Many years ago, I was out shopping in a rather upscale store (I don’t want to give them any PR unless they are prepared to reimburse me for my trouble), when I was approached by a woman wearing incredibly large, round, black sunglasses, who asked me for the time. Now you know that I am of the belief that shades were meant to be worn outdoors (hence, the inclusion of the word “sun” in their name), but I was feeling generous so told her it was ten to eleven. She thanked me politely, and I headed over to the lingerie department, where I was known to frequently linger.

After a short time browsing, I glanced up and, through the brassieres, I saw the same woman. In any other circumstance, this would hardly be noticeable. However, this woman — she was staring a hole right through me. I don’t go looking for conflict, but I’m not afraid to meet it head on.

“Have you got some kind of problem?” I asked, moving my pocketbook to my left hand in case I needed to quickly pull the shiv from my garter.

“I was just wondering if I could ask you something,” she replied.

Keeping in mind I had already provided one answer to her (free of charge), I was not eager to continue to engage. However, my intrinsic good nature meant I had to oblige.

“I’m listening,” I said.

She pulled a notebook from her bag and approached me. She flipped through it, coming to a page that had a photograph taped to the top.

“Do you know this man?” she asked.

Now even at that age, I was well aware that that question is always a loaded one, so I took a quick peek and said no.

“Look again,” she insisted, pulling the picture from the page and holding it up to my face.

I took it from her. The man’s face was not what I call classically handsome but he wasn’t as ugly as some I’d slept with. He had a slight red tinge to his face, and I wondered why he was so cross about being photographed. Looking more closely into his eyes, though, I saw sadness, I saw pain. I saw a man whose dreams, despite his hard work and dedication, had yet to manifest.

“Nope, don’t know him.”

“You’re sure?”

“I’ve never been so sure” was my response (though I had been more sure of other things earlier, on numerous occasions, I was obviously going for drama).

She flipped over the page in her notebook and handed me a pen. “Would you be willing to sign here, indicating what you have just told me?”

The page had two columns: Yes and No. There were a number of names under each. I signed under No (I wrote “Miss Trixie Ruffles,” the alias I was using at that admittedly less subtle time).

She handed me a peppermint candy and walked away. I decided to end my shopping trip early. When I returned home, my mother asked me how things went, but I refused to mention this unusual encounter to her.

This morning I had a peppermint, which is what brought this memory to mind.

It began, as so many unhappy stories do, with my mother’s Bridge Club. I’m afraid the competition between the women players extended far beyond the card game. The ladies were always trying to outdo each other in their personal lives: a husband’s promotion, a son’s sporting triumph or an exotic accent belonging to a cleaner—all were fodder for the rivalry. While often the bragging was greeted simply with patronizing nods, sometimes the afternoons would end with bitter silences and, on one occasion, actual bloodshed.

One Tuesday, something said really set my mother off. It came from the mouth of Deborah Bullwinkle, a relative newcomer to the group, who was married to a dentist whose hygienist’s attitude my mother found objectionable. This particular afternoon, Mrs Bullwinkle came in with the story of her daughter’s first menstrual period, a tale so fascinating that no one could deny that she had “won” (not at cards, of course—my mother almost always won at bridge because she is famously a cheat).

When my mother returned home, she was fuming. She began to pick on me—why hadn’t I cleaned up my room, swept the back porch or started dinner? She demanded to see my homework, something she rarely did as by then she had realised that my intellectual abilities had surpassed her own. She criticised my handwriting and noted that my dress was wrinkled. This abuse continued until she confessed that what was really upsetting her was the fact that I had yet to shed my uterine lining.

Now when my mother came back from bridge, she was usually pretty loaded so there was no point in trying to introduce any logic into the conversation. At the time, I had yet to reach double digits so my lack of menstruation was hardly my fault. But my mother was determined that I should be able to outdo the Bullwinkles. She then announced that the next day—May 1—I would not be going into school but instead she and I would be heading to Gatsby’s Department Store. She would become the first of the Club to buy her daughter a proper, grown up lady’s brassiere.

I shan’t go into great detail about the excursion, partly because I do not want to frighten my younger readers but also because the clerk has served her time and paid her debt to society. Suffice it to say that my mother was not amused by her suggestion that we start off with a training bra. My mother had not allowed me training wheels for my bicycle when I was learning (as evidenced by the still-visible-today scars on my knees), and “my daughter got her first training bra” would not earn her the respect she was expecting at next month’s bridge game. So the clerk, my mother and I bundled into the changing room with a pencil, a pad of paper, and a measuring tape, leaving little space for my dignity.

Ultimately, my mother’s bragging about my early entry into the world of intimate apparel gave her the triumph she had hoped for. The fact that my bosom didn’t properly fill the cups until quite a few years later was irrelevant. My mother had turned my tender breast buds into a weapon, and it’s a testament to my moral fiber that I was able to overcome such trauma and go on to develop the magnificent bustline that I still maintain today.

So this May Day be assured that I’ll be remembering the Incident and the hurt that it caused. Whether you’re dancing around with ribbons or demonstrating around a bonfire, you know I’d appreciate your taking a moment to think of me. Then, if you aren’t already doing so, think of my breasts.

Nice, aren’t they?

After Monday’s tragedy in Boston, American comedian Patton Oswalt posted his thoughts on Facebook. These thoughts were instantly “liked” and “shared” and “commented on” because that’s what we do now. Oswalt’s message of “the good will always outnumber the evil” made people feel better. It made me feel better.

See, I’ve got some people I love in Boston, and when I first saw the news, I was drenched in that panic sweat of wondering if my girls were all right. Luckily, I quickly learned they were. Despite that, though, I was still stained and couldn’t sleep and I made a mistake: I got onto the Internet. Eventually I found Oswalt’s note and felt better enough to finally close my eyes for the night.

However, before I got to his uplifting message, I read a lot of other things. I read lots of sadness. Sadness is not nice to read. It is much more not nice to feel.

I read fear. I could understand fear. I read anger, and yes, I could understand anger.

I read hate.

I read speculation. I read speculation undoubtedly inspired by sadness and fear. And hate. Some from experts and some from people who were, how can I say this politely, clearly not experts. I read threats. I read bigotry. I read complete and utter ignorance.

But I also read facts. About the bombs and dead and injured in Boston. And the bombs and dead and injured in Iraq. And the bombs and dead and injured in Syria. And Somalia. And Pakistan. All those bombs and dead and injured in a period of two days.

All those people drenched in that panic sweat, wondering if their girls were all right.

 


 

The not-niceness continued throughout the week. News outlets reported speculation as fact, the hate and bigotry and ignorance thrived on even momentary bursts of fuel for their fire.  And more bombs. And more dead and injured. In Pakistan. In Bangalore. In Iraq. And now again in Boston. And in places I have not read about.

 


 

Do the good outnumber the evil? I do not know. It seems hard to see sometimes.

I suppose it’s about faith, a faith in ourselves as people, as human beings. But bombs are made by human beings. Animals didn’t invent hate and bigotry. Plants do not threaten and speculate and revel in their own ignorance.

I don’t know if I have the faith that there’s more good than evil.

But this is the world we live in.

We must be the good. Even when we’re sad and afraid and angry. And surrounded by hate and bigotry and speculation and ignorance.

Even if we are outnumbered.

“Miss Agatha, I’ve scheduled an urgent neighbourhood meeting. I’m sure you’ve heard the terrible news that Mrs Roberts has passed away and we’ve got to organise some kind of response,” she squeaked breathlessly, before handing me an invitation and running to the house next door.

Now, I confess I really didn’t know Mrs Roberts because when I moved into the area, she was described to me as “unfriendly and close-minded” and why should I bother reaching out to someone like that? However, I know that my presence is so valued by those around me that I felt I should attend.

The meeting was held at our local, which was the first of Martha’s many mistakes of the evening. A few of the men were already drunk by the time she clinked two glasses together to quiet the group. Thankfully, she did not suggest we open with a prayer, but instead launched into a short essay of tribute (I don’t doubt she has pre-written obituaries for everyone in our postal code). However, before she could finish listing all of the family members who are left to survive without their grumpy, old granny, she was interrupted by the landlord.

“Quite frankly, Miss Montgomery,” he said calmly, “I’d rather you move this meeting elsewhere if you intend to keep singing the praises of that terrible woman.”

Martha let out a gasp of shock, without realising that most of the group was already aligning itself behind the barman.

One of the non-drunk men (whose wife wasn’t present as she was attending a healing service at the Spiritualist Church) said, “I don’t mean to speak ill of the dead, but Mrs Roberts was a mean, mean person, and I don’t think we should pretend otherwise.”

A chorus of “amen’s,” “right on’s” and “get us a Stella, won’t you’s” echoed round the room.

Then, an elderly couple who had yet to speak or even move (I had been tempted to tap them to make sure they too hadn’t passed) stood up and looked at each other. “You say it, Timothy,” said the woman. Timothy nodded as his wife sat back down.

“We have lived in Number 8 since 1979. Mrs Roberts moved into Number 10 the same year. She was a horrendous neighbour. She was a horrendous person.

From the get-go, she was trouble. You lot are probably too young to remember, but she tried to get a petition going to have the milk float banned from the village. A few years later, she started in on the estate agents, posting a long list of ‘undesirables’ she didn’t want them showing around any houses. We’ve only got five curry houses and two Chinese, thanks to her worry about the village being swamped by Asians. She did everything within her power to destroy this area and the livelihood of everyone who has lived here.”

“And her children,” his wife piped in, “they were just as bad. She spoiled them rotten despite the fact that she made it patently clear that she hated minors.”

“Indeed,” said Timothy. “The truth is I occasionally wished her harm and I shouldn’t have done that. But now that’s she dead, I don’t mind. Rather than celebrate her life, I think it would be a much more sensible use of our time to try to undo the wrongs she did.”

And with that, it was agreed. En masse, we spread out, stopping at a variety of restaurants (all except the one on Devonshire Road as two people had heard the authorities had been round recently) to purchase meals and then picked up a pint of milk for each of us. By the time we returned to the pub, the landlord had already set up a tin for donations and had collected close to twenty pounds. We spent the rest of the evening reminiscing and planning and appreciating those who are alive and who are not evil.

There are some health concerns, though, that we individuals cannot manage on our own. For those, we need to consult what are commonly known as “professionals.”  I use the term extremely delicately. Unfortunately there are quite a few bunco artists polluting many of our nation’s doctors’ offices. For example, I cannot respect a man who suggests expectorating phlegm as a remedy, despite any number of certificates decorating the walls of his surgery. So take care, readers: I caution all of you to be sure of to whom you are trusting yourself with.

But don’t go crazy. We do need those who are truly experts. Please understand that I am not encouraging anyone to perform their own dental work. I have seen this done and it’s horrifying. I know some suffer from odontophobia, but it is quite important to get one’s dental groove on at least once every six months.

However, while I never hesitate to welcome a qualified man into my mouth (providing that he’s gloved up, of course), I do confess to feeling just a tiny bit anxious about visiting the eye doctor. Now before you start making assumptions about age-related macular degeneration, I can testify that my nerves have nothing to do with refusing to accept that I am getting older. I am getting older, but you know what, so are you so shut up anyway. I do sometimes wear spectacles and if I were ever to be asked to wear bifocals, I’d take it like a man. I don’t like going to get my eyes examined simply because of the close proximity of the doctor to my person. I am usually suspect when I feel a stranger’s breath on my face (excluding that wonderful evening in Paris) so I don’t know why it should be any different just because he’s wearing a white tabard. I always seem to get the one whose wife leaves him dissatisfied, and the room ends up being so thick with sexual tension that I’ve no doubt my ocular accuracy is compromised. This is why I never go to the same optometrist twice—there’s something about sharing such intimacy, and being expected to pay for it, and then hearing nothing from him again until I receive a brief postcard a year later, saying it’d be lovely to see me.

I bring this up only because said epistle arrived last week. I had Christopher ring up our village’s newest specialist (after instructing him to spend a few hours researching the man’s background—and I was quite impressed by his Facebook photo). I have also faxed over my curriculum vitae, a photo, and a few notable newspaper clippings. At least this way, he and I will have some sort of relationship before he gets all up in my face next month. And this one is single as well.

We all must take advantage of both our internal and external resources to keep our bodies well.  Those who don’t often get quite poorly, some die and others, well, they do okay so perhaps it doesn’t matter. Actually, whatever. It’s your life if you’re happy pissing it away.

Now I’m not an expert on the economy, but the thing is George, neither are you. You are an expert at being rich. This qualifies you for being the president of a yacht club. Yet through the most wicked twists of fate, you have become the Chancellor of the Exchequer and get to make life and death decisions (for that is what they are) that will affect millions of people.

Let’s just stop and think about that for a minute.

. . .

Now, George, I’ve noticed that you’re reading on, implying that you did in fact stop to think. But I don’t believe that you did. In fact, I don’t believe that you ever think about the people your ideas are affecting.

I do believe that you think a lot about David Cameron (maybe too much, but who am I to judge anyone’s heart)? I do believe you think about the people you see in meetings: Tory politicians (they make you feel good), Liberal Democrat politicians (they make you feel kind of cross), Labour politicians (when someone reminds you that the Labour party still exists). You think about the Royal Family. I’d like to believe you think about your own family.

And I know you know there are “people” out there in the world. For example, when you appear on television, you can sense a human-shaped creature standing before you asking questions. You know enough about science to assume that it’s probably people—and not budgies or racks of lamb or desk lamps—who are driving cars on the street, who are doing surgeries or having surgeries done to them, who are teaching or being taught.

Understand that I’m not questioning your knowledge of reality, just your perception of it.  You work for the country yet I’m not convinced you care about the country. You care about those who are like you. And that’s a bit of a problem.

So how can you, yes you, help the economy? Two things: shut up and stop being a greedy bastard.

The same goes for all of that lot and not even just the ones in Westminster. I’m talking to any rich twat who pontificates about helping countries and people who are struggling. Don’t hold a glittery benefit with fancy pants food and cutlery or star-studded galas where you go on television asking people who are poorer than you to not be so selfish. Don’t fuck with a country’s social services just because you were once in the Bullingdon Club or because the president is black and you think you can capitalize on the country’s inherent racism.

Just because one is rich doesn’t mean one has to be a twat. I am what we sweetly used to refer to as “well off,” but I don’t spend my time pontificating about how other people should live or spend their money (note: making helpful suggestions is not the same as pontificating). But I do lead by example: I give time, effort and yes, money to help those who need it.

Why don’t you give that a try?

Since what we believe has power, it’s important to think critically about what we think about whatever we’re thinking about. Too frequently we just follow along with the ideas our friends and family, the media or taxi drivers pass on to us.  Often we just buy into what are called “commonly held” beliefs without ever questioning them, and that’ll end up leading to nothing but trouble: from small hassles within our own households to devastating world wars and natural catastrophes. It takes time and energy to think critically, of course, but as usual, I’m here to help. Let’s debunk a few assumptions that most people seem to just take for granted as truth and examine their possible consequences.

An apple a day keeps the doctor away

There’s no need to worry about doctors showing up at your house unnecessarily: most doctors don’t make house calls, so if you really don’t want to see one, just don’t go into the surgery. Of course apples are tasty and good to eat, but we need to stop perpetuating the fear of doctors stalking our homes because it scares little children who sometimes have to walk past hospitals on their way to school.

Breaking a mirror means seven years of bad luck

A mirror is simply a fancy pants piece of glass that reflects whatever you put in front of it. Breaking a mirror has no more negative affect that breaking a champagne flute: if you step on a piece, you could cut your foot but other than that, it’s no biggie. If you’re really worried about seven years bad luck, instead avoid getting married.

Waking a sleepwalker could be dangerous

First off, sleepwalking doesn’t exist: the person is pretending. Why do you think you always find your husband sleepwalking his way to the whorehouse? The next time you encounter a sleepwalker, throw a lit match at them and you’ll see how quickly “waking” one can actually prevent a dangerous situation.

Dropping a penny from the Empire State Building can kill a person

This belief encourages people to throw away their money and perhaps without it, the economy would be in better shape. If you want to kill a person on the sidewalk below, the best bet is to drop a bullet out of gun while aiming it at their head.

Goldfish have a two second memory span

Why do you even care? What are you doing to your goldfish that is making you obsess over how well they remember things? The truth is goldfish have wonderful memories—I personally have met goldfish who can remember the Korean War in great detail so just watch yourself.

Eating a dictionary can improve your vocabulary

The ink used in dictionaries can stain one’s teeth and cannot be properly processed by a human’s digestive system. To improve your vocabulary, read more books and do more crosswords.

Unfortunately, I can’t be there with you all the time and if I have ever promised to be, I’m guessing I was probably drunk at the time. Please use these examples as models to question all of your beliefs. Hold tight to the solid, helpful ones and dump the others. Many local communities have salvage centres where you can drop off dumb ideas that can be recycled into jewelry and household goods which can then be purchased on Etsy.

His mother thought this photograph was a brilliant idea.

And it’s that love which we celebrate today.

When we bumped into each other at last spring’s Village Jumble Sale, we didn’t really get a chance to talk so I do hope you don’t think I’m speaking out of turn here. However, as a fellow attractive and talented international mover-and-shaker, I feel I might be able to share some advice.

From what I understand through my preliminary research, you are a young country and western and/or pop singer. I myself don’t particularly care for that type of music—I tend to like songs that are pleasant to the ear—but that’s neither here nor there.  I’m writing about the fact that, in recent times, you seem to be more in the news over the boys you are chasing, dating or hating.

Now I’ve been your age and I know the excitement of ‘putting it about a bit.’  If you want to fool around with a different man everyday, there’s nowt wrong with that as long as you make sure to wash and hydrate in between encounters. But I think what’s raising the red flag for a number of people, including myself, is that perhaps you’re not just looking for a means of sexual release in between gigs, but are actually hoping to find true love. Is this what you’re doing, Taylor? If so, I am begging you to cease and desist.

There’s a number of reasons why ‘serial dating’ is problematic. First of all, no one can find true love; if it’s going to happen, it will find you which it won’t because it doesn’t exist. So any attempt to actually seek it out is essentially an act of desperation, and desperation rarely looks good on anyone, especially those who are as thin and pale-skinned as your good self.

Secondly, I understand that many of your romances end up as references in your music. I suggest you don’t do this. Now if you are a frequent reader of Everyone Needs An Algonquin and I’ve no reason to assume you’re not, you’ll know that I have, on occasion, mentioned previous beaux in both positive and negative lights. However, there are a few differences to my style of kiss-and-tell: my motivations are purely to help others learn from my experiences, I offer plenty of entertainment through other means, and I generally wait years to discuss these matters to ensure that both my feelings and theirs have cooled and/or the men are dead.

Writing about a boy you are in love with is daft because when the relationship inevitably blows up in your pretty, little face, you won’t ever want to hear those reminders again. Yet as a professional recording artist, you’ll be forced to sing about how you knew this man was your one and only despite the fact that two days before you declared that your new man was actually your one and only and this time you really mean it. Songs like that only lead to your artistic integrity being questioned, and god knows that the twelve-year-old girls who make up your fan base hold artistic integrity in the highest of regards.

Writing about a boy you are no longer in love with is also not recommended, primarily because it closes all doors. Even if a guy’s been a shitty partner, you never know when you might get a craving for that special little thing he does with his tongue and you may be tempted to make a little booty call. No shame in that, unless of course you’ve already publicly claimed that you’re never, ever, getting back together. In that case,  it won’t just be chafed thighs making that walk of shame uncomfortable.

The truth is, though, you can turn this around, and it’s easier than you might think. You need to stop dating. Simple as. Make 2013 the year of Taylor Swift’s music or her charitable acts or her CoverGirl/Keds/Diet Coke ad campaigns. Give them something else to talk about besides at whom you are making puppy dog eyes.

You don’t need a man to complete you, Taylor. No woman does.  I know that our world doesn’t often teach that lesson, but please believe me. You make music that those with less refined tastes than my own genuinely seem to enjoy, and that’s got be some kind of gift. Cherish that and cherish yourself. I don’t, of course, but I don’t need to because I’ve got plenty of my own wonderfulness to keep me busy in the cherishing department. Stop looking for that perfect love from that perfect boy. You don’t need a man to tell you you’re wonderful, Taylor, and even if he does, it won’t matter until you believe it yourself. Trust me, you’re the best young American songstress I’ve ever pushed over when she tried to grab a used tea set I was interested in buying. I know that, but what really matters is that you know it.

Not only am I a driver, I am an exceptional driver. I received my first driving permit at the tender age of sixteen, as part of the traditional American rite of passage: the blow of the loss of one’s virginity is softened somewhat by a license to drive. My first car was in fact not a car at all, but a pick-up truck my grandfather gave me. Unfortunately, my grandfather was an early pioneer in alternative fuels and the truck was powered by a mixture of sawdust and corn whiskey, which, at the time, was rather difficult to find at Trenton gas stations. My grandfather was the one who taught me to drive and he instilled in me a strong belief in three concepts of good driving: always wear a safety belt, keep your eyes on the wheel and maintain a reasonable distance behind the car in front (particularly if it’s covered in bumper stickers). Because of his excellent advice, I am proud to say that I have rarely been involved in any vehicular manslaughter cases.

Sadly, it appears that many drivers today were not taught by such clever and inventive instructors.  What’s made it worse is the fact that there are now more and more distractions in cars; the modern driver not only has AM and FM radio to listen to but also mobile phones, crying children and the woman on the sat-nav giving him directions to the nearest off-licence. Our lives are full of hustle and bustle, but this hustle and bustle must stop when one’s pistons are, if you’ll pardon my French, pumping. It takes a responsible driver to say, “No, I cannot focus only on the road when I have the introduction to my autobiography to proofread as well as these photographs to sign to get out for the afternoon post.” Therefore these days, I prefer to be a passenger. Having Christopher drive me allows me to use my time wisely without putting myself or any other road users in jeopardy.

For those who find themselves unable to “turn off the world” even when behind the wheel, please realise the risks you are taking. I appreciate that not everyone has the luxury of having a young, attractive man to motor her around—-for those who don’t, I’m afraid public transport may be your only recourse. It may not be pretty, but at least you can focus on your work, secure in the knowledge that someone else has nothing but your safety in mind.

Despite what Jeremy Clarkson says, dangerous driving does not make one “big” or “clever.” When you next get in the car, if you can’t be sure that you can ignore your phone ringing or your pager going off or your children setting each other’s hair on fire, I suggest that you make alternative arrangements. The life you save may be your own or, more importantly, Cheryl Cole’s. And even if you are prepared to take that chance, waiting for your lifeless corpse to be retrieved from the middle of the northbound lane of the M25 is certain to slow down traffic so try to think of others for once in your life, will you?