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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Facebook Fail

Social media is a weird setting, when you think about it. An electronic world where individuals behave in ways they never would in the physical world. Where people gladly share personal information with complete strangers, or those they haven’t seen since childhood and never liked anyway. Where people comment, like, post, inbox and online chat with those they used to pick up the phone to or meet face to face, allowing everyone else they know to eavesdrop. A place where it’s no longer possible for passing, short-term friends or memories to drift out (or be cut out) of your life and get lost forever, as Facebook will always somehow bring them back.

Generally, in ‘real life’, people tend to rely on different facets of their character to get by in different situations – for example, most exhibit a different persona at work than they do on holiday. Behaviour will radically change between going out partying with close friends and going to visit grandparents. Nobody talks to their boss the same way they talk to their children. Yet on Facebook, all these boundaries blur, and all the separate components and companions in people’s lives come together in one very public space.

It started out as a great idea, but the longer it lives and the more it grows, the more potential it seems to have to bring out the worst in people, and the more distractions it produces to prevent them doing constructive, meaningful things with their lives. I’m also dismayed that it’s increasingly becoming all about corporate promotions and publicity seeking pages, rather than simply connecting ordinary folk.

I remember being very reluctant to join Facebook at first. Although I was a late starter, I quickly became sucked into the strange land of social networking like everyone else. Before I knew it, I was a poking, status-updating, photo-sharing, friend-seeking, sheep-launching fiend. But I’ve found myself going off it more and more in recent times, and I’ve noticed a lot of my friends doing the same. Some have had the good sense to disappear completely. I don’t know if it’s about me getting older, social media getting older, human behaviour generally being a mysterious irritation to me, commercialism, or the constant and unnecessary format changes (does ANYBODY actually like Timeline?!) requiring constant reviews of privacy settings, but for me, the novelty has most definitely worn off.

Facebook does still have some merits. It’s great for keeping in touch with those faraway friends that I don’t often get to see or speak to, and for getting back in touch with those I genuinely miss. I enjoy seeing the odd captioned photo, beautiful landscape, inspirational quote, funny anecdote or touching status. It’s fantastic to be able to share photos and videos of places or events with friends and family. But with the evolution of the internet and its wealth of online photo albums, data storage, file sharing, email, Youtube and Skype, Facebook could now be considered redundant even in this respect.

Having said that, I still log in most days, nose my way through the recent news feed, post silly things and communicate with people that I see regularly anyway. It’s a strangely addictive force, but it doesn’t come without its regular annoyances. Here are just a few of mine:

Airing Dirty Laundry

This can range from taking a thinly veiled dig at someone in a status update, to having an intimate, full blown argument with them in the comments stream. It also includes risqué photos and any gratuitous display of TMI (Too Much Information). Some things really should be kept to oneself. I guess we westerners can thank our celebrity culture, and role models such as Jordan and the Kardashians for the apparent loss of any sense of privacy and dignity seen on Facebook on a daily basis. I’m not a prude, but I am equally not remotely interested in reading the detailed personal, sexual, emotional or medical histories of distant acquaintances.

Negative Nonsense 

I know everyone has their bad days, and I’m not exactly Little Miss Sunshine myself a lot of the time, but sometimes Facebook serves to reassure me that I have never plummeted to anything like the depths of a pessimistic few. It seems some people are incapable of noticing or appreciating any of the goodness and beauty in life. These frequent posters will not only ignore their many blessings to persistently moan about their comparatively minor problems, but they will also ignore all of those who are genuinely worse off, while spitting unwarranted venomous hatred at anyone they consider to be more fortunate. It’s painful and often infuriating to read, but simultaneously strengthens my resolve to always retain some level of relativity, compassion and hope, even in my darkest hours.

Ego Fishing

This is a common one, which most people (including myself) have been guilty of on occasion. But again, it’s the repeat offenders who cause the biggest nuisance and concern. The most widespread example is the culprit posting carefully posed or self-taken photos (usually in a state of being very over or under dressed) which they would not share if they genuinely thought it was as ugly as they try to make out in the description (in the hope that someone will contradict them with showers of compliments). Some even shamelessly beg for likes and comments. This also applies to those many needy, leading and pleading status updates that purposely prompt readers to offer affirmations of worth and attractiveness, or tell you that you obviously hate them if you don’t copy and paste it as your own status. If that’s the kind of thing people base their friendships on, I fear the human race is in terrible trouble.

Collecting ‘Friends’ as a Hobby 

Whether it’s for getting ahead in Farmville or some equally pointless game, or purely to increase perceived popularity, there are those who add ‘friends’ they’ve only met for 5 minutes, or never met at all. They might send a virtual fence post, or make you look good, but don’t forget that these people then have access to your profile, friends list, possibly even job details, email address and phone number. I wonder why there’s such a problem with hacking and identity fraud…

Dull Details of Everyday Life

What is it about Facebook that compels some to state the obvious or drag everyone into their daily routine with an hourly running commentary? I reckon about 90% of posts are about where people are (made worse by the addition of the ‘check-in’ facility), what they’ve eaten (sometimes with pictorial evidence), how many hours they slept last night (and the reasons for it), and what the weather’s doing (even though you are often experiencing it for yourself). Then there are the regular updates on TV programmes, work schedules, traffic, today’s chosen outfit/hairstyle and other mundane trivia. Conclusive proof that small talk is always boring and awkward, even online.

Sexism/Racism/Homophobia/Religious Intolerance/Judgement In General

Of course everybody has their opinions and is fully entitled to them. I respect that, and the right to free speech. That does not, however, entitle anyone to aggressively shove them in everyone's face, criticise or deliberately offend those with differing opinions, disparage whatever someone else may subscribe to or believe in, or try to influence the thoughts and actions of others. Especially not through Facebook - it’s a social networking site, not a militant political forum. Find an appropriate outlet.

‘Raising Awareness’ of Injustices

Albert Einstein once said: "The world will not be destroyed by those who do evil, but by those who watch them without doing anything." The operative word in that sentence is 'doing'. People seem to be under the impression that sharing a MEME, video, poster or petition of something worthy on their timeline means that they’ve taken action to change it. They haven’t. The problem remains the same, no matter how many more people see the post. In fact, it’s arguably a worse scenario when a growing number of people are made aware, yet still nobody acts to improve the situation. Some people don’t seem to see that passing on the burden through infinite cyberspace doesn’t absolve them, but rather implicates them.

Targeted Advertising

Firstly, I object to greedy companies snooping through my profile as a marketing tool. Particularly when they’re using it to torment me for being ‘32 and Single’ or suggesting I might want to buy a sweatshirt emblazoned with the words ‘Crazy Cat Lady’. Also, I’m sick of every other post these days being an advert containing the words: ‘All you have to do to be in with a chance to win this prize is like and share this post,’ thus ensuring that it will continue to contaminate my news feed in the days that follow. Make it stop.

Being told what I can and can’t like

I can live with (and ignore) the awful, cringey ‘pages you might like’ section, despite the suggestions being based on the fact that less than 0.02% of my friends also like them. What I can’t stand is the inability to list the things I do like. Some of my favourite books, films, artists, musicians and inspirational people can’t be named on my profile, simply because Facebook doesn’t recognise them, and I don’t want to take admin responsibility for creating a new page. It’s an online dictatorship, I tell you.

For now, I’ll continue my stale, love/hate relationship with Facebook, but I fear it’s reaching that stage where everything it does annoys me, and we may have to part company soon. Just don’t let me sign up to Twitter…

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ALL ANIMALS ARE EQUAL, BUT SOME ANIMALS ARE MORE EQUAL THAN OTHERS?

The UK has been subject to raging controversy and media hype this week following the discovery of traces of horse DNA in the own-brand ‘beef’ burgers of a certain national supermarket chain. To be fair, they weren’t the only company involved in this deception of the British public, it's not an isolated incident, and the term ‘traces’ has been used very inaccurately, given that analysis showed that some of the burgers consisted of 29% horse meat.

I’ve so far resisted discussing the meat industry in my blog, partly because it’s a very serious and highly inflammatory issue, and partly because as an almost lifelong vegetarian and somebody actively involved in animal welfare, I’m aware that my opinions may be considered biased and are often not well received. But I’m taking this opportunity to open up this important debate, and as everybody else seems to be having their say, I can’t resist weighing in…

Despite the media storm, I have to say it’s the public reaction to this apparently shocking revelation that has surprised me most. From what I’ve seen and heard over the last few days, both in person and on social media pages, it seems there are two major issues stemming from this shocking revelation, but I can only truly empathise with one of them.

I agree with the legal issue of ingredient listing to some extent, in that the labelling of processed food in general clearly leaves a lot to be desired if people aren’t aware of what they’re buying or eating, and this needs to be addressed. However, this is an ongoing issue that the public and the politicians have been aware of (and largely chosen to ignore) for a long time. In the last few years alone, we’ve had Jamie Oliver and his Turkey Twizzlers campaign highlighting the routine use of nutrition-free fillers and offal in food. We’ve had outbreaks of Tuberculosis and Foot and Mouth disease in livestock for human consumption, and beef cattle turned into cannibals, leading to the lethal BSE and its zoonotic variant, Creutzfeldt–Jakob (mad cow) disease. There have been reports too numerous to mention of dead rodents and birds, worms, and a large variety of other unexpected content found in pre-packed groceries and fast food over the years. The way I see it, everybody already knew that such products, especially cheap, meat-based junk food, are not entirely consisted of the main ingredient advertised on the packet. Most likely, they will also contain an awful lot of additives that don’t have to be mentioned on the packet at all, or can be disguised with those mysterious ‘E-numbers’ and scientific names.
If people cared as much about this issue as we are currently led to believe, then surely they would have questioned and objected to the impurities in their food more vigorously and the lack of income to this industry would have long since caused its collapse. Look into the legal standards for hygiene and content in processed food – you may be shocked to learn that there are surprisingly high allowable limits for such things as human skin and hair, dead animal parts and bones, insects, urine, faecal matter, chemicals, dust and debris, etc, etc, etc. Yet people continue to turn a blind eye to such undesirable additives, and to buy and consume these products in mass quantities, so unsurprisingly, the huge market for them remains. We have only ourselves to blame for corporations now pushing the boundaries as to what else they can get away with including in such food.

But it’s the second issue that has baffled me most, and that is the disgust shown by consumers of these burgers simply at having eaten horse meat. The same burgers were found to also contain pig meat and assorted other nasties, but I haven’t heard anybody complain about these, despite also not appearing in the listed ingredients. The meat in the burgers poses no threat to human health, yet it seems from the appalled public response that despite all the things I've just mentioned, the worst possible additive in any burger is horse flesh. This I cannot comprehend at all.

I’ve been a strict vegetarian for 23 years, meaning I don’t eat meat, poultry, fish, anything containing gelatine, suet, rennet or other animal fats and derivatives. I don’t wear leather, fur or skin of any kind, nor use toiletries and cosmetics tested on animals or containing animal products. I do still eat dairy (only free range), although I know that the milk industry causes many calf deaths and I am opposed to many aspects of that too. But I’ve thought it through, and I know and accept my limits. It’s sometimes a nightmare of scrutinising labels, interrogating waiters, shop staff and manufacturers, and of sacrifice (especially when the scent of bacon reaches my nostrils), but to me it’s all worth it to be assured that my conscience is clear in adhering to my own moral compass and doing what little I can to protest against and change something I don’t agree with. I’ve never been militant or preachy about it, as my meat-eating family and friends will testify, I’ve even been accidentally served meat dishes by new acquaintances on occasion because vegetarianism is such an ingrained and normal part of my lifestyle that I’ve actually forgotten to mention it.

I’m not against eating meat per se, I recognise that it is perfectly natural to us as homo sapiens, but I also recognise that intensive farming, abattoirs and the questionable methods of the meat industry in general are wholly unnatural for humanity and all other species involved, and this is what I object to. If I was starving on a desert island, would I eat meat? Of course I would, because in that situation, my survival would depend on it and I would be required to catch, kill and prepare the animal for myself. But I live in the civilised, modern world, where it’s no longer necessary for me to take the lives of others in order to survive. Therefore, I see meat-eating as unjustifiable and my vegetarianism as part of my evolutionary process. I’m fully aware that it’s my personal choice, it may not be for everyone, and I accept that all those who are not me are free to live however they wish and I will never judge them for it.

As some of you know, I am also a trustee of a local horse and pony rescue charity, so I am obviously a horse lover, and through experience of livestock auctions, I’m only too aware that Britain has always been heavily involved in the supply and trade of horse meat for both human and animal consumption. Though it may not be a delicacy here, it is something that we as a nation have supported, traded in and financially benefitted from for many years, and there has been no previous public outcry about this. I fail to understand how it differs from the meat production process of any other animal, or why the consumption of horses has suddenly become such a problem for the meat-munching population.

As far as I’m concerned, the meat industry is the meat industry, regardless of which animal it happens to be processing at the time. I have a big problem with it, and thus I do not buy into it and have no part in it. But since this news story broke, I have heard so many people that I know are happy to contribute to and take advantage of the beef, pork, mutton and poultry businesses expressing out-and-out repugnance at the notion that they may have eaten horse meat. I find myself genuinely perplexed at the distinctions made between it being okay to breed one species of animal for meat, but not another. What makes the life of a horse superior to that of a pig, cow or sheep, or its equally edible flesh so much more disgusting? Simply that as Brits, we are not raised to view them as a traditional, meat producing animal, though they are widely bred and used as food here and in many parts of the world, as are cats, dogs, whales, deer, rabbits, guinea pigs and a variety of other species that the omnivorous peoples of our four home countries seem to irrationally object to eating. It seems that if the animal falls into the cute, cuddly, impressive, intelligent or pet categories, that only then does it become somehow morally wrong to eat them. Yet it’s still okay to eat the animals we’re more accustomed to eating, despite their many good qualities. Go figure. I wonder, with these standards, and the current craze for pet ‘micro pigs’, whether pork will suddenly become taboo? But I doubt it.

I have often been accused of double standards and hypocrisy during my vegetarian career, and it’s comforting to find that the meat-eaters are perhaps even more guilty of these charges. Vegetarians have been told for years that they can’t have it both ways, for example protesting about meat, yet wearing or using other animal produce, and that’s true – but the same thing applies in reverse. You can’t state that there’s nothing wrong in farming, processing and eating meat, then give certain species special dispensation from this. Vegetarian or not, it’s your responsibility to educate yourself about the origins and conditions of your food and to set your own boundaries, and to decide whether the industry and methods behind all meat production are acceptable to you or not. If they are, that’s fine, enjoy your steak. Just remember that if you buy it at a reduced price off a refrigerated shelf, you can’t then complain when you discover the glaringly obvious – that it’s not 100% beef - and that you're in no position to discriminate against whatever other species might have got mixed up in its production.

I hope I haven't caused any offence, but much debate on this important subject. 

(Blog title quoted from ‘Animal Farm’ by George Orwell)

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So Christmas and New Year happened, blah, blah, blah, but the two main reasons I was excited in December 2012 were the film adaptations of The Hobbit and Life of Pi. It’s not often that two of your best-loved books of all time are released as movies within a week of each other.

Although I stand by my convictions that The Hobbit should have been made before the Lord of the Rings extravaganza of the early 21^st century; and that as a relatively short book, it doesn’t really merit three lengthy films all to itself, there was no way I was going to miss its long-awaited cinematic release. Having also read some less than flattering reviews, I went to see it with fairly low expectations. I had faith in Peter Jackson and Weta to make it look good, I just worried about it being drawn out so much, and about the forced addition of Lord of the Rings characters like Galadriel, Frodo, Saruman and Legolas, who technically shouldn’t be involved.

It did take a while to get going, as the ‘unexpected adventure’ didn’t really begin until Bilbo, Gandalf and the dwarves left the Shire over 40 minutes in, but the delay wasn’t caused by unnecessary padding, just by sticking closely to the original story. I’m glad that every detail of the book was included, unlike Lord of the Rings, which even in the unfeasibly long extended editions still managed to cut out huge, significant chunks of the plot.

The segment in the Shire served as a fun introduction to its many characters, and once the journey finally began, the action didn’t let up until the end. It rightly had a more comedic, family feel to it than LOTR and the CGI effects have noticeably improved even in the ten or so years since those films. The stone giants, the bunny sled, the destruction of the dwarf kingdom, the fleeting glimpses of Smaug and of course, Gollum, were among my favourite touches, and the casting was also inspired. Ian McKellen was, as always, suitably wise and good-naturedly devious as Gandalf, and I also particularly enjoyed Richard Armitage as Thorin Oakenshield and Sylvester McCoy as Radagast, the incredibly scatty and quirky Brown wizard. Seeing Being Human’s Aiden Turner smiling and wearing medieval costume with his hair even longer than usual was also a delight for me as someone already quite taken with his charms, although I do wish they’d let him keep his natural Irish accent. And Martin Freeman was just perfect in the title role. I was especially pleased about this, as I’ve loved him since The Office, but he let me down badly with his portrayal of another of my literary heroes – Arthur Dent – in the film adaptation of The Hitch-hiker’s Guide to the Galaxy (I always said he’d be far more suited to the part of Ford Prefect, but did anybody listen...). Happily, he has redeemed himself recently, first with his inspired modern TV interpretation of Dr. Watson, and now as a fantastically apprehensive yet brave Bilbo Baggins.

Overall, I’m happy to say that I was very pleasantly surprised, but a bit frustrated that I must now suffer the painful 18 month wait for the middle and end of the story. It’s like 2001 all over again.

Life of Pi, on the other hand, was of huge significance to me, and I went to see it with some trepidation. Without meaning to be dramatic, the book on which this film is based quite honestly changed my life, and I absolutely love it for all its multi-layered magnificence. It’s one of few books I’ve ever read that entered my top five favourites of all time immediately after the first reading, it touched my soul like no other book has, and for many years I have enthusiastically encouraged just about everyone I know to read it. The book also interestingly divides people into two distinct types - the dreamy believers and the sceptical cynics - which all cleverly ties in with its themes of faith and hope in an increasingly harsh world. It means an awful lot to me, and I could only hope that it would mean as much to Ang Lee when he set about directing the film. It’s a book with a lot of profound things to say for itself, and I would have been extremely disappointed if the movie didn’t uphold those standards.

Thankfully, watching it only made me fall in love with Life of Pi all over again. The CGI and 3D effects were unbelievable – from the colourful depiction of life in Pondicherry, through the storm and shipwreck, to the expressions of the zoo animals, the bioluminescent Pacific ocean and the carnivorous floating island, it looked absolutely stunning. Richard Parker the tiger’s appearance and behaviour was so authentic that I had to keep reminding myself he wasn’t real.

The casting also, was spot on. Rafe Spall, Gerard Depardieu and Pi’s family did wonders with their small, supporting roles, while the four actors portraying the different stages of Pi’s life did so better than I could have possibly hoped for. Suraj Sharma (teenage Pi) and Irrfan Khan (older Pi) in particular gave astonishing performances, completely embodying the character and effortlessly moving me through fear, laughter, joy, tragedy, supreme admiration and a lot of intermittent bouts of tears, even though I already knew exactly what was coming at every turn. 

But looks and talent aside, I was mostly concerned about the heart and spirit of the book being put across correctly. I’d seen a shot in the trailer of Richard Parker’s head resting in Pi’s lap, and this mere millisecond of footage alone terrified me. The anti-anthropomorphic element of the book is one of its most important themes, and I felt extremely concerned that the lifeboat scenes may be turned into some Disney/Dr. Doolittle/Jungle Book-esque message of ‘we can all get along’, which would have completely ruined the film, and undermined the genius of the novel. Thankfully, this brief shot was justified when put into context, and Pi and Richard Parker retained their delicately balanced relationship of not-so-peaceful coexistence and healthy respect for each other without ever becoming friends. I also had a small heart attack when the older Pi mentioned that he was a ‘Catholic Hindu’, and worried that the all-important Muslim third of his multi-religious practice had been cut out, perhaps for political reasons, but much to my relief, this also later proved to be unfounded.

My only slight disappointment with the film, and it really is slight, was the toning down of the brutality between the animals, and of Pi’s reluctant descent from animal-loving vegetarian to savage hunter when his survival instinct kicks in. I totally understand why a PG rated film couldn’t be too graphic in its depiction of animals tearing each other apart, or of Pi beheading endangered sea turtles to hydrate himself with their blood, and haphazardly starting an on-board fight to the death between tiger and shark, as going by the audience in my local cinema, it really wouldn’t have been very well received or understood. But for me, it did detract a little from the animalistic side of the story, and I feel that if those characters had been human, no gore or gruesome detail would have been spared. Of course, as a peaceful vegetarian and conservationist myself, I would never condone violence or cruelty to any animal, but they are crucial and symbolic parts of this story, the animals are computer generated, and from experience of the real world and wildlife documentaries, we all know that nature can be very, very cruel, even if we don’t like to see or admit it.

Life of Pi is a beautiful, well made, intelligent, emotional and inspirational cinema experience. It’s become the first of my top five favourite books that is now also a favourite film (adaptations are usually so disappointing to me), and I think Yann Martel should be proud. If I were him, I would be swiftly enlisting Ang Lee as director of all future novel adaptations.

Anybody who saw and loved this film who hasn’t read the book, I urge you to go and do so. Immediately. I guarantee it’s even more mind-blowing and thought-provoking than the film, and if you’re one of the dreamy believers like me, then maybe it’ll change your life too.

If this is the calibre of novel adaptations this year, then I say roll on Baz Luhrmann’s treatment of The Great Gatsby by F Scott Fitzgerald, and Jonathan Glazer’s version of Under the Skin by Michel Faber!

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