Shoes, Books & Cynicism
Kate Stone Matheson
The Wax That Melts Our Wings

I’d say it’s what separates us, not from the beasts, but the bestial. Creating the future, renewing a learned past - these are reasons to strive. Writing for and with love, taking and framing an image, stretching new melodic skins onto old skeletons of song… it’s how we manage to fly. It’s how we stay you and me, not us and them.

The Wax That Melts Our Wings
Shoes, Books & Cynicism
Kate Stone Matheson
The Lady Jellypants Guide to Grace and Poise

Unlike Osk, who seemed to establish his own tactical task force wherever we lived, scooping up neighbourhood feline troublemakers as sidekicks (including the memorable ginger behemoth Watson, with whom he used to scope the street from the safety of the shed roof), Jelly has the intelligence gathering skills of a sponge cake.

The Lady Jellypants Guide to Grace and Poise
Shoes, Books & Cynicism
Kate Stone Matheson
Love Me Tender

Anyway, somewhere in between my 'and then you should've done this' and 'why didn't you say x and y, rather than z', and 'for the love of monkeys and the general public's eyesight, you didn't honestly wear that heinous shirt did you', something he was saying about the dating extravaganza we were picking to pieces finally penetrated my cloud of self-congratulatory cumulo-waffle. 

"Most people don't talk about how dates are progressing as a tender process, do they?" he asked. 

"What?"

"She said I was 'part way through the tender process' and that she was judging me on my submission. I'd like to think there was irony involved, and I think at the time I may have given an admittedly weak "haha, yesssss, quite". Looking back, I'd have to conclude, computer says no on the presence of Fabulon or other aids to achieving crisply pressed linen."

Love Me Tender

literature

That's The Price I Pay

“The price of love is always just above that what your heart can afford”

— Colin Tegerdine, Unknown Book 13072845

I recently read a Young Adult fiction series (yes, I admit, I am slightly addicted to all the 'end of the world, teenage girl saves humanity from plague/pestilence/pure apathy' books out there) which had an intriguing theme.

What if romantic love was viewed as a disease, and you could be 'cured' of it? If, instead of going through crushes, and infatuation, and yes, lust - one instead had an operation, lost the desire to love - and be loved - and was simply matched with a suitable mate - suitable intellectually, socio-economically, physically? No arguing, no tension, no 'you don't love me' screaming matches?

Apart from the fact that this series really lost the plot (literally), it did make me wonder; because so, so often, romantic love causes some fairly hefty problems. Wars are fought in the name of love - yes, hello, Helen of Troy. You fall in love with someone who doesn't return the sentiment. You don't love someone the way they love you. You have a habit of falling out of love as soon as the honeymoon stage is over and reality sets in - and then you have no idea how to extricate yourself from what you realise is not really your cup of Love Potion Number 9.

So would life be better without Cupid's arrow inveigling its way into our lives? What if amour was, in fact, no more?

I can't imagine anything worse.

Love is painful. It is often unkind, causes tears, obscenely excessive chocolate consumption and glugging of wine straight from the bottle. It is hurtful, because if we care deeply for someone, the desire to hurt if we are slighted comes straight to the fore. Jealousy, anger, the agony of unrequited love - yep, they are all hand in hand with true love.

And yet.

Love is what makes life likeable. It is a shelter and a comfort; if you are fortunate enough to find someone to love, and who loves you back, then life can pretty much go to hell in a handbasket - and it won't matter. Because you have somebody to support and strengthen you. Who is willing to let their own needs go in order to make your life the best it can be.

The best kind of love is all of the things certain religious volumes talk about (and getting a positive message there is a huge achievement, so don't discount it.) Love is patient. Love is kind. Love has no pride.

Art, music, literature, theatre, movies, dance - where would they be without smoochiness? Casablanca would be a blank. Gone With The Wind - who would care if tomorrow was another day? And as for Jane Austen... Jane who?

Love separates us from our baser instincts. It gives us our humanity and our humour. It makes us honest. It makes us - us.

'I love you'.

Three words.

And a lifetime of discovery.

As Billy Bragg says, 'that's the price I pay for loving you the way that I do'...

Send me the account. It's worth every penny.

One Man's Trash Is Another Woman's Treasure

““I’ll bet this, though: in a hundred years, people will be writing a lot more dissertations on Harry Potter than on John Updike. Look, Charles Dickens wrote popular fiction; so did Shakespeare - until he wrote his sonnets, desperate to show the literati of his day that he was a real artist. The core of the problem is how we want to define “literature”. The Latin root simply means “letters”. Those letters are either delivered—they connect with an audience—or they don’t.””

— Brent Weeks

I love books. Looooooooooove them. I don't just love reading them; I love their physical smell, feel and touch. Admittedly most of my reading tends to be done on an iPad now, but if you think this means I don't purchase the hard copies of the books as well - think again.

What the iThingy does allow me to do is indulge my very guilty pleasure. And it is a pleasure. And it makes me feel a little bit guilty, much like eating an Elegant Rabbit before Easter makes you feel guilty (don't pretend you don't know what I'm talking about fellow chocoholics).

It lets me buy really, really trashy books without paying a fortune for them. Because I have to tell you, the thought of paying $30.00 for 'Penelope (A Madcap Regency Romance)' makes me feel a little bit as though I've eaten not just an Elegant Rabbit, but said bunny and the whole of Beatrix Potter's menagerie in cacao-bean covered form.

Rather ill.

Why? Because, dear reader, it is predictable, fluffy, turn brain off at the door baloney that means one thing;

I don't have to think.

I can simply let the words wash over me and know that in the end the slightly ditsy/clumsy/plain/poor yet intelligent and feisty heroine will end up with the stern/remote/emotionally damaged yet still ridiculously handsome and rich (and titled) hero. The End. And if I fall sleeps and miss a chapter or two because my iDooby flicks through, I won't even notice.

Yay.

This means two things.

One, I give my brain a nice warm bubble bath of froth and silliness - a proper break from concentrating on the real world on a regular basis. And two, when I do read something worthwhile and incredibly well-written and challenging, I appreciate it all the more. For example - even though at the moment I think the British public has a fatwa out on her for maligning the Duchess of Cambridge (context people) - Hillary Mantel's Bring Up The Bodies was unputdownable. Just like Wolf Hall.

So give your grey matter a bit of a break, and indulge in some idiocy with your reading material. There is nothing wrong with some heaving bosoms and tight britchery - but for heaven's sake, don't stay in that world full time.

You'll get a toothache in the brain.

And may well start saying 'la, Sir' and smacking people with a fan when they tell you that you look nice...

Ahem.