Pondering on the Thatcher thing

14 Apr 2013

In case you’ve just woken from a coma of some length, it may have come to your attention that Margaret Thatcher, former British Prime Minister has died.  For those that aren’t old enough to have any need to know who she is, she is the reason the Dad and the older brother were so cranky all the time in the movie Billy Elliott.

The news coverage, opinion pieces and obituaries have been fiercely divided on whether she was overall a good thing or a bad thing.  I can’t confess to know from experience and would probably take my cues from my English husband and his family if push came to shove.  But the vitriol has intrigued me it has to be said.  Especially in light of the fact that she was an 87 year old, with dementia and the opportunity to be meaningfully cross at her as an individual has long past.

But one thing has really stood out for me in all the coverage and that was on her place in feminist history and her obligation to ‘do justice’ to her place in history as the first female British Prime Minister.

It may be controversial, but I’m going to cry “Bollocks” on this one.  Whether she did good or bad, how she makes people feel is not her responsibility.  She is famously quoted once for saying that she relished personal attacks as it meant they could find nothing in her professional life that was at fault.  While her view might have been oversimplified one and a breathtakingly arrogant one, she does have a point.

She only has as much relevance as a bogeyman as the people are prepared to invest in her.  If her legacy has been discredited (which seems to be the consensus) and her the consequences of her reign disastrous, it happened in conjunction with the support of the voting British public.  The UK is not a dictatorship, and the public’s willingness to endorse her course of action is as damning on 1970’s Britain is as our current stance on asylum seekers is on 2010’s Australia.  Democracy doesn’t happen in spite of us, but because of us.  If we are unable to see the impact of government policies on individuals and their families it is not because the evidence is not there, but because we choose to skew it to suit our own beliefs or prejudices.

If her legacy was to shatter the glass ceiling of politics, its only within the construct of modern politics.  Women have been leading, and universally disliked, in the UK for centuries.  We have imbued her role with meaning because she is female.  Whereas it is irrelevant.  She was not in politics for the sisterhood.  She was in politics for Margaret Thatcher.  And that is fine.  Women are not obligated by their gender to stand for all women when they act.  The consequences of their actions might impact negatively or positively, but gender does not come with responsibility.  If it does, the call for equality of the sexes is made redundant.  Men are not tasked with great things when elected to office on the basis of gender but because they have been elected to office.  Our expectations of them are based on promises delivered or broken, not because they are male.

And while Margaret Thatcher is topic of the moment, I would hold the above to be true for all people in the public eye – be they female, indigenous, disabled or other. And in fact, true for the people in our private lives – friend, sibling, child, parent – none of these roles leave people obligated to be anything or anyone other than they are.

Others don’t owe us.  They can impact us, they can change us, but they are never obligated to us.  Nor we them.  True.

Holly had a doctor who was quick quick quick

11 Apr 2013

The Tullinator has a much beloved and generally naked doll called Holly (because she joined us at Christmas and I’m that kind of imaginative Mama), who lost an eye when she was dropped onto the pavement about three and half seconds after she was opened. And that’s fine – because she was still loved and her one-eye-ness has just been part of who she is. The single eye didn’t bother my girl, or any of her friends, but turns out it is often a talking point with adults.

Minus her eye

“She’s only got one eye”
“Where’s her eye?”
“What happened to her eye?”

And somewhere in that fabulous brain of hers, The Tullinator came to recognise that Holly only had one eye and that in some way this wasn’t the way it was supposed to be. And this made her sad, and there has been much talk about taking her to a doctor to make her better.  We are currently very much into doctors and how the bandaid is possibly the world’s most awesome invention.

So I agreed to look into it. And today, after we dropped the in-laws to the airport we went to The Doll’s Hospital.  This year the business is 100 years old and they specialise in fixing dolls and toys of all shapes and sizes.  And I’m going to say it here – this is NOT a sponsored post.  This is fan mail.

My little one was very reluctant to leave Holly behind.  After we’d dropped her off, and left, we had to come back in for some kisses and another goodbye.  And the lady there was so lovely and gentle and understanding.  We were told that it normally 2-4 weeks, but seeing how important Holly was, they’d try to get her operated in about a week or so. And as we headed home, we had a little cry in the car and talked about how hospitals help people and she’d be well looked after and we rang our Daddy (on speaker phone obviously) to check that he agreed that it was all going to be okay.

We got home and were settling in for some quiet time before a play date when the phone rang and it was the lovely lady from the front counter at the Doll’s Hospital calling to say that she’d taken it to the ‘doctor’ explained the situation and they’d fast tracked her ‘operation’ and she was ready for collection. TODAY. Obviously she couldn’t drive or operate heavy machinery after surgery like that so we cancelled our play date, got back in the car and headed back to the Hospital to collect Holly.  We took chocolate as a sign of our appreciation.  I know a blessing when I see one and I understand that chocolate is a good value add to the medical fees. Like major dental for under two year olds, eye surgery on dolls is not included in our health insurance. (Take note PHI companies looking for a unique customer proposition!)

“just like me”

Anyway….

And the Tullinator was so delighted.

“Oh Mama, she has two eyes. Just like me.  Now she looks just like me.”

And with that sentence I had one of those chest thumps where your ribcage breaks open and makes room for your heart to swell with more love than you ever thought possible.

I am so incredibly lucky to have two beautiful hearted girls, Holly and The Doll’s Hospital. Big love.

It’s bloody Brigadoon!

7 Apr 2013

On Saturday, we journeyed South through the mists and time and on the highways to a town called Brigadoon. Actually, it’s normally called Bundanoon but for the last 36 years they have been hosting this gigantic Scottish lovefest and for one day each year, they call themselves Brigadoon and they even have the signs to prove it.

We weren’t there just because we got the notion, which is always the best reason to turn up to the bizarre and absurd, but because my nephew plays in a Celtic band and was playing his Snare drum, resplendent in his kilt, beret and long socks. And I come from a long line of ‘joiner-inners’. We try anything once, twice to be polite and thrice if we love it.

Gratuitous photo of my cute daughter

We got there just in time for the opening parade which goes on rain, hail and shine. And I tell you – the Mardi Gras aint got nothing on the Brigadoon parade. Celtic band. Southern Highlands Vintage Machinery Club (Tractor). Celtic Band. Tractor. Celtic Band. Tractor. Celtic Band. Fire Engine. Tractor.

Tractor.

 And they wave at toddlers and give out balloons thus assuring public adoration for all time. And my mother-in-law was able to name every song the bagpipes were playing. She maintains ‘from school’ but I suspect a closet bagpipe addiction. It’s the quiet ones you have to watch.

And then came said nephew, tongue poking out the side of his mouth in concentration. Beret askew, elbows jiggling with appropriate snare drum action and the Tullinator was thrilled.

He of the jiggly elbows

She is his biggest groupie and that is before she realised that he played the drum. Now when we refer to him and his sister, his name was listed first. I was worried that the beginning of our visit to Brigadoon might outshine all the moments to follow but I had underestimated the attention span of a two year old and her one year old sidekick.

We spent some time collecting individual pieces of gravel. Filled our pockets. Day made. Again.  And she that was slightly smaller fell charmingly at people’s feet and giggled.  Day made.

We wandered throughout stalls that sold tartan, things made out of tartan, things alluding to tartan, jewellery designed with tartan in mind. By people who wear tartan, think tartan and accessorise with tartan. And we wanted to have our face painted. But before we could manage that we ate food so inexpensive and scrumptious that we could only be in the country. And we had Dutch pancakes. And Brazilian coffee. And American softdrinks. And Australian corn. And we did not have Haggis pie.

We watched sword dancing and more bagpipes. And more snare dram. And caber tossing. And waterbomb fights. And saw Highlander. Which is billed as the world’s best Australian Celtic rock band. I know. Unsure if it’s a backhanded compliment or just a fact. Either way I’m unsure that its something they should use in their regular marketing spiel.

And we got our face painted. Which is the most ridiculously exciting thing ever. Rainbow tiger. Scottish rainbow tiger obviously. Day MADE.

I think my in-laws love love loved it more than anything they’ve ever done in Australia. And it has to be said, it’s definitely more of a culturally accurate Australian experience than many. Little bits of everything with a small blonde, kilted snare drummer the star of the day.

But seriously – these kinds of days, which take you out of your own zone of familiar and into the heart of other people’s obsessions and passions are always fabulous. Such good hearted, joyous days.

A pure like it! (So says the Scottish/English phrases book!)

Brave when it matters

2 Apr 2013

A few years ago a friend stood up to some badly behaving teenage girls who were terrorising other passengers on a bus he ended up being physically abused and left with significant facial scratches because they objected to his verbal chastisement about their behaviour.  We tutted.  And forgot about it.

Jeremy Fernandez was racially abused in February on a bus for not giving up his seat.  And the bus driver sided with the abuser.  We tutted.  We tweeted.  We forgot about it.

And now Yong Wang and Heidi are being vilified for standing up to a racist on a Sydney bus. We tutted.  We tweeted.  And now…?

People are posting hateful remarks on the video, perpetuating the racism and the man’s right to say what he feels.  And mentioning the war.  Again.  And again.

You should be able to speak up when somebody else is speaking out in a way that is wrong.  You should be able to sit on public transport and speak in whatever language you choose.  And you should definitely not be abused because of historical alliances in times of long ago wars.  If this was the basis for abuse the English could go nowhere.  Ever. Like EVER.

Because the English were bloodthirsty and very undemocratic in their approach to entering other countries.  I think you could even say they were ‘murdering bastards’ and ‘c__ts’.  Which isn’t to say that as a history buff with some Irish heritage that every time I’m drunk and somebody speaks English on a bus I have the right to abuse them.

I digress (even though my point is valid)

Our media is full of the bullying epidemic, the oppression of minority groups as an expression of leadership, a disregard for people’s human  rights which is shameful. We need to stop celebrating violence, we need to stop reporting on it in lurid detail so that such reactions are considered normal.  Because they are not.

Most, and I really truly mean MOST, people do not resort to physical violence if their words are challenged.

Free speech does not mean you have the right to intimidate or harass people on the bus. Or on the street.  Or anywhere. (And lets face it – if that is what you are saying for free, thank the gods nobody is paying you to open your mouth because you’re obviously an idiot)

I read often of parents having to go in to bat on behalf of small people being bullied at school because the school discourages their peers from standing up for them and so they are being taught to stand by and say nothing so that they can’t be accused of contributing to the problem.

WTF is going on?  Why are we allowing fear to flourish?

Is this the world I want my small people growing up in? No.  I want them to not bully.  I want them to never be afraid that opening their mouths in defence of somebody will result in anything but some name calling.  I want them to be good people who do not allow evil to flourish as Edmund Burke spoke about 300 odd years ago.  I definitely don’t want them hit.  Or growing up in a world that thinks standing up to idiots makes you an acceptable target for violence and/or malevolence.

Basically I want them to be a Yong Wang or a Jeremy Fernandez.  I don’t for a minute think they are perfect human beings all of the time so don’t start bringing up their as yet undocumented faults.  But they were brave when it mattered.  And that is to be celebrated.

Lethal Weapon 6: The one with the Bilby in it

30 Mar 2013

Chocolate Bilbys Apparently endangered

This morning I came very close to causing grievous bodily harm to an elderly lady and her grandchild that came between me and what appeared to be the last two chocolate bilbys in Sydney.  Years gone by you couldn’t move without knocking the buggers down but now that I have my two English in-laws in town for Easter I couldn’t find them for love nor money.

And then, through the torn boxes and rejected chocolate bunnies that were the day before Easter Sunday, I spied these little bilbys and I abandoned my trolley and bag to scoot across to grab them.

I may have uttered a symbolic hunting cry slash shriek, narrowed my eyes menacingly , had laser beams blast out my eyes and run in slow motion too but that might just be my internal soundtrack and edited memory.

However, this elderly lady and her grandchild moved across my path and appeared to be reaching for the eggs.  I picked them up over my shoulder, slapped them on both cheeks, spun them around on my outstretched arm and threw them through the air where they luckily bounced on strategically placed trampolines and fell dazed and defeated to the floor.  Or, as I was gathering my strength for this proven action move, they moved past the bilbys and picked up Moshi branded eggs and all was well.  They still have no idea how close to danger they came.

If my lovely in-laws don’t appreciate those bilbys there will be trouble.  Big trouble.

We haven’t really done Easter eggs in recent years but have invited a couple of little friends (and parents obviously) over tomorrow morning for a BBQ breakfast and an Easter egg hunt.  It’s not about the chocolate when your kids are this little, but about rabbit ears, and hunting eggs.  And you can tell them that Jesus died and rose again and that’s what Easter is all about, but goodness and love aren’t quite as easy to wrap in shiny paper and put in buckets.

Which is a pity obviously but that is a ponderance for another day.

Happy Easter to the lovers, the haters and that lovely lady and her grandchild.

On the subject of stuff

29 Mar 2013

We have a lot of stuff.  Some of it new, some of it old, some of it meaningless except to us.  It’s bits of our shared history, our individual histories, lots of books and lots of CDs, memories, useful stuff, cords for things, clothes, photos and toys. And I should reiterate.  Lots and lots of books.  Lots and lots of CDs.  We’re those kind of people.

Minimalist is not a term you use in our house unless you are referring to my domestic skills.

And we have a lot less grown up stuff than we used to just by virtue of the fact that we moved house twice in a year.  However, we’ve added two small people to the equation in the last 2.5 years and so the amount of toy and clothes stuff has multiplied like a science experiment gone wrong. Some of it we’ve bought, some has been gifted, some found in hard rubbish and lots has been hand me downs from children who’ve outgrown a skirt, or a kitchen, or a cot and we’ve been the lucky recipients.

I find myself constantly on the defensive about the toy room in particular but as of this week, I’m drawing a line in the sand and saying – you know – YES. We do.  And aren’t the girls lucky?  And fuck off with your judgements.  

These are a few of their favourite things Everything is their favourite I love that in small people

I love being able to provide a place where the girls can play, indulge their imaginations, share their toys with their friends, read their books, run riot, dress up, lie down, colour in, squabble, cuddle and romp.  YES we do appreciate the generosity of our friends and family that have provided so many of the items that make up the room.  And YES we appreciate the family that put out the giant pink quad bike to be taken away during council clean up as I wandered up the road to dinner.  And YES, we like being able to give our girls things.

But having these things doesn’t come at the expense of their souls.  They can play just as happily with a box, they love to make up songs and stories, they have manners, they share.  They give toys away to charities, friends.  They lose the occasional favourite when we are out and about.  They don’t demand toys or things or throw tantrums to get things.  They take their surroundings for granted because they are only tiny and it’s just where they play. And them taking their surroundings for granted is absolutely okay because they’re still working out how to put their feet into shoes, their spoons into mouths and how to say the word ‘milk’ without lisping.

And YES I can be an indulgent parent.  If I see a little something they girls might like I’ll go crazy – yesterday I bought two dinosaurs – for $1 each.  I know – I’m a regular Paris Hilton I am!  But we save the big stuff for special occasions and I’m sure as they grow older and more aware of marketing we’ll have to set firmer boundaries but in the meantime, I’m saying thank you to all those that have given us old toys, old clothes and old books.  I’m saying thank you to a first world that allows me to give my girls a room of toys and I’m saying thank you to you for minding your own business.  If you’re judging me and my little people on their toy room, I’d say it’s not me that should be on the defensive.

That rant over I’m going to go and spin giddily in the midst of all our stuff and be full of gratitude.  I am going to choose not to feel guilty about our blessings.  Until I step on a piece of duplo and then I’m going to hop about profaning and threaten to throw the whole bloody lot out if they don’t start putting it away!