Who You Gonna Call? - Not a Local M.P.

Who you gonna call?  Best friend? Tradesman?  I suppose it depends on the nature of the crisis, what anger needs venting or what message needs to be passed on, but it won’t be my local MP, that’s for sure.

I miss seeing my close friend. Isolating through this pandemic has prevented us from our usual stuff of meeting up, having train-trip days out and being ladies who lunch. Our lengthy phone calls have saved my sanity as we’ve discussed our families,  put the world to rights and talked about what we might do and where we might go when we can taste freedom.

We need our friends and we need our help network of doctor, dentist, RAC or similar and tradesmen. It’s good to have the numbers of known, reliable or well-recommended people to count on in times of need.

One morning we woke up to discover the bathroom floor awash. At some time since four a.m. – the time could be pin-pointed because it was fine when one of us nipped to the loo – the bracket holding the concealed toilet cistern had broken. The cistern dropped below the ballcock, so water continued to run. The wet bathroom was nothing compared to the room below, where water streamed down the wall, dripped along the ceiling and gushed from the light-fitting. The new carpet was sodden and the wallpaper had taken on a bubble effect.  Hearing the voice of our regular plumber on the other end of the phone was bliss. Within the hour he had diagnosed the problem, fetched parts and fixed it, our hero. The Vax worked wonders on the carpet and the wall, ceiling and light were left to dry out.

Another time, we had an electrical problem. It is going back a bit to when both kids were at home. Everyone could smell something horrid in the hallway. Everyone except me – I have no sense of smell. The meter cupboard is there and was thought to be the culprit, except that everything was fine, nothing felt hot, no sign of a problem, no dead rat. The smell was described as fishy and strong. I remembered that sort of smell coming from a plug socket in one of the places I’d lived, which turned out to be a problem with the wiring and nearly caused a fire. We sent for the electrician. The problem, for indeed there was one, turned out to be wrong wiring for the electric shower. We hadn’t made the connection of the smell being apparent when the shower was in use. It needed a higher current cable. Having it replaced led to us having a modern fuse box installed. The expense was worth the peace of mind.

Sometimes, it isn’t a professional we need, it’s the comforting voice of a family member or friend, especially if there’s a bit of news worth sharing, or wanting someone else’s opinion on something. I’ve been feeling angry the last few days. I’m not alone. I have a strong dislike, even hatred for my local MP, well, perhaps that’s unfair because I don’t know the man, but I hate everything he stands for and the party he belongs to. He’s wound me up previously on a work-related matter that I can’t share – I wish I could – but this time he’s gone for broke. He should be aware of his constituency and therefore the extent of needy families in this town. I’m furious because he voted against free meals for children during school holidays.

I definitely need to call my friend. She’ll understand.

My poem, A Question to a Local Conservative MP

Perhaps I should phone you

But what would I say

Without extreme fury

Getting in the way?

 

I don’t want to be a troll

Swiping out at you.

I want to know the reasons

Behind what you do.

 

Some fam’lies in this town

Need a helping hand.

They are your constituents,

Don’t you understand?

 

Don’t you want to help the kids?

Tell me, are you blind?

I’m aware of the hardship

Made worse by your kind.

 

Take a good look at yourself.

Liking what you see?

Misguided by the Tories

Is how you look to me.

 

PMW 2020

 

Thanks for reading, Pam x 

  

 

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The Great Masters, A Gap in My Education

I have a confession to make.  

I was thrown into a bit of a tizzy when I saw the title of this week’s blog.  Despite being a creative type of person for the whole of my life, attending art college for four years and graduating with a BA in Graphic Design, I am a total ignoramus where ‘proper’ art is concerned.  Art history at ‘A’ level consisted of our art teacher putting on a slide show, naming the artist and describing the image before us.  It scored a very high boredom factor.  My friend and I sat at the back, giggling (which was how I spent most of the sixth form).  The single fact I retained from those lessons was Mr Jackson announcing the title of one famous painting as something to do with cornfields.   My friend leaned across and whispered in my ear, “What? Cornflakes?”  We spent the rest of the lesson shaking uncontrollably (I know, I know – but it was hilarious to a pair of silly sixteen year olds, hell bent on making Mr Jackson’s life a misery.  I think we succeeded) And that is why I don’t know my Leonardo from my Raphael, unless we’re talking turtles, and I’m even losing that ability since my children grew up and became parents themselves.

What do you do when you need a bit of information and inspiration?  You google, of course.  The first thing I learnt as I desperately searched, was that the title ‘Great Master’ could be applied to experts with many different skills and talents, not just artistic ones.  Initially, that was a relief.  I would write about something other than art.  By the time I’d trawled through music, golf and darts I decided that art might be the best option after all.

Don’t get me wrong, I love art (in a philistinian ‘I like what I like’ sort of way) but having missed that early grounding due to the ‘cornflake incident’ I think I gave up on finding out about the great masters.  I did do a quick cramming session on  Michelangelo, Van Gogh and Picasso for my interview for art college, but this was the sixties and all the questions sounded like the interviewer was tripping on acid.  I think my portfolio (consisting of several scrappy pieces of paper with doodles on) was flicked through in a bored sort of way, and as far as I remember art wasn’t mentioned at all.  Which is obviously how I managed to secure a place.  As my journey through college progressed I somehow managed to fit in the practical sessions between partying and meeting the future husband, but, once again, the theory and the meaty facts seemed to slip through my fingers.

Up until the publication of this blog I think I’ve managed to keep my ignorance pretty well hidden.  All conversations about art have involved a lot of smiling and nodding knowledgeably, and all information about art and artists has been on a strictly need to know basis.  The husband is pretty hot on this subject, especially the older stuff, so, in the absence of Google, he is my ‘go to’ information point.  I have to say, he wasn’t particularly helpful this time, suggesting I wrote the whole article and then revealed at the end that it was about the Ninja Turtles.   That's the sort of man I married. You’ll be glad I didn’t take his advice.

 

The Gap in My Art Education

With the shame of my ignorance about 'great art' growing as I wrote my post this morning, I did a bit more googling and then composed the following poem.....

The Gap    by Jill Reidy

  

In my woeful ignorance

I spent an agreeable hour today

Familiarising myself with Michelangelo

His life and paintings

Those wonderful murals

I zoomed in on details

That looked impossible to create

I stared at that enormous ceiling

Followed its curve

And marvelled at a skill

Beyond my comprehension

Beyond my imagination

I studied the hands

From every angle

Those elegant fingers

Tentative yet strong

So near but still so far

That gap, unlike my own

Will be there for eternity

Thanks for reading        Jill

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