Category: Blog

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Local Elections – Canvassing Opinion

nataliegist

After three months, what have I got to say about being a new person as part of an election campaign?

Being entirely out of your comfort zone is nowhere near as bad as you think it is going to be

This whole campaign has been new to me, however, lots of it has been on the fringes of my job, or just drawing from my personal experience of being a human.  But I was nervous about canvassing as I had absolutely no experience of that and I’m not ordinarily the sort of person who knocks on people’s doors to introduce myself. And generally speaking, people wouldn’t have the slightest interest in knowing who I am.  Some of them may still not. And that’s after having met me.  But we’re back to the thing I said in an earlier blog – if people don’t know who I am then how can I expect them to vote for me?  

It turns out that I didn’t really need to worry.   Out of all the doors I have knocked on, only two people have been unpleasant.  One woman opened the door and without us having uttered a word, started shouting.  As she ranted, her eyes moved from Nigel over to me, and I don’t know what expression I had, but at the point at which our eyes met, she started to think better of it, her shouting petered out and she then slammed the door.  We put her down as a maybe.  

Another chap shouted quite a lot of unintelligible stuff, but essentially we surmised that he didn’t want our leaflet.  Not even as a compost bin liner.  Given that he had chased us down the road at some speed to give it back to us, we decided that he was probably not going to vote for us.  We didn’t take the time to establish whether he was going to vote for anyone else.  My guess is not.  But worth considering him if you need something taking to someone else in the village in a rush.

People are fundamentally decent

I do not have a crystal ball.  I have no idea how people are going to vote, if indeed they vote at all.  But one thing I am abundantly clear about is that people have had enough of the nonsense of the past few years.  Pick a subject, any subject that someone is likely to talk to you about on the doorstep, and they have had it up to here.  Whether it is partygate, the cost of living crisis, the NHS…..they are sick and tired of this parlous state of affairs and they want change.  They want things to be better.  Not just for themselves, but for everyone.

If you want to get fit, then stand for election

With twelve villages to cover, we would not have been able to get our message out without the army of dedicated volunteers who have been helping us. So I must take this opportunity to thank them so very much. They know who they are, even if you don’t. That is not to say that Nigel and I have been sat idle. We have wanted to walk as many of the villages we can ourselves so we can meet villagers and learn things that only local people would know. On Sunday morning I was amused to hear our volunteer utter the words “well you’re younger and fitter so you can deliver those leaflets to the houses at the top of that hill”. By Sunday afternoon in a third village, I was less amused. And as Nigel took a short break on a bench claiming to be checking everything was in order in that part of the village as our volunteer and I tackled another incline, I turned to him and said “we’ve broken Nigel”. I have walked so much that I have lost five pounds in a week. Naturally this has been ruined by me compensating for this loss with large quantities of biscuits and chocolate, but the principle remains – stand for election and there’ll be less of you by the end of it.

The Stratford Lib Dems are a feisty lot

When there was at least five pounds more of me, I met some of the Lib Dems at Stratford HQ.  For whatever reason, the Lib Dems don’t seem to evoke the same strength of feeling as the Conservatives or Labour.  What I can tell you now I have spent time with some of them, they are passionate. The Lib Dems actually care about changing people’s lives for the better  – one by one.

……..but a lovely lot

One of the reasons I agreed to stand for election was because these opportunities don’t come to everybody.  And for whatever reason, this left-field opportunity had come to me and it might not come by again.  I considered my ability to do the actual job should I be elected, I thought about the time, but I didn’t consider the people I would be working with.

So as we are down to the final stretch we have walked, posted, knocked, chatted, walked, walked, walked….twelve villages to cover…..so much walking. And that would be a lot harder to do if you weren’t working with a decent bunch of people.

In the throes of an election campaign tempers can get a little frayed.  Everyone is under pressure.  Everyone has stuff they want to get done.  So I have to thank the staff at Stratford HQ for coming up with the goods.  Richard Vos who peeled me off the ceiling after a particularly fraught moment.  Jenny Wilkinson for endless offers of help and support.  And of course, I have to thank Nigel, whom I have perhaps not broken, but is no doubt a little more dented than he was before this all kicked off.  As are we all.

Published and promoted by Richard Vos on behalf of Nigel Rock and Natalie Gist (Liberal Democrats) all at 55 Ely Street Stratford-upon-Avon CV37 6LN

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That Olivia Rodrigo Song

nataliegist

In August 2021 my mother went to hospital for a routine blood test and mentioned to the doctor that she had some difficulty breathing.  The medical staff had a poke and prod of her and then kept her in – she had pneumonia.  For two weeks the staff tried a variety of different treatments to try and get a handle on it as it creeped deeper into her lungs.  Towards the end of those two weeks Sister A was called to the hospital, taken to one side and told to prepare for the worst.

Mum was moved onto a respiratory ward – essentially a Covid ward at that time.  It soon became pretty clear that try as they might, Mum had no immune system left to galvanise.  

My Mum was a stroppy cow – it is one of her gifts to me – and she wasn’t grasping that she was dying.   She was simply not having it.  I asked for a Consultant to come and explain it to her.  Mum still wasn’t getting it – not because she hadn’t heard it – but because it must be very hard to understand that someone has told you that you’re dying when you’re sat there, very much alive and you’re not ready to go.  So I explained it to her again; that there were no more antibiotics to try and that in forty eight hours all treatment was going to be stopped.  I still wasn’t sure that she’d heard everything or understood.  When a nurse appeared with “something to make her more comfortable”, Mum asked if it was morphine.  The nurse confirmed it was, and I knew then that she understood. 

On 31 August, I left for the evening with Sister A.  I told my Mum that I loved her and went into the little room outside her room to take off my PPE.  We were called back at 4am on 1 September as the nurse on duty thought Mum as going to pop off then.  In fairness she didn’t know my mother, and she clung on for over twelve more hours before she finally let go.  Sister A and I sat, holding her hand.  It took days and nights for the image of her face to fade from my mind.

The hospital gave us three blankets that they had put on my mum’s bed – specially knitted by volunteers so that people had something to keep when having lost a loved one – the last thing to touch them.  They gave us six little knitted hearts, also knitted by volunteers, to give to each of her six grandchildren.  And they gave us a print of her hand, and a lock of her hair.

Over the course of this period, Sister B and family had Covid making it’s way around each of them.  She was trapped in her house, with her three children, one of which was a four month old baby.  My brother in law had had to shield somewhere else.  Regular readers may know that my brother in law was having treatment for Acute Myeloid Leukaemia at the time, so his life quite literally depended on him being kept safe.

Sister B had called Mum regularly to try and talk to her.  Mum’s hearing wasn’t great, so it was quite a challenge.  No doubt to the bewilderment of her neighbours, I spent a lot of time standing in the shrubbery on her front garden after hospital visits, talking to her through the front window to update her as to what was really going on.  She kept putting her Covid test result up against the window so we could examine the two lines and see (hope) if the test line had faded any; it didn’t.  At least not in time.

On the evening after Mum died I drove back to Sister B’s house on my way back to the motorway, as I had done often.  Once again I stood in the shrubbery.  I left the blanket, the three hearts, the handprint and the lock of hair. I put my hand on the glass.  And instead of the tap of the Covid test on the glass, on the other side, was my sister’s hand.  

Three months later, almost to the day, my sister lost her husband to AML.  I couldn’t help at various points throughout my brother in law’s illness because of the pandemic.  And I couldn’t go when he was dying because one of my children had Covid and we decided that tragedy upon tragedy upon tragedy was more than we could bear.  So I stayed home. I never did test positive.

Last week I took some flowers to my Mum’s grave with my nephew, who is now coming up on his second birthday. A few weeks before it had been what would have been his father’s forty third birthday. I try not to go too often because I don’t want his memories of our days together to be of his aunt standing in cemeteries crying.

I wish my experience had been exceptional.  Because if it had been, there wouldn’t be people up and down the country now who can recount very similar experiences to mine, and number in their thousands.  There wouldn’t be people reading this thinking “that’s very similar to what happened to me.”  And all of that, every agonising, crushing part of that would have been easier for all of us, if those making the rules had not only been taking the piss out of all of us, but then had the absolute brass neck to lie about it.

As I watched The Privileges Committee yesterday, I did not observe any semblance of understanding or responsibility.  Just a person trying desperately to get out of the massive hole that they have dug themselves into whilst others frantically try to distance themselves.  And then Olivia Rodrigo’s song wafted into my mind.  Famously performed when the US Supreme Court overturned Roe v Wade if you need to google it.  Not Shakespeare, but perfect, I think, for this.

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Local Elections – Members of the Public

nataliegist

A former colleague of mine was one of those people who clearly had, and presumably still does have, a brain the size of Jupiter.  You know one of those people you look at and wonder how they cram it all in there?  And on such a wide variety of subjects?  Not one of those people who thinks they’re very clever, but one of those people who thinks they’re stupid because they’re so clever they have a grasp of the enormity of everything that they don’t know?  I used to sit next to such a person at work.  And every lunchtime that person would battle his way through the tourists in the middle of Stratford in order to make his way to the Leisure Centre so he could go for a swim.  In the warmer months he found the walk to be particularly trying due to the number of visitors, and the swim even more trying due to the other swimmers.  He often referred to those impeding his way as “Members of the Public”. 

On one occasion after a particularly testing walk and an even more difficult swim, he was openly wishing for his own heated swimming pool in order to avoid these trials, I advised him that frustrating as it may be to him, Members of the Public are free to walk in the street and use the public swimming baths.  I then advised him that he freely enjoyed these things as he was also a “Member of the Public”.  It became very apparent very quickly that this was very much new information.  It had clearly never once occurred to that bright, brilliant mind of my dear colleague that he was just the same as everyone else.  Not in a derogatory sense.  He never once gave me the impression that he thought of himself better than anyone else.  Just of all the things he had considered, thoughts he had had and issues he had wrestled with, that had never been one of them.  He sat for about fifteen minutes staring out of the office window, quietly saying “oh…er…yes…”

There are sixteen parishes in my hoped-for ward, and a complicated arrangement in some cases for meeting, but around ten meetings in total.  It stretches from just north of Banbury to just south of Daventry.  Presumably the Boundary Commission were trying to make the ward boundaries fair in terms of Members of the Public.  However, the geography is stretched over a large rural area.  Therefore if one wishes to get a handle on things, there is not one Parish Council meeting to go and listen to.  Any Member of the Public can attend a Parish Council meeting.  Over the past few weeks, I have been making free with my democratic rights and have attended five with Nigel so far, sitting quietly in the corner and making a few notes. What have I found out so far?

1. It has been significantly more interesting than I thought it would be

I doubt that this will be a surprise to anyone but my hopes were not high on this score.  Of all the wild nights out I could have, this was not anywhere near any list that may have existed.  However, with sincere apologies to all of the lovely Members of the Public I have met so far, whilst it has been far from raucous (which in fairness, Nigel never even hinted at as a possibility) it has been most interesting, so I was wrong about that.  That was my first surprise.  

2. Everyone was pleased to see us

The second surprise has been that either we have a statistically unusual pool of acting talent in the area, or that people have been genuinely pleased to see us.  This is an odd sensation for me as people are usually only slightly more pleased to see a lawyer than an undertaker. 

3. Each meeting is broadly the same, but wildly different

This seems to be the most surprising piece of information to people.  Of course each meeting has a published agenda and follows a broadly similar format in terms of topics to cover.  But but oh my goodness every meeting so different.  Wildly different.  

3.1 Buildings are different

Not a shock really.  Some are small and some are large.  Old, modern.  Parking.  None.  Most are used for lots of different things, some for sporty things, some for parties, some for community clubs or playgroups.  I sat in the tiny room for my village and wondered how six of us used to do yoga in there without smacking or kicking each other.  Some rooms are freezing cold, one was so warm the heat hit me when we walked in, another had a lit fire.  The chairs are different, the chairs are set out differently, the decor is different. Everything.  Different.

3.2 Attendance varies between parishes

I naively assumed that the villages with the largest populations would have the largest attendance from other Members of the Public.  Nope.

3.3 How each meeting is run is different

As I said above, each agenda is broadly similar, but the manner in which business is conducted is very different between villages.  As the Chair is in charge of the meeting, they run the meeting in the way that they would like to, and of course each and every one of us is a different person.

3.4 Issues concerning each village are different

No one is delighted to have cars speeding through their village.  It is very upsetting when criminal gangs have clearly targetted your village to see what they can steal for the period that they are operating in your area.  These are just two issues which are familiar and common to rural areas.  But there are little peculiarities for each village that are of particular concern to residents, which are part of their identity.

4. Parish Councillors are from all walks of life

An important point here for those who think that being a Parish Councillor might not be for them.  Parish Councils are made up of people who are all sorts of different ages and from all different jobs.  And when I say jobs, I don’t just mean those in paid employment – I mean people who parent full time, people who volunteer their skills and time, and people who take the time to look in on their neighbours – those are the sort of people who are really needed if you’re thinking it’s not for you.  You don’t have to have a brain the size of my former colleague to be a part of one.  Which is something of a relief to the rest of us.

5. Not everyone always agrees with everyone else

A group of people together discussing matters that matter to try and find a way forwards and resolve issues can and frequently does result in heated discussion.  Not a surprise there. But…..

6. Everyone is doing their best

As an outside observer and fellow Member of the Public, I can hand on heart say that every Parish Council I have met is formed of people who are earnestly trying their best for their community.  It has reminded me very much of the pre-school building project that I was a part of.  https://nataliegist.com/2017/06/29/abacus/. I cannot tell you how many discussions we had about, of all things, toilets. Cost, size, where to put them, how many, what sort…..good grief you wouldn’t have thought it possible….and yet, there we were sat on my friend’s rug using it as a toilet cubicle size guide.  And the thing that we had, that kept us together through all of that, was that in spite of any differences we did have, we never lost sight of what we all wanted to achieve: the best for our community.   It’s the same in a Parish Council.  But without the rug.

If you are interested in being a Parish Councillor, you can find more information here: https://www.stratford.gov.uk/doc/211844/name/Notice%20of%20Election%20May%202023%201%20Parishes.pdf

Or ask the clerk of your the Parish Council where you would like to stand and they will be able to give you further information.

Published and promoted by Richard Vos on behalf of Nigel Rock and Natalie Gist (Liberal Democrats) all at 55 Ely St, Stratford-upon-Avon CV37 6LN

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Local Elections – Here I Stand

nataliegist

I have noticed an increased number of hits on my website these past couple of weeks.  A slight increase in people wondering who I am.  I suspect that the reason for this curiosity is because I am standing to be a District Councillor in the local elections on 4 May.  And you have probably googled me. This means that you, lucky person that you are, are not only in my ward, you are also in possession of a leaflet with a photo of me on it.  Hello!

So, what do you want to know?  Shall I tell you how I got here?

I was firtling about in my kitchen a few weeks ago and I saw someone outside trying to find my postbox.  I went outside to relieve them of their literature and discovered that the person on the other end of it was Nigel Rock, District Councillor for the current ward of Fenny Compton and Napton.  I asked him a few questions. And then I asked him some more.  A week later, he re-appeared at my gate and asked me to run with him in the new ward. 

I must pause here – under the Boundary Commission changes there is going to be a new ward, a new two councillor ward, and all voters will have two votes for their two councillors. And if you’re holding the Lib Dem leaflet with me and Nigel on in your mitts, then you’re in that ward and you have two votes. 

Anyway, back to Nigel.  I wasn’t too sure about the whole thing. Regular readers of my blog will know that I’m not all that keen on politicians.  Who would be these past few years?  Not one to be deterred by, well anything it would seem, Nigel took me to meet some other local Councillors and then some of the Lib Dem Executive and Campaigners.  After the meeting with the Councillors I did feel that the job was within my capabilities.  After meeting with the Campaigners, I felt that the shameless self-promotion was not.  I was torn.  So I did what any sensible person would do, and that is ask other people what they thought.

First out of the blocks, a complete stranger suggested I should do it to “sit on the fence, why not?”  It felt a bit like the time at secondary school when a girl told me I couldn’t be a solicitor because I was from a single parent family. Wrong.

Next, Sister A thought it would be a good idea because “it would give you something to do.”  Because, again as regular readers know I spend all of my days in a horizontal position on the sofa eating biscuits. Helpful.

Straight and to the point, Eldest Childerbeast responded with the incredibly teenage and predictable: “What would you want to do that for?” almost immediately followed by “When’s tea?” Brilliant.

Diminutive Friend wanted to delve into the philosophy of it: “Natalie, Politics?  Really?  You are honest, you have integrity and you would make decisions for the best of your community rather than what is best for you personally – are you quite sure you’re the right person for the job?”  Now we were getting somewhere.

I wasn’t sure I was the right person for the job, I tried to put everyone off.  “Look, I’m opinionated, I don’t do as I’m told and I won’t be pushed around.” I have never seen a group of people look so pleased at the prospect of someone annoying them in their place of work on a regular basis. Nigel looked positively delighted: “You’re perfect.”

I decided to go for it.  What was the worst that could happen? Funny you should ask that.

As far as I am concerned, the worst that could happen was to come immediately next: campaigning.  I had a camera poked in my face and my face slapped on a leaflet, for which I can only apologise – it is much better for me to be on the inside looking out.  I don’t like it much, but I remembered reading a quote about advertising: if you run a business without advertising, it’s like winking at a girl in the dark – you know what you’re doing but no one else does. If you don’t know who I am, then I can’t be surprised if you don’t vote for me, can I?  

If you’ve read this far, without drifting off, then well done and keep your eye out as I’ll be doing a few more of these over the next few weeks.  However, if you simply can’t wait (and who could possibly blame you?) and you want to know more about me, you can find lots of articles on my blog.  You can find more out about the Lib Dems locally – here: https://www.facebook.com/SuALibDems/

Also feel free to email me with any comments, queries or questions at natalie4district@yahoo.com. I’d be very pleased to hear from you.

Published and promoted by Richard Vos on behalf of Nigel Rock and Natalie Gist (Liberal Democrats) all at 55 Ely St, Stratford-upon-Avon CV37 6LN

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Part-Time Hater

nataliegist

When I was in paid employment, like a number of women, I went to part-time hours when I had my first child. At that point, I think it is fair to say that for as long as I remained part-time, there was no prospect of career advancement. And I think it fair to say that because seeking some re-assurance that I was wrong, I suggested to a Partner that my career felt like it was on hold, and they confirmed that it was. When I went back after having had my third child, the situation had not changed. I handed most of my salary over to a nursery to look after my children when I was at work. Some people have help – we had none.

During that time I had a conversation with a friend about my job. I said that I was not enjoying it at all and whilst one could make a number of sacrifices for a job they enjoyed – not even that criteria was being met as far as I could see. I felt that I could sit at that desk for the next twenty years. I could go in and perform my job like an automaton such was the level of interest and challenge it presented me with. And when I eventually left, would anyone even realise that I had gone? She said that I could indeed sit there if I wanted to. But, and here was her crucial point, she said that if I chose to do that, because it was a choice, then I did it with my eyes wide open and I was not to complain about it. And certainly not to her. That thought depressed me so much that three days after that conversation, I resigned. That was nearly eight years ago.

Absolutely none of what I have said above is news to any women who works part time. And it is overwhelmingly women who continue to work part-time. (The reasons for that could form part of another blog). I bet they’ve heard it all. But they will have also not heard a lot of it because they will have been excluded from the conversations, because they’re only part-time.

I wish I could say that this has changed over the past eight years, but it seems to be a prevailing and persistent view that part-time paid employment, and full-time unpaid employment, doesn’t count. Except, it would seem from my reading, that part-time paid employment does count towards massaging the unemployment figures.

In the first instance, only recently, a friend who works part-time was messaged by their child asking to be collected early from school. When they didn’t receive a reply because their mother was working, they sent another one. And another one. Oddly enough, they did not send one message to their father, who works full-time. They weren’t collected, btw, because not oddly, their designated driver was working.

In the second instance, two people have recently suggested that because I don’t currently have paid employment that I have nothing better on the Earth to do except for my hair. And they’ve seen my hair. First one – I help out with childcare for a close family member on a Friday (another blog about women being lower paid there). Another day of childcare is needed. The response from someone else who is available but unwilling was: “Can’t Natalie do it?” Presumably because I spend the other six days of the week wafting around my Estate sixty miles away shouting at the staff. Second example, and in that same week, I was opining to someone (who frankly should know better) about when I could get back into paid employment without my family sinking further into chaos than it already is. Their view? “A little part time job wouldn’t do you any harm.” Ah bless me, with my Law Degree for Girls and well-thumbed copy of ‘Being a Solicitor for Ladies’.

Just over eight million people were working part-time in the UK in October 2022, which is nearly thirty five per cent of the workforce. I wonder what would happen if we took them out of the workforce? Would the businesses they work for miss them? I expect so if their productivity went down a commensurate thirty five per cent. How much tax revenue would be lost? What would the knock-on effect of that be on public services? How many more people and their children would fall, or fall even further, into poverty and therefore be forced to ask the State for help? Or as the State seemingly isn’t keen on helping anyone but themselves these days, charities. I daren’t think about it too much.

So what can we surmise from this? Fundamentally the message appears to be: unless you’re earning yourself or someone else money for twelve hours a day, five days a week, you don’t count. In any sense. If you work part-time, your hours don’t count to the business, and your money doesn’t count to your family. If you work for no money you simply don’t count at all because it doesn’t matter what else you are doing, or however many hours you’re doing it for, it is not important. Oh, and did I forget to mention? All of my examples, every single one of them, came from a woman. Shameful ladies. Absolutely shameful. Time to consider being the change we want to see in the world.

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The White Rabbit

nataliegist

A white rabbit lives in my garden.  An escaped pet.  Not my escaped pet.  But he is now my pet.  Or as close as he’s ever going to be to being someone’s pet.  I couldn’t tell you exactly when he started to visit.  It seems now that he has always been a part of my life. Every day he comes and sits on the back wall, waiting for me to feed him.  If I am in the garden he will bound up to me and sit at my feet until I do feed him.  Or a little nose will appear through the plants just to remind me that he’s there. Sometimes he even lets me stroke him.  

In this freezing weather The White Rabbit visits every day, twice a day.  In the Summer his attendance is more sporadic.  Some days he lies stretched out under the plants, contentedly dozing in the dappled shade. Near the water bowl I leave out for him.  When it rains I put an umbrella out on its side to shield him whilst he is eating. The little bastard sits on the opposite side from the umbrella to eat and then hops into the middle of the garden, directly facing me in the teeming rain, entirely uncovered and absolutely soaked. I’ve bought him a grass house, put boxes out, hay, straw; he spurns them all.  I have no idea where he goes at night, but somewhere safe – this will be his fourth Winter.  Not bad going for a domestic rabbit who lives wild. 

On the days he doesn’t come, I look for him.  I worry that the last time I saw him was the last time that I will ever see him. And when he springs down the garden to see me, I feel a rush of joy that this unexpected and resourceful little creature came into my life. So I took a photo of him.  Just in case. One day will be his last visit.  And as the Winters pass, I know that that day is getting closer.

I went out for a festive dinner with some friends the other night.  Or ‘the girls’ to give them their correct collective noun.  We try and do this every so often – see each other long enough to have a conversation and eat a meal that we haven’t had to cook ourselves.  Like a lot of people we haven’t had much opportunity to get together over the past few years.  This has been further complicated by work, children getting older and going to different schools and one of our number having had the audacity to move half an hour down the road.  On having a chance to talk, it transpired that three of the six us have the joy of children taking GCSEs this Summer. What a delight. Another has the thrill of ‘A’ levels to look forward to.  Three had children start secondary school in September.  Two started new jobs.  Three lost someone we love in the last twelve months.  Another is enduring watching a loved one undergo chemotherapy.  Comforted by the survivor sat beside her.  Life.  Rolling on.  Relentlessly.

As she ordered a second glass of wine, Petite Blonde Friend asked the waitress if she would take a photo of all of us.  There was a murmur of protest from the assembled company, which was completely ignored. Rather than cause a last-minute dash to check hair and make-up as may have been the case for others, for some inexplicable reason, with the girls, the prospect of a photograph caused a furore of tidying.  I am considering asking them all round to my house on Christmas morning and threatening them with a Polaroid. So there, on a ‘phone and preserved for posterity is a photo of six middle-aged women in paper hats, drinks aloft an exceptionally tidy dining table. 

Like The White Rabbit, I don’t really recall precisely when the girls came into my life.  It was around the time Childerbeast Number One started primary school, as that was the place that we all had in common at one point in time.  But it was more random than that. And my goodness we’ve all lived a lot of life since then.  At this time of year, we all raise a toast to absent friends.  We miss them. God, it aches to miss them. But we should also toast our present friends.  Our white rabbits.  Whilst we have them.

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The Last Spinster in Gloucestershire’s Guide to Pantomime

nataliegist

Like many schoolchildren at this time of year, one of my Childerbeasts has just been to the Panto (“Oh no they haven’t”). One of her classmates who has joined them this year is from the US.  This child has never heard of Pantomime.  Of course they haven’t – why would they have done?  This child had absolutely no idea what it was, so naturally they asked their British friends to explain.  The rest of the class had a rather difficult time explaining it.  It wasn’t until I had this conversation with my child that it occurred to me how utterly baffling it must be to discover this peculiarly British phenomenon, and even more difficult to explain it to someone who has not come across it before.  Difficult, mainly because we don’t really know why we do it either.  Therefore, after the runaway success of my Christmas present guide last week, without further ado, I now present to you my helpful guide to Pantomime.

History

According to Wikipedia the word “pantomimus” in Latin derives from the Greek word (for which I do not know how to change to a Greek keyboard) meaning a dancer who performs all of the roles or all of the story.  It continues that “Pantomime is a type of musical comedy stage production designed for family entertainment….a participatory form of theatre in which the audience is encouraged to [join in].”

Western Culture has a long history of pantomime and it dates back to classical theatre in Ancient Greece.  Pantomimes in other cultures mean miming and only in Britain does it relate to our particular type of theatrical show.  So, anyone who is new to this cries “what is this particular type of theatrical show”?

The story will be loosely based on a fairy tale

Every Panto I have ever been to is loosely based on a fairy tale.  There is usually a male romantic lead, a female romantic lead, usually in pursuit of eachother, or looking for love and bumping into eachother.  There is also a maternal character trying to care for one or both of them and a baddie, trying to thwart their love with their evil plotting. 

The men dress up as women and the women dress up as men….sometimes

Perhaps this is becoming less of a thing now but all of the characters are mixed up in the sense that their clothing is not conventional according to gender.  The particular character that springs to mind is “Widow Twanky” who is always played by a man.  At the risk of broaching a controversial issue, this is not a trans issue.  Or on second thoughts, maybe it is because it is the character in the story that is the important thing, the costume is merely to assist with the story-telling and no one, and I mean no one, bats an eyelid.

Bad jokes

The show will be littered with the type of jokes that you get from a cracker.  I need to pause here to explain crackers further.

Crackers in Britain can mean two things.  The first is a dried savoury biscuit upon which you, generally speaking, put and eat together with cheese.  They can be enjoyed all year as a light snack.  However, at Christmas they accompany a large cheeseboard, cold meats, chutney and other nibbly bits.  One usually consumes too many and then complains loudly about having eaten too much, when you only have yourself to blame.  We also refer to these as biscuits.  But they’re not sweet biscuits, which we also call biscuits and Americans call cookies.  See? It makes perfect sense.  

The second are paper cylinders wrapped festively which contain a small gift, a paper hat and a piece of paper upon which is printed an appallingly unfunny joke.  These crackers are laid with the rest of the table for festive meals. When everyone is seated you invite one of your fellow diners to “pull a cracker” with you.  They accept and you each hold one end and pull.  After a modest amount of good-humoured grappling and some care for the glassware, there is a small bang as the cracker separates, with one person winning the half with all of the goodies, and the other entirely bereft.   But don’t worry, Bereft Diner, there is a cracker for everyone and everyone ends up with a paper hat (which you are expected to wear for the duration of the meal), a baffling and useless gift (a hair clip for someone with no hair – that sort of thing) and a rubbish joke, which you are obliged to share with the table.

For those unfamiliar with the type of jokes in crackers, they are the sort of jokes your dad tells.  You will notice this if your father or grandfather is at the show with you because you will see them taking mental notes of the jokes in order to deploy them at a later date. If they get a notebook out, leave immediately.

Audience participation

Generally speaking the British are uncomfortable about absolutely everything, including breathing.  And we’re comfortable that way.  But oddly not at a Pantomime.  Audience participation is expected and encouraged at Panto, and lots of people join in enthusiastically.  Just once a year.

Booing at the baddy

Goodies enter and stand stage right and baddies enter and stand stage left.  The villain will usually be preceded by a loud bang and a puff of smoke.  As soon as they appear, the audience is expected to boo loudly.  Loudly, but politely.  Not so loudly or for so long that the villain can’t be heard telling everyone about their nefarious plans.  They exit stage left with a booming cackle and a big sweep of a large cape.

Shouting stock phrases

You (the audience) may be asked by one of the characters to shout out a phrase at a particular time, usually to alert another character to something that they otherwise would not have noticed.  You will probably be encouraged and coached by that character to practise this all together so you all know what you’re doing at the crucial moment.  However, in addition, there are some phrases that will also come up that you will be expected to just shout out as a group when required.  Learn them now and I shall endeavour to put them into context next:

  • “Oh no it isn’t/oh yes it is.”

The audience answers back to this phrase.  Almost conversationally, one character shouts out “Oh no it isn’t” at which point you (the audience) will be expected to shout back “oh yes it is.” No, I have absolutely no idea why we do that.

  • “It’s behind you”

The audience is expected to shout this phrase out.  It may involve the baddy trying to sneak up on one of the goodies, the goody “hasn’t noticed” and they step around the stage in circles. I have a very early memory of Sister A (as a small child, not last week) being so enraged that the character hadn’t noticed that they were being sneaked up on that she got herself out of her seat and stomped her little legs down to the edge of the stage in order to berate them publicly.  In addition she made some unflattering remarks about their eyesight and even less complimentary ones as to their IQ.  It is the only time I have been to the theatre and seen the entire company helpless with laughter.

Singing

Oh dear god, yes there is also singing.  As in audience-participatory singing.  You may be split into groups – don’t panic at this point, it’s not going to be a rendition of ‘O Fortuna’. Again, you’ll get to practise. The words will probably be unravelled on a large piece of paper so everyone can see and someone may have a pointy stick to guide you along.  But if you can’t see or can’t remember, there is no need to worry, it won’t be tricky and no one takes it seriously.  So if like my beloved late grandfather, your best singing is a low growl that summons the rocks, or like my beloved late mother, you can sing only one note and it’s not one known to music, no one cares.

And finally….

You’ll probably get squirted with water at some point.  No, I don’t know why. Now that I’ve thought about it I don’t understand any of it. Yes, we are weird. Very weird.

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The Last Spinster in Gloucestershire’s Guide to Christmas Shopping

nataliegist

I don’t mean to be smug, well actually I do, but I have nearly finished my Christmas shopping.  Of course, I do now have to do all the wrapping so there is no need for me to feel too pleased with myself.  However, as I have spent months gathering gifts, I thought that those of you who are behind on such things (read men) would appreciate the benefit of my gathered wisdom with some gift ideas.  Utterly pointless gift ideas, I might add.  Things that are no use whatsoever to woman nor beast.  Gifts for which I can see, nor find, any discernible reason for them having been invented other than something that seemed like a good idea when very drunk very late at night.  Not only have these been made, they are now available to the general public for purchase; I now present them to you.

For small children

My nephew is eighteen months old.  Like many fortunate children his age, he has more toys than Argos and more clothes than M&S.  He has, however, started going to hide in a corner to do a poo.  So it isn’t long before he will be introduced to a potty.  Imagine my delight when I happened upon a Potty Piano.  An original gift that I am sure is going to make potty-training a breeze.   It would appear that with this miracle item the child sits nicely on the potty, tip-tapping their teeny tiny feet on the keys of the mat beneath them, the music making an angelic and festive sound.  No longer will small children get up and run off, butt-naked and proceed to pee on the carpet. No, no. I am confident that the Potty Piano will be just as successful, if not more so, than the musical potty.  Which every child would tip over to see where the music was coming from.  I simply cannot wait to see my sister’s look of unending gratitude when the Potty Piano is unwrapped on Christmas morning.

For teenagers

Of course whatever you buy for a teenager is destined to be wrong.  Resign yourself to that fact now.  You are out of touch, out of place and when finished buying for them, out of money.  So when they stumble into the house the worse for wear after festive celebrations, guide them to the bathroom with a toilet bowl light.  Yes, you read that correctly.  Apparently these things come in a variety of colours – they may even change colour.  They’ve got every other electronic known to humanity, so at least with this they might be able to throw up in the right place.

For excessively lazy people

Now this could apply equally to teenagers, but also to many people who are no longer teenagers, so I have created an entirely separate section here.  I have to say, the variety of crap available for people so lazy that they can hardly be bothered to breathe is mind-boggling, so I have restricted it to three.

Self-Stirring Mug and Temperature Controlled Mug

I have seen one of each of these available for purchase this morning.  Google them if you don’t believe me.  The first is for the person who is so lazy that having made themselves a cup of tea, after having taken the tea bag out of the water with a spoon, for reasons as yet unexplained by psychiatry, they cannot be bothered to return the spoon to the cup to stir it a bit.  I would have thought that if you’re that lazy, then you won’t have even made the tea in the first place.  But if I’m wrong and it is the final flourish of a quick stir with a teaspoon that offends a person, then this is the item for them.

Alternatively, a mere snip at £139.99 for the delight of keeping your drink at optimum temperature for as long as you want in a cost of living crisis, is a temperature controlled mug.  Along the same lines as the self-stirring mug, but perhaps if someone has coped with the pressure of making their hot drink, then it is too much to ask them to drink it in a timely fashion as well.  This is a gift for a person who cannot, nor will not, be rushed.  They are simply too important for that.  The same sort of person who likes to send their requirements in advance, just so you know how important they are – the champagne in their hotel room is to be chilled to a certain temperature or certain foods are expressly forbidden because, you know, they’re that important.  What’s the word for them?  Oh yes, twats. Make a donation to a charity on their behalf instead.

Boiled egg cooker

These have been around for years.  So someone is buying them and I want to know who it is.  I think it is one person and it is probably the person who invented it.  However, if you have an urge to boil six eggs at once then apparently this device will make your life so much easier than, say, a large saucepan of water on the hob.  Suitable for someone who can’t cope with the mental load of a bubbling pan and a timer.

Electric Lazy Susan

So for those of you who need a quick reminder, a Lazy Susan is that large serving dish with different sections that you can have in the middle of the table, so people can twizzle it round to get to the twiglets without having to negotiate the table itself.  You lean forward, you give the bowl a little nudge, you take whatever it is you’re after, and so on. So my question is this:  just how lazy do you have to be to purchase an electric version of this?  Presumably the effort expended in leaning forward to press the button is as much as moving the dish manually?  Is there one button only or is there a button for everyone?  Because if there is a button for everyone, then I don’t know about you, but that is an opportunity for everyone in my house to both fall out and get covered in dip at the same time.  And if there is only one button, then it is a quick lesson in what happens when you give someone too much power and a button.  Buy one for someone you don’t like, then sit back and watch the fireworks.

For anxious people

There are a lot of anxious people about at the moment, and with good reason.  I don’t know about you, but when I’m stressed to the eyeballs, the best way to get me to calm down is to tell me to calm down. As I held my dying mother’s hand last year, I could think of nothing more comforting at that time than someone appearing with a sign telling me to ‘look for rainbows’.   Had they done so, I could guarantee that they would have had to have looked very hard indeed to locate any rainbows where I would have put the sign.  But what if someone isn’t available?  A helpful sign saying ‘Exhale’ has to be the answer.  At least someone would be able to keep warm for a bit by burning it.

For forgetful people

This is related to the above, but for the more confused person in your life.  Buy them a photo frame with a word on and put a photo in it for them.  For example, you could get a photo frame with ‘Family’ or ‘Friends’ on it.  They seem to be everywhere so I can only assume that there are large sections of the population entirely and permanently baffled. Put a photo of their family or friends in the frame as described on the front.  This person will then have an aide-memoir for when they forget who’s who.

For people with more money than sense

I rather suspect that this is no one reading this, or else you’re all hiding your wealth and your sanity very well indeed.  We all know you can buy anything on the internet.  But did you know that you can buy diamond rings on the internet?  Probably.  But did you know you can buy them from the same site that you bulk buy your loo roll from?  No?  Well you can!  For £333,999.99 (that is three hundred and thirty three thousand nine hundred and ninety nine pounds and ninety nine pence) they will also throw in free delivery. How incredibly generous.

Shocking as it will be to you, I am not in the market for such an item and unless there is also something he is not telling me, neither is Man of the House.  I would just like to say to any (probably) men who have now broken into a cold-sweat that their go-to of jewellery is a mistake – diamonds can never be a mistake.  However, mail order diamonds are a big mistake.  And certainly for that amount of money.  If you’re buying jewellery you want to be schmoozed.  And if you’re dithering between diamonds and a house and thinking diamonds are the way to go then, you at least want champagne (at the correct temperature, obviously), nibbles and until someone steals it off you when you are sleeping on the street, an armed guard.  Someone must be buying them or they wouldn’t be for sale.  Perhaps it’s you. 

In a cost of living crisis what could be better than items which are not only a complete waste of money in themselves, but in addition, a number of them also pointlessly use electricity in being able to fulfil their utterly pointless (I use the word loosely) function.  There is absolutely no need to thank me now for this helpful and comprehensive list, which I hope means that you will get all of your shopping done in one afternoon.  Now you must excuse me, I have a toilet bowl light to wrap.

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Crackers

nataliegist

A few months ago everyone was an epidemiologist.  Now this week, it would appear that everyone is an economist.  I am neither an epidemiologist nor an economist.  I know that all viruses are things to be avoided, and to avoid spreading airborne ones that it is best to keep it out of the air. As far as Economics are concerned, I’m also something of a lost cause. Man of the House tried to explain World Monetary Theory to me once.  I looked as blank as he looked when I tried to explain the light in Caravaggio’s ‘Lazarus’ to him.  I know enough to know what my mortgage rate is, what my bills are, and what my income is compared to that.  I know that if interest rates go up, then that will cost me more money because things are more expensive.  I know that food prices have gone through the roof since Brexit and continue to get worse.  And I understand a little bit of why.

There is nothing wrong with me being a bit of a doofus on this subject.  If I make a mistake, then the only money I am risking is my own.  However, I had always hoped that, even if I disagree with those governing us, I could respect them for two things 1. That they were more experienced and intelligent than me and 2. Whatever they were doing, they believed that it was in the best interests of the country.  I think we can all agree that both of those things have gone entirely out of window these past few years.  Just when we thought the nadir had been reached, down they go again.

So when Man of the House came into the room last Friday and announced that the Chancellor had gone “batshit crazy” I barely turned a hair.  We are used to “batshit crazy”.  As if that means anything anymore.  We are used to being told that the facts staring us in the face are not the facts. A party?  No, you don’t understand peasants.  It was merely a gathering of people having drinks and nibbles – that’s not a party.  Bankers having unlimited bonuses affects inflation?  Don’t be silly plebs, it’s those pesky public sector workers on their massive salaries and having the brass neck to expect a payrise so they can both eat and heat their homes that are causing inflation. Fossil fuels causing climate change?  What nonsense!  Who told you that?  Climate scientists?  Honestly! We are used to this sort of illogical, patronising and sanctimonious bollocks being spouted at us as if it is we, the Members of the Public, who are too stupid to understand things. I’m going to go out on a limb here, but I don’t think our stupidity is the problem.

When Man of the House explained to me that the Treasury had just done something which meant that it and the Bank of England were and are pulling in opposite directions, I formed the view that I didn’t much like the sound of that. Aren’t they both supposed to be on our side? In my not even pretty little head, I see this as a Christmas Cracker.  On one side we have the Treasury, and the Bank of England is on the other.  And we’re the cracker. Now unless I have missed something, things never turn out well for the cracker. But you don’t have to take my word for it, and to be perfectly honest, why would you. Those (and I am struggling to think of an exception as I type) who do understand the minutiae of this, think that what the Treasury has done is unwise at best. The Chancellor “[doesn’t] comment on market movements” apparently. Well, tanking the pound would appear to speak for itself. As does assisting the rich to become richer and the less well-off to remain so. So as no comment is forthcoming there are only two conclusions one could draw; the first is that they know something that everyone else in the area of economics in pretty much the entire world does not, or the second, rather more unpalatable one; they don’t care.