When I was 3 years old, I was taken to the cinema for the first time. The film was "Star Wars", and the cinema was Walthamstow. It signalled the start a love affair with cinema, (but particularly Walthamstow cinema, which I always regarded as "mine") and film (although my adulation of Star Wars ended when "The Phantom Menace" was released.)
We were counted in by the cinema manager, a man who we nicknamed "Hitler" on account of his stature of 4 foot 5 inches and who inexplicably checked how many of us could come in by smacking us soundly on our heads.
We bought our tickets; beautiful, snug rectangles of card, generally grey if memory serves, which we carried as if they were golden tickets for entry to Willy Wonka's chocolate factory. We were ushered past the sweet concession stall, on account of the sandwiches we had smuggled in, wrapped in tinfoil (mine were haslet and concealed in my pocket) and a carton of juice each. We walked up the grand staircase, impossibly high to my three year old legs; marveled at the chandelier and walked, dumbstruck, to the viewing room.
We (my mother, sister, brother and I) took our seats (after careful checking by Mum that we had all gone to the toilet). I remember looking around the theatre and being in utter and complete awe of its magnificence. Mum told me that it used to be a music hall theatre. When I was older, my Nan told me Alfred Hitchcock used to go there. My Grandad had seen The Kinks there.
I stared around me, unable to believe just how wonderful the building was.
It started with an advert for Pearl and Dean, the tune of which transports me back to being the over excited 3 year old I was when I first saw it. The "upcoming features" were wonderful, and I remain one of the few people who refuses to forward through previews on DVDs.
The noise, the lights; the beauty of the theatre. Utter. complete, divine. Happiness; sheer happiness.
The sticky floors; the people sureptitiously having a fag in the back row (these being the days when the back row meant something).
I went to Walthamstow cinema fairly regularly afterwards. We lived in Chingford, and it was our local cinema. I even continued to go there when we moved to Loughton, and was an occasional visitor when we moved further afield.
When the cinema was taken over by EMD with the stipulation that only non English language films be played, I still visited.
This all stopped in 2003 when the UKCG church bought the building, closed it, and did nothing with it. From the point of purchase in 2003 until the current day, they have boarded it up and left it to slowly rot. The church's application to change the cinema into a church has been consistently rejected by the council, and despite many offers from interested parties, including cinema operators, UKCG will not sell the property on.
There's been a constant campaign, from the McGuffin Film Society, and Save Walthamstow Cinema amongst others. Tomorrow, Waltham Forest Council make a final decision as to its eventual fate. It has been UKCG's plan to convert the cinema into a church has been recommended against, but there will still be a debate and a vote as to what will happen.
Now look; you may have never even heard of Walthamstow, didn't know of its existence before reading this and had no idea it had a cinema let alone one that was closed.
But do you remember, when you were wee, going to your first film? The excitement and the noise; the sticky floors; the lure of the popcorn; the feeling of being miniscule in relation to the venue you were in? The epic films; the insanity of the impossibly huge screen that you were watching it on; the black circles that popped up to tell the projectionist to change the reel of film.
For that reason alone, Walthamstow EMD (nee Odeon, Granada et al) is worth saving.
If you are a local, there is still time to get your opinions heard by the planning committee, via your ward councillor. You can turn up to the protest being organised for 18th May.
Please help save "my" cinema.
17 May 2011
Fat
A phonecall from the school. The Boy was in the head teacher's office, having punched one of his colleagues in the face. Can I come in to discuss what has happened?
Of course, says I, hoping this isn't the start of another reaction to a change at school that I have, yet again, not been advised of and will thus spend several weeks of being used as his human punch bag until I can get to the bottom of what the issue is.
To school I toddle, and am shown straight through to the head teacher. The Boy is sat outside, swinging his legs and with his head bowed, picking at an invisible to my eye speck on his trousers. He won't look at me, he won't look up at me. He does not respond when I say his name. He is clearly struggling to contain himself.
It transpires that he has punched some of his fellow inmates during a lunch time scuffle, and continued to shout at said compadres and attempting to kick at then as he was pulled off. I ask if it has been establised what led to this incident; I am told "nothing". I am told that he "jumped on and started to attack and pummel" these children with no possible provocation.
I take several deep breaths and launch, once again, in a detailed speech about how autism doesn't work like that; how everything is a result of stimuli, how sometimes his reactions are delayed to earlier wrongs, and how morality has no place in examining what has occured. I ask if they have a STAR form filled in for him in relation to the incident, already knowing the answer is no.
I think, surely at this point, they've heard this from me so many times, in so many variations, that they muct be expecting it. You'd think that they would at least investigate what I say to them; what I "claim" to the case, merely to save me saying this to them every time I am called in for one of his minor disability related misdemeanors. Sometimes, the constant explanations that I need to give, what seems like total logic to me, appears to pass them by completely and I start to hear my voice wander off elsewhere, trying to find where the teacher's comprehension facilities are and why their brains can't process such easy, evident information.
I ask that The Boy be called in. He shuffles in, eyes down. He is picking at a nail, the side of his thumb is gently bleeding from the pressure he is applying to ease his stress. He looks at me; a mixture of defiance, annoyance and a face that just screams out "this isn't fair."
It is a face I know well on The Boy, and one that does not need to be questioned. Ever. He has acted in a way he believes tobe absolutely right, and now we will need to find out what the reasons were that he did.
He sits down. The head teacher starts to speak. The Boy looks directly at me. He speaks quietly, and over the head's voice.
"They called Lid fat Mum, and they made her cry. They wouldn't stop. I told them to leave her alone, and I asked the grown ups, but they didn't. And Lid was crying and she was really sad. So I stopped them."
The head teacher starts to say that, even if this is the case, it is not right of him to react like this, and tells The Boy that I agree with her. She waits for me to confirm that she is right on this supposition.
I ignore her. I hug him and thank him for being a good big brother. I tell him that I wish that I had a brother like him, and I really, genuinely do. My heart swells with pride. I want to rush up to these bullies and shout "ha!" in their faces. I want to put The Boy up on my shoulders, carry him through town shouting "this is my son! I made him in my tummy you know!" But most of all, I want to see my daughter and make sure she is ok.
As it is nearing the end of the school day, she is brought to me, still slightly sniffy, still very upset. She starts to cry when she tells me that these stupid, ignorant idiots have called her fat. I know that she is delicate in a way that people miss, and I know this because she is me.
We cuddle and chat. I tell her that of course she isn't fat. She is strong and tall and extremely cool. I tell her that she is the most beautiful girl in the world. "And the prettiest" pipes up her brother. I tell her that she is more than just beautiful, she is kind and gentle and funny and clever; that these are the things that are important; these are the qualities that the bullies in the playground do not possess; the same ones that she and her brother have in gargantuan quantities.
The head attempts to intervene about a suitable "punishment" for The Boy. I ask how will the children be punished for their verbal abuse of my daughter? I am told it will be "investigated". I already know that this means nothing will be done.
Her voice persists, saying that The Boy will have to miss break times for a week, and may need to be internally excluded.
I sigh heavily. At times like these I struggle to keep my tendency to swear when those around me are being idiotic under control, although my control assisted inordinately by having children in the room. I look at her. I tell her, very slowly, in my best cross voice, that maybe she should be examining how the lunchtime assistants are supervising their charges. A little less time for them to gossip, a little more time for them to attend to the chidlren around them.
I tell her that I can't help but be proud of The Boy, because although hitting isn't right, defending someone younger and smaller than you always is, especially when it's your sister. I tell her that I won't condemn him for being the sort of brother that all girls, but especially Lid, deserve, and that I can only heap praise and thanks on him for stepping in where I could not and her staff would not.
We leave at this point. Nothing will be achieved by continuing the conversation. I hold on to The Boy and Lid's hands, and we skip outside in to the sunshine.
"You'd think Head Teacher would understand more" says The Boy "because she really is fat."
"Yes" says Lid "and she has goopy droopy boobies."
*Sigh* I can see a lecture about not calling people namesa coming on...
Of course, says I, hoping this isn't the start of another reaction to a change at school that I have, yet again, not been advised of and will thus spend several weeks of being used as his human punch bag until I can get to the bottom of what the issue is.
To school I toddle, and am shown straight through to the head teacher. The Boy is sat outside, swinging his legs and with his head bowed, picking at an invisible to my eye speck on his trousers. He won't look at me, he won't look up at me. He does not respond when I say his name. He is clearly struggling to contain himself.
It transpires that he has punched some of his fellow inmates during a lunch time scuffle, and continued to shout at said compadres and attempting to kick at then as he was pulled off. I ask if it has been establised what led to this incident; I am told "nothing". I am told that he "jumped on and started to attack and pummel" these children with no possible provocation.
I take several deep breaths and launch, once again, in a detailed speech about how autism doesn't work like that; how everything is a result of stimuli, how sometimes his reactions are delayed to earlier wrongs, and how morality has no place in examining what has occured. I ask if they have a STAR form filled in for him in relation to the incident, already knowing the answer is no.
I think, surely at this point, they've heard this from me so many times, in so many variations, that they muct be expecting it. You'd think that they would at least investigate what I say to them; what I "claim" to the case, merely to save me saying this to them every time I am called in for one of his minor disability related misdemeanors. Sometimes, the constant explanations that I need to give, what seems like total logic to me, appears to pass them by completely and I start to hear my voice wander off elsewhere, trying to find where the teacher's comprehension facilities are and why their brains can't process such easy, evident information.
I ask that The Boy be called in. He shuffles in, eyes down. He is picking at a nail, the side of his thumb is gently bleeding from the pressure he is applying to ease his stress. He looks at me; a mixture of defiance, annoyance and a face that just screams out "this isn't fair."
It is a face I know well on The Boy, and one that does not need to be questioned. Ever. He has acted in a way he believes tobe absolutely right, and now we will need to find out what the reasons were that he did.
He sits down. The head teacher starts to speak. The Boy looks directly at me. He speaks quietly, and over the head's voice.
"They called Lid fat Mum, and they made her cry. They wouldn't stop. I told them to leave her alone, and I asked the grown ups, but they didn't. And Lid was crying and she was really sad. So I stopped them."
The head teacher starts to say that, even if this is the case, it is not right of him to react like this, and tells The Boy that I agree with her. She waits for me to confirm that she is right on this supposition.
I ignore her. I hug him and thank him for being a good big brother. I tell him that I wish that I had a brother like him, and I really, genuinely do. My heart swells with pride. I want to rush up to these bullies and shout "ha!" in their faces. I want to put The Boy up on my shoulders, carry him through town shouting "this is my son! I made him in my tummy you know!" But most of all, I want to see my daughter and make sure she is ok.
As it is nearing the end of the school day, she is brought to me, still slightly sniffy, still very upset. She starts to cry when she tells me that these stupid, ignorant idiots have called her fat. I know that she is delicate in a way that people miss, and I know this because she is me.
We cuddle and chat. I tell her that of course she isn't fat. She is strong and tall and extremely cool. I tell her that she is the most beautiful girl in the world. "And the prettiest" pipes up her brother. I tell her that she is more than just beautiful, she is kind and gentle and funny and clever; that these are the things that are important; these are the qualities that the bullies in the playground do not possess; the same ones that she and her brother have in gargantuan quantities.
The head attempts to intervene about a suitable "punishment" for The Boy. I ask how will the children be punished for their verbal abuse of my daughter? I am told it will be "investigated". I already know that this means nothing will be done.
Her voice persists, saying that The Boy will have to miss break times for a week, and may need to be internally excluded.
I sigh heavily. At times like these I struggle to keep my tendency to swear when those around me are being idiotic under control, although my control assisted inordinately by having children in the room. I look at her. I tell her, very slowly, in my best cross voice, that maybe she should be examining how the lunchtime assistants are supervising their charges. A little less time for them to gossip, a little more time for them to attend to the chidlren around them.
I tell her that I can't help but be proud of The Boy, because although hitting isn't right, defending someone younger and smaller than you always is, especially when it's your sister. I tell her that I won't condemn him for being the sort of brother that all girls, but especially Lid, deserve, and that I can only heap praise and thanks on him for stepping in where I could not and her staff would not.
We leave at this point. Nothing will be achieved by continuing the conversation. I hold on to The Boy and Lid's hands, and we skip outside in to the sunshine.
"You'd think Head Teacher would understand more" says The Boy "because she really is fat."
"Yes" says Lid "and she has goopy droopy boobies."
*Sigh* I can see a lecture about not calling people namesa coming on...
8 May 2011
How It Is
In some ways, depression is the groovy old family cat of your best friend. It holds no prejudice of class, gender or education. It isn't concerned with how much you earn, how much you weigh or how many things in your life are "good". If it chooses to be your companion, it will be, regardless of whether or not you try to scare it away.
Much like that family cat of your best friend, depression is a weird and stinky old sod.
I find, once again, it is moulting on my trousers and dribbling on my shoulder. It makes me angry. It makes me feel powerless. It makes me really, really bloody cross because I do not have time to be depressed. I have far too much to do. Damn it, I don't have the hours to sit being maudlin and annoyed by how indescribably rubbish my attempts at being a human are.
I have no idea why I have depression. I feel like an inveterate fraud for having it. I live a relatively easy life, and although it hasn't been without its less easy periods I am still alive.
I hate the feeling of not being able to cope, but not knowing what it is I can't cope with. I hate the wanting to cry but not being able to. I hate the way that my brain throws open my carefully prepared, anotated with mental post it note boxes of shit and throws it on the floor so I have to scrabble through it like a fly searching for shit to understand what the problem is this time.
I resent having feelings. I resent feeling despair. I resent that my brain has wibbles that I cannot control and am sometimes unable to stop. I despise myself for being this pathetic. I despise myself for admitting this. I feel weak and like a victim for it. Sometimes painting the house or double digging the garden just isn't going to cut it for me, because I don't know what I am sad about.
But this; this is how it is. This is how I am. And for all the annoying nuances that I have as a result; for all my unending stupidity and casually moronic actions; for all my staring out of the window procrastinating and hating myself; for all the self harm I've inflicted and continue to perpetrate against my body through my idiotic relationship with food; for the ridiculous level of sensitivity that I deny I have and attempt to hide behind my rhinocerous skin; for all the abuse I put myself through because, really, I am the person that hates me the most, I wouldn't change it. I couldn't change it, because having depression, being like this, means I can understand how and why others do the same thing.
And that; that is how it is.
Much like that family cat of your best friend, depression is a weird and stinky old sod.
I find, once again, it is moulting on my trousers and dribbling on my shoulder. It makes me angry. It makes me feel powerless. It makes me really, really bloody cross because I do not have time to be depressed. I have far too much to do. Damn it, I don't have the hours to sit being maudlin and annoyed by how indescribably rubbish my attempts at being a human are.
I have no idea why I have depression. I feel like an inveterate fraud for having it. I live a relatively easy life, and although it hasn't been without its less easy periods I am still alive.
I hate the feeling of not being able to cope, but not knowing what it is I can't cope with. I hate the wanting to cry but not being able to. I hate the way that my brain throws open my carefully prepared, anotated with mental post it note boxes of shit and throws it on the floor so I have to scrabble through it like a fly searching for shit to understand what the problem is this time.
I resent having feelings. I resent feeling despair. I resent that my brain has wibbles that I cannot control and am sometimes unable to stop. I despise myself for being this pathetic. I despise myself for admitting this. I feel weak and like a victim for it. Sometimes painting the house or double digging the garden just isn't going to cut it for me, because I don't know what I am sad about.
But this; this is how it is. This is how I am. And for all the annoying nuances that I have as a result; for all my unending stupidity and casually moronic actions; for all my staring out of the window procrastinating and hating myself; for all the self harm I've inflicted and continue to perpetrate against my body through my idiotic relationship with food; for the ridiculous level of sensitivity that I deny I have and attempt to hide behind my rhinocerous skin; for all the abuse I put myself through because, really, I am the person that hates me the most, I wouldn't change it. I couldn't change it, because having depression, being like this, means I can understand how and why others do the same thing.
And that; that is how it is.
4 May 2011
On Abstinence Not Making The Heart Grow Fonder
There's always one, isn't there? One idiotic, twat faced shithead who thinks that we should all live by their bullshit fucked up morality, whilst not even being able to attain said morality in their own sad, dire little lives.
The ones who pass judgement on others sexual behaviour whilst entirely ignoring the ethical background of their own. They're always the loud ones; the gobby ones; the "oooo, look at me" ones. Claiming to be "standing up for women" whilst stabbing the entire gender in the back. They're usually demented Tory MPs for Mid Bedfordshire, claiming to be feminist whilst amply displaying their misogynistic qualities.
As if not satisified with spreading vile, bile fuelled misinformation about abortions and attempting to get it made into law, the target is spreading from any woman of sexual maturity to those below the legal age of consent.
"Abstinence only" is to be added to the sexual education of school children, but only for girls. This is crass stupidity for many reasons, but I'll let you into a secret here. Women like sex. Yeah. I said it. We like it and we want to do it just as much as men (if not more). Not only that your sister, mother, daughter, auntie, neice; they all feel the same.
Are you seriously telling me that you woud rather your daughter didn't know the options available to her and be unprepared to potentially be faced with unwanted pregnancy, venereal disease and that old favourite, death? Of course not, you're not stupid.
I'm not denying that I would rather my daughter never had any sexual contact with any one, but she's going to whether I approve or not dammit. I'd rather she knew her options.
If you want to teach something to girls only, how about we teach them how to knee a bloke's dick clean off his groin if he starts waving it around to us in any fashion we find threatening, invasive or inappropriate? Because that's something I could actually get behind and support.
What say we teach girls that they don't need to weigh two and a half stone, be the conformist societal "norm", be absent of opinion and that, most importantly, regardless of what they do, who they are that to us, they are perfection? No morality, just support and love where it counts.
The 67 MPs who voted in favour today; make me feel sad inside, and scared for the world my daughter will grow up into. Let's not make this another thing that we let them do.
The ones who pass judgement on others sexual behaviour whilst entirely ignoring the ethical background of their own. They're always the loud ones; the gobby ones; the "oooo, look at me" ones. Claiming to be "standing up for women" whilst stabbing the entire gender in the back. They're usually demented Tory MPs for Mid Bedfordshire, claiming to be feminist whilst amply displaying their misogynistic qualities.
As if not satisified with spreading vile, bile fuelled misinformation about abortions and attempting to get it made into law, the target is spreading from any woman of sexual maturity to those below the legal age of consent.
"Abstinence only" is to be added to the sexual education of school children, but only for girls. This is crass stupidity for many reasons, but I'll let you into a secret here. Women like sex. Yeah. I said it. We like it and we want to do it just as much as men (if not more). Not only that your sister, mother, daughter, auntie, neice; they all feel the same.
Are you seriously telling me that you woud rather your daughter didn't know the options available to her and be unprepared to potentially be faced with unwanted pregnancy, venereal disease and that old favourite, death? Of course not, you're not stupid.
I'm not denying that I would rather my daughter never had any sexual contact with any one, but she's going to whether I approve or not dammit. I'd rather she knew her options.
If you want to teach something to girls only, how about we teach them how to knee a bloke's dick clean off his groin if he starts waving it around to us in any fashion we find threatening, invasive or inappropriate? Because that's something I could actually get behind and support.
What say we teach girls that they don't need to weigh two and a half stone, be the conformist societal "norm", be absent of opinion and that, most importantly, regardless of what they do, who they are that to us, they are perfection? No morality, just support and love where it counts.
The 67 MPs who voted in favour today; make me feel sad inside, and scared for the world my daughter will grow up into. Let's not make this another thing that we let them do.
27 April 2011
Sausages
I really, really like sausages. In fact, they are my favourite tea (especially with mash and gravy). However, I can never get the sausages right.
Everything seems to be going ok, and then I get distracted. The sausages burn.
Every time I go to cook sausages, I always think "I'll get it right this time!" I never do. I always burn the sausages.
And once, just once, it would be nice if I didn't burn them.
Sometimes, I think that I expect too much from the sausages. That I expect that they will be ruined the moment that they go in the oven, so what is the point in even trying to cook them. I go in with the expectation that I will burn them.
I want to trust the sausages. I want to believe that they won't burn, and sometimes I feel like the sausages need me to believe that it is possible that they won't burn.
I want to trust the sausages. I want to believe that it is possible for the sausages not to burn, because I don't bloody want them to burn. I want them to be ok.
And I know, I know; I need to trust the sausages sometime, or I'll always be turning them and they'll never be cooked evenly. Sometimes, in my need to make the sausages right, I give them too much attention and they don't cook properly. When I look away, because I think they are doing ok, they burn.
Perhaps the perfect cooked sausage does not exist, but maybe, with enough onion gravy and proper mash you can make a really decent dinner with slightly burnt sausages. I suppose that, when the sausages get a bit burnt, I just think it's not worth bothering anymore and that it should all go in the bin as the whole thing is ruined.
I suppose I need to remember that a slightly burnt sausage can be rescued, but also that I need not to throw the sausages away for fear that they may burn.
As with sausages, with men...
Everything seems to be going ok, and then I get distracted. The sausages burn.
Every time I go to cook sausages, I always think "I'll get it right this time!" I never do. I always burn the sausages.
And once, just once, it would be nice if I didn't burn them.
Sometimes, I think that I expect too much from the sausages. That I expect that they will be ruined the moment that they go in the oven, so what is the point in even trying to cook them. I go in with the expectation that I will burn them.
I want to trust the sausages. I want to believe that they won't burn, and sometimes I feel like the sausages need me to believe that it is possible that they won't burn.
I want to trust the sausages. I want to believe that it is possible for the sausages not to burn, because I don't bloody want them to burn. I want them to be ok.
And I know, I know; I need to trust the sausages sometime, or I'll always be turning them and they'll never be cooked evenly. Sometimes, in my need to make the sausages right, I give them too much attention and they don't cook properly. When I look away, because I think they are doing ok, they burn.
Perhaps the perfect cooked sausage does not exist, but maybe, with enough onion gravy and proper mash you can make a really decent dinner with slightly burnt sausages. I suppose that, when the sausages get a bit burnt, I just think it's not worth bothering anymore and that it should all go in the bin as the whole thing is ruined.
I suppose I need to remember that a slightly burnt sausage can be rescued, but also that I need not to throw the sausages away for fear that they may burn.
As with sausages, with men...
I Resign
Dear Men & Women Throughout The World Of Legal Sexual Age,
Just a brief note to advise you that I officially resign from any type of sexual relationship.
After all, I have a cat now.
Faithfully,
Mad Old Cat Lady That Lives Down The Street.
Just a brief note to advise you that I officially resign from any type of sexual relationship.
After all, I have a cat now.
Faithfully,
Mad Old Cat Lady That Lives Down The Street.
29 March 2011
Poetry
I thought I would a poem about how I am feeling.
First, I studied poetry to ensure that
There would be no confusion
As to whom I was alluding
When I entered turgid allegories
Of fetid, dreary categories
Designed to psycho analyse
Everything.
I worried over use of meter,
Iambic pentameter? Ballad? Heroic couplet?
What length the stanza, and is it even called that?
A verse, a paragraph, the venting of words
Or just an outpouring of verbal turds
On to paper
Who knows.
I examined the structure
Stared hard at the verse
I tried really hard but the words just got worse
There are so many rules to which you have to adhere
So if it's not right will anyone "hear"?
What you're trying to say
Who can tell.
It was time to begin
When I started to write
My thoughts just took flight
And I couldn't think of anything to rhyme
With "you're as much use to me as an armadilo is as a flak jacket"
I had to adjective-fy my nouns and verbify my shiz
So
I thought I would a poem about how I am feeling.
And this is it.
A lassie who wasn't from Hayes
Liked to eat egg mayonnaise
She had a shit time
But in the end she was fine
Once she'd sat for a bit in a daze.
Fin.
First, I studied poetry to ensure that
There would be no confusion
As to whom I was alluding
When I entered turgid allegories
Of fetid, dreary categories
Designed to psycho analyse
Everything.
I worried over use of meter,
Iambic pentameter? Ballad? Heroic couplet?
What length the stanza, and is it even called that?
A verse, a paragraph, the venting of words
Or just an outpouring of verbal turds
On to paper
Who knows.
I examined the structure
Stared hard at the verse
I tried really hard but the words just got worse
There are so many rules to which you have to adhere
So if it's not right will anyone "hear"?
What you're trying to say
Who can tell.
It was time to begin
When I started to write
My thoughts just took flight
And I couldn't think of anything to rhyme
With "you're as much use to me as an armadilo is as a flak jacket"
I had to adjective-fy my nouns and verbify my shiz
So
I thought I would a poem about how I am feeling.
And this is it.
A lassie who wasn't from Hayes
Liked to eat egg mayonnaise
She had a shit time
But in the end she was fine
Once she'd sat for a bit in a daze.
Fin.
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