Good Enough

Last year, while CC and I were sharing close quarters in a VW van, we got chatting one night about whether our expectations of men in relationships were unreasonably high. Should we settle for someone who is good enough?

According to Lori Gottlieb, yes, we should.

In 2007, she wrote an article for The Atlantic Magazine to this end, stating: …’every woman I know—no matter how successful and ambitious, how financially and emotionally secure—feels panic, occasionally coupled with desperation, if she hits 30 and finds herself unmarried.’

She then continued, ‘Oh, I know—I’m guessing there are single 30-year-old women reading this right now who will be writing letters to the editor to say that the women I know aren’t widely representative, that I’ve been co-opted by the cult of the feminist backlash, and basically, that I have no idea what I’m talking about. And all I can say is, if you say you’re not worried, either you’re in denial or you’re lying. In fact, take a good look in the mirror and try to convince yourself that you’re not worried, because you’ll see how silly your face looks when you’re being disingenuous.’

You’re going to have to take my word for it that I don’t share her view.

Lots of people have written their objections to this, and the argument about whether a woman should settle or hold out for something ‘better’ has risen its head into the public debate again because there is now a full-length version of this article, a book called:

The premise seems to be, that marriage is more important than love, and that the security it offers should be grasped when you are young and have the opportunity to grasp it. You have a lifetime of marriage to work out the niggles. A husband is useful as a means to have children and someone to share the childcare with.

‘If you rarely see your husband—but he’s a decent guy who takes out the trash and sets up the baby gear, and he provides a second income that allows you to spend time with your child instead of working 60 hours a week to support a family on your own—how much does it matter whether the guy you marry is The One?’ she argues.

Erm, possibly because marriage can’t just be about kids and when they’ve grown up and left home, what are you left with?

Although I agree that the older I get, and the clearer I become about who I am and what my aspirations are,  what I’m looking for in a relationship becomes more exacting, it’s also perhaps based on things that are more fundamentally important and less flippant.

For example, when I was 19, I had a notional idea that it would be great to marry someone who had studied science, because I was studying arts and they would know something different to me. Now I really don’t care. I’d rather be with someone who was kind, for example.

So I agree that if you’re going to rule someone out for something superficial then you’re a fool.

But if ’settling’ means choosing to be with someone FOR THE REST OF YOUR LIFE who you do not love, but thought would make a good match because he is financially stable and would help you create a good context in which to have children, then ’settling’ seems a little mercenary to me.

And when I think of the guys, lovely as some of them were, who if I had decided to take Gottlieb’s advice I could have settled with in my twenties, I can’t help but suspect that we would both probably be fairly miserable now.

When any of my friends’ relationships come to an end, more often than not it’s because there was a fundamental incompatibility that meant that relationship would never work without belittling or diminishing one or other of them. Relationships need compromise, yes, but not to the extent that one person loses themselves to a dominant other (or do I have a mistaken/idealised view of parity?). We would always say to them – ‘It’s the right thing. He/she’s not good enough for you.’

Which means that Lori Gottlieb may be correct about choosing to marrying Mr Good Enough. It actually comes down to how you define ‘good enough’.

But I don’t agree with her that marriage is the ultimate goal. How soulless! And how perjorative that is to people who are unmarried for whatever reason?

Call me naive, or suggest that I do protest too much, but as far as I’m concerned love is the goal, and although it shows itself in different forms, if I love my family and my friends, and am loved in return, then I will have lived a satisfying and purposeful life. Married or not.

Is this utopia?

BC told me that on his visit to Berlin he’d been struck by the contrasts still remaining between east and west. Berlin is a city that demonstrates what happens when two ideas of utopia meet one another. Both western capitalism and Soviet communism promised, like all political ideologies do, their citizens the best possible life. Both thought they had the answer for the perfect form of society. One ‘won’ over the other in Europe, but is this really utopia? -

Everywhere we went we were reminded, even twenty years after the fall of the Berlin Wall, of the clash of two philosophies enacted in this city. The S-Bahn took us directly under the TV tower in Alexanderplatz, a symbol of Soviet supremacy and the tallest building in Europe, built to tower over West Berlin, from our hotel in East Berlin, round the corner from the longest remaining stretch of the Berlin Wall, to the splendour of the Brandenburg Gate, on the edge of the west.

We took a free walking tour that started in front of the Gate. Well, more specifically, in front of Starbucks in front of the Brandenburg Gate. Our guide pointed out that twenty years earlier we would have been shot for standing where we were. Evidence that the Communist ideology wasn’t exactly a dream. But the presence of such a potent symbol of globalisation didn’t feel entirely ideal either. I couldn’t help but feel that some form of innocence had been lost under Western influence.

On the day we arrived in Berlin, Tony Blair was giving evidence to the Iraq Inquiry. I’ve been following it fairly closely so I was desperate to hear news of what he said to Lord Chilcot. Frustratingly, there was no news on any of the screens in Stansted Airport, and no English news channels in the hotel. We strained to hear what Blair actually said under the German dubbing and stared at the pictures for some kind of clue to what was going on.

When I found the international version of the Guardian the next day I read that, in justifying his decision to the inquiry, Blair asked what the world would be like now, seven years later, if we hadn’t taken action in Iraq. ‘Who knows?’ is the only real answer. The implication is that Blair believes without the intervention of UK and US troops, the citizens of Iraq would never have the opportunity to experience a ‘good’ life, Western-style. Whereas now they can. At least in theory.

In implementing the downfall of Saddam Hussein – regardless of the premise, regardless of the preparation, or lack of it, for the aftermath – Blair, our government, Parliament, and the UK and US forces, were asserting that the way we form society in our countries is the exemplary model, one that should be propagated to other countries, especially those in the grip of failing or oppressive regimes. We were bringing an opportunity to embrace a transformative and progressive society. Even if perhaps there’s little evidence of it on the streets of Baghdad seven years later.

It seems our cultural message, politically and economically, is that the way in which we live – where big names are everything and small names mean nothing, where greed is rewarded, the poor become poorer, and we feel it more keenly because the number of products and choices on offer become ever greater and greater – is one that should be emulated.

If it’s not our politicians saying it, then it’s the brands we consume – the most potent symbols of our society: ‘This is utopia.’

Learning about Berlin’s history I’m glad I didn’t grow up behind the Iron Curtain or live under the government of the Nazis. I’m glad I don’t live under a dictatorship like Saddam Hussein’s. But I’m not sure I’m satisfied to live in a capitalist society either. I’m sure utopia can’t exist in this world, but if it could, regardless of how highly we may think of ourselves, our justice system and our method of governance, I’m fairly sure this isn’t it.

Berlin

‘I need something to look forward to in January’, FF said to me before Christmas.

So we made plans to head east to Berlin for a short but sweet city break.

Everyone who heard of our plans who had visited the city got very excited on our behalf, waxing lyrical about what a cool place it is – the underground scene, the clubbing, the wall, the Jewish memorials and museums.

Based on the hype, it was going to have a lot to live up to.

It didn’t fail. Although I should state for the sake of impartiality, that anywhere where sausage is classed as something of a national dish can’t actually fail in my books. But still…

We stayed in a hotel just round the corner from the longest remaining stretch of the Berlin Wall, with cuckoo clocks on the walls and metal crates full of books.

The ground was covered in several inches of snow, which kept falling onto the increasingly icy pavements. The temperature was at least three below zero, and there was a sharp wind with very few buildings to interrupt its path making it feel much much colder.

Staying in east Berlin, where the streets are wide enough for tanks and where brutalist concrete housing blocks stand alone like Lego towers, made it easy to imagine life before the fall of the wall. The snow only added to the atmosphere.
We took a free tour on foot round the city centre, with an enthusiastic American guide who held our attention(or mine at least) by being handsome and knowledgable, at the same time.

There were loads of interesting things I learned in those four hours.

For example:
- Berlin has room for seven million people, but only around three million live there.

- The Memorial to the Murdered Jews of Europe is coated in anti-graffiti paint, making it probably the only surface in Berlin that isn’t tagged with spray paint in some way.

- The site of the Nazi book burning has a memorial reminding us of the importance of free speech. But holocaust denial, contradictorily albeit understandably, is a criminal offence in Germany.

- Ninety per cent of Berlin was destroyed in Allied air raids, but the Luftwaffe building wasn’t. This is possibly because it was so large it was used as a navigational aid.

- The announcement that brought the Berlin Wall down that East Berliners could cross into West Berlin was made accidentally.

Also that everything I learned about Frederick of Brandenburg-Prussia at A level would have been very useful if I could remember any of it. And that I’m fairly sure my history teacher did not tell me the two things about him I’d be most likely to remember – that he ran away with his gay lover before he became emperor and that he played the flute.

We climbed the dome of the Reichstag and pondered how Norman Foster expressed transparency in government through architecture. We went to Potsdammer Platz to eat sauerkraut, bratwurst and German cheese and to drink blond bier and thought about how great holidays are for eating far too much.

We drank lots of gluwein and on Saturday night, FF decided to take action on my cold and cough, giving me a large glass of ‘hot whisky punch’ to drink. I’ve no idea what was in it – all I know is that I gradually lost the feeling in my legs, was asleep within two minutes of getting into bed and had the shivers and a headache the next morning.
‘It was meant to knock you out,’ FF said. And knock me out it did.

Berlin’s quirky and arty. We walked along the murals of the East Side Gallery, visited a flea market and then ventured into West Berlin to see the Bauhaus Archiv. By this time my brain was full of fonts and graffiti and political statements made in street art.

In short:
Tangible evidence of recent upheaval + fascinating history + good looking tour guide + memorials to the failings of conflicting ideologies + gluwein + graffiti + the company of FF + a quirky hotel + sausages = a great long weekend.

Fringe benefits

I have a fringe.

It’s the first time I’ve had a fringe since I was about seven. I think.

I felt like doing something a bit risky, suggested it to the hairdresser who went wild with delight, told me not to freak out, and who cut it while my back was turned to the mirror.

FF gave me banter about how I’d blog about having a changed identity and yadayadayada. This is largely because my new fringe, in combination with glasses and five years worth of ageing, caused me some issues at passport control on my way in and out of Germany this weekend. (Seriously, Clark Kent was on to something with his simple disguise.)

But I’m not different. My face is halved in size and my forehead is warmer. Which are good things. But I’m more paranoid about getting my hair wet – the ensuing hideous unattractive wacy fringe is something I’m dreading. Which is not so great.

I’m not fully used to it yet, but I think I kind of like it. I’m glad I took the risk!

Just to keep you ticking over…

…I’ve got a fringe.

It’s very exciting, but I’ve not had chance to take any pictures yet, so until I get some photographic evidence to post, here’s something I found that amused me today:

Whoever designed this Jesus font is a genius.

A citizen of the world

Since our celebration of (Old) Russian New Year last week, we’ve been on a bit of a roll.

I ate cheese to celebrate the US festival, National Cheese Lovers Day.
I’ve eaten haggis, neeps and tatties to mark Burns Night.

And today, I discovered to my joy, it’s Australia Day. Which I think means I either eat dingoes droppings, or drink beer. I’m hoping to opt for the latter.

Some people say the English should campaign for a national day of celebration on St George’s Day. While I’m not opposed to this (the more reasons to celebrate the better) I’d rather be a citizen of the world and celebrate with as many different types of people as possible, if only in spirit. That way, there’s potentially a reason to celebrate every day.

Pockets of joy

Earlier this week I wrote about Monday being pseudo-scientifically the unhappiest day of the year. But this week has actually been filled with little pockets of gladness.

I’ve been taking the Tube in to work (after a disaster with a lost Oyster, and therefore travelcard, last week) for the first time in ages. I’d forgotten how rammed it can be in the morning.

So it was a pleasant surprise to hear the driver say, instead of the usual ranting about how if we stand clear of the doors, the train will be able to go, that he thought we ought to have a singalong in our carriages to detract from the unpleasantness of the journey. I was sorely tempted, but after my pre-Christmas solo sing-with-me experiment, I thought perhaps slightly frazzled early morning commuters might not be up for it. Plus my face was in someone’s armpit which isn’t the ideal position for your voice to be heard. The idea made me smile though, and I stood from Clapham Common to Stockwell, imagining the Coca Cola advert that what would have happened if someone started singing…

Then, yesterday, B informed me that in America they would be celebrating National Cheese Lovers Day. I love cheese. I can’t even begin to tell you how much cheese makes me happy. So much so that I have to not buy it because I could just eat and eat and eat it. And then I’d get fat. And that would make me slightly unhappy. It’s a fine line I have to walk. But last night we went wild and crazy and ate cheese. Lots of cheese. Pure and unadulterated. O joy.

Perhaps this week has been the glummest week of the year for you. You could watch episodes one and two of Glee on 4od to cheer yourself up. Or you could hearten yourself with a mini-moment of happiness writ large just down the road from me for the whole world to see, and remember that January is not so bad, and there is joy in little hidden pockets to be found everywhere.

Blue Monday

Yesterday was Blue Monday, the third Monday in January. This particular day has the slightly dubious and more than slightly erroneous honour of being officially the worst day of the year, apparently based on a combination of factors like bad weather, debt, distance from Christmas, lack of motivation, and failure to succeed at keeping new year’s resolutions, that conspire against us.
If truth be told, my Blue Monday was alright. It was Sunday when I was a bit glum, but that was because I went to bed late and woke up very early. I cheered myself up by watching episode one of the new series of Being Human.
But Monday began well. Even starting with a meeting with Marie Curie Cancer Care couldn’t bring me down. I had a fruitful morning and then got my head down, some music on and wrote all afternoon. The perfect work day. There’s nothing like experiencing a state of flow to improve one’s mood.
At the end of the afternoon I got a phone call from my friend L, wondering if I wanted to go and see John Mayer with her at the Hammersmith Apollo that night. She had two places on the guestlist, because her friend plays in the support band Codeine Velvet Club. After a bit of confusion where I thought she was inviting me to go and see Donna Summer, I said absolutely YES.
O John Mayer. When he started to sing Bigger than my body any blues there might have been disappeared. The perfect pick me up to end the glummest day of the year.

Happy (old) Russian New Year

не стойте слишком близко, я тигрник а не киска
Don’t come too close, I’m a tiger not a pussy cat.

(Fact.)

January has been the coldest I ever remember. Delight at the snow, turned to dismay at the never melting ice. So, when it feels like Siberia, what’s the best thing to do? Pretend you’re a Siberian, that’s what.

B took a break from telling anyone who would listen how in Canada they have giant snow ploughs and everyone is kind and the pavements are swept clear of snow, and decided to help ease our pain by arranging for a few of us to go out and drink vodka together. And then to make it more respectable, she also booked for us to eat.

Coincidentally, the night before was Russian New Year (before they joined the rest of the world and switched to the Gregorian calendar), so we got to relive the magic of the year’s turning all over again.

First we went to the Absolut Ice Bar to drink vodka cocktails out of ice cube glasses. The temperature was a cool minus five, which surprisingly didn’t feel too unpleasant – possibly because we’re used to chilly temperatures now. Or maybe because we’d been aggressively dressed in super-thermal Father Christmas-like capes by an eastern European woman in the cloakroom. CC got into the spirit and managed to bring along a guy named Trotsky who went down well with the boys in a ‘who can hold their hand on the ice the longest’ challenge.

When our forty five minutes was up, we returned to the balmy London streets for Cosmopolitans in Quaglinos where we were entertained by live jazz and a multitude of daft toasts to all things Russian, before heading on to Borscht ‘n’ Tears.

Reviews of Borscht ‘n’ Tears are either, 9/10 ‘we loved it’, or 2/10 ‘the food tasted of cat’. So who knew what we were going to get? By the time we got there, we were in fine raucous Russian form, singing our way from the Tube station, and spectacularly failing to order food, instead just shouting random bits of Russian at each other…

‘Glasnost!’

‘Dostoevsky!’

…and proposing more silly toasts. I tried out the Russian phrase (see top) I had learned earlier that afternoon, carefully handed down to me from my mother. The waitress looked suitably baffled, even when I asked her how my pronunciation was. ‘Yes, I understand you but why would you say this?’

‘Erm, to scare off Russian men…?’

Eventually we got food and wine and the merriment continued with dancing to Russian folk tunes played on the keyboard, and a reworking of the Pet Shop Boys ‘Go West’ on into the night.

All of which goes to prove that Canadians are not only good during snowfall, but that they are the best people to organise Russian-related celebrations.

Farewell to a much loved stomping ground

A couple of months after I moved to London, I discovered my good friend and old singing partner CC had moved down too and started working for a global communications and media relations agency. As far as I could tell, the advantage of working for a global organisation’s London office was that in order to properly host important clients, one had to have a bar. A subsidised bar sitting at the bottom of your building.

Over the past eighteen months, this particular bar has become something of a Friday night stomping ground, the scene of dramas, the source of romances, the origin of the occasional personal scandal.

And, because CC has moved on to new and greater things, the time came when we would have to say goodbye. Her colleagues were sad to see her go, but it only really dawned on me just before Christmas that I’m sad she’s going too because Friday nights would never EVER be the same again – where are we going to play out now?

In my mind, this bar on a Friday night, is like a cross between the school disco, the best night you’ve ever had in your life, the coffee shop in Friends, the bar in Cheers, a musical extravaganza with dancing girls and sequins, the most intimate dinner for two… It’s like a scene from a musical where everyone you know and love seems to be in the same room, singing, cheering, wearing outrageous outfits, looking gorgeous. Where a drama could happen, comedy, tragedy and a happy ever after, all in one night. In short, it’s hard to describe.

My last night was a classic example of everything I’ve loved about this bar.

First, I was there with CC but we hardly spoke to each other all night, since we were both working the room separately. This is great for story swapping the next day.

Second, I didn’t buy a single drink (though not for want of trying). My second drink was bought for me by a complete stranger, who offered the guy I was talking to a drink. He had a full bottle, so I rather cheekily said ‘You can buy me one if you like.’ When he duly returned with a glass in hand for me, my friend RH turned to me and said ‘Do you even know him?!’
‘Nope,’ I replied, and turning to the guy I was talking to I asked ‘Who is he?’
‘He’s my boss actually…’

So third, I don’t work there so I can get away with being cheeky – after all I could be a client… I got asked at least twice, which bit of the company I worked for, which is a neverending source of delight for me. I love the fact that I’m a familiar face, but don’t work there. I like it when people assume I’m one of their colleagues from a different floor. And I like it that I’ve been told I can visit any time. I’ve been such a frequenter of this particular bar, that Colin, the man on the front desk, told me as I arrived, that I would always be welcome once CC had left, and that he’d happily let me in. AND I could bring a friend if I liked. That is what I call making a good impression.

Fourth, you never know who you are going to meet. A bit of a flirtation with a complete stranger one night, could lead to a full date later. The possibilities are endless. And since other non-employees also visit the bar, there’s an ever-changing clientele.

Fifth, I was reminded that I’ve met some hilarious people in the past two years and made some great friends, not just in this bar, although this has been a highlight. I met CC’s friend DH in this bar, and I believed he was a biscuit designer, for a good hour, before he confessed his true occupation. Everything is possible in this particular place.

I feel a little bit wistful about CC’s leaving, but she’s not leaving my life just yet! There’ll be new grounds to stomp, new friends to meet and make, and no doubt the old friends will be coming with us too.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2HcRtBcWHs0&NR=1