Category Archives: Heart and Home

The day I lost the gift of opposable thumbs

I woke up yesterday morning with that queer drifting into consciousness, where I think in indexicals – oh yes, I am me, in this place which I call ‘here’ and the time is now. Usually my first more complex thought is ‘I must make coffee’ but yesterday my first thought was ‘I am me, yet different.’ I had put on false nails the night before, as part of preparations for a New Year More Glamorous – and woke up with a more limited set of abilities than I had had the morning before. Kafka’s Metamorphosis drifted through my mind, and as I type, the sound resembles a family of beetles crossing a difficult and hard terrain. I had never before understood the sadness of turning into a beetle in quite the same way, the shame of realising that you like different things – in the beetle’s case, a new prediliction for eating shit; in my glamourously nailed form, an aversion to manual labour of even the mildest kind and a fear of hot soapy water. But most of all the sadness of having left your old body behind, of never having realised how good your body was to you, how dear it was and surprisingly adept, how much you took it, tired and plain as it sometimes felt, for granted.

Brushing my hand over my eyes was surprisingly painful, and simple actions such as opening a jar of coffee have had to be relearnt with these hard new additions to myself, my fingers not only harder and a centimetre longer, capable of being used as weapons – but also fragile – the first efforts at carrying on household chores, taking care of myself as normal, had snapped off the early efforts at extended nails, and I was running short on glue. Life has slowed down, and become complex in ways I could not have anticipated. Tying my hair back into a ponytail, which I was accustommed to thinking of as one, flowing, impatient movement, driven by a practical need to have my hair out of my eyes – is actually a series of curves, of angulations of my wrists, of tucking my hair in and out of the elasticated band. Doing up my zip and fastening the buttons on my trousers was almost impossible, in fact I almost made Jamie and myself late for midnight mass by taking so long to do myself up. What do women who normally have such nails wear? Tights must be a no-no, as well as anything requiring a bow. And yet the irony is they look so gorgeous – with their French manicure and little arc of silver. I feel gracious and feminine, even as I have to hand Jamie boxes to open because their folds are too complex for my elongated nails to penetrate. I have learnt to press switches by holding my hand flat and using the pad of my fingers, instead of prodding or poking. I stare besottedly at my elegant hands. But I wonder, is there any other example in the animal species of a female voluntarily semi-immobilising herself in order to be more attractive to a potential mate?

Sounds of power

I was once having lunch with a man that I had had a minor affair with. He was in London for a few days between postings in Iraq and Nigeria, and asked, as he always did about my personal life, and as always, I replied that I was single. He looked unperturbed and explained that women had much less need of a relationship because they had the emotional support of a network of female friends. Yes, I said wistfully, but men are good at carrying heavy things…

This rainy bank holiday has been a saga of carrying heavy things and spending ages up to my elbows in stereo wiring, and I am proud to report that my new CD/radio, speakers and record player are now blasting out sound and I DID IT MYSELF, waded straight into that masculine world of heavy things and wire. My old stereo was a Eurovision casualty, more proof that bad music kills. I had a dreadful stereo one year at university and unsurprisingly went into depression. Today I feel a sense of feminism I haven’t had since I was sixteen. It really is important to be able to do this stuff yourself.

And resulting from this afternoon’s wiring magic – has anyone listened to Primal Scream’s Screamadelica recently? I celebrated having a record player with my old double LP – the one with little messages from Bobby Gillespie scratched into the run off – and had forgotten how unbelievably good it sounds. I’d like to take this opportunity to say that I request ‘Don’t Fight It, Feel It’ to be played at my funeral, along with ‘Jump’ by Madonna and the penultimate song from the Air album that Annika and I were listening to in South Africa, she knows what I mean. Then the third movement from the Beethoven late quartet in A minor either as people are coming in or leaving. That’s all!

Why is this here?

When I was a little girl my grandfather and I used to spend some time contemplating the questions that haunt young children and old people – such as what would happen to all the new dead people when the sky reached capacity, and whether that cast the idea of heaven into doubt, and whether porridge was nice or nasty. We couldn’t really afford to spend too much time on all that stuff , because there were always rocks to climb, willow twigs to turn into whistles and potatoes to get from market for my granny. So after some contemplation my grandfather would take refuge in the incontradictable ‘Näin on marjat’ – that’s the way the berries are. And on we would go, hunting trolls, dreaming about having a boat, and wondering whether an open topped sausage sandwich was available from granny. These days I find things are more complicated, or there is more apparent need to have an opinion. So this blogspot is for the things that I have contemplated and can’t answer. If anyone can tell me how the berries really are, I would be very grateful.