Rice or Roses?

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When the weather is hot conversations turn to love.

In Manchester groups gather to eat their lunches by the Bridgewater Hall or on St Peter's Square.

The sunglasses people wear seem to act as masques at a ball, and furtive glances pass across the pavements in the hope that no one catches on – or if they do then he or she might stretch their legs out a little further, lean back and pretend to soak up more sun.

'We have a proverb in China,' said my friend as we sweltered in the heat. 'Do you want rice or roses every day?'

I thought for a moment. I eat rice at least three times a week, I definitely wouldn't want it every day. 


'Maria –'

She tends to talk to me as though she is shouting.

'I want roses.'

'This is where you are going wrong,' she sighed. 'You cannot have roses every day. You need rice to live. You see now how this makes sense?'

'I'd prefer to have roses some days, than rice every day.'

'We all want roses,' she said, 'but we can't have roses. We need rice to live. This is what it is like with a man, roses don't last, you need rice.'

'Even so, I'm a roses girl.'

She tutted and turned back to her work.

'You are not looking for a man,' she said. 'You are looking for a hero.'

The office was quiet. I smiled at her words because she'd made me think of the Bonnie Tyler song and then all I could see was the image of a woman striding the floor to an 80s beat.

'I'm not looking for a hero,' I said. 'Just someone to put the bins out.'
 
Then it reminded me of what my French friend had said when she spoke about her husband:
'I'd rather be treated like a queen than kiss a King's ass.'

Rowing for Beginners

'Lean right back, pivot the hips, up to front stops, feather, blade in... and push –'

It was a glorious morning and I was on the canal learning how to row. Tommy was sitting behind me being quite patient. He's been rowing for his whole life and now he's retired.

'You need to go slower.'

I thought I was slow. Really slow.

'Push your bottom back – I'm sorry we're going to have to use words like bottom,' he said. 'I hope you don't mind. Okay so push your bottom back and relax.'

'I don't mind you using the word bottom,' I said sticking the blades back into the water and trying to pull a full stroke.

'Watch the pools of water form as we leave them behind, look at the trees, the sky, the water ... You're thinking about it too much, don't think about it. Now slowly forward, relax your back –'

He tried to grab at my vest as I surged forward, my hands gripped tightly at the blades as though I wanted to fight the water, not glide over it. He hesitated for fear he'd yank my bra straps and sighed.

'I don't know where to grab you,' he said. 'I can't very well pull your hair.'

'No, don't do that.'

'Rowing is a very bodily sport,' he said apologetically.

I know, I thought, gazing over to the boat shed where men in Lycra were hoicking a quad up onto their shoulders to bring to the water. That's why I'm here.

Then I heard a fog horn, well not actually a fog horn but my best male friend Dillon who just so happened to be drifting by on a barge, on a barge holiday, waving his arms like a lunatic and calling out for me. 'Oh Maria, darling, Maria, darling – you're rowing, you're rowing...'.

I blew him some kisses across the water and waved.

He turned around to his friends. 'Oh look, she's rowing. Go on then, row.'

'Concentrate,' said Tommy as he tapped me on the shoulder. I sensed he felt bad for tapping me on the shoulder. 'Don't let him distract you. Think of nothing. Backstops, and go.'

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But I wasn't thinking of nothing, I was thinking of how to get on that barge for a cup of tea. And then I was thinking of the boys in the boat shed, and then I was wondering if I'm too old at thirty-four to become an Olympic athlete.




 

Gender Roles

On Friday Teenboy and I were in the car driving to school. I didn't want to drive as I'm trying to cycle to work, and run, and row, and play tennis – since I started my fitness routine I've gained weight, don't give me all this "it's muscle" rubbish –  Teenboy was expecting a lift to school and so had dragged his feet around the house. I, on the other hand was dressed like an athlete in search of some hurdles.

I like the time we spend together in the car. It's an enclosed space where we can talk to one another and I can squeeze his cheeks. When it's raining, or there is traffic, then that's even better.

It's the only time I get to legally trap him in one spot.

'We had PSHE yesterday and the teacher was talking about working mothers,' he began.
'That's interesting,' I said, 'what did she say?'
'That it works better if the man goes out to work and the woman stays at home and doesn't work.'

Teenboy goes to an all boys' school: there are no cookery lessons (domestic science) and I think this is because they expect the boys to get with the girls from the girls' school – and for the girls to cook for them. It's contemporary-archaic.

'I said to the teacher,' continued Jack. 'Well, what about all the single mothers in this country?'

Right on, I thought. Right on.

'What if there is no man at home?' he continued. 'Then those families wouldn't have any money at all.'

'Indeed, or what about the women who left their husbands and had never had a job, how would they find work?'

'And besides,' he added, 'I'm the only man in our house, so I told her: "I'm not going out to work."'

'And what did she say?'

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'She said, "I hadn't thought about that."'

The New Generation

I'm feeling clear-headed about writing again, which is due to living alone. This morning I woke up thinking of all the things I wanted to do, but was struck by the tiny fear of doing it - writing is quite a scary business - I've been thinking more and more about eBooks. About how publishers (sorry publishers) want certain books to fit certain genres, and how there are so many ways to do something different, that for a writer it's a really exciting time; we can do whatever we want to do.

I walked into Teenboy's room, he was online gaming and having a chat on facebook at the same time.

'A girl I met at PGL is reading your book,' he said.

He went on this trip years ago.

'How does she know it's my book? Did you tell her before she bought it?'
'No, she just told me now she that she's reading Single Mother on the Verge on her iPad, her mum bought it.'
'Where does she live?'
'In a little village somewhere.'
'It's a bit weird,' he said.

It'll weirder, I thought, when she gets to the sex scenes.

But then I did think it was a little sign; a teenager is reading my book on an iPad, in a village somewhere – I never thought that would happen.