I like to say that I am not a snob. Why would I? I don’t consider myself to be high up on any social ranking scale. I don’t portend to feelings of grandeur above anyone else. Some sociologist could probably categorise my social demographic and from then on dissect me into a sub-category. That’s for them to do. However, this rant is about food snobbery, or, as a recently coined phrase, “food gentrification”. There is a new terminology for the young affluent middle class or those aspiring to it. They are usually white with beards. Hipsters. Food is trendy. As you eat your quinoa you can look down your nose at the people who, like me, couldn’t tell you from the top of my head exactly what it is. I don’t mind your assumed superiority. What does annoy me about this culture is that it takes what was cheap and nutritious from the masses and takes it to posh restaurants at ridiculously high prices thus making it unavailable to the people who have relied on it at their kitchen table. A quick example; I was brought up on homemade soup. My Mother was quite an expert. Scotch broth was made from the shank of a lamb. This was a cheap cut of meat. Now it is on restaurant menus at ridiculous prices and my Mother can no longer afford to make soup. Sounds mad? It’s the gentrification of peasant food. This happens locally very often when new housing is rattled up (as here and surrounding areas) and new people arrive in the area. Local shops are revitalised in the first bloom of a new culture then priced out by it. We see an influx of food that was once affordable to an overinflated designer trend that squeezes out the working classes. I’m fed up of hearing about vegans, vegetarians, whole foods (?) craft beer, drunk by certain bearded white men at trendy summer soirees. I’ve seen enough advertising on the many fruity versions of gin. While you are drinking that don’t dare sneer down your concorde nose at me. You can keep your brussel sprout crisps and winter berry and presseco hand cooked crisps and get this one, raw organic fig and horseradish kale chips.
I know, you probably think I’m going all over the place with this so I’ve got to be careful. The thing we all should be ashamed of is, in a country as affluent as ours, is food banks. Don’t think for a second these are only used by the feckless uneducated, unemployable drug ridden “underclass” portrayed in certain TV shows. (I’ve been told we live in a classless society). These are frequented by working people who do not earn a reasonable living wage. That’s all people expect from working thirty eight hours a week. Enough to live on and possibly an evening down the club at the weekend. It’s a national disgrace and probably belongs in another rant so I’ll leave that one here. I don’t eat sea food. By this I mean crab, prawn and anything that resembles insects and arachnid. I am offended by the massacre on a plate and don’t want to be anywhere near a seafood platter. Take another look at our culture though. My offence aside, meat that fed and sustained us from the sea was traditionally peasant food. It was cheap and abundant. Now, the middle classes have heralded it as their own, thermidor butter dribbling down their beards, eyes glassy and food drunk. Now that children are exposed to holidays on the Mediterranean, their children are lauded as sophisticated when displaying knowledge of this culinary debauchery. (food snobbery) I hold with pride my fish supper from Joe or Mario, deep fried in batter, smothered in salt and nippy sauce or vinegar on a Friday. Any TV chef brave enough to take it from me will sport a black eye on his next show. Talking about TV chefs. Talking about supermarkets. Talking about £ stores. I’ll probably rant about this at another date…….
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Dark carbon images threw up over our TV screens for days. This is more a blog than a story. I don’t want this generation to be a historical backdrop for another story. Their story is powerful enough on its own. It takes the planning dept of Kensington and Chelsea six months to lay out the foundations of their proposed Nursery of the Future. The workforce came from the five tower blocks that over- looked the Shepherd Bush flyover. Men and women who had heaved invisible air into their lungs now building for the future, a utopia for their children who would never feel sickness in their lungs. The backdrop of their lives was the constant hmm of traffic traversing the flyover. They were never without it, it became comforting, the sound that said everything in the world was as it should be. The rhythm of the early train, 5.26, every morning was the sound of a good hardworking society. Still they heaved air into their lungs, for the generation of the future. For the benefit of the children. They would have a better life. They carried on building. Posters hung in council chambers depicting happy children, fresh faced, blonde, blue eyes, perfect teeth. They play with state-of-the-art toys. They are not toys anymore though, they are Learning Craft, to enhance their integration into a society of adults who are good and clean, who are healthy and industrious. The children learned how to touch a screen and make the images on the screen change. Children not yet able to walk could sit in pushchairs on public transport, staring at the screens, their little heads nodding with tiredness, only to be jerked into reality by the screen that demanded to be looked at. Children who could not talk learned The Craft with an American accent. The clever children of the nursery learned how to put plastic bottles in one big plastic box and how to put cardboard in another. These are children of the future, groomed into caring for the environment. Groomed into fighting for something called the rain forest. Only last week there was a tuck-shop at the nursery to raise funds for new trees, somewhere else, where they didn’t have enough trees left. What a wonder said the hardworking parents. We told you so said the arseholes from deep within the council chambers. They erected more posters in public places where more hardworking adults could point in wonder at the contented children. The environmental agency at Kensington and Chelsea council said everything should be safe for the children of the Grenfell generation. It crossed their minds from time to time that maybe there could be traffic pollution to the detriment of healthy living. There really should be an enquiry into this. An enquiry there was, it said the traffic congestion had affected the lungs of those who lived in the high rise apartments that over looked the flyover. The nursery still had to be built, for the sake of the children. An arsehole at the council said, we need electric cars to run silently without fumes. It was agreed by everyone concerned that it was a good idea. So good a handful of council workers were keen to try out these electric cars at the council’s sponsorship. A way had to be found to convince the wider public on their efficiency. The children of the future would breathe fresh air into their lungs. They would be healthy and educated. The posters at the Council offices said so. It gave the hardworking Mothers and Fathers of the tower blocks hope. The arseholes at Kensington and Chelsea Council decided to make the apartments of the lucky people who lived there look attractive. New cladding would at least, on the outside, hide the fact that within five years of construction these apartments in the sky were difficult to rent out. Only the poor, the displaced, the victims of a global society would live there. The image of the real people who lived here have black hair and brown eyes. This is not to be considered a racist rant, but that is the truth. The arseholes at Kensington and Chelsea had to put them somewhere. The whole world could covet the cosmopolitan utopia of London, could maybe emulate it. More posters were hung in public places. The city had to let the people know how well they were being looked after. What a wonder people said. Two years on, the poor and the homeless of Grenefell are still victims of gross mismanagement on a life threateningly scale. Serious mental illness is now thrown into the mix of a community that didn’t have a chance. Come out of Latimer Road tube station and cross the road and look up. There sits what is left of Grenfell. I don’t know where to go with this, there’s so much going on. We’ve heard so much about Shamimma. Social media is hot with it, not everything you read is true. One social media fact is that she got out of the country without a passport. Please. Her father who lives in Bangladesh with another wife is a radical Muslim. The truth of it all is a needle in a haystack.
What is true, is, a fifteen-year-old British girl was groomed and enticed into being a Jihadi Bride. The word groom has been used a lot recently, more notably young people being lure into the sex trade or drug trafficking. What we must look at is what this word really means. It means brainwashing, controlling your mind, controlling your actions, controlling everything in your daily life, withdrawing choice. All this for a group of people you haven’t even met. Her and her friends were possibly lured by social media, in her very own bedroom, where she should have been safe. She was sold an ideology, a utopia. She was brainwashed into a religion. (We hear about religious cults, it’s unfortunate that this one is mainstream, it espouses racism and violence. There are stories of parents breaking into compounds to kidnap their children and to try to deradicalize them through therapy.) there is a lot of talk about how grown up fifteen-year olds are nowadays. I don’t think so, because her groomers made her believe she was grown up enough to make her own decisions, doesn’t mean that she was. She has paid a heavy price for a teenager making wrong decisions. She must have been frightened out of her wits when she realised being a Jihadi Bride wasn’t all it was copped out to be. If we are to believe her husband, she sat at home all day and played house. She must have loved that. This girl had three babies by the time she was nineteen. She endured the trauma of all of them dying. She wanted to come home with the last one. We watched a shell of a young woman being interviewed by the BBC. This was used to highlight how evil she was, how she didn’t care about the criminal acts of her husband and ISIS, how it was normal to see human heads in dustbins, what happened in war was normal, civilian casualties are an unfortunate reality of war. We were watching a young woman living the life of someone who had been groomed. There was no one around to free this young woman who was vulnerable and disenfranchised from life. Shouldn’t we look at ourselves? I don’t know, I can predict though, that sometime in her future, the ISIS Bride will have to face the hell she is trying to wallpaper over now. Her three babies will haunt her forever. It will hit her like a brick one day that opening your rubbish bin and seeing severed heads in it isn’t a normal. Those ghosts will jump into her psyche when she least expects it. Having said all that, I understand the don’t let her back in the UK opinion. I do. She is a threat to our national security. We don’t know what she’ll do next. We don’t owe her anything. She can go to Holland where her husband has nationality. She could go to Bangladesh where her father is. I don’t know the answer, clemency or retribution? The world has gone mad. I’ve heard we must be nice to Nonbinary people. This means I would have to know what a nonbinary person is. What a who? I’ve researched a couple of online sites. It looks like if you are young, say no more than 30, maybe 25, you could be a candidate. You could be male, which would mean I am offending you under this category, or you could be female, I am offending someone again. For goodness sake. I can’t ask you what you were born as. I can’t ask you what toilet you use. More offence. What about me though, and all those folk like me? I’ve got a right to know who I share a toilet with. Maybe I don’t need to know your entire gene pool, but at the very least I want to know if the person in the next cubicle is a man. I’m not saying that every man who would possibly be sharing a toilet is a rapist or mass murderer, but I have personal things I don’t want to share with a strange man. As I rummage in my handbag for loose change for the Tampax machine I then hear it rattling inside, I pull out the drawer and hey presto! This would inspire sympathetic glances from the sisterhood, a silent knowledge, an understanding why I’m clutching my side, why I’m looking a bit pale faced. I don’t see why a bloke in a dress should get a ringside view.
I hear about gender fluid, what’s this? You make up your mind in the morning how feminine you’ll be or how masculine you want to be on any given day. Whatever whenever? Fine, that’s your prerogative, but don’t complain about being born in the wrong body, don’t whinge to me about having a penis or a clitoris, life is a game of cards, you play with the deck you got. I don’t mean to be harsh. I know some people have really bad times working out what they are, but if it’s not sexual, the hard time would be about something else. Some people want to change gender but once they are the gender they think they should be, they will be insulted to be called a particular gender. The whole argument falls back on itself. Some people will never be happy. I struggle to understand why a man would think being a woman would be an easier life. My self and fellow sisters have hormones raging through us in every cycle of our life. As mentioned previously, we have monthly problems. Could I be a man for a week every month please? Could I not be menopausal this year please, I have a wedding to attend? Hormones. We seem to be able to pump ourselves with them at our fancy. I am sorry to burst anyone’s bubble, but no amount of chemical hormones are going to supply you with working ovaries. No amount of internet images of pregnant bearded men are going to grace you with a womb either. Suck it up boys. What if an illness like cancer has raped me of my ovaries, womb, breasts. Am I going to feel less feminine? Yes, without doubt. Would being embraced by a movement that would like to be all shades of sexuality make me feel better? No. I would still be bereft. I would never be the whole of my former self. When you assault me with an LGBTNonBinary and whoever else leaflet at me as I am walking up my local high street some Saturday afternoon, I might want to slap you. I won’t, I don’t like violence, but when you react, my gay man, transitional female, cross dresser or whoever you are that day, are you going to slap like a woman or punch like a man? I’d like to know. If you were to put money on a winner, I bet you would opt for the one born with male genitalia. I am going to leave this. Park it here. I’ll return to this though. My opinion may change. Surely we all have a view on why there are 71 gender identities on Facebook? I’ve posted this new story to commemorate our beloved bard, Rabbie Burns. His birthday comes around every year, but his poems, stories and songs are not taught at school. We are taught the works of Shakespeare, our English counterpart. I just think our rich Scottish heritage should be celebrated and the language of Scotland should not be forgotten. Christmas in the Highlands is not quite finished. I’ve had a block regarding the dialogue between Rab and Rab C. They are both philosophers, I need to introduce Mary Doll as well. Hope to have it complete for next year! What has happened to people? Some people are allergic to gluten, so they stop eating bread, or, eat free from products. We are bombarded with signs in the supermarket promoting free from foods. Bread, pastry, pasta, the list goes on.
Some people have an allergy to the sugar in cow’s milk, so they say. To my knowledge you would only have this problem in non-European countries. The upshot being a lot of milk products from a vast array of sources: coconut, soya, etc. we are being bombarded with what feels like to me, propaganda. Now, as the New year dawns we have to be kind to vegans. I don’t understand it. I am confused. If you don’t want to eat meat or anything derived from it, that’s up to you. You are left with only fruit, nuts and vegetables. Your choice. Of course, you may have a nut allergy. A life- threatening condition, granted, but it only leaves you with fruit and veg. You must feel crap. However, the acid from all that fruit you are munching on will have a detrimental effect on your teeth. You can’t live on just sugar, I don’t think. Now, you are only left with veggies. Eat your sprouts and peas all day long, if you like, no-one will come near you. You’ll fart all day. Life. IYep, I realise it is early on in the year but I'm fed up of of 2019 already. Why? The telly and other media sources are constantly telling me what to do. No, I say. In the run up to Chrismas TV was over-indulging in programmes about food. We were shown how to add cream to this, sugar to that. No food was out of bounds as retailers sold us the vision of a beautiful Christmas season with fine wine, friends, family and food. We can indulge, nay, over indulge. Everything in the garden of Eden was on offer and available.
Now January is in, the opposite message is being peddled on our cultural barometer that sits on the wall above the fire place or in the corner of your room, judging you, making you feel guilty if you have another Jaffa cake from the metre long tube you started eating on Christmas Eve. They told you it was ok to do this. You see, then, it was ok to munch into Christmas pudding with brandy sauce, maybe a little added cream, or custard while you watched Santa Clause the movie for the twentieth year in a row. Everything had a rosy glow. If this wasn't happiness, it was deep entrenched contentment. Now, I have to be careful of what I eat. I should cut out sugar, turn my back on fat. Stop snacking. If I feel the need for food, or snacks, have a brisk walk. Join Weightwatchers. Lose two pound a week and five hundred pence at the same time. All those pounds will make your purse leaner and your body in crisis. For goodness sake, just leave me alone. I will be sat here well into the spring finishing the Heroes and Celebrations. Do you know what I saw in Tesco last week? Easter Eggs. ![]() Where to start? As promised, Angie got me custard! We had a lovely meal in the café, the full traditional do with good music in the background. I have a photo. This is proper custard with a lovely Christmas pudding. On a cold weekend in December John and I had a lovely night out in the Selkirk Arms in Kirkudbright. it was a great party night with an over night stay. This is what happened after the party. On our way up the stairs to our room stood a little tree with a little Santa hanging there. I stole Santa. He wouldn’t come off the tree. John, liking a power tool, had a pair of 12 inch scissors in his toilet bag. Honest, I do not exaggerate. So, I tried to sneak them out but he caught me. He told me to put them back but when he was in the loo, I ran downstairs and cut Santa from the tree. He was only 2 inches tall. He had a bare belly, he was in a bad way. I felt sorry for him, we could love him again, I said. Cherish him as a memento of our fantastic Christmas together. In future years he would symbolise our happy days of festivity. However, John didn’t quite see things that way. As I tried to cuddle up on the bed, he told me in no uncertain terms how disappointed he was in me and that I had vandalised a lovely little tree that had been erected and dressed by thoughtful people for our happiness and entertainment. I had massacred the very message of Christmas. I was a vandal and a thief. He said he wouldn’t talk to me again, ever. As I sat on the loo, I reflected on my wrong doing, I asked John how long forever would last. He said at least until the morning. Things were serious between us. OK, we’d be sleeping for a good eight hours, but it was still a long time. I shouted through, what would you feel about things if I took Santa back to his tree? He shouted back that it would only take 5 minutes, he could forgive me in that time. What could I do. I hung my head in shame as I sneaked down the stairs and perched Santa on top of his tree. Five minutes later John kept his word. I was forgiven. This time. I am now lost. In two weeks I have lost two stories. I could only locate paper copies. The digitals are lost somewhere on a cloud. A little cloud in the ether. I wonder if it will land on someone else's cloud, coz it sure as hell isn't on mine. Ten minutes ago I deleted a story ready for posting. I has two copies you see. I only need one for website purposes. it made sense at the time. Now, the said story is lost again. Somewhere on someone else's cloud, probably. I hope I have a paper copy. I am hoping to scan this. At home, where I know how to work the scanner. If not, I'll spend another hour re=writing it. If I can find the paper copy...…
Now back to another pressing matter. Custard. We were out for a meal in Glasgow on Friday night. A very strange fusion restaurant combining German sausages with kebabs. The menu made very little sense so I ordered some thing safe. (pork schneittzle and chips) and no, I do not know how to spell schientzle but Im hoping you understand me. For pudding, apple strudel. I asked if it came with custard. One of my fellow diners had ascertained he once had custard with ice-cream all in the same bowl. I don't believe him. (Isn't it strange how custard can open up lively and fervent debate?) The waitress assured me the strudel came with custard, I made sure it was hot, then she said, it comes with ice-cream! No! No way! My fellow diner was flushed with success. No. The strudel custard and ice cream arrived, all on the same plate. Plate is important the important noun here. Not a bowl. Below is a picture of Pudding. Strudel, ice-cream, custard. It was not custard. Don't let them get away with this parody of a much loved pudding favourite. I am of a generation who know about their custard. It should be hot. A lovely tummy warming sponge in the middle of the bowl. What I have shown you here is sacrilege. A dumbing down of dessert. Don't allow them to delude you into believing this is a lovely bowl of apples and custard. I think it is time to make a stand. I'm sure I'll have a dine out meal over the festive season. I'll let you know where custard is served and which restaurant to boycott. Lost. I've had it in my mind to submit a couple of stories to a woman's magazine. the problem has been finding them. One, I knew that due to a gremlin problem wasn't on the computer. I have searched for it many times. I remembered though, I had a copy on the website but hid in navigation, not published. Weebly had a problem with reindeers or Santa Clause. I'm not sure which. So I jumped in to my collection, happy, only to find, or not find, my story. From there I had to rake through all my paper copies of everything I had ever written. I have written loads. When you are looking for one thing you have to read everything. It took hours. I promise, I do not lie when I say, the two stories were found in the very last folder.
I think it is too late now to send them to the magazine but you never know. I plan to post a story about an immigrant in this country and how harsh his life really was. It' not all about "they come over here and take our jobs". It looks at modern day slavery. Another story to be considered in the same category is a Serial Offender. Although the character is British her circumstances are dire. The common denominator in both is poverty. Then we hear "money doesn't buy you happiness". No, but it gives you choices. You would chose not to live in a damp home. You would chose better food to feed your children. You could chose to have the heating on when it is cold. I don't think either story paints Britain in a very good light. |
AuthorI enjoy writing short stories and reading yours. I'm always amazed at where our mind can take us. I think it is therapeutic to let your mind wander off and free itself of personal drudgery. Archives
March 2020
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