Paper pants

When I was a teenager, I got a place on a youth leadership scheme. This meant a summer, travelling between camps in America. Six weeks of adventure, hard work and disposable knickers.

It was my mother’s idea. She figured (rather reasonably) that I wouldn’t be able to do much laundry while I was travelling. From this, she decided that the best solution would be paper pants: the kind that people wear in hospital when recuperating from operations. The kind that people wear at the beautician’s to protect their actual, proper, non-disposable underwear. The kind that people do not actually wear to go about their day-to-day business.

Every day started the same: I would gingerly climb into a fresh, fragile pair of knickers, hoping that this time I wouldn’t tear them while putting them on. This was more difficult than it sounded as I was also pulling them on at top speed so my roommates wouldn’t see my underpant shame.

Knickers normally fit reasonably snuggly, whereas these gently puffed out, like an adult nappy. I was desperate that no-one saw them.

I wonder now if this was some deliberate move on mum’s part to ensure that I didn’t get up to any sexy mischief, by putting me in pants that were guaranteed to kill the libido of all who saw them? If so, she had very little to worry about. I was plum in the middle of my most socially-awkward period, where I could barely talk to anyone, let alone BOYS THAT I FANCIED. I think, at that point, I’d only been kissed once and that was only because someone had felt sorry for me. There was to be no party in my pants, regardless.

Anyway. Once I’d delicately wiggled into them, the days then followed a similar pattern: around mid-morning I’d sit down, cough or perhaps blink a little too vigorously, and I’d feel the dreaded “give”. The first pants rip of the day. The disposable fabric simply wasn’t strong enough to cope with *any* form of activity.

By lunchtime, my knickers would be mostly torn, but just about recognisable as undergarments.

By mid-afternoon, there’d be bare elastic around my waist and thighs, and shredded pieces of pants gently wafting from my clothing.

I couldn’t wait for bedtime each night.

That summer was six, endlessly long weeks, each day disintegrating as slowly and inevitably as my underwear.

And I’d forgotten it until last week, when I was visiting the beautician and she handed me a pair of paper pants.

As I carefully, carefully pulled them on, I was transported back, to an anonymous dorm room in middle America, to the unending social shame of my teenage years.

And I wondered… why didn’t teenage-me just go to a shop and buy some proper pants made of actual, non-dissolvable fabric? It would have been such a simple fix. Perhaps I deserved to wear the pants of shame after all.

Don’t look under the bed

I was staying in a scuzzy hotel in San Francisco. This wasn’t a deliberate choice; I presume the owner had taken the photos and written the description in a more optimistic time in the distant past. It was the hotel equivalent of the numerous first dates where I’d squint at the chap across the table from me, trying to match up the dashing young buck of the profile picture with the somewhat older stag who had actually turned up.

Not that there’s anything wrong with ageing or being old, of course. I was once the baby of the office, half the age of my senior colleagues, and I’ve recently started a new job where I’m one of the oldest members of the team. My age is a fact, it doesn’t actually matter; the important thing is not being dishonest about it. Whereas, I spent every date with someone who’d failed to supply a recent photo of themselves wondering what else they’d been dishonest about.

Anyway. I went down to reception.

Hotel owner: “Hi, what’s up?”

Me: “I found something unpleasant under the bed.”

HO: “Why were you looking under the bed?”

Me: “Why shouldn’t I? My pen rolled under the bed and I wanted to get it back. So I put my hand under there…”

HO: “You really shouldn’t put your hand under the bed.”

Me: “…And I put my hand on a used syringe. And I’m freaking out a bit now.”

HO: “Yeah, what were you thinking? You shouldn’t go under the bed.”

Me: “OK, but I did and I put my hand on a used syringe.”

HO: “What do you want me to do about it?”

Me: “Could you get someone to take it away, please?”

HO: “Well, no. The cleaner hasn’t turned up today. I don’t know where she is.”

Me: “No? Is she coming tomorrow?”

HO: “I don’t know. She hasn’t turned up all week, now I think of it.”

Me: “Could you take it away, please?”

HO: “No. I’m going to Vegas.”

Me: “Vegas.”

HO: “Yep. Just about to head off for a weekend in Vegas. Drive all night, party all weekend.”

Me: “This doesn’t help me with the syringe situation.”

HO: “Just don’t put your hand under the bed while I’m gone! Or ever!”

Trigger Warning

I remember the first time someone told me that they didn’t believe me.

I was just a kid, and I’d borrowed my dad’s guitar. I knew how much he loved it so I was extra careful with it, strumming it gently, and tucking his lucky plectrum back behind the strings when I’d finished.

When my dad next came to play it, the plectrum had gone. He was furious with me. When I protested, “I didn’t lose it! I put it back!”, he shot back that he didn’t believe me, then he ignored me for the rest of the day.

In my teens, I was regaling my friends with a story from the previous weekend, when I’d inadvertently got into a fight with a girl gang*. One of them looked at coolly and folded his arms, sneering, “I don’t believe you. That didn’t happen.”

A year later, I was attacked by an adult I trusted. He overpowered me, and then threatened me with a knife**. I was terrified, screaming, convinced I was going to die. After I’d managed to escape, I sought out a grown-up that I trusted and—shaking and crying—blurted out my story. He looked at me, confused. He knew the person I was talking about. “That doesn’t sound very likely”, he asked me, “are you sure that’s really what happened?” After that, I didn’t dare tell anyone else.

When I took driving lessons, my instructor would tell me to pull the car over. Then, he’d reach over and rest his hand on my breast. Just sitting there, in his too-short shorts, always in sunglasses so I never saw his eyes, telling me about the rules of the road, while casually fondling me. I was too frightened to tell him to stop, and too scared to tell anyone about it, figuring that they wouldn’t believe me and I’d get into trouble for lying. Instead, I went back for the next lesson, and the next, sitting there blankly, wishing myself somewhere, anywhere, else. Telling myself that perhaps he was only accidentally touching my tits. Again.

As an adult, I got into an abusive relationship. I was gaslighted***, intimidated and bullied. It didn’t even occur to me to do anything about it; deep down, I felt that’s how I deserved to be treated. Eventually, I found the self-respect, self-esteem and sheer determination necessary to get myself out of that situation. When I finally started to talk to my friends about what I’d endured, I expected support and outrage on my behalf. But, while most of them were wonderful, I was flabbergasted by some of the responses.

At the low end of the scale, there was detached bewilderment and disbelief: “Really? He doesn’t seem that type to me”, going up to “I don’t want to know, this really isn’t any of my business”, all the way up to: “I hope you’re not asking me to stop being friends with him. He’s always been very nice to me.”

A rude awakening. They didn’t believe me. My friends didn’t believe me.

Does it sound like I hold them responsible for what happened to me? Of course not. It wasn’t their fault at all****. But. It’s much easier to recover from trauma, to move on, to reclaim your life, when you have the support of your friends.

I learnt the hard way that if someone doesn’t believe you, then they don’t trust you. And if someone doesn’t trust you, they are not your friend.

And if someone doesn’t want to hear your story—because it makes them feel uncomfortable—then they are not your friend.

And if someone tries to shut you up, then they are not your friend.

And if someone isn’t your friend, you don’t need them in your life.

I can’t force anyone to listen to me. But I’m going to keep speaking out. And I’m not going to let anyone silence me. And if you’re my friend, we’ll stand together. And if you need to talk, I’ll listen.

……………

*Which reminds me, I must tell you that story sometime.

**I can’t see that I’ll ever tell you the full story of this. I hope you understand.

***Gaslighting: https://www.psychologytoday.com/blog/here-there-and-everywhere/201701/11-signs-gaslighting-in-relationship

****Seriously, please don’t think that I’m giving the perpetrators an easy ride. The things that happened to me were entirely their doing, no-one else. But, today, I only feel able to discuss the people I tried to confide in, who let me down. Please understand. xxx

ADVENTURES IN SHORT-SIGHTEDNESS #3: The gym

Every few years—when I feel I have too much money in my life and not enough punishment—I join a gym. Years back, I’d just got a membership to a local sports centre, and went there for my first swim.

Now, it’s not normally one mistake or misfortune that leads to disaster; instead, it’s several small ingredients combining to create a towering cake of calamity. For example, it’s not a disaster if your car breaks down in the middle of nowhere. It would be a disaster if your car breaks down in the middle of nowhere, your phone has just run out of charge, you forgot to renew your breakdown membership and you’re en route to your own wedding.

Of course, that’s an extreme example, and what I’m about to tell you certainly isn’t a life-or-death incident. But, believe me, I die a little when I think about it.

Ingredient 1)
I decided to leave my glasses in my car’s glove-box, forgetting that I really am short-sighted.

(The only explanation I can offer is that I can’t swim in my glasses, so I thought it would be easier just to leave them in the car. I should have left them in the locker. Stupid, stupid, stupid.)

Ingredient 2)
I assumed I could remember where I was going.

It had been a while since the gym induction where they showed me where the changing rooms were. But, even though the sports centre was massive, I was sure I could remember.

Ingredient 3)
I was too embarrassed to ask for help.

Turns out, I couldn’t remember where the changing rooms were, and I couldn’t see any signs, or see anyone to ask. I mean, I really couldn’t see, full-stop. (I am extremely shortsighted.)

Anyway. I was delighted to eventually find the changing room. It’s a challenge sometimes finding a good space in a busy changing room. I can’t see anything; everyone’s just pink blurry shapes to me*. But this means that I don’t know where my gaze is settling, and I don’t want to unsettle anyone by appearing to be laser-focused on their genitalia*. So, it’s easiest if I just keep my eyes low and sweep the benches until I find a spot.

I grabbed a space, at a bench in the middle of the room. There was something odd about the atmosphere in the room, but I couldn’t figure out what I was missing. Anyway, I stripped off, wrestled myself into my swimming cossie, and tried to stick my bag in a locker. But, it ate my only pound coin and then refused to lock.

Aggrieved, I wrapped a towel around myself, grabbed my things and marched (via an unnecessarily complicated route, I’m sure. If it’s not already clear, I really do have the worst sense of direction) to the front desk.

Staff member: “Hi, how can I help you?”

Me: “Hi, the locker ate my coin.”

SM: “Sorry about that, I’ll get you a replacement. Which locker was it? We’ll get the maintenance team to look at it.”

Me: “It was locker B342.”

SM: “Couldn’t be.”

Me: “It was definitely locker B342. I double checked.”

SM: “Can’t be. That’s in the men’s changing rooms.”

Me: “…”

Yes. I really had performed an ungainly, unwanted striptease in a room full of blokes without noticing.

Great.

Ah, but surely had I learned my lesson? Surely, there would be no more Adventures in Short-Sightedness?

Ahahahaha. No.**

 

* Pink, blurry shapes

** Plenty more where that came from

THE WINNING LINES: Tales from my dating days #18

It was a wintery, blustery day. We’d been for a long walk through the country park. chatting happily. Rather a promising first date, I thought, topped off with a hot chocolate in the cafe.

He grabbed the bill as it arrived:

Him: “Do you want to see me again?”

Me: “Sure! I had a lovely time”.

Him: “Are you sure you want to see me again?”

Me: “Yes, I just said I did”.

Him: “I don’t want to put you on the spot here, but you’re definitely sure that you want to see me again?”

Me: (getting less sure by the second) “Errr, yeah”.

Him: “Well, in that case, I would be delighted to pay for your hot chocolate”.

Me: “What?”

Him: “Well, I wasn’t going to offer to pay for it if you’re not going to see me again.”

Me: “I’ll pay for my own hot chocolate, it’s fine.”

Him: “I’ll buy it for you if you’re going to see me again”.

Me: “I’d really rather just get it myself, thanks.”

Him: “No, no, no, I insist. My treat.”

Me: “No, really.”

In the end, I let him buy me the bloody hot chocolate. But he never called me again (and I was somewhat relived).

The Curse of Home Alone 3.

I went to see Home Alone 3 with a mate. We’d always had totally different tastes in cinema so, true to form, she was convulsed with laughter and I was bored rigid. For some light relief, halfway through the film, I nipped to the loo.

Business done, I went to open the cubicle door. But, the lock had jammed. I thumped the door. Nothing. I shouted myself silly. No-one came. This was back in 1997, I didn’t have a mobile phone, so I resigned myself to being stuck until my friend raised the alarm.

Because surely she’d soon notice I hadn’t come back.

Surely she’d soon realise I’d been gone for much too long.

Surely.

After twenty minutes, I realised that either she hadn’t noticed I was gone, or had assumed I was having bum troubles and didn’t want to disturb me.

Another ten minutes passed.

As much as I hadn’t been enjoying Home Alone 3, being stuck in a toilet cubicle in a branch of the Odeon* was marginally less fun.

In desperation, I took off my shoe and started hammering at the lock. My impressive DIY skills did the trick (or perhaps the gods of misfortune felt sufficiently sorry for me) and the door popped open.

I made it back into the screen as the credits rolled.

My friend looked round at me. “Where were you?”

“I’ve been locked in the loo for the last half hour.”

“Have you?”

“Did you not notice?”

“It was such a great film.”

So, there you have it. I am officially less great than Home Alone 3.

(*since demolished. It’s all it deserved.)

MY ENDLESS FAILINGS TO BE A GOOD JEW #23 (a tale of quizzes and public humiliation)

I am Jewish in the same way I am white and English. I don’t have a sense of triumph or superiority about it; it’s just how I happen to have been born. It’s only one aspect of my tumble of genetics—like my brown hair, my tendency to develop gall stones, and my long toes—and not something that defines me.

As an adult, I don’t specifically seek out Jewish friends. But as a child, my social life was a whirl of Jewish activities. First one Jewish social club, then another. Sunday school classes. Holiday camps. But it was one of the social clubs that lead to my first great humiliation.

It started with a quiz, one Sunday night. Now, I am good at quizzes. No, more than that. I am dangerous around quizzes. They awake a powerful beast inside me, one that’s constantly compelled to shout, “I KNOW THIS ONE”, and to hog the pencil and answer sheet. It took me a long time to realise that the actual purpose of a pub quiz should be to spend time with one’s friends and have fun, not to endlessly crush those around you with your unassailable powers of general knowledge.

I mean, it’s fun to show off your prowess (who knew what the last words were that Rimmer from Red Dwarf uttered*, thus winning the bonus round and the whole quiz for my team? Hi there!) But there’s also the opportunity to show tact and kindness to those around you, and to sharpen your diplomatic skills. Your teammates believe that number 7 in the picture round is a snap of Alanis Morissette, when you know it’s actually Dave Grohl**? This is your time to gently, insistently shine!

Anyway. As I say, I’m good at quizzes, which is how I made it through the first and second rounds of the national youth organisation’s quiz and into the grand final.

This final was a big deal. People had travelled from all over to be there. The grand prize was a place on the youth group’s foreign trip. The contestants were on stage, there was a big audience and and I was doing pretty well.

Until the Hebrew round. I had no idea there was going to be a Hebrew round. But there was.

Some bastard—some evil, evil bastard—had come up with a round where we had to write the Hebrew translations of English words on a sheet of A4. It would have been a breeze if you a) had a good working of the Hebrew language and b) knew how to write words in Hebrew.

Sadly, I had neither skill.

“Bicycle”, they announced. “Children.” “Ice cream.”

Around me, the other teens were scribbling the Hebrew equivalent on their pages. Me? I had nothing. I was seriously screwed. Actually, I did know one of the words; “yeladim” means “children” (this is the only thing I remembered from my many mornings at Hebrew school having repeatedly listened to the teachers bellowing “SHEKET YELADIM!”/”SHUT UP CHILDREN!”)

But it was no use. I had no idea how to write it—or anything, really—in Hebrew.

I had to hand something in. Blank pages seemed like too big an admission of defeat; I couldn’t sit there not writing while everyone around me flourished Hebrew across paper. So, I made it up instead. I drew elaborate squiggles across the pages, in beautiful colours, hoping that they would magically transform themselves into legible Hebrew, thinking I could hand them in, and no-one would really know.

And then, the answers. And then, the horror.

“As we announce each word, hold up your answer sheet for everyone to see. Bicycle. אופניים”

The other contestants proudly held their answers aloft. I reluctantly raised my fraudulent scribbles.

“Children. יְלָדִים”

I could hear the titters from the audience, growing as the answers were revealed and I turned over yet another page of nonsense. One boy—who I had a mild crush on—was nudging his neighbour, pointing at me. And laughing.

“Ice cream. גלידה”

The humiliation, and the echoing laughter, dragged on and on.

Of course I scored a big, fat, well-deserved zero. It was enough to cost me the prize. It was enough to fray my relationship with Judaism a little further. It was enough to instil a fear of the spotlight that’s still with me to this day. But was it enough to sour my love of pub quizzes? Not even a little bit. I’m good at quizzes (unless they have a Hebrew round).

 

* “Gazpacho soup.” You’re welcome.

** Later, when the answer is indeed announced as Dave Grohl, you will cheer, vindicated, until your teammates shamefacedly confess that they changed the answer back to Alanis Morissette while you were in the loo. You will tell them that’s OK, while secretly wishing painful monkey-based death upon them all.

THE WINNING LINES: Tales from my dating days #17

I’d been seeing a guy for a little while; he lived a long way away, so all our dates had been in restaurants and bars. Things had been going well, and I’d agreed I’d stay the night at his.

When I arrived, he was apologetic; there was a problem at work and he’d been thinking about cancelling, but still wanted to see me. However, he’d need to check in with work occasionally.

He left me with a drink while he answered a few emails. I checked out his books and his CD collection while he was gone (doesn’t everyone?) When he came back, he explained he’d have to keep an eye on his phone during dinner.

Well, there’s a difference between keeping an eye on your phone and giving it your full attention. We didn’t talk much during the meal, and he seemed to get more and more agitated about work. I tried to chat about his taste in music and books, but a frostiness settled; he shut the conversation down and went back to looking at his phone and ignoring me.

It just didn’t make sense. He’d said he was happy to see me, but his actions said the opposite. It’s not fun hanging out with someone who blatantly doesn’t want you there, and I wanted to leave; but I was 70 miles from home, I’d had a few drinks and couldn’t drive, and public transport wasn’t an option.

I was stuck at his. There was nothing that could be done but brave it out until the morning.

He had the one bed, so we both had to spend the night sharing it, keeping as much distance from each other as possible; not talking, not touching. I didn’t sleep a wink.

The next morning, he woke and said he had to get onto a conference call with work immediately. I said I’d leave, but he told me to stay, saying that the call wouldn’t take long. I didn’t want to seem rude, so I stayed.

Two hours later, he was still on his call, and I was feeling thoroughly stupid. Several times, I stuck my head around the door to say I’d be going, but he insisted I stay, that he’d be off the call soon.

Eventually, my anger and discomfort finally overtook my desire to be polite. Enough. He didn’t want me there, whether he was prepared to admit it or not. And—more importantly, although it’d taken me long enough to get there—I really didn’t want to be there. Time to go.

Time to go. As I headed for the door, he muted his call to tell me: “It’s been a long time since I’ve had anyone over to mine. I’m not good with having other people in my personal space.”

I drove home, angry and upset. I presumed I’d never hear from him again, but he phoned me three days later. Maybe he thought he hadn’t insulted me enough yet; he told me he’d called to explain that he didn’t want to “take the relationship any further, because you’re obviously much keener on me than I am on you.” And in the next breath, he asked, “Do you want to be friends, though?”

I laughed—a sharp, hollow, laugh—and said no, thank you.

THE WINNING LINES: Tales from my dating days #16

Before the date, he warned me that he got very nervous on first dates and often talked a lot. Fine, I sometimes talk a lot too.

But he really wasn’t kidding; I sat and listened to him talk about himself for the best part of three hours.

Eventually, he paused for breath, looked at me and said:

Date: “I suppose I’d better ask you something about yourself, hadn’t I?”

Me: “That’d be nice.”

Date: “So, tell me about your ex-husband.”

Me: “What?”

Date: “Your ex-husband. How did you meet each other, how long were you together and when did it all go wrong?”

Me: “I don’t really want to talk about my marriage, thanks. Isn’t there anything else you want to know about me?”

Turns out there wasn’t, as he went straight back to talking about himself again. At the end of the evening, he apologised again, put it down to nerves, and promised to do less talking and more listening if I’d meet him for a second date. I agreed.

So, the second date arrived and, again, the gentleman started talking about himself without asking me a single question. I tried to get the odd word in, but he was a tsunami of conversation. After two hours:

Date: “I said I was going to ask you something about yourself tonight, didn’t I?”

Me: “Yes, you did.”

Date: “So, tell me about your ex-husband.”

Me: “Seriously?”

Date: “Yes. How did you meet each other, how long were you together and when did it all go wrong?”

Me: “You know what? I’ve got an early start in the morning, let’s call it a night.”

The Age of the Train

I can’t ever sleep on public transport. Ever. No matter how tired I am.

There is a good reason for this.

I’d been up all night in Brighton; it was my best mate’s hen night and we were celebrating hard. We didn’t bother getting hotel rooms; we were too young and too broke. The plan was simply to stay up all night until the trains started running early the next morning.

So, we bounced round the town, in and out of clubs, giddy with excitement and whatever the hell we were drinking until, exhausted, we fell onto the first London train of the day.

This was sometime in the 90s, and the train was the old-fashioned stock with small compartments. Each little carriage had benches that were the perfect size for sleepy revellers to crash on. There was barely anyone else on the train, so we grabbed a separate carriage each, stretched out and passed out.

….

Suddenly I was awake. Very awake. Something was wrong.

There was a man stood over me.

No, more than that. He was leaning in, right over me. Much closer than he had any right to be. There was a man, who was hovering over me while I was sleeping, and I was suddenly aware of how vulnerable I was.

Me: “What are you doing?”

There was an awkward pause.

We looked at each other.

I had the distinct impression he was trying to think of something convincing to say.

Him: “…I was thinking that you might want a foot rub?”

Me: “No. I really don’t.”

He left the carriage pretty sharpish.

That was a good 20 years ago. I’ve not slept a wink on public transport since.