrots immediately led me astray with their well-defined shafts, followed by the smooth, generously proportioned daikon radishes. I tried to steady myself by focusing on the more wholesome cauliflower, but it was no use.

Soon I was rubbing myself surreptitiously against the cucumbers while licking my lips and staring suggestively at the terrified young man stacking organic zucchini. As I slowly unbuttoned my winter coat and leant into the basket of corn on the cob, I was fortunately interrupted by the shop security, who were concerned for my moral well-being.

Navigating the pornographic parsnips and leery legumes requires a steely nerve. That’s why a Europe-based Islamic cleric has apparently urged women to stay clear of phallic food.

The cleric, whose keen eye for things that look like cock indicates his attentiveness to the needs of the women of his faith, suggests that the sight of a cucumber will arouse women. Wanting the ladies to maintain a diet rich in thiamine and riboflavin while maintaining mental purity, the phallus-aware cleric suggests that a male family member chop up the offending sweet potato or eggplant before presenting it to the fairer sex.

If you’re looking for a reason to get your boyfriend to cook dinner more often, this might be it.

This article originally appeared in Morning Quickie, 8 December 2011

Moscow Demonstration (Well You Know, We All Want to Change the World)

2011-12-05T16:41:00.000-08:00

photo via Diana Litvinova via facebook

Far more inspiring than the race riots in Moscow at this time last year, thousands of people fed up with a corrupt government have expressed their opinions on the streets of the city today, at great detriment to their personal safety and freedom.

In a Moscow cafe last spring a Siberian friend, just back from a work trip in the EU, told me she felt the thing lacking in Russia was civil disobedience. Europeans, she said, fight for things. They fight even when things are bad. That's why things are better.

Another Russian friend, not long after I arrived in the country, told me that people have been living in a constant state of terror since Ivan the Terrible. Generations time out of mind have become used to invisibility as a means of survival, and that is why people seem complacent.

While it's true that the EU sees more vocal protest and politicians are held to account, Russia has always had a small group of people who fight, at great risk to themselves and their families. There is more to Russia than corrupt politicians, racist propaganda and complacency. There is creativity, kindness and a basic wish for safety and freedom. There is, crucially, a basis for change that begins in Russia, rather than following the model of another part of the world.

I said in a previous post that, though the power structure in the country seems immovable, I harbour some hope. This is why.

Russian Election (Exit Polls)

2011-12-04T12:50:00.000-08:00

According to the much-tweeted exit polls, fewer people voted for United Russia (the Putin/Medvedev-fronted party currently shaking all the loose change from the Russian Federation's pockets) than in 2007.

This doesn't mean they've lost. There has never been much question that United Russia would win this election, what with the widespread abuse of the electoral system in Russia and members of the election watchdog Golnos harrassed and detained in the lead-up to the election.

And all of facebook is a-flutter. Why, you ask? Actually, I don't know what practical difference this will make, apart from discrediting Putin to some extent. That's a long way from getting rid of the ninja-fighting, tiger-wrestling, helicopter-flying, topless-kalashnikov-holding oligarch. Or interfering in a serious way in the musical chairs arrangement the Medvedev/Putin double act are currently engaging in.

I still harbour hope for Russia, despite the glaring naivety that statement implies. Unshakeable as things may seem, change can come quickly.

In Andrew's Handbag

2011-12-01T09:34:00.000-08:00

Andrew thinks his wallet is about 16 years old. He had finally got round to replacing it earlier this year, but within a couple of months his shiny new one was pinched by a pickpocket on a busy RER in central Paris, so he's returned to using the old faithful, and his more romantic side thinks the new one was nicked for a reason - Andrew and this 'old frazzled lump', which has 'more holes than a Swiss cheese and a not dissimilar scent', are meant to be together.

I know it isn't a handbag, but this series must embrace minimalism. Let's rummage...

€30
£4.20
1 used Edinburgh train ticket
bank cards
receipt for library fine (paid)
Walt Whitman poem torn from recent Sunday newspaper

After working as a hack in Aberdeen followed by two much happier years in London, Andrew is moving to Paris (yes, where his other wallet was stolen) at the end of the year to train as an English language teacher. He secretly enjoys reading the Financial Times, though in public he keeps it hidden behind the S*n. He did PR for the UK's elite private schools, so now must spend the rest of his life doing good deeds to avoid the descent into hell he knows he deserves.

The Biggest Damp Squib in a Generation

2011-11-30T05:53:00.000-08:00

image stolen from the Daily Rage

I'm sharing a Manchester cafe table with a girl who has a sticker on her bag that says fair pensions for all. A sentiment echoed noisily across the city and the entire UK today by striking public sector workers.

According to the ConDem goverment, who continue to raise the bar for incompetence and shortsightedness, today's strike will hideously damage the UK economy. Compared with the day the entire UK took off to watch an educated young woman morph into a clothes horse and potential unelected representative, which according to the same folk cost the economy nothing at all.

Who voted for these people? WHO?

The Osborne creature's continued rhetoric which implies the hardworking private sector are generously funding lazy public sector to do whatever it is they do (teaching children to read, operating on your brain, helping your aging relatives to do the grocery shopping) grates against Cameron's assertion that nobody cares and you may as well all go back to your silly jobs.

This badly managed good cop/bad cop performance routinely used by the two-headed Cameron/Osborne sideshow is starting to irritate me. It would make a good tragicomedy if, as a colleague said today, they weren't chopping up the public sector and selling it to their mates while attempting to convince the rest of us it's for our own good.

Having worked alongside public sector workers in my 3rd sector role for most of my career, I know these things. There are flaws in both the public and private sectors, yet the public sector is fair game for abuse on a grand scale. We're all furious about bankers' massive bonuses and pay increases during a time of economic crisis, yet the assertion of public sector workers that they deserve a fair salary and pension is somehow being spun as selfish and naive.

The workers on strike today are not demanding more. They're demanding what they were promised.

You're a Ghost on the Highway & I'll Love Your Forever

2011-11-22T10:13:00.000-08:00

A new release by Mazzy Star, their first in fifteen years, has taken me back in time.

In a house near an old road in New Brunswick that would have led to the ocean if I'd kept driving. There was a newly felled pine tree propped in the hallway with a jagged piece missing where the axe had fallen awkwardly. The snowdrifts were ten or twelve metres high. There were lots of people I didn't know who mistook me for an adult. It was a party and everyone there was older than me. Because I didn't want to freak anyone out, I said I was twenty, worked in a furniture shop in Rivière-du-Loup and was in town visiting friends.

It was 1996 and I had, not for the first time, an overwhelming need for solitude, in a house full of people who seemed far more capable of social interaction than me. I put on my boots and coat, walked into the back garden and stood in knee-deep snow. It wasn't very cold, just a few degrees below zero like it always was just after a snowstorm with a thick layer of clouds as insulation. The kitchen window was open and Blue Light was on the speakers. Because of the angle the noise from the house that I'd found so irritating vanished. There was only music and snow.

Mazzy Star have popped up in soundtracks over the years. Rhymes of an Hour was in the beautifully filmed Stealing Beauty and a version of Wild Horses was on a Buffy soundtrack. All very 90s and post-angsty. Both worthwhile projects. In my old age I understand the need to make real money from time to time.

In the 90s I rarely acknowledged my bond with Mazzy Star. I thought of them as existing in my musical periphery...too polished and user-friendly, too likely to be background music on Friends or something. I was the sort of adolescent who had the emotional needs of several people to consider before my own, so took solace in music that seemed unbreakable. I also found Hope Sandoval's resemblance to my teenage self a little eerie.

Sandoval's voice, when performing with Mazzy Star and in other projects, formed my early understanding that a quiet and beautiful thing is not always flimsy.

Blog title from Ghost Highway by Mazzy Star, 1990

Abortion Rights: New York to Prince Edward Island

2011-11-18T14:25:00.000-08:00

In the United States, where abortion rights are under direct attack, The Doula Project is promoting services for women who are terminating their pregnancies.

The remit of a doula is to provide non-medical support through the latter stages of pregnancy and birth.

American States have passed over eighty laws this year restricting a woman’s right to choose. The active promotion of abortion doula services in New York State, a relatively easy place to terminate a pregnancy, is a creative form of activism. In addition, activists in New York provide accommodation for women and their partners or parents travelling for abortions.

Lauren Mitchell, who co-founded The Doula Project with Mary Mahoney, says that their aim is to provide services to people who have limited financial resources. She said of concerns that a doula service might seem wishy-washy to pro-choice activists; We come from the reproductive justice movement, which is more holistic and looks at people’s feelings and individual experiences, not just policy.

Although Canadian women have the right to an abortion, it remains a live issue in Canada. On Prince Edward Island abortions, though legal, haven’t been performed since 1982. Women who want a safe termination are required to travel out of the province. With the blessing of two doctors women are given a referral to a Nova Scotia or New Brunswick hospital. Without dual consent, PEI women are obliged to spend huge amounts of money on an abortion at a private hospital.

Candace Hagen of the PEI Reproductive Rights Organization (PRRO) is one of many women who had to go off-island for an abortion. She related her story recently on CBC radio. After receiving substandard care and limited information from her GP which compromised her care at New Brunswick’s Morgentaler Clinic, Hagen began campaigning for the legal rights of women on the island.

Psychologist and researcher Colleen MacQuarrie asserts in the same CBC program that PEI is in contravention of the UN Declaration of Reproductive Rights by contributing to the deterioration of women’s health. She cites a 14-year-old woman who took part in her study at the University of PEI, who engaged in two weeks of self-harm to induce labour. This included ingesting chemicals and bruising herself. MacQuarrie says the province’s policy of forcing women to seek an abortion off-island disadvantages the most vulnerable — the young and financially disadvantaged.

The idea of self-inducing labour in order to qualify for an abortion without leaving the island or gaining the consent of two doctors is, according to MacQuarrie’s study into reproductive injustice, pervasive amongst women under fifteen. She quotes a participant who said; If you limit options, it breeds desperation.

Health and Wellness Minister Doug Currie confirmed to the CBC that abortion services are not provided in the province. He also claims to have never had a formal request from an organisation or clinician to start providing the service. He said that due to pressure and demand on system, there are services which aren’t provided to the 144,000 people living on the island. He said; From a provincial focus, it’s definitely not on the radar.

Campaigners for abortion services on the island have received support from the Green Party.

Pro-life campaigner Ann Marie Tomlins advocates the province’s barriers to safe abortion. She asserts that; A quick and easy abortion is the last thing a woman needs.

Speaking to the CBC, Tomlins said there is no denial of abortions in life-threatening circumstances, and abortion is otherwise not a medical necessity — What we don’t want is killing on this island, and that’s what abortion is.

The argument for abortion services seems solid. This is already a legal right, and PEI is denying this to Canadian women who reside on the island. The people most disadvantaged by the restrictions are young and poor women, and there is evidence to show that women’s health is directly affected by the island policy.

The argument against the service in PEI seems to be driven by the patronising notion that women need time to think about whether they want to be pregnant. As though women can’t decide for ourselves whether we need time for reflection.

The lack of political support may be driven by the electorate in PEI. This will hopefully change with the growing voice of campaigning groups like PRRO and the work of people like Colleen MacQuarrie.

The article above originally appeared in Morning Quickie, 18 November 2011

As a young woman growing up in New Brunswick, I was aware of the difficulties women of our neighbouring province Prince Edward Island had in accessing abortions. Young women in particular went to extreme measures, because of limited finances and lack of autonomy, to end unwanted pregnancies by inducing labour. From what I know anecdotally these included:

drinking cleaning products
punching or voluntarily being punched in the abdomen
staying awake for days at a time
exercising to the point of exhaustion
funneling combinations of water and chemicals into the uterus.

This was in the 1980s and 1990s, when Canadian women had the legal right to a safe abortion thanks to pioneers like Henry Morgentaler. As Colleen MacQuarrie said in the CBC interview I referred to in the article above, the campaign to remove these rights was an ugly one. My recollection is of an ill-informed campaign filled with religious rhetoric and barely contained hatred of women. In a part of Canada known for hospitality and kindness, a huge injustice is sanctioned by the provincial government of PEI, which in my opinion is driven by politics.

I expect this will change now that the young women who have grown up without their legal right to a safe abortion are able to vote and campaign on this issue.

Silence, Woman

2011-11-14T16:20:00.000-08:00

Good old internet harassment. Without it I wouldn't know I was a writer. And isn't that a sad state of affairs?

There's an unofficial tally of online abuse and fury that many of my people stack in the corner of the virtual study, like a wobbly pile of scrapbooks, masquerading as credibility. I must be making an impact because some internet arsehole with his hands down his trackies called me a stupid bitch today.

Well done.

Like the insults and 'compliments' random men see fit to apply to women who wander around looking like women, gender-based internet abuse exists to put us in our place. To shut us up.

Now women like Laurie Penny are making an almighty noise about this. Here is my contribution:

Apart from an official-seeming phone call in Russia berating me for writing 'of things I know nothing and should speak less' (seriously), most of the electronic abuse I've received has been in response to apolitical, not-very-socially-impacty stuff. How disappointing. Most of it has been gender-based nastiness.

Here's a sampling of abuse (internet-based and internet-linked) from my personal archive which, according to a wanker in Kentucky, I bring upon my sinful self:

I was threatened with murder, rape, etc after publishing a series of sexually explicit poems back in 2004.
I've been stalked twice: once by an ex and once by a condescending internet troll who closely followed my 2008-2009 travel blog (longstanding readers will remember the legendary Chartered Engineer).
According to several experts I am: a beautiful goddess, an ugly bitch, beautiful as a thousand suns, a haggard junkie, a gorgeous seductress, a bitter barren slag.
I've been assaulted by a relative.
I've been accused of being a condescending bitch/slut/whore/etc (though to be fair that might be true).
I've been accused of being a stupid bitch/slut/whore/etc.
I've been informed I should stop talking about politics and other shit no one wants to hear from my dumb bitch mouth in order to scrub the kitchen sink.
I've been called a 'bitch colonist whore of the devil bitch cunt' by someone who REALLY needs a history/geography/collocation lesson.
According to at least one person, I'm going to be judged harshly for my rejection of someone called The One True Saviour who sounds suspiciously nonexistent and has all sorts of detailed plans for sluts like me. I won't bore you.
And I've mentioned the surreal Russian telephone conversation.

I don't think I was targeted on all of those occasions because of my gender, though most of my examples contained gender-based hatred or violence. Sometimes it was racial, sometimes linked with social class, nationality or politics, sometimes aimless hatred. Most of those incidents temporarily altered the way I live.

What they all have in common is:

None of these people want me (or you, probably) to have a voice.
The abusers thought (rightly or wrongly) they could get away with it.

None of them, I am pleased to say, altered the way I write. If self-censorship was the goal, the goal was not met.

Here is some advice for ladies who pen their memoirs and feminine whimsy on the internet:

Helen Lewis-Hasteley advises that we report abuse. If the police aren't helpful, publish it. I second this, and also:
Keep telling the police, even if they're unhelpful.
Learn your legal rights.
If you live in a place where the law is not your friend, try to find support groups and networks.
Report abuse to the web host (there's usually a handy button for this).
Keep a detailed record of all threats and contact from people who've threatened you in the past.
Tell your friends and keep them updated.
Trust your instincts. If you don't want to engage with someone on the internet, don't. Don't explain yourself. Don't apologise.
Don't write about where you're going or when. If you write about where you've been, try not to publish it until you've left or are sure you'll be with other people until you leave.
If a troll leaves the internet and approaches you in a public place, make a huge noise about it.
There may be people who blame you or who simply don't care. Be mentally prepared for that.
Use this hashtag #mencallmethings

'Coming Out' as a Nat?

2011-11-12T02:51:00.000-08:00

Maybe it's an issue of wording. Is a statement of politics from a writer really a 'coming out'?

Liz Lochhead's recent verbal support for independence didn't seem monumental to me. Initially. She's the Makar, you might have noticed, and a writer who works in Scots language and non-standard Scots English. Her work is, in no small way, about identity.

Linked with former Makar Edwin Morgan's financial legacy to the SNP, designated for the independence campaign, Lochhead's statement carries more oomph. People who write, people who make films, people who are in charge of a medium will get their message across to greater effect than a politician. The double weight of Makar+Makar shouldn't be underestimated.

Lochhead's support for home rule even got a mention in parliament yesterday, by new Scottish Conservative leader Ruth Davidson:

I was reading a Scottish National Party press release today that quoted Liz Lochhead, the Scots makar, as saying:

“if there was a referendum tomorrow, I’d vote yes”.

Let me ask the First Minister this: if a straightforward yes or no referendum were to be held tomorrow, is he confident that he would win?

...and so on.

Robyn Marsack of the Scottish Poetry Library was quick to establish that Lochhead is a writer first. Was such a statement necessary? Lochhead has shown no inclination to push a political agenda to the detriment of her work. Good writers don't preach on the page.

During an Edinburgh International Book Festival event last year, Denise Mina 'came out' as a unionist. It was a wee bit uncomfortable in the tent that evening, as an event to do with short stories on the theme of elsewhere turned political for no reason other than the presence of half the cabinet in the RBS tent. (Alan Warner was more vague at the same event, giving an account of his personal political journey to an unstated-but-guessable conclusion.)

Maybe I imagined it, but I think I heard the ripple of lips pressing together in mild disapproval that evening. Mina's skill as a crime writer is hardly going to be compromised by her politics. Still, I detected a shade of oh-hush-and-go-write-some-stories.

In a 2004 interview with Carla Rodríguez González, Lochhead spoke at length about her personal perspective on politics and how this changed, from the time before the 1979 referendum to the time of the post-devolution interview.The interview reveals a changing set of ideas based on changing priorities; female identity, national identity and how the latter changed following the 1979 referendum. Unlike a political manifesto which presents a rigid (and supposedly unshakeable) outline of policies, this is a human and relatable idea of politics.

Politics and poetry aren't far apart, but neither is a writer obliged to take a political position. This gives high-profile writers a great deal of freedom, but also a level of scrutiny which sometimes feels irrational.

Dissident Fairytales: My Ongoing Obsession with Людмила Стефановна Петрушевская

2011-11-08T14:51:00.000-08:00

My first encounter with Ludmilla Stephanovna Petrushevskaya was on a cold January night, in a shadowy Moscow bar full of antique upholstery and cigarette smoke. She arrived nearly two hours late and took the stage in a purple dress and huge matching hat. At 70+, Petrushevskaya, dissident writer, had reinvented herself as a cabaret performer.

It’s a fitting way to be introduced to Petrushevskaya’s work. Strange, dystopian encounters are a frequent subject in her collection of short prose There Once Lived a Woman Who Tried to Kill Her Neighbour’s Baby. Rooms are small and claustrophobic, neighbours listen at walls. People live isolated lives with, paradoxically, no privacy.

Petrushevskaya’s prose is as subversive as her politics. Clipped sentences and lists of objects arranged into paragraphs contribute to a minimalist writing style. These devices add brutality to already bleak and violent scenes of infanticide, rape, ceaseless poverty and an oppressive status quo.

Still, there’s a strong adherence to the conventions of fairytale and allegory. At times the obvious moral of stories such as Revenge and The Father are disappointingly blunt, while There’s Someone in the House and The Arm challenge and leave the reader room for interpretation.

Petrushevskaya’s work was banned during the Soviet era along with contemporary writer Alexandr Solzhenitsyn. As well as bucking the status quo of the time, Petrushevskaya continues to evade efforts in post-Soviet Russia to define her. She’s too blunt to be feminine, too gaudy to be an intellectual.

This is a cleverly put-together set of short fiction which is at times difficult to read, but entirely worthwhile. For anyone interested in Soviet-era family life and community politics, it is essential.

This review originally appeared in Morning Quickie 8 November 2011.

Home Sweet Home, Manchester (Northern Quarter)

2011-11-06T09:38:00.000-08:00

I've passed by Home Sweet Home on Edge Street in Manchester's Northern Quarter a few times, usually en route to somewhere else. I always intended to pop in, but didn't until Friday night when me and Maria hit the town for an evening of sobriety and reflection.

This place stays open late.

And it isn't a bar.

And it is in Manchester.*

Late, I said. Well, until 11pm, midnight on weekends. Because sometimes people want cake and fancy hot drinks after 6pm. And to sit in a chair on Friday night. What luxury! We had a whole conversation, nobody spilled beer on us or tried to hump us from behind as we flung ourselves across a sticky bar to bellow our drink orders into a harrassed young person's face.

None of that happened. We just, you know, asked for stuff on the menu and it was transported to our table by lovely friendly people in knitted jumpers. One punter accidentally knocked M's umbrella (determined to be one of mine which I left on her kitchen table) off the chair, then apologised and picked it up for us. He was wearing vintage Harris Tweed and I'm sure he phones his mum, who is very proud of him, regularly.

I can vouch for the flat white and the milkshakes, the carrot cake (which tastes like an orgasm), the fresh baked cookies (which come with milk) and the green apple and honey toastie. There's a pretty good selection of wine. There's not much vegetarian grub that doesn't contains loads of fromage, sadly.

The decor is grandmother's sitting room and sensibly laid out for a small space. A very NQ crowd, but still a diverse mix of folk. Everyone is nice. Especially the staff, who are having a cuddle by the espresso machine as I type.

Two small whinges:

The wifi is slow and can’t cope with twitter. But compared with the bizarre dearth of wifi in Manchester generally, I am counting my blessings in this respect.
The tables are a too low and the beautiful chairs too high (my heels don’t touch the floor). This creates a difficult-to-lean-forward-to-converse-intimately problem as well as a laptop-hunchback situation.

As inferred by my snide comment* way up the page, I find non-boozy late-night places difficult to come by in Manchester. Slightly better situation in Glasgow, where there are lots of hybrid cafe/bar/performance space/recording studio establishments. My own little hometown, Moncton, has coffee shops that stay open until late into the evening. Moscow does this flawlessly, with cafe-bar-restaurants that invariably provide a choice of vodka, tapas, sushi, cigarettes, strippers and 634 types of tea until the Metro starts again at 5:30am.

When Irrelevant Parties do Relevant Things

2011-11-05T11:18:00.000-07:00

Congratulations to openly Conservative Ruth Davidson, new leader of the Scottish Tories.

enigmatic Ruth

Davidson has won the leadership after just a few years in politics and a few months in Holyrood. She's young, female, Glaswegian and gay. Simply by existing she subverts traditional Tory terror of Glasgow, vaginas and anyone with less than 20 years credit history.

An impressive collection of 21st Century credibility for the leader of any party, and this isn't just window dressing. The woman has brains, guts and talent.

Unfortunately she's the leader of the least relevant party in the country.

Socially, Davidson's mould-breaking personal profile won't make a huge impact. The personal lives of politicians don't matter much in Scotland. Her position as leader is more a reflection of than a spur to social progress.

Politically, Davidson seems competent and shows the steely nerve of Goldie, putting her relationship to Westminster counterpart David Cameron firmly in place on her first day. A clever move: unionist she may be, but she has defined herself as a politician who'll put Scottish interests first.

The extent of her support of Conservative fiscal and social policy has yet to be seen in practise, but there's no reason to think she'll revolutionise her party.

I'm not sure why a woman of Davidson's intelligence would bother making a place for herself in a derelict party whose policies have traditionally made life difficult for all but a few relics. I doubt this is career strategy on her part; it would be a weird strategy for one thing, and she seems to be a politician of conscience. If her party has chosen her as leader to revolutionise their image, they'll do well to remember that PR doesn't work in Scotland.

I don't understand Davidson, but I'm impressed with her panache. As I was with her predecessor Annabelle Goldie. Another politician I wish would have crossed the floor.

The Scottish Tories are a dead party and no amount of fresh perspective will revive them. Unfortunately this means Ruth Davidson's victory will have limited impact. Still, a strong voice in FMQs is always an asset.

The Queen of Vintage Knickers

2011-11-04T18:30:00.000-07:00

I’ve been buying vintage knickers since before it was cool. I’ve never spent much money on them; a fiver here, a tenner there. A suspiciously stained corset from a Glasgow costume shop was my most expensive purchase at about twenty pounds.

image stolen from BBC Scotland

I’d never dream of paying ten thousand quid for a massive pair of bloomers. But as far as I know, the carefully scrubbed stains in my hand-stitched 1920s silk panties weren’t produced by Queen Victoria.

The monarch’s skivvies and two pairs of stockings were auctioned in Edinburgh by Lyon and Turnbull this week. They were part of a collection owned by the Forbes family, and were sold along with paintings, a bed Elizabeth Taylor probably intercoursed in with at least one of her husbands and other things which aren’t as interesting as these stupendous knickers. Which are in a frame.

As well as being a vintage undergarments collector, I used to be a picture framer. These facts make me expertly qualified to tell you that Her Majesty Queen Victoria’s undercrackers make the granny pants at Marks & Spencer look minute. Not to mention anything NuRoyal Pippa may or may not be wearing between her bridesmaid dress and FakeBake tan.

You might also be interested to know the weirdest thing I was ever asked to frame was a lock of a dead man’s hair pinned to a stuffed fish. I’ll bet you the price of a former monarch’s drawers there’s a framer in Edinburgh who can beat that.

A version of this article originally appeared in Morning Quickie, 4 November 2011.

A Culture of Violence?

2011-10-30T14:21:00.000-07:00

This article originally appeared in the series ‘Culture and Human Rights: Challenging Cultural Excuses for Gender-Based Violence’ hosted by Gender Across Borders and Violence Is Not Our Culture.

When I started working in social services in Glasgow, a colleague who had grown up on a notoriously deprived and violent council estate explained the cultural fact of birth control in her neighbourhood.

Nobody uses it, she said. Boys won’t sleep with girls who use it, because they want to get girls pregnant. Girls won’t use it because boys don’t want them to, their father’s won’t let them.

Nobody, she went on to explain, had abortions. Not that she knew of, anyway. Fathers wouldn’t allow their daughters to have one. She’d only known of one girl who had an abortion, and in that case her father had allowed it because the father of the baby was not white.

Look, she said. It’s just the culture around here.

Women in Scotland have the legal right to choose but some are barred from choosing because of what I often heard described as ‘culture’. It took me some time to grasp this. It was not just because I was a Canadian moving to a different country, but also because the ‘culture’ was so different in comparison with the cultural practices of the Glaswegians in my social circle.

Socially, free decisive women and pleasant sensitive men surrounded me. In my time in Glasgow, I was never involved with a man who interfered with my right to birth control. Professionally, working in areas of Glasgow so steeped in poverty and violence they were unrecognizable as the same city, it was a different story for a different surrounding.

Condoms were almost never used, frequent childbirth was regarded as an inevitable consequence of life; domestic abuse was spoken of casually. When I attempted to question these practices or present my women clients with their rights and options, I was met with resignation and sometimes anger.

You don’t understand, I was repeatedly told. This isn’t your culture.

I got sick of it, frankly, because it wasn’t a cultural issue, from my perspective. Culture involves a consensus of a whole community. If the women of a community aren’t free to make choices, sexual safety and birth control being paramount, then what we’re left with is a stifling of culture. A practice imposed by one segment of a community on another, masquerading as tradition.

Tragically, the same attitude prevailed amongst many of my colleagues. When I spoke with women clients about their rights, I was accused of being unrealistic, of imposing middle class values on working class people.

Shortly after a change of legislation allowing police to arrest a suspect of domestic abuse without having to rely on a victim statement, I contacted the local police to report clear signs of domestic abuse of one of my clients. When I spoke with a colleague about this, she told me not to bother.

They’ll just say it’s a domestic thing. They won’t get involved.

They have to, I said. It’s their job.

I know the law is meant to have changed but it’s the culture around here. You can’t change culture that quickly, said my colleague.

Fortunately the police responded and took the situation seriously. But my colleague’s attitude was disturbing, and brought to mind the resigned way culture was batted around as an excuse for almost anything: sectarianism, casual racism, gender discrimination, homophobia, violence and particularly violence against women.

My own small battle to respect the country I’d adopted while recognising the difference between culture and habitual violence was, to say the least, an uphill one. There were times I gave up earlier than I should have, or allowed complacency to deter me from promoting sexual health and safety more fiercely. On one occasion when I attempted to forge closer links with domestic abuse agencies in the city, I was reprimanded for wasting time.

There were some hopeful changes. I saw a notable improvement in the way police handled domestic abuse cases, thanks in part to the new legislation and government policy. I saw several women make increasingly brave choices about their lives, including the long battle of disentangling themselves from violent partners.

In all these situations, I heard no complaints about damaged culture.

Festival of Lights

2011-10-30T03:03:00.000-07:00

http://www.nasa.gov/multimedia/imagegallery/

I love this NASA photo of India all lit up for Diwali. Reminded me of the time I flew over India on a clear night and could see the immense network of clusters of city lights strung together by smaller towns and highways. The novelty of seeing the shape of places from the sky has never faded for me, even if I'm just staring down at endless ocean waves from a plane window.

Horrifying Women

2011-10-28T11:54:00.000-07:00

How liberating it was, when I first saw Carrie wreaking vengeance on the cruel classmates and uncaring adults in her life. And how bold an image — a bucket of pig’s blood meant to represent menstrual blood.

They don’t make horror films like that anymore. An ordinary girl beaten down and abused, who finds supernatural strength. Unfortunately Carrie’s power turned a bit too lethal, but never mind. It makes a great Hallowe’en movie.

Wouldn’t we all like to find the same strength? I did, as an adolescent. It was a satisfying experience for my younger self to see a not-pretty, not-glamorous young woman unleashing rage.

I’ve rarely watched a horror film in the cinema. The good ones were made before I was born. The new ones feature improbably beautiful women being sexually tortured by men in masks. Like most modern pornography, we see more of the woman’s body and more of the man’s 'psychology.'

The Texas Chainsaw Massacre is often seen as an early version of torture porn. The connection is obvious; it features pretty, helpless young women being butchered by grubby men. But to me, the sadistic violence of the film was nothing compared with the thrill of Sally’s escape. She’s what Carol Clover calls the final girl, the woman who overcomes, like Jamie Lee Curtis’ battling heroine in Halloween.

For my generation, I can think of few women horror characters who fight, survive and retain a bit of everydayness. Apart from Buffy the Vampire Slayer. The original film was about a pointless woman who, it turns out, isn’t so pointless. The character in the cult TV series has been criticised for being more Barbie doll than feminist icon.

There are plenty of scholars with opinions on Buffy, and I’m not one of them. What I know is that La Buff was an ordinary woman who had to take on more work than she would have chosen. She loved a man who turned into a monster. She didn’t get much credit for what she did.

I’m part of the generation who emerged during the years of Jem and the Holograms. It was an in-between time for powerful female icons. We had tough, independent women cartoon characters and most of the neighbourhood mothers marched off to work every day. But there were few powerful female politicians (the Milk Snatcher doesn't count) or corporate heavyweights (yes, even fewer than now) and the third wave of feminism had yet to get off the ground.

Strong, subversive women characters in the male-dominated film industry and horror genre were a great inspiration. And great entertainment.

A version of this article appeared in Morning Quickie, 27 October 2011

In Kim's Handbag

2011-10-24T11:44:00.000-07:00

Kim is delightful

Kim is a Manchester-based web developer and PhD candidate. Although we've met only once, he kindly let me root through his bag in the sort of Northern Quarter bar where the waitresses wear wool hats. He's too postmodern for labels (darling), so I'll let the contents of his handbag speak for themselves.

HTC Desire phone
black wallet with velcro, a spare that Kim has been using for several years
brochure for a microbiology and art exhibition
Die Saften tissues
multicoloured wool hat
4 keys on a butterfly keychain
1 solitary key with a smiley face
1.50 Stagecoach bus ticket
1.20 Arriva bus ticket
William Morris notebook
postcard
black plastic clip, broken, origins unknown
hair elastic with large felt flower
transparent plastic pencil case
pink glitter lip balm
Vaseline original lip balm
Bach flower remedy
lime papaya solid perfume
Lush 'Love' solid perfume
business card for a local visual artist

Pen

2011-10-24T03:48:00.000-07:00

Here is my far too brief acknowledgement of the network of, amongst others, Tunisian bloggers who've been writing amidst violence and pressure to self-censor.

Writers continue to receive harsh prison sentences and execution for their words. It's a rare and wonderful day when we can see such courage, as in Tunisia this week, pay off.

It's also the 90th birthday of campaigning organisation English Pen, so named because the pen is mightier than the sword.

Freedom of speech and expression are violently oppressed around the world, by regimes who fear people and knowledge. From what we've seen this year, the will to communicate is far more powerful and effective than violence.

Congratulations to you, brave people.

Manchester Blog Awards

2011-10-22T07:47:00.000-07:00

Lots of quality work at The Manchester Blog Awards this week.

The Deaf Institute has strange and beautiful wallpaper. First time I've been to this lovely venue since moving to Manchester. From high up and far away on a shelf with my whisky glass clacking on the old polished wood, me and an increasingly beardy person in corduroy had a great spot to ascerbically comment on the proceedings as well as the luvvies at (net)work.

Despite feeling the need to turn my bullshitometer as far up as possible, I really liked the event. It wasn't a polished affair, nor should it have been, since we were there to take note of the work of bloggers. A shady bunch, I'm sure you'll appreciate, who frequently operate with sporadic regard for status quo.

There was more work of merit on show than the dregs of self-publicity. Manchester, I'm coming to realise (and yes I was told), has a profound blogger network which has a far greater say in the culture of the city than the mainstream press.

The non-fiction writers from the Real Story competition who started the event were a talented group. I was taken with Nija Dalal's story Hanging On, and Benjamin Judge's story Drinking Coffee with My Father in the Most Expensive Cafe in Manchester. Dalal is a great reader with uncompromising prose which manages to be delicate and lethal at once, while Judge's story and reading were emotionally well-timed.

Blogger Socrates Adams read from his new novel Everything's Fine. Witty ideas and prose, and a good reading (if a bit squeaky to begin with).

Awards-wise, there was plenty of variation of blog subjects, style and perspective.Only one or two clunkers. I won't dwell on these. The evening was solidly geared toward talented, diverse writing.

Love (Or Whatever) In The Wild East

2011-10-20T17:21:00.000-07:00

Here's a touchy subject: gender relations in Russia. I've thus far avoided a dedicated rant and restricted my comments to snarky asides. In retrospect, a continent away from my worries about stereotyping the Russians I like and the narcissism of the expat scene, I find it easier to describe.

Timely as well, having just reviewed the Booker-shortlisted story of a devushka in thigh-high boots and her expat lawyer. (I'm honour-bound here to admit that my lubovnik of my last year in Moscow was...er...an expat lawyer. But completely different from the others, I swear.)

summer love on Novi Arbat

And in the news, a Russian woman dragged through an English court, accused of being a spy and (subtext) a bit hot. I've got no idea if this woman is a spy. In any case I don't see why the court needs to read from her luststruck teenage diary, while the older, male politician she was sleeping with avoids the same treatment. We're not QUITE achieving gender equality here in the 'west'.

Moving along...

I arrived in Moscow with no expectations of the dating scene. I was writing a dissertation amidst a career change, and had left a significant relationship in Scotland. It was the last thing on my mind. When I started to tune in, I noticed the well-documented phenomenon of beautiful women on the arms of unattractive men, who all seemed to be carrying their girlfriends’ designer handbags.

Then there were the expat bars, filled with foreign men and Russian women. Nightclubs, guarded by intimidating 'face control' bouncers, admitted beautiful women and rich men, with preference given to gangsters and people speaking EU languages.

Cafe tables were populated by stunning women laughing at awful jokes made by expat men. You could tell the length of time these men had spent in the city by their reactions to the attention of women; the new foreigners were still in awe of their sudden sexual prowess, while the time-served sexpats (as they’re known) regarded it as more of a business transaction.

The routine was uncomfortably stereotypical. Men paid for everything, and the higher a man’s salary, the more he was expected to provide. Buying dinner, paying for a flat and giving a woman an 'allowance' each month are not uncommon.

My colleagues were mostly men, many in relationships, casual or long-term, with Russian women. In my time in Russia I’ve known exactly two women who have been involved long-term with Russian men.

One of these women described her initial relationship culture shock to me. It’s the done thing for men to pay for everything in Russia, a fact she found difficult to digest but went along with because, as she said, it seemed important to him and she knew compromises would have to be made somewhere.

Shortly after they started seeing each other, she thanked him as he signed the bill in a restaurant.

You have to stop thanking me, he said.

I’m just being polite, she replied.

Listen, he said. It isn’t necessary. Do I thank you every time we have sex?

Female Russian friends complained bitterly to me about the concept of Russian women fawning over foreign men for cash.

These aren’t Muscovite women you see, said a female Muscovite colleague, they’re girls from small towns who think finding a foreign man is like winning the lottery, a wedding and a visa.

My students, ambitious Russian women in their 20s and 30s, disproved the stereotype. None of them were particularly interested in foreign men, and held a dim view of their need for any sort of man. They were taking my class to advance their careers or get their own foreign work visas. They cackled uproariously when I gave them the lowdown on the average sexpat and his notions about Russian women.

Beautiful women, rich men. It’s a terrible cliché.

I was admonished constantly for performing manual labour; an administrator at work dove across the room and tackled me when I tried to replace the empty cylinder on the water cooler, warning me that my uterus would prolapse and that I should wait for the only male teacher in the building to come to our assistance.

Of course we can do these things, said a no-nonsense Russian woman and owner of her own auditing company when I related the watercooler story to her. I lift 40 kilos at the gym, and I can change my own tires. But if a man is around, I ask him to do it, so he feels like a man.

I was no closer to finding comfort, but I could see the reasoning. The Russian men I knew, though many of them were pleasant, interesting people, often had severely low self-confidence and a preoccupation with traditional masculinity.

Perhaps not surprising in a country where the Prime Minister feels it’s good PR to go on televised, carefully managed hunting trips in Siberia as testament to his leadership skills. Prominent men are often referred to as 'strong leaders,' while prominent women are overtly judged on beauty and 'femininity.'

When questioned on the recent electoral campaign involving young, pretty women ripping their clothes off in support of Putin, his PR responded by criticising Medvedev for having no attractive women on his team.

Gender relations are a complex issue everywhere, and in Russia I found them no less complex. Trying to view gender expectations from a Russian perspective while retaining my own hard-won ideals was a bigger challenge than I had anticipated.

a shorter version of this article originally appeared in Morning Quickie,19 October 2011

Snowdrops by A.D. Miller

2011-10-18T15:06:00.000-07:00

As a two year Moscow resident, I can vouch for the lack of exaggeration in A.D. Miller’s Snowdrops.

In this novel the city functions more as a vortex than a character. Elaborate strip clubs, intrinsic corruption, casual bigotry, ostentatious displays of wealth and brutal poverty assault the senses and dehumanise the book’s inhabitants.

Although the vivid image of Moscow is accurate, the lack of comparison with the more mundane side of Russian life reduced the book's credibility. There was little relief from violence and gaudy sex. A brief interaction later in the novel between Tatiana Vladimirovna and Oleg Nikolaevich was one of very few hints at a more human Russia which exists under the brutality.

The female characters fell flat. Masha, the most rounded woman in Snowdrops, comes across as a dressed-up stereotype. Olga the Tatar came close to giving relief from Masha and Katya, (frequently described in terms of tacky wardrobe and sashaying body parts), the stream of faceless sex workers and Tatiana Vladimirovna, the mandatory old woman who survived Leningrad.

The male characters are a slightly more diverse group, though none resonated with me. Lawyers Nick and his boss Paolo, and Steve the foreign correspondent are fairly believable. Amongst the sociopathic Cossack and the endless supply of stressed-out bureaucrats, “minigarchs” and police, none are memorable apart from Nick’s neighbour Oleg Nikolaevich and the Cossack’s downtrodden pipeline surveyor.

Although Nick’s initial attraction to Masha is believable, I struggled to comprehend his ongoing infatuation. Until the Christmas flight back to England and Nick’s withdrawal from Moscow, the character’s relationship with his adopted city and with Masha are unexplained. This brief scene cast some light on Nick’s state of mind, and provided mental relief from the disorienting setting of the novel.

The prose is more a series of visceral images than a cohesive portrait of a city. But to be fair, there’s nothing subtle or cohesive about Moscow. I was taken with Miller’s slightly clunky descriptions of the Metro system and the streets of central Moscow, the beautiful bulvars and hideous nightclubs. It’s an effective rich man’s view of the city, infused with basic sympathy for migrant workers and crime victims, but with an overriding complacency.

Miller’s literary devices are routine; almost like a checklist from a creative writing course. The orange Zhiguli (a Russian brand of car), the eerie neighbour’s portents of doom, the Cossack’s stern warning. The foreshadowing is awkward and predictable, as is the outcome.

Snowdrops focuses on a particular slice of Moscow life-aging expat men and the Russian women they interact with. As a snapshot of a particular way of life in a city at a dramatic period in history, the novel is at once unbelievable and truthful.

As a story of what a person decides not to see, Snowdrops is stark, disturbing and effective.

this review originally appeared in Morning Quickie, 18 October 2011

In Heather's Handbag

2011-10-17T12:54:00.000-07:00

Heather is a Calgary-based law librarian and stealth knitter. We were first introduced by Esther in a Thai restaurant in Nova Scotia. She kindly sent me a list of the contents of her handbag.

cheque book
eye liner
2 fridge magnet/bag clips, price tags still on
WestJet premium ear phones
Royal Bank of Canada sticky notes pad shaped like a house with the name of Heather's mortgage specialist
copy of the documents for the sale of Heather's condo in Halifax and purchase of her new place in Calgary
several of Heather's own business cards
black socks
crumpled theatre ticket dated August 19, 2010 (Heather didn't own this particular handbag until August 2011)
one tampon
crumbs
a nectarine (eaten before the publication of this list)
camera
anti-perspirant
hair elastic
american dime
book dart
Receipt for a 90 minute massage
small package of pepper
empty Werther's wrapper
tweezers
anti-histamines
letter from Sun Life Insurance
wallet with $5.55 in change.
one panty liner
transit pass
empty luna bar wrapper
parkade receipt
office keys
mother's house key
copy of Worth Dying For (a Jack Reacher novel) by Lee Child
copy of the new Sandra Gulland novel Mistress of the Sun (Heather informs us her trilogy about Josephine Bonaparte is excellent.)

Band On The Wall

2011-10-16T13:13:00.000-07:00

On a more positive things-going-on-in-Manchester note, I saw the QUITE impressive Baked A La Ska at Band on the Wall this weekend.

Band. On the wall.

Band on the Wall is a venue wayyyy up the top of the Northern Quarter, named thusly because they used to have a band in a wee shelf (on the wall), back when bands dressed up non-ironically in suits and ties and the like.

The old photos have a fantastic sinister ballroom quality.

I was cheered to note, whilst googling, that the venue is a not-for-profit project with an education program run by Inner City Music. Making the tenner I paid at the door much more palatable.

The musicians, all twelve of them, were the first band who've properly impressed me in some time. From several different projects (I think) who combine (I think) once a month. I'm vague on the details, which were bellowed into my ear during the gig. A seemingly random assortment of people and genre. Seamless and energetic.

There was a mysterious woman in a black dress perched on a stool on the mezzanine all evening. Looking sultry and proprietorial, lacking only a cloud of smoke and a lengthy cigarette holder. Very 1930s.

Manchester Literature Festival (International Anthony Burgess Foundation Event)

2011-10-16T10:39:00.000-07:00

Lots of Anthony Burgess events in Manchester yesterday, including a guided walk around the city, a talk from Burgess' biographer and an event featuring Jonathan Meades in the evening. The latter was in the architecturally fabulous home of the International Anthony Burgess Foundation in the city centre.

It started as a recollection of Meades' association with Burgess, and rapidly became all about Meades new work and the glory of Meades. Both valid underpinnings for a literary event, but some clarity would've been great.

The event lacked a ruthless, experienced chairperson, preferably with a no-nonsense stare, an eye on the clock and a talent for keeping things ticking along. You've made your point. Next question. Boom. The person who introduced Meades made a mild effort, but had a free range approach. Fatal. Probably not his fault.

The reading was five or six times longer than a reading should ever, ever be. It might have been very good work, and I'm sure I appreciated the first ten minutes. Thereafter I resented every word with the barely contained rage of a child in church.

At a latter stage in the reading I considered hurling my wine glass toward the front of the room. Or possibly one of the brick walls. My chair was uncomfortable and the air conditioning was baltic. I was grumpy. I'd worn a low-cut dress of the sort I suspect I'm getting too old for. I was beginning to envy the multi-coloured jumper on the bearded person squished next to me, who was having a small nervous breakdown.

At most literary events there will be a few great questions and a lot of long winded, pretentious bollocks. At this one, we endured endless back and forth chat between the author and a couple of tiresome people. Speedy, diplomatic answers to the silly questions would've been preferable, then a swift move to someone else. (I don't mean to keep harping on the point, but that's what a chairperson is for.)

Often I leave book events feeling enlightened. Or at least with a piqued interest. If I leave enraged, it's usually because I've been listening to a writer who records human rights abuses or has been jailed for revealing the disgraces of corrupt governments. I've never been tempted to cause a dramatic scene just to alleviate the despair of intense boredom.

I've thus far been to only one of the events forming part of the Manchester Literature Festival. I can't judge the whole fortnight based on one event, so I expect I'll have more cheery things to say later in the week. Onward.

Gosling Porn

2011-10-13T12:20:00.000-07:00

Ryan Gosling is nice. Does that make him a feminist?

A new blog shows photos of the Canadian actor with feminist and woman-friendly quotes and sayings, all beginning with Hey girl, Gosling’s throwaway phrase which gained quite a lot of attention.

A photo of the actor’s chest has the caption Hey girl, my eyes are up here, while another reads Hey girl, nolite te bastardes carborundorum, from Margaret Atwood’s The Handmaid’s Tale.

Gosling is a nice guy. He loves his mum and he snogged a man in public. As far as I can see, those facts make him a nice guy, though not necessarily a feminist.

image from http://feministryangosling.tumblr.com/

He did make a serious point about the way women are portrayed sexually on film, and censorship which rates female sexuality as more damaging than the sexual torture of women. He said:

The MPAA is okay supporting scenes that portray women in scenarios of sexual torture and violence for entertainment purposes, but they are trying to force us to look away from a scene that shows a woman in a sexual scenario, which is both complicit and complex. It’s misogynistic in nature to try and control a woman’s sexual presentation of self. I consider this an issue that is bigger than this film.

While not being an alpha male doesn’t equal feminism, Gosling’s point about censorship did bring about action.

Can I say he looks nice in a suit? No, probably not.

this article originally appeared in Morning Quickie, 13 October 2011

The Shoe Man Is Happy

2011-10-11T16:18:00.000-07:00

There's a cobbler whose small shop I've frequented over the years when visiting Manchester. He lurks behind his counter, polish-blackened fingers tapping at ancient equipment. He does fine work, and is flawlessly grouchy.

All inquiries are answered with spectacular gruffness. I don't care if you pick them up tomorrow! They'll be finished in an hour. Well fine, pick them up when you like!

The only glimmer of good cheer I've seen from the man is when I compliment him on his shoeing.

Oh, what lovely new heels, I say. Thank you very much. Behind his lengthy beard, a smile flickers. Then he shoos me out of the shop, muttering to himself.

That has all changed. Yesterday I arrived with my pseudo-dominatrix office boots, mashed to the hilt on the streets of Edinburgh. As the bell jingled on the rickety wooden door, I prepared for grouchiness.

Hello love, he said. I stopped shaking my umbrella and peered through the gloomily lit room. It was the same man. I produced the boots from a crumpled plastic bag, prepared to be told off for carelessly charging about on medieval cobblestones.

Lovely boots, dear. When would you like to collect them?

image borrowed from mothergoose.com

Today I went to collect my boots with their splendid new heels.

Hello darling, the cobbler said, smiling pleasantly. Still raining out there?

Er...yes, I said, umbrella dripping on the floor, hair expanding like Slash on a tropical holiday.

Ah well, he said, a bit of rain never hurt anyone. We'll count our blessings, eh?

Living in cities blessed with cobblestones and perpendicular streets for about a decade, I've formed a tight bond with my local shoe repair person.

I went to a small, family-owned cobbler near my old flat in Paisley when possible. It was run by four generations of a family originally from Italy. Because of not-very-convenient opening hours, I often ended up dropping off my vintage court shoes at the Timpsons next to Glasgow Central Station. They were nice guys, adept at dealing with frantic ladies whose heels had snapped on Buchanan St. Very professional, apart from one occasion when I was assisted by a young man who spent a long time caressing my red boots while asking are these yer dancin shoes hen?

In Leith I went to an incredible grubby, incredibly cheap local cobbler whose business was going down the tube thanks to the gaping hole we call the 'tramworks'. He was an epic miserablist, immune even to my notable charm. He insisted on putting metal heels on my stilettoes. Durable! he bellowed by way of explanation. Also slippery in the rain. But the shop was amazing, Dickensian in its grime, rejection of natural light and refusal to take credit cards.

In Krasnoselsky I took my shoes to the Tajik family who had a cobbler/seamstress kiosk in my local produkti. Moscow doesn't have Glasgow or Edinburgh's cobbles and hills to contend with, but it does tend to have gaping holes in the road, random bits of metal sticking out of Metro steps and paving stones that are not necessarily attached to anything.

Remont is one of the first Russian words newcomers learn, because repair shops are everywhere. A reminder of a very recent time when new stuff was difficult to come by, and shoes had to last. And last, and last.

During the longest stretch of time I spent in India, I went to street cobblers with my shoes. I'd watch as a man with minimal equipment and no shopfront bashed the damaged sole off my sandals. Then with incredible aptitude and a scary-looking curved needle, sewed a new one on. The process was lightning-quick and not-at-all expensive.

There's something otherworldly about cobblers. The tools seem almost unchanged compared with a century or two ago. So essential at one time, and more recently giving way to the disposable fashion industry. Compared with other businesses, there seem to be a great many cobblers who have kept their independent shops despite huge high street chains. I'd like to think that in the current economic misery, with people less inclined to buy new stuff, these dignified little shops will find a new niche.

I have no idea what could account for the Manchester cobbler's change in personality. In any case, he still does great heels.

World Porridge Day: Breakfast Of Slighty Dour Champions

2011-10-10T07:29:00.000-07:00

World Mental Health Day and World Porridge Day, for no reason I'm aware of, are sharing a page in my diary today [insert Scottish joke here].

I've recently blogged about mental health awareness, so today's rant will be devoted to the breakfast of slightly dour champions.

Oh porridge. I do love it. In Scotland it's no longer a staple breakfast. These are fast-paced times. But of late it has become fashionable, along with free range haggis, organic neeps 'n' tatties and defibrillators.

There's a collection of slick Glasgow cafe's doing porridge for breakfast, TriBeCa and Cafe Sejuiced amongst my favourites. Chocolate Soup, a central Edinburgh cafe, intolerable in August but great when the city shrinks back down to a sensible size, features a porridge bar with a selection of stuff in pots to ladle over yer oats. Chocolate sauce, for example. Custard and fair trade bananas. The cabinet had championship-winning porridge for breakfast last week, though it's unclear if it was mixed with salt or sugar.

It was something we had on cold (Canadian) winter evenings when I was growing up. Or snowed-in afternoons, after shovelling the driveway/building snowmen/other snow-related activities. Drizzled with maple syrup or brown sugar that turned a bit toffee-like on top. In Canada it's flocons d'avoine or porridge or oatmeal. Breakfast in the country of my childhood tends to be a muffin and coffee during the morning commute so, once again, not really a breakfast staple of the modern world.

Not everyone has happy associations with the stuff. I once went to a psychology tutorial in Stirling (long story), where the clearly disturbed professor became emotional while telling us about her military father who woke every morning at 5am, put a large pot of porridge on the stove to cook slowly for two hours, then forced all the kids to have a wash in cold water. It was thin, disgusting stuff, she told us between sobs. Mostly water with a bit of salt. The bastard.

Russian Kasha is no less complicated a concept, and usually doesn't involve oats. My brilliant Sasha wrote a lengthy deconstruction of the word here. The Russian idiom, stirring the kasha, meaning to cause trouble or (possibly) affect change. I like to think of it as a dissident's war cry, though most Russians I've questioned say it's used as a more mundane expression.

While I've poured cinammon-infused pomegranate compote over my posh porridge in urban Scotland and swilled it down with a £3 latte, charities like Mary's Meals have been on a porridge-related mission in less wealthy parts of the world.

The charity, which operates its international headquarters from a tin shed in the Argyll area of the Scottish Highlands, has one simple aim: To provide a daily meal in a place of education so chronically poor children are attracted to the classroom where they can gain a basic education that can provide an escape route from poverty.

Hell yeah, Mary's Meals.

And here's Rory McCann.

It's Take-Your-Best-Friend-To-Work Day!

2011-10-09T13:42:00.000-07:00

Here's a thing I've never done. Taken my best friend to work.

That would be strange, no? I can't grasp the reasoning that would lead to me taking a pal to lots of meetings. Especially the meetings which involve all those documents you're not supposed to leave on the train. I'd probably suggest we meet in the pub afterwards, or hang out another day when I'm not so busy.

It'd also be a bit odd, in my opinion, if my friend started making business cards saying they were sort of employed by me. I might want to have a sit-down chat with my friend, and ask if they were feeling a bit stressed or detached from reality.

I might also get annoyed if my best friend were arranging meetings for me. I hate it when other people put stuff in my diary. Totally confuses my schedule. Ursula Brennan probably knows what I'm talking about.

But I'm not a defence secretary, and my remit doesn't involve loads of weapon deals. Maybe those are the sort of meetings you can turn into an open house, like when your friend's friend who you haven't met before is having a party and your friend says yeah just come along and bring something to drink, it'll be nae bother.

Especially if the president of Sri Lanka is hosting. Or those guys in Dubai. They're quite casual about these things.

About The Handbag Series

2011-10-07T16:35:00.000-07:00

Murielle in Paris

The handbag series started when I was visiting my sister in Halifax, Nova Scotia. She came home from work and pulled sushi out of her bag. I made a list which became a blog post for reasons I can't remember. Then I tipped out my own handbag and make a similar list.

Those intial lists were typical of the nonsense me and my sister find hilarious, like the need to have carrot sticks and eyelash curlers to hand on an average day at the office. What I found when our lists were in print was a miniature, static and unusually intimate biography.

The lists became more detailed as more people volunteered their bags. A format emerged.

Nadja in Moscow

The first few times I insisted on being present to see the bag tipped out. I wanted complete honesty, and imposed the same on myself when I listed my own bag at different times, in different locations.

Eventually I stopped insisting on being a witness, because the people who send me their lists from all corners of the globe include everything; tampons, unpaid bills, antidepressants, condoms, chewed pens, photos of ex lovers.

Jennifer in Moscow

As Susanna, one of my victims said this week in her collaborative blog, the innards of a handbag are intimate. I'd never dig in someone else's, and even if I were given permission it would still feel more awkward than looking in someone's underwear drawer.

Everyone who volunteers for the project says the same things; that they think their bag will be boring, that they can't believe how much stuff they carry around. Thus far no one has complained of feeling overexposed. At least two have described it as liberating.

The lists have been getting more detailed. Now they include a breakdown of wallet contents, including bank cards, the amount on receipts, photographs, bits of thread, crumbs.

Susanna in Delhi

The handbags have become geographical as well as personal. After I'd done a few Moscow bags, my sister asked why everyone I knew carried their passport around. It had become second nature by then to be prepared for the militsia to demand documents in the street, so I hadn't really noticed how odd it would seem on the outside. People in the UK always have an umbrella. Canadians have first aid supplies. Passe Navigo in Paris, Oyster Card in London, Metro Card in Moscow.

Miriam in Moscow

Currency, receipts and personal items add up to a sort of fingerprint. No two handbags are alike, but some themes are common. I know two people with the same phone and three who were carrying a particular brand of lip balm. Most people have a public transport ticket, something to write with, a gift or something with handwriting on it. There are strange combinations, like a colleague in Moscow who was carrying a rosary and emergency bribe money.

Dzho in Moscow

Some fascinating, clever people have volunteered for this project in places as far-flung as Moscow, Paris, Glasgow, Dublin, Halifax, Delhi, Fredericton, Calgary, Paris, Edinburgh and Vermont. They are artists, writers, teachers, photographers, lawyers, bankers, students and retail managers. I've fallen a little bit in love with all of them, for being so generous and for the unguarded side I see of each of them.

There's nothing so brave as vulnerability.

Most of my handbag people were convinced there would be nothing of interest in their bags. They were all wrong.

If any readers are interested in being handbagged, get in touch.

National Poetry Day UK

2011-10-06T06:51:00.000-07:00

Thunder, lightning and generally shifty weather for National Poetry Day UK.

My tasks, along with the everyday stuff like amateur plumbing, include sharpening a poem about skin to the finest, most subversive point possible. Heavy editing is in my future, because a poem must have a shape and this one only has a trajectory.

Nevermind that. Here are poems which move me to lucidity, reflection and acts of rebellion, by Keorapetse Kgositsile, Al Purdy, Margaret Atwood and Edwin Morgan:

Dine & Dash, Tory Style

2011-10-04T15:07:00.000-07:00

The streets aren't safe this week for middle-aged men in suits.

The two sitting next to me on the train about to depart Piccadilly this evening seemed a bit flustered, then one rang home and said We're safely on the train now, after being mistaken for Tory MP's in various pubs.

photo stolen from the Daily Rage

Oh yes, the Tories are in town. Manchester* is awash in blue lanyards, deep side partings and wheelie suitcases embossed with family crests.

They've got off to a great start by skipping the bill at the Radisson. Osborne made a long speech about money, something he purports to know about despite evidence to the contrary. Some other things happened. Nothing important.

Manchester, an ethnically diverse, industrial city which saw the earliest days of the women's movement and trade unionism, welcomed the Conservative Party Conference to town by protesting on Sunday in numbers of 30,000 or thereabouts.

This has long been a city of protest, and social progress. To combat violence and social problems in Manchester, there are widespread, innovative community projects. Unfortunately these are closing or dangerously understaffed because some people think the cash will be better spent on scrapping the Human Rights Act.

I suppose that'll be fine, because this has been a peaceful year in England and there are clearly no young people around in need of guidance.

Bearing all that in mind, I'm not sure what sort of welcome the Tories were expecting the week. Possibly it would have been more sensible to hold the conference in a place where the party is more relevent, like 1892.

And I DO hope anyone doing a dine 'n' dash will feel the 'full force of the law'. Tough love and all that.

*For those who keep up, I live in Manchester now, which means I'll have to start paying attention to Westminster 'politics'. Watch this space.

Layers Of L'Oreal

2011-10-02T15:33:00.000-07:00

because you're worthless

Oh dear, not a good week for L'Oreal.

Lightening an Indian woman's skin for a cosmetics ad (or similar weirdness) isn't an isolated incident in the world of 'fashion' (ie airbrushed humans, massive perfume ads and deranged advice columns), nor is it confined to western marketing. Indian Elle was recently accused of applying the same treatment to photos of Aishwarya Rai, Freida Pinto's L'Oreal predecessor.

I don't think this is a direct attack on Indian women by the west; the Mumbai-based film industry is overt when it comes to the vigorous promotion of a particular shade of human skin, which is linked to a slightly different set of prejudices than in the west. Indian celebrities who are courted by the western publicity machine aren't, as far as I can see, subjected to any greater bigotry than back in the hood.

I don't wear make-up or buy Cosmo et al (smug), so rarely noticed cosmetics ads until I moved to Russia. They're difficult things to avoid in Moscow where a suspiciously less-black-than-usual Naomi Campbell spent a good six month glowering from megabillboards on Novi Arbat.

How could anyone think the uterus scrapings of a snowy leopard extracted with a platinum speculum and magical teaspoon would make their eyes look less knackered than, for example, sleep? And don't get me started on 101 ways to tell if your boyfriend is sleeping with his best friend's brother. I'm insulted on behalf of humanity (smug, smug).

I once watched an acquaintance of mine, a successful lawyer, inject her own forehead with botox in the toilets of a Moscow nightclub.

I'm grouchy, not with the marketing industry, but with the hundreds of years of history that brought women to our current position of unprecedented power combined with abject terror of wrinkles. Or skin that's too dark, or too pale.

My own insecurities, which have little to do with being pretty and bugger-all to do with what's known as my heritage, but are just as banal, are irrational when I hold them against my tangible achievements. And yet they dictate my life to some extent, and for every insecurity there is an advertising campaign.

skin lightening cream for sale in Manchester

The concept of measuring and tempering ethnicity, often placed firmly in a historical context, isn't exactly a thing of the past. In Asian and African-Caribbean communities in the UK, shop windows dedicate space to skin-lightening and hair-relaxing.

It isn't, of course, entirely the burden of women. With the pressure to be pretty more evenly distributed between the genders, men are starting to freak out. Not just about how to squeeze into skinny jeans, but the abstract notion of pigmentation. I was once sent on an ill-fated blind date with a man whose parents were Indian expats, who spent several frantic minutes explaining to me that he wasn't usually as 'dark' as the photo our mutual friend showed me.

Both Rai and Pinto are Indian woman who achieved their biggest (western) career boosts by appearing in collaborative Indian/British films which gained a high profile outside India. To clarify, I'm a fan of east-west fusion cinema; on a personal level it resonates with me more than art which is rooted in a single culture. In the wider sense it reflects, with varying degrees of success, modern globalised culture, in particular the mixed family.

Point is, both actors have been approved for public consumption by the Indian, British and American film industries. We're seeing these women not only through a filter of idealised western beauty, but idealised Indian beauty. And not just beauty but lifestyle and ideology.

Skin lightening is just scratching the surface.

Updated 29 October 2011: thought-provoking article from a person I've smugly placed as 'the other', a woman who uses skin lightening products.

Mending (Story Of A Dress)

2011-09-29T14:46:00.000-07:00

Most of my clothes have been stuffed in boxes for the last three years while I piss about in faraway kleptocracies with complex bribery systems.

Cherished items include the found ones, dug out of charity shop rails, or high street things hoarded long enough to look original. Far more treasured are the things I've made myself, or which I've been fortunate enough to buy from the maker.

One of these is a dress I unearthed on Tuesday evening, crushed in a cardboard box.

I bought it in Glasgow circa 2006, from a Punjabi lady who owned a fabric shop and had a booming sideline in fusion clothes with what she surely regarded as too-low necklines. Her niece, a no-nonsense Southside girl, did eyebrow threading in the back room for a fiver. The music was an unidentified radio station featuring Canadian Bhangra alternated with the latest Britney or whoever the overplayed popstar was at the time.

I paid 20 quid for the dress with a few incense sticks thrown in, had the threading torment and carried my new treasure home in a blue plastic bag. Over the years I wore it to a birthday parties, summer evenings in beer gardens, outdoor theatre, a deadly boring gallery opening, the Barrowlands and an ill-fated dinner in Merchant City.

The skirt rustles in a satisfying manner.

I had to unfold the dress carefully when I dug it out of the box; it's made of layers of sari remnants sewn together with single rows of frayed stitching. I remembered washing it carefully by hand and laying it to dry on towels on my sitting room floor after some tube spilled beer all over me in King Tut's. Apart from a bit of dust and the smell of inaction it seemed intact, until I noticed a huge tear in one of seams.

Deducing that I must not have worn the dress since the skirt was torn, I set about remembering how exactly this had occured. Memory has never been my strong point; for dialogue and emotions, but not when I particularly want to remember a thing. Still, I can usually recall what I was wearing at times of high tension. Could it have been a dramatic rending of fabric?

As I was fiddling with the sewing machine's threading apparatus it finally occured to me, and as it did I paused, no longer certain I wanted to mend the dress. It seemed like a straggly old ghost had come to my doorstep, and while I didn't want to invite it in, neither did I want to send it away. An uneasy creature likely to lurk in the bushes, something I'd rather banish.

But of course I did mend the dress. I'm not going to let misappropriated sentiment get in the way of fashion. And there is something simple, basic, about sewing torn fabric, so at least it looks as good as new.

I wore it to a dinner party and gorged myself on cheese and wine hauled through the Eurotunnel in Malchik's backpack.

Just as well the rip was along the seam.

In Sasha's Handbag

2011-09-25T15:29:00.000-07:00

Sasha, giver of wonderful gifts and curator of the best cafe knowledge in Russia. He once stole a spoon and a racist beermat for me, which I treasure.

We met at a Halloween party in Moscow and had a year of liberating conversation over Bloody Mary's in elaborate and less elaborate venues all over the city. I'd have no idea where to drink my Sunday brunch if it weren't for him.

Now Sasha, brilliant linguist, is in Vermont, doing postgraduate work at The Center for Cartoon Studies. He kindly took time from his schedule to send me the contents of his bag. Prepare to be thrilled...

Single stick of Wrigley's Spearmint Gum (all crumpled up in its shiny green wrapper at the bottom of the bag)
sage green pill case with one Xanax left
Prismacolor magic rub eraser
fake ray ban sunglasses bought on the street in Toronto
pad of bristol paper
transparent pink clipboard
massive headphones in a bag Sasha's mom made out of some black fabric that has a grey construction-tools pattern on it (super manly, in Sasha's opinion)
Sasha's dear laptop
laptop cord and phone charger in a bag Sasha's mom made out of a vintage dish towel from the 60s, embroidered with heteronormative bears in love. One side has bears kissing on a park bench surrounded with hearts and the word "KISS." The other side has bears getting married with the word "BLISS." Kitsch-tastic.
an essay about Soviet ethnography that Sasha is editing, stuffed in a beaten-up blue folder on which Sasha has written to-do lists
Vermont speeding ticket that Sasha has to pay online

Transparent green plastic Erich Krause file pocket from Moscow, currently filled with Sasha's cartoons in various states of completion:

pencil drawings for a gay-ed up imitation of sexist 30s pulp
sketches of owls that Sasha saw at a nature center the other day
a completed scifi adventure comic about Walter Benjamin
(also a huge color photocopy of Swamp Thing that Sasha found in the recycling and doesn't know what to do with)

Art supplies in a bag Sasha's mom made out of an old green plaid dish towel:

Micron pens
blue mechanical pencil
various pen nibs (B6, C5, Gnib, Hunt's 102)
a nib holder
windsor-newton ink
detail brushes
white out
pink pearl eraser

Switching Places: Russian Politics Rant # 239

2011-09-24T05:39:00.000-07:00

Politics is often the touchiest subject to introduce in a Russian classroom, followed closely by race, gender, religion and the film version of Nasha Russia.

It certainly isn't a topic I bring up until I know my students well. Twice I began new classes in Moscow companies and was briefed before hand by corporate minions who informed me that I was not, under any circumstances, to bring up 'controversial things'.

The students in one of these groups immediately had a thumping debate about the whereabouts of Luzhkov's cash. I promptly disregarded my instructions in that case.

Have you ever taught modals of obligation in a sound-sealed room dominated by an autographed photograph of Medvedev next to a significantly larger autographed photo of Putin whilst trying not to blurt out something like 'Gazprom'? No?

Difficult vocabulary to teach in Russia incudes 'election' and 'vote'. Partly because a lot of people have never voted in an election, considering it a waste of time, so my inventive miming doesn't stretch very far. Once I do manage to define the words, I'm inevitably met with laughter/derisive snorting.

My colleague once discussed elections with a class, and it emerged that only one of the people present had voted. The story goes, the woman turned up at the polling station and the officer waved the woman's mother's ballot at her, asking if her mother was planning to vote that day. When the woman said that her mother probably wouldn't bother, the officer informed her that her mother's vote would be used for X candidate.

Everyone in Russia magically knows the outcome of an election before the votes are counted. Which makes me wonder, does it make a blind bit of difference, in a pantomime electoral system, if Medvedev endorses Putin? Or for that matter, is there any point to the increasingly weird campaigning efforts leading up to the election.

Now I must add, I LOVE talking politics with Russians. There are of course a worrying number of people who refer to Putin as a 'strong leader', particularly after a staged fight between Putin, five nijas and a Siberian tiger on the roof of a speeding electrichka. Making me wonder on occasion if the Russian and English words for 'strong' have completely different meanings.

There are also a lot of clued in people with a wicked sense of humour and flair for debate. Unfortunately, most of those people are preoccupied with getting a visa in order to get the hell out of Russia. I don't expect Medvedev and Putin switching places will alter that situation.

There's Something About Jane Eyre

2011-09-22T18:30:00.000-07:00

I was once admonished by a substandard boyfriend when, during a time of great distress, I read and re-read Jane Eyre about half a dozen times without variation. I finished the novel, then turned back to the first page to start again. Then again.

There are a few conclusions we could draw from this:

Don't get involved with men who are jealous of books.
Woe betide the fool who gets between me and a good novel.
There is something in Jane Eyre that must be excavated.

Cary Fukunaga's 2011 film adaptation is an excellent representation of the novel, apart from a few sticky bits I'll get to in a moment.

The spine of this story is Jane's tearing away from a rare, inexplicable warmth, and the thing which turns out to be too good to be true, reinforcing a lifetime of degradation. Bearing that in mind, the choice to begin at the point of Jane's climactic early morning flight into the moors is a bit of genius. Running into a miserable landscape in the freezing early morning is a brutal analogy for a thing we've all done, perhaps, to different degrees, in different ways. Not necessarily running from a lover, though surely a few of us have been a long way down the road before we're missed.

The repetition of Jane's own name by different voices throughout the film is a fine way of showing the character's perception of herself through her history. The contrast of Rochester's voice with Reed's sets this up nicely, and the brilliantly atmospheric backdrop of the dark hall and harsh landscape beautifully represent the devotion of the novel to landscape and the uncertainty of a solitary person in an unforgiving, exposed environment.

Mia Wasikowska is flawless. I couldn't have conjured a more perfect Jane. Michael Fassbender is great actor with a great script, but a bit too pretty for the role. A bit too...Darcy-like, though only in appearance. Fassbender's performance is a marvellous combination of arrogance, pretense and sadness, and Mia Wasikowska's Jane is a perfect opponent.

The presentation of Rochester's women, with the exception of Jane and Mrs Fairfax, disappoints me. Blanche Ingram is a lightweight and doesn't illuminate Jane's insecurities vividly enough, Bertha Mason is romanticised and dehumanised far beyond any injustice done to her in the novel and the exclusion of the Celine Varens backstory sacrifices an important look at Rochester's character, and Jane's to some extent. Though it likely would've crowded the film, the lack of development of the Lowood School following the Typhoid outbreak left out an important aspect of Jane's background.

I went along to the cinema with someone who hadn't read the novel and didn't know the plot at all. This turned out to be an unexpectedly thrilling experience, watching such a familiar story play out to entirely new eyes. Like wandering around your own city with a first-time visitor.

I was asked afterwards if the dialogue was true to the book. Curiously, I'd rarely thought of the novel in terms of dialogue, focusing more on Jane's monologue. Moira Buffini's script uses Jane and Rochester's conversation to great effect, along with Mrs Fairfax (the dark horse of the novel) and Jane's careful, weighted chat. This story is, to a large extent, about what is left unsaid by all around and what is laid brutally on the table by Jane and Rochester in honest, yet guarded language.

Jane is a tough girl who holds her depth of feeling close to her chest. Vulnerable without showing weakness, as I recently heard someone say. To me she's always represented the brutal, unromantic side of freedom, the force of will required walk into the cold in order to avoid being shaped into a role chosen by someone else. This, of course, is the dark side of rescue, and Jane is not a damsel in distress.

There is something about this story that catches people. A feminist reading certainly raises well-documented questions about the Bertha Mason character, and the religious justification used by Jane in the novel has often struck me as incongruous with the character.

Still, there is something about Jane Eyre that keeps people excavating.

In Sinead's Handbag

2011-09-21T12:03:00.000-07:00

'Christ I’ve a lot of crap'-Sinead, 2011

Sinead, a 38yr-old Dubliner, lives beside Trinity College in the centre of the city and loves every second of it.

She lives with her English boyfriend Rory; has done for nearly ten years, though they've only been a couple eight years (they met as flatmates, apparently a long and boring story).

Sinead works in finance, loves to drink white wine and put the world to rights with her friends, which she regards as an Irish sort of thing to do.

Me and Sinead have yet to meet in the flesh (our paths nearly crossed in London this year but not quite). We have the pleasure of sharing a mutual and fabulous friend Isabelle, a love of books and an adoration of Gabriel Byrne which Isabelle doesn't understand at all.

Sinead says she's mortified with all the crap she carries around in her large black patent bag, so is immediately going home to bin most of it. Before she does, let's have a good rummage:

Dublin flag (to celebrate All Ireland win)
Print off of a pair of orange trousers Sinead's mum wants to see before she buys them for her
18 John Player Blue cigarettes
3 Nurofen Plus
4 Alka Zelters
18 Zerc tablets (Sinead suffers badly from vertigo)
4 old packets of chewing gum
Pair of black patent flat shoes
Zip Vit book which has lots of vitamins for sale (for Sinead's mum) open at the glucosamine sulphate page for her knees that Sinead have to order her on the internet.
Book of Silence of the Grave Arnaldur Indridason
Hair clips
Two random O’brien milk chocolates Sinead got free with her morning coffee
Apartment keys
Lighter
Two pair of sunglasses – one red, one black – Dublin apparently has not seen the sun properly since before Sinead was born
One cream/one black hair scrunchy
A roll of labels
Nokia mobile phone that is four years old and two buttons that are separate from the phone in bag
A blue pen
A bottle of Gucci by Gucci perfume
A bottle of dove deodorant

Make up bag:

Mascara
Pencil parer
Eye liner
New brown eyeshadow from lancome
Old brown eyeshadow from lancome
Maybelline fatal red lipstick 530
Gold mirror and Estee lauder sensous body sheen
Blusher brush
Two old sponges
4 Eye shadow applicators
Rimmel powder
Rimmel voluptuous shiny lipgloss
Elizabeth Arden eight hour cream
Old rimmel 140 kiss me lipstick
Brown Bourjois eye make up
Estee lauder 10 stay scarlet lipstick
Bashed up scratched small black mirror
Miss Sporty flirtatious blusher
Rimmel spring flower 001 blusher
Christian Dior skin sculpt foundation
A make up sponge

Wallet

(pictured) photos/memorabilia Sinead likes to keep close
Two twenty euro notes and one ten euro note
Four euro pounds coins
One euro pound coin
Three 5 cent coins
Two fifty cent coins
One tweny cent coin
Boots advantage card
AIB code card
Body Shop loyalty card
The Waldorf Astoria key card as a reminder of a stay there in 2009 with the girls.
Ticket for the top of the rock 5/2/2009
Stub from broadway show phantom of the opera 4/2/2009
Ticket for the Sagradea Familia from 21/5/10
Ticket for the Dali museum undated
Ticket for the Coliseum from 24/3/7
Ticket for the Vatican museum from 26/3/7
Visa credit card
AIB debit card
Butlers coffee shop loyalty card
O’Brien’s coffee shop loyalty card
ILAC centre library card
Brown Thomas loyalty card
Viennos Handbag Boutique loyalty card
Rotunda hospital appointment card
ESAT form for when Sinead travelled to New York.
Airline stubs from Portugal/trip to Marbella/London – other mementos are in a different wallet

Long Live The Pen

2011-09-19T15:09:00.000-07:00

This article by Daniel Agnew, one of my new favourite bloggers, sent me on a dark journey into my handwriting psyche.

Maybe not so dark, actually, but I wanted to build a bit of dramatic tension. Moving along...

I was in the teachers' room last month, explaining to a colleague the sexually graphic revelations I'd heard about one of the world's greatest civil rights leaders at the book event I'd reviewed the previous evening.

It was an open-plan space, and I quickly reached the limits of appropriate workplace conversation. In an effort not to horrify our surrounding colleagues, I opened my book to the page of notes from the event. Now to be fair, I was scribbling in the semi-darkness, very quickly, in my own invented shorthand system. It took a while but my colleague interpreted enough words to put him off his lunch.

This was the same colleague who, a year earlier, had wandered into my classroom and then spent several days verbally admiring my boardwork. As I recall, he said it looked like the sort of script Jane Austen might have used to pen her novels. I'll take that, is what I said.

The difference here is obvious. My review notes are functional, written under weird conditions and (ideally) for my eyes only. What I write on a whiteboard is for students learning a language, whose first languages often don't use the Roman alphabet. Function, necessity.

It occurs to me as I type that two of the three main occupations I've had involve my handwriting being on display. As a teacher it's an everyday thing, and in social services we're all aware that our handwritten notes will be audited, inspected and potentially passed around in court. (Writers, as well, keep non-electronic notebooks, though these are usually not meant to be seen by others.)

My penmanship, however, is not a thing I set out to show the world.

As a first generation Canadian, my early life was punctuated with thank-you letters to faraway relatives. These were probably appreciated by the recipients, ie my Grandmothers, but I've yet to meet a child who sees the importance of a polite letter when daylight is fading and there's a nice array of mud puddles/leaves/snow to cavort in. (My friends' children thank me for gifts via skype.)

I was aware my handwriting left something to be desired. My grandmother informed me of this frequently, giving me (from a culturally detached position) the impression that all English ladies of a certain generation were obsessed with penmanship. I eventually became aware that it was a calling card at one time, the way the format I choose for my CV is now.

By the time I started school, I'd learned to read and write, but had developed my own special method of pen holding. It remains my party trick to this day, like double-jointedness or that thing I've never been able to do with a ping-pong ball.

A few teachers tried to correct my heathenish pen-holding ways, but because of my lifelong habit of doing exactly the opposite of what I'm told, failed badly. My mum was liberal about the whole business, sensibly realising that in the electronic age my first CV would not be handwritten. (Nowadays Mum apparently googles me to find out what I've been up to. That'll be another blog post, I think.)

It wasn't until sometime in my 20s I realised how dramatically my writing had changed. I bought a flat in Glasgow and finally disembowled some boxes of Old Stuff from my youth. Letters amongst them, some half-written thank-you notes and my early attempts at short stories. A few early attempts at love letters as well, which surprised me in their graphic and unromantic honesty.

The handwriting was legible and deliberate, the pen pressed hard to the paper, making me recall the pain in the bones of my thumb and forefinger. I remembered a school friend telling me (scornfully) my writing was unfeminine, as though it were a crime.

Around the time I stopped resembling the photo of my teenage self in my passport but before the document needed to be renewed, I was on a flight to France. The wary customs agent asked me to sign a bit of paper in order to match my signature with the one on the passport. By then I'd been working for several years in 3rd sector social housing, and had to put my signature to everything I wrote. It had changed considerably, from my entire name with middle initial in cursive to a GP-like squiggle representing my first initial and surname. It took a lot of convincing to get into France that day.

My books and other sacred possessions have been in boxes for the last three years, while I've been roaming the earth, to a fro, etc etc. I have the habit of using old tickets, receipts, postcards and photographs as bookmarks, forgetting about them as I read and using another bit of rubbish as a bookmark. So my books are full of this nonsense. I've written on a surprising number of receipts, as have other, including a friend who signed a beer mat with a promise to lend me his sperm should I ever wish to conceive.

Beer mats and receipts aside. Cards, I think, are the only place we regularly see one another's handwriting. Occasionally, in these stored books, I find old birthday cards or postcards from my adult life with ambiguous signatures-just a letter or squiggle-and can't decipher who the sender was.

I do, however, immediately recognise the handwriting of people I knew from before the age of email. Notes passed at school, long letters from friends detailing teenage misery.

We are the last relics of the last pen-and-paper generation.

In Jennifer's Handbag

2011-09-18T14:21:00.000-07:00

Jennifer is a Moscow-based teacher and teacher trainer, and knows everything about teaching languages to the small, small children. I'm baffled by this knowledge, and so are you.

She comes from a pretty English seaside town and is one of the longest-serving expats I've known in Russia, clocking in at nearly a decade. She's good with a camera, acrobatic even when full of wine and is closely guarding a secret of mine which could result in my never again being granted a Russian visa.

Without further ado, let's rummage in her handbag:

Ice and the English Imagination by Francis Spufford
642 Things to Draw notebook
Junzo Terada animal notebook with a jellyfish sticker on the front (book from NYC, sticker was a present from the Antarctic Genius)
Nurofen tablets
Crabtree and Evelyn Soap leaves
mini Hermes Cologne from Jennifer's sister (well-travelled)
Chanel No. 19 body spray
Dior compact and concealer
Japanese lemon lip balm
toothbrush and tooth paste
Cherry blossom handcream
spare contact lenses
3 headbands
mars bar
camera
mobile
passport in SGI passport holder
Tiffany credit card holder with 2 credit cards
purse and money
discount cards for L’Occitane, TSUM, Foto Proekt, L’Etual
2xMcDonalds coffee cards
Wall-E and Little Miss Sunshine Key rings with keys
Spare change and paperclips

notebook from Venice (present from Jen) with various bits of paper that make Jennifer happy:

Smart water advert
Christmas gift tag
Dad’s business card x 2
First Aid instructions
Airshow ticket
Boston metro ticket
JFK Airtrain ticket
UK travelcard
London Underground ticket (never used because Jennifer was rescued by 3 knights)
Madrid metro ticket
cinema ticket
Bookshop receipt
map of directions from Jennider's sister in NY
chocolate wrapper origami

Pencil case (gift from Jennifer's sister) with:

fountain pen
muji felt tips and highlighters
Staedtler Mars Lumograph pencils
Nemo ruler
zebra rubber
Berlin pencil sharpener
3 treasury tags
butterfly pin
lightning paperclip

Truth Is Truer Than Fiction

2011-09-17T03:29:00.000-07:00

I s'pose I'll just go ahead and add my rant to the Johann Hari cacophony. It's going to be a grumpy one because frankly, the boy is a fool. An arrogant fool, which is the worst kind, and his half-arsed apology has just tipped me from mildly disinterested to grouchy.

Look, I didn't go to journalism school either, but I know the difference between 'truth' and 'lies'. Is that not just basic professional ethics, regardless of the profession? You don't have to answer that question, because I trust most of you can grasp this small but important fact:

If I'm recording a conversation or statement from a social work client or stakeholder, I can't misquote or misrepresent the person by omission. If I'm teaching, I can't pass off someone else's intellectual property as my own. If I'm writing a review, I can't misquote or misattribute a quote to an author. I'd probably be sacked if I did those things. I'd deserve it.

Basic. Principle.

A good one to understand if you're, for example, reporting from war zones, where the weight of words can be deadly.

To be fair, this looks like a case of responsibility being handed to a person on a basis other than merit. Not entirely Hari's fault. If someone had offered me a well-paid, prestigious job that was way the hell out of my depth when I was not much more than I teenager, I might very well have taken it.

As for inventing internet identities to bother people...oh for goodness sake. This is a gloomy scandal, I wish I'd picked the rogue trader or the Johansson photos.

In Murielle's Handbag

2011-09-16T08:27:00.000-07:00

Murielle, who just returned to her hometown of Paris after a 13 year absence, is a set-designer with sidelines in photography, writing and painting. She spent the last year in St Petersburg where she wrote an excellent blog about the Wild East, and the 12 years before that in London.

She's obsessed with everything British or Russian, a confirmed figure skating geek (she apparently criticises better than she skates), an infrequent but enthusiastic cook, amateur psychoanalyst and traveller (preferably to odd places).

She's kindly allowed us a look inside her fake leather and canvas tote, with an interesting print pattern involving red skulls and crossbones, navy birds and gold anchors. And hearts.

Funnily enough, Murielle also owns a non-fancy LG phone
blue Bic biro with 0.5 tip (she hasn't used anything else since primary school)
2Bbattered sketching pencil
A6 notepad with kitsch photo of St Petersburg during the White Nights on the front cover
Panasonic camera that can only be removed from Murielle's hand by surgery
old but faithful iPod Shuffle, silver with traces of paint
mini pink Sure deodorant spray in 'Tropical Power' scent
black and fuschia retractable brush and mirror handbag set
Passe Navigo (French Oyster Card)
Plan de Paris (Murielle gets lost constantly)
deck of cards bought in the Moscow Metro with everything in Cyrillic

wallet in extremely faux embossed leather, containing:

French debit card
UK debit card
French NHS card (aka Gold Dust)
emergency metro ticket
French ID card
discount cinema card
1 British and 1 French Organ Donor Card, so that there shall be a scramble over Murielle's dead corpse
red, heart-shaped leather charm

In inside zipped pocket:

set of housekeys with red double-decker keyring
almost empty mini pack of tissues
4 plasters, for when Murielle wears high heels
3 unidentified white tablets, left from a pack of 8

In outside zipped pocket:

Crabtree & Evelyn crème brulee lip butter (yum!)
Nivea молоко и мёд lip balm bought in Riv Goch' (hilariously named Russian cosmetics chain). Nearly extinct but kept for sentimental reasons.
Sephora vinyl effect lip pencil
embossed metal cigarette case that may or may not have belonged to a Red Army officer in the 1930s
red plastic lighter

Business Time (David Cameron v Vladimir Vladimirovich)

2011-09-12T17:21:00.000-07:00

Earlier this year I set out on a mission; to find an independently-owned cafe in Moscow.

I asked everyone I could think of. My students (who were by this juncture used to my nonsense), colleagues and friends, sympathetic-looking waiters who became frightened and took me for a corporate spy.

Most of the Russians shook their heads briskly and said Meeriam, no. You will not find this in Moscow, then changed the subject to something less controversial, like Chechnya. My fellow silly foreigners racked their brains, but every suggestion, even the most carefully researched, sent me down a murky, misty dead end.*

In my two years in Moscow, I rarely encountered small or medium enterprise. Do I need to explain this?

Now, dear reader, you probably know that Mr Cameron, after all sorts of wheedling from various quarters, met Vladimir Vladimirovich in Moscow today to talk about Not Khodorkovsky, Not (very much) Litvinenko, Not Any Dead Journalists and Not Any Dead Lawyers. They did discuss Russia-UK trade, and Cameron et al finished the day with more than a few million quids worth of future Russian business to toast over vodka and impossibly salty pickles. God help anyone who had to sit through the vodka speeches.

You probably also know that since the end of the pantomine Khodorkovsky trial in late 2010, foreign businesses have been even more wary of moving into Putin's Russia. Cameron's visit today included his epic assertion that Russia has some of the lowest barriers to entrepreneurship in the world. He's obviously not talking about trying to open a nice little organic cafe in Kitai Gorod, nor the big business route which results in assets being seized or being sent to a prison camp after pissing off the wrong folk. I'm not sure what he's on about, actually.

Sure, maybe we need Russia's business. Maybe we've shoved ourselves into a position of needing Russia's business. Just about everyone in Russia is living in some degree of terror, but I do hope that won't get in the way of diplomacy, and while we're doing a bit of the old diplomacy let's talk business, because nothing says bilateral relations like a few juicy contracts.

I'm getting a bit ranty. Maybe some cultural orientation would help.

Apart from what we all know about top-down corruption in Russia, business in the country is, generally speaking, a large, top-down creature. Based on my experience of working in an international franchise locally-owned in Moscow*, and of teaching in corporate environments in the city, here is character list of people you'll find in a Moscow office:

The Director.
Employees of varied rank and ability.
At least five of the highest-ranking employees are The Director's cousin/brother/mistress/Komsomol buddy/divorce lawyer.
A driver who knows all, reveals nothing and can stop on a kopek.
Heavily armed and impeccably polite security guards.
A terrifying babushka in a floral kaftan guarding at least one point of entry into the building (the only person who doesn't take any shit from The Director).
Cleaners, mainly from Kyrgyztan.

The Director makes decisions, everyone else does as they're told, even if they're told to do something that absolutely won't work. Nobody messes with the babushka. And so we go on.

A more sophisticated analysis, provided by people who know the Russian business world far better than me:

Business in Russia is about building relationships, not about following rules. This is a mistake foreign companies and their employees make when entering the Russian market; failing to build rapport, along with the darker aspects of conducting business, which is often delegated to Russian colleagues.

Bearing this in mind, Cameron's approach isn't pointless from a business perspective, but from a human rights perspective it seems useless. Maybe worse than useless. Diplomatically I don't think anything has been accomplished, but as mentioned I wasn't around the for vodka and pickles this evening.

As a teacher and non-Kyrgyz foreigner I was in an enviable position in Russian workplaces. I'd drift in, be escorted to a nicely-appointed room by an impeccably polite man carrying a semi-automatic weapon who would check that the teaching equipment, chair height, lighting and room temperature were to my satisfaction. A friendly PA would appear to make me a lovely cup of tea. I wasn't required or expected to wear stockings, stilettos or six inches of make-up*, workplace staples for Muscovite women.

I lived on the outside of the structure, and it was only with the time and the opportunity to build relationships with Russian people that I gained awareness of the struggles of small-scale Russian businesses. The dire consequenses, for example, of the enforced closures of Moscow kiosks with no consultation and very little notice impacted immeasurably on livelihoods, mainly on the smaller enterprises with little or no capital and no trading space.

Enterprise, certainly for locals who don't have the backing of a larger organisation, is harsh. The barriers are huge, as they are for larger businesses, including foreign businesses whose offices are raided and employees harassed.

I never did find that independent cafe, but I met a lot of hard-working, enterprising people. Perhaps, eventually...

*Literally in many cases, since the best cafes in Moscow are found in dimly-lit alleys, the only clue to their existence being a small foldy sign in front of a nondescript door and two or three huge security guards wearing bullet-proof vests on top of their winter coats.

*A curious mix of EU standards of language teaching and Moscow standards of an appropriate bribe to get into the class you want only to discover that the teacher doesn't really 'do' bribery and you're going to fail your exam.

*A male student who I suspect was trying to be complimentary once said to me Meeriam, I like you European women. You don't care what you look like.

The Other

2011-09-11T09:30:00.000-07:00

Totally irresponsible comment of the weekend comes from Tony Blair, aka The Most Inappropriate Middle East Envoy, ever:

“They believe in what they believe in because they believe their religion compels them to believe in it.”

Quite a statement on this particular date, when a lot of people are remembering the dead, reflecting on the 9/11 terrorist attacks and what came after.

As agreed over sushi last night, to the average reactionary Blair's statement might sound a bit...damning. Large sweep of a brush over a huge international community. A bit 'us and them', though Mr Blair's intention was clearly to avoid responsibility for western intervention elsewhere in the world. I'm not suggesting we haven't all generalised from time to time. Most of us, however, aren't Middle East Envoys, aren't being recorded on Radio 4 and can rest assured that no one really listens to us.

Having grown up in a religious community populated largely (though of course not exclusively) by family values-subscribing, virginity-obsessed people who inflict their fear of the world (as well as a host of other phobias, don't get me started) on others with arrogant abandon, I find it difficult to extend the benefit of the doubt to any ideology. But even I don't blame any particular religious group for the current state of the world, not even the one which includes Bush, Blair, that Bachmann person, the Dorries peculiarity and this scary man.

Sorry Mr Blair, am I being bit naive? Questioning authority, I've been told repeatedly, is a sign of weakness. Perhaps I should just believe.

I'm no Middle East Envoy, but like many 31yr-old humans I know lots of people in lots of places, and those people have lots of ideas about theology, religious practice and morality.

Here's a bit of knowledge I'm fairly confident about. The dangerous people are those who accept an ideology unquestioningly, and the dangerous ideologies are the ones with in-built structures which discourage people from questioning the status quo. Amongst people I've encountered who muster the enthusiasm for ideologically-driven violence, this is the only linking factor.

As for the idea of violence written into a religious text, I've yet to see a religious text without a massive paragraph or fifty of death and mayhem, butchery of people who disagree with other people and nasty ends for sexually deviant women. My much younger self wouldn't have had such a powerful concept of religion were it not for vivid, nightmare-inducing images of a bloke being tortured for my sinful behaviour.

So spare me this bullshit.

Urban Guerilla Farming

2011-09-06T17:31:00.000-07:00

I've noticed an increasing appreciation for the organic, the locally sourced, the community enterprise around my mum's neighbourhood. Small cafes springing up, leaflets through the door advertising organic vegetable boxes.

Apart from being a sure sign of rising property values, this carries the added bonus of attracting lots of upwardly-mobile collar hippies who do not generally engage in the more traditional neighbourhood activities of buying dodgy pills from the ice cream van and setting wheelie bins alight.

In that vein, I went along with Mum to her annual allotment show, for Tonbridge Road Allotments in Manchester. My regular readers are probably aware of the small city-based farm Mum looks after in addition to her day job, which she brought back from the brink of wasteland years ago with a lot of hard work, three tons of horse manure, some organic fruit trees from Ayrshire and a family of frogs.

This is why Mum's house is currently filled with a bathtub-sized bucket of apples, herbs drying on every available surface, lavendar stalks in all the bedrooms, 3 varieties of tomatoes, 27 jars of horseradish sauce, 382 jars of pumpkin chutney, 472 jars of rasberry jam and a courgette.

QUITE an exciting and diverse event. A local church hosted the gathering, which featured tables of fruit and vegetables arranged on paper plates to be judged, auction items (proceeds donated to Irish Community Care) and considerable space devoted to Hilarious Stuff.

The competition for the strangest thing found on a plot yeilded the weird and the wonderful, and the ugliest vegetable competition is currently merging with the new Almodovar film in my darkest nightmares. Some good person took the time to source archived photographs of the allotment through the years, and a team of charming people manned the kitchen. I made a zucchini cake, which Grandma insisted on buying.

peculiar items found in the soil

They're nice, the allotment people, I said to Grandma as we had our tea and zucchini cake.

Well, she said. I suppose they get all their aggression out while they're digging.

A few local craftspeople and similar had stalls at the event, including the nice people at Trove Foods who make a great Caribbean chutney and use collected jars (carefully scrubbed, they assure us). Mum was impressed with coppice worker Mike Carswell (if you don't know what a coppice is, don't worry, just click this link).

www.trovefoods.co.uk

Grandma had a nice chat with talented willow weaver Cherry Chung, and I might have accidentally signed up for a willow weaving class. Speaking of willow weaving, I finally got to chat with Graham, Mum's allotment neighbour who has woven a living chair out of the stuff, he explained how but I'm still baffled.

Pool Arts, the organisation who look after the Shed Gallery at the allotments, also had a stall at the show. The Shed Gallery is a small shed now used as a small gallery amidst the community plot, which I gather is popular with school groups.

Mum's plot survived an arson attack a few years ago (still not a very posh neighbourhood) which resulted in the shed exploding and a whole rasberry crop being toasted. Still, allotment folk persevere in the face of danger, which is why the brave allotmenteers regularly resist attempts from property developers and the like to bulldoze their bit of paradise.

Mum's pumpkin chutney won 1st prize. Congratulations Mum!

another peculiar found item

Toxic Tories

2011-09-06T06:06:00.000-07:00

Would a new, independent-of-Westminster Conservative party stand a chance in Scotland?

Instinct says no, but on the other hand, I don't see what the Tories have to lose. I also don't see the point; to attract new voters or to retain the current crowd.

If the point is to attract new support for the party, does Murdo Fraser think he's going to fool five million people into thinking all ties to Westminster ideology are severed, along with the Thatcher legacy, by attaching a snappy new name? Really?

I don't underestimate the power of branding, which is inextricably woven into language and culture. Thanks to the News of the World fiasco, toxic carries a new lexical weight. There's no doubt the Conservative Party is a poisonous brand in Scotland, and in an increasingly autonomous country on the week the yes votes overtook the no votes in an independence opinion poll, it seems unikely that anything can be done to revive a party inextricably linked with the hatchet work of Thatcher, or the more recent political looting of the ConDem coalition.

A brand that's connected, for many people, with the destruction of community, self-serving money grabbing and imperialism (yes I'm comparing the Tories with the Murdoch paper, it's my blog and I'll do as I please), needs more than a paint job by way of detoxification.

If there's anything the 2011 election has taught us, it is to never, ever underestimate an electorate. The rebranding notion would work brilliantly if we were all a bit dim. Or politically naive. Seeing as how the average Scot responds to an advertising gimmick of any sort by cocking an eyebrow and declaring it the same old shite, I suspect this proposed name change will be a waste of time and cash.

In Susanna's Handbag

2011-09-01T15:38:00.000-07:00

Susanna is a Delhi-based artist, writer, English teacher and Hindi student from Edinburgh. She blogs for the Times of India and makes strange videos with her brother. Follow her work, people, and in the meantime let's peer into her faux gucci bag (bought for £5 from a dodgy Glaswegian market) containing:

LG phone (non-fancy variety)

Susie knows from bags

Dog-shaped keyring with six keys in varying sizes
Center Fresh chewing gum
2 big notebooks - one for Hindi lessons and one for diary keeping in Hindi
1 small pink notebook for random notes about random things
pink Hindi-English dictionary (bought for 30 rupees - 50p)
small purple plastic glittery comb from Christmas cracker
round mirror featuring a map of trendy Melbourne suburb, Northcote
2 pens - one from EAC school (orange), one from Medical Research Council (white and maroon)
leaflet listing film times for PVR cinemas, Delhi
umbrella with cherry blosson design
receipts from 'Media Mart' and 'Cafe Coffee Day'
British passport (design on front has almost worn off)
residence permit (notarised) from Foreigners' Regional Registration Office, Delhi
2 one-thousand rupee notes, folded
Airfrance refreshing towelette (in sachet)
business cards from 'Cambridge College' Melbourne, 'Complete Care Beauty Parlour' Delhi, 'Fortune Magazine' Delhi, 'Ganpati General Store' Delhi
small card featuring three lines of a poem by TS Eliot
memory stick (512MB)
3 cardboard tickets from Delhi Public Library
laminated and hologrammed membership card for Delhi Public Library, in the name 'Mr Bunty'
2010 and 2011 student cards (made from textured cardboard) for Delhi University, Hindi Department
1 AAA kodak battery (run out)
tube of Carmex
Hansaplast plaster
ticket for Delhi Book Fair (20 rupees)
slip from Laxmi Boutique for two salwaar kameez suits
Nurofen
two other painkiller pills
tiny padlock
headphones for Samsung phone
purple hair clip

Ancient Blue Purse, containing:

1x 2 rupee coin
2x 10 rupee notes
Delhi Metro Smartcard
HDFC Debit card
HSBC Debit card
Orange top-up card
Superdrug loyalty card (with mirror effect)
International student card
receipt from Nirula's
pink post-it with HDFC account number
yellow post-it with old shopping list
passport sized photo of 'Mr Bunty'
2 bus tickets from somewhere in the Himalayas

and

2 cards from 'Northern Scales Co, New Delhi'
-one showing weight of 62kg and picture of Bollywood star Bipasha Basu with the phrase (in English and Hindi) 'You are invincible, emotional, philosophical and courageous'
-other showing weight of 60kg and picture of Bollywood star Saif Ali Khan and the phrase 'You have self-control, high tastes and self-confidence'

Artisan Roast, Broughton Street, Edinburgh

2011-08-31T14:02:00.000-07:00

I've been getting so many compliments on the new photo at the top of my blog, I should perhaps tell you (dear reader) about the setting for this sulky image.

Artisan Roast on Broughton St in Edinburgh's new town is part of my commute, and if it weren't I'd seek it out. This place does coffee. I don't mean St*rb*cks crap, I mean the sort of coffee that interferes with your mind as soon as you walk in, making you a bit dizzy in all the best places.

this sign makes me positively gleeful

There's a little den-like space in the back, but I prefer the front, a great spot for people watching but not the sort of place folk can easily peer into, making it ideal for the spy in us all. There are high-up stools and tables, quite comfy with all-important foot rungs for the vertically challenged. Ahem.

And oh my GOD, the coffee. It really is just amazing, maybe the best hit I've had in Scotland. Not just rocket fuel, it has taste, the taste of everything good in the world. It is, I gather, all fair trade, which is important since we know by now the horrors of the coffee industry.

The nicely eccentric staff know their product. The guy with the fabulous ginger moustache who has a naked photo of himself on the website will give you a biography of your coffee if you request such a thing. I don't know if he'll actually take his clothes off at work, but if anyone cares to ask I'll be interested to hear the results.

A good mixed crowd as well, students and professionals and maybe one or two yummy mummies, but it isn't pram friendly. I might have regarded this a positive thing before my friends started breeding, but now I'm a bit more geared up to share my grownup space with the children and the childed.

Do NOT give the coffee to the children. That probably also applies to the hot chocolate.

Moving along, one of my favourite things to do in cafes is sulk, and this is a great venue to pout and grumble and stare moodily out the window. The music is sensibly geared toward the self-obsessed amongst us, and the great big mirror that takes up most of the wall enables pensive face/posture practice.

standard afternoon sulk

Folk are nice about sharing tables when it's busy, but if you go with a laptop for goodness sake don't expect to use it in the back room, unless you're happy balancing the damn thing on your knees while your soggy umbrella leaks all over your shoes. Scottish hazard. Tables in the front are ideal typing height.

Fact unforgivable: NO BLOODY WIFI.

The deadly coffee does make up for it though, and the lack of interweb lets me get on with non-internet work and, oh yes, reading real live actual books, the ones made of paper. I devoured nearly half a Miriam Toews novel in one sitting, while lapping a cup of black coffee that tasted like it had been roasted that very afternoon, watching the weather fluctuate through the open door. Which, by the way, is ancient, like a lot of other gear in the place, including the jute sacks lining the walls.

They've got a branch on Gibson St in Glasgow, another Edinburgh one in Bruntsfield Place and one in Kuala Lumpur for some reason. Well, why not.

In My Handbag

2011-08-30T14:40:00.000-07:00

As you'll see below, though I've moved away from Moskva the gorod lives on in my soomka, but with the notable exceptions of my karta for the Moscovski Metropoliten and dokumenti in case of Militsia encounters. Furthermore...

my beloved laptop (wrapped in a purple pashmina)
Sarah Waters novel (The Little Stranger)
small Russian grammar book with lipstick kiss on the inside cover
peacock blue pashmina
sewing kit
mint chewing gum, 1 piece left
3 paper sugar packets, used, supplied with gratis coffee in the bookfest press tent
tissues, 2 new and 1 used
5.60 receipt for Offshore (Glasgow coffee shop)
three plastic paperclips (green, white and blue)
dark brown hairclip
wooden bangle (purchased on a mountainside in India)
strawberry lip balm
(in the corner...the Hermitage tote bag...yes that's it)
19 cigarettes, unsmoked (with Russian warning label)
purple lighter, accidentally smuggled through Russian and Danish customs
a bit of dark brown thread from a wool shawl
3 pens: 2 black, 1 red, all chewed
black tights, 40 denier
4 prescription-only painkillers
small striped paper bag
6 leaflets for Fringe shows
3 tampons

dark green claspe purse containing:

cash (rubles, euros, sterling) and cards
elastic band
metal paperclip
1.80 receipt for Peckhams, South Clerk St, Edinburgh
2 Edinburgh-Glasgow train tickets
3 Glasgow subway tickets (with sticky toddler fingerprints)
Glasgow Central-Bishopton train ticket
2 Edinburgh bus tickets
Manchester-Edinburgh train ticket
Levenshulme-Piccadilly train ticket
St Peter's Square-Chorlton tram ticket
loyalty coffee card for Fringe Central (1 stamp)
loyalty card for another Edinburgh coffee shop, not sure which one, (1 stamp)
loyalty card for Moscow coffee shop, (5 stamps)
Russian condom
business card for Mr Ben (Glasgow vintage shop)
business card for a Moscow wine shop that mysteriously vanished in June
ID card to get into a Moscow office I haven't worked in since last year
business card for Russian TV producer
business card for Dutch photojournalist

August Migration

2011-08-30T08:53:00.000-07:00

My annual month of sensory overload is finished, just like that. Pffft! Away in a cloud of rain-sodden leaflets and fizzling fireworks, leaving me with only the after-effects of unlimited coffee, gratis.

A pivotal topic at the book festival was, you won't be surprised, the Arab Spring. A challenging thing for me to column-ise since North African politics aren't my area of expertise by a long shot, but still, we all got there in the end. Several authors spoke about foreign and domestic policy, notably and controversially, but the general chat touched more on the notion of freedom.

Freedom of speech and expression, a thing I will never take for granted after two years in Russia, is always at the heart of book stuff. In a wider sense, a great many of the people taking part in the festival this year spoke about the global, human need for freedom and dignity evidenced by current events, and the grassroots efforts to achieve these most basic requirements.

Lots of chat also on the ever-so-terribly topical subjects of multiculturalism and migration this month, at the book festival and everywhere else. Despite the xenophobic burblings of David Cameron and the balls-out racism of David Starkey (who listens to those people?), many* of the folk in Edinburgh and Glasgow have landed squarely in the position of defending diversity. Happily, I have yet to hear a reactionary comment based on race.

At a dinner party in Glasgow made up entirely of people who had migrated at some point in our lives, we speculated on whether post-riot political reactions are a matter of blunt ignorance or, more likely, trading on the perceived level of racism in society. Which is real and ugly, but not as prolific as my experiences of racism in Russia and the United States. We also spoke of our own sense of entitlement when migrating ourselves, having all started with the expectation that we would probably not be persecuted or left out in the cold. Unlike the central Asian and Caucasian migrant workers in Russia, many of whom were my neighbours, who live in constant fear of violence and harrassment compared with Europeans and North Americans living in Moscow.

We listened to the aforementioned Starkey nuisance in the teachers room at the University of Edinburgh one morning, in an open-mouthed haze of revulsion. Take it from a group of international language teachers; Starkey knows bugger all about language, let alone race or cultural identity. I'm not going to bother dissecting the now-notorious tirade, dear reader, since it is really more to do with inarticulate blundering than anything resembling a point.

The ways people have found to express their point have caught my attention. Most of the authors at the bookfest who touched on the subject gave a personal rather than political or theoretical argument. Neel Mukherjee pointed out that a lot of racists are able to transcend their bigotry when they encounter an individual. Sophie Hardach spoke of the wealth of talent and bravery that exists in migrant communities, particularly amongst people who have arrived as a result of persecution, and her own journey as an economic migrant. Faiza Guene and Stephen Kelman both rejected the notion that they would move away from the housing estates where they were raised once they became successful. Adam Michnik advocated the freedom Polish people have to move around the EU as success compared with the restrictions once placed on people to move from town to town. The best play I saw at the Fringe, Bashir Lazhar, was a personal story of the difficulties encountered by an Algerian refugee in Montreal, whose talent and complexity is ignored in favour of the status quo.

And what of the mass migration that makes up the Edinburgh Festival every year? A difficult month in an overcrowded city, for those who need to get to work in the morning, but also one of the most prolific festivals in the world and a huge source of revenue. This weekend I perched in my favourite coffee shop on Broughton St and watched streams of people dragging suitcases through the rain toward Waverly and St Andrew Square. More people leaving Edinburgh than staying, it seemed. So the city will go back to normal, no longer swollen with performers, marketing types and the like. The High Street will be passable and the bus drivers can stop taking beta blockers.

Fifteen students, twenty-four authors, three translators, thirteen event chairs, one first minister, a few plays, a lot of colleagues (most of them more competent than me) and longsuffering friends, two toddlers and one cat. Forty-five teaching hours and five or six trillion words written. I'm going to have a cup of mint tea and hopefully stop twitching before the day is finished.

*That's an anecdotal many. I haven't done a survey or anything.

Orange Crush

2011-08-22T15:58:00.000-07:00

Mr Layton, who we lost to cancer today, did a lot of things. Great big important things. Fighting for womens and aboriginal rights, LGBT equality, housing and poverty issues and in a climate where politicians are increasingly, tactically trading on bigotry and economic terror, presenting himself and his politics without acquiescence.

His party won the historic number of seats which put them in second place this year through not just tactic, but through what I expect will be a new trend in politics. Running an optimistic campaign, paying not just lip service but attention to social issues, putting time into long-term policies, refusing to be pulled into reactionary rhetoric in times of crisis, not underestimating or taking for granted an electorate. A brave new way of doing politics. Nobody thought it would work, but it worked well, better than even the most optimistic commentators expected.

His fairness and foresight are things I still think of as Canadian, despite the alarming shift our government has taken toward the right, the theocratic, and reactionary politics. My optimism is frankly flagging; Layton was the leader I was counting on to stand up to a government who casually dismiss equality and environmental responsibilty.

Still, Jack Layton leaves behind a team of people, including his partner and colleague Olivia Chow and interim leader Nycole Turmel, who I hope are prepared to work with some of his energy and optimism. The interim leader and many of the party have yet to prove themselves, and time will tell if they have the nerve and good sense to keep a grip on their policies, to present themselves as a diverse and essentially human group of people who represent the diverse and essentially human group of people who make up the country.

'So let us be loving, hopeful and optimistic. And we'll change the world.'

Jack Layton, 1950-2011

Playing With Fire

2011-08-18T16:06:00.000-07:00

Walking home from the bookfest tonight in the drizzling rain, I spotted a fire spinner smeared in ash, performing near the Canongate end of the High Street.

He moved so fast the fire was a blur much of the time, though not when he paused to draw the flaming sticks slowly along his arms or spin them on his back. The silent crowd were wrapped in rain gear and woollens, and there was a mild warmth coming from the fire. Even the jaded Starbucks employees were transfixed on the other side of the glass.

The High Street is so noisy during the day in August, it was a pleasure to hear nothing but the echo of the performer's music, mixed briefly with fireworks at the top of the hill. I often avoid the street during the day unless I really have to be there, so to be there at night with the crowd thinned and the lights shining on the wet stones contains an appeal of its own.

I found myself focussing on the faces on the other side of the circle, the way I would faces on the other side of a campfire. Like so many surprising things, this took me back in time, briefly.

Just when I thought nothing south of Market Street could impress me.

Life In Miniature

2011-08-16T16:36:00.000-07:00

Every visit to Scotland involves getting reacquainted with my friends' children, who are young enough to forget me completely between visits.

Obviously I don't forget them, but each time I see them they're in some way incomprehensibly different, and I have to stand back and be amazed for a little while.

Last time I was in Scotland I was overcome with the surreal sight of the boys, both on the wobbly verge of crawling during my previous visit, running around in the sunshine. This time, I find their ability to talk in sentences mind-blowing. After studying linguistics and teaching a language for time immemorial, I suddenly see the beauty in the human ability to express a complex idea in words.

In other ways they're the same every time. A thing I didn't quite grasp until they were born, having not previously spent much time around young children, is how distinct personalities are from the beginning. So, the same in uniqueness.

Both are very good at pointing out buses. One likes the taste of raw lemons. The other wants to hear stories of things being lost and found. Anything...a lamp, a table, a person. We invented a story about Cheburashka going for a walk in the Russian forest on a sunny day, falling asleep and getting lost, then following a stream back to the city.

Vintage Guru, Byres Rd, Glasgow

2011-08-15T17:35:00.000-07:00

Vintage Guru on Byres Rd, despite some slightly grouchy staff, has accrued good (though overpriced) racks of clothes from most of the decades of the last century, an impressive collection of shoes and hats and (you guessed it) ladies underthings.

What bliss! Coming home to Glasgow and finding not only a new smattering of vintage shops, but one with a growing collection of knickers. There was an enviable selection including a lurid lime green slip from the glaring 70s, well cared-for apple green silk with pale pink panels and a complicated looking corset.

I settled on the ludicrous and enormous pants pictured here. The shop assistants allowed me to photograph them on the glass counter with a shrug and vacant stare. Caroline dutifully admired my purchase, as did Fiona when I unveiled them outside Hillhead Subway, with only a mild muttering about other people's knickers.

Realism Isn't The Point

2011-08-15T17:20:00.000-07:00

I met Minka met outside the Charlotte Square gates, where I've been vortexed into the Edinburgh International Book Festival for the third year running.

Our talk inevitably turned to theatre, what with being surrounded by performance in the festival city and Minka having just returned from a trip to Japan where she presented at a conference and did what sounds like the exhaustive rounds of the Osaka theatre scene. Theatre is a thing Minka knows all about and I know significantly less about.

Japanese theatre, it seems, remains such a traditional arena that it is socially unacceptable for women to appear in professional productions, so when a woman performs on stage the production becomes amateur. There's also a women-only theatre company which I won't go on and on about here since Minka probably wants to write her own account, and I'm likely getting my facts confused due to the wine we consumed.

An intriguing concept, in a culture where modern theatre is completely wound up in pushing boundaries, and no one attaches moral values to women onstage. Much as I grumpify about the difficulty of shuffling up the High St this time of year, I'd be devastated to see any less audacity amongst the performers hawking their shows in Edinburgh. Even the ones who aren't very talented.

Realism isn't the point, Minka told me, as I ranted about the lack of it on the Russian stage. I'm trying to turn this simple sentence into a drip-dry way of looking at the last two years of my life. As if there were any hope of easing the memory of such a place.

Speaking of theatre, I'm going to plug my most favourite thing I've seen at the festival this year, Evelyne de la Chenelière's incredible Bashir Lazhar at Assembly (George Square). A flawless thing of wonder, and a Canadian production as well. Not that I'm biased.

Tweeting Disaffection

2011-08-11T08:59:00.000-07:00

The possible-censorship-of-twitter business might be a simple case of Cameron not thinking things through (or the folk he pays to think things through not thinking things through, like with that small matter of the budget that time).Which I suppose we could think of as a metaphor for the power of words in the age of immediate information.

Actually, ignore that last thing, especially the part where I said 'metaphor'. I've been at the Edinburgh Festival too long. I'm typing from Fringe Central as we speak, where (as I peer around) I notice everyone else has a twitter window open. So let me try again.

No you can't censor social media. Even if it turns out to be legal in some weird way, it won't work. You know, like the R*an G?ggs business. IT WON'T WORK, and even if it did (which it won't), I suspect there are enough people who recognise the need for a holistic approach to the enormous, complex situation which led to the riots.

I am heartened by the response of most people and communities to the violence and destruction we've seen over the last week. The brooms aloft photos, reminiscent of the Vancouver clean-up effort, reflected what I hope is the actual state of society. You know, generally. Also pleased to see people are retaining their sense of humour.

The cleanup effort as well as the misery have been coordinated via social media. That's neither here nor there; both things would have happened regardless. We had riots and we had community spirit long before we had Blackberries, and there is not a society in the world which benefits from censorship. It is, in every situation, a sign that the government is struggling.

For those who want to be responsible with social media, this is a pretty good starting point.

Now I have to get the hell out of this room. An undisclosed person has clearly decided that the constant torrential rain is as good an excuse as any to avoid bathing.

Starry Starry Night

2011-08-08T16:25:00.000-07:00

Starry Starry Night remains one of my favourite Glasgow vintage shops.

Not for dresses I can wear to the pub, but for the sheer decadence of racks of squashed-together silk ballgowns, kilts with thirty-nine yards of wool, Victorian nightgowns, felt hats and 1930s cocktail dresses. I sometimes expect to find a suit of armour hiding amongst the velvet courtier jackets. Whenever someone in Bearsden (or similar) has an elaborate ke...fancy dress party, the place is jammed with folk wanting 19th century chambermaid uniforms.

It's a wee place on Ruthven Lane-with the threat of demolition still, as far as I know, looming-and according to Pat has an even more wonderfully louche history than I realised. It is QUITE little inside, and I'm often a bit worried I'll fall on the big glass cabinet which hides the mild-mannered man who is, it seems, the not-unpleasantly grumpy authority on all vintage stock.

There are broaches in the big glass cabinet. Sparkly.

Back to my original point...not the sort of place I often find something to wear for a few glasses of wine in a medium-pretentious bar, but the place I've returned to on many a dreak weekend afternoon for lace fabric remnants (ancient bits of granny-sewn tablecloth and such like) and vintage underclothes.

It is EXACTLY like travelling backwards in time until you fall into the chapter of a 19th century novel when a woman who should probably be on a gallon of prozac inspects the contents of her trousseau and wonders if she'll ever blah blah blah.

Over the years I've rummaged through the drawers (pun intended) and pulled out silk knickers with lace trim that reach nearly to the knees, slips with that particular 70s synthetic that makes a zzzzip sound when they fall to the floor, cotton nighties with immense amounts of fabric and hand-stitched trim.

I even bought a corset I have no hope of fitting into in my life (seems to be for a person with a 21" waist, assuming there is such a creature), but I got it anyway because it was so heartrendingly beautiful and vicious a garment. Then took it home, folded it carefully and placed it in my drawer. Because, as Leigh said this weekend, you've got to have a place where you can put your pants in a drawer.*

I could talk about vintage knickers all day.

Nobody said you HAD to read this.

I popped in on the weekend, tipped my wonky umbrella onto the mat and rummaged through the knicker drawers with a friendly local drag artist and a strange young woman looking mournfully at us from a stool in the corner. Noted that someone has stuck a sign on the lace remants drawer which says suitable for artists studios. I don't really know what that means...artists enlighten me?

Starry Starry Night. The place to be, until it is squashed by a bulldozer, which I savagely oppose.

*I can't remember if that's exactly what Leigh said, and the context was totally different....oh sod it.

Overheard On George IV Bridge

2011-08-06T03:17:00.000-07:00

I swear to the high heavens this is verbatim account of a conversation I eavesdropped on between a young festival performer and a homeless man.

YFP Ah, well it's sort of about...thing, like...what we do is...
HM Aye pal?
YFP Well see at uni...ah, uniVERSITY, you know, my friend and I had this FANTASTIC idea for a reworking of, ah, this novel, for the stage.
HM You mean a play, pal, aye?
YFP Yes, a play. That's right!
HM Which novel pal?
YFP It's called Catch 22. Maybe you've heard of it?
HM Eh, pal, I think that one already...
YFP Anyway, here's a quid mate. Take care, yah?
HM Aye pal. Good luck tae ye.

(I can't find any mention in the Fringe programme of an ill-fated show matching the one described above, so I assume he was talking about...oh I don't know what.)

Found In The Old Town

2011-08-04T16:04:00.000-07:00

Written in the cover of a collection of John Burnside poems, in a second hand bookshop in the Old Town, Edinburgh:

To my Gerry,

May you read these and think of me, and know that you were loved more than sunny weather, more than the margaritas we had in Spain, more than strawberries in the park.

Love for now and always,

Moira

That's Me In The Spotlight, Losing My Sovereigntism

2011-08-03T16:16:00.000-07:00

I don't care if Nycole Turmel was a Bloc Québécois member.

The rhetoric from some corners of the internet is getting silly. We are talking about a legal and established political party in Turmel's home province.

It is a strategic and possibly cynical move to give up membership of the Bloc and Quebec Solidaire just before taking temporary leadership of the NDP, but crossing the floor, even at the eleventh hour, is not an unusual occurance in Canadian politics, one which is in part to do with the traditionally small gap between centre-left and centre-right parties. (That small margin has deepened considerably in the last few years, but that is for another rant and doesn't apply to either the BC or the NDP.)

Changing from a sovereigntist to a federalist party is a bit less common. Still, I see no reason why seperatism v federalism cannot be subject to the changing opinions of politicians and the evolving political climate in Quebec, and the rest of Canada.

People lose and gain religious belief, fall in and out of love. I'm not suggesting political belief is a less powerful creature, but it has similar potential to adjust. It isn't genetic, for goodness sake. To assume sovereigntism or federalism are rooted in the fibre of a person is unrealistic.

Despite my initial assertion I'm curious to know, and I suspect I'm not alone, if Turmel is a sovereigntist by belief and a federalist by paycheck. She's unlikely to take the reigns from Layton and magically turn the opposition party into The New Bloc, but her her former BQ membership will be dragged out every time she fails to measure up to Layton, and tiresomly batted around Ottawa by the government (excuse me, the 'Harper government') while Important Stuff stews at the back of the stove.

My concern is not Turmel's stance on Quebec, but her ability to stand up to a majority conservative government with increasingly right wing policies in the absence of the force of nature who led the NDP to their current success. The level of pressure on the interim leader is already immense.