New Tories: Coalition of Utter Nutjobs and Tory Sanctimony

Yes.  C.U.N.T.S

Hypocrisy seems such an innocent word now. Given that Theresa May and her be-suited coven are now so desperate for power that they will get into bed with the DUP, a party with honkingly appalling views, (‘controversial’ I believe is the accepted journalistic term). Such nasty anti human views that you would surely imagine not even the woman at the head of a party described as a ‘monarchy run on regicide’ would have anything in common with the DUP.

But soft! Dig a little and they do. Oh they so do:

Anti-abortion 

(Including abortion for rape victims because the ‘statistics are very low’.  Maybe because rape victims don’t report rape you utter cockweasels?  The statistics were also ‘very low’ for domestic violence until a sustained campaign by ‘feminazis’ proved beyond doubt that it existed in huge numbers)

Anti-gay and LGBT 

Stephen Crabb has thrown his very heterosexual hat into the leadership race by the way.  He was a member of the Christian Action Research and Education who believe in ‘anti-gay therapy’ ie sustained bullying of gay people.

Climate change deniers (they think it’s a ‘con’)

They are so right wing they make the Tories look like Blairites

They also believe that creationism should be taught in schools.

We’ve always known the Tories are appalling hypocrites as they constantly accused Jeremy Corbyn as consorting with terrorists and now they are trying to form a party with a whole bunch of them.

It’s like we’ve become a nation of Trump voters without actually voting for any of them!

At this rate Channel 5 will be showing the UK version of 19 Kids and Counting. Without irony.  And also hopefully without the bit about the eldest sexually abusing his own sisters (‘teenage mistakes’ say this ‘righteous’ christian family who also describe kissing your fiance as a ‘sin’.)  Oh and this same eldest also had an Ashley Madison account and cheated on his pregnant wife.  So then again, this peculiarly right wing hypocritical version of Christianity will fit right in the DUP and the Tories.

Proof in fact that the new Tories are indeed C.U.N.T.S

 

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New Tories: Or Coalition of Utter Nutjobs and Tory Sanctimony

Hypocrisy seems such an innocent word now. Given that Theresa May and her be-suited coven are now so desperate for power that they will get into bed with the DUP, a party with honkingly appalling views, (‘controversial’ I believe is the accepted journalistic term). Such nasty anti human views that you would surely imagine not even the woman at the head of a party described as a ‘monarchy run on regicide’ would have anything in common with the DUP.

But soft! Dig a little and they do. Oh they so do:

Anti-abortion 

(Including abortion for rape victims because the ‘statistics are very low’.  Maybe because rape victims don’t report rape you utter cockweasels?  The statistics were also ‘very low’ for domestic violence until a sustained campaign by ‘feminazis’ proved beyond doubt that it existed in huge numbers)

Anti-gay and LGBT 

Stephen Crabb has thrown his very heterosexual hat into the leadership race by the way.  He was a member of the Christian Action Research and Education who believe in ‘anti-gay therapy’ ie sustained bullying of gay people.

Climate change deniers (they think it’s a ‘con’)

They are so right wing they make the Tories look like Blairites

They also believe that creationism should be taught in schools.

We’ve always known the Tories are appalling hypocrites as they constantly accused Jeremy Corbyn as consorting with terrorists and now they are trying to form a party with a whole bunch of them.

It’s like we’ve become a nation of Trump voters without actually voting for any of them!

At this rate Channel 5 will be showing the UK version of 19 Kids and Counting. Without irony.  And also hopefully without the bit about the eldest sexually abusing his own sisters (‘teenage mistakes’ say this ‘righteous’ christian family who also describe kissing your fiance as a ‘sin’.)  Oh and this same eldest also had an Ashley Madison account and cheated on his pregnant wife.  So then again, this peculiarly right wing hypocritical version of Christianity will fit right in the DUP and the Tories.

 

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Private healthcare features photos of people smiling for no apparent reason!

The site I’m looking at is Kaiser Permanente, so-called because you’ll be ‘permanentely’ bankrupt if you have to use them.  It’s the one you might not have heard much about because apart from The Guardian and The Mirror, the papers tend not to shout about it.  Tom Pride’s website does which is why I’ve added a link where he points out that Theresa May’s plan is to quietly break the NHS and then bring in this lot. Go to their website and it features photos of people who look as though they’ve fallen face first into a vat of Prozac.

I’ve also included a link to Political Concern and Vox Political.  It seems that mainly bloggers are paying attention to the coming health catastrophe.  Maybe the Daily Mail, Times and Telegraph writers who are subject to their overlords should think about whether they can personally afford private healthcare? From what I hear the Times doesn’t pay that much.

Keep smiling Waylon. That bill HAS to be a joke!

There is also a lot of twattle about ‘the finest medical minds’ and how ‘your needs come first’ alongside pics of hunky docs.  Or actors in white coats.

Plus lots of random pictures of happy people.  Serving coffee . . .

Actors posing as doctors

 

Yay! Hurray for private healthcare (and working three jobs to pay for it)

There are doctors being all bedsidey manner with little children

This is how many thousands Mommy has to pay for your procedure Sammy!

So there’s all this stuff about ‘finest medical minds’ and ‘your needs’ blah blah on the Kaiser website (and no I’m not linking it).  And yet they are somewhat coy about actual price lists. Not even a few guidelines.  Instead you are invited to have a cosy chat with one of their health professionals (sales people) who will then inform you that not only will your cancer cause you significant pain and distress and possibly death, but also bankruptcy.

The NHS is being deliberately broken

Most of us don’t think about the reality of the NHS being broken up even further under the Tories.  That the Healthcare Trusts set up in the 90s are a way of forcing the NHS to act like a business and think in terms of saving money and that privatisation by stealth is happening under our nose.

So: Theresa May’s plan to replace the NHS with Kaiser Permanente.  She will make great play of Kaiser’s boast that it is ‘free at the point of use’, but not that this only covers people who are working.  It won’t cover the disabled either. That’s nice.  It means that KP can carry on with the Tories work of destroying disabled and unemployed people.  But even if you are working, it doesn’t mean you get all the care you need – your tests and procedures are strictly limited.  Oh and the patient reviews aren’t exactly glowing.

It’s quite simple. If you run a healthcare system for profit you will get poor quality care, more mistakes, and a higher level of misdiagnosis.  Especially since patients have uniformly complained about their care – with one of the biggest being poorly trained medical staff.  Oh and how they treat people who complain.  Actually just reading that website is an education in what Kaiser is like for patients.  

Kaiser has also been criticised for having huge cash reserves, but this is how private healthcare works.  It’s in their interests to not give care, particularly to those pesky long term illnesses like cancer patients with those rounds of chemo or radiotherapy and drugs, because that’s how they keep more money.   In 2014 18,000 Kaiser nurses went on strike, over (guess!) poor pay and dangerously low staffing.

It all seemed bad but vaguely ‘over there’ until I got sick and began to think how much my illness would cost

I’ve been twattling on about my colitis, and this has necessitated two gastroscopies and a colonoscopy.  The doctors discovered three ulcers over six months and I had one A&E visit with excruciating abdominal pain.  After last week’s chokily unpleasant gastroscopy I had another one, within a week, because the doctor said it was urgent.  The point being that my care was/is led by medical need and not by insurance companies or need for profit.

So how would Kaiser treat Crohn’s disease or colitis – a painful and debilitating disease?  Back in January I was taken to A&E.  What would Kaiser have done?  Their website on urgent care informs that they are here for their members day and night.  So everyone else can bugger off frankly.  Or pay for unininsured care.  By the way an uninsured person in the US who suddenly finds they need a colonoscopy or gastroscopy would pay about $5400 (£4150) and $4000 (£3080).  That is per single one of each.  Not for any follow up or medication.  Think about paying for your colonoscopy next time you go to the toilet and find blood . . . .or when you have trouble swallowing or experience abdominal pain.

But hang on. What if I am a KP member?  If you have an injury or illness that is not life or limb threatening but cannot wait, our urgent care departments can help.   So I’m vomiting with pain and barely able to speak but I’m meant to phone and explain my symptoms and a person at the other end will decide whether or not my case is urgent?  Not quite the same as dialing 999 and waiting for qualified paramedics.

So what are the figures? Well as with all US healthcare it depends on your level of coverage.  So what if you are covered?  Colonoscopies are supposed to be free as they are preventative. But if KP finds a problem then it becomes a treatment procedure and they will slap a huge charge on you.  Let’s just say there’s a really big incentive to find a problem then.

A colonoscopy with removal of tissue (not including medication which I presume means sedation or pain relief or aftercare) $1143 but depending on where you live it can cost up to $2000.  I found this on a helpful article that baldly stated: How Much is My Colonoscopy Going to Cost?  You also pay for lab tests, anaesthetic and something called a facility fee.  What the hell is that?  Also there’s the cost of a gastroscopy.  Again a very helpful piece.   The national average is $4000 or £3080.  Those US people are so skilled at writing questions and getting answers or maybe it’s decades of living with a profit run healthcare system.  (You should also get used to prefacing your care with how much will this cost? if the Tories get back in.  And you might ask what a facility fee is because the chances are you’ll be paying for that too.)

I’ve had three gastroscopies in the past year and one colonoscopy.  Each time there were four people in the room; a doctor,  two nurses, and a lab technician (hey! Maybe that’s the facility fee! Employing the lab as a place?  It turns out I was half right)   The total cost of two gastroscopies and a colonoscopy would be if I were insured by KP in pounds about: £1550 plus £6000 (two gastroscopies) = £7550  plus any medicines I might need + that facility fee.

Actually I did find out what that facility fee means.  It irritated me so much I went back and had a look.  I will allow Harold Miller, chief executive officer for the Center for Healthcare Quality and Payment Reform in the US to explain

At a hospital outpatient provider, the provider payment was $62 and the facility fee was $390.49, totaling $452.89.

Oh my God.  You mean they can basically charge what they like?!  That’s £300 extra!

When a service is provided in an independent practitioner’s office, it brings one single payment. But when the same procedure is performed in a facility, either an outpatient department or an ambulatory surgical center, Medicare pays twice: To the facility and to the provider. These fees are meant to cover hospitals for overhead that a freestanding physician’s office does not carry.

Hospitals charge these fees because, like many providers, they aren’t paid for a large part of what they do, Miller says.  They get no money specifically for having an emergency room that can treat patients 24 hours a day.

“There is a legitimate case to be made that they charge more than others,” he says. “People will be unhappy when a hospital is closed at night, and they have a heart attack.”

But hospitals are purchasing physician practices at a fast clip and, according to the Medicare Payment Advisory Commission (MEDPAC), these practices are increasingly being converted into outpatient departments, which allows the hospital to be paid more for various services than does a freestanding physician’s office.

Wow.  Even Kaiser have admitted the facility fee is a surprise.  They also say that:

“It’s like a barber saying, ‘That’ll be $20 for a haircut and $10 for sitting in my chair,’ ” said Wisconsin state Rep. Chuck Benedict, a Democrat and retired neurologist from Beloit. Benedict’s bill to require hospitals to post notices about the fees and furnish upfront cost estimates was defeated in 2007; he has introduced a similar bill again this year. Legislation has also been proposed in New Hampshire.

I love the way they put Democrat as though that’s a disease.  It probably is to the Kaiser Board.

The most pertinent quote is this:

One billing consultant has estimated that the fees could generate an additional $30,000 annually per physician for hospitals.

Wow.  Huge fees, high insurance costs, treating patients badly, and that facility fee for the cost of not having a 9 – 5 A&E.  The NHS is looking really good to me right now.   No wonder Kaiser prefer to feature happy smiling people rather than the costs.  This is really the future if the Tories get in.  High priced healthcare and pictures of random people looking happy for no reason. Least of all because of their healthcare.

 

Ok so mum is dead and we have to sell the house to pay the bills but the good news is – we have a bowl of apples!

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Gagging Order

After my recent adventures in twisty colon land I nipped off to hospital today for a follow-up gastroscopy.  I wasn’t nervous as I could barely remember having it done before. There was something about a throat spray but the rest of it was a blank.  This, as it turns out, was because I was sedated.

Into the slightly darkened room again with three staff members, one of whom kept telling me I would be ‘safe’ and to remember to ‘breathe’.  This always makes me smirk unbecomingly.  As though you are suddenly going to forget and have to quickly check up on it via a manual.  In and Out.  Yeah well not only was the smirk wiped from my face but at one point I think I did forget how to breathe.

‘This is really quite unpleasant,’ said the doctor spraying the throat number into my mouth, which started a prickle of apprehension.  It tasted fleetingly of banana and then more of Bhopal – a stinging chemical vapour that numbed my throat and made swallowing really hard.

The thing is, any admittance of unpleasantness in a medical procedure can usually be multiplied to the power of 100 000.  Like the consultant during my second stage of labour who said sympathetically, ‘Is it a bit uncomfortable?’

I curled up on my side while a plastic mouth guard held my mouth wide open. ‘Shut your eyes.’ the nurse said hurridly, which I did but not before getting a glimpse of the endoscope, a  long flexible tube with a bright light at the top.  I kept my eyes shut and the endoscope slid into my mouth and down my throat.  ‘Swallow!’ said the nurse and two pairs of hands patted me.  ‘Deep breathing,’ she murmured.

It was filling my throat and poking round my stomach.  It was very uncomfortable.  I struggled to breathe calmly but kept thinking of waterboarding and rock stars choking on vomit.  Seconds dragged by and I could feel this ugly poking sensation.  Choking and poking.  The urge to gag rose up wildly.  Sweat broke out on my forehead. The doctor was talking about biopsies.  ‘Do you want to go further?’  ‘No you do it – I’ll monitor blood pressure.’  ‘Are you sure?’

Suddenly I couldn’t bear it a second more.  I squeezed the nurse’s hand.  ‘That’s right as hard as you like,’ she said soothingly so I kicked the end of the bed.  ‘Ok we’re going to stop.  Any second.’  They weren’t stopping and I began to panic. I kicked the bed again.  ‘Stopping now.’  I tried to grab the endoscope myself and the nurse took my hand firmly.  The second it was out I jerked upright and heaved into a bowl.

They were all very kind and the nurse later admitted that during her own endoscopy that she had lasted ‘five seconds’ before she grabbed the endoscope and yanked it out herself.  The doctor had managed to get a nice full colour photo of my chronic ulcer.

So I’ll have to come back again for a biopsy.   And this time I’m going to be sedated to the max.

 

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First Confession

I’m an ex Catholic.  Catholicism is like herpes.  You can disavow it, shake it off, take strong medication, but it still pops up to remind you that you’re still Going to Hell.

First time I felt guilty I was seven years old and about to go to Confession.  Born with Original Sin which washed off in Baptism, but since then I’d racked up a load of venial sins (less bad than mortal sins but my catechism said we should ‘shrink in horror from the venial sin like a slug’)  But what exactly was a venial sin?  Swearing . . .wishing somebody ill . . . not obeying my parents immediately . . .it was impossible to get through the day without committing any kind of sin.  And what happened if you were forgiven and went out and did the same thing again?  ‘Well you have to try very hard not to,’ said mum fiercely.  ‘Because God is EVERYWHERE.’  That must be why mum always lowered her voice when she was describing that girl in my school as a ‘big fat heap.’  Just in case God’s ears were flapping.

The red light went on and I stumbled inside the Confessional.  It was pitch black.  ‘This way,’ said a tired voice and I spun round banging my shin on the pew.  ‘Bless me Father for I have sinned.’  Had I?  I’d made a list in my head and now every single sin fled my brain.  I wore NHS specs in a lurid pink and mum was going through a phase of trimming my hair with bacon scissors so it wasn’t vanity.  I was shy and swotty at school so not pride either.  I hadn’t even pinched my baby sister and that time she fell off the sofa really was an accident.  Lying about a sin – was that worse than committing one?  I could feel the Priest shifting about behind the grille.  ‘Erm I wished my friend at school would fall off a cliff,’ I said suddenly. ‘But she’s always saying mean things to me and then when I tell her to go away she cries.  I don’t know what to do.’  The Priest gave me two Hail Mary’s  as my penance and told me to try not to wish for her death again.  Easy!

I left feeling nicely sinless until next time.  On the way home I asked mum about Limbo which was where the babies born out-of-wedlock went to live.  She said it was like living in a very nice room and only seeing God behind a curtain.  ‘A thin curtain?’ I asked, ‘or the velvet ones we have?’  (They were velveteen.  The idea of God having velveteen curtain – the big tightwad).

‘But what happens if you really haven’t committed any sins?’ I asked mum.

‘That’s the sin of pride, she said.

 

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Resting Granny Face

This is the post that Mumsnet  mentioned.  Oh my poor resting granny face.

That moment where you see a really bad photo of yourself and think – oh my God do I really look that old/ugly/desiccated/ and the answer is a resounding, ego shattering ‘YES.’

My driving licence ran out and because I’m a foreigner – Irish actually –  it means I can’t sort out a new licence online – I have to send off a filled in form plus photo.   At first I thought I could just get one of those machine ID ones and duly nipped into the photo booth at Paddington.

Alas, I had to listen to barely audible instructions first about how to sit, not to smile, take off glasses, don’t wear a hat.  I then took my specs off and pressed the button, looking up at a blur.  ‘Are you satisfied’? came the voice.  I couldn’t see a thing, so I pressed yes.  Out came four identical photos of me looking droopy faced, and stupendously, shockingly (overwritingly) ugly.  The bottom half of my face sagged!   When did I develop Resting Granny Face?  My hair was beige-ing!  I thought of the dinner I’d had with the ex-head of BBC Comedy the previous week.  She had finally stopped dyeing her very dark hair and had gone a very sexy grey but swishy silky grey in an elegant bob.  Some women look great with silvery fox hair.  My hair was no longer red or auburn but a nasty tobacco stained bleige.  Ah nicotine memories.

terrible-photo-of-me

Slowly I combed my hair, pulled on my hat, replaced my specs and put on some lipstick, thinking of Bad Photos Over the Years.  I wondered if I might cry.  My First Holy Communion photo where mum had made my dress, an A line number that revealed too much of my skinny legs, as I had a habit of shooting up overnight.  Height wise as opposed to heroin.  Although that particular photo was enough to turn anybody into an addict.  If the pipe cleaner legs weren’t bad enough, the sunlight narrowed my eyes to slits.  I resembled a lizard in a dress.  My early attempts at a fringe which went all Dallas circa 1982 – fluffy wuffy, well it was 1982 but that fringe was terrible.  A particularly bad passport photo which my ex pointed out made me look ‘like a member of the Baader Meinhoff’.  And why did I always blink at the wrong moment so I resembled one of those dead relatives the Victorians would take pictures of?  Not only dead but in an advanced state of rigor mortis.  If only I knew the tricks of looking passably human in photographs.    There’s something to be said for the Selfie Generation – they instinctively understand about turning up the chin, and having the light behind you.

Then I thought about what a ridiculous thing – to go see the First World War Graves and to ‘honour’ the dead by taking a selfie.  Or to walk about with a selfie stick without even feeling stupid.  As though if you haven’t taken a selfie in front of ‘it’ – then ‘it’ doesn’t exist.

I looked at the photo again.  Still looked like shit.  I began to laugh.

At lunch I was telling my friend the story and found myself snorting with laughter again.  She looked at it and just said, ‘Your eyes are closed.’  The waitress came over with parmesan, and still coughing with laughter, I watched as my friend showed this photo to her.   The waitress laughed too.  ‘It’s not a good photo,’ she said kindly.  ‘But you look so nice now.’

It reminded me that faces are lovely in mobility and laughter.  Better keep my face moving then.

 

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The liberal elite that Republicans are always bitching about will have no say in the US government over the next four years.  Trump won on fear and loathing.  You wanted it – you got it. 

steve-bell

In the opening scene of the movie Downfall, Bruno Ganz as Hitler is shown being kind to Traudl Junge, his new and terrified secretary.  It’s a brilliant scene, reminding us that Hitler the mass murdering monster was also a human being, capable of kindness.  If Donald Trump was a character, a script editor would call him unbelievable and want him rewritten.  Nobody is like that.  Writers learn that villains have to be humanised or they become the other, unreal, inhumane.

It turns out this vain, monstrous man without any seemingly redeeming features is now the most powerful person in the world.  No wonder people are scared. Drain the swamp? He is the swamp.

Like a million other people, I’m trying to make sense of the defeat of the most qualified candidate by the least qualified.   And it wasn’t just angry ground down white people, as 48% of the voters earned more than $250K.  It points to a deeply ingrained misogyny in the US from men and from women.

During the campaign Hillary was told to stop waving her arms about because people found it scary.  She is still being judged for not changing her name over thirty years ago, for being too clever.  When has any man ever been accused of being too clever?  Trump attacked her for having nothing but gender.  She has spent thirty years in public office. She went undercover to report on racism in education.

We’ve all heard about Trump’s bankruptcies, his racism, misogyny, vanity and cruelty.  One story for me, more than anything else, tells us who Trump is.  When his father died, a nephew sued over the distribution of the will.  In revenge, Trump and two siblings deliberately cut off medical aid to the nephew’s baby son who had a life threatening condition.

I had a look at the Facebook page, Women for Trump and asked one woman (very politely) if she’d be happy if her daughter worked for Trump.   Back came the thoughtful reply:

F**k you c***

I tried again on Christians for Trump.  Even more bizarre as one of the few good things about this campaign was the candidates were not trying to Out Jesus each other.  So where did Christians get the idea that Trump was a godly man?  Could it have been that he promised to punish women for getting an abortion?  I asked someone on the forum.  Again I got a brisk response:

God don’t want lisbos.

It’s easy to mock some sections of the US electorate.  Fun too.

But attacks have come from the left too.  Bernie supporters were shouting Bern the witch.  So Hillary is a truly democratic hate figure.  Everyone hates her.  What for?

For keeping her own name

For defending a man accused of raping a 12 year old girl.  She was a public defender.  It was her job.

For saying, during the Gennifer Flowers scandal:  You know, I’m not sitting here – some little woman standing by my man like Tammy Wynette. I’m sitting here because I love him, and I respect him, and I honor what he’s been through and what we’ve been through together.

For having ambition:  I suppose I could have stayed home and baked cookies and had teas, but what I decided to do was to fulfil my profession which I entered before my husband was in public life.

As Secretary of State she was personally blamed for the deaths of four US servicemen in Benghazi.

Hilary’s look had to be pared down – approachable, not too glitzy, warm, intelligent . . .but not too much . . . With fashion she can’t win.  Pantsuits mean she’s trying to be a man.  But when she wears more feminine clothes, ugly comments are made about her body.  Page after page is written about her clothes, her hair, her makeup.  Because if you’re not a cosy grandmother and you’re not hot (Trump’s definition of what women should be) then what are you?  A man?

Meanwhile Trump was stomping about mocking the disabled, vomiting racist bilge, openly boasting about sexual assault, and waving his tiny little hands about, a rancid wotsit in a suit.  What was he told to do? How was he ordered to behave?  He won’t even pose in a certain way in case it shows the line in his weave.  In the last week of the campaign, his Twitter account was taken away.  The USA have given the nuclear codes to a man not trusted to run his own twitter account.

Well the government is in Republican hands now, so they can’t whine about Democrats anymore.  The liberal elite they are always complaining about will have no say in the government over the next four years.  You wanted it – you got it.

 

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Why are we more protective of daughters when our sons are far more likely to be victims of criminal violence?

rescue

It’s half term so my daughter (12) and a close friend of hers (13) are both staying with my boyfriend and I in Manchester.  The Girl suggested a trip into town with her friend – let’s call her Molly, and we’ll call my girl, Lara as that’s her name.  When we suggested they might like to go on their own, with some money and maybe have lunch, they were both very pleased.  Had either of them glanced anxiously at each other or us, we would not have pushed them.  Let’s get that clear.  But armed with cash, phones, a map, and the knowledge that both girls get on buses and go to school every day by themselves into a world of weirdoes, pushy adults and misleading road signs, we figured a few hours by themselves in a small city like Manchester would be fine.

So full of pancakes and plans, the girls trotted off to get the train into town.  An hour later while the girls were in a shop, Molly called her mum to say she was having a great time.

Two seconds later, my phone rang and I was treated to a blistering invective from Molly’s mother of how ‘irresponsible’ I was leaving ‘two young girls alone in a city’. Did I have ‘any idea what might happen?’  I was shocked but also bewildered. ‘It’s all right for Lara.  She lives in a city!’ continued the outraged mama.  ‘What do you think is going to happen to them?’ I asked.  ‘They have money and fully charged phones and they really wanted to go.’

But Molly’s mother was scared and furious.  What she meant of course was the fear that roaming gangs of paedophiles on the lookout for young girls would grab Lara and Molly while they were browsing in a store.  This terrible fear that some sort of sexualised attack would happen – some monster crawling out of Starbucks would immediately spot the girls and whisk them off.

Parental terror of sexual attack on their daughters by Someone Out There is totally immune to actual facts.  Such as our sons are far more likely to suffer criminal violence      My son aka The Boy aka Ben, has been attacked twice.  Once aged 15 he and his friends were mugged for their phones.  A year later, he and a friend were chased by a group of lads.  Ben flagged down a car and asked for help.  ‘How did you know the driver would be ok?’ I asked.  He said that the driver was a woman and she had a baby’s car seat in the back so ‘she was less likely to be a psycho.’  Lara travels by bus to school every day (as does Molly) and sooner or later, someone creepy will clumsily chat her up, or say something offensive and I will not be there to rescue her.

Overprotecting your children leaves them anxious, uncertain and a pain in the arse to live with.  I know because I was overprotected.  I was that infuriating roommate who didn’t clean the bath and drank the last of the milk because my parents kept me in a little bubble; such was their fear of the world.  Thanks to my college friends showing their disapproval by saying: ‘Clean the f***ing bath you lazy bint,’ I learned and became much better at communal living.  But my dad in particular was very anxious about the world and what people might think, so whenever I tried to go out with my friends (believe it or not I had a few), he would mutter darkly about ‘wicked people’.  He never told me what these ‘wicked people’ might look like or sound like but assured me they existed.  One one occasion I got horribly drunk on cheap sherry and puked but managed to do so in the sink over the dirty dishes.  In terms of teenage rebellion it was pretty mild, but from my parents reaction you would have thought I’d been caught under a pile of men doing sex AND crack.  And in retrospect, their anger was more about the fact that I had been ‘disobedient’ than indulging in harmful behaviour.  Having learned I couldn’t talk to my parents, I became far more adept at hiding my harmful behaviour.  Overprotective parenting leads to sneaky behaviour.  I couldn’t talk to my parents about the stuff that really bothered me and I knew my dad in particular was concerned about my ‘innocence’ so I learned to lie better.

I grew into an anxious and insecure young woman, unsure of my place in the world, afraid of speaking up, convinced that if I took a small risk, then something terrible would happen.  In fact I was one big Moro reflex.  Even now if my boyfriend suddenly springs something on me, like ‘Let’s go to Reykjavik,’ I instinctively do ‘a Moro’ and immediately freeze, thinking of a million reasons why we couldn’t possibly.

‘Behold the wholly sanitized childhood without skinned knees or the occasional C in history,’ says Psychology Today who recently published a piece arguing that helicopter parents are raising A Nation of Wimps.  Parents are so geared towards academic achievement, they fail to teach their special snowflakes any actual life skills.  Or allow them to fail without rushing in to rescue them.

I met one such parent on University Open Day.   She pointed out most forcefully that her teenage son was a ‘poet’ and would he get some support if he worked on his first collection while continuing his studies?  I asked the boy what kind of poetry he wrote, and crimson faced, he muttered something that sounded like ‘feelings’.  The poor boy – with a mother like that, I’m sure he had plenty of them.

This is why I was determined that both my children would be confident, self-actualised people.  To do this their father and I made sure they went to pre-school to develop their social skills (and yes so I could work) and I’ve tried very hard to make sure that I show my faith in them – that they can do things and if they fail, it’s fine as long as they try.  And I want them both to stride into the world, not tiptoe.  Girls particularly alas, still absorb the message that they must be ‘likeable’, not take up too much space, not shout, or laugh too loudly, not to enjoy their sexuality too much – be sexy, yes but for boys, not for their own pleasure.  So to be this confident adult I believe Lara needs to test herself, to be able to brush off an unwanted approach, to explore on her own, to tell someone if necessary to f*** off or she’ll scream her head off.  ‘I got into some bad situations because I was far too polite,’ I told her.  Don’t put up with some berk sitting next to you and being offensive because you don’t want to be thought of as ‘rude’.  As this piece brutally explains, the overprotective parent is really really messing up their kids.

Take. A step. BACK. You’re damaging your child’s damn brain. Literally. What them young churrins need the most is the chance to be stressed, to be scared, and to be unsure of what’s going to happen next. They need to learn to adapt and grow and most importantly, they need to realize that while something might suck a whole hell of a lot, it’s not going to kill them. They need the opportunity to develop the tough skin that will get them through the black hole of awfulness that is adulthood. Do you want a fierce, self-actualized, confident kid or a floundering, mess of insecurity and self-doubt?

I really didn’t want to.  But on this occasion I had to rush into town and rescue Lara and Molly from having hot chocolate in a café while gleefully going through their purchases.

helicopter-parenting-6-638

Posted in Girl and Boy, parenting, Teaching | Tagged , , , , | 1 Comment

I know how you feel when your work is judged

rejection-slip

To my students.  I know how you feel when your work is  judged

This academic year I’m teaching the new Open University MA in Creative Writing.  I’m also doing some critical reading of the script materials.  And like thousands of other writers, I’m trying to get my own work off the ground.  When I wear my OU hat, I try to guide my students, offer support and constructive feedback when they want it.  And sometimes when they don’t.  But as a writer, I’m prepared to believe that the idea I’ve developed and lovingly shaped is complete shite if it’s rejected.  Maybe less so than I used to – sometimes I go through old ideas and surprise myself at how good they are.  I also remind my students that truly brilliant ideas have been turned down again and again by institutions who should know better.  Caitlin Moran’s Raised by Wolves was turned down by the BBC because they apparently had their one sitcom with women in it already.  And in 1974, Fawlty Towers was also turned down by the BBC

Last week, however, I girded my loins and asked for a meeting with a lovely BBC Producer to whom I’d sent some ideas.  It doesn’t matter how many times ideas have been accepted, liked or commissioned. It really doesn’t.  Because all I can ever remember are the ideas that were shot down in flames.  Or even worse on one occasion, I came up with an idea, the producer liked it and asked for a few scenes, so I wrote and sent them and the producer sent them back within a few hours saying she didn’t understand what I was on about and she didn’t like them. And it wasn’t funny.  As if not liking any of the scenes hadn’t convinced me of my worthlessness enough.  I emailed her back saying, thank you for looking at it anyway bitch, before putting my head down on the desk and crying.  That was a bad one.

Since then I’ve had work commissioned, work rejected, and I’ve toughened up.  I still feel that sinking gloom at a rejection and sometimes no contact at all – or – and I’m not sure what’s worse – flattery and faux friendship followed by the wheedling expectation that your work is meant to be free.  To both proposals I say f*** you.  If anyone thinks it’s reasonable for you to work for exposure tell them you’ll do it IF they can persuade your bank/landlord to let this month’s mortgage/rent go and in return they will tell all their friends what a fantastic organisation/landlord they are.  Fair?

The producer I was to meet was having serious last minute casting issues on another play but agreed to see me anyway. We found a coffee house and had one of their medium sized cappuccinos  (roughly the size of the English Channel).  Then she switched off her phone, got out her big notepad and pen and listened.  Horribly aware of the other pressures she was under,  I found myself blundering over a pitch that sounded good on paper but was coming out as what Cady in Mean Girls would describe as Word Vomit.

It’s about this woman . . . who . . oh no .  .hang on . . .what would happen if Mother Theresa was waiting in the green room . . (shit!  Shit!  She’s not laughing.  Or smiling. She hates me. Definitely) and this woman . . bugger . . then what happens?

I took a breath, and pushed the paper with my neatly typed proposals across the table.  Just read this? Please?

She did and she laughed and she liked them and we chatted about what was going to happen next.  Possibly.

But I’m telling this story because I made many silly mistakes and even though it came out ok, it might not have.

Firstly if you email a producer/director with an idea and they get back to you suggesting a meeting, don’t email back going all bleuggghhhh on them.  Which means – your first email is a polite, restrained and professional communication but your second goes all Girl Interrupted and you tell this person you don’t know at all that you have just broken up with your partner because he didn’t understand your writing passion and you were just about to give up and she’s like just saved you.  Stuff that will tempt the producer to close down the email account because the formerly professional writer whose idea sounds interesting has just turned into a crazed stalker.

If you agree to meet at a well known chain of eateries make sure you know exactly which one.  Don’t do as I did which was to arrive early and then wonder if I was at the right branch because there was another one nearby and if the producer emerged from the other side of the tube she might have gone to the other one . . .

. . . and then rush round the corner to see if there was another branch.  There used to be another branch but it had since been turned into a hairdresser.  I raced back to the first one, my table now gone, totally frazzled, so when the producer actually walked in, I was shaky and panting like the aforementioned crazed stalker.

Don’t apologise for taking up said producer’s time at least three times.  (I’m so embarrassed by this)  Instead say it once then shut up.

A meeting with a producer is a bit like a first date.  You want to make a connection but not come over all creepily agreeable like a nodding dog.  The best way to do this is to listen actively.  People who know how to listen are always described as being good conversationalists.

So I’m saying to my students, on the BA and MA course – I know how hard it is and how nakedly fragile you feel when your work is exposed and picked over.  And because I know what it’s like I think it makes me a more empathetic tutor.

 

 

 

 

Posted in Writing and Media | Tagged , , , | 1 Comment

Things not to say to a person with Crohns or colitis

I’ve recently been diagnosed with Crohns.   It’s a new landscape and I’ve a lot to learn.  Like there are side-effects. To Crohns.  Not only do I have a condition – it has sucky side effects too!  Like mouth ulcers.  (A daily mouthwash with Corsodyl seems to help).  And anaemia because Crohns doesn’t make you feel tired enough.  One good thing though –  I’ve had anaemia for most of my life and like lots of people, just get on with it.  But it wasn’t until a doctor was standing over me in hospital and said: ‘You have pernicious anaemia,’ in a tone that suggested it was my fault, that I decided to get serious about it.  I now take four Floradix iron tablets a day and feel so much better for it.

Quick side note here: Ladies – don’t put up with anaemia.  Go see your doctor and get treated.  I’m furious with myself for semi-ignoring it and functioning at 60% for several years.

So I had a Crohns attack yesterday, caused, I think, by the very medication I’ve been given to rid myself of two gastric ulcers – another side effect!  Omeprazole is prescribed to reduce stomach acid and yet one of the main side effects mirrors an attack of Crohns or colitis ie stomach pains, nausea, bleeding and diarrhoea.  I was prescribed four a day, and after a few days, began waking up at night with horrible wind and stomach pain –  Which sounds fairly mild until you’re in the grip of this nauseous knot of pain, lodged under the ribs that just won’t shift.  I spent most of yesterday rolling round on the bed clutching pillows and hot water bottles chewing on deflatine (total waste of time). Eventually I crawled into a hot bath and it gradually melted the pain away.  Here’s a thing.  As I sit here typing this, I get a small twinge and freeze.   It could just be a wee bit of wind.  Or the precursor to a full-blown attack.  Which sets my mind scuttling over everything I ate today.  Was it that ginger biscuit? Two bites of doughnut?  Apple?

No it was just wind.  Phew.

Crohns is so not sexy.

So side issue.  I have to get those gastric ulcers cured, but I can’t take any more omeprazole.  And I’m tackling the anaemia.

But one downside of a new diagnosis is the comments.   Because what with these ‘nutritionists’ everywhere (hey who needs actual qualifications when you have thousands of Instagram followers) plus friends and family trying to be helpful, you’re never short of an opinion.

You look ok.

Thanks.  Next time I have an attack I’ll take photos of me crying in pain and rolling round on the bed.

You’re so skinny.  Lucky you!

Hmm –  not absorbing nutrients due to my stroppy colon lucky? The agonising stomach cramps lucky? I love food.  I hate to think I may become paranoid about it.  And being too thin over 45 is not a good look.

You can’t be that tired

Yes I can.  Even with the iron tablets, after an attack I’m fit for nothing.

My friend followed a <insert batshit diet> and she’s completely cured!

It’s entirely possible that the person you mention felt much better on her batshit diet and that’s great.  But Crohns is tricky and what works for one person may not for another.  I am still finding out what works for me – via a food diary.  These kinds of dietary pronouncements are often delivered in a hectoring tone, carrying the implicit message – serves you right you have Crohns you filthy meat eater.

I know just how you feel.  I had terrible wind/stomach cramps/indigestion/verbal diarrhoea once.

Unless you’ve had a bowel disease you don’t know what I feel.

All useful tips welcome!

 

Posted in Health, My Twisty Colon | Tagged , | 1 Comment