It's criminal...

Yesterday I made a rash promise. I wasn’t entirely myself at the time – quite possibly someone else.  So I need your help. All you budding crime novelists out there. 

See, I went through a phase, several years back, when I read crime thrillers. I dined out on dissection and drooled over death and disintegrating cadavers.  The gorier the better - y’know, Patricia Cornwell and all that jazz.  But then I got…a bit murdered out.  I just sort of lost the trail.  I never followed the plotlines anyhow, rarely figured out the murderer (if it was a whodunit) and just generally became a bit desensitized to all the slashing and stabbing. Why am I reading this, I wondered?

Nowadays I don’t even watch them on TV.  Okay, so the odd Morse for old time’s sake – and then mainly for Oxford and John Thaw and the nostalgia of Barrington Phelong’s music.  Lewis?  Nah. Adrian and James like it but I tend to sit reading a book or staring into mid-space, poking my head up every so often to say, lugubriously, ‘She’s dead’ or ‘He’s had it’.  Adrian loves crime though. Mainly on TV. And preferably foreign, ideally European – Italian or Scandinavian or French – never American. He’s funny like that.

But hey, it’s horses for courses, right?  I'm sure most of you would rather read a cereal packet than Sivananda Buried Yoga or The Magdalen Manuscript, right?  And I know a lot of you love crime and thrillers and all.  So maybe you can help me out.  I get asked all kinds of weird stuff in regard to this blog.  Like, would I test out baby buggies (er, with what? The Soul Puppy?) or would I try out the latest flavor of BEAR Yo Yo’s (mango, as it happens)*

But yesterday, I got asked something that really surprised me. Could I come up with the opening sentence to a crime thriller?  It was so unlikely and bizarre that, before I knew what I was doing (still thick – in every sense - with cold) I’d said, ‘Huh? What? Oh yeah, okay, why not?’

It’s to tie in with the Specsavers Crime Thriller Awards – you know, the one where they win Daggers instead of Oscars. Hang about…The Specsavers Crime Thriller Awards, huh?  When did that happen?  Do all the protagonists have to wear contact lenses? Murder by monocle?   

Anyhow, the idea is a mini Twitter crime novel, to be written by Specsavers' Twitter followers.  The crime author Peter James has come up with the settings and the three main characters and now all it needs before it kicks off is an opening line.  

·        Setting: Brighton and London

·         Three main character names: John Benson, Terence Lucas, Sarah Wilde

·         Four key things that happen:

1.  A woman's body is found on an expensive boat in Brighton Marina.

2.  A suitcase, hidden on the boat, contains £100,000 in cash.

3.  The boat's owner is missing.

4.  The boat owner's mobile phone is found in the toilet of a train heading north from Brighton to London.

Anyhow, I realized at this point that a) I was already bored and b) I really didn’t have much of a clue where to begin. 

But Mr James was prepared for that (the not a clue bit anyhow). “Always set up a situation in the very first line of a book,’ he says.  ‘Ideally someone who has a problem.” 

Well I never. 

He then gives some examples of his own first lines.

Dead Simple:   "So far, apart from just a couple of hitches, Plan A was working out fine.  Which was fortunate, since they didn’t really have a Plan B."

Dead Man's Footsteps:  "If Ronnie Wilson had known, as he woke up, that in just a couple of hours’ time he would be dead, he would have planned his day somewhat differently."

Dead Man's Grip:   "On the morning of the accident, Carly had forgotten to set the alarm, and overslept.  She woke with a bad hangover, a damp dog crushing her, and the demented pounding of drums and cymbals coming from her son’s bedroom.  To add to her gloom, it was pelting with rain outside."

Not Dead Yet:   "I am warning you, and I won’t repeat this warning. Don’t take the part. You’d better believe me. Take the part and you are dead. Bitch.”

Aggh, my inner editor is itching to get out the red pen. But I shall sit on my hands.  Now, seriously though, I really haven’t got the foggiest.  Any thoughts?  Over to you. Let me know your best and I will pass them onto the Specsaver people. What do you get out of it, other than the glory?  Well, I’m sure I can rustle up a prize, something suitably gory, for the best. What do I get out of it?  Hopefully an eye test.  J

The awards will be broadcast on ITV3 on 23^rd October. There will be a six-week run-up of crime and drama programming. Joy incarnate!

*btw the Bear Yo Yo’s really are nice. Well, the mango ones are. I dunno about the others cos they only sent the one roll. But I asked James and he says that the others are pretty good apart from the apple one which is ‘mank’. Can recommend for your child’s lunchbox as they are full of fibre, count as one of the 5 a day, and are absolutely not packed with added anything nasty). 

My only gripe – make them longer and thinner please.

www.bearnibbles.co.uk

The anus is as beautiful as the ear

‘Handbrake,’ said James, calmly.

‘Huh?’ said I, deafly.

‘Handbrake,’ said James, louder and firmer.

‘It’s on,’ said I, reassuringly.

‘NOT HARD ENOUGH!’ said James, yanking it up.

‘Oh,’ said I, frowning. ‘Were we going backwards?’

‘Er, Mum?’

‘Yeah?’

‘Oh Mum.  You’re not alright, are you?’

Never were truer words spoken.  I’m not remotely alright.  I’m alwrong. I have this…lurgy thingy. Cold, virus, wotnot. Came out of nowhere last week.  So I attacked it with my usual weapon of choice – chomping my way through a large bottle of Acerola C in, er, about 36 hours.  And it went.  Except, well, it sort of snuck away for 36 hours before coming back…with reinforcements.  Ninja attack troops.  Bastards. 

I’m a total mess. Everything aches and I mean everything – yeah even my eyebrows.  Ears are playing some kind of ambient composition for high pitched drills.  Eyes are stuck on waterfall mode. Abdomen is doing the monster PMS meets gastric flu dance. 

Why? WHY?

The other day I found I still had my copy of Louise Hay’s You Can Heal Your Life, which rather surprised me, as I thought I’d flung it out in one of my cynical phases.  And I know a lot of you are really deeply beyond cynical when it comes to this kind of malarkey.  But, oddly, most times when I have some kind of niggle or ache, it does seem to be my body telling me something. Sooo, what does Louise have to say about my plight?  Well, I opened the book at random, kinda hoping for a quick fortune telling type answer but it turned out to be more orifice than oracle. ‘The anus is as beautiful as the ear,’ said Louise. Huh?  Actually, my arse is about the one bit that is behaving itself quite nicely, thank you. So, no shortcuts then. I flicked back and forth and came up with a list so long that it would make me as much as an emotional mess as a physical one which, of course, is perfectly fitting as body, mind, emotions, soul are all one. Right?

Hey ho, nonny no.

‘You really don’t look good, Mum,’ said James, scrutinizing me as we finally made it to the house, into the light. He looked almost impressed. ‘In fact you look pretty scary. You should go to bed.’ 

Ah but there’s the rub. It (the cold, not my child) obviously knew that Adrian was going to be away, in Zagreb eating bear salami (yeah, I know) and freaking out about atmospheric pressure (there was a storm). So, when James comes home from school, I don’t have much choice but to stagger round like the living dead of Manchester morgue, doing what has to be done.

So says Louise... 

But then I think, well, hey (Hay?), maybe there’s a reason for this too. If Adrian were here it would be noisy and stressy.  He’d be all ‘you need to do this or that or eat this or that.’  And maybe all I needed to do was to stop, eat a lot of beetroot (my cure for everything if Acerola fails) and lie quietly back on my butterfly chair listening to mantras.  We have found, the SP and I, that if I have the chair on its lowest setting (ie with my head nearly touching the floor and my feet in the air) that he can easily jump up and stretch himself right down my body, thus warming up four chakras all at the same time.  It’s…soothing. 

Anyhow, Adrian’s back tomorrow so presumably it will obligingly vanish on his return. And, meanwhile, the lovely people at Aromatherapy Associates are sending me a rescue package of Breathe essence.  So at least, if nothing else, I know I won’t smell funny as well as looking crap. J 

Sex and not shopping (okay, mainly not shopping)

Nobody believes me when I say I don’t like shopping.  But seriously, it’s true, I don’t.  Maybe I got it all out of my system when I was consumer editor for City Limits magazine (a bit of an oxymoron, many people thought but, hey, socialists like to shop too, it seems). I mean, I do shop, of course I do – but only when things are absolutely necessary (which, to be frank, isn’t that often).  James grows like a weed and so, yup, he needs gear.  But generally he sends me a link via email and I go ‘yeah, I guess you really do need new trainers if your old ones really are two sizes too small’ or ‘nah, not on your nelly, my little mate’ and it’s all done and dusted in a couple of clicks.

I buy food (reluctantly); I buy petrol (even more reluctantly). I buy a few books for research and, once in a blue moon, I will treat myself to a new CD. And that is it.  Oh no – I did buy a new sports bra about a month ago when the old one wouldn’t take any more darning. And four pairs of socks from Sports Direct to make it up to the ‘no need to pay postage’ limit.

Aha, I hear you thinking (you know I can do this) – she’s only saying this cos she’s stony broke and can’t afford to go shopping.  Well, yeah, I’ll give you the broke bit - but I’m working on that.  J But nah, even if I had the dosh, I still wouldn’t make a hobby out of shopping.

I just don’t get it.  I just can't be arsed. I don’t see anything fun about floating round a bunch of shops gazing at…stuff.  It just doesn’t rock my boat.  And I really hate trying on clothes with a vengeance. Seriously, the last time I went shopping for more than ten minutes was two years ago when I heard I was going to Israel.  I had literally nothing to wear (my wardrobe is far from extensive and, given I live on Exmoor, there really is no need for summer clothes).  

Luckily I had a wodge of vouchers from Next (thanks to you lot) and Monsoon (thanks to friends who’d bought them for a birthday a couple of years previously) and so I did the shopping thing and very tedious it was too.  But…job done.

Now then. If there’s anything worse than shopping it’s shopping with friends.  Why?  WHY? Why on earth would you traipse round shops with other people?  Watching them pick up stuff, trying to adjust your facial features so they don’t guess that you’re wincing inside and then trying to say the right things when they try it on and come out of the changing room expecting a dishonest opinion?  Is it some kind of masochism?  Now you're thinking I'm a bitch, right? But - be honest - you tell me you don't think that?  Truly? 

But there is, deep below that, a further level of hell which is shopping with men.  Actually I do make a bit of an exception here because shopping with gay men (as I recall) can be a hoot.  But, back on the straight and narrow (cos, lamentably, I don’t have gay male friends out here – because any gay men on Exmoor sadly have the sense to stay firmly in their closets) - shopping with boyfriends/partners/husbands????  YE BLOODY GODS.  

Why do women do it? You see them, these benighted blokes, parked outside the changing rooms, or shifting from one foot to the other, tapping listlessly into their smartphones – clearly bored out of their skulls – while their women flick through the rails. WHY?  Is it some power trip (“You will prove your love by enduring… total boredom”)  The modern version of courtly romance, holding hangers at Top Shop rather than poking poles in a jousting tourney?  Some weird kind of branding (“Hey, bitches, he’s mine – look, he even comes shopping with me!”).   Insecurity (“Shit, if I don’t keep him with me at all times, he might cop off with some bird in the hardware shop”)?  Or just general ickyness (“We wuv each uvver so we do evveryfing togevver”)?  Yuck yuck yuckity yuck.  I mean, I'm assuming the women want the men there?  Or do the men secretly enjoy it? 

Nah. I don’t get it. I really, really really don't. Please explain.

Don’t get me wrong. I like nice things. Not as much as I used to but even so… As I prowl round the Internet I see certain things that make me go …oooh, that’s rather pleasing.  But I know myself now.  It’s just a bit of a flirt – it doesn’t mean anything. There's no commitment. So I usually stick it on my Pinterest board – and funnily enough that is kind of enough.  And, here’s the thingy – when I go back and look at that board (every month or so) the things I posted have often lost their allure.  Because, basically, they are just things.  And really there ain’t no thing I really want that much. J

Puddle people, pseudo penises and Pinterest (repinned)

I’ve talked about Pinterest before so forgive another musing. But really, the more I use it, the more I prowl around, the more – odd I find it.

Now, don’t get me wrong, I still find it hugely useful.  I keep mood boards for my novels there and they jumpstart my imagination if it’s on go-slow. I have what I hope are inspirational boards for readers of my non-fiction books – lately I’ve been pinning seasonal recipes and lifestyle type stuff on The Natural Year board and adding more information on living as chemical-free as possible on The Detox Plan.

It also occurred to me that, while my Kindle books can’t have pictures, I can supplement them with boards. So I have recently started boards for the four little spin-offs from Spirit of the Home – Spirit of the Bedroom, Spirit of the Kitchen, Spirit of the Living Room and Spirit of the Nursery.  I loved this series – small books with lovely design that aimed, not to discuss decoration so much as the mythology, spirituality and energy of each room.

It’s also proving an invaluable resource for research.  I have a couple of non-fiction book proposals going to Frankfurt and Pinterest is the perfect place to stick all my research, so I’ve got images, information (and all the originating websites) neatly filed in one place. 

I see a lot of authors, designers and so on using it pretty much the same way.  But a lot of other people just…pin.  Madly, wildly, obsessively.  And weirdly.  Whatever you care to think of, someone will have a board dedicated to it. ‘Women inexplicably partially submerged in water’.  Yup, serious.  ‘People with big pictures of people’.  Oh yeah. ‘Garden hoses.’ That one’s a work in progress. 

Odd things are huge, just huge, on Pinterest. Tattoos obviously come to mind (there is even a tattoo category), swiftly followed by nail art. There are endless boards dedicated to cupcakes and subdivisions of cupcakes – people even have boards dedicated to a particular colour theme in a particular type of cupcake for cupcake’s sake. 

And slowly, you realize that, well…you’re simply not that special, not that unusual.  Your weird little idiosyncrasies – the ones you thought were pretty awesomely oblique, if not entirely unique – are…run of the mill.  Damnit, half of Pinterest is obsessed with the same shit. It should be comforting, I suppose, that you’re not the only one who has a ‘thing’ about…nah, I’m not going to tell you now cos I feel…kinda ordinary. J

It seems that, within the Pinterest demographic (and let’s be honest, it strikes me it’s a relatively a narrow demographic) everyone pretty much wants to go to the same awesome places and wear the same cool things and decorate their houses in much the same way.  And, by hell, everyone wants to be inspired – pretty much every Pinner has a board for inspirational quotes (I’ve got a whole blog brewing on that) and if everyone were as fit as their fitness boards and as bendy as their yoga boards, we’d be a world of Olympians.

Of course Pinterest has its underbelly and I confess I lurk around there a bit when all the ombre and neon and clean minimalism and perfect sunsets get a bit much.  And then I leave my jaw hanging pretty much on the floor as I discover I still have a morbid fascination (legacy of childhood) for really weird things like puddle people and possess a very infantile amusement at things that look like penises.  And then I just hang my head in shame and…laugh helplessly. 

Gardening as beyond Call of Duty

There is torture and then there is…gardening.  I know, I know, what I’m going to say will be anathema to so many of you. Saying you don't like gardening is like saying you don't like babies or kittens or cupcakes (ummm, on second thoughts, let's not go there - I want to keep a few readers). But honesty compels me to admit the unadmittable.  I bloody HATE gardening.  I am sitting here, right now, at my desk, with sweat pouring down my forehead, dripping steadily onto the keyboard. I have just plucked fifteen – count ‘em – thorns the size of arrows out of my arms, neck, nose and there are a few more that will require surgical removal with tweezers (when I can find the tweezers).

See, in my garden, nature hasn’t just flexed its muscles, it’s gone steroid-induced body builder on me. The brambles are the size of not so small children’s arms; the bindweed grows taller than the house; the ground elder (introduced by the Romans – so, yeah, what have the Romans done for us, huh???) marches inexorably over everything. It’s my own fault of course. After three years of spending every god-given spare hour out there, weeding and digging and cutting back, I gave up. Two years ago I said, ‘Sod it! Have it your own way.’ And the weeds went, yeah, thanks, we will.  And I justify it by thinking, hey, it’s a wildlife haven. And it is…there are slow worms and even a beautiful grass snake. There are butterflies and bugs and gawd knows what.

But every so often I just look at it and feel like I should make some kind of effort. Usually when I can no longer see the hill beyond because the undergrowth has come up from underneath and got on top. So I gird my loins and I gear up.  Forgot those nice images you see in the Sunday supps.  I don’t wear vintage florals and a big floppy straw hat; I don’t wander round with my hand-made trug and fiddle artfully with tasteful twine.  I go in looking like something from Call of Duty (probably Black Ops) with loppers, cutters, chainsaw, hacksaw, axe. Super-strength gauntlets (which are crap, by the way – there ARE no seriously effective wearable gloves on the market, not any more - sorry but there just aren't).  And then, ka-bam - I launch in with a surprise attack, in a brutal flurry of cutting and slashing. And keep going for as long as I can until I collapse with exhaustion or get a mean sonofabitch bramble in the eye.

Hmm, it’s not really gardening, is it? It’s war.  I’m not so much a Demeter as a Kali (to mix my mythologies).  For years I told myself I liked gardening.  I was lying. I realized that I like gardens. I like looking at gardens; I like sitting in them; I love lying on a nicely mowed lawn in them. I quite enjoy pottering around and dead-heading the roses. I don’t even mind flexing the secateurs and doing a bit of trimming (see, it’s that destructive thing again). But the actual gardening bit, all the rest of it – the digging and planting and tending and nurturing? Nah. That’s where I want someone else to take over.  It’s all just so…time-consuming.  And so thankless. It’s like cooking and cleaning (two of my other domestic no-nos) – you do it and yet no matter how well you do it, you have to do it all over again. It’s not progressive; you don’t get anywhere.  It’s just…tiring. And boring. There, I’ve said it.

I know it sounds ungrateful. I know a lot of people would love, nay adore, to have a great big garden like this one.  And that got me to thinking.  Maybe we should have some kind of garden adoption scheme. People who love gardening but don’t have gardens could tend and nurture the gardens of those who have but who don’t like the gardening act (and who don’t have the dosh to pay people to do the dirty work for them). Brilliant, huh?  So. What you reckon?  Anyone game?  

And, while we're here - anyone else wanna fess up to other things they hate that they're supposed to love?  :-)

"Give the baby an extra dollop of pesticide-sprayed carrots"

So, I was reading the other day about how “the health benefits” of organic foods are being called into question. It was written by a guy called Harry Wallop and was a curious piece, strangely triumphal. The writer joyfully admitted that he would lie to his wife about there being no organic milk left at the shop so he could score the small victory of buying non-organic.  His ‘little protest’ as he put it against the ‘tyranny’ of expensive organic food, sounding just like an obnoxious little boy scoring one over on a parent.

He went on to trumpet about how the ‘latest research’ has ‘concluded’ that there is no clear evidence of any added health benefit to organic food.  But, reading the actual report, that’s not entirely true. 

Yes, organic and non-organic apples, for example, will contain exactly the same phytonutrients.  Some say the organic apple will taste better – I’ve never been quite convinced about that.  It’s what the organic apple doesn’t have that interest me. And it’s what the growing of the organic apple isn’t doing to the environment that interests me.  It's the pesticide bit that interests me. And the writers of the report themselves admit that ‘consumption of organic foods can reduce the risk of pesticide exposure.’

If you can't go all organic...

Organic food, they go on to say, has a 30 percent lower risk of pesticide contamination than conventional fruits and vegetables.  A third less?  Given that ‘Laboratory studies show that pesticides can cause health problems, such as birth defects, nerve damage, cancer and other effects that might occur over a long period of time’ (US Environmental Protection Agency, my italics) then, hell yeah, I’d like to ingest a third less of them. 

And, talking about those italics, what the papers have also neglected to mention is that the meta-analysis was not exactly dealing with long-term research. The research team admit: ‘There were no long-term studies of health outcomes of people consuming organic versus conventionally produced food: the duration of the studies involving human subjects ranged from two days (!!!) to two years.’ (exclamation points my addition). 

If you weed out (sorry) the long-term studies, the picture is less clear-cut. Just to take one example, a long-term study from the Netherlands found that children who consumed organic dairy products had a 36 percent lower risk of eczema by the time they turned two.  But, hey, we all know you can skew statistics any which way you want, right?

You could argue it's better than it was.  Farmers now use one third less chemicals than they did thirty years ago.  Some are now banned throughout the EU but they are still used in some countries around the world – and, of course, few of us buy totally locally, do we?  Let’s have a quick look (by the way, this info isn’t coming from some militant green site, but from the UK Environmental Agency and the Health and Safety Executive in the UK).

*  Lindane – banned throughout the EU because of links to breast and other cancers and fertility problems.

       * Vinclozalin – used in the UK and worldwide - concerns that it may disrupt hormone systems and affect reproduction.

·       *  Carbendazim – most commonly used fungicide in the UK, known to disrupt hormone systems – and has been shown to damage the development of mammals in the womb.

·         * DDT – banned in the UK and worldwide since 2001 but still used in some developing countries. Linked to cancer and male infertility. High levels can develop in fatty foods such as meat and dairy products.

·         * Organophosphates – don’t let the organo bit throw you off – these are a large group of chemicals that form the basis of many insecticides and herbicides and which can pass into the body via food. They irreversibly block an enzyme that is essential to correct nerve function. Even at low levels, they can affect the brain development of fetuses and young children.  Also linked to excessive tiredness, headaches, limb pains, disturbed sleep, poor concentration, mood changes and suicidal thoughts.  Nice huh? The EPA banned most residential uses of these in 2001 but they’re still used in agriculture on fruit and vegetable crops. 

Some scientists believe pesticide exposure while in the womb may be to blame for the huge increase in behavioral disorders amongst children, but the evidence is hard to find as researchers admit that subtle harm done to the brain early in life may not become evident until much later.  What is pretty clear is that pesticides can weaken the immune system and that exposure while in the womb could make people more vulnerable to their effects as adults.  As the BBC reported, ‘The main health fear associated with pesticides is not that someone will eat a sprayed apple and get cancer, but that residues will build up over the years and cause disease to develop slowly.’

And yup, that is my concern.  It seems to be the concern of many parents too.  Wallop's piece in the paper went on to say that, while sales of organic food generally are sliding (presumably because of cost – it’s tough enough to buy normal food nowadays), the one area of the market that is booming is in baby food (up seven percent last year).  

He concluded his piece by saying. ‘I for one feel rather resentful that I should fork out for organic just because it might be a ‘lower risk’. Tomorrow the baby is going to get an extra dollop of pesticide-sprayed carrots.’

Nice, real nice, Wallop. Save that clipping for your child’s scrapbook.

But seriously, what do you do?  What can you do?  Can we, on a macro level, stop our planet and our food being contaminated by chemicals? It’s like the argument I had on FB the other day about GM food.  Which went along the lines of ‘it’s all very well and good for people in developed countries who have the luxury of nibbling namby pampy organics and biodynamics but that’s stuffing it to the developing world.’ Is it? Isn’t it really about a radical shift in the way we eat, about what we eat and don’t eat? 

On a micro level, I guess I would say (and you might find this ironic) probably the best thing to do is not to  stress too much.  I figure it’s as toxic to panic about every potential pollutant you put in your mouth as it is to mainline pesticides. Though if you're planning a baby or are pregnant, I reckon I'd err on the side of caution. And (just saying) my son ate solely organic food up until he went to school.

Just before I posted this, I thought I'd check and see what the general advice is...and found this from the BBC.

What can you do?

If you are worried about possible exposure of you or your family to pesticides, you may want to:

• Only choose foods that have been grown under organic or pesticide–free conditions. Look for the labels in your supermarket such as those from the Soil Association or talk to your local supplier.
• Grow your own vegetables (presumably without chemicals - my aside).
• Check products in your household and garden - the websites of the UK Environment Agency and the Health and Safety Executive are a good source of information.

Oh bugger!

Warning – contains f****ing rudery

Am I too crude? Do I swear too much?  I’ve been wondering lately, about my fondness for the vulgar. The other day James persuaded me to come to a badminton evening at the village hall. Why? I dunno – end of the holidays I suppose and his boredom had reached a new slough.  Anyhow, I missed an easy shot rather spectacularly and shot out a plosive ‘Bugger!’  A frown appeared from the other side of the net.

‘Oh shit, I’m so sorry,’ I said, terribly politely.  And then, I confess, I laughed, which probably made it worse.  

And then, the other day, I posted up this thingy on Facebook on horoscopes cos it made me crack up laughing.  And a lot of people laughed too and cheerily admitted they were perverted psychos or whiny bimbos or flaky derelicts.  But one friend expressed disquiet, saying ‘I find calling someone or something a ‘fucktard’ is ultimately corrosive – not of them or it, but of me.’

And I thought about it.  And I looked at the horoscope thingy again and it still made me laugh.  Cos we all have rotten sides, don’t we?  We all have a shadow and I know that, sure as eggs is eggs, I’m one greedy emo alright.  And then I got to thinking about how I use swearing, and why.  And whether it really is corrosive for my soul to call someone a fucktard.  In a fond way, of course.

And then, in a timely fashion, Mike, this guy I chat to online said how he had a Twitter account dedicated to ‘creative cursing’ so I asked him about it.  And he said: ‘I'm an amateur really, but I think nicely written rants and insults blended with just the right amount of swearing, and mis-using words, can make people laugh.  For example the C word as a verb, for example "that was cu**ng excellent".’ 

And he differentiated that from ‘pure swearing’ where you just call people ‘effing wankers’ cos you can’t think of anything else to say.  Which I agreed with but I pushed him on it and said, ‘But why? Why is swearing so good?’  And he went on to say that swearing can be a release and that maybe it’s because there is a finite amount of swear phrases which ‘gives the whole thing limits.’  Though then he went on to say that new ones do ‘pop up from time to time (i.e. tea bagger). Huh? *reaches for urban dictionary*. 

And then we had a conversation about the best languages for swearing and he reckoned Dutch was good but I said Polish won hands down cos I have never EVER come across a language which is quite so inventive when it comes to cussing.  You know how the Inuit or whoever are supposed to have 50 words for snow? Well I reckon the Poles must have well over 50 words for fuck. 

But, bottom line, he said. ‘Swearing's important. Imagine if you didn't do it? I remember being nine or so and thinking "I can't wait ‘til I'm old enough to swear.’ 

Now I can’t say that thought ever crossed my mind.  My parents never swore in front of me when I was a child (and let me add, swiftly, that I didn't ever swear in front of James when he was small).  In fact, my mother was so innocent that when my brother (aged two) sat on the bus proudly going ‘Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!’ she didn’t bat an eyelid and couldn’t understand why she was getting filthy looks.  She told my father who apparently rolled his eyes and sighed, ‘Oh Rosemary.’ 

You know, I fucking love that story!

But anyhow, I went back to Mike and said, ‘Yeah. I hear you but…why?’  And he said. ‘Because you’re not supposed to, I suppose.’

Is that it?  Is it the naughtiness?  A tiny act of rebellion?  Or just to raise a laugh?  Not entirely, I feel.  I think, for me, it’s about contrast.  I love language. No, that’s not strong enough: I fucking adore language. I like the way sounds sound rolling round my mouth and floating through my head.  I often re-edit a sentence a score of times so it has the right cadence as well as the correct meaning.  And sometimes a swear word fits the bill just perfectly.  It punctuates a sentence – a short staccato stab, a verbal shock, a start in the middle or a full spat-out stop.  A judiciously placed fuck or cunt is a seizure to the senses. 

But what about the guy down the pub who grunts, ‘You’re all fucking cunts’ as he staggers out the door?  Well, I doubt he ponders cadence but hey, I suppose he’s speaking the truth as he sees it. 

Now, I’m guessing many of you will respond that there is a hierarchy of swearing.  That shit is maybe ‘okay’ and that you’ll admit to the odd ‘fuck’ but you would never ever use ‘the C word’. Because it’s demeaning to women and all.  Well, y’know, I hear you but, consider this...words only have the power to hurt if you claim them; if you let them define you.  I've been called a cunt many the time - sometimes with sad impotent venom, sometimes with a curious fondness. Does it bother me? Not remotely. 

Btw, do I let James swear?  Well, it’s like this. I know he swears – all 13 year old boys do, whether you like it or not and whether or not they admit it to you.  We have talked about it (like we talk about most things) and I have told him my position on it - that a good swear is a wonderful thing but, like a lot of other wonderful things, it needs using appropriately if in public.  ‘Yeah, right, Mother,’ he said.  He’s taken to calling me Mother (with a very capital M) lately.  ‘Like on the buggering badminton court in Brushford, eh?’  Oh bugger.

P.S. Where's Frankie?  This post needs Frankie input.