Carol Hedges's Blog, page 23

The Price of Everything

Birmingham Libraries are now at the point where government funding to local authorities has been cut so deeply that they have been forced to appeal for 'donations' of books from members of the public and I cannot tell you how despairing I feel about it

I expressed my views about the importance of public libraries a couple of years ago because I was so angry at the closures that were taking place all over the country. Now that the government has just announced a whole new raft of cuts, leading to more closures, or decisions like the one Birmingham has taken, I am still angry.

My first encounter with books was via the local library in Welwyn Garden City, my home town, in the 1950s. Dumped in the children's library, age 4, I selected a book from the box (in those days all picture books had the same plain library covers). I opened it up and there was Orlando, the Marmalade Cat, his Dear Wife Grace and their three Kittens, Pansy, Blache and mischievous Tinkle.

Apart from starting my well known love of cats, it also started me on the path to reading, which led me, in time, to become a librarian and a writer. My parents did not consider buying books for young children as a necessity, as many parents, for a variety of reasons, still don't. Without the books I borrowed each week, my life would have been impoverished.

When I finished university in the 1970s, I started off my library career working for Harlesden Library in the London Borough of Brent. The library, housed in an old Carnegie building (see below), served a poor, ethnically diverse community and was used by people who could not afford to buy books for themselves, or for their children.

The staff were treated with the utmost respect by locals, who valued what we offered and what we represented. I vividly recall being beckoned to the front of a long queue in the local Caribbean greengrocer - the owner succinctly informing the rest of the line that: 'this is the Librarian lady - she got to get back to work!'

Here, our libraries have been 're-structured to meet the needs of the modern user'. As far as I can see, this means they shut at odd times, just when you want to borrow a pile of books, and far too much space is now given over to desks of computers, at which people sit and dicker all day. Mainly playing mindless games. Books? Nah, don't need them. Got to move with the times. Books are relegated to fewer and fewer shelves.

When open, our libraries are frequently manned by 'volunteers' who cost nothing, but do not have the skills or breadth of knowledge to deal with public enquiries, (before you quibble, ask yourself this: would you like your kids to be taught by 'volunteer' teachers? Or your cancer to be operated on by a 'volunteer surgeon'?)

The word ''free'' seems to be anathema to this government, who believes that nobody should get anything without paying for it. They know the price of everything, but the value of nothing. I predict that it won't be long before all libraries are outsourced to a private company, who will start charging per book for borrowing them.

Between 1883 and 1929, the Scottish-American businessman and philanthropist Andrew Carnegie funded 2,509 libraries all over the world. I wonder what he would say if he could see how his legacy is being dismantled in the UK today?


                                  Carnegie's sign over Edinburgh Central Library (pic. Kim Traynor)                                                            

Food for Thought (Adventures of L-PlateGran)

Little G is back from her holidays, tanned, taller and still not walking. You must be mad is not happy about this, as she is about to graduate to the Toddlers' Room at nursery. Only she isn't toddling. Watching Little G hoist herself to a wobbly stand and then pitch forward, I can see it from her point of view. Why spoil a good thing? Crawling gets you from A to Z. Standing just lands you face down on the carpet.

Now she is back, we are resuming our old routines once more, so today it's off to Wagamama for our Wednesday lunch date. We always have the same dish: grilled chicken, noodles, grated carrot, sweetcorn and strange green veg that we regard with some suspicion.

We walk to the restaurant. As it is the summer holidays, there are a lot more parents and children around town. We steer carefully as all the parents seem to be on their phones. Once we are seated, Little G and I start drawing with the crayons. Several children drift over to watch. We discuss Little G's amazing ability to draw wiggly lines in yellow crayon.

While we eat our lunch, Little G points to things that she likes: the ceiling tiles, the light fittings, the jolly stripy flags the council has put up to make the precinct look festive. We compare our lunches to see who has eaten the most. I help her with the fiddly bits.

As always, we get complimented on Little G's behaviour: the way she sits so nicely, the way she eats up all her food. I smile, say thank you. At the end of our lunch, I pack her back into the buggy. She waves at the staff. They coo and wave back. She waves at the children. They laugh and wave back. She waves at the parents. But they are on their phones, so they don't notice.



To be continued ....    .......

The Older the Better

A thought-provoking week at Hedges Towers, which began with my best friend E having one of those encounters that keeps the iron of revolt firmly embedded in my soul. She was queuing at the checkout in Waitrose with her lovely young daughter, who has Downs. Because daughter does not do waiting patiently, E with permission from the understanding checkout staff, always gives her a small handful of those green counters to post in the Community Matters slots while she bags and pays.

She had just handed over the counters when one of the hard-faced women I refer to privately as Harpies (portmanteau word Harpenden + ladies) tapped her on the shoulder and informed her coldly that her child was only allowed ONE green counter. Now E is a Canadian with a tongue that could remove paint from walls, but as she said, 'It was holidays and the store was full of kids.'

So she took a deep breath, called daughter over, and proceeded to prize the green counters, one by one from her reluctant fingers. By the end of the exercise, daughter was sobbing, the queue had reached epic proportions, and Harpie was so red and rigid you could have used her to stop traffic. Sadly, this says all you need to know about my town and many of its older inhabitants.

Meanwhile closer to home, I decide BH needs a new aftershave as the one he wears is getting on my nerves. Ever mindful of the Estee Lauder Youth Dew Incident*, I wait until the weekend when he is around, to test drive products. (*This was the infamous Christmas present that I was given quite early on in our marriage, because a woman where he worked wore it and he thought it smelled very nice. On her, maybe. On me it smelled like week old cat litter. Money completely wasted but hey, a lesson usefully learned.)

Arriving at John Lewis on Saturday, I head straight for the 'Men's fragrances' a place BH dreads almost as much as a visit to the dentist - apparently it's the word 'fragrances' coupled with the scary ladies armed with bottles, fixed smiles and slightly more teeth than expected - and spend a happy time getting various strips of card sprayed before meeting BH outside the coffee place. Over coffee, I persuade him to sniff, smell and critique the various colognes. He says they all smell exactly the same and he doesn't like any of them. Just as well, as I'd forgotten which one was which anyway. And they all seem to cost a ridiculous amount of money in the first place.

So I have thrown the elderly bottle of aftershave away, leaving BH to smell of BH, which is actually quite nice for a change. See, that's another good thing about strolling gently towards one's dotage: there are so many things you no longer need: expensive cologne, eyelash curlers, mini hair-straighteners, eyebrow threading kits, waxing strips, designer sunglasses, hair extensions, false nails, fake tan and selfie sticks. The older I get, the more low maintenance I become. Nowadays I just that check I'm not in my slippers, can still remember my name and destination, and I'm good to go.

Time Out (Adventures of L-Plate Gran)

It has been, as they say, a quiet week. You must be mad and Little G are currently away on a family summer holiday in Devon. First exposure to sea and beach for the baby. Sand in, sand out, as they say. So I have had time to breathe, stand back and take stock.

Things I like about minding a small baby

* The use of totally legal weaponry in the form of a purple buggy with 'edges'
* Unconditional love
* The challenge of avoiding collateral damage when removing unsavoury objects from mouth
* The feel of two little arms around my neck when I pick her up
* The company of somebody for whom a trip to the swings is cause for massive celebration
* Realising that I'm not quite as unfit as I thought
* Reading books with VERY simple plots and LOTS of pictures that I don't have to review on Amazon          
* Hosting lavish 'tea parties' which never end in unacceptable weight gain

Things I don't like about minding a small baby

* The 'missing her terribly' feeling when she goes on holiday




To be continued .....    ......

The Migrant's Prayer 2015

May you never see children hungry
May you never hear parents dying
May you never hold out your hand
And plead for help from a turned back.

May you never have hope taken from you
May you never have dignity denied you
May you never hold out your hand
And plead for help from a turned back.

May there always be food on your table
May there always be blankets to warm you
May you never hold out your hand
And plead for help from a turned back.

May your children grow straight and strongly
May they live to be wise and kindly
May they never hold out their hands
And plead for help from a turned back

c. Carol Hedges 2015

Calais.The Swarm

Calais 2015: The Swarm Prays


May you never see children hungry
May you never hear parents dying
May you never hold out your hand
And plead for help from a turned back.

May you never have hope taken from you
May you never have dignity denied you
May you never hold out your hand
And plead for help from a turned back.

May there always be food on your table
May there always be blankets to warm you
May you never hold out your hand
And plead for help from a turned back.

May your children grow straight and strongly
May they live to be wise and kindly
May they never hold out their hands
And plead for help from a turned back

c. Carol Hedges 2015

Twitter Outrage for Writers

It is a sad fact of life that there are people who like nothing better than to stir up trouble as in: ''have stick, will poke it into this hornets' nest'' and Twitter seems to be the perfect forum for such people to indulge their proclivities. I have witnessed some right car crashes unfolding in the three years since I joined Twitter as a fledgling.

It seems to me that there is something about an impersonal forum, where one can hide behind a screen and a manufactured identity that suits the mentality of certain people, as it permits them to throw out what in the real world might be seen as sheer and unmitigating unpleasantness.

So how do we respond to the snarky comments, the tantrum-throwing and the frankly agenda-laced aggressive nutters that patrol Twitter and other forums? Are there unwritten rules of behaviour? Because if we are writers with books to sell, we have to put ourselves out there and then we are going to meet individuals whose opinions and stances and behavioural 'norms' differ radically from ours. How should we deal with this?

I believe there is a difference between disagreeing over a particular issue, and launching a personal attack on another Twitter member and their tweets. I undergo the latter every now and then, so I can completely understand why, in such a circumstance, one would want to create digital distance by unfollowing or blocking the attacker. After all, if it was real life, you'd certainly cross the road to avoid their company in future.

Blocking/unfollowing someone with whom you happen to have started a lively dialogue over an issue, however strongly you or they feel about it, is in my opinion the equivalent of stamping your foot, storming out and slamming the door. I did it at 13. Maybe you did it too. I don't do it now because I hope I'm more grown up. Thus I am happy to say: 'OK, let's agree to differ on this one. Thanks for the chat,' and drop out of the discussion, which is what I chose to do in a discussion about Calais migrants I got involved in recently.
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Also, I always remind myself, whenever I am sorely tempted to let rip, of what happened when I spoke at the Edinburgh Festival a few years ago. There I witnessed a nasty row take place, in public, between two very well-known writers. I remember thinking at the time: if that's the way you behave, then I don't think I want to read your books. And I never have. Twitter can seem like one's front room. It isn't, and it's important to realise that anybody can and will read what I tweet, and see how I react.

So what do you think? Do you speak your mind - whatever the outcome? How do you deal with Twitter outrage? I'd really like to know.

Unselfie (Adventures of L-Plate Gran)

There are many unexpected outcomes to minding a small baby. An increased appreciation of alcohol at the end of a 10 hour shift is one. Upper arm definition from pushing a purple top-of-the-range buggy and lifting a top-of-the-range baby is another.

But the least expected, and most appreciated is the complete acceptance of me. Little G does not see the wrinkles, eye-bags, elderly skin, flab and general decrepitude that I see in the mirror every day. To her, I am Mammar (portmanteau word Mummy + Grandma).

I am the provider of fun, snacks, meals, outings, songs (she doesn't even notice I can't carry a tune in a bucket, bless her). Her values are not those of the world around her. In her world, love is the only thing that matters, and those people who give it to her get it back. In spades.

Given that it is all too easy to let social media amplify anxieties and set ridiculous new norms, to be in the company of someone who simply couldn't give a stuff is very liberating.

I was reminded of this the other week when we were hurrying home to avoid the rain. Passing a shop window, I caught sight of myself. And what a sight it was: my coat collar was crooked, my eye makeup was making a bid for freedom and my hair stuck up in a strange way.

My exasperated sigh must have attracted Little G's attention. She looked up at me, 'Mammar!' she crowed, eyes shining with love. She gave me a smile of infinite sweetness. And all at once the hashtag elderlybinlady stopped trending.



To be continued ...    .....

Barking At Barclays

Money,money, money:always sunny, in the banking world
To Barclays Bank the other week to close a very small savings account that had now matured, and to transfer the money to our joint bank account in a different bank. I needed the funds to pay a builder. Ever mindful of the red-tapery that now exists in all public organisations (even those I own 48% of), I brought all the original documentation to prove the account existed.

But. The very young bank person, who could have been a Year 10 pupil in disguise, after asking me a heap of questions about my mother's maiden name, my date of birth, my shoe size and how many beans made 5, fiddled on her computer, studied the documentation, and then handed it back and told me I needed formal ID with a current photo of myself.

I produced my pensioner bus pass, which has a photo and serves as ID for practically everything. Not today. Drivers' license or passport were the preferred options. Sadly, I still have an old paper driving license, and my passport application was still lost in transit somewhere in the Passport Office.

Breathing slightly harder, I pointed out that WHY in the first place would I have the paperwork from the bank IF I was a scammer. And WHY, if I wasn't me, did I want to transfer the money to an account WHICH ALSO HAD THE SAME NAME AS I DID. As did my bus pass, my debit card, my library card, my John Lewis card and my CRB certificate.

Brick walls. It dawned on me that, given the bank's absurd parameters, I couldn't actually prove who I was, and therefore might never be able to get my money out. Arising with as much dignity as someone who does not exist can, I said I'd be back at the weekend. With relevant proof.

Saturday morning I returned, accompanied by BH, his driving license and passport. The Two Grumpy Old Sods were back in business! In his best official voice, honed over years of dealing with local government idiocy, BH informed the woman that HE was prepared to identify me, and HE had the right ID. He also had a wedding picture of us in his wallet.

We are both past masters at this sort of stuff, and can do threatening silence to Olympic standards, so eventually after a Higher Person was consulted, the sum of £1,250 was duly transferred from one bank to another. Reluctantly.

The irony of all this was that, had I banked online, I could have done the whole transaction without any hassle whatsoever. But I don't trust the bank's security. I still don't. But for different reasons.

Last Babe Standing (Adventures of L-Plate Gran)

It is a paradox but 'constant change is here to stay' as far as small babies are concerned. When I first started minding Little G, she was a year old, toothless and verbally maladroit. Fast forward seven months and the changes in her are amazing.

Teeth have appeared - not many admittedly, but enough to make me less willing to stick a finger into her mouth to fish out some stray object she is trying to choke herself with. She is starting to speak, picking up new words all the time, and I am painfully aware of the bad language she hears in the street as we go about.

Alas, in one area of development, she has been resisting change: she is still not walking. It is driving You must be mad crazy. All the NCT babies are walking, apparently. All the babies we meet down at the little playground are walking - and many are younger than Little G.

This week however, the nursery reported excitedly that Little G had stood unsupported for the first time. Being a true sceptic, I decided to try it out on the first of my minding days, so I waited until she had bum-shuffled onto the carpet. Then: 'Stand!' I commanded. Mirabile dictu! She stood.

I gave her the sort of rapturous clapping and yelling that a teenager might give their favourite boy band. Encouraged, she stood again. On her return, I told You must be mad ... who also went through the same procedure. Several times. A milestone had been reached. We rejoiced.

Next day, flush with my ability to control a baby, I asked Little G to stand. She refused. I tried again. She shook her head. I decided it was probably just one of those things. She was tired. Eventually compliance would return. A short time later, I heard crowing and loud clapping coming from her room, where she was having some solo play time.

Creeping upstairs, I peered round the door. Little G was standing in the middle of the room, giving herself a huge round of applause ... and standing again. Whoever said you should never work with children or small animals had it absolutely dead right.



To be continued ...    ....