Monday, 27 March 2017

In Reply To: 'Brussels chiefs ready for nasty split.' The Times. March 25 2017





I can't believe we have got ourselves into this mess. I know 'feelings' upset a lot of people on these forums which is quite ironic but blimey , why are we doing this? 

To extricate ourselves is going to be painful, expensive, chaotic and probably futile. It is like dissembling a jigsaw, scattering the pieces all over the floor of a huge warehouse and then scrambling about trying to put the pieces together again to create a pretty picture.

We are where we are in the world. A dangerous world that none of us expected to be in, whatever our age.

We are a member of the European Union, a union (as we have sadly seen) that stands together in the face of adversity. A union that brings us together, teaches our children to share, to enjoy the foibles that being a little bit different but mainly the same bring. To share culture, history and solidarity. To move forward together knowing that someone has your back.

Our leaving is going to be expensive and nasty and a long time coming. Meanwhile, the standard of living we enjoy at present will soon be a thing of the past.

I know I will be moaned at and criticised but I am beyond caring. I feel in my bones that the decision to leave the EU is wrong and I feel really sad and bad about it.

Thursday, 23 March 2017

In Reply To " Remainer Spree Leaves Economists Baffled." The Times: March 17th 2017.




It's interesting and amusing how the referendum has introduced a new form of stereotyping.
Remain voters are portrayed as young to early middle-aged, quite well off and supremely intelligent, probably slim, fit and good looking . Those who voted to leave are portrayed as being as old as Methuselah, a bit on the poor side, lacking in intelligence /decidedly thick, probably a bit tubby, unfit and frankly, ugly. 

But here in Great Britain (soon to be re-named The Isle of May) we are a diverse community, no size fits all.

I voted to remain. I am in my late forties (so I tell myself) not well off at all, quite clever in some areas but quite thick in others, slim, fit and good looking. 

I did have a bit of a spend up this week but not on a new car like a few other posters here today but on a new pair of jeans from Primark.

I think it is reasonable to forecast some very tough times ahead and after reading the interview with David Davis in the Independent earlier this week I don't think it unreasonable to describe a new stereotype: Scarily clueless politicians who are determined to walk the citizens of Great Britain over the White Cliffs and deep down into the beautiful briny sea.

Friday, 10 March 2017

Two Days in March

I take my dog, Billy, out for a long walk everyday and nearly every day there is an incident of some kind. Friday's incident was very unpleasant. I was happily striding along with Billy who was on his lead when a Jack Russell ran up to Billy and started to viciously snap at his face. The Jack Russell was circling Billy and launching his attack. The owner came into view and I told him to get his dog away. The man laughed at me and said, "What do expect, he's a Jack Russell." I replied that I didn't care what he was, he was being aggressive and was out of control.  I told the man to get his dog back on a lead. The dog had no collar and the man had no lead. He didn't even attempt to call his dog off Billy. I told the man I would kick his dog away if he refused to do anything. At this the man took umbrage. He raised his hands in the air and said aloud, "You are going to kick my dog, YOU are going to kick my dog.' The horrible little mutt was still yapping and biting at Billy. I was getting very annoyed and didn't really see why I shouldn't kick his dog away. The man walked on ahead and I held Billy still until finally the Jack Russell ran away. The man then turned around and attempted to take a photograph of me which he promised to put on Facebook to, in his words, 'shame me' for threatening to kick his dog.
In the distance I saw a Jack Russell circling a little Cockapoo and heard the shrill scream of a frightened child.
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I am queuing up at the checkout in Asda on a very busy Saturday afternoon. The supermarket is really busy with people doing their weekly shopping. There is a corridor of sorts which leads out of the shop, it is a really busy thoroughfare with people bustling hither and thither. A very tall black lady glides along with a square cardboard box balanced perfectly on her head. She draws glances of astonishment from all and sundry. The lady working on the checkout raises her eyebrows and mutters something disparaging under her breath. Other people shake their heads and laugh. The black lady does not move her head at all, the cardboard box and its contents remain perfectly still. No  'Bags for Life' necessary.
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I bought my dad some cockles in Marks and Spencer. I had bought some for myself the week before and they were delicious but more than that, they transported me back in time.
On tasting the salty sea flavour of the little molluscs I was immediately reminded of trips to Greatstone Beach as a very young child. My mum and dad and brothers would journey to the beach on cold Sundays with our tin buckets to collect cockles and winkles from the windswept wet shore. I remember being so small that as I crouched down the sand and seawater would ooze into the top of my wellington boots. I also remember my hair smelling of the sea for days after our trips.
We would take our booty home and mum would boil up huge (they probably were normal size) saucepans of water and we would tip in the cockles and winkles. The kitchen would be steamy with the smell of hot sea.
We would then pick the 'beauty spots' out of the winkles with a pin and stick them on our faces. We would all huddle around the formica table and eat our spoils with some bread and butter.
The yellow lino floor would be dotted with beauty spots for days afterwards.

Dad was delighted with his little pot of cockles from Marks and Spencer but remarked that they weren't quite as tasty as the 'real thing.'

Wednesday, 8 March 2017

The Creative Type.

Me, Myself and I  by Celia Turner.


How can one describe the excitement the artist feels at her easel? How can one describe the obscure thought processes that conjure up a picture that absolutely needs to be painted? Why, when I am feeling creative do I feel that I am living more 'fully' than during the rest of my life?

Creativity: The Work and Lives of 91 Eminent People is a study published in 1996 by Mihaly
Csikszentmihalyi. (Harper Collins)

In my case I am describing an artist as in a girl standing at her easel but of course creativity is a phenomenon itself too difficult to describe easily.

The report suggests that creative people tend to have good physical energy but are also often quiet and rest.
We can be smart yet naive.
We combine playfulness and discipline.
Although we may alternate between imagination and fantasy we also have a rooted sense of reality.
We can be both introverted and extroverted.
Humble and proud.
Rebellious and conservative.
Passionate but objective about our work.
Creative people, to an extent, escape rigid gender. This is psychological androgyny, referring to a person's ability to be at the same time aggressive and nurturant, sensitive and rigid, dominant and submissive.

This original report is well worth reading as although it cannot answer individual questions it does offer explanations as to how and why creative 'types' behave and feel as they do.
Can creativity be learned and will it be a much harder skill in these days of digital dominance?

My creative self was born when I was a very young girl at infant school. We were sent out onto the playing fields to find chrysalides' which we then popped into old plastic sweet jars filled with greenery.
A couple of weeks later, to my utter delight a beautiful moth emerged.
I began to perceive the world in a new way.