Category: Bloggery

Last Tuesday night was the start of the most holy of Jewish holidays, Yom Kippur, AKA the day of atonement when you fast for 25 hours.  It begins and ends at sunset.  25 hours with no food or water.  I used to fast when I was much younger, more because it was what we did, rather than because of my religious beliefs.  Now I question my belief all the time, I know there’s something there, but it might be a tree or a squirrel, and as I grow older I am less religious and less worried about it.  Not that I was ever religious, traditional perhaps, observant of the festivals because it gave me the opportunity to gather with the rest of my family, eat fabulous food and enjoy the cultural side, but as for the religion itself, I have many problems with it, as with all religions.   I am aware that as a childless woman, with a sister who died 5 years ago, a dad who died 2 years ago, when my mum is no longer here, I doubt I will feel the need to practice anymore.  My identity will change.  With no children to share it with, my niece and nephews have their own lives and families, I will, I believe, feel very differently about it all.  I stayed with my mum last Tuesday night, and because I was there, in the heart of the ultra orthodox Jewish community (my mum is not at all orthodox), I decided I would fast.  I also decided I would fast because my mum told me I have no willpower.  I love food, I love to nosh, to snack, I love crisps and peanuts and popcorn.  But I would weigh less in the morning.  Not that I am hung up about my weight, I’m not.  It would mean when it came to breaking the fast I could eat more!  Talking of willpower, when it comes to exercise I have all the willpower in the world, exercise is my religion, without the guilt and with lots of treats for completing a new challenge!  I love exercising.  I love having exercised.  I love that moment when you know you have another kilometre to go or 5 minutes left on the treadmill or one more stretch, one more bend in the park and then it’s home.

Back to last Tuesday.  While I was fasting I was also thinking of food, looking at photos on Twitter of food and contemplating my Triathlon, more specifically, the bicycle that a friend was generously giving me for my Triathlon.  I had asked her for a photo and spent the next half hour looking at the bike on my phone and texting questions.  She told me her husband had done Ironman challenges and suggested that I prepare a list of all my anxieties.  For the next two hours, I worked out how I could bring the bike home from east London, I wouldn’t be ready to cycle all the way.  Imagine if something happened to me, how idiotic I would look.  I checked trains, which trains accepted bikes and which didn’t, when could you do it and when were you definitely not allowed to.  I never knew any of this.  London Transport had something new to offer.

I spent a good part of that day researching bikes, the difference between mountain bikes (aka MTBs) and road bikes (aka road bikes).  The one I am being given is a MTB with road tyres.  Would I look like a complete idiot?  Would anyone care?  Would I care?  And helmets, I have a helmet, it is a green helmet, a bright green helmet, not sleek or slender, but round, more like an old fashioned motor bike helmet.  I like my helmet, I am not buying another one.  But who knew there were MTB helmets and road bike helmets?  A whole new world of accessories opened up.  Fortunately for my wife, I don’t want any of them…apart from the tri suit, which will help me transition from water to bike IF I can get out of my wetsuit.  I wonder if anyone has ever ridden a bike in a wetsuit in a triathlon?

And so my bike adventure was about to begin.  More specifically, my bike accessory adventure.  I already have cycling shorts, I have a helmet, I will wear the same trainers for cycling that I’ll run in, it will make the transition from bike to run swift. Transition.  I am learning Triathlon language fast.  I have become a competent swimmer, I can run 5k but the thought of the 13 mile bike ride was already causing my bottom to chafe. And transitioning was worrying me. Sea to bike to run.  Sea to bike.  Getting out of a wetsuit, finding my bike without my glasses, would I need prescription goggles just to get me out of the water to my bike?  Which glasses should I wear, prescription sun glasses or regular or the ones with sun glass attachments?  And what if they fell off mid race?

I googled TRIATHLON AND GLASSES.  Everyone who wore glasses said BUY PRESCRIPTION GOGGLES IF ONLY TO GET YOU OUT OF THE WATER TO YOUR BIKE.  But I like my goggles, I don’t want another pair, I don’t need another pair.  This is very unlike me, because anyone who knows me, also knows I love accessories, I love new sports gear, I have running shoes for winter (waterproof), light autumn trainers (my new favourites), trail shoes for off road, road shoes…and I have worn them all. But I have stopped shopping for new sports gear.  My wife is right, I do not need anymore.  But it’s hard to resist that 25% off from Adidas or 10% off from Wiggle.  Still, she has my Christmas list…so that’s something to look forward to.  In the early days of our relationship, my Christmas list consisted of lovely tops or dresses.  This year’s list asks Santa for a tri-suit and suit juice.

ANYWAY

At least for the bike to run I would be dressed, all I would need to do is remove my helmet and run for my life.  My fears of transitioning from water to bike had also been slightly calmed. Friends and a friend’s mother (my age, she has completed a half Ironman!) set me right and have given me terrific tips.  Thanks!  But a bike, I had to train on a proper bike, a grown up bike and although I was getting one, I had no where to keep it.  As it is my study resembles the changing room of an up market sports shop.  I suggested to my wife that I hang it from my study ceiling.  NO.  If I kept it in the hall (which even I didn’t want to do, our Victorian hall is very narrow) divorce would be imminent.  I looked into sturdy galvanised steel bike racks to attach to the front wall of the house, but we were not convinced the bike would be safe and I would have to cover it and more expense and on and on it went.

Bike sheds, from the council, I’d driven past them several times, that would work.  I went on line (remember I am supposed to be atoning for my sins, the really good Jews don’t watch TV or drive, or go on line or speak on phones, I was breaking all the rules at a time when I was supposed to be repenting), checked how to find one in my area, the cost per year was less than the cost of buying and fitting the galvanised steel bike rack.  I was excited.  I could chain my bike around the corner from the house in its own little shed, and it wouldn’t get stolen or wet.  I’ve never been so happy.  I imagined myself heading down the road, key in hand.  I’d be on my bike and off in minutes.   Turns out there are a lot of people like me, and there is a waiting list…I am second on the list for the one around the corner.  Until then my bike remains in east London.  So I will wait.  And when my turn comes, I will go and collect my bike.  Until then…it would be static bikes in the gym.  But not yet.

My next training session was to consist of an hour of pilates and then a 5k run.  After a 60 min class which started at 9.30am, I ran twice and a bit around Brockwell Park, did 5k, for the first time with my own music and no one called Laura telling me what to do, when to do it and when to go faster.  That was ok, but I wouldn’t be doing an hour of pilates and then running, I would be getting off a bike I’d glued myself to for 13 miles.  And while I had been contemplating cycling,  I was aware that I hadn’t actually done any yet.  I spent a lot of time watching cyclists from the comfort of my car…the cyclists on the road who I often shouted at, told off for going through red lights, raised my fists at for doing idiotic things and occasionally praised for stopping at red lights for not doing anything idiotic, for taking care.  I saw them in a new light.  Dare I say it, I almost felt empathy towards them.  I wanted to wind down my car window and yell, ‘I’m not just a driver you know, I get the bike thing.’  It was time to stop thinking and start cycling.  I had to make the most of my gym membership, my first ride would be on a spin bike, a new spin bike which I had to learn how to use.  But not yet.  First I had to swim.

After 12 lengths in 13 degree water, delicious water, I could have kept going but I know the rules, once I start to feel comfortable it’s time to get out.  Hypothermia sets in fast, and although 13 degrees is not that cold, I knew that if this was the temperature for the triathlon, I would be in a wetsuit.  Cold water swimming feels fantastic, but you have to be careful, you have to know all the warning signs.  I’ve read several books on amazing cold water swimmers, and when I say cold I mean cold.  13 degrees feels totally balmy compared to the water temperature some of these swimmers step into. Swimming to Antartica by Lynne Cox.  Read it if you want to be bowled over by sheer determination and keeping going.  But you see what I’m doing, deviating from cycling…

Having completed my 12 lengths, when I stepped out of the pool and crossed reception towards the dry side, I saw a friend who had been watching me.  I gave him a cold kiss and mentioned my super sprint triathlon, apologising for not stopping to chat, I was shivering, my skin was bright red and itchy from the cold water AND more importantly I was about to get out of my swim wear and step onto a bike because it was time. But not before he told me this true story.  A man turned up for a cycling race with his fold-up bike. All the other cyclists laughed at him, with their shiny road bikes, grown-up road bikes with big wheels.  At the end of the race, they all went off to the train station together, and the men with the shiny bikes with big wheels were told they couldn’t take their bikes on that train, they’d have to wait several hours.  The man with the fold-up bike pointed to his, oragimi-like in a corner.  ‘What about me?’  ‘Oh you’re fine,’ the train supervisor said, ‘fold-up bikes are permitted at all times.’  To which the man with the fold-up bike received a cheer and round of applause from the other cyclists.

It was time.

But first I had to get out of my swim wear and into a set of gym clothes.  Lycra bra tops are really REALLY hard to pull down when a) your body is not 100% dry, b) your hands are numb.  I had to ask someone for help…I wonder if I can ask for help getting out of my wetsuit or will I be disqualified?  Dressed, socks on, trainers on, shivering all the time, long sleeved top on, warm hoodie zipped up, hood over my head, I walked quickly to the gym, set the display on the spin bike and off I went.  Well, actually, I didn’t go anywhere, not physically. Mentally I was cycling along country lanes, sun beating down on my skin.  Brought back to reality, I looked at myself in the mirror opposite.  I resembled the kind of person I wouldn’t want to meet on a dark night in an alley, not a 57 year old would be super sprint triathlete.  I continued to shiver.  The last time I stupidly went for a swim in water of about 5 degrees and then did a work out, I couldn’t get warm.  I was clothed from head to toe, had layer upon layer, wore a woolly hat and gloves was on a cross trainer for over 30 mins and still I shivered.  I promised I would never do that again, gym then swim in cold weather, I WOULD NEVER DO IT AGAIN.  I was doing it because I had to, I had to get my head into that space where I emerge gracefully from the water, tell myself I am warm, run to my bike and cycle off…what if I shivered for the entire 13 miles?  How could I run 5k after that?

The thing about being cold is that in order to warm up, you have to work extra hard.  I’ve only ever taken one spin class, I have no idea of the ‘gear’ levels, other than 1 is easy and 12 or more is like cycling through a bog.  Not that I have ever cycled through a bog.  As I said, there were so many functions, all I cared about was distance and age. I started on level 7 and worked my way up to 9 towards the end.  Can I remember how long it took?  Did I make a note of how long it took?  The good thing was by the time I slipped off the bike, I had warmed up, but I was walking funny…my legs were aching.  My legs which carry me everywhere, which are fit and strong, which do 35 mins on a cross trainer two or three times a week, which run and stretch in yoga and pilates, the legs that take me across the pool with no trouble, MY LEGS WERE ACHING and I had only cycled 8k.  The thought of running anywhere right at that moment was not appealing.  I was exhausted, hot, YES HOT and hungry.  It was time for a snack.  And in my head I could hear my mum, after I told her I was doing a mini triathlon.  ‘Darling you must remember you’re not twenty-five any more.’

Day 4…cycle & run…

Monday 10th October 2016 – Day 1

I have been worrying since last night about an event I have registered for in May 2017.   In a moment of what-can-I-do-next, a moment of sheer impulse, I signed up for my first triathlon.  It’s a baby triathlon, called a supersprint nowhere near as hard as the mighty athletes attempt, the Brownlee brothers are my inspiration –  sweat, sores, jelly knees, exhaustion, tight lycra, salty sea water and keeping  going.  It’s the easiest of all triathlons.  I don’t want to get injured, I don’t care how long it takes, I only want to prove to myself that I can do it.  Mine is a personal attempt to do something I never thought I would do, a 400k swim, (8 x 50m of an olympic size pool), followed by 21.2k (13.17307 mile) cycle ride, followed by a 5k (3.10686 mile) run.  I’ve run 5k, I can swim 8 lengths, whether I can cycle 13.17307 miles is another matter…whether I can do all three one after another is worrying me from now for a multitude of reasons, and I only signed up yesterday.  Does this mean that I have another 7 months of anxiety?

Things that worry me –  the transition from wetsuit to bike, to wear a tri suit or not?  Will compression shorts and a fitted top be adequate under my wetsuit?  And what if I can’t get the thing off? I once fell over at the Lido trying to get out of a wetsuit and then started laughing so much I ended up struggling on the floor.  I cannot see this kind of behaviour being accepted at as esteemed triathlon venue.  I have of course discovered something called suit juice.

Should I wear my glasses and trust that they won’t shoot off at the worst, possible moment, taking me via the wrong route or worse still, crashing into someone or something?  See, I’m really worried.  I have already replayed the entire supersprint triathlon, at least three times, and each time something else goes wrong.  And I haven’t even started training yet.

I have decided no socks are necessary, it’s only 5k, I have good trainers (lots of good trainers) and there is no need for proper cycling shoes, I’m a beginner, I don’t need fancy, Elite clothing.  I am not an Elite athlete, much as I would like to be.  AND, wearing the same pair of trainers for bike and run mean I can ease myself gently, oh so gently, off the uncomfortable seat of my bike and run in the same trainers rather than changing into a different pair.  Yes, I have been researching all things triathlon.  I have been looking at tri suits and wet suits (I already have one) and the cost…the cost…and the colours and styles.  Did I say that I love accessories?

Training.

I took 5 days away from exercise after a 5k run with an obstacle course.  This was good.  This was necessary.  Yesterday after 49 minutes of yoga, I signed up for the supersprint triathlon.  I have walked a half marathon around New York, run 5k, jumped out of an aeroplane with a parachute, cycled from London to Brighton…the latter two when I was in my 20s…I used to throw the javelin for Barnet, when I was about 14, came late to swimming, only learned freestyle about 8 years ago, and started running in April this year, after telling everyone never to run because it’s bad for you.

Today was my first day of training, which was no different to any other day at the gym.  30 minutes on the cross trainer, a quick set of various weights, some floor work, stretching and home to eat popcorn.  Except the cross trainer decided to stop 10 mins into my workout, I reset it, it stopped again, I hopped onto another cross trainer and I was cross, because my training had been interrupted.  As I climbed Kilimanjaro,  I looked out at the view of the pool, 14 degrees of cool water, I imaged getting out of my wetsuit and cycling around the park several times then throwing my bike into the hands of a willing helper and running like I have never run before.  It’s not the activities that worries me, it’s all the bits that bring them together, where will my clothes be, what if I need to go to the loo, tri suits make peeing very hard and I am no Paula Radcliffe, what if I’m hungry or thirsty, I am not accomplished at carrying energy bars and bottles of water on my body.

And then there’s the question of the bike…because the only one I have fold up and has small wheels (no, not a Brompton) kept for seaside rides.  I need big wheels and I need them now.  To borrow, not to buy, because on the day I am renting one and we have no room at home for a proper sized bike.  I am worrying about the bike on the day, I will not have ridden it, I won’t be used to the seat, what if it’s the wrong height or too uncomfortable and what if I don’t know how to use a puncture kit and I have a puncture?  I’m worried.  Really worried.  I wonder if Elastoplast will do?

Day 2.  In the pool…

 

 

We’ve all been shocked and heartbroken by the Orlando killings, but we never give up hope, we, the LGBTQ community and our non-LGBTQ friends. We work hard together, to grow stronger, to make change for ourselves and those who live in countries where we would be killed for having a same sex partner. We work hard for those who are unable to be out about their sexuality, we work hard to make them feel comfortable and safe and okay to say, this is my life, this is who I am, without fear of being disowned by their families and friends, or killed. Organisations like Stonewall and Diversity Role Models, and ordinary people like me, work hard in our every day lives to make it better, by just being out and proud and try to be good role models.

I spoke to my mother this morning about the Orlando killings. She said she had cried again, for the loss of lives, for the waste of lives. She said, I don’t understand it, I cannot comprehend it. This from my mother who took 9 years to know my wife. This from my mother, whose husband wouldn’t meet my wife for 9 years, who refused to know her, to love her because she was a woman, this from my mother, who, when she and my dad did finally, come to our home 9 years later, and break mince pies, began to love Stella, accept her as one of the family, made a speech at our wedding, included her in the family tree, this from the mother who has apologised more than once for the hard time they gave us. But we never gave up. We never stopped trying or believing that it would be okay. We never gave up hope. I used to lie awake at night worrying about one of my parents dying or Stella dying and how horrendous it would be for none of them to have known each other, to have never seen their brilliance, to never understand why I loved them all. I am lucky it all turned out okay, but those who know me know it was hard, unbearable at times. There were a lot of tears.

I have seen suggestions that the man who killed so many innocent, life loving people in Orlando, may have been gay. If he was, it breaks my heart to think the only way he could deal with his sexuality was by turning his back on it and killing those he was like, wanted to be like, refused to be like, wasn’t allowed to be like because of his religious belief or just his belief. Religion is often used as an excuse to hate, but look at all the faithful people who do not hate, who accept, who welcome, who live and let live. We have a choice, we can choose to hate or to disagree and leave it at that. It’s not okay to take a life, it is never okay to take a life.

And all of this happened in America, a land of such contradictions, where Dan Patrick, a ferocious anti-LGBT campaigner and Lieutenant Governor of Texas tweeted (and then deleted) ‘Do not be deceived: God cannot be mocked. A man reaps what he sows. Galations 6:7’. America, a country where equal marriage is allowed, but in many states where law does not protect employees in the private sector from discrimination on the basis of sexual orientation; does not protect employees in the private sector from discrimination on the basis of gender identity and/or gender expression, does not expressly protect employees of state and local governments from discrimination on the basis of sexual orientation, does not expressly protect employees of state and local governments from discrimination on the basis of gender identity and/or gender expression. America, where guns are available at service stations and shops, where change is happening, but hatred is still rife. And not just in America, there are approximately 77 countries where it is still illegal to be gay. Where gay men and women, trans and queer people have to lie, hide and trust that no one will tell.

So we work harder, to make it okay for all of us, to help those who follow certain faiths understand that they can choose to make it okay, that they can disagree with another and not take a life. That words are words, but actions are stronger and more powerful. It’s powerful to kill someone, but so much more powerful not to kill, to accept to disagree and move on. This is when real change takes place.

We won’t give up the fight for those of us who live freely but who still live with fear. We don’t give up fighting for those who cannot be who they are, who live with constant fear of being found out and killed. I will never give up, because those from the LGBTQ community who came before me, have made it okay for me to be who I am, to marry my beloved, to have equal rights, to have human rights. Equal rights are a human right. We all deserve both.

Something I wrote on Facebook that my Twitter followers might like to read as well!

I like talking to people, I like talking to strangers. I’m a writer, some would call it nosey, I call it being curious, inquisitive, part of my job. People ask me where I get my ideas. From incidents like this. Today, after a good session in the gym, I went to the bank. There was an elderly man standing behind me, in his 80s, I reckoned. The tap, tap, tapping of his walking stick made me think he was impatient or in pain or just uncomfortable standing. It also made me think that post offices and banks should have a counter just for the elderly or those who cannot stand for long. I decided I would be a good member of the community and offer him my place. ‘No,’ he said, ‘you go on.’ I said I wouldn’t let my mother queue. ‘Well, I’m not your mother.’ To which we both burst out laughing. No, you’re not, I said. He talked about getting older and forgetful, I said we’re all getting older and forgetful. ‘How old do you think I am?’ To be polite and I really did not want to get it wrong, I said, late 70s. ‘Nah, I’ll be 94.’ I stood back, jaw dropped. No way! ‘I was born in 1922.’ Quick calculation, this meant he was in WWII. I wanted to ask him questions, but at that moment, the buzzer lit up at counter 5. It was my turn. Off I went, waving to this lovely man. I was gutted I didn’t have time to talk more. Cut to 20 mins later. In Sainsburys. I walk past the fresh soups, totally forgetting that was one of the items I wanted. Bought everything else, went back to soups. ‘You’re not following me are you?’ A twinkle in his eyes, it was the man from the bank. I said, I was dying to ask you questions. What you did in the war, etc. etc. etc. The fresh soup aisle of Sainsbury’s on Dog Kennel Hill has never been so exciting. He was a commissioned officer in the air force (I knew he was in the air force). I asked his name. Withers. First name? Frederick. His nickname was Googie – yes, you’ve got it. For those who don’t know, Googie Withers was an actor. This Googie flew a Halifax. I said, my wife’s father flew Wellingtons or Lancasters, and we have his logbook. ‘Oh my log book is in a museum in Portsmouth along with my uniform.’ Now he lives alone in a big house in Dulwich. I invited him to our Fun Palace. ‘Where’s that then?’ Brockwell Lido. ‘Oh I haven’t been swimming for ages. I love swimming.’ I asked if he swam there when it was a pond. ‘Oh yes.’ I borrowed a pen from another woman on the soup aisle, gave Googie my number, told him to call, that I would like him to come to the Fun Palace. And he said YES. I also said I would pop round with some cake. As I said. I like talking to people. And sometimes, not always, but sometimes, this is the result. Frederick Withers you have made my day. Now I’m waiting for the phone to ring… To be continued… in a play, at some point…

Okay, so for a change, this blog is not fuelled by anger but by deep gratitude.

About 20 years ago, I had an investigative procedure at the Royal Free hospital. It was in the gynaecological department, at the time my parents were not friendly with Stella, and I needed all the emotional support I could get.

At the hospital, in this department, there was a definite sense of homophobia – a nurse, a receptionist, the Consultant who was to carry out the hugely painful, investigative procedure (with no anaesthetic), would not allow Stella to be with me. The Consultant was, in fact, very mean. Things were different then. While we were out about our relationship, I was still a little guarded in public, in hospitals, because I was scared I would be treated badly, differently. In this case, we were. We both remember it clearly. This is one case, this is my experience, I realise that there were other Drs who would have been different. But we have never forgotten this experience. Our experience.

Yesterday, I had the same procedure (I am fine), but had a biopsy as well, this time with an anaesthetic, all carried out at Kings, with a Consultant who could not have been more cheerful, lovely, chatty and just bloody nice! As was the clinic nurse. When I asked if my partner, Stella, could come in with me, she said, hello partner Stella, of course you can. From that moment on, we were treated just as everyone else is – or should be treated. We talked about my cold water swimming yesterday morning, the Consultant talked about her husband training for a triathlon at Brockwell Lido, we talked about Stella’s surgery, about blood tests, about cycling to work. We talked with no sense of discomfort, with no barriers; she was (bar our exceptional fertility Consultant) the most wonderful Consultant I have ever met. She gave us time, so much time. We talked marriage, how she wanted a civil partnership, how we can now marry. How we had a huge civil partnership party, how we would have a no frills wedding. She said perhaps when and if she can have a civil partnership they will do it the opposite way, have it big, have a party, because they had a no frills wedding. I chatted throughout the procedure, apart from a few painful moments when my heart raced fast – Stella told me later that my face became grey.

I must have thanked her 100 times, her and the lovely clinic nurse. I am grateful to the NHS (yet again), for the care provided, for the free health care provided, for being well when so many I know are not. I treasure my life and my good health. I am aware it could all change. But I am also grateful to all those men and women who fought so hard to make change possible and keep making change possible, who have made it okay for Stella and I to feel we belong in our own society, with no barriers, no bad feeling, being accepted for the women we are. While homophobia still exists, and women are told not to kiss or console one another in public, when people are beaten up because of their sexuality, I am grateful for the changes that are taking place. Because one change means more change is possible. Today I feel a deep sense of gratitude on so many levels. Today I will fly.

‘The term “Black Friday” was coined in the 1960s to mark the start of the Christmas shopping season. “Black” refers to stores moving from the “red” to the “black,” back when accounting records were kept by hand, and red ink indicated a loss, and black a profit.’

As you know, my infrequent blogs are usually fuelled by anger. However, this one is not. As Black Friday continues to draw the crowds, all desperate for a bargain, I have been reading comments on social networking sites about how we in the UK do not need or want to follow this great post Thanksgiving Day shopping spree, which hails from the USA. We are fed up of hearing about Black Friday, fed up of being constantly emailed from companies all tempting us with bargains. When the world is at war, when sickness and death and really horrendous events should be central to our news, instead what we have are photos of crowds fighting over the last TV (one fell on a woman’s head) and police calming hysterical shoppers.

I was annoyed at first, at the greed around us, the squabbling and bickering and need to have more, to buy more, to fill our lives with more stuff, whether or not we need it or want it. Yes, Christmas is coming and what better time to buy presents for our loved ones than at a bargain price, 10%, 25%, 50% off a price we would never normally pay. And yes, there are items we all need and have waited for, because Black Friday offers it to us at the best price, but what has emerged for me, as an onlooker (and someone who loves to shop) is that it is mostly (and I might be wrong) the less well off members of society who have been queuing at some stores since midnight, waiting until we slipped from one day into the next before logging on to a host of websites, while the rest of the house slept, oblivious to the money changing hands.

A bargain is a bargain, no doubt about that. It’s tempting, isn’t it, to buy a Lulu Guinness bag for £250 instead of £350? (I looked but did not buy). You save £100. That’s a lot of money to save on something you don’t really need or want but can have. And why shouldn’t you have it if you can afford it? If you can’t, there’s always the credit card(s). And this is not just about the big items, it’s about everyday items. Goods are expensive, if you can get it cheaper, go for it.

Shopping makes us feel better, it lifts our mood, it’s Christmas, it’s addictive, it’s easy to be caught up in the excitement of it all, we want to feel good, happy, positive, and retail therapy works. Momentarily. And then we buy again, to lift our mood because it has taken a dip. And we are lifted. Momentarily. But I’ve been thinking about depression and shopping, quick fixes and spending, and how so many people are depressed, for so many reasons, and shopping can and does, momentarily, fix that low, shift that gear, make you feel good about yourself and the world. But it’s the people who this effects, the people in society who the rest of us should be responsible for, whose Black Friday could turn into Red Saturday. I’m not being patronising or looking down on anyone or saying I should have a say in someone else’s spending habits. Those less well off deserve to have what the rest of us have – except a lot of us can afford to buy whatever we want, whenever we want (within reason, scrap the solid gold taps this year), in a civilised way. When I look at the news and see people sitting on the floor of a shop, hugging a gigantic box which they refuse to let go of, I feel sad, sad that we as a society care so much about stuff, status, outdoing others (or just because we like stuff, and why shouldn’t we?). And then I look closer and realise that while the companies are making millions, which is what it’s really about, ‘we’ have been given the opportunity to mock others, while ‘we’ pride ourselves in our impeccable behaviour, in our, we don’t behave that way, behaviour. All it does is confirm for some people in society, what they already think about other people of society.

Having stuff does not make you a better person, but it does make you feel good about yourself and if you can feel good about yourself at the best price possible, why wouldn’t you? Surely we must strive to make people feel good about themselves for reasons other than a quick fix provides? Can we change Black Friday to Happy Friday? As of today?

Anyone can make a Fun Palace. Really, they can. Even me. My day job as a writer (and occasional helper of anything to do with creative and academic work), is often reliant on others. I sit at my very lovely desk trying to transform exciting new ideas into longer pieces. I’ve written loads for Radio Four, some theatre, some prose and am still trying to make that first break into TV, the latter has meant writing a little for money and a lot for no money. At the moment, I am still waiting on a TV series that has been in ‘development’ for two years…the next phase is in my producer’s hands. I love those hands, but they are leafing through so many other scripts and I am not a priority. And that’s just how it is.

Sometimes my ideas work, sometimes they don’t. Mostly I sit around waiting for others to make decisions for months or years or never. I rely on other people to help make my work, to take my work to the next stage in its development, but other people are, generally, not as speedy in their response as I am, or they have other projects on the go by better-known writers, or my ideas don’t fit their current need. That’s how the world works. But it’s not the way I work. I am speedy, proactive, I get on and do and try and make happen, rather than sitting around waiting. I hate waiting. I am one of the most impatient people I know, if not THE most impatient.

When I decided it would be bonkers and fantastic to have a Fun Palace at my local beautiful Art Deco pool, Brockwell Lido, I had no idea what I was doing. I’ve never produced anything on this scale. Writing is a solitary job, and when my work is done, producers and directors do the next bit. My wife, Stella Duffy, and her co-director of Fun Palaces, Sarah Jane Rawlings, are facilitating the entire, national and international Fun Palace events, on the weekend of 4th & 5th October. Of course there are those who think it’s easier for me because my partner has facilitated the entire event, but she has had nothing to do with our Fun Palace, hasn’t been to one meeting, or had any involvement with our schedule. I said from the very beginning, Brockwell Lido must have a Fun Palace, because it’s a place I love, a place I spend a lot of time, a place where the community gather, to swim, gym, chat, watch outdoor films and eat. It’s not called Brixton Beach for nothing. I like challenges. Trying to find a way to make a Fun Palace work at Brockwell Lido – an outdoor, unheated, Olympic size pool in October has definitely been a challenge. One I am loving. But where to start?

I put out a call – and a group soon formed. We are the Brockwell Lido Fun Palaceers. Some are friends, some are strangers who have become friends, some are friends of friends, others are friends of strangers. We are from different backgrounds, but the thing that unites us is our passion to make our Fun Palace extraordinary. We have met twice at the Lido Café (who give us their space on a Monday night when they are closed). A third meeting is happening soon to finalise our schedule of events. We have gathered and planned and plotted and laughed and worried and always been excited at the possibilities. We have talked risk assessment, bunting that has to be high enough so no one is strangled, no glass or alcohol poolside, etc. We have scribes who take notes at our meetings, and emails them or puts them on our Facebook Page. We have thought about Joan Littlewood’s words, (Stockwell-born Joan dreamed up the initial idea of a Fun Palace, along with architect Cedric Price), ‘Everyone an artist, everyone a scientist.’ We asked ourselves what exactly our idea of a Fun Palace is. It’s for the community, it’s a way to demystify and democratise the arts, being creative or academic or scientific is not just for people who go to university. And It must be free and it must include fun. People say, those kinds of events happen all the time, and we respond, yes they do, BUT not specifically created by the community for the community and for free. I am not getting paid to do this. No one is getting paid. As Joan Littlewood said, ‘If we don’t get lost, we’ll never find a new route.’ I excel at getting lost. But there is always a new and often surprising route waiting for me and sometimes it is not one I imagined. How to find a scientist, specifically one who can talk about water? The friend of a stranger came on board pretty much straight away. She delivers shows about water and science and the body and water. What were the chances? And then there’s our eco games specialist, who, for a living, puts on eco games with her company, i.e. an eco version of Bingo. And these wonderful, generous, inspirational people have come from contacts, Twitter and Facebook. Social media has worked its wonders and is working at its best to put our community in touch.

Other BLFPs are creating a Victorian Seaside, a human chessboard, we have kayaks and the possibility of swimming with mermaids and a water walker. Herne Hill Forum is contributing canopies and anything else we may need. Brockwell Lido Café is putting on an all day BBQ at 50% the normal cost – this is the only paid-for service and they are providing it at break-even cost. Two local schools are involved, people will be able to draw on those great big paving slabs, and hopefully we’ll have live music and a dance hall…so if you’ve ever wanted to learn to waltz or quick step alongside a swimming pool, October 5th may just be your chance.

And the best thing about this is that it’s not about me. It’s about us, my fellow Brockwell Lido Fun Palaceers, Brockwell Lido, Fusion, our community, individuals and organisations coming together. With the help of my collaborators – and this is very much a collaboration of makers, artists, musicians, scientists and more – we have a schedule of events that makes me wish our Fun Palace were happening next week.

And it all started with an idea…a possibility…and saying YES to making it happen. And not being afraid to ask people to do something for free.

It’s been by far, to date, the fastest and most rewarding creative challenge I have ever faced. It’s given me a new tool for my own work, taken me to places that have filled me with enthusiasm, introduced me to people I would never have met otherwise, introduced me to more of my own community – it’s enhanced my life. South London, in particular SE London, is often given a hard press. We are supposedly dangerous, dark, unsafe and unfriendly and yet we have the most Fun Palaces taking place in any area. We are generous and supportive and our community spirit is strong, you just have to go look for it. It’s there. In Brockwell Park, at our schools, Herne Hill Market, the pubs and cafes and in Brixton Village.

And while my working life still relies on others to make up their mind, to read and respond, to accept or reject or just give encouragement, co-making a Fun Palace has made me realise that there is a whole lot of people who are willing to collaborate, say yes, give their time, their experience, in order to make something monumental happen in their area for their community and all for free.

On Sunday October 5th 2014, as the sun sets at 6.29 pm, BBQ on, ukuleles ready – and any other instruments anyone wants to bring to join in the ‘fireside’ sing-along – we will raise a plastic glass (risk assessment, NO breakables and NO fire) to Joan and Cedric and their dream coming true. We will raise a glass to the possibilities and remember that community is what it’s about, helping others, perhaps giving them a gift to take away, making something remarkable happen because we can. I don’t know about you, but I’ve always wanted to swim with a mermaid.

Gove and his Islamophobia has angered us all, as has his desperation for schools to teach ‘Britishness’. He uses one to attack the other. In my opinion faith schools must go if we are to return to any kind of cohesive, tolerant society. I’m sure loads of faith schools, whatever their faith, teach their students that their way is the only way and everyone else is doomed to die a miserable death if they don’t follow the path. I quite liked the path that was yellow and had Judy Garland and her three friends dancing along it. That path worked for me. But if faith schools and their beliefs are anything to go by, I am doomed.

But I consider myself one of the lucky ones. A friend’s post on Facebook about keeping schools secular confirmed what I have been saying FOR YEARS. No faith schools. If parents want their children to learn about their religion or culture they must do it at home. Leave the schoolroom for learning about things that will carry them through life, the really important lessons like tolerance and respect and accepting people for who they are. Which, of course, many faith schools teach too. But if they’re also teaching that their faith is the ‘right way’ – which they must do surely, or what’s the point of being a FAITH-school, then what they’re also saying is that someone else’s faith (or no-faith) is wrong.

I’ve thanked my parents a great deal in my almost fifty-five years. When my dad was alive, I thanked him every time I was with him. On his death-bed I thanked him one last time, for giving me a great childhood, for loving me, for being difficult, for passing on his impatience and speedy way of living, and, despite being a Tory, for getting on and taking time to get to know those in his neighbourhood – the religious Jews, the Muslims, the Catholic who he’d known for fifty years, the secular and gay and wealthy and not-so-wealthy and non-white and just about everyone one else on his block. For contributing to making me the person I am. For making our school uniforms because we couldn’t afford the shop-bought ones (there were only a few shops that sold school uniforms then), and for not sending me to a private or religious school. I will always thank them for the best education I received, and I don’t mean the text book kind; I was rubbish at history, maths and all sciences, I was pretty bad at English, but excelled at PE, and was quite good in my Money Management class. One time, during that class, I had a disagreement with a boy and was chased out of the room by him. I remember running out of the ground floor room, around the school and re-entering through the classroom window. I can’t actually remember what we had argued about. I do remember that the boy, Ado, was found dead in the Thames near the southbank one day and I was upset. The best education I am talking about was from my secondary modern – Whitefield’s Comprehensive. (Maybe there were once white fields, it is now opposite Brent Cross shopping centre). I was a Jew, not like the other Jews at the school. They were all Eastern European, I was far more exotic and rare. Few knew about my lot. I felt different to them and made friends with all the non-Jews and only a couple of Jews. I was a terrible student, I left school with three O levels, so on paper I was rubbish, but I met the most eclectic set of people. People I would never have met had I been sent to a faith or private school. Had I gone to one of those establishments I would have mixed with one section of society only, and that to me, would have set me up for life in the worst way possible. And apart from one or two private school out of London, as far as I’m aware no one contemplated moving in order to send their children to a better school. Or has the post code lottery always existed and I’ve just not known about it?

When I look at my school photos, I see the too-tight shirt I am wearing and my ridiculous hair. But it’s the other faces I am proud of sitting alongside. The faces that stare out at me are black and white and brown and mixed, from India, China, Japan, Pakistan, England, all religions and cultures and background and different classes in the same class. I might have been a bad student, but some of my contemporaries went on to do very well. Simon Lewis (secondary school then Oxford educated), PR man to Tony Blair, the late Pat Zia was a well-respected artist, Jane Suffling has been high up at the National Theatre for many years. We were all in the same year at our secondary modern. We were from difficult classes, religions, cultures, and we got on. We didn’t glare if someone who was ‘other’ to us walked into the room, whether student or teacher. We learned how to be with others who were different. We learned that people are people, no matter what colour, race, religion, sexuality, class. We were educated to accept, tolerate and respect others. Religion never came into my school life, that was left to my parents, who did a pretty good job of allowing me to chose, taking part in my family’s faith as much as I wanted to – or not. There were no ghettos in my life, there were no walls to break down. Sadly those walls have gone up in my lifetime.

Returning to my childhood home since my father has died, being there for longer periods of time, has magnified the changes that have taken place around this neighbourhood. I am aware of my naked legs or short-sleeved shirts that show my flesh, when orthodox men and women approach me and I feel I must cover up. When I ask the young boy who lives next door to my parents if he’s watching the football and he shakes his head, I ask him, ‘not allowed to watch it?’ He nods. And yet I can’t help think that while I am expected to know all about his religion and way of life and accept it and question it, he knows nothing about mine and he is never expected to know. I understand religion, I don’t have a problem with it per se, I get the structure some people value in faith, it’s important to them. But I believe in the need for a broad education, where people-politics comes first and not religious-politics. Where the non-religious can talk to the religious, it works both ways, it educates everyone.

And yes, I know lots of parents have friends from different backgrounds, and that feeds their children with a wider perspective of life choices. But many don’t. Many have guarded lives, and their guarded children grow up with one view and one perception of life only – add that to education within a faith school and you get narrow-minded, intolerant, disrespectful young people who grow into narrow-minded, intolerant, disrespectful adults.

What we need is a gigantic ghetto blaster, to rip down the partitions, so that people can meet people like them and not like them, so that we can talk and have a dialogue about our differences, accepting or not accepting or liking, but knowing what choices exist and how other people live, so that we can talk – and see what else and who else is out there.

And let’s get rid of private schools, for many of the same reasons. Think of how it could be – all those private school teachers working in state schools, alongside the rich and poor, the middle class and working class and upper class. All those private school funds channelled into state schools for the good of all. The Jews and Muslims and Catholics and Sikhs and atheist and gay and bi sexual and transgender kids, studying together. It could provide a microcosm of the bigger picture and peace. All we’re doing is creating divisions, creating war. It starts in schools. Let’s stop it now.