A Call to Alms

I almost wrote this blog a few months ago, after the death of the amazing Stephen Sutton, but thought it might come across as insensitive. Then I almost wrote it again after the insane bandwagon-jumping weeks of the ALS Association’s Ice Bucket Challenge, but suspected it would be seen as self-righteous. Following the tragedy at Manchester Dogs’ Home last week, I can’t put it off writing it any longer, whatever effect it may have.

I can’t bring myself to write about the horrendous event itself, how those poor dogs’ lives ended so cruelly after a lifetime of suffering, the local heroes who risked their own safety to save lives, or even the motives and potential punishment of those responsible. As worthy of discussion as all of those things are, they could easily turn this blog into a 300 page social study. Instead, I wanted to focus on a wider issue that all three of these national events had in common, and that’s the stark reflection they gave us of our current culture. Our society has sadly become reactive, not proactive.

Before firefighters had even dampened the flames at the dogs’ home, news broke, and hundreds of people descended on the scene with equipment, vehicles, extra pairs of hands and anything else that might be needed to help. These people left their houses at night, some travelling miles, driven by their compulsion to do something. Those that couldn’t do this set about quickly raising hundreds of thousands of pounds to rebuild the centre. Obviously, these actions are highly commendable, as were the donations to the Teenage Cancer Trust and various ALS/MND charities in the previous weeks. I would never dream of undermining these beautiful outpourings of all the best bits of human nature. But what saddens me is that it takes such a devastating catastrophe, a heart-tugging TV telethon or a social media phenomenon to inspire it.

‘Raising awareness’ seems to have become a buzz-phrase around charitable causes these days, probably because it allows people to believe they’re making a contribution and feel good about themselves by sharing a meme on facebook. I can understand this where rare and lesser known causes are concerned, but what person in the western world hasn’t heard of Heart Disease, or Diabetes, or Alzheimer’s?  Who doesn’t know that developing countries are desperate for adequate healthcare and clean water? We are all only too aware that children and animals are frequently abandoned, neglected or abused and taken to live in specialised homes which can barely cater for their needs while they wait in vain hope for a better future. Some charities even spend some of their precious budgets on TV and newspaper advertising in order to get these messages through to people in their own, comfortable homes.

We all have causes close to our hearts, and in the digital age it’s never been easier to find organisations that support them and ways to assist. Yet none of this is enough to motivate people to get off their sofas and act as passionately and immediately as they do when disaster strikes. If only it were, we may be able to prevent many of the disasters from happening in the first place, and ‘social conscience’ might become a trendy slogan too. But in daily life at the moment, people seem far more concerned with those better off than themselves than those who have always had it worse.

Stephen Sutton was a brave, determined and kind young man who vowed to live life to the full despite his terminal illness and single-handedly made an enormous difference to a lot of lives. But nobody can argue that they’d never heard of Cancer before he told them about it, and he certainly wasn’t the first young person to lose his life to it.

The ALS Association was established almost thirty years ago, in 1985. Most people are familiar with Stephen Hawking’s battle to survive motor neurone disease and continue to function so highly throughout its terribly debilitating effects since the 1960s. Yet its supporting charities had never raised millions in one month until it involved people sharing amusing videos of themselves and playing dares with their friends.

Manchester Dogs Home was founded in 1893, and staff have fought to cope with the ever-growing numbers of abandoned animals in the city ever since. I doubt that at any point within those 120 years, they’ve ever seen crowds queuing up at the gates to help before.

My point is not only that these charities and many others have all needed urgent help for a long time before some despicable events drew attention to them, but also about the people I’ve mentioned. Not one of them waited for the worst case scenario, for lives to be lost, or a media storm to break before they stepped up and did whatever they could to solve a problem they’d identified or been affected by. That’s the kind of positivity that should inspire us to make change, not the death and destruction that comes from allowing a problem to go on for too long.

I am a trustee of Shy Lowen, a small horse and pony rescue charity, and I’m sure the board members of other charities would agree that our main aim is ultimately to put ourselves out of work – i.e. to fix the root cause of whatever problem requires the charity to exist.

I despaired the other day when a teenager enthusiastically enquired about rehoming a horse, which should be a lovely thing to hear from a young person. However, she went on to mention that she ‘can’t wait until we get some more new horses in’. To her, this would mean more to choose from for her own personal gain. To us, it would mean that the problem we set out to eradicate goes on and on; and the limited staff, space, facilities and budget have to be stretched even further. To the horses, it means that though they have already suffered at human hands to end up with us in the first place, they will often continue to be treated as toys or commodities once again when they leave.

I’m not saying everyone should become activists, or volunteers, adopt multiple animals and children or dedicate their lives to charity, but if everyone did just the little bit that they can, we would see a massive improvement. As demonstrated in my anecdote above, changing attitudes and educating the ignorant are just as important in solving a problem as helping physically or financially.

Even responsibly thinking through the consequences of actions and choices can still make a major change for a lesser effort. For example, in the case of Manchester Dogs’ Home, there might not have been so many dogs trapped in that burning building if more people neutered their pets, or refused to buy them from careless breeders and puppy farms, and spent more time caring for and training them. If everyone gathered outside had consistently shown them the level of support and compassion they displayed the night its premises were destroyed, then they might not need all the help they need now. They might not have needed to be there at all. And we might not all have to live in a world where car and clothing brands, bum size and eyelash length matter more to people than the suffering of our fellow sentient beings. Or at least not until it reaches its most awful extreme and it becomes impossible to look the other way.

If everyone could only harness what they felt for Stephen Sutton and those 53 dogs and pay it forward to the countless others still living in similar situations, just imagine what could be collectively achieved.  

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Live Television

I’ve seen a lot of memes, jokes and videos lately about smartphones hogging attention, causing accidents and absurdly, preventing people from talking to each other. While I agree that they are one of the most double-edged technological inventions so far and often wish I’d never got one and become a dependent, I’m finding myself far more disturbed by the change that the digital age has made to one of our much older electronic distractions.

There was a time when TV was an extravagant luxury. A person would be fortunate indeed if they knew someone that had one, even if it could only display a crackly, fuzzy, intermittent black and white picture. When they eventually became available to a wider audience, they were used to transmit huge events – moon landings, world championships, royal weddings, whatever might be deemed important or newsworthy in the society of the time. Documentaries eventually gave way to entertainment shows for families to spend their quality time on. The soap operas that initially only aired for half an hour each week built up to several instalments competing for airspace every weeknight, followed by impossibly long omnibus editions to see addicts through the weekend. The variety of programmes, foreign imports, number of channels and broadcasting times continued to increase until TV stealthily became an inescapable and integral part of life.

Now, with the advent of wi-fi laptops, tablets, aforementioned smartphones, digiboxes, media players, streaming and a wealth of speedy downloadable content from across the globe, I genuinely fear that the western world is blindly and obediently entering some Orwellian state of totalitarianism.

When I was growing up (which wasn’t that long ago), anyone sad enough to collect VHS copies of favourite shows to watch consecutively and repeatedly were labelled as geeky, socially deficient saddos, and encouraged to get out more and find a real hobby. Any twenty-something who told their friends they’d spent Saturday night sitting in watching telly would be pitied and/or ridiculed. How times change. In the ‘enlightened’ 21^st century, a couple sitting down to 6 consecutive episodes of the same series on their night off would probably be considered a date.

TV has undergone a magical transformation from something people did when they had nothing better to do, to something people choose to do above all other things. It’s deemed freakish to NOT have one in the house. I know a few people who don’t own a TV, and from the reactions they get from others when they tell people this, they might as well be saying they have serious psychiatric disorders and enjoy depriving their children of vital stimulus and education. Oh, the irony.

I’m not an innocent in all this, I do watch TV myself and I do have favourite programmes which I have been known to get very enthusiastic about, but I try to incorporate this into my life in a healthy way by following them one at a time on a weekly basis, and not allowing any of them to take over my life. During many lengthy periods I’ve lived without a TV, I’ve remained happy, felt liberated in many ways and definitely been more productive. Even with a TV in my bedroom, I still find time to write, read, exercise, go outside a lot and interact with real people.

 I find it off-putting that the occasional well-written, acted and produced shows capable of providing great insight, or provoking genuine emotion and thought are milked dry by greedy distribution networks, endlessly imitated and far outweighed by the mindless drivel and cheap cannon fodder. I won’t have the TV on even ‘in the background’ if that’s all its hundreds of channels can offer me. I’ll just find something else to do. There’s a real world out there.

What saddens me the most is the willing acceptance of this as our new culture. It’s actually become a preferred lifestyle choice. People don’t find common ground any more, they find mutually agreeable viewing material. Small talk and social media posts centre around it. I rarely see some of my friends more animated than when they’re extolling the virtues of Netflix or whatever US series they happen to be in a serious long-term relationship with at the time. I despair at the use of Cbeebies as a primary source in child development and behaviour management, and of grown adults sacrificing so much of their own precious lives in exchange for the contrived experiences of fictional characters.

One of my closest friends recently expressed a strong desire to procure himself a media pod – which seemed to me to be some horrific, Matrix-esque virtual reality device in which a human being can voluntarily incarcerate themselves to stare at screens for hours on end and endure a slow, electronic lobotomy. Another showed me a diary she’s started keeping of the numerous shows she is currently following simultaneously, as it’s becoming too difficult for her evolved, intelligent brain to keep track. I confess that I myself have succumbed to the temptation of downloading a show from another country so I can watch it a whole 24 hours before it’s due to air in my own. It’s looking increasingly like manufacturers will continue developing the sound and image quality of their overpriced equipment until their complexity exceeds anything that basic human senses can hope to process. I don’t want to consider where it will all end.

Maybe soon it will be normal for everyone to live in individual pods with only a carefully catalogued digital menu of noisy, colourful, crystal clear distractions for company; oblivious to the fact that it’s keeping them quiet, quelling their energy and lulling them to sleep on a much grander scale than the Disney channel does to unruly toddlers. Maybe by then it will be too late to wake up and reclaim life.

Call me over dramatic, but if Orwell’s nightmare prophecy taught us anything, it’s that if there is hope for the future, it lies in the masses. Only we can change it, but we probably won’t.

Because the Walking Dead starts again soon, and there’s a Breaking Bad spin-off on the way.

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Faith in G.O.D.

All my life, it’s been a dream of mine to become a traditionally published author. I even had two favourite publishing houses and a literary agent picked out as my preferred choices of representation. I knew it would take a lot of hard work, which I gladly and diligently supplied, and some talent, which I believed and had been told I possessed. But I had absolutely no control over the amount of luck it would take, and a pretty poor production record in previous attempts to make my own.

We’ve all heard the stories of even the best and most famous writers suffering continual humiliation and ignorance before their eventual breakthrough. The chances of the right person picking up your manuscript from a slush pile of thousands are slim, and the odds of them being bowled over by it within the permitted three chapter submission even slimmer, especially when you’ve written a book as odd as mine. It’s complicated, it doesn’t fit into any current literary trends, and it’s not for everyone. After a year or so of entering competitions and submitting to agents, I got sick of all the months of waiting around, relying on other people, only to receive another unexplained rejection at the end of it. Especially as it didn’t necessarily mean my book was bad – it just meant they didn’t think it would sell, because sadly money is the be all and end all of artistic endeavour in the cynical modern world.

I never cared about the profit, I just wanted an audience. I wouldn’t have spent years writing this book voluntarily if I was concerned with being well paid for my labours – I wrote it because I felt I had something to say. I’d be unlikely to make much money from traditional publishing anyway - I read an article only last week stating that the average full-time writer earns just £11,000pa, so I wouldn’t be giving up the day job even with a book deal. People getting what I was trying to achieve and appreciating how I’ve gone about it is, to me, a far greater measure of success than amassing wealth or fame. I eventually decided I needed to do what I always end up doing in every area of life (see previous blogs), and go independent.

I’ll confess to being snobby about self publishing in the past. It seemed to me to be nothing more than modernised vanity publishing. Anyone could do it, it didn’t require any recognition or skill, and I didn’t want to see the beloved novel of which I was so proud languishing in undiscovered ebook oblivion among the millions of other wannabes. I would only consider it as a last resort, when all else had failed.

Then I recalled the many tales I’ve heard from traditionally published first-time authors I’ve met over the years of their efforts to promote their debut novels and persuade stores to stock them, with little assistance or budget from their publishers. It often resulted in them remaining largely unknown despite their enviable achievement. It occurred to me that in the end, both routes require the same gamble, as putting the book out there is only half the battle – making it known to potential readers is by far the greater struggle. At least with self publishing, worldwide availability is guaranteed.

Further research proved to me that the book industry is changing. Publishers aren’t spending so much time and money on new authors or producing paperbacks, and more and more novelists are discovered after publishing and promoting themselves. Some are even opting to remain independent, and some that have previously had book deals are going independent by choice. I realised that self publishing would not mean I’d given up on my book, but that I still believed in it despite all the rejections. I also still hope it might be seen by the right people by putting it out into the world, but even if it isn’t scouted by anyone in the industry, I’ll honestly be happy if a few strangers enjoy reading it and leave a nice review, or if it makes just one person think differently.

I was also wrong about it being easy. During the dark days of final preparations, ruthless revisions and tedious formatting that have been the last few weeks of my life, I’d have given anything to have a team of editors, proofreaders, designers and marketing experts behind me. But in the end, doing it all myself only gave me more to be proud of, and allowed me to retain all rights and complete creative control of my work, which are also major positives of indie authorship.

The biggest test of all applied to either publishing method, and that was having the guts to place it at the mercy of the public at all. It’s hard to let go of something that’s been a part of my life for so long. It’s my creation and it contains a lot of me, so in many ways it feels like sending my child (or rather my outcast Frankenstein-esque creature) out to make its own way in the world. I want to set it free and allow it to do the best it can, but I’m also terrified of letting other people anywhere near it and will be most upset if anything bad happens to it. So please take care of it for me. 

It’s strange and complicated, and not to everyone’s taste, but stick with it, and you might just find something interesting hidden beneath the surface. I did say it was like me.

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I am not a number!

It was my 34^th birthday a couple of weeks ago. Most people’s response to this was not a joyous congratulation, but rather a sympathetic concern for my wellbeing, like I’d just announced that some terrible woe had befallen me. But that wasn’t what bothered me most about it all.

I can’t deny it’s weird to think of myself as this age, and I certainly don’t feel it, but I’ve come through a lot to get here and I’m proud of it. I don’t think I’ll enjoy getting officially old, once it starts to affect my mental and/or physical capabilities, whatever the numeric definition of that turns out to be. But I’m finding ageing while remaining reasonably in control of all my faculties is a fantastic experience. I’ve been a late bloomer throughout life, and I only really started growing into myself and taking bigger risks in my late twenties. I’m finding all those magazine clichés of growing wiser, more rounded, accepting, confident and comfortable in my own skin throughout my thirties are, like most clichés, repeated so often because they’re true. So I love being 34, and I feel I’m only beginning to reach my prime and be ready for anything now.

Except for one problem. It’s an issue that I probably should be grateful for, but it’s that I don’t look 34. Most people are surprised when I tell them my age, but their estimates are usually somewhere in the mid twenties. I can live with that. It’s a reasonably mature age, and it doesn’t interfere too much with my life. But four days after my birthday, for about the fifth time this year, I was asked to produce ID by a shop assistant to prove I was over 18.

This has been a fairly regular occurrence throughout my adult life, and while it has decreased in frequency, I can still expect it at least once every couple of months. It’s happened considerably more since I could legally buy alcohol than it did during the many, naughty times I had done so before. In my late teens I took it as an opportunity to show off my shiny new proof of age. It became embarrassing in my early twenties, funny in my mid-twenties, and flattering in my late twenties. But it’s just getting stupid now.

I don’t get it at all. I might not look 34, but I definitely don’t look 17. I don’t even look 21. Shops tend to have such crap fluorescent lighting that’s hardly soft focus. I once briefly noticed a pattern of middle aged, mumsy women being accountable for a higher percentage of it, but there’s been numerous times when the person behind the till has laughed or embarrassedly apologised upon being presented with my date of birth, because it’s 10-15 years before theirs, and even they can legally buy alcohol. I’m biologically old enough to have a 17-year old daughter, and have met people my age who do. It doesn’t even provide funny anecdotes any more, because everyone else is bored with it too. Enough’s enough.

So, to all the shop assistants out there, please stop withholding my beer and/or treating me like a child, or you may become responsible for a self-fulfilling prophecy whereby I regress to my angry teenage state; or a full on, Michael-Douglas-in-Falling-Down-style violent episode.

Obviously, it’s a silly thing to complain about, and it’s good to look young. You would think it a particular advantage in a modern world where it seems to be a lot of people’s main goal in life. But to be honest, looking too young is just a pain in the arse.

The trouble is, when people assume you’re 17, they tend to talk to you like you’re actually 12, making it very difficult to be taken seriously in many situations. I’m regularly accused of being a liar just for stating my age, which always baffles me as to what possible reason anyone in their teens or twenties might have to pretend to be 34. I’m sick of having to fish out my driving licence and share my personal details and bad photo with strangers when I’m already in a hurry and carrying loads of stuff. Then there’s the 18-25 year old males who, during their attempt to chat me up at a bar, discover their error and make a panicky retreat. I wouldn’t want to go out with them either, but at least spare me the palpable horror of their reactions. Meanwhile, men in my own demographic don’t approach me because they’re worried they might get arrested for it.

I wouldn’t even mind so much if I could see it myself, or if I hadn’t aged, but it’s clear to me that I have. I see my graduation photo regularly in the homes of my family members, and I look like a cherub in fancy dress, so I can understand how I might be mistaken for 17 back then, though I was 23 at the time. But a few weeks ago, I was looking through some photos with a friend from when we’d first met five years ago. I was 29 then, and I still didn’t look anything like 17. Yet I did look considerably younger than I do now. But I’m still required to prove I’m over 18.

The mind boggles.

I admit in some ways I don’t help myself. I still dress exactly like I did as a student, and I refuse to get any sort of sensible, grown-up haircut that I would have to spend time styling. I have pasty, sensitive, paper-thin skin, meaning that I do still get spots regularly, and I don’t cover them with make up or fake tan, which probably isn’t helpful to my protest. But, exposing my Celtic skin to all weathers, gravity, chemicals and bad dietary habits amongst other things has also caused me a few wrinkles, and it shows all the signs of working regular night shifts in my inappropriately-named day job. I pity all those 17-year-olds with frown lines and eye bags that the staff in off licenses and supermarkets must be confronted with regularly enough to mistake me for one of them.

In another ten or twenty years, maybe I’ll be more grateful if people still think I’m 15 years younger than I really am, but by then, being 15 years younger won’t halve my age, and I’ll still be a fully grown adult, even in their obviously defective eyes. But for now, I’ll just have to try and take something positive from it, and make a new goal in life to be asked for ID at 35, which will surely break a record, or at least make me worthy of an award of some kind. I’ll celebrate its ridiculousness anyway.

Just so long as it doesn’t happen too many times in between. Or after. 

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The Single Truth

I’m afraid the blog’s all gone a bit Carrie Bradshaw today, because lately, with increasing frequency, all the new people I meet tend to ask me the same thing. The burning question is:

 ‘Why don’t you have a boyfriend?’

My issues with it are threefold:

Firstly, it’s quite a personal question. I suppose I can understand the curiosity - I’m entering my mid thirties, attractive in my own unique way, have never married and haven’t been in a serious or long-lasting relationship for years. But the way I see it, if they don’t know me well enough to already know the answer, then it’s probably none of their business. I don’t go around asking random people why they are with their partner, or why they got married, adding subtext suggesting that they shouldn’t be. I also wonder whether single men my age are regularly subjected to the same enquiry, or if it’s still more socially acceptable for them to choose not to have a girlfriend, or as many girlfriends as they want, with either option only increasing their eligible bachelor status.

The prying isn’t as annoying as the second issue, which is there’s always a hint of judgement in the tone, like it must be such a terrible hardship for me to endure day to day, or like I am surely a madwoman to attempt to face the harsh realities of the world alone. I sometimes even get the sense that the person’s trying to figure out what must be wrong with me to make me so repellent to all the men I must spend my time desperately trying to impress. The resulting assumptions can be anything from man-hating feminist, lesbian, free-spirited polygamist, or promiscuous commitment-phobe, right down to reclusive prude, religious devotee or bitter emotional wreck. None are correct.

The third problem is the one that bugs me most, and that’s the phrasing of the question. They don’t ask: ‘Are you looking for/Do you want a boyfriend?’ But: ‘Why don’t you have a boyfriend?’ It further implies that I should have one, and it’s somehow wrong or weird that I don’t. The language bugs me, but the sentiment probably makes me feel sorrier for them and their narrow outlook than they do for me and my obviously tragic spinsterly existence.

My honest answer is simple. I’m currently single because I haven’t been fortunate enough to stumble across that elusive and magical combination of compatibility, chemistry, and timing with anyone I’ve met recently.

To me, being single is not a choice in that I would prefer it over being in a loving, equal relationship with the right person, but it is absolutely a choice above settling for anything less. As in every other area of life, I’m just not motivated to put precious time and effort into something if my heart’s not in it.

But the right person is rare and difficult to find, so for the inevitable in between times, I’d much rather be alone than with the wrong one, or the convenient one, or the one that’ll do until something better comes along. I’ve learned that the superficial happiness gleaned from succumbing to such poor substitutes is always temporary, and far outweighed by the deep loss of self respect that accompanies it. That’s a far worse feeling to deal with than occasional loneliness.

When I offer this answer, people usually feel it necessary to advise me that I have to try harder, put myself out there, and not just hang around for the right one to come along. This insinuates that my lack of boyfriend somehow means I’m putting my life on hold, like I’ve locked myself in an ivory tower until my prince comes to rescue and revive me, which could not be more vomit-inducing or further from the truth. I don’t actively seek love because I don’t believe it can, or should be forced. I’ve found it prefers to jump out and surprise me in entirely serendipitous circumstances, and that’s the way I prefer it too.

I’m not holding out for some Disney happily-ever-after, I’m not waiting at all. I’m just an all-or-nothing type of person in life generally, and relationships are no exception. I don’t want an impossible fairytale, or at the other end of the scale, any kind of casual arrangement. I want something organic and real. And I certainly don’t want perfect, I just want perfect for me, which is an entirely different, flawed and much more attainable concept.

But then I’m told that my perfect match probably doesn’t exist, and being too fussy is the real reason I don’t have a boyfriend. But I’ve come pretty close to finding what I want before, I believe I will again, and I’m not in any hurry, so see no need to lower my standards any time soon.

It may come as a surprise, but I am actually fine on my own, and being single isn’t as terrible as people seem to think. It actually has a lot of advantages, and in many ways, I’m happier than I was even in my best relationships. I can be completely free and spontaneous, decide how I spend all of my time and money, and flirt with whomever I like, all without compromise. It’s also empowering - I have more friends and adventures than ever before, because it’s pushed me to try new things, travel to new places and meet new people, and I’ve gained all the strength and confidence that comes from doing those things alone. Maybe it’s easier for me because I was never the little girl that grew up dreaming of her white dress and wedding day, and have still yet to reach a point where settling down in the conventional sense appeals to me in the slightest, or maybe it would be easier for everyone if they weren’t conditioned to be so focused on achieving that goal.

But I’m never praised for my positivity, personal growth, ability to enjoy my own company and move forward despite not having constant support - instead I’m judged as sad or selfish. From my perspective, I see far too many couples who treat each other badly and stay together simply because they’re scared of being alone; or who don’t really love each other, but rather they love what the other person can do for them, or provide them with; or worst of all, are trying to change each other into something they’re not to fit in with their own wants and needs. That seems far sadder and more selfish to me.

I think a lot of people don’t understand singledom’s many benefits and liberties because they’ve never really tried it, or at least not for any longer than the miserable time it took to get over the break up that preceded it before attaching themselves to someone new.  I’d highly recommend that everyone spend some time alone as a character building exercise. It’s not always easy, it’s not always fun, and it takes effort to make it work – just like being in a relationship. Sometimes I see happy couples that seem meant to be, and get a little envious of what they have, and then being single upsets me - but when I see unhappy couples with their tedium, complications, dramas and betrayals, I become glad of it again, because I’d much rather be alone than stuck in any of those unions.

So that’s my truth, but it only provides half of the answer – the rest is surely up to the boys. I’ve debated this topic with some of my close male friends (I have several, as my tomboyish nature has often led me to be included as one of the lads, which probably accounts for another part of the answer!) Their verdict is that most men would be terrified of me or even feel emasculated by me because I’m too strong and independent.

I don’t believe ‘too’ is an acceptable prefix for either of those adjectives, which probably proves their point. But sadly, I have to concede there must be something in this. Someone I was happily in the fledgling stages of a relationship with once told me I scared him, shortly before running for the hills. And while some men may say they want the brains, beauty and balls package deal, when actually faced with pretty and witty and bright, they do tend to get intimidated and wonder what they can bring to the table. This is not just me being conceited - I’ve witnessed the same reactions to some of my feisty and amazing thirty-something single female friends.

But if my ‘problem’ is that I don’t need a man to function in life, then it’s a problem that I’m proud of and more than happy to be burdened with. Or maybe I just need a man of equal strength who can admire and encourage the self-sufficiency that I consider an asset, rather than feel threatened by it. Either way, it doesn’t mean I don’t want a man, and my main argument would be that surely it’s better, and healthier, to be invited into someone’s life because you’re genuinely loved and wanted than because you’re needed and depended on anyway?

So until my perfect man, or someone I sincerely mistake for him, comes along, I’ll get on with my life and be completely fine and happy on my own. And (shock, horror!) even if he never comes along, I’ll still get on with my life, and remain completely fine and happy on my own.

So in future, if you must take such interest in my personal life, then please don’t ask why I don’t have a boyfriend. Try instead: ‘Why are you single?’ – it will guarantee a much more positive response. 

But be careful - my answer might just be: ‘Why aren’t you?’

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A Dog’s Life

Although I often object to the subliminal brainwashing and delusory language of TV advertising, for the last few months, a certain mobile phone network’s TV commercials have amusingly urged us to ‘be more dog’, and I’m glad to hear it, as this is guidance I have always advocated in life. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not saying we should all start licking ourselves clean, toileting in public and sniffing the anuses of potential friends, but we humans could learn a lot about attitude from our canine companions, because dogs truly understand how to live, love and be happy, and people don’t.

The last time I completely fell for someone (and that’s a rare thing), it was a guy who reminded me a little of a dog. Before we descend into jokes about appearance and/or bestiality, let me explain that he displayed a combination of attentiveness, warmth, expression and zeal at levels not usually found in a fellow human, certainly not one of the male variety, and it was those admirable dog-like characteristics and high ideals that I found irresistibly attractive. So apart from improving general quality of life, being more dog is obviously also a surefire way to become magnetic to the opposite sex, at least if you’re looking to attract a weirdo like me.

This ‘dog diary’ meme has done the rounds online, and while it might initially make dogs seem like fickle creatures, we know they’re actually famous for their steadfast loyalty. The point is that dogs live simply, take things in their stride and graciously accept whatever life throws their way. They try their hardest to enjoy whatever they’re doing at any given moment, put 100% of their energy and enthusiasm into it and never give up. I’ve worked in veterinary hospitals for years, and seen many collapsed dogs with the most horrific, painful injuries and illnesses come in, still bright eyed and wagging their tails. They are also expert spontaneous opportunists – if a crumb falls, they grab; if something smaller than them runs, they chase; if the gate is left open, they escape. But best of all, they are immune to the greatest curse of humankind – habituation. If a dog finds something exciting, it remains just as exciting the thousandth time it happens to them as it was the very first, and this is a precious gift which we sadly lack.

One of my favourite things about dogs is their incredible capacity for empathy. They can tell how you’re feeling at times when even you can’t, and are subsequently motivated to offer the appropriate cuddle, wag or energetic game needed to change or lift that mood. One of my current pet dogs is quite the comedian, and will go out of his way to perform and make me laugh whenever he senses I need it. My closest human friends rarely reach that calibre of insight and consideration.

Even the thing I dislike most about dogs could actually be considered a blessing that humanity has always struggled to understand. In the great Cats vs. Dogs debate, I’ve always thought cats had the slight advantage for their fierce independence and take-no-crap approach. Dogs, on the other hand, will continue to love for absolutely no reward, whether their devotion is returned or not, and taken to its greatest extreme - even if the object of their affection abuses them. But while this may seem like a weakness to the average human mind, there is another perspective – that they understand the meaning and value of unconditional love to a depth that no Buddhist monk has ever managed to achieve. Like the famous images of hippies offering flowers to heavily armed soldiers, they might seem crazy, but perhaps they’ve got it right. Maybe they already possess the ultimate inner peace that gurus strive for, and have always known what the Beatles have been trying to teach us for decades – that all you need is love. It’s possible that the superior morals of dogs means they are almost Jesus-like in their ability to continue giving love freely to those who may not deserve it, but who definitely need it most.

So, I urge everyone to appreciate the finer qualities of our canine friends, and also to listen to Sean Bean and heed the message of those adverts. Don’t go out and sign up to a phone contract because of it, but definitely be more dog. 

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Planet Pride

I’ve noticed a lot of news lately centred around patriotism, nationalism and cultural identity. Usually these are tragic stories involving rebel groups in war torn international countries with political situations we could never hope to comprehend or wish to experience. This week, however, the UK amused me by creating a few of their own.

First we had UKIP’s latest campaign urging us to stop other Europeans crossing our borders and taking our jobs, which resulted in party leader Nigel Farage feebly fending off some awkward questions about his German wife, who he employs as his secretary. Then there was the announcement that Cornish people are now officially recognised as a national minority group, entitling them to the same special protections given to Scots, Welsh and Irish Celtic communities under European law. In the midst of all this came Saint George’s Day, when thousands of people (bear in mind we have a population of 60million) celebrate and display their national pride.

I’m not offended by any of the flag waving and singing (although if we’re going to have a national anthem, shouldn’t it be about the country?!) I just don’t get it. I’m not really sure what they’re proud of. I’m not even sure that they’re sure. And where does all that pride and affection go when there aren’t patron saint days, England football matches, or televised royal events? It seems to me that the favourite pastime of the English for the other 350 or so days of the year is moaning about the state of the country’s infrastructure, politics, economy, industry and society, its unpredictable weather, long working hours and how generally terrible it is to live here.

We’re not fighting for independence, or freedom, or recognition like the other nations that make the news for flying their flags. We’re not achieving much at all at the moment. It’s been a long time since the empire fell, and I question if a history of violently colonising 25% of a whole planet, only to leave many nations in social, political and financial ruin is really something to be celebrated in an enlightened and developing modern world.

I’m also confused by the way it’s celebrated. Surely the point of honouring your national identity is to preserve its culture and traditions, however weird and wonderful they may be, but there don’t seem to be many people spending April 23^rd enjoying high tea or garden parties, morris dancing and rolling cheese down a hill. It appears to be a celebration of a much more modern part of English culture - binge drinking imported beer, wine and spirits and getting rowdy in the streets.

The part of it I understand least doesn’t only apply to the English, but to humanity as a species, and that’s the intrinsic need to label and categorise themselves. I can see how a sense of belonging, heritage and roots might be comforting to some, but it seems crazy to me that millions of people with absolutely nothing else in common band together to celebrate social conditioning and boast about the totally random circumstances of where they were born.

Patriotism has also become dangerous territory in recent years. Nationalism always treads a fine line between pride and superiority, in whichever country it originates. In England, while the socially acceptable union flag can be found emblazoned on every household item, fashion accessory and tourist souvenir possible, the flag of St George has been associated with far-right nationalist groups for so long that the common man is now reluctant to bear it for fear of being labelled racist. While I have no problem with national pride, I do have a huge problem with anyone arrogant or deluded enough to think that the being born on a certain patch of land somehow puts them above everyone else. I can think of no more ridiculous excuse to start a war, yet it’s one that’s been used over and over again.

My own beliefs and sense of identity fit in much better with the other annual celebration of the week, which was sadly overshadowed.  The day before the nation revered its dragon slaying saint, it was Earth Day. Yes, I am of Scots Celtic descent, I am English, I am British and I am European, but above all, I am human, and a grateful citizen of Earth. Instead of continuing to segregate ourselves into small minorities and childishly argue about who’s the best, perhaps we should look at the bigger picture of the birthplace we all share. If living on the same portion of a tiny island is enough to bond people so deeply and enthusiastically, then surely sharing the mighty planet that sustains us all should take precedence over any of the man-made divisions of its land masses and their petty disputes. Now that’s a cause worthy of celebrating and preserving, and I hereby nominate Sir David Attenborough as its patron saint.

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