The rise of the S.E.P.

The S.E.P. is a phenomenon first brought to our attention in The Hitchhiker's Guide To The Galaxy, in which Ford Prefect uses an S.E.P. field to hide a spaceship in the middle of Lords Cricket Ground; effectively it is a scientific invisibility cloak. What does S.E.P. stand for? Somebody Else's Problem. Ford describes it thus: "An SEP is something we can't see, or don't see, or our brain doesn't let us see, because we think that it's somebody else's problem.... The brain just edits it out, it's like a blind spot. If you look at it directly you won't see it unless you know precisely what it is. Your only hope is to catch it by surprise out of the corner of your eye."

 

I don't know if you've noticed - in fact you almost certainly haven't, because it's not your problem - but the number of S.E.P.s seems to be growing at a remarkable and rather frightening rate. Everything nowadays appears to be an S.E.P. Your children lack discipline? Surely that's their teacher's fault, let her deal with it. A girl is being attacked on the bus? It's up to the driver to deal with it, no? A homeless man is weeping in the street - well surely it's the government's responsibility to help him, why should you give up any of your hard earned cash?

 

I hate to give the repellent Philpotts more publicity than they have already received, but nowhere was this S.E.P. Phenomenon encapsulated more perfectly than in their pierced, sports-wear clad forms. When he was informed that he would not be getting a larger, tax-payer funded house for himself and his progeny, Mick Philpott proclaimed "I used to love my country, but I'm just sick of it now. I'm really ashamed of what's happening. Britain is going down the pan." You may be right Mick, but it's not because the government refuses to hand you everything you ask for. It may just have something to do with people who are prepared to risk their childrens' lives to satisfy their desperate, shallow, materialistic desires. What do you think?

 

There is an extraordinary story this week about a man called Kevin. Kevin was chucked by his girlfriend - the only surprise there being that he ever managed to net one in the first place - and decided to fall apart. In fact he fell apart so thoroughly that he could only find solace in the virtual arms of the ladies of a certain day time chat line company. Kev was apparently oblivious to the fact that these charming girls were being paid to talk to him, and thought they were working on some kind of charitable basis, or that they were just so bowled over by his glittering personality that they would talk to him for free. "They knew me so well, they called me Loughborough Kev!" says Kev proudly. So happy was he with his new friends, that when his first bill arrived from Vodafone for a princely £19,000, unemployed Kev sensibly decided that this must surely be an S.E.P., and declined to pay it any attention whatsoever. In a kindly attempt to save him from himself, Vodafone then blocked his SIM card. "Surely a mistake." thought Kev, and promptly told a few whacking fibs about having lost it so that he could buy a new one. Vodafone at that point clearly threw their hands up in despair, and left him to it. And so it was that when the final bill thudded onto his doormat, the size of a phonebook, the hapless Kev owed a staggering £91,000.

 

Kev went through an understandable range of emotions. Panic. Terror. Shame. Nausea. But then one very surprising one crept in. Outrage. The S.E.P. protection field was kicking in. This couldn't possibly be his problem. Somebody else must surely be responsible. Who was to blame for his chronic wastage of his taxpayer funded allowance and for his current lamentable level of debt? Why, Vodafone of course! The soulless corporate giant, always a popular choice of baddie. So Kev set about vilifying Vodafone, selling sad-looking pictures of himself next to a phone to the press and ranting about the evil multi-national who hadn't stopped him from bankrupting himself, apparently aware that the function of a profit making company is actually to make profit, and not to act as his mother. "I'm not putting all the blame on them." said Kevin magnanimously. ‘I admit I rang these numbers and it's partly my own fault but the line should have gone dead before I started to incur such high charges." Really, Kev? So presumably you would also expect Nintendo to cut you off if you played for three days straight, or your local pizza place to refuse to deliver if you tried to order a large stuffed crust for the fourth time in a week? ‘The Vodafone need shutting down because they're ripping people off left, right and centre,’ he said self-righteously.. This despite the fact that Vodafone have very generously offered to reduce his bill to £29,000. Kevin's response? "They should drop the whole lot. They have to think about my health. This is not about money anymore, it is about respecting people."

Just as you do, right Kev?

A similar case recently involved a father who carelessly handed his i-pad to his 13 year old son, and then was utterly amazed when it was returned to him with a £3,700 bill for virtual items purchased. Whose fault was that? Well, Apple's of course. “I had seen other people had been given refunds by Apple and assumed it would do the same for us." said the father, clearly not listening to the words which were actually coming out of his mouth. “I will pursue this in the hope of getting the money back as well as to get compensation for the stress it has caused." It? Are you referring to your son, who clearly knew exactly what he was doing? Nope. This again is an S.E.P. Bad luck, Apple.

 


Nobody wants to grow up anymore. Nobody wants to take responsibility for themselves, their families, their pets, their property or their careers. Everybody complains non-stop about the over-protective nanny state, but really is that not what we secretly want, and maybe in our helpless, shell-less, flabby indecisive state, actually need? If we don't learn to stand on our own two feet soon I suspect that nanny will start to lose her patience, and we will have to take our medicine. And that will definitely not be an S.E.P.

 

 

 

A Farewell Poem to a Colleague

Well! The time has finally come. John is leaving us.

He’s talked of nothing else for months, and now at last it’s here.

And though he’s said many a time he doesn’t want a fuss

I’m sure he won’t object if you buy him a farewell beer.

 

I hope his time with us has given him some good tales to tell

It’s been eventful, that’s for sure; right from the very start

Maybe soon someone will know our stories as well

As we know those of Kodak and the Royal Navy; by heart!

 

We’ve seen big John, we’ve seen slim John, with beard and without

We thought once that we’d lost him; a scary time there

We’ve seen him lighting cigarettes, we’ve seen him put them out

Always joking and cheerful, always combing his hair.

 

Someone who’ll be glad to have him back is lovely Jill

Though of course it means an end now to her peaceful life

They married when they were just kids and yet she loves him still

And everybody here knows how proud he is of “The Wife”.

 

 Then of course there’s “Mother-In-Law” just across the way

We’ve heard so much about her that we feel we know her well

Being surrounded by ladies 24 hours a day

John we know just what you’re thinking, that it will be…heaven!

 

At least if it all gets too much he’s got his garden shed

He can sit in there with his cats, a beer upon the shelf

He may think he’s a tough guy, but often it’s been said

That secretly under it all he’s a pussycat himself.

 

Can any of us imagine this company without John?

He’s been here so long now we all thought he’d taken root

The place will sure be quieter, now that he has gone

A little sad, like the TV when someone presses mute.

 

We’re so glad that he stuck with us, for better or for worse

Despite the obstacles and threats strewn along the way

That’s why, John, we dedicate to you this little verse

To thank you for making us what we are today

 

So I suppose this poem is a kind of Dear John letter

And though we hesitate to say it, lest it make you cry

There may be other Johns, but there will never be a better

And so at last we all must say Goodbye, Dear John, Goodbye.

Pots of Fun!

My quest to find my creative bone continues. I'm sure I have one, -  so far no luck, but I'm having a lot of fun trying! There's nothing I like better than being elbow deep in glitter and gunge, and if my efforts so far have not been all that could be desired - well, so what? I'm having a ball, and friends and family are terribly polite about their lumpy, misshapen gifts, so I have no intention of giving up just yet.
Yesterday my search took me to Bunches and Pots in Putney, to try my hand at flower arranging. Well you never know - maybe I'm a master florist at heart! Anyway surely it's just a question of jabbing flowers into a pot - how hard can it be? My lovely friend Sophie Flowers came with me. (I only realised just now how funny that is. How wonderful! That will keep me amused for a while). Anyway, over the course of the morning I discovered there was rather more to the business than I thought.

There were only five of us in the class, which I thought was perfect - though actually it transpired that three people had failed to turn up. Maybe it was because of the snow? Well, it was their loss. Unsurprisingly we were all women, as were the lovely florists training us, and there was a lovely girly atmosphere in the training shed from the beginning, despite the weather.

After a brief safety training we began by dunking our oasis - I love oasis! -  in buckets of water and plant food. "Don't push them into the water! Let them sink by themselves or they'll develop air pockets." I watched as Sophie impatiently stared at her floating oasis, before surreptitiously poking hers to the bottom. What do you know? A tell tale little air pocket. "Oh well." said the phlegmatic Sophie. "I'll just shave it off." Indeed, we were now expected to shave our oasis into the required rounded shape with stanley knives. I hate those things.  Everybody else's was carefully and delicately shaved - mine looked as though it had been gouged by a mad five year old. Never mind, I shall cover it with greenery.

After we had strapped the oasis safely into its pot, here indeed came the greenery.

Because I'm rubbish I can't remember for the life of me what the first lot of beautiful green leaves was called. I really should have written it down but I was far too busy enjoying myself creating a "collar" of fronds to hide the pot and the sides of the oasis. I think maybe it began with R. Anyway it's very lovely, and was made even lovelier when sprayed with magic spray which makes the leaves all shiny! Plant polish!

Before -

After -

Um. Well, you'll just have to take my word from it that it looked A LOT better after the spray, which apparently also helps to preserve the leaves. I learned that when you cut stalks you need to make sure to cut them on the diagonal, and absolutely not on the knuckle, or they don't drink properly.The stalks then have to be pushed about an inch into the oasis, to get at the water.

I remember the name of the next lot of leafy stuff, because it was Eucalyptus! We were told that we could either layer the two types, or just randomly mix them up. Guess which I chose.The contrast of the dark and light leaves was just magical, but I started to worry at this point that my bouquet looked a bit straggly. Especially looking around the table at the neat little pots in front of the others, but they very kindly assured me that mine looked "natural" Hmm. I've been told that about my hair before, and it's never been a good thing. I tried a bit of trimming but it made absolutely no difference, so I gave up and decided it would be transformed once the flowers were in. And here came the flowers!

Glorious roses and lilies- these were our statement pieces. The idea being that we should use maybe four or five to draw the eye in our final bouquet, before the filler flowers were added. I am a sucker for anything orange, so I picked some gorgeously tropical lilies - with buds, I want my arrangement to last as long as possible - and orange roses. Ta da! 

Ok, still messy but better. I thought that the filler flowers would be tiny delicate little things like gypsophila, but no - hot pink carnations, red berries, powder blue thistles - a riot of colour. We were told to use these to cover the rest of the arrangement, to make sure there was no oasis showing. Well there was no chance of that - after getting thoroughly carried away with our greenery and statement flowers the challenge for all of us at this point was to actually find a spare patch of oasis left! Apparently the thing not to do is to keep changing  your mind and moving your flowers once you've poked them in, as the oasis can start to fall apart which would obviously be disastrous. In honour of my marvellous Scottish boyfriend I went for some blue thistles, to make a contrast with my vibrant orange flowers. I think I may have caught a few dubious glances from around the table at this point, but I was far too excited to care and continued blithely ahead with my artistic efforts. 

And here it is. Hurrah! Ok I'm not sure I'd even be able to sell it at a coffee morning, but what the hey, I'm proud of it. 

In the interest of fairness, I feel I have to show you Sophie's stunning bouquet too, though I'd far rather not as you'll only make unfair comparisons. What can I say, she's artistic! 

Perfection achieved, we were given a quick tutorial on how to make a buttonhole or corsage. This was actually a lot harder than the big arrangements, involving a lot of physical exertion, wire and florist tape.

  I had no idea how much work went into these tiny little sprigs of pretty, but I'm genuinely thrilled that I know how to make them. I have every intention of demanding to make them for every wedding I attend in the future, whether they want me to or not. 

So here we all are, exhausted but happy and proud of ourselves. I can thoroughly recommend these courses at Bunches and Pots; the content is just the right level; easy to follow without being patronising, and when you leave you really feel as though you have learned something useful. The ladies are fun, kind and they really know their stuff. They certainly don't skimp on the materials either - straggly or not my arrangement is whopping, eye-catching and I think it is utterly glorious, almost putting my shabby coffee table to shame. What a wonderful way to spend a snowy  Saturday morning. http://www.bunchesandpots.co.uk/

A Thyme and a Plaice

This is really just an extension of a rant I've had before, I'm afraid. From what I see around me every day I fear it is a rant I will still be having when I am sitting in a chair that smells of wee, wearing a tea-cosy and frightening my grandchildren.

My hangup, my issue, my bug-bear, my thorn in the backside is this; why does nobody make an effort to be appropriate any more? Why does everybody seem utterly incapable of studying a situation, assessing it, and then deciding: Ok, on this occasion I should behave/dress/speak like this?

Maybe the problem is the self-indulgent, narcissistic, self-absorbed ethos that society seems to be promulgating at the moment - the "Love me for who I am, Because I'm Brilliant!" mantra. While there was nothing essentially wrong with the original reasoning behind this mentality, devised to prevent bullying and suicides essentially, it has now been adapted and mutated to an unhealthy degree, both sociologically and physically.

"Why should I lose weight, I'm fat and proud!" bellow obese young women on chat shows, to hysterical cheering from the (equally porky) audience. Er...because your lifestyle is eventually going to kill you?

"Snobby boss made me take out my piercings!!" bawls the headline, above a picture of what looks like a deeply wronged robot in eyeliner. Of course she did; that wasn't the image she wanted to promote for her health-food shop. And who can blame her?

"I will never let society constrain me!" declares the man who insists on walking everywhere naked. "Fine," reply the weary constabulary, "We really don't care. Just please, for the love of god, stop walking around in places where there are children?"

 Last week a card circulated at work for everyone to sign, for a man who was retiring abroad. By the time it reached our department, in the corner was scrawled in purple ink "Enjoy the sun you c**t." I'm not a prude, but really, in what universe is that an appropriate thing to write in someone's leaving card???

Maybe, though, it has more to do with parenting, or lack of. Maybe the problem is Mum and Dad's refusal to do anything that would yank little Josh and Tia screaming out of their comfort zone. The result being that they only ever associate with people who are exactly like them, and have therefore no concept of adapting to different situations or audiences.

Today's rant was actually inspired by the Daily Mail - again - and their insistence on printing social media reactions to tragedies. This in itself is irritation enough, but I've started to notice that each quote is repeatedly punctuated by the word (sic), as though each contributor was suffering from a particularly nasty bout of norovirus.

"Darlin (sic) i cant (sic) believe this has happened to you you was such a brite (sic) star an always there 4 me when i was down miss you 4ever babe."

"I never though I would loose (sic) u this way the people who did this have taken the hapiness (sic) from my life rip."

For goodness sake. You are writing about a tragic, solemn event and you can't even be bothered to use spell check? What, did you quickly type this between downloading an album and writing LOL on a friend's facebook status?

It's no wonder our young people are having trouble finding jobs, if, as I suspect, they write their CVs and cover letters this way.

Please, you noisily vocal martyrs, just listen to me; society is not trammeling you, people are not infringing your civil liberties or denying your right to freedom of expression. They are simply questioning your utterly mental decision to behave in a completely inappropriate way in a certain situation.

I am all for originality, freedom of expression and individuality. But the key word here is context. You don't wear a boob tube to the office or red shoes to a funeral, you don't swear at your grandmother or take your toddler to a nightclub, and if you are writing what is effectively a eulogy for someone close to you then please, please use a dictionary.

What you see as buckling under is actually consideration for other people; something which is vanishing faster than birthday cake in a office. Speaking of which, must dash!

Christmas is on the Cards

And so, here we all are again. Slumped grimly at table or desk, head in hands, fingers sore and inky, third glass of wine well on the go, a pile of smudged and discarded envelopes on the floor, a stray festive stamp dangling from our fringe...
Yes, Christmas cards are upon us once more. And as with so many things at Christmas the reponsibility inevitably falls to the women of the family - because we're so much better at it, darling! Every year I sit down to the task with enthusiasm; partly because of the wine, but also because the idea of staying in touch with absent friends through the magic of Christmas strikes me as beautifully sentimental.
That is until an hour later when both my pen and my inspiration have started to run dry, and even less so around one in the morning when I realise I am less than half way through and on the point of howling into my glitter-strewn desk.
Why send Christmas Cards at all, I hear you ask? They are expensive, unnecessary, dated and environmentally disastrous. In this era of electronic Pigs and Pigeons, why would anyone bother? In theory, I agree wholeheartedly. In practice however the idea of not sending cards at Christmas is rather akin to setting fire to my nativity set. I've always done it - apart from when I was at university when I was too broke and busy going to dodgy parties - and I probably always will. I genuinely believe that people enjoy getting them and feeling that someone was thinking of them enough to sit down and write a few lines at Christmas. In our busy, often lonely lives, even something so little can mean a lot. They also make fantastic, cheerful, colourful and cheap decorations, which is not something that can be said for their e-alternatives.
So yes, I like the idea of cards. But that doesn't make them any easier to write. So here, for the benefit of my fellow ink-bespattered sufferers, are a few Dos and Don'ts of Christmas Card Writing.

DO

1. Keep the tone conversational; no bullet points please!
2. Keep it upbeat and enthusiastic - If you must tell a miserable anecdote try to end it on a happy note, e.g. "So thanks to Uncle Kevin's broken leg we all learned a valuable lesson!" And remember, this is the one occasion when you can use as many exclamation marks as you like!!! It's Christmas after all!!!
3. Repeat the same stories over and over in the various cards. The recipients are very unlikely to meet each other and swap notes, and if you keep trying to come up with original material you'll go mad.
4. Try to personalise each card a little though; remember children's names and ask questions specific to the recipient. "Are you going to Doris's again for Christmas?" is fine. "What are you doing for Christmas?" makes you sound like a hairdresser. Tip - always hold on to the cards you receive at Christmas. That way you can check facts and names when writing to them the year after.
5. Remember why you're writing the card; you are wishing someone a happy Christmas. So do try to squeeze that in somewhere amongst the list of your family's achievements.

DON'T

1. Send round robins unless you really, really have to. People like to receive a personal card, not a bulletin. Along the same lines, don't use generic, stock phrases; "We hope to see you in 2013" is going to ring rather false if the recipient is 95 and lives in Australia.
2. Boast. You are understandably proud of your family and what they have done this year, but your gushing effusion about little Jake's hacky-sack victory just may come across as unbearably smug.
3. Overcomplicate. It may seem like a really cute little conceit to stencil a glittery holly sprig in the corner of each card, but trust me, 3 hours in you'll be covered in glue and tears. Christmas is complicated and stressful enough; don't add to it. Likewise, unless you are brilliantly creative and have lots of time on your hands, don't even think about making your cards. A multi-pack from the local shop will do just fine.
4. Sign cards with the word "Love" unless you mean it. The milkman may take it the wrong way.
5. Sign your partner's name, or get them to sign unless you have been together for more than three months. Any less is just creepy, and will scare your partner and your recipients in equal measure.
6. Write 'Xmas.' Ever. Please.

And one final thrifty tip my mother taught me when I was a little girl; when you're finally done with all the  cards you have received, just get a pair of pinking shears, a hole punch and some ribbon and Hey Presto! Pretty gift tags. See - Christmas cards rock.

Pipe Down!

So, the prize for most deluded person of the week goes to Canadian publisher Pamela McColl. Ms McColl is clearly a frustrated writer who, for whatever reason unable to produce original work of her own, has taken to mutilating that of others to make it "better" or at least "more appropriate". Quite what has lead Ms McColl to believe that she is qualified to do this remains unclear, but the vision of her on a Saturday night, cross legged in her pyjamas and fluffy-bunny slippers on the floor of her beige flat, feverishly setting about the classics with a giant pair of scissors whilst dementedly humming to herself and swigging from a bottle of cooking sherry is irresistible.
She has started her quest with that deviant ode, A Visit From Saint Nicholas, also known as The Night Before Christmas, by Clement Moore. Yes, you know the one; famous since it was first written 200 years ago for corrupting children and sending them down the slippery slope to perdition. No child is known to have heard it and escape unscathed. Ms McColl has decided to save them from themselves by removing the lines: "The stump of a pipe he held tight in his teeth, / And the smoke, it encircled his head like a wreath" . Because, as we all know, Old Saint Nick is the role model of choice for modern children, and every boxing day saw them stampeding to the corner shops in droves, desperate to exchange their Christmas fiver from Grandma for twenty Bensons.
"By removing these words we may save lives and avoid influencing new smokers" said Ms McColl, rocking manically in her home-made plywood throne. "If this text is to survive another 200 years it needs to modernise and reflect today's realities." One wonders in fact how it has survived as long as it has without her wise and kindly ministrations. Three cheers for Pamela.
How does she plan to save the world next? Will Othello fall victim to her shears, as she seeks to obliterate all hint of racism, and Roderigo's allusions to "Thick Lips"? Or what about Austen, with her novels rampant with classism? Or maybe the fairy tales, with their shameful sexism, or Sherlock Holmes with his drug addictions, or the Beatrix Potter tales with their constant threat of rabbit-related violence? So many dangers and so little time, Ms McColl. Better get cracking!

I think it is probably useless to point out to her the futility of trying to impose modern constraints on culture created in another era, one which embraced different values. People like Ms McColl display a sort of fanatical tunnel vision as they straddle their hobby horses; people who disagree with them are less to be blamed than pitied for their ignorance; surely, once they have been educated to a reasonable level the truth will dawn upon them in a blinding flash and they too will join in the crusade in a blaze of reformed zealotry.
Well, apparently not this time. Svetlana Mintcheva from the National Coalition against Censorship had this to say on the issue:
"Putting children in an insulation bubble, hoping to protect them from anything their parents may deem harmful, is not only impossible, it is unproductive. In this world where all kinds of images barrage us in the street, on the internet and through mass media, energies should be directed at helping children navigate among messages and look at them critically rather than hoping for a magic solution by taking away Santa's pipe." Well said, that lady. Responsibility for children lies with the parents, with the teachers, and, to a certain extent, with the government, but not, with you Ms McColl, for which we must all be profoundly grateful. So put that in your pipe and smoke it.

Sophie and Stephen are In The Pink!

My gorgeous friend Sophie Flowers and her husband Stephen Longridge have kindly allowed me to blog their wedding, and after such a wonderful day it is not only an honour, it is a pleasure!



The service was held in St Mary's church in the beautiful village of Thornbury in South Gloucestershire, and after a slight hitch early on, everything went splendidly. The slight hitch was the tragic murder of their vicar - of all the things that they expected to go wrong, that wasn't one of them. Being the resilient girl that she is, once she had recovered from the shock Sophie waved her fist at the universe and ordered it to behave, and the universe, slightly scared, complied.

From then on it was a classic, fairytale wedding. The theme was pink, and lots of it; dresses, flowers and ribbons glowed in the sunshine. Sophie found her perfect dress in Clifton Brides in Bristol. It was important to her, especially in this Jubilee/Olympic year, to have a dress made by a British designer, and this gorgeous number by Ellis Bridal fit the bill perfectly. The groom and his ushers wore Moss Bros, and Stephen's shoes were from Ted Baker. Aren't they a darling, stylish couple?

The reception was held at Eastwood Park in Falfield - a Victorian House with the most stunning views over the Gloucestershire countryside. Unusually for this summer the weather held fine - probably because Sophie told it to - and so guests spilled through the reception room, where a gourmet buffet of vintage pic n' mix lasted for all of thirty seconds as the locusts descended, and onto the terrace to soak up the sun and admire the view.

The dining room was filled with lovely personal, quirky touches. The labels on the favours had been hand written by the bride and groom themselves, and each child had been provided with an extra special gift, including the most adorable lego bride and groom set. The tables were each named after a place Sophie and Stephen had visited together, and the seating plan was in the form of a vintage map.

 

After dinner, a succulent beef wellington, some hilarious and embarrassingly tear jerking speeches and a much needed rest, guests filled the dance floor for the first dance; Ellie Goulding's Your Song. The party continued unabated until midnight, only breaking when it got dark for some very special fireworks out in the grounds (custom loveheart fireworks!!! I nearly burst with envy!).

Eastwood Park has rooms, so it was only a short stagger to bed. Which was, I admit, a very good thing. What with the wonderful food, the dancing and the sheer emotion, it had been a tiring day. Sophie and Stephen have really  raised the bar for those of us yet to tie the knot. What a perfect wedding.

Hair by Craig Anthony, in Downend, Bristol http://www.craiganthonys.co.uk/aboutus.html
Make-up by Sophie Arnold, from Bristol
Flowers – from Hazel Holly Florist, in Downend, Bristol. http://www.hazelhollyflorist.co.uk/
The fireworks were by Firemagic Ltd http://www.firemagic.co.uk/
Chair covers and ties by South West Chair Covers http://www.southwestchaircovers.co.uk/

Cake by Sophie's supremely talented sister Alice Carter