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

Emoticontext

Having in the past furiously defended the use of text speak, averring that it is a natural and harmless progression of an ever evolving language, I would now like to qualify these statements a little:

1) Nobody over the age of forty should be allowed to use text speak; it comes across as artificial and rather deluded. Mutton, in fact.
2) Text speak should only ever be used in an appropriate context. For commenting on a YouTube video it is fine, for a job application cover letter it is not.

I'm really quite cross about having to having to write this blog - surely it is merely a question of common sense - but apparently people are running amok linguistically, carelessly littering the world with LOLs and smiley faces. I've been noticing it for a while; intelligent sounding people commenting on serious online articles "Sounds lyk it cud b fun!!! :p!"etc, but a recent example shocked me to the core. An acquaintance broke the sad news of his sister's death to his family and friends via Facebook. This in itself is entirely acceptable now; it is a very practical way of communicating with a large group of people at once. Soon the messages of condolence began to flood in, including one, which unforgivably read: "Sorry for Ure loss :(".

Really? I mean, REALLY??  I don't mind telling you, I almost retched. The man had suffered a terrible bereavement, and this utter ass decided that the best way to respond was with a computer generated sad face.
We all, in the course of our busy, routine-oriented, automated lives, make mistakes. I have signed off e-mails to customers with kisses. I once heard a colleague terminate a telephone call to a tradesman with the words "Love you." I have signed a birthday card to my mother "Kind regards" and I know of at least one Sorry You're Leaving card that has circulated in my company with the words "Happy Birthday" hastily scrawled in the corner by an accountant. But to actually go on Facebook, read somebody's sad news, and to decide to comment in that fashion really beggars belief. Maybe the culprit suffers from some form of social disorder? It is the only valid excuse that I can think of.

Nobody writes letters these days, do they? Apart from banks, of course. Banks love to write letters. I have what is fondly termed a "Paperless Account", but I still receive several dead trees' worth of information from them every year. Heavens only knows how the "Paper Account" people manage. They must have nearly disappeared under the reams of "vital" correspondence by now. Anyway, I can be pretty sure that if a letter drops through by door it has come on official business. There are still occasions on which a letter, or at least some kind of card, can be a nice gesture - birthdays, engagements, bereavements, that kind of thing - but it is by no means obligatory. E-mail is faster and more environmentally friendly, and sites such as Facebook and Twitter are perfect for casual correspondence with casual acquaintances. E-Cards, with their lovely, helpful reminders are a godsend as far as I'm concerned. Let's not forget too that we have many people in our lives whose addresses we simply do not know, either because we have never been to their house or because we have at some point written the address on the back of a recipe and then lost it. So Facebook, as a medium, is fine.

BUT! That does not mean that we can use the same language to condole as to congratulate, to enquire as to complain. "Hope U get the job!!!" is perfectly acceptable (again, for anyone under forty). "I am writing 2 complain re Ure service! :(" is absolutely not.
Try thinking about it as the difference in the way you would talk to your best friend, and the way you would talk to your mother, or grandmother. All of us change our speech depending on our environment - it's so automatic we hardly realise we're doing it, yet most of us are hardly recognisable as the same person. When I talk to my parents, swearing, argot and the dreaded "like" are all erased. Even my pronunciation is subtly different. This is as it should be. Our manner of speech should always reflect and adjust to where we are and who we're with. And our written communications should do the same. It's a question of empathy, and of respect; two things which are disappearing from our society even faster than basic literacy.

Right. I'm off to dig a path to my front door through all my bank letters. At least they make me feel popular.

Bear Faced Cheek

I went to see Ted at the weekend. As a long term fan of Family Guy I was expecting great things, and I have to say, it didn't disappoint. A very, very funny film. But there was something about it - I couldn't have told you exactly what it was at the time, but it left me feeling...annoyed. Maybe that's not the right word, but I definitely came away with a rather sour taste in my mouth.


It wasn't until yesterday that I realised what the problem was. I was thinking about the great performances that everyone gave, and I thought "Mila Kunis did really well considering the role she was given." The role she was given. And that's when it hit me; I've seen this film before. Over and over again. Peter Pan bloke doesn't want to grow up, spends time having fun with/getting stoned with his buddies, when in marches the wicked witch, his girlfriend/wife, and stomps all over his fun in her stilettos by trying to make him grow up and give up said buddies who are clearly such a bad influence on him. Cue scenes of intense hilarity, before a compromise is invariably reached; Peter Pan reluctantly hands over his bong (boo! hiss!) and the girlfriend/wife realises that she was being unreasonable (at last!) and that in fact she should realise how lucky she is to have her charming irresponsible loser rather than some boring stuffed shirt who could pay the bills and eventually support children. (yay!) Some sympathy is doled out to the girlfriend/wife in the form of a few weakly comic lines (awwww! she did a funny!) and she is invariably a complete stunner à la Mila Kunis or Katherine Heigl. If she were a decent size fourteen with a spot on her chin I imagine the audience response would be even less favourable.





Seth Macfarlane, comedy genius though he may be, has essentially just jumped aboard Judd Apatow's misogynist train. Ok, the best friend in this case is a talking Teddy Bear which is good for a few laughs, but substitute him for a glassy-eyed Seth Rogen and you would find the whole premise of the film wearily familiar. It seems there is nothing men love more than seeing themselves as fun-loving, whimsical individuals, who through love and respect for their demanding womenfolk, allow themselves to have all their spontaneity and creativity crushed out of them as they knuckle down to the daily, joyless grind that is the reality of life as a couple.
And when the defeated boyfriend finally does accept his lot and start taking responsibility for his life, it is never because he has finally realised that he is 35 and that is what normal adults do, it is because he doesn't want to lose the girl.

Hilarious.

I think Mr Apatow, Mr Macfarlane et al should grow up and take some responsibility as well. Responsibility for the relatively recent phenomenon of our society that is the Man Child. The Man Child simply refuses to grow up. Oh he likes the benefits that being a grown-up brings; being able to buy alcohol and cigarettes, being able to watch porn, have sex and drive cars, but he has no intention of doing any of the other things grown-ups do because it's boring. If he has a job it is merely to finance his fun; a salary to him is pocket money, A savings account is unheard of. He will move house rather than pay council tax and throw clothes away rather than wash them. He is proud that he doesn't know how to work an iron, and he lives on Chinese takeaway. He has not been to the dentist since his mother last took him when he was twelve and he turns his underpants inside out so that he can wear them again. He plays video games until two o clock in the morning, but doesn't have time to mend a door handle. He doesn't vote, not because he doesn't care about politics, but because he has never bothered to register. His credit rating is in tatters, and yet when he is refused a loan he is outraged, and blames the fascist system. The Man Child is in his twenties, thirties, forties or fifties, yet still thinks he has plenty of time left to grow up and settle down.


The Man Child can be found everywhere, in every strata of society, and on screen he is celebrated, fêted, held up as a shining example of the strength of the human spirit. And woe betide the poor woman who dares to try to change him. She may be standing there wearing Prada, all dewy eyed and wobbly lipped, but in his mind's eye every Man Child sees a massive be-aproned woman called Doris, with arms like tree trunks and a wart with hair in, gimlet eyed, slowly, menacingly thumping her red, meaty palm with a hefty rolling pin.





Of course Judd and Seth didn't create this cliché. It's been around for years, in cartoons and film. Think of any of the Carry-On films, or the cringing Howard in The Last of the Summer Wine. What they are doing is excusing it. The awful thing is, I love their films. Knocked Up, Pineapple Express, The 40 Year Old Virgin, and now Ted. And I have caught myself recently, when I have been making a perfectly reasonable request for the eleventh time to my other half, suddenly thinking "My God, I'm a Nag." I am clearly becoming indoctrinated. It is unacceptable.

We women don't help ourselves, of course. We spoil our sons and make excuses for our boyfriends. We hoover under them and wipe up after them. We remember their mother's birthdays and sign the card on their behalf. And we like nothing better than meeting up with our girlfriends for a good session of 'my man's more useless than yours." All of which helps to perpetuate the endless stereotype.

You may not believe it, having just read this rant, but I'm not a feminist. I think that women have their faults just as much as men, and I think that, despite their faults, men are great. My boyfriend is the best thing to ever have happened to me. BUT it really gets my goat when I see women being portrayed as the villain of the piece simply for being sensible and responsible, and I, for one, refuse to Grin and Bear It.

Fevered Pitch

Unseemly literary rioting going on today, as the good folk at Penguin have gone out on a limb and announced that Fever Pitch, by Nick Hornby, is shortly to be added to their list of Modern Classics.

“Prithee sir, tell me it cannot be!” shout the reactionaries, casting themselves gracefully onto their chaises-longue and raising silk hankies with trembling hands to mop their brows. And yet it is so.

They have many arguments against this inclusion, specifically regarding the rather nebulous definition of the word classic. "Classics don't just cross time, they cross frontiers … Fever Pitch is a very good novel…but are they reading it in Paris, Berlin, Moscow?" asks John Sutherland, professor of English literature at UCL. Well probably, yes. Fever pitch has been published in 26 languages, and I can’t imagine the publishers wasting their money doing this if no-one were reading it. It has sold millions of copies, and been made into an internationally acclaimed feature film.

Boo sucks Mr Sutherland.

Their next quibble, which at first glance seems to be quite valid, is that a book which was published only twenty years ago cannot, by its very nature, be a classic. This theory was beautifully expressed by Dr Patrick Hayes, fellow and tutor at St John’s college, Oxford. "Whether something is a classic gets judged over an awfully long time, by readers who return to the work again and again and repeatedly discover in that work something compelling or powerful."  

Personally I think my mother might take issue with this theory. She is an avid reader of many genres, including the “classics”, yet I have never, ever known her to re-open a book once she has finished with it. Over! Done! Whether she enjoyed it or not, off to the charity shop it goes. She hasn’t got a photographic memory, far from it; often she will have trouble remembering whether she has read a certain book at all. She simply has no desire to re-read a book when there are so many others out there waiting to be discovered. So, does this mean a classic is a book read many times by a certain type of person?

Regarding the actual date of publication I can see his point; is it fair to include such a recent book in a list, even of Modern Classics, which includes 1984 and Ulysses? But wait, what’s this? The Scent of Dried Roses, by Tim Lott, was published in 1996, and yet it has been on the Penguin Modern Classics list for years. Did we hear any outcry at the time? We did not. Suddenly that neatly crafted little argument begins to sound rather specious.

Could it be that a novel dealing with family trauma, depression and suicide in post-war Britain is deemed worthy to be named a classic, but a novel about – heavens preserve us – football – is not?

Do you know, I think that might just be it. When one considers the people doing most of the squealing, one can understand that this might just not be their sort of book. Far be it from me to generalise, but English professors and fellows are not conspicuous in the stands at matches, pie in one hand, pint in the other, team colours flying with gay abandon.

                                                                      

The popularity of Fever Pitch and the inclusion of football in the Olympics may lead you to believe that football is now classless. Not a bit of it. In the eighties the Times summed it up as “a slum sport for slum people”, and despite appearances, attitudes have not entirely changed. Pretty it up how you will, football is never going to join rowing, cricket and rugby on the “must do on a Saturday” list of the upper middles. Watching David Cameron’s awkward Chelsea victory celebratory “dance” was up there with listening to Gordon Brown eulogising about the Arctic Monkeys for sheer YEURCH factor. Fakery and fabrication.

One has to wonder; if this had been a novel about show-jumping – think Salman Rushdie meets Jilly Cooper – would there have been the same level of outrage?

Fever Pitch was about much more than football. It was about the preoccupations and lives of a certain type of man at that time, it was about the ethos of a generation. The culture of a country is not merely shaped by art, literature and music as some would have us believe. It is made up of many, many things: food, jobs, consumer durables, industries, leisure pursuits. When you study the finds from an archaeological dig and try to learn the culture behind them, what is it you’re looking at? Pots, hair accessories, oyster shells. Trivialities, you may say. But they speak volumes.

In these days of the coalition governance, much is being made of snobbery and elitism. But it does not always have to refer to lineage or wealth. In my experience, nothing exceeds the dismissive arrogance of the over-educated cultural “elite”, and I truly admire Penguin for sticking to their guns on this one.

Like it or not, football is a huge part of our cultural heritage, and, I suspect, our future. Football, or a version of, has been played for hundreds of years and it doesn’t look to be losing its popularity anytime soon. Penguin Modern Classics:1 – Mr Lott and Mr Hayes – 0.  

A Village Wedding

Right, after two weeks I am finally calm and unemotional enough to tell you about my little sister's wedding without giving you endless pages of "IT WAS SOOO LUUUURRRVVVEEELLLYYY!!!" and metaphorically snottering all over the page. Well, almost. It was though, really, really LOVELY! There, I've got it out of my system. Promise.

The wedding itself was held in a church in the surprisingly beautiful Walthamstow Village, and the reception in a hall conveniently located five minutes walk around the corner. It just goes to show that you can find picturesque loveliness for your wedding even if you're in the middle of London.

The pew ends - which I stupidly didn't photograph, too busy juggling bouquet and sodden handkerchief - were made by my clever mother. She hand-made little hessian bags, which she filled with oasis, gyp and ferns, then hung over the pew ends. Simple and beautiful. Bridesmaid's bouquets were made by yours truly; for the whole painful and sweary business see my earlier blog rant.
The bride, my beautiful little sister Eleanor, wore a vintage seventies dress from Ebay. She was supposed to be wearing my mother's wedding dress but it disastrously fell apart in the hands of an evil dry-cleaner; however I'm sure you'll agree that the replacement dress is classically gorgeous. Make up and hair by my beautiful cousin Jackie. Thank heavens she was there, as the rest of us didn't know one end of an eyebrow pencil from the other, and almost fainted at the idea of back-combing!

I have no idea who made Vincent's suit, as he wouldn't tell me on the grounds that men shouldn't talk about clothes.

The hall was decorated, using fresh green apples, gerberas, basketfuls of ivy, and endless energy, by the amazing visionary that is Ange Jacobs. The mouthwatering food and buckets full of booze were supplied and managed by John, Emperor of Southwark and owner of the Royal Oak pub in Tabard street, and his splendid team. And the stunning cake - those roses are made of icing, can you believe it - by my aunt Jane. Her sigh of relief as she finally placed it on the stand after a two hour car journey with two hyperactive children, blew out several candles. I then effectively ruined the beautiful effect by adding my comedy handmade cake toppers, but kind lady that she is, she pretended not to mind.

Favours were a combination of adorable personalised Love Hearts, and slightly crumbly peppermint creams, made by me in a panicky sandstorm of icing sugar.

A fantastic jazz band and wonderful DJ ("Do you want loadsa chat, some chat, or minimal chat?" "No chat please Harry.") set the pace for what was genuinely one of the best parties I've ever been to. Everybody looked wonderful, everybody was happy, and everybody had a great night. What more can you ask from a wedding? My congratulations to my amazing sister Ellie who made it all happen, and to her new husband. To Mr and Mrs Rason.

Texting - :) or :(

As the news breaks that texting is now our national preferred form of communication (Shock! Gasp! Amazeballs!), the “experts” have crawled out of the woodwork to denounce texting as the reason why the youth of our great nation are incapable of communicating face to face.

They have watched teenagers on buses, fingers flying with almost supernatural speed across a keyboard of letters so small that we can barely see them, even with our reading glasses on, and they have felt the fear. The fear of the unknown. The fear of something they cannot understand. The fear that people younger than them can do something better than they can (surely anyone younger than me should still be building sandcastles?). And so, a national outcry – outbleat – begins.

There are many problems with this theory. For a start, teenagers can communicate – at least with each other. Try to get to sleep before midnight during the summer holidays in a flat above a SPAR shop and you will no longer doubt their communication abilities – you will be praying for silence. Fact – teenage girls, regardless of education or social background talk non-stop, and at full volume. Just because we do not understand the language, that does not make it any less valid. They text each other when they are not together, very sensibly saving themselves the extortionate cost of making a mobile phone call, but that does not mean they do not talk when they are together. I remember when I was a teenager – oh so many moons ago – I could spend the entire day in the company of a girlfriend, then when I got home I would instantly find I had still more to say to her and jump on the phone, much to the horror of my parents and the ruination of their finances.

I think what experts mean is that the “yoof” cannot communicate with them, the grownups. Very possibly they are confusing ‘cannot’ with ‘will not’. Or have they considered the possibility that the situation is the other way round; they are the ones having trouble communicating with the young people?  Just think of the televised interviews you have seen involving a paranoid looking politician or over eager presenter trying desperately to elicit information from a grumpy, bored looking adolescent in a hood. Excruciating, no? But in almost every case it was the politician or presenter who appeared wrong-footed, and not the disenfranchised, swoosh-covered interviewee.

Okay, I admit that there are some extreme cases. Regular articles appear in the press with quotations from despairing business owners, unable to fill a position and considering suicide after a series of interviews with monosyllabic, mumbling carpet gazers. However this is not a new problem, and to blame it on our “text culture” is a stretch, and somewhat naïve.

Surely the real culprit has been uncovered by the other study results to come out this week; Problem Families. The conclusions of that report make for unsettling reading. In families where violence, sexual abuse and abandonment are commonplace, eloquence is not a priority. In families where nobody speaks to each other but only shouts, where rational discussion is unheard of and children are largely ignored, how on earth can we expect the youth of these families to communicate with strangers? And what would we expect them to communicate, if they could? It is tempting to blame the schools, but teachers with large classes to teach and control can only achieve so much. A parent who reads to their child, who talks to them intelligently, who discusses issues and ideas with them, is setting their child up for the future far better than an overworked, stressed teacher ever could.

Texting is an effective, and ever more prevalent method of communication. But to blame it for the inability of young people to communicate face-to-face? Ridiculous. Or, in text-speak: R U AVIN A :D?

Coming Up Roses

Ok everybody, finally the moment you've all been waiting for! May I proudly present

JENNY'S (very) AMATEUR GUIDE TO MAKING SILK BRIDESMAID BOUQUETS!

A clumsy title yes, which perfectly reflects my skill when making the damn things.

We are now less than five weeks away from my little sister's wedding, and a couple of weeks ago I brought up the subject of bridesmaid bouquets. Where was she going to get them from? Was she going to make them herself? Fresh or silk? I asked. Ooh, said the sister, I hadn't even thought about those! (A response I think I'm going to hear a lot over the next few weeks. Fabulously efficient she may be regarding the essentials, but as far as she is concerned the devil is most definitely in the details.)

We decided they had to be in silk really, as her stunning cream bouquet is silk, and it would be a TRAVESTY for the bridesmaids to have fresh flowers if the bride did not. Cream and burgundy, we also decided, to match the dresses. Then we had a look to see what was available on the internet.

"HOW MUCH???" we both screeched in unison. To be fair to the online silk bouquet purveyors, my sister's budget is tight, and neither of us really had a clue how much silk flowers cost. Twenty pence each? we wondered. I was soon to find out.

Over the years I have developed a reputation as the family "stuff maker". Cakes, quilts, fimo figurines - come to Jenny. This is mainly due to the fact that I have a great love for anything sticky, squishy or mucky, and in no way reflects my actual skill at any of the activities I try my hand at. My loyal family though, undaunted by a succession of gruesome paintings, badly-blown eggs, and terrifying demon sock monkeys, persist in labelling me "Creative". This is of course a self-fulfilling prophecy, as when you are the "creative" one you feel that any time a Blue Peter volunteer is needed you must step into the breach. Which is exactly what happened in this instance. "I'll make the bouquets!" I cried with a happy, confident smile. "Don't you worry about a thing!"

Leaving the sister reassured and grateful, I collapsed into a puddle of self-loathing and recrimination on the train. Why oh why had I offered to do this? What on earth made me think I could make bouquets when I can't even arrange daffodils in a vase? (Why do the bendy little blighters never stand up straight?). My sister would hate me. The guests would laugh and point. I was going to have to plead sickness, to go into hiding, to leave the country. However, once home and fortified with a couple of strong gins (medicinal), I felt slightly more confident. How hard could it be? I studied some handy online guides - a couple quite dubious. "And viola! You now have pretty bunch!" After a while I felt strong enough to buy the flowers.

Not as easy as you'd think, buying silk flowers online. For a start, the names people give to colours vary wildly. "Wine" roses turned out to be fire-engine red. "Burgundy" hydrangeas were a weird chocolate brown. Some arrived without their stems - who buys flower heads? I'd love to know - and some were teeny tiny (my fault, didn't check, a bit tipsy by that point to be honest). Despite these setbacks I persisted, and within ten days I had a respectable bunch of flowers and greenery with which to compose my bouquets. With a happy heart and a pair of industrial wire cutters I laid out my stall on the floor of the flat, and set to.

Forgive me for not going into the next couple of hours in any detail, but the memories are still too painful. Suffice it to say that the air turned blue, the flat ran with blood, and my boyfriend barricaded himself in the bedroom. However! I am proud, not to say amazed, to be able to tell you that the finished products are not too bad. Not too bad at all. A little lopsided, maybe, and there is almost certainly a fair bit of blood on one or two of them (burgundy is a fabulous, handy colour scheme, don't you think?), but overall I am quite pleased, and fervently hope that my sister, not to mention the harpies - sorry, bridesmaids - will be also.

So, without further ado, here is my personal bouquet recipe!

1) Buy flowers. Offer all the ones that turn up the wrong colour/size to family and friends. Pretend you bought them especially for them.

2) Buy accoutrements; sparkly wiggly things; diamante pins, florist tape, ribbon etc.

3) Look up price of wire cutters. Gulp. Borrow them from friend, offer to make biscuits.

4) Pour large gin and tonic. You'll need it.

5) Artistically arrange everything in a heap on the floor. Throw yourself down in middle of heap.

6) Trim flower stems to roughly the same length using wire cutters. Pinch fingers. Swear.

7) Spend five minutes shaking hand, screaming ow ow ow and examining purple pinched patch.

8) Finish trimming the stems, very carefully.

9) Artistically group your first bunch of flowers together. Tweak, tweak some more, admire. Think about doing this professionally; you clearly have a gift.

10) With your one free hand, grope for florist tape. Find florist tape, fail to find end of florist tape.

11) Keep trying to find end of florist tape, one handed, for a couple of minutes. Find it, triumph.

12) Take scissors, try to cut florist tape while simultaneously holding florist tape and bunch of flowers. Drop flowers all over the floor.

12) Cut various lengths of the damn florist tape, stick them everywhere. Regroup flowers, pretend to like the bunch although you know it was much better before. Bind with horrid florist tape.

13) Realise you have left the wiggly sparkly thing out of the bouquet. Debate forgetting them altogether, then remember they were quite expensive. Try to stick in middle of bouquet; fail. Drink gin and swear.

14) Carefully undo devil florist tape, add wiggly sparkly thing to bunch. Redo the bunch with florist tape. Pretend it still looks as good as before.

14) Cut length of ribbon. Wrap ribbon down from the top to the bottom of the stems, then back up again. Run out of ribbon half way up. Breathe.

15) Cut length of ribbon the width of the room. With great difficulty manhandle it down and up the stems. Trim off spare metre of ribbon.

16) Whilst holding the ribbon carefully in place with your thumb, reach for diamante pins. Grope wildly around. Where are pins?

17) Throw everything around the room looking for pins. Shout a bit, do an angry dance. Scare boyfriend, who flees.

18) Find pins where boyfriend was sitting. Instantly blame him for everything.

19) Carefully and firmly push pins down through ribbon, between stems, into fingers.

20) **@@%*&@%%%%***!!!!!

21) Have a little cry.

22) Once bandaged, clean blood off floor and bouquet as well as you can. Tell yourself it doesn't show too much, and probably brings good luck in some cultures.

23) Have more gin.

24) Very, very gently push a second pin into bouquet. Escape unscathed. Rejoice!

25) Admire bouquet muchly. Take pictures. Go into the bedroom to show the boyfriend, who flinches as though you are going to hit him with it. Decide he is weird.

26) Have a little rest, and some more gin. And some chocolate. You deserve it, and it's five weeks until you have to fit into that dress, you'll be fine!

27) Repeat x number of bridesmaids. If you finish before 2am, you have done well!

So there you have it. A practical and realistic guide to making your silk bouquets. Enjoy!

Cranky? Maybe you've got gas.

The ranters are out in force this week, to profess their horror and disgust at the encroachment of Americanisms into the sacred portals of British English. This is an oft recurring complaint, which doesn't seem to staunch the vehemence of the protesters. Come to that, neither does the fact that their roaring, spluttering and frenzied key-bashing has so far achieved precisely naught; the American lexical army marches inexorably onward across our frontier.

The latest outbreak of anti-American feeling is due to a children's short story competition. Sifting through the 74000 entries, beady eyes have spotted the occasional "sidewalk", "smart" (meaning intelligent), and even "garbage". Cue howls of horror and much cyber hand-wringing. Our children have been corrupted! We're all doomed!

The Daily Mail, as always, treated the subject in a calm and rational manner.
"Two centuries ago, British abolitionists fought the American slave trade. Now a new campaign of abolition is needed - to rid us of American-English." thunders Christopher Stevens, in a tirade that is as offensive as it is inaccurate. His fury runs riot over the page, causing him to compare Americanisms to "destructive and virulent" grey squirrels, and to boast of the fact that he can use the word "mellifluous" in a sentence. Bravo Christopher.

Yet the anger and hyperbole is not, for once, confined to the Mail. Journalists and bloggers everywhere are pressing the panic button, and demanding that action be taken to protect the purity of the British language.

In all seriousness, I can - almost - understand where the howlers are coming from. As a self-confessed linguistic pedant, I do believe that preserving our language is important. I believe that education in language is important, as it is one of the most influential tools we will ever wield, both in our personal and our professional lives. However, my interest lies in teaching people to spell and pronounce words correctly, and to understand the rudiments of grammar. And there it stops. If people can use the language correctly to communicate, convince and cajole, why should we get upset about what words they use?

It is no coincidence that the people who are crossest about these developments seem to be, for the most part, Little Englanders. One doesn't tend to see Scottish, Irish or Welsh people jumping to defend "British English". And why on earth should they? It's a ridiculous phrase with no meaning. The Celtic languages may have almost died out, but each and every area of England speaks its own brand of English, peppered with dialect, accent and idiosyncrasy. It is a ridiculous and conceited idea to think that there is such a thing as a "generic" English, blanketing the British Isles. Even the notoriously reactionary BBC no longer considers Received Pronunciation to be the only acceptable form of televised English. Language reflects a culture, and Britain is proudly multicultural. It's rather a marvellous thing, if slightly surreal, to hear white middle class people using Jamaican patois on television. It shows how receptive and welcoming British people are on the whole to incomers. Apart from, apparently, Americans.

I do not understand how we can possibly justify the exclusion of American English from a language which is made up of French, Latin, Greek, German, to name but a few. Not to mention the many everyday words which Shakespeare simply invented to suit his needs. Why are the European invaders acceptable, but American ones not? British people seem to think it is fine to be rude about the Americans, that they are somehow fair game, and this lack of civility extends to our comments on their language. Apparently it is "Crude", "Simplistic" and "Dumbed Down". This because Americans have a predilection for portmanteau words and using verbs as nouns and vice-versa. What exactly is wrong with that? They are merely adapting their language to changing situations and environments." Sidewalk" is one of the examples used by Mr Stevens in the Mail of a "Frankenstein" word, implying that it is somehow ugly in its simplicity. As far as I'm concerned, it does what it says on the tin. Should we then in Britain stop using words such as "Blackboard" and "Campsite"?

The phenomenon works both ways, of course. American English is also constantly assimilating from many other languages including British English. "Mates", "Bespoke", "Zed", and "Arse" have all appeared recently in the American media. Indeed some of the words that people get most upset about, such as "Vacation", "Gotten" and "Oftentimes" are British words that have gone to America and come back again. Interestingly the Americans don't seem to resent our linguistic invasion of their language at all.

The only theory I can come up with to explain our mass rejection of Americanisms is fear. Not of the language, but of the country itself. We worry that our national and political identity will eventually be swallowed up by the all-dominating giant that is the USA and we are powerless to stop it. Our changing language is symptomatic of the ever more pervasive influence of America over our politics and culture. And as always, when we cannot cure the disease we attack the symptoms instead.

It won't change anything of course. As the French have comprehensively proved through their years of fruitless struggle, a language cannot be legislated. It is an organism; living, growing, adapting and mutating, it truncates, adopts and assimilates as necessary. As long as it is considered, appreciated, and above all used to its full extent, I don't see the problem. The children who have caused this particular storm were behaving naturally; they picked and chose from the words they hear everyday to find the one that best suited their purpose. Does it really matter if that word is American? Let's face it; these children were educated, intelligent and motivated enough to enter a short story competition. How many of us can say the same?

The Demon

The Demon

The was a demon in the bottle

We all knew it was there

But no-one would acknowledge it

We pretended not to care

He lurked there in the darkness

All eyes and teeth and claws

Longing to tear us apart

With his evil jaws

His blood red eyes were on us

At the funeral or the feast

Wedding and birth both were ripe

With the odour of the beast

As we ate the Christmas turkey

And danced across the floor

The demon’s eyes would follow us

So we laughed all the more

 The demon’s voice was in our heads

Though no-one else could hear

We couldn’t make out the words but still

The meaning was quite clear

We talked ever more loudly

Sometimes we’d even shout

We rang the bells and banged the drums

To drown the demon out

I shouted loud, but still I heard

The dread voice of the beast

His terrible howling filled my head

Begging to be released

Despite myself I listened to

The demon’s awful song

And started to feel pity for

The creature bound so long

Maybe we were monsters

To keep him bottled so

Wouldn’t it be kinder

To let the demon go?

I thought that if I freed him

He’d fly so far away

That I’d never have to hear him more

Until my dying day

The others tried to stop me

They begged me, and they cried

They hid the bottle, tried to keep

The demon safe inside

But I was deaf to their appeal

I searched and finally found

The bottle, held it high and then

I smashed it on the ground

The blinding light was such that we

Were all thrown to the floor

But as we looked, we found we saw

More clearly than before

The demon’s piercing light had left

Us with no place to hide

Our dark and secret corners lit

Our eyes were open wide

Every face around me showed

The ugliness beneath

I gasped to see the mottled skin

The yellow, twisted teeth

The bitter lines, the cruel sneers

Their mouths twisted with lies

And worst, I saw the shock I felt

Reflected in their eyes

I knew then that my face and theirs

Must look almost the same

For I was not an innocent

I had my share of blame

So I turned to the demon

And looked him in the face

No hideous monster now, instead

A shining light of grace

My heart lifted and I found

I couldn’t drop my gaze

But the others tried to hide away

From the fiery blaze

They screamed and wept but to my awe

I found myself to be

Becoming, as I was stripped away

As beautiful as he

I watched the others writhing

In their shame upon the floor

I could not help them, for they were

Now lost for evermore

I knew I’d found the thing I had

Been seeking since my youth

The answer from the bottle poured

My demon’s name was Truth.