From this autumn onwards, children's books will be sold with an age rating that indicates their suitability for readers aged 5+, 7+, 9+, 11+ and 13+. The initiative has the backing of the Publishers' Association, but more than 750 authors have already signed a petition set up by Philip Pullman. I'm with the authors. The idea is seriously flawed and the more I think about it the more inarticulate with anger I become. Yet again, someone is attempting to homogenise the human race, as if we develop our skills, intellect and personal taste at the same pace. We know this is rubbish, so why pretend otherwise?
I was a voracious reader as a child, the sort that continued reading after lights out with a torch under the bedclothes. All my pocket money was spent on paperbacks, and, by midweek, when I had exhausted the bought books and the pile I borrowed from the library, I would turn my attention to my parents' bookshelf to keep me going until the weekend. It was thus I discovered Dickens - but also Ian Fleming and Laurie Lee.
But, supposing I had been a slow reader, or just somebody who didn't discover a love of fiction until I was a little older. Imagine missing out on Stig of the Dump, or The Secret Garden, or even Jill Has Two Ponies (you may laugh, but this was the first book I came across that addressed the reader in a conversational tone), just because they were lumped in the 7+ band, and I, at 11, couldn't bear to be seen reading something for kids. Children are more aware of their peers than any other group, and this latest attempt to box them in will do more harm than good.
Of course, the initiative fits in perfectly with the bigger picture of today's society, where the daily increase of rules and regulations smothers our every move. We are all too aware of the insane grip of Health and Safety, where a pensioner at the top of a steep hill discovers that his mail can no longer be delivered because the slope could pose a threat to the post man, or bunting cannot be strewn across a village street because it may fall down and strangle a passer-by. Or the unilateralism of the EEC - does anyone remember when there was a move to regularise the strain of yogurt culture used throughout Europe? They wanted to choose the type favoured by the French - a rather thin, sour flavour - even though this was not popular with other countries, who preferred a softer, creamier variety. I rest my case.
We elect our government to run the country but we seem to have no say in appointing those who create the petty rules and regulations that are taking over our lives. I am becoming increasingly in favour of a body that promotes civil disobedience. Perhaps I should start it.
Tuesday, 19 August 2008
Wednesday, 13 August 2008
Fame
I read today that Peaches Geldof, nineteen-year-old daughter of Sir Bob, has got hitched to an aspiring American rock star. The papers are full of outrage, detailing yet again her erratic behaviour, petulant manner, alleged penchant for drugs, her other boyfriends, and, of course, the fact that she may be going down the same path as her tragic mother, Paula Yates, who died of a drug overdose eight years ago. Yada yada yada. They don't like her. They may be justified. Who knows? I don't.
The thing is, Peaches is just another teenage daughter of a former rock star. By dint of the fact she is bright, fairly pretty and well connected, she merits column inches. I'm sure most of the time she likes it. After all, it gets her work. But if the press think Ms Geldof is famous for being famous, there's a very simple solution. Don't write about her. Or any of the other non-entity celebrities who become famous the same way.
It's hardly rocket science, is it?
The thing is, Peaches is just another teenage daughter of a former rock star. By dint of the fact she is bright, fairly pretty and well connected, she merits column inches. I'm sure most of the time she likes it. After all, it gets her work. But if the press think Ms Geldof is famous for being famous, there's a very simple solution. Don't write about her. Or any of the other non-entity celebrities who become famous the same way.
It's hardly rocket science, is it?
Sunday, 10 August 2008
Rain Reigns Again
As I write, Sunday afternoon is morphing into Sunday evening and the weekend will soon be over. For the next five days, work will dominate yet again, but I don't feel that I have had my money's worth out of Saturday and Sunday. And I suspect that I am not alone in that sentiment.
August is traditionally the best summer month, when we like to spend as much time as we can out of doors in the sunshine. This should have been a weekend for picnicking in a field or by a sandy cove; for mowing the lawn and picking broad beans; for lazing in a deck chair under a shady tree in the garden and losing oneself in a book. If only. Just like last weekend, and many weekends before it, to say nothing of the weekdays in between, the weather has been decidedly un-seasonal.
As I look out the French doors of my study I see not a pale pink summer light bathing the garden in evening warmth but a windy grey drizzle shrouding everything in gloom. Yesterday a friend and I foolishly attempted to combine fresh air and culture by visiting a pretty Wiltshire village with a National Trust property much used in period dramas. We drove all the way there, ventured out from the car and walked up the main drag, got soaked and retreated in the car back to Somerset without even setting foot in the magnificent edifice we had travelled miles to see. We'd have been better off spending the afternoon in a cinema. Today, much closer to home, it was a similar story. We went out. We got wet.
I've never been one to enjoy toasting myself on a beach towel in the sun. I don't even require it to be that hot before I am happy, but I do like it to be dry. This is the second soggy summer we have had to endure. I am beginning to fear for the nation's psyche. We need summer sunshine to prepare us for the dark, cold days of winter. The much talked-about credit crunch might be filling everyone with gloom now, but imagine what it's going to be like to be absolutely broke AND suffering from seasonal affective disorder in December. If that's not good enough reason to lower the interest rate, I don't know what is.
August is traditionally the best summer month, when we like to spend as much time as we can out of doors in the sunshine. This should have been a weekend for picnicking in a field or by a sandy cove; for mowing the lawn and picking broad beans; for lazing in a deck chair under a shady tree in the garden and losing oneself in a book. If only. Just like last weekend, and many weekends before it, to say nothing of the weekdays in between, the weather has been decidedly un-seasonal.
As I look out the French doors of my study I see not a pale pink summer light bathing the garden in evening warmth but a windy grey drizzle shrouding everything in gloom. Yesterday a friend and I foolishly attempted to combine fresh air and culture by visiting a pretty Wiltshire village with a National Trust property much used in period dramas. We drove all the way there, ventured out from the car and walked up the main drag, got soaked and retreated in the car back to Somerset without even setting foot in the magnificent edifice we had travelled miles to see. We'd have been better off spending the afternoon in a cinema. Today, much closer to home, it was a similar story. We went out. We got wet.
I've never been one to enjoy toasting myself on a beach towel in the sun. I don't even require it to be that hot before I am happy, but I do like it to be dry. This is the second soggy summer we have had to endure. I am beginning to fear for the nation's psyche. We need summer sunshine to prepare us for the dark, cold days of winter. The much talked-about credit crunch might be filling everyone with gloom now, but imagine what it's going to be like to be absolutely broke AND suffering from seasonal affective disorder in December. If that's not good enough reason to lower the interest rate, I don't know what is.
Friday, 8 August 2008
08 08 08
Today, the eighth of August, is meant to be one of the most portentous dates of this century. Number eight is the luckiest number, according to the Chinese, and three eights in a row is therefore very lucky indeed. It is no coincidence that the Olympic Games commence today. Good fortune is on our side and the air, supposedly, is zinging with expectation.
Interesting. Do people become lucky because they are told they are? Does luck really visit itself upon us at specific times, or do we simply become more open to opportunity because we feel lucky? Is there a lesson to be learned here?
Interesting. Do people become lucky because they are told they are? Does luck really visit itself upon us at specific times, or do we simply become more open to opportunity because we feel lucky? Is there a lesson to be learned here?
Caught In The Web
Now that we are all part of the digital life, how do we cope when we are confronted by a No Entry sign to the super information highway? I've been meandering along the trunk roads of life while my internet connection has been down, and I have to tell you I have never felt more discombobulated. It was as though I was sleepwalking, or banished to a neverland. Yes, I could check emails on my iPhone, but no matter how groovy a gadget it is, it is no substitute for a proper Mac and broadband connection. Now that I am speeding along the motorway once more, all is right with my world.
It got me to thinking: have we become addicted to the web? Work aside, how much time do we spend sat in front of our screens?
Because I work from home, my Mac is always on. Even when I'm doing other things in the house I find myself frequently strolling over to my desk to check emails, then sitting down for half an hour or more to check out a few websites. I feel connected, part of the world. Not having this facility for weeks removed that sense of ease. Now I have a connection once more, I can't drag myself away from the screen. I'm going to give myself a few days to get used to being back in the land of the living, and then I am going to start logging how and when I use the net.
Because, guess what? Life went on just fine without being connected. It was definitely less immediate, but I could still find out train times and other pieces of vital information, and I was still able keep in touch with friends and family (oh, yes, the phone! That's what we used before email!). And without the web to amuse me, I actually found time to potter about in the garden, or go for walks, or even get down to my novel (that last bit's a lie).
Even now, when I should be working on two articles, I'm connecting to the web instead. Am I beyond help?
It got me to thinking: have we become addicted to the web? Work aside, how much time do we spend sat in front of our screens?
Because I work from home, my Mac is always on. Even when I'm doing other things in the house I find myself frequently strolling over to my desk to check emails, then sitting down for half an hour or more to check out a few websites. I feel connected, part of the world. Not having this facility for weeks removed that sense of ease. Now I have a connection once more, I can't drag myself away from the screen. I'm going to give myself a few days to get used to being back in the land of the living, and then I am going to start logging how and when I use the net.
Because, guess what? Life went on just fine without being connected. It was definitely less immediate, but I could still find out train times and other pieces of vital information, and I was still able keep in touch with friends and family (oh, yes, the phone! That's what we used before email!). And without the web to amuse me, I actually found time to potter about in the garden, or go for walks, or even get down to my novel (that last bit's a lie).
Even now, when I should be working on two articles, I'm connecting to the web instead. Am I beyond help?
Wednesday, 6 August 2008
Communication Breakdown
Okay, if you start to blog you need to blog regularly. That's a given, right? So I need to tell you why there hasn't been a peep out of me since June.
It takes a lot of technology to power the Glastonbury Festival, as well as all the broadcast equipment used to transmit television and radio programmes from site. And guess what that technology did? It messed up my internet connection, thanks to something called REIN (repeated electrical interruptive noise - you learn something every day). Oh yes, it is a bonus to live so close to such a fabulous event, but it is NOT fun to be without internet when you are a journalist trying to file copy. Even if, as British Telecom said, the problem will only exist for a limited period.
That limited period lasted two whole weeks. Eventually BT resolved the issue, but since then the quality of my internet connection has been worse than ever. No time to blog, just time to grab windows of opportunity to file copy. Two weeks ago, the entire thing went dead again, and BT announced it was not going to fix it. By law, BT is duty-bound to supply me with a land line but, incredibly, it is not required to supply me with internet. Seriously. Even in the twenty-first century, when we are constantly reminded of the need to be digital, BT classes internet as an optional extra. Someone needs to rewrite the rules.
When I moved from London to the middle of nowhere, I made sure that this barn had internet access. Why would I buy otherwise? But three years down the line of persistent synchronisation problems, BT says I will just have to get used to the fact I can no longer have broadband, because it can't be bothered getting to the root of the problem.
How can this be? BT is the only company in the UK that owns and runs the wires from which our telephone and internet services operate. It's like Network Rail, who maintains railway track upon which different train companies run their services. BT maintains the wires for different phone and internet companies to do likewise. Er.... except it doesn't.
Amazingly, all of my neighbours are still connected to the net. Figure that one out, if you can. I wouldn't be online now if it weren't for the kindness of one of them, who has hooked me up to his network. I want to blog, but more importantly I need to write to earn my living, and then I can blog.
The fight with British Telecom continues. But I'll tell you this for nothing - when I lived in London, everything was switched on for me. In the country, you don't matter. I think that's appalling.
It takes a lot of technology to power the Glastonbury Festival, as well as all the broadcast equipment used to transmit television and radio programmes from site. And guess what that technology did? It messed up my internet connection, thanks to something called REIN (repeated electrical interruptive noise - you learn something every day). Oh yes, it is a bonus to live so close to such a fabulous event, but it is NOT fun to be without internet when you are a journalist trying to file copy. Even if, as British Telecom said, the problem will only exist for a limited period.
That limited period lasted two whole weeks. Eventually BT resolved the issue, but since then the quality of my internet connection has been worse than ever. No time to blog, just time to grab windows of opportunity to file copy. Two weeks ago, the entire thing went dead again, and BT announced it was not going to fix it. By law, BT is duty-bound to supply me with a land line but, incredibly, it is not required to supply me with internet. Seriously. Even in the twenty-first century, when we are constantly reminded of the need to be digital, BT classes internet as an optional extra. Someone needs to rewrite the rules.
When I moved from London to the middle of nowhere, I made sure that this barn had internet access. Why would I buy otherwise? But three years down the line of persistent synchronisation problems, BT says I will just have to get used to the fact I can no longer have broadband, because it can't be bothered getting to the root of the problem.
How can this be? BT is the only company in the UK that owns and runs the wires from which our telephone and internet services operate. It's like Network Rail, who maintains railway track upon which different train companies run their services. BT maintains the wires for different phone and internet companies to do likewise. Er.... except it doesn't.
Amazingly, all of my neighbours are still connected to the net. Figure that one out, if you can. I wouldn't be online now if it weren't for the kindness of one of them, who has hooked me up to his network. I want to blog, but more importantly I need to write to earn my living, and then I can blog.
The fight with British Telecom continues. But I'll tell you this for nothing - when I lived in London, everything was switched on for me. In the country, you don't matter. I think that's appalling.
Thursday, 19 June 2008
When Bigger Is Not Always Better
A week from now, Glastonbury Festival will be in full swing. It will no longer be possible for me to make a quick trip from the farm to the post office, because the normally-quiet country lanes will resemble London traffic in gridlock. Not that I'm complaining. I've been enjoying Glastonbury for 15 years and since I moved here from London, I only have to walk over the fields to get to the festival. What's not to like?
Well, quite a lot, actually. It's not the mud I have a problem with, it's the sensation of standing squashed on a London tube platform in rush hour when I'm in a field in Somerset. Every year, Michael Eavis and his daughter Emily vow to create an even bigger and better festival for the thousands who enjoy a cosmic holiday camp experience on their farm. But has Glastonbury become a victim of its own success? Does better have to equal bigger?
People are saying that the reason the tickets haven't sold out is is due to a disappointing line-up and the threat of bad weather. I disagree. There is plenty to entice on this year's bill. But has the hassle of registration, the volume of the crowds and the increasing corporate presence become a real deterrent? Not to mention the fact that there are a gazillion smaller festivals all over the UK every weekend of the summer?
Would Glastonbury work better by cutting back on capacity? Could the festival be extended to four days of performance over fewer stages? (Let's face it - there's no way you can see every act you fancy unless you know how to clone yourself.) Would people be prepared to pay more for the privilege of avoiding the scrum? Or have I just become too middle-aged and middle-class? Perhaps, but perhaps not: many 20somethings I know are asking the same questions.
As Glastonbury takes its place as part of the official summer calendar, inevitably it becomes more mainstream. That doesn't mean to say it has lost its cool. Nothing stands still, and perhaps now is the time for Michael and Emily to re-evaluate what makes their festival work. Hundreds of charities, local and worldwide, benefit from the Eavis's vision and generosity, to say nothing of the hundreds of thousands of people who have had the times of their lives over the years. I think Michael Eavis is brilliant. I would hate to see the festival lose its sparkle.
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