The Truth About the Truth

I’ve been thinking a lot about honesty recently. This may in part be due to last week’s media coverage of the film The Invention of Lying. The picture was written and directed by Ricky Gervais, a multi-talented, incredibly talented and cleverly funny person. Gervais is a real English gem though oddly he is both adored and loathed by his countrymen; I see a lot of similarities between him and myself, except of course that all Englishmen adore me.

The film takes place in a world where no one can tell a lie. The characters speak the absolute truth at all times. It makes one wonder, is that sort of honesty desirable? Of course, we must have some sort of moral code, otherwise we would end up like monkeys in a monkey cage, although I do believe even monkeys have a moral code to keep them ending up like vultures in a vulture cage. But absolute honesty at all times? I don’t think so.

Now before you get your knickers in a twist, let me offer up some examples to clarify my position. Let’s say you have recently got married and your new husband asks you about his sexual prowess, compared to that of your previous lovers. Would it be morally right to humiliate the man by acknowledging the disappointment you felt on your honeymoon when you realised that you would never again get it like you got it that night with the tennis instructor at the La Manga Club during your Spanish holiday in 2006? Oh, the memories! Does lying seem so wrong in this situation? What about if your niece asks you if you think her mummy is the prettiest woman on Earth, when clearly your sister’s unattractiveness is what caused her to delay getting married and pregnant until she was well into her forties and desperate enough to accept the first man who would have her and also provides the genetic reason for the fact that your niece, too, will surely spend the majority of her adulthood a lonely spinster? Should you break this little girl’s heart with the truth?

Ultimately what it boils down to is this: lying is not a bad thing. Deep down, we all know that it’s dishonesty that keeps most of our relationships happy and healthy. Rarely does anyone need to really know the truth. That policeman didn’t need to know that you have a history of false accusations, just like my doctor didn’t need to know that the painkillers were actually intended for a use other than the one specified on the label. Why complicate matters with some pie-in-the-sky notion that sincerity is an admirable quality?

Gervais’ character in the film stops telling the truth. He also gets Jennifer Garner to sleep with him. Now tell me that’s not testament to the power of a lie.

The Good are Good—The Bad, Frightfully Ugly

As I was born with a charitable nature, all my life I have sought to help those in need. I unselfishly give away the many unwanted gifts I receive each year to local charity shops to help increase their revenue.  I have donated my time to teach underprivileged children to read, offering up copies of my own books to them at an extremely generously reduced cost. I have traveled to faraway countries to help literally build new communities, and I can tell you there is nothing more rewarding than being present while someone christens a new sewer system. I buy a new poppy every single year, and I have no qualms about telling other shoppers in the queue at Sainsbury’s to shut the hell up if we happen to be waiting together  at eleven on Remembrance Day. I do these things not so I can then brag about them during lectures to the WI or on this very website. I do them because frankly that is just my nature: there’s no two ways about it, I am a good person.

Alas, we good people are becoming few and far between these days.  I don’t want to seem overly moralistic here, because I am aware that good people sometimes do bad things and that being bad once doesn’t necessarily make one a bad person. As you know, I do not believe in unfairly judging people. But what about those who do something bad twice? Just this week, my world seems to be inundated with evil-doers. What about the football player who not only riled his opponents’ fans with his goal celebration but chose to do it while wearing white trousers even though it was well past Labor Day? What about the dressmaker who not only delayed the delivery of a dress by six days but when said dress was delivered, it clearly fell three inches below the owner’s knee as opposed to the two inches that had been requested?  Can we really say that these are simply “bad acts” and not “bad people”? No. I think it’s high time we stand up and speak the truth.

It used to be that those of us who were good were the norm; the bad people were a minority group easily identified by their tendency to drink publicly and that evil little glint in their eye. Today, though, they are more difficult to spot. Therefore, I have devised a quick test to determine where each of us stands. Firstly, readers, I ask that you yourselves complete this straight forward assessment; you never know, you might actually be a bad person who is just so good at being bad that you have in fact fooled even yourself. You may then want to pass this out to those you come into contact with (especially those with whom you do financial or sexual trade). It is a simple way to separate the wheat from the chaff.

1. If you were angry with the woman who lived next door to you, would you:

a. Beat her with a shovel and bury her behind the shed before you went through her bungalow, snatching anything that looked like it might be of value on the black market.

b. Complain about her loudly to both the postman and the woman who lives across the lane.

c. Paint a rude symbol on the pavement in front of her house.

d. Think to yourself, seeing as how she is an internationally famous writer and the highlight of my life is watching Countdown each day, perhaps she was right about it being my responsibility to maintain the creosote on the fence.

2. If you worked at a bank and a woman came in wanting to change her collection of two pound coins for newer, shinier two pound coins, would you:

a. Throw the bag of coins in her face, bruising her delicately rouged cheeks.

b. Point out to her that it is midday and the bank is very full of customers whose needs are apparently more important than hers.

c. Close your window.

d. Meet her request because it is nice to see someone who appreciates the aesthetic as well as monetary value of Her Royal Majesty’s mint.

3. If you lived in a small village and had a son or daughter under the age of sixteen, would you:

a. Feel comfortable allowing your child to enter the local shop without your own personal supervision.

b. Grant your child the privilege of riding a scooter, skateboard or public transport through the village.

c. Permit your child to call any adult by their Christian name.

d. Teach the kid to mind their manners and keep the hell away from my hydrangea.

Clearly, if you answered anything other than d, you are a bad person. The facts speak for themselves. While I do feel sorry for you because you haven’t experienced the grace and beauty that comes with being good, I think it is probably more important for everyone that you get yourself together pronto and consider relocating because I can tell you right now, my friend, I am going nowhere.

Breakfast, the Breakfast of Champions

I have to say that H1N1 (I refuse to refer to it by its more colloquial name) is not one of my favourite pandemics. It just doesn’t have the same ring to it as the Plague of Justinian, and I certainly don’t see it becoming as creatively inspiring as say cholera or the Hong Kong flu. So what can we learn from H1N1? Is it that international travel is a bad idea? Ridiculous. Is it that our global community is simply weaker now due to poor financial and environmental conditions? I doubt it: my garden produced an excellent harvest this year, and my bank book is as strong as ever so it can’t be that. Are we just looking for another reason to quarantine Irish cooks?

No.

The simple lesson that lies behind the whole H1N1 debacle is that people should eat breakfast. My grandmother Boots had a little saying that went something along the lines of “Breakfast is the most important meal of the day.” I only wish she had shared that truism with people outside our family. I, for one, start every day with a slice of toast, half a grapefruit and a cup of tea. It provides me with energy to work, to play, to effectively and eloquently communicate and to ward off pesky infectious diseases.

Sadly, breakfast is being completely ignored by most of our population and if it is eaten, too often it is only at the weekend. In America, diners load up on pancakes, waffles, bacon, sausage patties, sausage links, steak, fried potatoes, hash browns,  toast, eggs, omelets, frittatas, gravy, syrup, French toast, bagels, grits, quiche, cereal, oatmeal, fruit, crepes, and orange juice. What’s wrong with that you say? Nothing except that it’s only eaten on Sunday mornings. Americans need breakfasts like that everyday to stay flu-fighting fit.

Of course, English tastes are slightly more refined, and they tend to nibble on bacon, sausage, tomatoes, mushrooms, baked beans, toast, scones, porridge, eggs and cigarettes. Again, save for the unemployed and old-aged pensioners, these important food groups are only taken at the weekends. We are just asking for trouble by ignoring this meal.

People, come on. The word breakfast actually means “break fast.” If we want to break H1N1 fast, there’s a simple way to do that. When you wake up tomorrow, don’t rush out the door before putting some food in your belly. If you do and you get sick, you’ll have no one to blame except yourself. And the Mexicans.

In Praise of City Centres

I had the pleasure of escorting an American friend on a sightseeing trip today. He was traveling to Newcastle for a conference on the literary implications of nose-blowing, so I took the train up to meet him. Instead of hitting the usual tourist spots, we simply wandered around the City Centre before he nipped off to deliver his paper, Congestion in Nabokov’s Novels. (I unfortunately was unable to stay to hear his  fascinating research, but I’m sure it went down a storm).

One of the things he commented on was the exciting array of pedestrians in the City Centre. He took great pleasure in hearing apologies from the number of elderly ladies who ran over his feet with their shopping trolleys, and he was particularly impressed with the teenagers pushing their babies’ prams, dodging the dedicated charity workers desperately harassing the early morning shoppers in the name of a good cause. While he was slightly less thrilled by the young lad taking the piss in front of McDonalds (I mean this, unfortunately, literally), he had to laugh at the good-natured way said lad dealt with the restaurant’s manager who attempted to shoo him from the premises. He even maintained his smile as he gave his witness statement to the police.

I do love showing my American friends around English city centres. They are such hot beds of activity, so much of it so very English. I myself still adore wandering through the markets; their mystery I initially approached as a novelty, but even after this long, I do my best to support as many stalls as I can. This may explain why I have a cupboard full of striped knee socks and bags of outdated, non-brand-name crisps which will never see the light of day. But I feel I’ve done my part to support my community by purchasing them, and that’s all a citizen can do.

The other thing I love about city centres is the great pride people take in them. The pedestrian areas are clean; litter seems to immediately be snatched up by the thoughtful and conscientious beggars who then feed it to their dogs. What community spirit! While we have to face the fact that city centres often do have problems, I am so chuffed when I see locals taking an active stand about the unfortunate but sadly inevitable crimes that often take place in urban areas. I take my feathered hat off to the commitment these men and women make to maintaining their municipal duties.

City centres often get negative press but I, for one, find them absolutely delightful. I would happily spend a day wandering any English city centre, as long as I can get out of there before dark. I’d kill myself before I went into a city centre at night. I have civic pride, but I’m not a fucking idiot.

Betrayal in the Village

I am finally home and settled from the trip. Crossing the Atlantic is always an adventure and, whilst I did enjoy seeing friends and family and experiencing the sights and sounds, there’s nothing like drinking out of your own teacup.

My timing was perfect. While I don’t flatter myself that I was the sole motivation, I was particularly pleased to be back to witness the exciting Ashes victory. As always, I send my best to the boys in white with the green-stained knees and the red smear along the rise. There’s nothing that swells the pride more than watching Ricky Ponting pull his Bush-the-morning-of-9/11 face.

However, I am afraid I do have to report that not all was champagne and confetti when I got back. I am very displeased by some more local news concerning the Old Vicarage of my village. The building had been for sale for quite some time, and there were rumours circulating about possible purchasers for months. I was distressed to find upon my return that not only had the property been bought, but the new owners have already moved in. I confess to feeling slightly let down by the Parish Council—surely a village resident as important as I (and this is not pride speaking, it’s purely objective fact) should have been consulted before any final decisions were made. I was not, and the first I knew about it was on the morning of my return (Christopher confesses he chose to deliberately withhold the information from me during our twice-daily chats as he knew it would only upset my already delicate traveler’s tummy—bless).

I am very disappointed. It’s not the owners’ background, family situation, lifestyle choice, economic demographic or professional standing which causes me dismay, for I know none of these. Additionally, I have yet to see any dramatic changes to the Vicarage itself since their arrival (it remains St George’s Cross- and Staffie-free). What is sticking in my craw is simply their name.

Before you accuse me of being a nit-picker (which, may I just point out, is a graphically offensive description for someone whose only crime in finding details valuable), I would like to tell you the family’s name. It is Coxender.

Now, clearly there is a sexual connotation present (if you missed it, I suggest you go to your nearest closet, shut the door tightly and whisper the name aloud). It’s awkward, of course, and may lead to their children being bullied but quite frankly the abuse of children by other children has never been a grave concern of mine.

What does disquiet me is the fact that Coxender was the name of an old love rival of mine. Years ago, one of my gentleman friends abandoned me in favour of a woman of questionable morals whose name was Oleanna Coxender. In retrospect, of course, I have no doubt that I was the more desirable catch and that young William was purely blinded by the pressures of masculine pride and the charm of the absence of knickers. Still, I was heartbroken and have done my best to sweep the whole ugly experience under the Oriental carpet. Now, unfortunately, I am forced to confront this hurt every time I am driven through the village. The cruelty is almost beyond belief.

It’s so disheartening that people’s definition of community seems to no longer extend to anyone other than themselves. A truly sad day.

Perpetually an Expatriate

Coming back to the US this summer has reminded me that, while I am at home in both the US and UK, I am also an expat in both countries. This is a precarious position to be in, though fortunately I am culturally flexible enough to maintain it.

Expat communities are delightful because they remind you of the people, places and ideas you left behind without actually forcing you to physically interact on a daily basis with those people, places and ideas. For example, in May I met an American gentleman at a wine tasting party I attended in St Ann’s, Nottingham, and it was nice to spend the evening discussing topics which were, at the time, of little interest to our English friends.

Perhaps the most extreme expat experience I’ve encountered happened a few years ago when I was asked to give the commencement speech at a high school in my hometown of Trenton, NJ. Two days before graduation, I was given a tour of the school (I must comment here about how delightfully polite the student council members who gave the tour were and how flattered I was when they named a section of their library the Whitt-Wellington Center for Underachievers). I was introduced to much of the student body, including many of the senior athletes; I confess I was pleasantly surprised to see how both intellectually and physically well-developed many of the boys were and I spent a full hour lingering in their locker room, discussing their futures and offering support where I could. I was then taken into individual classrooms where I could answer any questions the students or teachers had about my fascinating life. It was in the physics wing of the school where I met Mr Parkinson, who had only recently emigrated to New Jersey from Sunderland. He continually interrupted the many clever questions from his students I was attempting to field to ask about my experiences with Morris dancing. It soon became clear that our dear Mr Parkinson was less interested in finding out about my own experiences and more interested in telling me about his. About twenty minutes in, he actually excused the students from the classroom (goodness knows what they got up to and how their parents felt about their being denied thirty minutes of physics tuition that day), locked the door and proceeded to demonstrate his personal Morris dancing technique before me (sadly, I am not speaking euphemistically). I was literally locked in a small room with a mad Morris dancing Mackem, wanting to be supportive while admittedly feeling a little more than anxious that the mace I was carrying in my handbag would soon be in use. Luckily his display ended before anyone’s eyes got sprayed, and I immediately headed to the principal’s office to complain. I believe Mr Parkinson was let go from the school shortly thereafter, but I was glad I could offer him my expat friendship for the brief duration of our acquaintance.

Of course, wherever you are in the world, you can find your own place and a sense of home. But my heart is always warmed when I bump into those who can appreciate parts of my past. It’s good to meet someone who recognises the brand of sweets you used to eat when you were a child, the history of a team you grew up supporting or the particular hurtful and borderline racist remarks bandied about by the gangs in your city.

There’s a great saying that goes, “There’s no place like home.” At the same time, we must remember that “home is where you hang your hat.” In fact there are a number of sayings about home. Now that I think about it, I’m not sure any one of them really makes an ounce of sense.

A Postcard from A Broad

Christopher tells me we’ve been inundated with questions about my whereabouts so I do apologize, dear readers, for my absence. I’ve had to nip over the pond for a get-together of writers I used to work with. As you know my schedule is usually too packed for last minute travel, but the chairperson of the committee organizing this reunion opined that my agreeing to attend was nearly the only thing that would guarantee the success of the event, so I decided to come. My instinctual willingness to please others will be the death of me one day. But not today.

So I am in lovely Boston, Massachusetts. The group’s first meeting was for drinks in the Liberty Hotel, a building which used to be a jail. While the architecture is gorgeous, as I sat sipping my cocktails, I couldn’t help but wonder about the lives of those who had previously called the place their home. Somehow I doubt their Singapore Slings went down as smoothly  as mine, if you know what I mean. I spent the next afternoon roaming the city streets, visiting old haunts and new shops before meeting up again with the writers to discuss our current projects.

Boston really is a terrific city and I would encourage everyone who has yet to visit it to do so. It’s a classic American city. Bostonians speak with a distinct accent and while the most appropriate adjective to describe it is obnoxious, it also has a certain charm. Many Europeans assume that all Americans shout when they communicate, but I can attest that realistically the number is closer to 83%. I will say, as well, that the binmen here are incredibly thoughtful in terms of keeping their sonic disruptions to a minimum.

I am lucky enough to feel at home in both American and British cities, but as an experienced traveler, I can tell you it does take a little work. The most important thing to do before heading out to new frontiers is investigate and respect the customs, history and habits of the locale. Before your next trip, buy some books about your destination and read up. (If I were a different person, I would suggest you purchase my own books on this subject, but as you know, I do not like to be pushy and as I know, it is easy enough for you to find them if you are in fact interested in good writing.) It’s the little things that count the most. For example, when I first moved to England, I made certain I gave pathetically small tips to my servers. What gives me the right to lavish my substantial fortune on hard-working bartenders, just because that’s what is done in America?  Similarly, when I now come back to the States, I abandon my more British habits, like acknowledging the fact that there are other drivers on the road, because respectful travelers do their best to fit in. One must adapt to the culture one is in, not expect it to adapt to you. (You may note my deliberate use of the letter z above.) It’s just good sense and, of course, good manners.

I’m off now for a brunch with an editor friend to reminisce about that weekend he and I spent in New Orleans. I’ve a few more dates to keep while I’m here but will do my best to keep Christopher abreast of any developments. Enjoy what’s left of the summer, and I’ll be back to you soon.

Kiss kiss!

Michael Jackson Will Not Be Caught Dead in Our Village

This morning when I was at the post office (mailing out some autographed pictures, so if you have requested one, watch for it in your letter box soon), my eye was caught by a small blue card pinned up on the local notices board. Scrawled in blue ballpoint ink it read: “Michael Jackson Look-Alike Needed, Please ring Mr Gluegeyser on 671972.”

Now, forgive me for dropping names, but I am well acquainted with Mr Gluegeyser in his role as head of our Lacemakers’ Society Guild and he regularly dines at my club. He is normally a very sensible man, but I was so shocked by this public display of stupidity that I confess I took down the card and deposited it in the bin.

Firstly, as a public figure, I find the concept of “look-alikes” morally and ethically offensive.  In fact, I believe they are a violation of integrity and should be illegal. My face implies my name (Miss Agatha Whitt-Wellington) and my name implies my writing and, if someone were to pretend that they had composed any of my works, I can assure you that the law would see that as a breach of copyright (as my relatively long list of previous court cases will testify to). Impersonating a person is the same as publicly announcing, “I have accomplished all these great things,” when clearly all you have done is have been born with a particular nose or had your hair dyed and styled in a certain way.  Those are hardly accomplishments, now are they?

I imagine for most people who by chance resemble a famous person, it is more of an embarrassment than a benefit. I was once approached by a couple at one of my book signings. The man commented that he felt his wife looked like me. I had to then point out that in fact her hips were much wider, her skin much blotchier, her bust much saggier and her eyes not nearly as sparkling as mine. The whole scene was quite uncomfortable for all of us—–if only he had left well enough alone instead of forcing me into telling the truth.

The real problem with celebrity look-alikes, though, is that hiring one is the same as lying to the public, which I believe is covered under the Trades Description Act. Mr Gluegeyser is hoping to draw more people to the Guild by convincing them that Michael Jackson will be coming. This is a lie. I don’t know why Michael Jackson would appeal to lacemakers as he never engaged in or supported this activity. Additionally, to the best of my knowledge, Michael Jackson has recently died so the likelihood of his stopping off at our village is probably pretty slim anyway. Through this kind of promotion, the Lacemakers’ Society Guild is simply taking our community for fools.

I myself, however, may be available to speak to the Guild in the upcoming weeks. Mr Gluegeyser should feel free to ring Christopher to discuss rates and dates.

Surely Such Grace is Worth 69p?

I would just like to take a moment to say just how great our Queen is. Seriously, I think she’s just swell. I am proud to be one of her subjects and I defy anyone to suggest the UK’s had a better queen in the last ninety-eight years.

I appreciate that my view of royalty is not unrelated to the fact that I was born abroad.  In America, we use the word king to describe cigarette lengths and the word queen to describe bossy bees and thin men who wear wigs and paint their lips to extend well down their chins. So, while my childhood was not dominated by forced reverence to any monarch (which, by the by, in America means a butterfly and would therefore be inappropriate to curtsy to or rearrange our Christmas dinner time for), my adulthood has not been affected by outrage over the fact that the royals are draining the public purse with their fancy pants palaces and crown jewels. I am therefore unencumbered by any outside influence on my decision of whether to cherish or condemn our Queen.

I choose to cherish. Here is why: she’s got a great head on her shoulders, does our Elizabeth. She’s smart enough to have been made Queen, after all. And she continues to be re-elected, so clearly she must have the public’s support. She also has a strange, lingering sort of beauty. Regardless of your age or sexual preference, you must admit that if you bumped into her at the Sainsbury’s petrol station, you’d stop to stare. My guess is you wouldn’t be able to take your eyes off of her. I know I wouldn’t.

ER II is also worth celebrating for the very fact that she keeps going in the face of adversity. And it is some adversity she faces. How would you feel if newspaper columns were calling for you to literally be dissolved? I shudder to think how I would cope (and pray thanks that the media continues to praise me and my work). Not only does she cope, though, she copes efficiently. How many of us would be able to organise our time successfully so that we could open a bridge in the morning, wave at distance to retarded children midday and then count our swans by tea-time? Our Queen has a tough job, and it is a job. Do not think that having one’s face appear on every stamp, every note, every coin and the occasional Sex Pistols’ album isn’t hard going. It must be exhausting. Yet, every morning she gets up and goes to work, just like the rest of us.

The Royal Highness is one hell of a gal and when I swore allegiance to her, by golly I meant it. I think she is a great role model for young women today. Like Barack Obama she shows that it is possible for underrepresented minorities to reach the top of their professions. But more than that, she teaches girls that, with a little hard work and determination and a dash of inbreeding, they too can grow up to be leader of a once-great empire. And possibly have a pub named after them to boot.

So I say, long live the Queen and the inspiration she spreads like haemophilia!

Inspiration and Sage Advice for Budding Scribes

I am often asked for tips on “making it in the writing biz.” I am always, of course, too happy to offer inspiration and help to those readers who see me as their hero.

Unfortunately, though, becoming a good writer is quite honestly not really something the average person can do. Good writers are born, not made.  So my first tip to would-be authors is to ensure that your ancestors’ breeding stock is of the highest caliber, that your inheritance is substantial and that your family name alone will guarantee that publishers will fall over themselves to take a look at your work.

Once you’ve done that, the sky is your oyster.  You will need to write, write, write. If you want this to be your vocation, you must commit to actually doing it. A cobbler spends eight hours a day cobbling, a writer must do the same. The profession is called writing for a reason so be prepared to write until you are blue in the hands. Even with my huge back catalog, I still pull my chair up to the desk and watch Christopher type for as many hours a day as I’ve had hot dinners. I do this without complaint: I accept that, as a wordsmith, this is my cross to bear.

Assuming you have already studied my own books, I would suggest that you not really waste more time in reading others’.  Most of what is published today is shite, and writers don’t have the time to be dealing in shite. Be aware of the classics, of course, so that you can participate fully in literary conversations. But don’t let anyone influence you. Doing so is in the most questionable taste. Just this morning when I opened my post, I found a request for my criticism on the work of twenty-year-old poet. I turned the page to see a sonnet beginning “My mistress’ eyes are like a cinnamon bun” and immediately stopped reading.  Above everything, you must be original or you will be destined for the bin, where I confess that poem now resides.

Finally, I’ve no doubt many a fool has already suggested that you “write what you know.” Though pithy, this recommendation is worthless. Please take a moment to consider this advice from Miss Agatha Whitt-Wellington: look around your room, look at yourself in the mirror, look at the faces of your friends and family. My guess is that after this quick assessment of your life, you’ll realise that “what you know” is hardly worth knowing, let alone writing or reading about. A writer must be honest and I am trying to be honest with you now. Your life is boring and would not make a good book. Don’t be fooled by encouraging spouses, supportive friends or doctors unwilling to diagnose you as delusional.

Writing is a ruthless business so prepare yourself for rejection. Even I myself have had pieces rejected and it is difficult.  There’s no denying that. But if you are as dedicated and as talented a writer as possible, you just may find success. It can happen. And if it doesn’t, there are other things out there for you, I am sure.  Life is a journey, and we must all make our own paths. If writing is the path for you, trust the process and your talent will clear the way of potholes, stray tacks and rodent carcasses. If it turns out that your path is not as creative, don’t fear, for we will all end up dead and alone eventually, darlings.

Now get to work!