Reasons to be cheerful

A bloggette today: five reasons to feel good about myself. 1. In spite of everything, I keep writing. While some might say this is not something to be proud of, I like to think it shows perseverence and a determination to improve. 2. Slowly but surely I am getting rid of decades' accumulated junk. Apparently this will feel liberating when it's finished, although at the moment I am just wondering where it all came from, since there seems to be no corresponding space in the cupboards I took it from. 3. By not conforming to modern standards of singlism, I am forging my own identity. No matter that this will end up as tweedy woman in bobble hat knitted from moulted cat fur. At least I am not walking about in a skirt shorter than my coat and no tights, so I am not going to contract pneumonia and be a drain on the National Health Service. 4. Although not stated explicitly on my job description, I seem to be the only person who can fix the fax maxhine at work. Apart from last time, when the most I could do was a post mortem. But I did it nicely. 5. I know all the words to Bowie's Young Americans, even the bit in the middle where he gabbles. It's not much, but it's a start. Oh, and I can write concisely when I want to.

Mirror, mirror

So I came back. Bit of a makeover for the blog, tart the place up a bit, try to encourage myself to come out of my barnacle-encrusted shell (do you get landlocked barnacles?) and just get on and write something. But what? Well, I said to myself I was going to be a writer, then I said to myself I'd better face up to the fact that it ain't gonna happen. And so it's time to face the other unpalatable truths of my life: 1. I am never going to be a beauty. Now I know I've blogged extensively about my bloodyminded embrace of plainness and all its attendant freedoms from unfeasible cosmetics bills and having to look in every mirror I encounter, but I have to admit here and now it didn't come easily. Because if I'm honest I'm like everyone else: I want the world to see how fabulous I am. Now, well-meaning friends and greetings card writers aside, no-one really cares about what's inside. Exterior is all. No-one ever said, "All right, she's got a face like the back of the bus but, my god, you should see her spleen." And that goes for more nebulous distinguishing characteristics. You could be the kindest, most noble creature on God's earth but if you look like a mangled trout no-one will give you a second glance, apart from, perhaps, the odd lairy twelve year old who will take great delight in informing you of your repellant aspect. (Really. It's happened to me at least twice in the street.) And all this leads on to: 2. I am never going to have a relationship of any meaning with anybody. Again, I've blogged bravely about the advantages of the defiantly single life, but when it comes down to it, when I've read too much Jane Austen or watched part four of the BBC's adaptation of Elizabeth Gaskell's North and South, it's a bit disheartening to know that I am never going to experience anything even faintly reminiscent of the grand passions evoked in great works of literature, or by the Mills & Boon oeuvre, come to that. In life, it takes a lot to get past first impressions (see point one) and no man is going to waste time on a borderline depressive teetotal wallflower. Well, one or two men might give it a go, but I know them by sight (and, in one case, by particularly pungent smell) and I take evasive action accordingly. When all's said and done, the fault's entirely mine. I'm misanthropic and would rather stay in sighing over fictional heroes than go out and find my own. Nevertheless, resigned singlism does have its problems, namely: 3. Leonard Cohen is never going to write a song about me. For various reasons, among them my inability to socialise like a sane human being, points one and two above, and, most importantly, the fact that we are never going to meet or have any other form of contact, I am never going to be the muse for a song of startling beauty and lyrical truth, sung by a man whose voice sends shivers down my spine. While realism insists I recognise this, I can't help feeling a twinge of disappointment as I listen to CDs on headphones in the wee small hours of the morning. 4. I am never going to be the wise-cracking all-action sidekick of a 1960s super-cool secret agent. It's 2009. Any remaining 1960s super-cool secret agents will be a) dead, b) too arthritic to swing or c) popping Viagra and trying to pull sceptical nineteen year old popsies with a line about their flying car that can go underwater. And it's that pesky point one again. 5. I never keep a promise, even to myself. I said I wouldn't write any more, but here I am. Next time, I shall blog on five things that make me feel good about myself. That will be a much shorter post. Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm off to listen to Leonard Cohen. Well, a girl can dream.

I don't want to be single

Strictly speaking, spinsters don't exist any more. We were abolished a few years ago. I don't know what marriage certificates say now. Single, probably. Factual, yes, but boring. I don't want to be a single. I want a label I can be proud of. As Marion Shaw said in Winifrid Holtby's South Riding, "I was born to be a spinster, and, by God, I'm going to spin." In times past, remaining unmarried was a misfortune. Women were objects with few rights. However, in this country (Britain) at least, since the earlier part of the last century this has been addressed, sometimes insufficiently, sometimes to this point of belittling men. The latter is something I'll discuss in another post. Spinsters have been, not infrequently, pigeonholed as mad old bats wearing tea cosy hats and tweeds smelling of cat. I don't think there's anything wrong with this, although it's not a compulsory uniform. Tweed can be scratchy, tea cosy hats are challenging in high summer and smelling of cat can be avoided by encouraging said cat to use a litter tray. But you can put the spin into spinster any way you choose. A quick vox pop in any British town centre would give you a few famous spinsters: Miss Marple (fictional but fiendishly intelligent), Ann Widdecombe (currently on people's Fantasy Parliament squad as the new Speaker of the House of Commons), Joan of Arc (French heroine and saint), Germaine Greer (feminist icon and part-time Big Brother contestant). The fact is, spinsters are seen as formidable. May I remind you that formidable is French for great. The term spinster is more loaded than the insipid single. It carries centuries of baggage. That weight is something to be harnessed. Modern spinsterdom is more of a calling than a curse. Marriage, cohabitation, even casual copping off on a semi-regular basis - these are not the goals of every woman. Some of us opt not to inflict ourselves on another person, opt not to compromise. It's a lifestyle choice, like having your ears pierced, only less sharp and pointy. Whatever modern culture says, being a single woman does not make you a freak. Being a perpetually single woman is perhaps a little more rare. If you're not happy with that, fine. Do something about it. But if you don't mind, if you're quite happy without a man, spin like crazy.