Crime and Punishment in the capital

So, I become a crime stat for the second time in my many years in the capital. My weekend goes swimmingly until precisely 10.30pm last night when I realise I have a 'Police note' dropped inside my car. Uh-oh. My heart sinks. Further inspection reveals a nice 2-inch gap prised between passenger door and body of car. 'Attempted break in'. Arghhhhh.....not again...

Policemen two come round to visit me this a.m. Am visibly routine and nonchalent, expectant now of this type of petty crime. Invite officers over the threshold to perform the mandatory 'statement taking' (it takes two of them these days); but shocked that police standards have slipped so much these days that they actually dare to SIT DOWN WITHOUT being asked! - I mean, did you EVER? Shocking!

Boringly feel like am having deja-vu after we discuss the circumstances of the 'crime'. Neds. Ne'erdowells. 'Just kids'. But am somewhat surprised when Officer 1 summarises in a bored tone: "Well, you know what you've got to do - MOVE OUT!" Yes, the thought had crossed my mind, too. No point in making the streets safer, striving hard to make our communities feel like safe places, being tough on tracking down crime, or whatever else the police used to do before they visited and beseated themselves in other people's flats of a morning while it's raining outside, etc, etc, etc. No - that's the official police advice now: if you don't like the crime - JUST MOVE OUT! So simple. Yep. You heard it here first.

After not sleeping much last night, naturally, whilst decrying petty crime and pre-pubescent criminals (what were they: high on Irn-Bru?), feel lightheaded and sleepy come dinner prep time. So much so that I try to open a tin of tomatoes with a nutcracker. Great. Crime drives the innocent insane!

The CCF (Carer-cum-Fiance), seeing my malady, jumps to his feet and sneakily puts the kettle on. "What are you doing?" I suspect of him.
"Nothing."
He brings over a bowl of what looks like steaming boiled water in a bowl.
"There - it's a hot flannel to put over your face - you look like you need it," he says with care.
"That's a floor cloth." I point out. "I'm not putting a floor cloth on my face."

Comfort food of lasagne washed down with a litre of cooking wine seems like the only option at this late stage.

Google

Google
[conceived whilst lying in bed one night, trying - in vain - to sleep.]

– with apologies to John Betjeman

Whatever will rhyme with Google?
There’s only the Scottish name ‘Dougal’;
Why! in Scots I shall try
With my words to get by,
If I give them a shake and a shougle.

I’d love to say more about Google,
But your rhymes are annoyingly frugal;
Whilst searching for ages
Through nine billion pages
The best you could offer was 'bugle'.

What else can I couple with Google?
If I cheat, p’rhaps I can use wriggle;
But in vain at my chair
Do I stare, and I pair,
For my brain is all higgledy-piggle.

My eyes are now square-shaped to ogle,
At pages all footered with …oooooogle,
But how many ‘o’s
Are out there? Who knows!
And thus my rhyme endeth with Gooooooooooooooo…ooooooooooooogle.


By Annie Copland
© 2009 Annie Copland. Not to be reproduced without the express permission of the author.

The Sham Parliament

This debacle (for it is a debacle) about MPs' expenses has left everyone practically foaming at the mouth. How can so many so-called professionals make 'mistakes' with their finances - financial acumen being one of the things for they are supposed to be employed? It beggars belief.

So history repeats itself. I very much doubt whether today's scandals are any more ripe than those of the past. The scary thing is whether today's electorate really do have any more power to do anything about it than they did in the past - for the MPs today seem beyond reproach; they make up their own rules as they see fit; they seem to have no raison d'etre other than to cling to the rungs of power for as long as physically possible. In many ways their megalomania makes us even more powerless than ever before.

The question is: what should be done about it? I have spent much of this week churning over the facts along with possible solutions to the political mess. Paying back their expenses is a very short term solution. It is a childish act and possibly makes the guilty MPs look even more idiotic and backboneless than had they held on to each penny they'd embezzled.

No - what we are actually lacking these days is true leadership for our country. After all, that is what we are supposedly paying them to do. And as we all know, leadership involves trust, taking responsibility for one's own - and others' - actions, and authority. Today's insipid, fawning MPs demonstrate none of these qualities. They've had their chance, but they've well and truly blown it.

It pains me to say it, because it's wholly undemocratic, but the answer I feel is to go back the past: to have far fewer MPs, quadruple their salaries, and just have the ridiculously flamboyant, louche landed gentry running the place. Get more retired brigadiers, army generals, majors and sirs, lords and barons leading us: telling people what to do whilst having fun: it's what they do best. Get these pathetic, drivelling nobodies out of the House of Commons and back to their desk jobs; if they feel like 'glorified social workers', then let them become social workers - heaven knows we could do with some more. Wheel the eccentric, the brave, and the altruistic, the monied, the financially self-sufficient, out of their country estates, and back to the steering wheel of the country.

For it has been shown that paying 'ordinary' people (by which, they mean, people like us) a pretty meagre salary of £65,000 has just attracted the dregs. You could earn more being a GP or a head teacher, or in private sector management. Needless to say, these people want to claim as much extra money to line their own pockets as possible. They are self-serving and have shown they care not one iota for the people they represent. This much was inevitable. It may be different if these MPs were actually doing a great job - but they're not.

Let's not fool ourselves into thinking that democracy is somehow morally superior to great leadership. I don't want more women, more ethnic origin, more gay, more OAP, more young, more humble background MPs being paid out of my taxes if they're dishonorable and can't lead for toffee. It doesn't matter a hoot who they are: surely it's what they do that counts. And anyway, if we bring back the Rotten Borough, would our country be any more rotten than it already is??

Not another networking site....

NANS.


No, not those sweet, silver-haired old ladies we like to call Granny.

NANS. Short for, “Not Another Networking Site!”

Help. My life has become a constant battle with keeping myself* up to date: I am already at online interactivity overload. Just when I think my poor little fingers have got up to speed with typing away at my MySpace, bebo, Facebook, LinkedIn and Twitter accounts – then along pops another social networking site into my inbox. Ping! Your new account is ready to use! Sign up, sign on, get blogging, get tweeting. Help!

Just the other day, claims in the news were made that social networking may be detrimental to our mental health. Apparently evidence suggests that the more time we spend on such sites, and the less time we spend interacting ‘face to face’, the more isolated we become and the more harm we are doing to our biological systems.

This may be true. I know I only converse face-to-face with about three or four ‘real’ people these days. All the rest of my contacts have been relegated to ‘online chat’, followed up by a biannual ‘real life’ visit if they’re lucky.

I wouldn’t mind all these so-called ‘networking’ sites if I thought the benefits:time ratio were a bit higher. But it isn’t. I can spend several hours a week online-networking and come away at the end of it thinking it might have been simpler if I’d just phoned a friend and gone out to grab a coffee for 30 minutes. My mum has the right idea.

And then all the profiles need so much updating! At the last count I had at least nine accounts; each with statuses to update, moods to select, contact details to provide, interests to specify, friends to invite, etc, etc, etc… These sites don’t save us time - they ROB us of all our free time.

I work from home, which means that if my computer is on from say, 8 in the morning to, say, 9 at night, then that’s a potential thirteen whole hours to be dabbling in and out of social networking sites. A peek here, a browse there, who’s doing what, who’s said what to whom, what wit can I post online now? And as I don’t have one of those website blocking filters like some people do in the office, there’s just no stopping me.

And yet, if it is so time-consuming and tedious, why are we all so into it? Simple. Firstly, because we’re addicted. We’re addicted to staying in the loop, and the internet provides the possibility to embark on one enormous, effortless journey through a virtual circular street with infinite virtual doors to knock on. Clever advertising makes us think we need it. And secondly, because we are ultimately a lazy people. Given the choice between going into town to meet someone in a bar or café, and just sitting in front of the computer screen, most of us would rather do the latter.

So this latest social networking site I’ve been invited to join will provide me with another opportunity to befriend people I don’t actually know, to post all sorts of facts and miscellany about myself into the infinity of the web, and to remember another goddamn password. Great.

Will this be the last I hear of the NANS? No.

What do I think will happen next?
Facebook, I suspect, is just the tip of the iceberg. From where I’m standing these interactive tools look set to multiply, rendering each of us ‘over-networked’ (i.e. the ultimate endgame of all social networking sites is surely to have each and every one of us on the planet ‘linked’ to the next person: infinite linkages. That seems to be the way it’s going anyway. And how workable will that be?)

Will what I have to say have any real bearing on people using Facebook et al?
No.

Why?
Because we’re scared of being left out.


*I am no longer myself. I am My Profile. Is it just me or is there something quite masochistic in referring to oneself in criminal-records-speak?

ANNIE

Rant: Consumerism and Materialism

Recently I’ve been thinking a lot about consumerism and its effects. I’ve noticed I’ve begun to get more materialistic than I ever was, more surrounded by ‘things’, and more thing-orientated. I never used to be this way. I used to stalwartly pride myself on my aversion to ‘things’; I was more interested in ideas and mind-expansion. Now, faced with the prospect of my late twenties, I seem to have kindled a new obsession with ‘things’. Perhaps I have finally realised what it means to Keep Up With The Joneses.

But in a way I am sure I have only staved off the inevitable, for you only need look in any Lifestyle Magazine or newspaper or internet site to have it bombarded upon you that You Must Buy. If you’re a guy, this means gadgets, cars, trainers and the latest metrosexual beauty products; if you’re a gal, this means…well, it means shoes, handbags, sofa cushions, clothes, beads, accessories and lipgloss…all the things I love to hate, basically.

As I reach my late twenties and see my thirties lined up behind them, I notice I am spending less and less time on the ideas and idealism of my youth and on stocking up my brain, and more and more time stocking up my (already heaving) shelves. It’s quite worrying actually. These days I’m disturbed to find that I am more likely to spend time looking through home furnishing catalogues and perfume stores than I am on good old fashioned reading or having a laugh with friends. And yet, paradoxically, I find I am at my most creative and at ease with myself when I am surrounded by minimal ‘stuff’.

The question is, does all this stuff actually make us happy? Or does it, as I suspect, only serve to increase the void of loneliness and unhappiness that single 20-something women hope to fill…with stuff?

My own theory, based on my experience of these people, is that nice ‘stuff’ and girly things are actually a sort of thinly-disguised substitute for emotional contentedness. Too often, I have seen single professional 20-somethings (I’m not one of them, luckily) who are surrounded by beautiful things…fantastic shopping sprees, luxury spas and facials and pedicures, many pairs of must-have designer shoes…and yet when I got to know them, I detected the same thing over and over again. Insecurity. Insecurity over not being successful enough with their career, insecurity over not having enough friends or a lively enough social life, insecurity over their less-than-perfect bums, tums, and thighs, but way over and above all of these – insecurity over not having a boyfriend. Panic about never getting married.

I’m not blaming them, I am pitying them. I think there is a great trend in our culture towards people expecting young ladies to perform at every conceivable level: career, money, physical appearance, social life, love life. Many are expected to do the done thing, which is to live in a small IKEA-clad designer flat, alone. I think it’s a bit much. Women, at the end of the day, are all just human beings with that most basic of desires to be loved. Most are just absolutely crying out not to be lonely, not to be alone, to have a boyfriend, to have good friends. Materialism is just their way of coping, I cynically have to admit.

So what is the solution? I don’t know. All I know is that the fact of the matter is, I feel like I have more creative freedom when I am not surrounded by ‘stuff’, as for one thing I can spend less time tidying it up! And the thing I always have to try and remind myself is that true happiness, that happiness you will remember when you are 80, is not a product of the number of nice things you own, but the product of great experiences, lasting friendships, and funny stories involving other people that you care about.

I hope I don’t forget this as I grow up next door to the Joneses.

Annie

New Spring/Summer Collection: What Not To Wear

As the slightly warmer spring season is nearly upon us, I thought I would talk today about fashion. There are some items of fashion I just don’t like. I don’t think I shall ever like them.

These are:

• Anything ‘black’ – yes, black is the new black, black makes you slimmer, yada yada yada…yes, yes, but I still don’t like black. Especially black tops. Black trousers are boring enough, (and there are so many other wonderful colours to enjoy, why would you choose black?), but black tops are just the icing on the cake of boringness as far as I’m concerned. Black is a morbid colour, best reserved for funerals and people who want to look terminally depressed – e.g. Goths. Even wearing black makes me feel depressed. It drains colour from the skin on all but the darkest of skin tones. Black has no place in my colourful, (hopefully!) cheery life.

• Leather jackets – probably something to do with my aversion to all black. The smell of cowhide and the fact that they are shiny and can be wiped clean are also dubious ‘qualities’.

• Flip-flops – especially when worn by so-called ‘trendies’ as some sort of fashion statement down the street. Nowadays these cheap, bethonged slivers of rubber are adorned with all sorts of jewels, beads, wood, flowers, and dangly bits, and some people even seem to want to wear them in the workplace. WHY??! They conjure up images of people, mainly overweight girls and students and fat mothers, who haven’t been (but wish they have been) on some ‘year out’ ethnic experience to Bali. I just think they look tacky and remarkably working class. They cost about 20p to make and they are rubbish for your feet. Leave them back on the beach where they belong.

• On the subject of vulgar shoes, what about strappy sandals worn two sizes too small? There is nothing quite so repulsive as the sight of fat feet bulging out of flimsy stilettos, with the toes poking about two inches out of the front of the sandal. This bugs me mental! I went to a proper shoe shop and the man there informed me that toes should not protrude from the end of shoe; there should be at least half a thumbnail gap, and most women buy shoes that are too small for them. Why can’t women get shoes that FIT?! – and which might actually protect their precious tootsies.

• Boob tubes – unless they are a properly fitted basque or part of a formal evening gown or wedding dress, boob tubes are a big no-no and are hardly flattering to anyone. I think what puts me off the boob tube is the fact that it is normally worn only by overweight, fat-bosomed girls who believe if they’ve got it, they should flaunt it. The women I feel have got slightly more perfect bodies tend to know about common decency and put more clothes on.

• Leopard print – it always looks like a resurgence to all that was wrong with the ‘80s, and it always looks tacky, never serious. Dorien from Birds of a Fevva wore a lot of it and that just about rests my case.

• Denim skirts – I don’t know why, I just don’t like them. Why do they always make you look cheap, like you ought to live on some council estate, pushing buggies round the streets with a fag in your hand? The miniskirts are about the only useful ones and even then are really only good if you want to look like: (a) a power-balladeer from the ‘80s, like Tina Turner or Chaka Khan, or (b) a transvestite. The knee-length ones are God-awful, in my opinion.

• Fleece. Ah! Admittedly, here I am sorry to say that I do not/can not practice what I preach. For in the breezy neck of the woods where I come from, fleece is a weather-independent necessity. It’s always chilly and even our gussets are manufactured from that awful downy sheep-a-like manmade polymer. But, let’s be clear about this: fleeces really are the leggings of the 90s/Noughties. They are merely an exhibition in new material technology (‘80s = lycra; ‘90s = microfleece), but, let’s be honest, they have no style attached whatsoever.

I could go on, but I better hadn't in case I do myself out of a wardrobe!

Annie

What Edinburgh Taught Me: A Musical Appreciation

It is with a certain sense of lachrymosity that I announce my departure from the city of Edinburgh, or, as they say here in the leafy ‘burbs, Auld Reekie. And while I was preparing my things for quitting this place, I somehow thought of creating a soundtrack that embodied everything I had encountered during the 5ish on-and-off years I have spent living here.

So what has Edinburgh taught me? Davis, Coltrane, Monk: It has taught me jazz. Crazy, wild jazz – mincing its words, so to speak, but saying them nonetheless in a fury of passion.

As I crossed the Dean Bridge for the last time the other day, I had Joni Mitchell on my mind, for this city has taught me poetry. The ability to see beauty and something original in everything. The woman in touch with her creative side – a blessing for sure. And again, The Dry Cleaner from Des Moines: chromatic high jinks: everything that may have once appeared difficult - even impossible - once deconstructed, becomes that little bit easier.

Fedel quanto bella, il cielo la fe – yep. Ridiculous pomp and shouting: Passion – the key to good calibre work.

Pour que tu m’aimes encore – Edinburgh has taught me language. Especially the easy, Romance languages, that I should’ve done more of at school…

Amerie is up there next: 1 Thing – Edinburgh taught me to run for my life. Without a telly for amusement, I took up the next best thing: pounding the streets for fun! Shapes, strides, swing, shooting space – I ran round the streets, miles over and over again.

Next – Mozart: Allegro Quintet Pour Cor En Eb Maj – the understated certainty of that opening line of the melody…because I have come to the realisation that there are times when just a bit of quiet concentration is required to stimulate the old grey matter, and these times call for just one – only one – person, and that is Mozart. Pop, rap, hiphop, rock, jazz: it all fades away, I’m afraid, in the light of the frankly impertinent musical genius of WAM. Even his sad music is chirpy.

Birdland. I remember exactly where I was, and exactly what I was doing when I first heard this song, so great an impression this ‘new’ music had on me. I was listening to it on my pre-iPod CD walkman all the way through Princes Street Gardens and down to the Edinburgh Botanical Gardens, as a young Landscape Architecture student, back in 2002. I had never dared myself to listen to the likes of this before. When its opening bars hit my ears, I thought, ‘What the hell is this??!’ as its lyric-less tune stormed through my headphones, assaulting my ears with a mish-mash of strange sounds. Then the upbeat chorus, the sunshine that comes through it all at the end. It was music for music’s sake. I have to confess I wasn’t sure I’d really ‘get’ it. Wasn’t this musicians’ music? It was certainly challenging, as they say in the boardroom! and I knew I wouldn’t get it in just a couple of listens…but isn’t that then the point of music? To make you learn? I stuck with Weather Report, I persevered, and I still don’t understand a lot of it, but like a foreign language which you don’t know, there is something of beauty in its sounds and forms, something strange that you can appreciate nonetheless. And appreciate I did, and continue to do. Birdland led me into jazz and fusion slowly but surely and with no looking back!

Edinburgh has also taught me a sense of calm. If ever a piece of music painted a picture, then surely it’s Playground by Richard Bona. It makes me think of a sunset; orange and pink and red, just up there in the distant sky, peaceful, at day’s end. Class. A feeling of total calmness and peace and acceptance of oneself.

And finally, some old folk tune about bucolic bliss that I just, well, like. Linden Lea. It reminds me of a moment of horticultural/philosophical epiphany I once had under an apple tree, all about the important things in life (not to be taken literally, but you get the idea):
‘Let other folk make money faster, In the air of dark-roomed towns; I don’t dread a peevish master, Though no man may heed my frowns; I be free to go abroad, Or take again my homeward road…’

Adios Athens of the North!

Annie