It's Not Fair That It's Not fair.

So, I was sitting in a grid-locked traffic jam, a trail of unmoving red tail lights in front of me,  rows of unblinking headlights behind.

And I couldn’t help railing against the injustice of it all. 

I had been to visit a student on placement 30 miles away.

Not only had it taken up most of the day but while I was there I got a  £70 parking ticket .

 And now, here I was stuck in a never-ending traffic jam, getting later and later for my next meeting.

It wasn’t even slightly fair.

I wanted to yell at someone.

I wanted to fume and let steam flow from my ears.

And then, on the radio came Steve Hewlett - broadcaster, journalist, film maker - 
And he was talking with  stoic cynicism about his fight with cancer.

Sharing with such honest humour his painful, uncomfortable journey.

Accepting  with such  courage the future of  his now time-limited life….

And I knew, that what was happening to him was so, so much worse than my semi-wasted day and my parking ticket and my grid-locked evening.

I knew that to be diagnosed with aggressive cancer when you are mid-successful career with two kids, that is just not fair.

It is so much less fair than what was happening to me.

It’s a whole a whole other universe of unfair.

And knowing that should have put my day into perspective.

I should have calmly accepted that my frustration and sense of injustice was as nothing in comparison.

But…I just couldn’t.

Now, not only was I cross about the injustice of my day, but I felt guilty about feeling cross about it, which made even crosser.

Apparently there is a hierarchy to injustice.

And in the scheme of things, a parking ticket, a long day and tardiness for a meeting come right at the bottom.

The world is full of actual heart-wrenching, painful, mind-blowingly real injustice.

When you think about it, nothing in life is fair.
It's not fair that we have to grow old.
It's not fair that we watch those we love suffering.
It’s not fair that in some parts of the world people are starving while I scrape my leftover dinner into the bin.

It’s not fair that nations are awash with hatred and prejudice and war.

It’s not fair that the greatest amount of power seems to be held in the hands of a few self-absorbed despots. 

It’s not fair that almost everything that is good about the world seems to be hidden by almost everything that is bad.

It’s not fair that 90% of the world’s wealth is in the hands of less than 10% of the world’s population

It’s not fair that thousands of children die each day because they are too poor to live.

Nothing in this life is fair.

We learn that at a young age.

“It’s not fair,’ seems to be one of the first phrases that children learn to say.
And I'm almost jealous of their black-and-white certainty that it really isn't fair

For them there is no league of fairness.

When they believe something is unfair, it really is.

It’s not fair that they have to share toys, eat vegetables, go home, stop playing, go to bed……it’s just NOT FAIR

Our toddlers struggling to make sense of the world are lucky..

They haven’t yet learnt the annoyingly awful truth that every moment of every day someone has it much, much worse than them.

They can have terrible, screaming tantrums because their parents won’t buy them the latest flashing, battery driven toy or the  chocolate biscuits they saw on the shop shelves. 

They can shout and kick and hit in the absolute belief that nothing is as unfair as what is happening to them.

Don’t you sometimes wish you were still a toddler, so certain of your absolute right to be indignant and outraged?

Truthfully, I would have loved to have sat in my car in that traffic jam ranting and raving on that grid-locked evening.

But I couldn’t do it.

I couldn’t let my inner toddler  out.

I am burdened by the knowledge that what I considered unfair that day wouldn’t even register on a generic barometer of injustice.

And so I tried to breathe slowly and go to my happy place, somewhere full of sunshine  and gin and chocolate.

But even there, inside my head, a little chocolate-filled voice was whispering:

“but a whole day, a parking ticket, a traffic jam…..it’s just not fair.

And yet,  here’s the thing.

A sense of injustice, of indignation at all that is unfairly wrong with the world, seems to be part of the human condition.

We are good at being victims. at blaming others, at explaining that it is not our fault.

But sitting in the car, staring helplessly at the unending trail of red tail-lights, I realised something: there is a purpose to our sense of injustice.

A reason why we feel angry about all that is out-of-our-control-wrong with the world.

If we didn’t feel angry, we would never try and do anything about it.

It’s ok to be a little bit cross if something is a little bit unfair – as long as we get very cross if something is incredibly and hugely unfair.

If we don’t get cross about the little things, how are we ever going to get cross enough about the bigger ones.

Anger can be a catalyst.

Seeing red, tail lights and all, can be the difference between apathy and action, between doing nothing and doing something.

And if those of us for whom life is generally fair enough don’t act, who will?

“Are you a glass-half- full or a glass-half-empty-person?” people sometimes ask me.

“ I’m more of a why-does-it-matter-how-full-the-glass-is -let’s-just-drink-up-and-do something-about-it person,” I say.

And I hope that’s true.

I hope I’m brave enough to fight injustice with actions as well as words.

I hope I have courage enough to stand up and battle for all that I believe is right and good in the world.
I hope I will never let evil triumph by doing nothing.

I hope I never stop feeling angry about how unfair life is.

So the next time I am stuck in an unmoving, never-ending traffic jam, at the end of a day that has probably not even been unfair enough to be unfair, I'm going to get really cross.

I’m going to bang my hands on the steering wheel,.

I'm going to rant and rave at the injustice of it all.
I'm going to eat all the bits of old chocolate I can find.
I'm going to swear and curse  at anyone who looks at me.
And I'm not going to feel even slightly bad about it.

Because  I'll be doing it all to make the world a better place...won't I?

The Hen Party Phenomenon

Hen Party, River Cottage HQ

Strangely, although I have been to many weddings over the years, I have been to very few hen parties.
I think, maybe, when I was young and my peers began to get married, hen parties were not such grand, important affairs. 
Maybe I just got too drunk to remember 
Or maybe I just wasn't invited.
Whatever the reason, today the hen and stag "do," seem to have become an integral part of the total wedding experience.
Hen nights seem to have evolved into " hen weekends, " and stag nights into "stag weeks."

Whereas in the past the bride or groom-to-be would meet a couple of friends in the pub and have a few pre-marital drinks, now the whole thing is an event which needs to be carefully planned, precisely organised and riotously enjoyed. 

It must be an experience uniquely tailored to the hobbies and interests of the future bride or groom.

It must include games involving varying degrees of drunkenness and either physical challenge or creative stimulation.

And definitely there must be lots of unhealthy snacks, delicious food, more drunkenness and the potential for long nights of wild abandon.

Knowing all of this, I wasn't sure what to expect when I set off at 7 a.m last Saturday morning, bottle of Prosecco in rucksack, for my friend's hen party weekend. 

She had requested a cooking lesson and meal at the River Cottage HQ in Axminster.

And so it was, that yesterday afternoon, 12 of us, friends and family, arrived at the beautiful, too-big-to-be-called-a-cottage, "Trill Cottage," just a bumpy tractor ride away from the famous River Cottage Cafe HQ.

We filled the table with snacks, the fridge with alcohol and settled down to write " what makes a good marriage," on wooden spoons.

Turns out, that the essence of a good marriage fits easily onto a wooden spoon. 

 Perhaps the hardest thing is to stir it into your married life.

The strange thing about a hen party, is that while all of us know someone, only the bride-to-be knows everyone.

But gradually, as the hours drifted by and the Prosecco flowed, the polite conversations of strangers, began to change into something else.

Outside the rain hammered on the windows, while inside we carved fragile bridges of trust and spun silken webs of friendship and ate lots of crisps and chocolate.

So that by the time we emerged, muddy and damp, from our tractor ride to River Cottage HQ, we felt somehow bonded, perhaps by words, perhaps by familiarity or perhaps by the shared anticipation of the evening ahead of us.

And it was magical.

We walked into a simple flagged stone room with a table laid ready just for us, a wood burning stove flickering in the corner and a delicious brandy and apple juice aperitif waiting for us on a comfortingly solid sideboard. 

We wandered between our private dining room and a rustic kitchen hung with shining pans. a fire crackling in the open fireplace and our very own sous-chef enthusiastically teaching us how to create the perfect souffle and the crispiest pakora.

" All the ingredients come from our very own garden and farm," he explained,  as he expertly chopped the garlic and onion with a very sharp knife and without looking because he was just slightly flirting with the youngest and most attractive of us. 

" All our eggs are from our very own chickens," he added, whisking the whites into perfect peaks and  holding the bowl over his head with a cheeky grin,to prove they wouldn't fall out.

Souffles exquisitely risen, pakoras crisped to perfection, our feasting began.

We sat at the table, our "hen" occasionally remembering to wear her tastefully flashing 

"bride-to-be" sash as course after delicious course arrived on our plates.

With each course our sous chef arrived to explain what the ingredients were.

Souffle, pakora, egg and spiced cauliflower, freshly caught fish in a reduced leek sauce, 

(halloumi for me), crackers and badger-bean humous, barbecued lamb, (homemade pasta for me), honeycomb, beetroot threads tossed in citrus juice and sugar, marscapone and fruit

It felt as though we were standing in a river of never-ending deliciousness.

And the fire burned, and the laughter danced around the table and our every wish was fulfilled by the staff.

For just a few hours we forgot about the rain and the mud and the real world outside.

Until, at last, satiated and almost comatosed by the huge amount of food we had consumed, we collapsed back into the tractor and were hauled back towards our oversized cottage.

We had meant to play some more games, we had meant to carry on drinking, we had meant to be raucous and wild.

But we were much too full.

So instead we all hugged each other good night and collapsed into bed.

Through the rain-dropped windows I could almost see the little seaside town of Seaton, nestling in the next valley.

During the Second World War, its holiday village had been an internment camp for those who were fleeing from the horror of Hitler.,

One of those internees was my Austrian grandad.

Seton was the last place he ever set foot on this earth.

He stepped from the camp onto a ship that was torpedoed, leaving his Ausrian wife and tiny baby daughter behind in an alien and unfamiliar world.

He had married my grandmother in England and held his daughter in his arms for a few short days.

He loved people and friendship and parties and good food and playing his mandolin.

And I'm sure, if his world had not been turned upside-down by the destructive and agonising heartbreak and hatred of war, he would have had the biggest stag do ever.

As I lay in my very comfortable bed, chatting and laughing with friends,

 I imagined him watching us from the beach, so strangely close.

I saw him smiling and waving.

And I know what he was telling me to do: to cling on tightly to every moment and to wrap them softly with my dreams. 

Because love and friendship are the greatest treasure we have.

And in the beauty of the memories we create together, lies the strength and courage of our future..

In the end, however drunkenly, loudly or deliciously, isn't that what a hen party should be celebrating?

 

Perfect 5- Minute Moments

Christmas is over and  the new year is not yet here.
We are back, once again in those nameless inbetween-days recovering from over indulgence.
Those of us who don't have to go back to work yet are meant to be recovering from the excesses of Xmas and filling our days with nothing but relaxation.
And yet....there is a vague sense of edginess, a feeling that we are waiting for something that hasn't happened yet..
For a new year? A new beginning? A return to work? A return to all things familiar and  slightly boring?
Time pressures have disappeared, replaced, instead, by the pressures of filling time. 
There is no reason to get up in the morning.
No reason to eat breakfast before lunch.
No particular reason to do anything at any particular time.
We are free to do nothing at all.
And all this freedom and resting takes a lot of getting used to.
We have all the time in the world to spend with the people we've been longing to spend  all the time in the world with.
And suddenly all the time in the world can seem like a big,beckoning space.
With as long as we want to talk about everything we have meant to talk about all year,we  find that we have suddenly run out of words.
We are used to making conversation in short, urgent bursts.
We live in a world of sound-bites, rushed conversations and 60 second news.
In a world of acronyms and text speak.
Sitting, listening to our teenage children and their teenage cousins huddled together on the sofa  on Christmas Day, I found myself wondering if they had actually started to speak a different language.
Theirs is a world  shaped by social media sentences and individual letters instead of words.
Sometimes it feels as though  conversation is a dying art
Grudgingly all the cousins, 4 boys and 3 girls, had agreed to participate in the dramatised court-case involving stolen jewels and dubious characters that their grandad had written especially for them.  
But under pretend cross -examination they answered mostly with monosyllables and  giggles and the odd 'LOL." or "TY."
Try as he might, their once-upon-a-lawyer grandad, could not really get them to enter into the spirit of his little drama.
The ad-libbed performance, supposed take up most of the afternoon, lasted only half an hour before the teenagers made their escape.
" I sent them the outline a week ago," complained their grandad, ' they were meant to read it and create their characters.  They've had lots of time."
"Perhaps they've had too much time," I suggested. " Perhaps it would have worked better if you had given them the outline 10 minutes before it started and told them they had 5 minutes to create their characters."
" How can you create a character in 5 minutes,"sighed their grandad, folding away his Christmas masterpiece.
But the truth is, 5 minutes is all that it takes.
5 minutes is all that it takes for the world to change completely.
5 minutes is all that  it takes for planes to fly into buildings, for bombs to explode, for river banks to burst or for freak waves to wash away an entire island.
5 minutes is all that it takes for crazy people to do crazy things.
So 5 minutes is definitely enough time for lively teenagers to create make-believe characters.
Our lives are a chain of sometimes-intense, sometimes-meaningless  5 minute intervals linked  together by hopes and dreams and the occasional bar of chocolate.

Christmas day faded into Christmas night.
The teenagers  turned the music up and danced their way into boxing day., chattering happily in their mostly incomprehensible language about mostly incomprehensible things.

And as we " oldies," sat and watched, we couldn't help smiling.
Smiling at the happiness they found just by being together.
Smiling at the fun they were having.
Smiling at the memories they were creating.

Because what I've realised as I'm writing this, is that it's not the speed at which we live our lives that matters, but the depth and strength of the memories we create. 
And one day, when all-the-time-in-the-world weighs heavily upon our shoulders, it's remembering all the 5 minutes filled with love and life and laughter that will keep us going.

So here's to 2016 being a year full of perfect 5-minute-moments...and lots and lots of chocolate.

Big Dreams

We were sitting in the garden having one of those perfect days - friends, sunshine, flapjack, muffins and a huge pot of coffee.
We chatted and laughed, shared memories and dreams, talked politics and women's rights.
And then one of my friends said:
" The thing is, when I look back on my life, it feels as though I haven't really achieved anything."
I watched the shadow of sadness and failure flit across her face.
This friend of mine who is kind, thoughtful, generous, caring and fills every moment with " distance run."
She has brought up a daughter with Down's Syndrome who is so confident and so popular that walking through town with her is like accompanying a minor celebrity.
She has supported her son and her husband, chaired a local charity and through it all, she has never stopped working.
If those aren't achievements, what are?
What makes us believe that a popstar or TV presenter or famous author has achieved more than those of us who live ordinary lives, caring about ordinary things?
When did the sense of whether or not we have achieved something become inextricably linked with something outside of ourselves?
When did the measurement of achievement stop being something small and become something big?
When did it stop being something personal and become something public?
We tried to reassure my friend that she had achieved so much, that no one in her family would be where they were today without her, that the charity she chaired for all those years wouldn't be doing so well today if it hadn't been for her, of the difference she has made to her workplace.
She listened and nodded and I could tell she was trying to believe us.
" It's kind of you to say so," she said.
But we weren't being kind, we were being honest.
It was just that she didn't believe us.
Somehow, today, being good at your job, being the best parent you can be, creating a home, having lots of friends and a busy social life, isn't enough.
These days, a sense of achievement has to be fuelled by something greater than daily accomplishments and small successes.
And it makes me worry for our kids.
I worry that they are confusing unattainable dreams ( always good to have ) with attainable goals.
X Factor and Britain's Got Talent and the mind-blowingly rich celebrity lifestyles of football players and sports personalities make them believe that anyone can be anything and that all things are possible.

Ask teenagers today what they want to so when they grow up and they say "to be rich or famous." 
And why not? They see the " from rags to riches," stories all the time on television and social media.
With all the " Big Brother," style programmes they watch nobodies become somebodies overnight.
But the trouble is, while many of them believe it's very likely that it can happen to them, the truth is, that it's extremely unlikely.
Most of us will become neither very rich nor very famous. 
Most of us will just carry on living our every-day-lives in our every-day-worlds with our every-day achievements.
Dreams are good, false hope is dangerous.
Because when reality bites, it really hurts.
Studying, going to work, spending time with your friends, falling in love, creating a life for yourself, working out where you fit in this unpredictable world......all that means nothing.
What used to make us feel proud now makes us feel like failures.
We are beginning to forget that the smallest of things can often be the biggest of achievements.

Outside I  meet our next door neighbour, bent double, the result of a crumbling spine. 
He walks painfully slowly using two walking sticks.
With difficulty he lifts his head and smiles at me.
"I walked all the way to the end of the road today," he says,  " I couldn't do that last week." 
I watch him shuffle into his house, each step a success story, radiating a sense of achievement that is almost tangible.
And I think perhaps that's  how we should all of us measure our achievements -  one small, completed step at a time.

From the other side of our garden fence, a newer neighbour grins at me.
" I've been waiting to tell you Becky," she says, " I did it! "
" Did what?" I ask.
"The ultra-marathon," she says, " 50 miles up and down a mountain, non-stop." 
I remember how exhausted I feel when I  run to the corner shop.
" Did someone make you do it?" I ask.
She laughs.
" Of course not.  I wanted to."
" Did you?" I say "Why?"
She shrugs
" To see if I could."
I think of all the things I try doing, just to see if I can.
Going a whole day without eating any chocolate - maybe.
Going  a whole morning without shouting at the kids - sometimes.
Spend a whole day in my pyjamas - definitely.
But running an ultra-marathon - never.
I am full of incomprehension.
" So now you know you can do it," I say, "that's enough right? I mean, it's a once in a lifetime thing really isn't it? If that.."
But already I can see the glimmer in her eye.
" Well....." she says, " there's another one in September and it would have been better if 
I'd trained more....and it took me 22 hours.  I think I could do it faster."

And that's the thing about achievement - the sense of it is so often fleeting.
What we achieve today can often seem like nothing tomorrow.
Today's mountain is tomorrow's hill.
Today's end of the road is tomorrow's corner to turn.
But even if that's true, we haven't failed, we've still won.
Because for one day at least, we know that we did it.
The problem is that we often don't let ourselves bask in a sense of achievement. 
We feel that it's wrong to congratulate ourselves.
Instead we convince ourselves that what we've achieved isn't enough, that the goal we set ourselves wasn't hard enough, that we haven't dreamed big enough, that no one else has even noticed.
And often they haven't
But that shouldn't lessen our sense of achievements.
When our neighbour puts down his walking sticks and sinks into an armchair, all that matters is that he knows what he has achieved.
When an ultra-marathon runner wakes up the next day with aching knees, the victory is all theirs.
And that's all that matters.
The knowledge that you did it.
It's easy to have regrets in life, easy to remember all things we haven't done rather than to celebrate all the things we have.
It's easy to minimise our achievements and diminish their importance. 
Walking to the end of the road, running up a mountain, making your Down's Syndrome daughter believe she has the world at her fingertips - they are all greater, more personal and more long-lasting achievements than any transitory fame brought to you by one electronically enhanced pop song.
So forget winning X-Factor or Britain's Got Talent.
Forget making millions or writing a masterpiece.
Instead, start celebrating the every day achievements, however small or personal.
They are what keeps our ordinary worlds turning.
And I'm thinking....today's bar of chocolate will be tomorrow's delicious memory.