How to be a woman

I have two books on the go at the moment.  The first is Middlemarch, one of the set books on my next Open University course.  The second, How to be a Woman by Caitlin Moran, was recommended by a friend.  They make an interesting combination. I imagine Moran leaning over and giving Dorothea Brooke a good slap.

Moran's mix of memoir and feminist tirade makes an entertaining read.  I think back to my mother's life and marvel at how times have changed.  She started work as a civil servant in the late fifties and was the first woman  in her office not to have to give up work when she got married.  As a young girl I remember secretly borrowing my mother's book 'How to be a good wife' or something along those lines.  I was only looking for the rude bits.  (I was sadly disappointed).  The house should be perfect, dinner cooked and, by the way ladies, make sure you comb your hair and put some lipstick on before your husband gets home.  And don't expect him to entertain you or play with the children.  He's had a hard day and will want nothing more than to read the newspaper in peace.

We've come a long way, I think.  But then I remember a meeting with my boss after I got married.  He was just wondering, he said, whether my career plans had changed...

Now, as my daughter starts to think about her career choices, I am tempted to suggest she considers what careers can be combined with bringing up a family.  I doubt I would give my son the same advice.  Before I say anything to my daughter, Moran's book reminds me that feminism in theory is all well and good, but it's the practice that counts.

How I learnt to love cricket

Sunday morning. I am driving around Ingleton in search of its cricket ground.  Ingleton is tiny.  How hard can it be?  My son is sitting next to me, we're already late for the match and I'm more than a little stressed.  On the third circuit of the village I finally swallow my pride and ask a passerby for directions.  Five minutes later we're legging it down a 'short cut' through nettles and brambles to the cricket field.  We're in luck; Shireshead are batting first.  I install myself near the boundary and settle down for a compelling couple of hours.

I watched my first full cricket match in Barbados ten years ago.  It was a schoolboy cricket tournament.  I sat with the boys as they waited to bat, pretending to read but really listening to their conversation.  I learnt a lot about those boys during that match.  There was the talented batsman who blamed everyone but himself for his dismissal.  Every game.  Then there was the babe magnet, repeating like a mantra, 'I'll be out first ball, I know I will.' (He was).  I learnt that cricket, like all sports, is all about the people.  When you know the people, you begin to care about the game.  You understand the individual challenges that make up the team performance and you care, really care, about who wins and loses.

So now, after my husband's  'idiots' guide' explanation, I understand cricket.  More or less.  I can't claim to be riveted by a Test Match and I have been known to nod off during the highlights, but when England win The Ashes I am delighted.  I love Test Match Special on the radio, but mainly when it rains and the commentators discuss Mrs Smith's victoria sponge.

But back to Shireshead on a Sunday morning.  The under tens play to special rules.  Each pair bats for a full four overs and loses points for each wicket that falls.  Two hours pass quickly.  The boys play well and win comfortably.  Afterwards we picnic by the river. I love cricket.

Morecambe Bay

I love the view out across Morecambe Bay towards the Lakes.  People say that if you can't see the Bay it's raining and if you can it will be raining soon.  Looking inland though is quite dispiriting. Morecambe is one of those sad old English resorts that has seen better days.

Today the beach, bay and sky are varying shades of grey and brown.  I have a good vantage point from the comfort of the Midland Hotel.  This art deco hotel stood derelict for many years, but has now been restored to its former glory.  I have a hot chocolate, my notebook and the weekend papers.  I am a happy woman.

It's a good place to watch people walking along the seafront.  The scene is brightened by flashes of turquoise and pink.  A group of Indian women pass by; their colourful saris, topped by grey raincoats, flap in the blustery wind.  Two men cycle past towing young children in trailers.  A seagull hangs in the air.  An elderly couple lean into the sea breeze and head along the stone jetty to the café at the end.  This was the setting for my first short story.  Sitting here again, my pen itches to write another.

That Friday feeling

I've got that Friday feeling.   Time to kick off my shoes, pour a glass of wine and pat myself on the back for getting through another week.  Preparations will begin shortly for our DVDDPCGBTB night.  This consists of a family  DVD, duvets, popcorn, garlic bread and teddy bears.  All on a rather small sofa.  Good times.

Of course, there's still the flipside of the Friday feeling - the Sunday night feeling.  You know the one, that sinking sensation when you realise that you've got to get up in the morning and do it all over again. My first 'proper' job was as a sales rep for a telecomms company in the early nineties.  Power dressed and armed with a briefcase full of promotional literature I drove around London in my brand new Sierra.  I should have know it was a bad choice of career from the start, but I stuck it out for two long years.  When the Sunday night feeling began on Saturday afternoon, I knew it was time for a change.

But right now Sunday seems a long way off.  Time to gather the teddies and make that popcorn...

Old enough to know better

It has taken me two and half hours to get as far as writing my first post.  Not because I'm a technophobe, just that I've suddenly come over all self conscious.  Just imagine, the whole world wide web looking at me.  First there was the whole naming problem.  Various ideas were prodded, poked and tried on for size.  Too dull? Too witty?  Not me at all.  Sounded like a porn site or a blog for the British Tourist Board.  I settled in the end for Curate's egg.  Good in parts, just like me.

Then of course I needed a design.  And a profile. Didn't you know that you can tell a great deal about a person from their background?  I'm not talking upbringing here you understand, just the colour of their blog.  I swear it's true; I read it in Cosmopolitan.  And there's the question of profile, font, photos... I've made more decisions in the last two hours than in the previous two months.

You would have thought that by my age I would have realised that no one gives a tinker's cuss anyway.  They are all too worried about how they look.  When in fact, no one is looking at all.

So here it is.  It's all been rather traumatic, so I'm off to have a beer and lie down in a dark room.  If it's all the same to you.