Berberis' World

Sunday, 30th August 2009.

We’ve been married for 23 years today. To celebrate, we went for dinner with our two children at a local restaurant.

Normally, when we eat out we don’t talk. As far as I’m concerned this is almost entirely due to the fact that when I was at primary school the headmaster, Mr Barry, forbade all talking during lunchtime. He would stand behind his desk surveying the children in his charge, making those who spoke stand facing the window at the front of the canteen and therefore unable to finish their meal. You ate in silence and, because you wanted to talk, you ate as quickly as possible so you could get out. Nowadays, kids can run around cafes and restaurants and cinemas and do what the fuck they like, even if it means pissing other people off, because to restrict them is to ‘infringe their human rights’. Bollocks. You want human rights violations? Go to the Imperial War Museum. See how children had their human rights infringed by being starved to death by people allowed to run riot in others’ countries. And then talk to me about kids being able to run riot in restaurants.

Make the little sods sit down and behave themselves. Make them aware of others feelings and opinions. Make them more considerate. Stop them being so fucking selfish and self obsessed. And, while you’re at it, stop indulging their every bloody whim, stop telling them that they’re ‘special’ when they clearly are just average and, for everyone’s sake, stop making them believe that they can be famous when they have no talent for anything except being bloody obnoxious.

We have two kids, both of whom are blessedly normal, i.e. neither of them have learning difficulties or physical or mental problems. For this I am very grateful, as I am well aware that there are children who have huge problems simply being alive. Both ours have been brought up to know right from wrong, to appreciate that other people matter, and to do whatever they do to the best of their ability. Neither have been ‘hot-housed’ or pushed to be more than they are, or berated when they have failed to attain unattainable standards. They are both well-balanced, considerate and happy, and I am thankful for this. I’m glad that neither of them passed a GCSE when they were 6, or got 14 A* GCSEs at their first attempt, because I don’t think I could live with myself for having produced such shallow, results-obsessed people.

I love both our kids unconditionally. I’d like our daughter to find herself a job where she is appreciated for her organisational abilities and people skills, I’d like our son to do well in his GCSEs, but not at the expense of their happiness. If, as they get older, they make mistakes, lose all their money and/or their enthusiasm, I’ll be there to counsel them/bail them out/cheer them up.

Right now, we’re all sitting in the front room, each with a laptop. Part of me thinks this is quite sad, but another part is content that we are, at least, in the same room talking to each other now and again. Which is more than a lot of people do, and certainly more than I and my parents used to do on a Sunday evening. Or any evening, come to that.

There’s not much going on, singing-wise. I’ve been off for a week and haven’t been inclined to do any listening, practice, or even getting drunk and roaring along to Brahms Requiem, which is always a good standby activity. Instead, what I seem to have done most of is laundry, laundry and more laundry. At least the banana yogurt remnants are now gone from the sofa cushion cover.

I’ve also (almost) convinced our 15 year old son to spare whatever small part of his brain is unaffected by the endless and combined stimuli of video games and Red Dwarf re-runs for his GCSE set text, Silas Marner, as read by Andrew Sachs. You can lead a boy to books but, sadly, you cannot make him read.

Or is it Jonathan Sachs? If he ever decides to give up being Chief Rabbi, he should definitely go into audio books.

The most frustrating conversation I’ve had this week (apart from the constant one I have with myself) was with James at whatever call centre deals with our banking queries. Much of the 21 minutes that I was on the telephone was spent navigating their “press 1 for loans, press 2 for complaints, press 3 for limb amputation” system of call misdirecting screening. Once connected to the human being department, James twice tried to sell me insurance and a mortgage, told me that I should not be using my husband’s log-on details to access our joint account – the joint account we had spent all the previous day balancing (me trying to suppress my terror at our increasing overdraft) – and failed three times to answer my actual question. All this and they don’t pay interest on credit balances anymore! Basterds.

After all this I took the train to Charing X, got lost in Soho, had a meal in Eat Tokyo, a drink at The Market Porter (unbelievably busy outside, room to breathe inside) then came home, not really in a drinking mood.