Now We Are 28: On Remembrance

Remembrance Day seems to be increasingly controversial - there's been lots of debate this year over the wearing of poppies and the upcoming centenary of the outbreak of the First World War. The wearing of poppies becomes more and more of a fraught issue every year - does their ubiquity take away their meaningfulness, should the BBC insist on people wearing them, is it hypocritical for politicians who have sent troops to war to wear them?

I have stood in the battlefields of Northern France, now so still and peaceful, bearing few signs of the slaughter that took place there nearly a century ago. As a fourteen-year old to stand in the Commonwealth War Graves was one of the most profound and sobering experiences of my life - particularly when I saw the grave of a boy my own age. That experience is why Remembrance Sunday is important to me - the first hand understanding I gained of all those who died so that I could be free is one of the most significant things I have ever learnt. It is why I buy a poppy and watch the Remembrance Ceremony at the Cenotaph whenever possible - not because I feel I have to but because, to me, it is important.

The First World War was a mess, a pointless war caused by rampant imperialism, but that does not mean we should ignore or make less of the sacrifices a generation of men and women made as part of that conflict. The Second World War was perhaps a more just war but I have always questioned whether, without the First World War, Hitler would have had either the motivation or the opportunity to rise to power in 1930s Germany. Rampant nationalism and the need to protect one's perceived interests at home or abroad have caused wars beyond counting throughout human history - the so-called "war to end all wars" was nothing of the sort. War is futile, it solves nothing and almost always promotes further conflict and instability.

Condemn war all you want but don't condemn those who remember, however they choose to do so. Wearing a poppy isn't just a visible symbol of commemoration but an opportunity to support a very worthwhile charity, The Royal British Legion. Equally, however, the wearing of a poppy should never be something that we compel - gestures of this kind ought to come from the heart not as part of a PR campaign. Wearing a poppy, observing a Remembrance Sunday silence or laying a wreath at a war memorial aren't acts that rejoice in war or of national pride - they are a reflection of shared grief, dulled but not lessened by the passage of time.

As the First World War and Second World Wars become history rather than memory it is more important than ever not only to remember but to understand these conflicts in the hope that one day we might move beyond military force and the death of countless human beings as a way of resolving our differences. The saying "those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it" is as true today is it ever was.

"In Flanders fields the poppies blow

      Between the crosses, row on row,

   That mark our place; and in the sky

   The larks, still bravely singing, fly

Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the Dead. Short days ago

We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,

   Loved and were loved, and now we lie

         In Flanders fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe:

To you from failing hands we throw

   The torch; be yours to hold it high.

   If ye break faith with us who die

We shall not sleep, though poppies grow

         In Flanders fields."

                                            John McCrae

Now We Are 28: A Sense of Belonging

Last weekend marked the ten year anniversary of my first week at Durham University and thus it is also ten years since I left home for the first time. In the intervening decade I've lived in five different cities, six houses, seven flats, and packed my entire life into boxes at least 15 times. I still live more than 100 miles from my entire family, most of my friends and the town I grew up in.

Much in the same way as I love the feeling of travelling I love the possibilities of living somewhere new but I don't think I've ever felt I "belonged" somewhere as much as I did when I first moved to Durham. I was terrified when we first arrived of course, for some reason I spent most of the journey panicking that I would be ostracised for bringing too much stuff with me (I needn't have worried) and that I wouldn't make any friends (ditto). But within two weeks, once I'd survived fresher's flu and navigated a nightmarish train journey back to Wales, I felt more at home in Durham than I'd ever felt anywhere in my life. This wasn't an indictment on my much-loved family and friends, just a reflection on how much of a fish out of water I'd been. Leaving Durham three years later was one of the most difficult things I've ever done - and remains so, seven years of difficult decisions later.

By now, almost everyone I know is pretty settled - most people seem to pick a place and stay put, whether by birth or by choice. That happened pretty quickly with a lot of my friends - people dispersed to various locations once we left university and then seem to have remained there. People often look at me strangely when I talk about moving around the country or when I happily travel 100 miles for a night out with friends. It's odd because I don't consider myself particularly well travelled. The wanderlust is unintentional, I like to arrive at new places but I also like to leave - if you've ever met my dog Roscoe you'll know he is also very much of this persuasion! 

So, true to form the latest move - to Nottingham, a mere four months ago - was decided pretty much on the spur of the moment, I'd been offered a job and the boy had been made redundant so we thought we'd try a change of scenery. Unexpectedly it was a bigger adjustment than I'd been expecting, somehow I'd become settled whilst I wasn't looking. The job I left behind was one I loved and only left because it was made very clear to me that, however hard I worked and whatever additional responsibilities I took on, I'd never be able to earn a promotion. Actually leaving was heartbreaking but after months of frustration it was the only choice. Similarly, I cried the day we left our little house in Leamington - it may have been too small and possessed of an extremely irritating landlord but it was the boy and my first home together. For someone who claims to thrive on change all of this upheaval was harder to deal with than I remembered... 

I feel like I belong everywhere and nowhere all at once - home is where my boyfriend and my dog are, where my family are, where my friends are. I could be happy anywhere - a big city, a small town, the side of a mountain - which is a blessing in many ways. At the same time part of me wants to find a place where I can put down roots, knowing that I'm not going to have to pack my life into boxes and deconstruct all my bookcases yet again.  Is that part of getting older or will I still get the urge to gallivant around the country when I'm 60? 

Now We Are 28: On Travelling

I've always enjoyed travelling, no matter whether I'm going somewhere for the first time or the hundredth, somehow the feeling of being somewhere different never fails to thrill me. I wouldn't describe myself as well travelled but it's always an epithet I've wanted to earn. My ultimate aspiration is to be an old woman with a house full of souvenirs from around the world and a head full of interesting stories. 

This week I went to a conference in Geneva and consequently have mostly been on aeroplanes, in queues and trying to recall enough A-level French to order dinner without making a complete fool of myself. I also got to see the Alps gleaming white in the sunshine, a view I've wanted to see in person since I was a little girl looking at the photograph on my Aunty Ann's wall. It was that snatched ten minutes of beautiful scenery as my plane was leaving Geneva that made four very long and tiring days completely worthwhile.

It's these snapshots of perfection that stand out in my memory when I think of my favourite travel experiences - a breathtaking Swiss mountain range, a sun dappled Grecian sea, a real life Viking long boat, a medieval cathedral soaring to the heavens. These are the times when I want to pack up my belongings and just start wandering, the way I do when I'm in a strange city with time to kill and no aim other than exploration. There's few things that compare to the wonder I feel when I'm somewhere new and every corner turned is an adventure, a completely new window on the world. 

You gain new perspective when you travel, about how much people are different and how much we are all exactly the same. It always amazes me how some stereotypes hold true - I have never seen so many watchmakers, chocolatiers and adverts for investment banks in all my life as I did during four days in Switzerland! The other thing that never fails to surprise me is how global a language English is, everywhere I've ever been people speak at least some English.  It seems unspeakably arrogant to travel to another country and expect them to speak your language rather than theirs and I always feel ashamed for my lack of facility with almost every language other than my own, particularly as the dominance of English is perhaps little more than an accident of history.

More than anything else going somewhere different reinforces my desire to travel more and to see as many new and exciting places as I can. Procrastination has always been a major talent of mine but as I get older I start to wonder what my excuse really is? Sitting at home looking at pictures on the internet or making imaginary travel plans seems trivial when I could be actually going and seeing the world. After all, to become well-travelled you actually have to go places...

Now We Are 28: On Cycling

I wasn't quite sure where to start with this project however I've had one particular piece in my head for a while. As anyone who follows me on Twitter might be aware since we moved to Nottingham in May I've taken up cycling to work. This is primarily because the traffic in Nottingham is abysmal - it can take up to an hour and a half to drive the nine miles from my house to where I work! But it's also been a good way of keeping fit and not spending too much of my already overcommitted salary on bus fares...

I'm a reasonably fit person so cycling 18 or so miles in a day wasn't too much of a shock to the system. The first time I made the journey however I stubbornly insisted on taking my ancient, very heavy mountain bike which meant I arrived home half dead. My boyfriend then insisted I take his much lighter and very swanky road bike which has significantly improved both the experience and my time - I can do the journey in about 50 minutes now. I'm not particularly an expert cyclist but I can see a distinct improvement in my stamina as well as in my leg muscles!

I haven't cycled very much since I was a teenager and I've got a lot more cautious since I was last on a bike, probably because I've spent so much time as a driver over the past five years. I understand how fast traffic moves and how little drivers seem to pay attention, even to other cars, let alone to breakable things like cyclists and pedestrians. I was, therefore, unenthusiastic about the prospect of entangling myself with rush hour traffic with nothing but a helmet, spiky pedals and some borrowed Lycra to protect myself. Luckily Nottingham is a really cycle-friendly place and there's a National Cycle Network route which runs virtually from my house to where I work which keeps me off the main roads.

One of the things about this whole cycling experience that has really surprised me is the rudeness of other cyclists. Whilst I'm not a particularly committed cyclist I have a lot of friends who are - both in real life and through twitter - and they are some of the nicest people I know. I was therefore expecting more in the way of camaraderie from the many other cyclists I've encountered on my travels but honestly apart from a slightly pervy man saying hello and a couple of awkward conversations whilst locking my bike up at work the solidarity has been non-existent. In fact I've come closer to being knocked off my bike by other cyclists than I ever have by a car, particularly of note was the man who cycled through a red light at a pedestrian crossing last week and nearly sent me flying.

The other unexpected aspect of cycling, particularly on the route I take which is at least 50% on the pavement, has been the ignorance of pedestrians. I like to think I'm a pretty considerate and patient person but cycling has tested this quite severely! I just do not understand why, when a cycle route is clearly marked, a person would choose to walk down the middle of it and then glare angrily at any cyclist who dares to try and use the cycle path. Also, now the schools have started back, I spend most of my morning commute facing down the mouthy teenagers who wander aimlessly about the pavement. Irksome...

I've been almost pleasantly surprised that no-one in a car has yet made a serious attempt to run me over - I was really expecting to have to spend a lot more time avoiding bad drivers. There are still plenty of people who drive a bit too close but I've not really had any close calls. I think being a driver makes me a more aware cyclist, I'm used to having to anticipate potentially dangerous situations well in advance - something which is much more important as a vulnerable cyclist. I'd also like to think being a cyclist has improved my driving, at least in terms of being aware of other road users.

I'd be interested to hear other people's experiences of "urban" cycling - is the lack of sympathy for your fellow cyclist a problem particular to Nottingham?!

Now We Are (Nearly) 28: On Blogging

It's that time of year again - my birthday is fast approaching, I'm making a slightly ham-fisted effort at arranging several celebrations and thinking about what I want to achieve in the next year that I've thus failed to do in 28 years on this planet... This year, not for the first time, I've fixed on trying to keep up my blog

I've got a patchy track-record with blogging, at least personally, although I have managed to blog fairly consistently for various work projects. I have always loved writing and I do enjoy blogging - it's just often when I have the time I don't have the inspiration and vice-versa. I'm also quite lazy and prefer to spend my free evenings watching Grey's Anatomy boxsets rather than doing something that could be classed as at least half-way productive. The last time I really did any consistent writing was when I was at university which is now nearly a decade ago (gulp). I've always planned to do further qualifications but I'm starting to realise that I'll need to do something in the interim to maintain my few skills. 

My primary aim for this project is to brush up my writing so I'll be talking about anything and everything that pops into my head. The goal is at least one post per week - but there may be more if I get particularly inspired. This introduction is a little bit self-indulgent but hey, it's my blog - I'll be meta if I want to be! 

School Reunion

A few weeks ago someone posted an old school photograph on facebook. I looked at it briefly, showed Andy my terrible haircut and went off and did something else. In the meantime the photograph of me got tagged as someone else (!) and everyone I went to school with crawled out of the woodwork to reminisce about how wonderful school was and how we should have a reunion. 

I've found a number of things about this whole situation utterly baffling, the first being how many children my former classmates have accumulated between them! This shouldn't be a surprise given that at least one girl in my year was pregnant before we took our GCSEs but somehow it is. 

The second thing that confounded me was the amount of nostalgia for high school. I'm the first one to stand up and say I loathed almost every minute of my time there but I cannot believe that none of these people have done anything more enjoyable with their lives in the past twelve years. That bunking off school, bullying anyone who looked at you the wrong way and possessing a vastly inflated sense of your own importance for a few years over a decade is actually all some people can pinpoint as the high point of nearly three decades on this planet. I'm not claiming my life is any kind of glittering trail of achievements but everything I'm proud of I achieved once I left school...

The final thing was how irrelevant my school days now seem to me. It used to be a big deal that I hated school but as I've got older I realised that most people had a horrific high school experience. I literally never think about it these days, there are no repressed memories - it just has absolutely no relevance to my life. 

Feminism's New Entry Policy

This blog post has been brewing for a while - ever since the Guardian published an article on Tory feminism several weeks ago in fact - and I discovered the hitherto little known "fact" that you could only be a feminist if you hated the Conservative Party.

I've described myself as a feminist from a very early age. I remember reading about the suffragette movement whilst I was still in primary school and being shocked that women hadn't always been allowed to do the same things as men. Equality has always been one of the most important principles in my life - and not just for women - I believe passionately that all human beings are equal regardless of race, sex, sexuality, religion or any other descriminating factor that anyone cares to think of. All feminism has ever been for me is the belief that women are equal to anyone and anything. 

However, according to people like Suzanne Moore, the fact that I voted for David Cameron negates my right to believe this. Because Margaret Thatcher wasn't a feminist, because the Conservative Party have on occasion acted like the the worst kind of right wing dinosaurs you can only be a feminist if you are "left-wing" (I put left wing in inverted commas here because there is no mainstream political party in the UK whose policies are remotely left of centre). Why? Why in 2012 when no major political figure would deny female equality or the power of the feminist movement can I as a feminist not make a decision to support a political party based on my own beliefs and priorities? In 2015 I may well vote for a different political party (hell, I may even set up my own political party to avoid the dilemma of having to vote for any of the uninspiring choices currently on offer) but in 2010 I voted for the Conservative Party (the reasons for which are explained here). I am technically a Conservative Feminist and thus cannot possibly exist.

So again I'm back to the question of why? Surely it's a good thing that women are represented across the political spectrum and are fighting in different ways for issues important to them! I don't particularly like Louise Mensch or Nadine Dorries but I can't deny that they stand up and fight for the issues which they feel are important. I may fundamentally disagree with Dorries' stance on abortion but hell I fundamentally disagree with every word which comes out of Laurie Penny's mouth as well - and I deny neither of them the right to be a feminist. I may not like the way they do it - dictate what I can do with my uterus or what type of cake I am allowed to eat at your peril - but the most important thing is that they are women standing up and being counted.

So my message to the sisterhood is pretty much just this: respect my right to say and be something, even if you don't like what I'm saying or what I represent. Women aren't all the same, just as all human beings aren't the same. If you don't like my stance on something politically challenge me, I'll debate anything with anyone - I have even been known to change my opinion if given a decent enough reason to do so.  But never ever deny my right to call myself a feminist because of what political party I support.

Caitlin Moran manages to sum up what I'm trying to say far more eloquently than I'm ever going to be able to:

"The purpose of feminism isn't to make a particular type of woman. The idea that there are inherently wrong and inherently right 'types' of women is what's screwed feminism for so long... What is feminism? Simply the belief that women should be as free as men, however nuts, dim, deluded, badly dressed, fat, receding, lazy and smug they might be."

(Seriously if you haven't read How To Be A Woman yet - do it! Even if you're a man, it's fine...)