Pink Christmas

Lego have launched a pink range in an effort to make that most enduring of toys gender neutral.  And now they’re labelled ‘sexist’.  But before you start to foam at the mouth with feminist rage, here’s an alternative take on thinking pink.

 

New Lego for girls. Wasn’t it always?

 

What do you think when you think pink?  Chances are, you immediately think something girly and frivolous.  Maybe an image of Barbie in her pink convertible pops into your head.  Or perhaps a picture of a new baby girl swaddled in pink blankets and surrounded by pink cuddly toys.  Or maybe you associate it with someone you know who has a fondness for the colour.  If the latter is the case, then chances are that person is female or gay.  Pink, in all its various hues, has a very definite label and one that not everyone wishes to embrace.

Traditionally, pink is very definitely a feminine colour and conveys… well… girliness.  In itself, there’s nothing wrong with that but, somewhere along the line, pink garnered itself a secondary tag of ditziness and dumb-downed dimness.  Liking and wearing pink is akin to being ‘blonde’ in its most derogatory sense.  If you’re blonde and happen to like pink as well, you’re well and truly perceived as being dim, shallow, giggly, empty-headed, superficial, dumb and so on. None of the adjectives are flattering.  It may not be true but it’s the common perception.  A label.  Pink-loving persons (both female and gay male) are all tarred with the same brush. 

Pink-seeking cleverness.

But there is another take on pink out there.  Research suggests that the female predilection for pink has more to do with evolution and biology than popular culture. It  suggests that women are well disposed to pink because of a throwback to Neanderthal times. Professor Anya Hurlbert, who led a study at Newcastle University in the UK in 2007, reckons that women’s fondness for pink could date back to hunter-gatherer days when women were the primary gatherers. 

Our Neanderthal forebears, it seems, developed an ability to home in on ripe, red berries and fruits and therefore trained the female eye to seek out and select varying degrees of pinkness.  In selecting their mate, they went for the healthy-looking ruddy-faced specimens rather than the pasty-looking weaklings.  So our pink-loving female ancestors were far from ditzy and dumb – they were powerful, smart, resourceful, industrious and intuitive.  A much better set of adjectives indeed.  The modern-day female fondness for pink is merely our legacy bequeathed by these capable women.  We’ve evolved into natural pink-seeking missiles.  Pink and powerful smart bombs. 

The study team in Newcastle tested 220 British students and found that the girls showed a preference for pink.  However, they also tested a group of Chinese students who had not been influenced by the Western cultural symbols like Barbie dolls and the general thinking that pink equals girly.  A Chinese colour perception expert, Dr Yazhu Ling, who worked on the study, said there was no real ‘culture of pink’ in China so the Chinese group would have no cultural influence when making their colour choices. 

And the Chinese group chose pink just as much as the British group.  This, according to Dr Ling, indicates that there is a biological reason for our colour choices.  There is something innate in the female that steers us towards pink. 

Research that associates pink with strong, powerful women will be music to some feminist ears.  In the past, many feminist groups denounced the colour pink because of the association with frivolity and giggly “girliness”.  Now they want it back.  A Swedish group, Feminist Initiative (known as Fi or F¡), has officially adopted pink as their party colour.  They espouse the notion that women shouldn’t be deprived of the colour simply because society has given it connotations that are alien to their cause.  If you want pink, you should be free to have pink and be proud of it.  To deprive yourself of it is to allow yourself to be compromised and discriminated against.  So, if you’re a feminist, you should think pink if you want to.  Fi are also thinking similarly with regard to clothes – if you want pretty, frilly dresses and skirts, go for it.  Wearing them shouldn’t mean you’re any less the feminist.  You have a right to choose, they say.  You shouldn’t have to spend your life in baggy jeans and big shirts just to make your feminist point.

So pink really says a whole lot more than giggly ditziness.  And pink Lego?  Fine with me … but…

What might not be fine with me is the pink Lego stereotypical concept.  I can’t speak from experience because I haven’t seen the pink bricks in action but one of the criticisms being levelled at Lego is that the pink version is not as challenging or creative as the regular stuff.  They haven’t just produced the basic bricks in a different colour – they’ve created a pink range which features a café, a beauty parlour and a fashion design studio, apparently.  Hmmm. 

But I know girls.  They are as the research suggests – resourceful, strong, proactive, practical, problem-solvers.  If anyone gives them a hard time for playing with their pinky, girly toys, they’ll simply take their nice pink Lego bricks, build themselves a nice pink bridge and get over it.  Girls, you see, are sensible. 

And, by the way… if you’re wondering why I haven’t posted to my blog for yonks, it’s because I had a busy few months.  Work, family, life in general.  In September, I got to wear a new hat – literally and figuratively.  I was mother-of-the-bride to my youngest daughter.  It was a fabulous, wonderful occasion.  And, because I like it and it’s a kind colour to the pale Irish complexion, I wore … pink. 

If I like it, I’ll wear it.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Any day now, they’ll call me ‘dear’.

Just because you pre-date the age of technology doesn’t mean you’re thick or half dead. It’s time they started playing myTune at iTunes.

Some years ago, a telly ad for the Financial Regulator featured a bus full of regular passengers going about their normal business when, suddenly, one of them stood up and, with an anxious expression, confessed to his fellow passengers: “I don’t know what a tracker mortgage is.”

It opened the floodgates.  In turn, the other passengers stood and made their own confessions about seemingly everyday financial terms they didn’t understand.

It was funny.  As an ad, it worked.  People liked it and remembered it. And related to it.  At the time, the economy was booming, money was everywhere and everyone (‘cept me) spoke like they knew what they were talking about.  People didn’t have ‘a few bob in savings’ anymore; they had investment portfolios.  They didn’t put the odd fiver in a biscuit tin for a rainy day; they dabbled in real estate and bought condos on the Algarve.

Back then, we had a whole different vocabulary and, a bit like the Emperor’s New Clothes, nobody was prepared to admit they didn’t really see it, get it, understand it.  The Financial Regulator ad was the equivalent of the innocent and honest child pointing at the naked emperor. The small child wasn’t afraid of ridicule or scorn.  He just didn’t get it.  He couldn’t see the clothes and he simply said so.  The honest statement gave confidence and moral courage to others.  People began to admit they couldn’t see the Emperor’s fine clothes either – they only said they could because they were afraid others would think them stupid and thick.  People were relieved to know they weren’t on their own.  They were no longer afraid to be honest.

So the ‘tracker mortgage’ ad served its purpose well.  It reassured us that it was OK to admit to being thick about things that are new to us.  Even though the ad is no longer on the telly, the ‘I don’t know what a tracker mortgage is’ line remains in our national lexicon as a kind of informal admission of bewilderment.  In writing and in speech, people preface their remarks with *stands up on bus* in order to let their reader or listener know that they’re about to make an admission.

Well, here’s my personal ‘stands up on bus’ admission:

I don’t understand iTunes.  Furthermore – I’ll stand up again – I don’t get this iCloud business either.  I get the concept but that’s where it ends.  In fact, when it comes to the whole business of updating and syncing my iPhone, I think I should just remain standing. I ‘get’ iTunes with no difficulty when it comes to the business of actual business – buying stuff.  That’s easy peasy and intuitive.  But when it comes to managing my devices – syncing, storing, backing up, transferring purchases and so on, I’m, er, challenged to say the least.  I had the wrong notion about it all.  I thought my iTunes was web-based – that I could plug in to any computer anywhere, whistle up iTunes and backup and sync to my heart’s content.  It’s a pain in the iArse that you’re tied to one machine.  (If I’m wrong about this, somebody please tell me.  In simple terms.)

What really scuppered me was when a second iPhone came into the house.  Two iPhones, one PC is not a happy situation.  Even logging in to my own account wouldn’t let me access my own stuff – it kept showing me the other half’s stuff.  Consequently, I did wrong things (because this end of the business is really quite counter-intuitive), I lost stuff, and raised my blood pressure a goodly notch or two.  I got on to customer support.  I did what I was told but I didn’t understand it.

At one stage, I even travelled to the Apple shop in Belfast (a 7-hour round trip) to get my phone replaced.  I was madly impressed with the people and the premises.  But it kind of mesmerises you.  They’re all young and happy and calm and nothing’s a problem.  There’s sexy Apple stuff everywhere and you can play with it.  They have cool glass stairs.  It’s as if there’s happy vapour in the air.  Like a ‘60s love-in.  You just kind of float through the place.  It’s all love and peace.  You smile a lot and everyone smiles back.  Nothing is a problem.  You understand everything.  How could you not?  It’s all so perfect.

Until you get home. Until nothing works.  Until you lose important stuff.  Until you can’t get them on the phone.  Until your ears start to bleed with the pitying and patronising tones when you do get them on the phone.

Until the lightbulb pings over your head and you realise it’s time to stand up on the bus and point at the naked guy, if you’ll forgive me mixing Irish advertising and Danish fairytales.   I just don’t get the iTunes device management system and I really don’t believe I’m on my own.   Furthermore, I resent being patronised by customer care people who speak to me in that irritatingly calm voice that you reserve for tantrumy, truculent children.  They invariably irritate me further when they imply that it’s all really very simple – that it’s me who’s at fault here.   They’re very pleasant and charming (mostly) but you can’t help feeling that they wish you’d just go away and die.  They know how old you are and, in their book, you’re just a geriatric pest with no natural aptitude or ability and you’re pretty much past it.  You’re just waiting for them to call you ‘dear’.

Well I’m nobody’s dear and I’m not any less intelligent than younger people who are wizards and who can do it all with their eyes shut.  Because they’ve been surrounded by technology since they were born, they think their generation own it exclusively and that they have been endowed with an innate understanding of it all.

Well, guess what?  That’s a load of tripe.  I’ve been surrounded by technology for just as long as them.  But I use it differently.  I use it to augment and enhance my other skills because… I have other skills.  I don’t rely on the technology exclusively.  That’s the difference.  And I’m possibly not as up-to-spec as younger models because I hadn’t time to sit and play with it all day.

Happily, I’m getting there.  After a bad technology month, I found an Apple support person who seemed to ‘get’ me.  In fairness, most of the Apple support people I spoke to were very nice and willing to help but they assumed a level of understanding and a base knowledge that I just don’t have.  My latest person (hello Paul) didn’t make me feel stupid and was patient in an understanding way.  He sorted me out – even rang me back at one point – and now I’m getting there.  Sort of.  Sometimes.  It’s like anything technological – when someone’s talking you through it, it seems so easy; when you tackle it on your own, everything goes mental.  You’re afraid to click anything in case you break the internet.

But, as I say, I’m getting there.  Slowly.  Sometimes.  When my brain isn’t fogged with other things like work and deadlines.  So thanks to my NBF Paul at Apple for that.

But here’s a few truths and suggestions for the Apple Corporation:

• Managing your device via iTunes is neither straightforward nor intuitive.  It’s actually quite daunting and convoluted.
• You’d make more money if this aspect of things was simpler.  When I was in the nirvana of the Apple Store in Belfast, I drooled over an iPad.  I dropped heavy hints to the hubby.  I’ve since withdrawn the drool and the hints.  No way do I want one until I can manage it with ease, simplicity and confidence.  The thoughts of owning one now with my fuzzy understanding of device management is enough to make me start rocking to and fro with the stress of it all.
• You really should put some ‘old’ people in your shops.  Old dears like me who worry about breaking the internet.

This is more of it… when I downloaded this image from Office, the little woman was moving. Throttling the machinery quite enthusiastically, she was. No more. With my technological ineptitude, I’ve managed to paralyse her.

 

The human face of high-profile parenting

‘Home Alone’ scenarios can happen to the most responsible of parents.  Been there – almost.  It’s simply called being human.

Whatever else he is or isn’t, he’s a dad and he’s human.

I don’t propose to pronounce on David Cameron as a politician or pass comment in any way on his policies or leadership skills.  I do, though, feel a bit sorry for him today.  The media are having a field day about the fact that himself and his missus forgot their kid in a pub.

On the face of it, it sounds outrageous.  You conjure up a mental picture of Dave and Sam staggering out of the pub, weaving an unsteady path home via the kebab shop and forgetting all about the sprog in the loo.  A bit Royle Family.  Dave and Denise.  You start tut-tutting and thinking about putting social services on speed-dial.

But it wasn’t like that. When you read on a bit, you get closer to the truth of what happened.  It was quite a human error.  A bit like Jesus on the day out with his Ma and Joseph.  They went home without him – each thought the young lad was with the other.  It can happen.  It does happen.  And it doesn’t necessarily mean the parents or designated minders are irresponsible pissheads.  It could happen to the best of us.

Real-life ‘Home Alone’ scenarios happen every day. They just don’t hit the box office or the media.

I have to say all that because I did it myself.  The circumstances weren’t quite the same but the child was forgotten nonetheless.  It was back in the day when travelling with a baby was akin to packing for an Antarctic expedition.  Babies these days are way more portable than they used to be.  Modern baby accoutrements are either neater or collapsible – or disposable.  (With the exception of modern baby buggies.  WTF is going on there?  They’re like small tractors).  Back in my baby days, everything was huge and cumbersome and impossible to fit into the back of a normal car.

On the occasion in question, we were bringing baby on her maiden voyage from Donegal to Kildare.  That meant we had to bring three days’ supply of nappies, baby food, bottle-warmer, bottles and the wherewithal to sterilize them.  We also had to bring the cot (which had to be dismantled), the bouncy chair (which couldn’t be dismantled), the playpen (a wooden affair that folded but was still bulky), a high chair (again, wooden and uncollapsible), the buggy, the changing mat, the bag (big bag) of baby toiletries and toys and gallons of gripewater.  We were terrified we’d forget something essential and we set about packing like it was a military operation.

Space… the final family car frontier.

The real problem was that we were doing this in the early ‘80s.  Two major factors made it particularly difficult:  First, everything was huge and unrefined then.  Solid and sturdy, to be sure, but big and awkward and unyielding and a pure bastard to pack.  Secondly, it was the ‘80s – we were in the throes of recession and on a budget.  And the budget didn’t run to niceties or the convenience of disposable nappies, travel cots and the like.  Not even for a weekend.  We had to stick to the normal terry nappies – which meant we had to bring the nappy bucket, the industrial-sized box of Napisan and a box of nappy liners.  Most of you reading this post won’t even know what they are.

The same went for the bottles.  The bottle sterilizer was the size of a small barrel and, even though you tried to be efficient by packing stuff into it, it was still huge and awkward.  And, of course, the economy size bottle of Milton had to go in too.  Really – it was like moving house.

On the day of the voyage, we went at it with a will.  He looked after the stuff that had to be dismantled; I did the clothes and supplies.  We broke sweat over the course of a couple of hours and finally felt we were ready for off.

We sat into the car and ran through the checklist:

Cot? Check

Complete with the bag of nuts and bolts to put it together again? Check.

Nappies?  Check

Nappy bucket and Napisan?  Check

Food? Check

Bottles?  Check

Sterilizer?  Check

Playpen?  Check

Buggy?  Check

Highchair?  Check

Bouncy chair?  Check

Dummy? – Oh Jesus, don’t let us forget the dummy and a few spares – Check

Toys – Pooh and Half Pint?  Check

Ask anyone who’s ever travelled with a baby or small children… precision packing is an art form.

And so it went on for many minutes.  The interior of the car was dark such was the volume of paraphernalia packed into it.  I couldn’t move. There was even stuff packed around my feet.  We finally reckoned we had everything.  House locked.  Engine on.  Ready to rock.

Except for one, quite important thing.  The child.  I turned around to check that she was OK before we finally set sail, and there she was… gone, so to speak. Inside on the bed in her huge, not-very-portable carrycot (which was the top of a huge, not-very-portable pram) lay the source of all this precision packing.  We had all but driven off and left her behind.

The tale has been recounted many times over the years and I think of it every time I see one of those ‘Baby on board’ signs on car windows.  We laugh about it now and marvel at how well designed and portable baby gear is this days.  But, at the time, I was riddled with guilt.  I couldn’t believe I’d ‘forgotten’ my own child.

But I only had to deal with my own guilt and self-censure.  I didn’t have to deal with the media sensationalising and scandalising and making me look, at best, ditzy; at worst, negligent.  I’m neither.  And I never was.  I was stressed, sleep-deprived, busy and anxious.  In other words, a normal, human person.

So, all politics and celebrity aside, I’m sorry for the Camerons as human, fallible parents.  Sorry for their daughter, Nancy, who’s a pawn in this media game.  Sorry for them as a family that a misunderstanding was made so public and that so many will pass judgement and rub it into them.  Happily, there has been a groundswell of support and empathy from parents all over the UK.  But there will be always be the finger-waggers and the nay-sayers who’ll be only too happy to pass judgement and point fingers.

So I offer the Camerons empathy and understanding.  The best of parents have the worst of moments sometimes.  It’s how they learn.  It’s how they get their experience.

It’s what makes them great.

Um… hello? Haven’t you forgotten something?

My Lent ain’t over till the fat lady shrinks

Outing the inner goddess is a total pain in the soon-to-be-smaller arse.  Forget about all the fads and wonder-diets.  I’m on the ‘cardiologist’s diet’ – if it tastes good, spit it out.

Mea culpa, gentle readers. I’ve been absent for ages despite my good intentions to post more regularly to these pages.  I wish I could say my absence has been because of something wildly exciting and fabulous but I can’t.  The last six weeks have been Misery.  And that capital ‘M’ is intentional.

Wallowing in self-imposed misery has left me little time for anything else.

I am, you see, on a diet and exercise regime.  I have always maintained that there is an absolute goddess within me and, for a while, I was quite happy to let her remain hidden.  She’s in there.  Somewhere.  I know she’s in there.  Doesn’t matter that nobody else can see her.  I can coax her out anytime I like if I want to.  No big deal.

But, over the last 18 months or so, it seemed as if the inner goddess herself was getting a bit lardy.  (Either that or she has a twin in there with her). She seemed to be growing which, of course, meant that the outer manifestation was growing too.  And could be seen to be growing.  I began to think about giving her a bit of a talking to.  But it was easier not to.  Me and her (or them) ambled along, enjoying our food and believing that whipping cream with a hand whisk constituted a good cardiovascular workout and would sort out the bingo wings to boot.

And then the bubble of total delusion burst.  Pure, unadulterated vanity took over.  I decided I was not facing another summer of elasticated waistbands and voluminous T-shirts.  Time to open the goddess’s chrysalis and let her emerge in all her glory.

I'm not quite up there with Samantha Brick in terms of vanity - but I was just as deluded.

But inner goddesses, it seems, get quite reclusive in middle age.  They’re decidedly reluctant to allow themselves to be seen and demand an unholy amount of coaxing.  They don’t like the fact that their host body is ageing, mostly sedentary, menopausal and popping HRT like Smarties.  Doing without the odd treat now and then is no longer enough to entice them out of their confinement.  They demand almost total carbohydrate deprivation and a stupid amount of gym time.

And the process is, as stated earlier, pure misery.  I’m battling since January and she’s either incredibly shy or incredibly stubborn.  Whichever, the process of unleashing her is tiresome.  Anyone who’s ever tried it will know.

And what they’ll also know is that there just isn’t an easy way.  No magic formula or wonder-food that will do it for you.  And, even if you find a way that works for you, there’s no guarantee it will always work.  Inner goddesses, the bitches, move the goalposts.  Last time I unleashed mine, I did it with a regime of home exercise and a relatively normal diet.  Now – four years later – she’s way more demanding.   I’ve had to completely alter what I eat, the amount I eat, when I eat it and the way I cook it.  Food shopping takes me twice as long as I scrutinise the food values on everything and cooking takes forever as well as I weigh out the ingredients and portions.  I almost count the grains of rice and sugar.  I put my food on a small plate and eat it with a small knife and fork.  It seems bigger and lasts longer that way.  I also record every morsel I eat and every drink I sup in a handy little free phone app (My Fitness Pal) which calculates my calories, tracks my progress and shows me graphs of how I’m doing.  It also allows me to enter my gym time and gives me a calorie allowance for that.  It doesn’t stop me from feeling hungry and miserable but it’s unexplainably motivational and I kinda feel a loyalty to it.  (Yes… I know… irrational.  Food deprivation, most likely.)

My typical dinner... well, almost.

And I’ve had to give in and join a gym.  The Wii Fit (aka the Wii Bastard) just doesn’t do it.  At least three times a week, I endure 80 minutes of absolute torture.  I pound a treadmill, pedal a bicycle and row my way to nowhere on a machine that seems to be in a different time continuum.  I close my eyes and try to pretend I’m rowing across a calm sea and, when I think I’ve done about 15 minutes, I open my eyes and look at the display.  Generally about six minutes.  It is not normal, I tell you.  Not normal at all.  Dark forces are at work.

But what kills me most about the gym is that it’s full of people who have no business being there.  Beautiful specimens of tiny womanhood in designer Lycra and pristine runners.  They come in with their fluffy handtowels and big, huge stopwatch wristwatches and do all the posey stuff of stretching and pulling their feet up behind them and all that.  Then they park themselves on a treadmill beside me and take off at a rate of knots, their perfect ponytails bobbing along behind their colour-coordinated headbands.  Once, I got either intimidated or motivated – I’m not sure which – and tried cranking my speed up to 6kph.  Not a good idea.  Something started to creak loudly.  I’m still not sure whether it was me or the machine.  One thing’s for sure – I will never, ever become one of these people who become addicted to the gym.   I hate it with a living passion.

The good news, though, is that I’m getting there.  The pounds are slowly starting to drop away and my waistbands are loosening.   I’m still chasing the correct BMI for my height but that’s creeping ever nearer also.  Mind you, I sometimes think it would be easier to grow two inches than lose two pounds.

This is a Microsoft stock photo. This is not me on my scales. Look at the weight... I wish.

And, overall, I suppose I must feel better.  I don’t know really.  Whenever I ask myself how I feel, the answer is invariably the same.  Hungry.  Always hungry.

So, as the rest of the world welcomes the end of Lenten fasting and anticipates the treats of the Easter feast, my misery continues.  I’m staying true to the diet which is, incidentally, informally known as the cardiologists’ diet – if it tastes good, spit it out.  And I’ll plod on with the treadmill and other instruments of torture.  And I’ll try not to look at the thin, bendy people with the watches and ponytails.

That bitch Gaga goddess has a lot to answer for.  But I’m determined to out her.  I’ll keep you posted… if I don’t eat my laptop in the meantime.

Valentine, dude… what have you done?

Do you heart or hate St Valentine’s Day?  I reckon him with the heart would hate it.

Anti Valentine's Day - when Be My Valentine is replaced with a more cynical but more astute 'Meh' that says it all.

Does he, I wonder, have any idea what he unleashed?  Is he sitting up there in the communion of saints scratching his head in bemusement?  He neither intended nor envisaged, I’m sure, that February 14 would become such a tacky, tasteless, three-ringed circus of heart-emblazoned teddy-bears, woeful lingerie and overpriced flowers.  Does he know that greeting card and chocolate manufacturers rub their hands with glee in his name?  Would he be sad to know that, on his special day, young, already insecure adolescents will fret and worry and wonder if they’re ‘loved’.  St Valentine.  He might well scratch his befuddled head.  Dude, what have you done?

The legend of St Valentine is, admittedly, quite a romantic one.  It seems that he was a Roman priest who defied Emperor Claudius ll in 269AD or thereabouts.  Claudius, we’re told, was a bit of a boyo and was involved in many unpopular and bloody campaigns.  He was having trouble recruiting soldiers and reckoned it was because the young men with significant others were reluctant to up sticks and head to war.  Single men, Claudius reckoned, made better soldiers.  So, to boost recruitment and get himself an army, he banned all engagements and marriages

Unattached and spoiling for a fight.

.

Enter St Valentine, then priest of the parish.  He got the name of being a benevolent, sympathetic pastor who would marry young couples in secret in the name of love.  He was found out and brought up before the Prefect of Rome who imprisoned him and sentenced him to death.   During his time in captivity, legend has it that young lovers came and threw flowers and notes of encouragement at his window.  His jailer’s daughter too, it seems, was good to him and visited him regularly and he fell in love with her.  On the morning of his execution – February 14 – he left her a note: “From your Valentine”.  A touching little tale of romantic love that inspired subsequent generations to make a simple declaration of love on this commemorative day.

Angst and anguish - Valentine's Day for the adolescent

But somewhere along the timeline, it lost its simplicity and sincerity.  It has become ultra commercialised, ultra materialistic and, for some, a total stress-fest.  No more than Christmas, it can be a very lonely time for singles who, although they might ordinarily be happy with their singledom, have their noses rubbed in this notion that they’re missing out on ‘love’.  What nonsense.

I first fell out of love with St Valentine’s Day when I was a teenager.  I was a gawky, insecure adolescent who posed zero threat to the postman – there was absolutely no danger of aggravating his hernia hefting the mail to my door.  I knew I’d never get cards, plural, but one… please dear Jesus… just one.  One will do.  Just so I can bring it in to school and show and tell with the rest.  Days before the event, I’d even consider sending one to myself such was the depth of insecurity.  I never did – but it crossed my mind every year.  Sometimes I got one; sometimes I didn’t.  On the occasions when I didn’t, I’d hold my head up, stick my chin out and announce that the whole business was materialistic nonsense.  But inside I’d be gutted.  On the occasions when I got one, I couldn’t have cared less who it was from.  I was just grateful.  I could join in the gossip in school.  St Valentine’s Day for teenagers can be misery.

And then, happily, you reach a stage when you realise that real love has nothing to do with cards, flowers and frippery.  You remember your teenage years in a bittersweet way and are thankful you’ve moved on.

Then, when you have children, you start getting sucked into it all over again.  Myself and the other half aren’t really into the whole mushy, soppy, flowery thing and, when the children were small, that worried them.  Relentless marketing had taught them that people who love each other must exchange Valentine cards.  We didn’t.  In their little heads, that meant we didn’t love each other.  For a quiet life and to ease their little minds, we conformed.  And it wasn’t always easy – it demanded a trudge around several shops to find a simple, romantic card that was fit to be put on the table at dinnertime. Coarse, unfunny, double entendres were the order of the day and some even had pop-up appendages.  Classy.

The Valentine's Day flochart for guys. Funny - but, sadly, true.

And before you know it, you’re back to the pure misery again – only this time you’re observing.  You watch your children go through the self-same misery of waiting for the postman and wondering and worrying if anything will arrive.  Your heart aches.  You wish you could make them understand that it doesn’t matter but you know you can’t.  You know you can’t put an old head on young shoulders.  You find yourself saying the heartfelt prayer of years ago… One…please dear Jesus… just one.

So I wonder does he know the madness of his legacy?  What would he make of it all?  Could he ever have imagined that the simple note to the jailer’s daughter would result in an estimated 1billion cards being exchanged every February 14?  Does he know that he’s second only to Christmas in terms of spending and uber-tacky bling?

I doubt it.  If he did, he’d rapidly fall out of love with himself.

And so sayeth all of us.

So where is he now?

The Carmelite Church in Whitefriar Street in Dublin claims to hold the remains of St Valentine. The story of how the remains of St Valentine came to rest in Whitefriar Street states that a Fr John Spratt visited Rome in 1835 and, because of his preaching prowess, Pope Gregory XVI decided to make his church a gift of St Valentine’s body, then believed to be in the Cemetery of St Hippolitus in Rome. The remains of Valentine were duly transferred to Whitefriar Street Church in 1836, and since that date have been venerated there, especially around the time of the saint’s feast day.

As is the case with some other famous saints, there are rival claimants for the honour of possessing the body of St Valentine. Some accounts claim that the remains of St Valentine were, in fact, buried in the Church of St Praxedes in Rome. In 1999 there was widespread newspaper and television coverage of the claim that St Francis’s Church in Glasgow holds the ‘real’ relics of St Valentine.

St Valentine's statue in the Carmelite Church, Whitefriar Street, Dublin. Are they the real bony relics? Who knows? Who cares?

Fear and loathing in the supermarket

There’s a price on my head.  But I have to check if that price is right or if I’m on special offer.

One of these days, I’ll be found in a bruised and lumpy heap in a supermarket aisle.  Crazed customer service personnel will point and laugh and start hurling random grocery items at my bludgeoned and battered form.  The most cruel among them will grab a wayward trolley and drive it over me.  The real sadists will turn up the muzak and make me listen to it.  I am fast becoming the bane of supermarket customer service departments.

Lock and load: Customer service - with attitood

I am, you see, on a crusade.  And, worthy though I think it is, I can see where the customer service people are coming from.  I’m a nuisance in their day. They hate me.  They want to hurt me. They dive for cover when they see me coming.

It’s all to do with overcharging.  A few months ago, I bought three big jars of coffee in one of the big supermarkets.  They were on special offer and were very good value indeed.  And my preferred brand to boot.  They were stacked high to the ceiling in a display all by themselves with big mad signs saying just how great a bargain they were.  And don’t we all love a bargain?

I pegged three of them into my trolley and carried on shopping.  When I came through the checkout, I uncharacteristically checked the till receipt.  I think I had a rough running total in my head and it didn’t seem to tally with what I had actually paid.  I looked at the bottom of the receipt where the special offer deductions are usually shown and there was no sign of the saving on the coffee.  I looked for the coffee in the listed items and there it was… at full price.  A small mortgage.  I headed for customer services.  It was their error.  They apologised and rectified it.  No harm done.

I'm a self-appointed, price-checking, customer-service-annoying crusader

But it made me examine my shopping habits.  How often do I check my receipts?  Not often.  Sometimes.  Well, hardly ever.  Actually… never.  Checkouts are usually busy; I’m generally trying to make the hateful process as quick as possible; I’m usually dreaming about winning the Lotto and getting a little minion to do the shopping for me.  Bottom line: I pack and pay and get the flock outta there as quickly as possible.

But, after the coffee incident – which had added nearly €8 to my bill – I decided to be a bit more vigilant.  I started scrutinising all my supermarket till receipts.

And here’s the alarming thing… almost every time I’ve grocery shopped since, something has been wrong.  What’s more, the errors have always benefitted the shop.  Special offers not being recognised; things scanning in at a different price to the shelf price; reduced-to-clear items with handwritten reductions scan in at full whack.  That sort of thing.  Almost every single time and across a range of supermarkets.  I have resolved, therefore, for the New Year to always check the till receipt but, furthermore, to bring discrepancies – no matter how small – to the attention of the customer service personnel.

So that’s why they hate me.  That’s why they want to maim me.  Yesterday it was baked beans.  Shelf price 54c; scanned in at 65c.  Discrepancy of 11c.  I had two tins.  Overcharged by 22c.

Now 22c is not, I grant you, a fortune.  It would, in fact, be easier to just forget about it and carry on.  Taking the matter up with customer services is actually a ferocious palaver.  You generally start losing the will to live about midway through the process.  First of all, you go back to the shelf to make sure you’re right; then you join the queue at the desk; then they page a gofer-type to go and check the shelf themselves; then they page a manager to come and do some sort of important-looking whizzery with the till (it always seems to involve a key of some description and the word ‘void’ gets used a lot).  Then they handwrite the adjustment on your old receipt; get you to sign a slip like you were signing out the crown jewels and then… they give you your 22c.  They do all this with a face on them that would turn milk and you can feel their laser eyes boring into your back as you leave.  They hate you.  They want to maim you.  They want to throw the tins of beans at your head and dance on your neck.

Beans means...

But they may get used to it because I’m not going away.  I just don’t think it’s good enough and I’m going to be a thorn in their flesh until they start getting the message.  I’m lucky – 22c is not going to break me but there are families out there on tight budgets and every cent counts.  It adds up.  A 22c overcharge on a small amount of shopping (my total on the day was just €28) represents less than one per cent – .785 of one per cent to be precise.  But say your weekly grocery bill is, for argument’s sake, €150 – .785 of one per cent of that is €1.18.  Over the year, it’s over €60.  Imagine if you were overcharged by €60 on one shopping occasion.  You’d raise the roof and bay for blood.  It’s the same thing, folks, except it’s happening over time.

So they hate me.  And they’re going to hate me even more before I’m finished because my next step is to annoy them about their overcharging policies.  I’m not satisfied that refunding me the difference is always in accordance with what their policy states.  For instance, some chains have a policy that if they overcharge you, they refund you the full price of the item; others double the difference; some give gift vouchers.  I’ve had my overcharging experiences in four different supermarkets and have only ever received a refund of the overcharged amount.  I’ll be getting on their case about that one soon.

If it's going cheap... make sure it does

In the meantime, I will continue to be loathed and despised.  I will likely have to buy a flak jacket to absorb the impact of bean tins thrown with the great, venomous force of an annoyed customer services person.

They’re aiming to please?  Er no.  They’re aiming for me.

You have a nice day, now.

A pair of Christmas muppets

Who knew that 50p could buy such twinkly, sparkly, Muppety memories?

The other day marked a little anniversary for me.  Thirty three years ago, myself and himself headed for Dublin and launched an assault on the jewellery shops.  Sometime around lunchtime on the day, we chose a solitaire in a white gold setting in Lawrences on Grafton Street and we officially plighted our troths.  We got engaged.

It was a lovely day.  Grafton Street was buzzing with Christmas and we were charmed with ourselves.  I’m sure there were throngs of people milling about the place but we didn’t really notice any of that.  We were completely wrapped up in ourselves and our own business and absolutely nobody else existed.

The ring was too big for me and we pleaded with the man in the shop to size it for us on the spot.  I couldn’t bear to go away without it.  Couldn’t wait another day.  The best he could do, he said, was to have it ready for us by close of business that day.  Fine.  We’d come back.  We went back out onto Grafton Street and continued to be totally absorbed with each other.

Grafton Street at Christmas last year. Twinkly and pretty.

Somewhere along the street, there was a group of students busking with a piano.  They were fundraising for something or other and they belted out the favourite Christmas carols with youthful enthusiasm.  Every so often, though, the pianist launched into the signature tune of The Muppet Show.  It was the big thing on the telly at the time and it was fun.  It tickled me pink.  When himself saw how much I enjoyed it, he went over to the pianist and asked him to play it again. He put 50p in the coffers. A very generous contribution at the time.  The pianist immediately drop-kicked Silent Night and thumped out the Muppet Show.  Every time we passed the piano on our rambles, himself flung in another 50p and yet another holy carol got abandoned.  It reached a stage where, when he saw us approaching, the pianist immediately launched into the little ditty secure in the knowledge that another 50p was coming his way.  It was fun and romantic and carefree.  We picked up the ring and went to McDaid’s for a celebratory drink.  The plan was to go somewhere nice for an intimate meal before we joined the human race again.  Instead, we lingered too long in McDaid’s and settled for a batter burger from the Capri Grill in Naas on the way home.  It was a magical day.

Roll it on 33 years and we’re yawning at each other across the kitchen table, complaining about our aches and pains and working out the mundane logistics of Christmas.  Should we order more oil?  What will we get for your mother?  Have you any idea where the poxy spare bulbs of the poxy lights are?  That sort of thing.    Neither of us can think of anything worse than beating our way through the crowds on Grafton Street.

That’s what happens over the course of 30+ years. Things change.  People change.  Attitudes and responsibilities change.   And I think it’s called ‘life’.

Thirty three years ago, we were different people with different priorities.  Thirty three years ago, our lives were a good deal simpler.  Thirty three years ago, we didn’t have an ounce of sense between us.  And I’m glad.  When I remember the silliness and immaturity of our younger days together, I’m glad we were the way we were.  I’m glad we were completely green about grown-up matters.  I’m glad we had fun.  I’m glad we more or less grew up together.  I think we were normal.    We were married less than a year after our Christmastime engagement and we were parents less than a year after that.  Like most people, we made it up as we went along and muddled through.  A right pair of muppets.

Thirty three years on, we’re still here, still muddling and, hopefully, we’ll muddle on for another while.  Nobody, thankfully, has a crystal ball.  If we could see the future it would scare us.  If the self-absorbed, carefree couple on Grafton Street 33 years ago had the facility to see the middle-aged couple comparing aches and pains, life for both of them might have turned out differently.

And yes… I accept that life sometimes means looking after the mundane things.  There are times when, although you really don’t want to, you have to talk about boring logistics and stupid stuff like health insurance and spare bulbs.

But life also means having special days too.  Days when the world is yours and nobody else exists.  Days when you know that, no matter what the future holds, you’ll handle it.  Days when, for 50p, you can hijack the carol singers and laugh and sparkle your way down Grafton Street at Christmastime.

Happy Christmas everyone. Carpe diem and all to that.