Postcards from the edge

"A person without a sense of humour is like a wagon without springs. It's jolted by every pebble on the road." 

(Henry Ward Beecher)

Due to medical treatment, work and IT problems (never anything by halves, the GigiOnSea motto), I've really fallen behind with posts on this little blog! I seem to have several posts in the pipeline but none of them have made their way out into the sporadic sunlight; a bit like most of my bright ideas, hopes and wishes. Pleasant diversions are so often a downfall; but there's always much to be gained from a smile which costs nothing. Various friends have sent me "seaside" saucy-postcard humour over the past few weeks and I thought I would feature some of them as a personal encouragement to British summertime.
British publishers were first granted Royal Mail permission to manufacture picture postcards in 1894. The earliest cards featured famous landmarks and picturesque views or photographs and drawings of celebrities of the times. However, as travel by steam locomotives proved increasingly popular and affordable, British seaside destinations generated their own souvenir industry; the "Wish You Were Here" picture postcard became a staple product. 

In the 1930s, saucy postcards were at the peak of their popularity, selling around 16 million a year. The cartoons traditionally relied on innuendo and double entendres; stereotypical characters such as vicars, nudists, hen-pecked husbands and larger ladies featured heavily (no pun intended). I've inherited my love of what I'd call "Carry On" humour from my Dad. It's probably why I'm so taken by Brighton's own Max Miller. Yes, a lot of the humour centres around the human body, it's functions and frailties and our related sensitivities; but it's a naughtiness rather than obscenity. There's a simplicity and infectiousness in laughter that is ever-ready. I think naivete in humour, as in affection and even in faith, can be a delightful and humbling quality.

In the 1950s, the Conservative government of the day was concerned with an apparent deterioration of British morals: it decided to crackdown on saucy postcards.... A decade later, in the more liberal and seemingly swinging 1960s, the cartoon postcard was revived and even gained a new reputation as an art form. A further demise has occurred in more recent years as the artistry itself and certainly the humour has deteriorated. There's certainly a finely drawn line between bawdy and obvious bad taste; seaside humour was intended to nudge all, not wound some to tickle a few. Many original saucy postcards are now collected as works of art or kitsch, but they also document social and economic history as well as fluctuating values.
High on the Conservatives' moral hitlist in the 1950s was London artist Donald McGill, known as the King of the Saucy Postcard. He was educated in Blackheath in south London, close to my convent school. He married the daughter of the owner of the local music hall in Greenwich and spent most of his life in Blackheath; a Blue Plaque now commemorates his previous home there in Bennett Park. He was originally a naval draughtsman, whose hand-drawn greetings cards for his family gained wider acclaim. 

In 1954, then in his late seventies, McGill was targeted by the censors and tried under the 1857 Obscene Publications Act. He was found guilty and fined; it devastated the burgeoning saucy postcard industry. Many cards were destroyed and several companies were bankrupted. When he was in his eighties, McGill would give evidence before the House Select Committee which was set up to amend the 1857 Act.
One of his designs, featuring a bookish young man and the caption: "Do you like Kipling?" still holds the world record for marketed postcard designs, selling over 6 million. He produced tens of thousands of designs; many are now auctioned as works of beauty and historical commentary. Yet Donald McGill earned no royalties from his work; when he died in 1962, his estate was valued at just £735. He's buried in an unmarked grave in Streatham Park Cemetery, south London.
There's a wonderful quote about humour from American psychologist and writer William James, brother of novelist Henry James. He likens the sense of humour to common sense in dancing mode. I think this really applies to the earthiness of saucy postcards. Personally, I've never bought the idea of God as a detached, sombre old man. Creation itself is filed with God's humour: He constantly does the impossible in unexpected ways and with the unlikeliest people. He created sex as a natural urge for pleasure and procreation; sex may well make fools of many, but I'd rather it was a source of mirth, not misery.

"Common sense and a sense of humour are the same thing, moving at different speeds. A sense of humour is just common sense, dancing."

(William James)

 

 
 
 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

"I have never understood why it should be considered derogatory to the Creator to suppose that he has a sense of humour."

(William Ralph Inge)

"She Moves In Her Own Way" The Kooks (Brighton's finest seaside skifflers!)

A very special service

"Fear is the enemy of love."

(St Augustine)

"The world is full of people who have never, since childhood, met an open doorway with an open mind."

(E.B. White)

I really didn't want to go on Jury Service. I felt unprepared and ill equipped to formally "judge" others' actions or intent. Three weeks on and after a particularly harrowing case that reduced me to tears in court on more than one occasion, I feel privileged to have been randomly selected. I was fortunate to have been kept in a confined space without the usual diversions with eleven extremely conscientious and caring people. All cut from very different cloths, we wove ourselves together comfortably and seamlessly by the end of the trial. Faced with disturbing evidence and the raw emotion of some of the witnesses, my fellow jurors restored my belief that there are good people and true out there.
Obviously, I can't say much about the case and the private lives of those involved have already been ripped apart and raked through, however necessarily. Graphically evidenced for us; the terrible collision of lives bruised by lack of self worth and faith; the inexorable impact of an abuse of affection and a failure to protect innocence.
I've only had a couple of boyfriends in my whole life; it may be that I'm a singularly unappealing individual, but I prefer to think my single status is largely due to not wanting to compromise my values and beliefs. I've certainly preferred to wake alone on a cold winter's morning than to lie in fear for anyone or anything entrusted to me, whether that be a child, my sanity or my soul. There but for fortunate and grace, I guess.
Our jury, in equal numbers male and female, admitted to losing sleep during the trial and feeling deeply shaken after our verdict was given. We had become aware of the enormity of relatively small words such as reason and doubt. I think we all gained a new respect for the resolve of the judiciary and the resilience of the surrounding administration.
There was a child in this case who is, thank God, alive and safe. I feel profoundly changed by my experience, if only that I feel more securely me. I hope to stay in touch with a couple of the jurors and would be genuinely delighted to cross paths with any of them in the future. It occurs to me that "jury" can be a very special service. And yet still nothing compared to the beautiful and terrifying responsibility of parenting; at it's finest, a life sentence.

"Unloving"

(Carol Ann Duffy)

Learn from the winter trees, the way

they kiss and throw away their leaves,

then hold their stricken faces in their hands 

and turn to ice; 

or from the clocks, 

looking away, unloving light, the short days 

running out of things to say; a church, 

a ghost ship on a sea of dusk. 

Learn from a stone, its heart shape meaningless, 

perfect with relentless cold; or from the bigger moon, 

implacably dissolving in the sky, or from the stars,

lifeless as Latin verbs. 

Learn from the river, 

flowing always somewhere else, even its name,

change, change; learn from a rope 

hung from a branch like a noose, a crow cursing, 

a dead heron mourned by a congregation of flies. 

Learn from the dumbstruck garden, summer’s grave, 

where nothing grows, not a Beast’s rose; 

from the town veil of a web; 

from our daily bread: 

perpetual rain, nothing like tears, unloving clouds; 

language unloving love; even this stale air 

unloving all the spaces where you were.

"I think the thumb print on the throat of many people is childhood trauma that goes unprocessed and unrecognized." 

(Tom Hooper)

"Skinny Love" Birdy (version)

"And I told you to be patient 

and I told you to be fine; 

and I told you to be balanced 

and I told you to be kind; 

and if all your love is wasted 

then who the hell was I? 

Who will love you?

Who will fight? 

And who will fall far behind?" 

(From "Skinny Love", Justin Vernon)

"Childhood is a promise that is seldom kept."

(Ken Hill)

Massacre of the Innocents

The Massacre of the Innocents is a biblical narrative of infanticide, perpetrated by Herod the Great, appointed "King of the Jews" by the Romans. According to Matthew's gospel, Herod ordered the execution of all male babies and small children in and around the village of Bethlehem, to avoid losing his crown to a newborn Messiah. The Feast of the Holy Innocents is commemorated by most Christian churches on 28th December; many recognise these murdered babies as the first Christian martyrs.
Set in the heartland of New England, Connecticut is often called "The Constitution State"; it's colonial constitution of 1639 was the first in America, arguably the world. Yesterday, two weeks before the Feast of the Holy Innocents, and within sight of Christmas Day, twenty children between the ages of five and ten were among twenty eight people killed in the USA's most recent mass murder by an individual with firearms. The infants and their teachers at the Sandy Hook Elementary School, Newtown, Connecticut, were shot by a gunman just out of his teens. He was armed with at least three guns owned legally by his mother under the state's gun laws, apparently among the tightest in the USA today. A former pupil and a familiar face, he was "buzzed in" through the school's security system. His mother was a supply teacher at the school; he had already shot her and would later turn a gun on himself.
Last night, President Obama called for "meaningful action" on gun crime. The United States has about five percent of the total world population but her citizens own more than forty percent of the world's civilian-owned firearms. Repeatedly, polling has shown that a majority of Americans believe their constitution ensures their right to own a gun. 

This will be, for me, a short post. An unloaded gun may be viewed as a collectible, a piece of craftsmanship; a loaded gun may be called a deterrent, or protection, although some will only ever see a deterrent as a challenge. Guns are seriously purpose built, to fire at a target. We may never fully know why a twenty year old guy decided to kill innocents at his local school yesterday. But we know how he did it.
May they rest in peace.

"America is a country founded on guns. It's in our DNA."

(Brad Pitt)

"There is no flag large enough to cover the shame of killing innocent people."

(Howard Zinn)

"There is no foot too small that it cannot leave an imprint on this world."

(Kari Lynn)

"Abide With Me" Emeli Sande

...as though no-one is watching

Photo: Gigi, album

Visitors to my fally-down house in Brighton are greeted by an assortment of eccentricities, even as they proceed down my little hallway. Among these is a small woodcut that serves as a mission statement from the householder. It's an adaptation of a much-loved verse: often accredited to Mark Twain, one of my favourite authors, it's also been credited to Father Alfred de Souza and William W. Purkey.

A couple of days ago, my friend Coral's angelic but totally precocious four year old daughter Ronnie was pirouetting around in an empty room, only pausing to curtsey to her unseen public. She didn't miss a beat when I asked her why she was dancing: "Because Nobody's watching, Gigi!"
When I was slightly older than Ronnie, I would frequently embarrass my parents by singing all the way along the aisles in Safeway supermarket - for some reason, "Puppet on a String" was a huge favourite - and by shouting "Ding ding! All 'board!" at every stop on the old number 94 buses through Lewisham. Nowadays of course, I wouldn't dream of bursting into a Eurovision classic in the middle of Aldis: but is that really progress?
I'm often told that various aspects of me, from my voice to my clothes to my sense of humour, are childlike and therefore un-befitting someone of my actual years. Until quite recently, I used to be insulted, but now I understand it as something rather precious. I love Mark Twain's verse because it perfectly sums up how I hoped to live my life: not in selfish hedonism or at the expense of others, but with a lack of vanity and an essential feeling of joy and optimism. After another year of whingeing about myself and most people around me, I realise I've fallen far short of that goal again. We generally tend to disregard others' opinions until we question how they're regarding us. I've promised Ronnie that I'll go dancing with her out on The Level park when the weather is warmer, something she'll hold me to with the fluffy tenacity of a four year old. My other resolution for the New Year should surely be to pay more attention to the writings on my own wall.
Lee Ann Womack's song "I Hope You Dance" is a country favourite of mine and a regular number to warble in the shower, only witnessed by Ginger the-cat-from-next-door and God. Apart from that, Nobody. Why does Ginger the cat insist on sitting at my bathroom door when I have a shower? Well, he's a Brighton cat. Maybe he's read Mark Twain.

"I hope you Dance"  Lee Ann Womack (ft. her daughters)

"I hope you never lose your sense of wonder, 

You get your fill to eat but always keep that hunger; 

May you never take one single breath for granted, 

God forbid love ever leave you empty handed. 

I hope you still feel small when you stand beside the ocean; 

Whenever one door closes I hope one more opens. 

Promise me that you'll give faith a fighting chance 

And when you get the choice to sit it out or dance, 

I hope you dance" 

There's something about Mary: The Feast of The Assumption

"Mary is the safest, easiest, shortest and most perfect way of approaching Jesus"

(St Louis Marie de Montfort)

"Who Is She Ascends So High?"
(from the Roman Catholic Breviary)
Who is she ascends so high,
Next the heav'nly King,
Round about whom angels fly,
And her praises sing?
Who is she adorned with light;
Makes the sun her robe?
At whose feet the queen of night
Lays her changing globe?
This is she in whose pure womb
Heaven's Prince remained;
Wherefore in no earthly tomb
Could she be contained.
Heav'n she was, which held that fire,
Whence the world took light,
And to heav'n doth now as pire:
Flames with flames unite.
She that did so clearly shine,
Our day once begun,
See how bright her beams decline,
Sitting with the Sun.

As a convent schoolgirl, I grew up with a fascination for the traditional Catholic devotion to Mary, the Virgin Mother of God. As a "Child of Mary", I joined with other bustling little girls to decorate the chapel with flowers during the month of May, all of us proudly wearing our blue sashes. I still have my little rosary from my First Communion; the cheapest, mass-produced plastic, but sugar-pink and precious. Family holidays to my Dad's homeland would always incorporate a trip to Our Lady's shrine at Banneux: I can still picture the rows of souvenir Blessed Virgins; a regiment of serenity with celestial blue cloaks and rose-cheeked inclined heads. These days, I belong to the Catholic Women's League, where each meeting starts with The Rosary. I now have a frieze of The Black Madonna in my living room: I managed to paint the alcoves there almost the exact same shade as her vivid red cloak; I only wish I had found my blue sash before the family home had to be sold...

Why do we so love Mary?

Yesterday, 15th August, was the feast of The Assumption, celebrated across the Christian churches; a Holy Day of Obligation and also a public holiday in Austria, Belgium, France, Greece, Italy, Malta, Spain and many other countries. The word "assumption" is literally from the Latin for "taken up": we celebrate that Mary was assumed into heaven, body and soul. Many Catholics do believe that Mary died physically before she ascended to heaven, but this aspect of The Assumption is not fully defined in the theology of the Catholic Church. It's a beautiful and joyous feast: Mary's Assumption is seen as a divine gift to her as the mother of Jesus; but also serves as a reminder of the saving grace that awaits us all.

Christian "Mariology" (the study and theology of Mary), explores not only her life but also the veneration of her in our own daily lives. The Virgin Mary has been a divine muse for artists, musicians, composers of hymns, sculptors and architects throughout ancient and modern Christianity. Non-Catholics have often accused the Roman Church of "loving Mary too much": deifying her in fact. However, now that I'm no longer the awestruck child with an armful of unruly roses, I appreciate that most Catholics feel a strong personal relationship to Mary because of her essential humanity; she is effectively, mother to all. As a woman, I also feel that Mary is Eve redeemed; femininity and loveliness without treachery, artifice or blemish.
We feel that Mary is our intercessor, "Our Lady": when something seems too trivial to place directly before God, Mary is there to support us through our trials and irritations and small but poignant hurts. Just as a child might run to a mother for comfort with a grazed knee, we feel Mary is accessible in this way. The emphasis is actually on her being fully human rather than any notion of deity. She is a figure of warm hope, sympathy and compassion.

Mary's selflessness and compassion as a human being are seen as ultimate. She acceded to God's wishes; a bewildered and guileless young girl, at a time when being an unmarried mother could have catastrophic consequences. Later, this very real mother would willingly sacrifice her child for the fulfilment of the scriptures and, therefore, our own. In a very practical sense, Mary supports the role of women in what is all too often viewed as a patriarchal "firm". Although Mary obeyed the word of God without question, I've never thought of her as subservient. She may be a vessel without sin, but she is far from empty: "full of grace", she is the embodiment of God's love at work in us, she gives birth to Christianity and Catholicism. Far from dismissing her as a meek, blindly following virgin, I rather believe she was only too aware of the enormity of what was before her and what would come after. Her selflessness actually required courage and resolve: this combined with her immense tenderness makes her uniquely powerful and important within our faith.

The Catholic priest, Trappist monk and poet Thomas Merton wrote many devotional Marian poems, although he felt that her greatest glory was her "nothingness": I love that he compares her freedom from all egotism to the purest glass of the cleanest window, but I've always felt that Mary the woman and mother had a great deal of substance to her! I believe that our devotion to Our Lady is flamed by her innate preciousness, which she carried with utter humility: this is what makes her complete. Sadly, I don't have a daughter: if I did, I would be thrilled to see her set aside her magazines of teetering, collagen-tampered WAGS and wannabes to don a blue sash for a real Lady.

"Mare Mia"  Diana Navarro

"Because my will is as simple as a window

And knows no pride of original birth,

It is my life to die, like glass, by light:

Slain in the strong rays of the bridegroom sun."

("The Blessed Virgin Mary Compared to a Window"  Thomas Merton)

"Know you what it is to be a child?"

"As the family goes, so goes the nation and so goes the whole world in which we live."

(Pope John Paul II)

"Know you what it is to be a child? It is to be something very different from the man of today. It is to have a spirit yet streaming from the waters of baptism; it is to believe in love, to believe in loveliness, to believe in belief"

(Francis Thompson)

I wanted write something respectfully dedicated to the memory of Tia Sharp and all the children who have suffered physically, mentally or emotionally at the hands of those they should have been most able to trust. A couple of people have warned me off doing this, particularly as those charged with or bailed on suspicion of Tia's murder must be afforded the due process of the legal system. But one thing is irrefutably clear at this stage: the death of twelve year old Tia was concealed by members of her own family. When I read that Tia's mother had been told her own mother was implicated in Tia's murder, I wanted to weep for her.

I was very fortunate: I had both my parents until I was sixteen and my mother lived through to her late eighties. My Dad was very much a father-figure and I was still my Mum's "baby" even when she herself needed cajoling to eat and support to get to the bathroom. Whatever the political, social or even geographical distances between my only sister and myself, we are bound together as "family" due to my parents' devotion to each other and to us.

Sociologists will tell you that, in human terms, a family is basically a group of people linked by consanguinity, affinity or even co-residence. In many societies, it's the principle institution for the socialisation of children. Cloning aside, we are unable to choose our families as we do our friends: close ties formed voluntarily and independently can often prove stronger than blood. However, when affinities are cultivated within domestic familiarity but without Nature's biological safeguarding, the picture can sometimes become very distorted. Today, there is an apparent disintegration of the traditionally structured family: due to the devaluation of marriage and longterm, formal partnerships, the kind of procreational vagrancy that seems to permeate some sectors of society, and the horribly premature sexualisation of children. Tia's grandmother was pregnant with Tia's mother when she was only two years older than the tragic schoolgirl at the time of her death. When I was 14, I was dreaming about ballet and still plaiting my hair everyday.

Recent research in the United States has estimated that from the year 2000, there would be more "step-families" across America than traditional nuclear ones; one in every three Americans would have step siblings or parents. I have no wish to offend anyone whose family is comprised of "step" or "half" relatives; I have several friends in such situations where the well being of all the children is paramount and where love and respect are natural perimeters. Yet it's alien for me to grasp how Tia's mother could accept her own ex-partner, the now-accused Stuart Hazell, as her current step-dad; or indeed for Tia to suddenly view her mother's former partner as her new step-grandfather. One of my friends recently explained to her son that they were going to meet his "new Daddy", to which he smartly replied: "How did he get to be my Daddy without me knowing anything about it?"

I recently asked a Catholic priest if I should invite some people who were in need stay in my home, knowing that they would be unlikely to respect my privacy and property or the sacredness of my late parents' things. I admit that I was devastated when he suggested this was the ideal, God-given opportunity to throw open my front door as well as my heart. I was relieved when another priest, who I consider to be a friend, advised that it wasn't uncharitable to protect my home if I felt at all unsafe. God doesn't want us to be capricious about who we invite into our homes or our hearts. He bids us to respect and cherish the precious gifts He's given us, to keep them safe; nothing can be more precious than the innocence of a child.

"Innocence is lucky if it finds the same protection as guilt."

(Francois  de La Rochefoucauld)

 

God Bless Tia.