The Wisdom of Garth Brooks

A few nights ago, I decided to go for a walk. I found myself, an hour or so later, down by South Parade Pier, in tears. This was because my thought processes and my MP3 player had synched up to bring me a combination of memories and music that proved too potent for me to handle.

Thankfully, the random playlist function brought up another song by the same artist shortly after, which holds as much meaning for me, but in a much more upbeat way. I realised, walking back and listening to this song on loop, hoping to pump its philosophy into my brain by sheer repetition, that there are three songs by this one artist that always have an effect on me, and which have driven much of my life. (The song that made me cry, “Every Now and Then”, is not one of them, but it holds special meaning to me personally in other ways.)

These songs are all by the ever brilliant Garth Brooks (buy all his CDs, seriously, they are a wonderful treasure trove of beautiful music, poignant lyrics, and truth about life, love and rodeos). The three that everyone in the world should listen to are “The Dance”, “Standing Outside the Fire” and “The River”.

“Our lives are better left to chance; I could have skipped the pain, but I would have to have missed the dance.”

“The Dance” is supposedly Garth’s own personal favourite of his collection. On the surface, it’s about a breakup: a man who says he’s glad the relationship happened even though it hurt him, that the one good memory (the dance) was worth the pain. But it’s a fine philosophy for life. I have memories that are bittersweet, because the moment that was beautiful at the time has now changed in retrospect with events that came after. But if someone had come along that day and told me how any of it ended up, I could have run, and skipped that moment altogether. I would have missed out on a lot.

“We call them strong, those who can face this world alone, who seem to get by on their own; those who will never take the fall.
We call them weak, who are unable to resist the slightest chance love might exist, and for that forsake it all.”

“Standing Outside the Fire” is the song I was blaring on loop. It’s about how one should never give up on love (or anything), that unless you’re trying and taking chances each and every second you’re not really living life to the full. Yes, you will probably get burned once or twice, but it’s worth the risk. Life is not tried, it is merely survived, if you’re standing outside the fire. Say it with me...

“Too many times we stand aside, and let the water slip away, 'til what we put off 'til tomorrow has now become today. So don't you sit upon the shoreline and say you're satisfied; but choose to chance the rapids, and dare to dance the tide.”

“The River” is a song I have been listening to since I was six. Perhaps it influenced me subconsciously, I don’t know. But its message is such a huge part of how I see the world that it even made its way into one of my uni essays. You have to try every day to reach your ultimate destination, you have to weather out the storms and make what you can of your journey. I love the symbolism of life as a boat on a river – you have some control over where you’re going and how you get there, but ultimately there are a lot of things carrying you like a current in the direction you’re supposed to be headed.

I would highly recommend that you YouTube each of these songs, and take a minute to really listen to them. Possibly it’s just me that sees their charms, but I wanted to share them with the world. If I haven’t converted any of you to his genius yet, look up the music video for “More Than a Memory”. Then you’ll appreciate it – I hope. Till next time!

Musings on Graduation

I’ve been thinking about the future a lot lately - specifically that day in twelve months time when I get to don the silly hat and gown and (hopefully) conclude my time at university with a graduation ceremony. Now, anyone who lives in Portsmouth will know why this is, since it’s been hard to miss the hordes of proud parents and gradu-ees massing outside Guildhall for the past week. But, rather than get sentimental on the topic (save that for next year!), I’m going to share with you a small glimpse into the future, and the Wilson family, and tell you what I envision my graduation day will be like.

Right off, I can tell I’m going to have “shoe issues”. Boys can skip this paragraph, but girls will know exactly that I’m on about. In the daft gown, the shoes will really be the only fashion statement anyone can make, so the obvious choice is to go for gorgeous ones that stand out, while matching the purple ribbons on the garment. Buuut, that usually implies heels, and as anyone will know I am far from graceful at the best of times, let alone when I’m three inches taller and walking on the balls of my feet. So, it will be a catch 22 between pretty feet and not risking tripping and falling flat on my face!

But enough about my vain thoughts. I’m sure that shoe issues aside, it will be a day to remember always, a day of pride. For me, yes, but especially for my parents. My mother – who has always been my biggest fan and my harshest critic – will be there dressed in something colourful and bold, and will be fussing and fretting about where I need to be and whether I’m going to get there on time or not. She will take over a hundred photos – Laura in gown, Laura with Claire, Laura with course mates takes 1, 2 and 3, Laura with father, Laura with boyfriend, Laura with randomer who got too close, Laura with tree... – and appear in perhaps one, as a token gesture. Claire will be on her best behaviour, having had a roaring good fight with me the night before (over shoes, most likely), and we will drive our mother mad with our mucking about with the daft hat and quoting movies endlessly. She will have just finished her own First Year, and will no doubt be comparing the entire process to the way they do it in Bath. Dad will be quiet, secretly sad that I’m all grown up now and no longer his little girl, but also proud that everything he did to get me here really finally got me here. He will cry, but he will deny it.

My course mates and I, once free from the camera’s glare, will file into the hall, solemn and thoughtful. We will tune out midway through a dull speech by some person we’ve never heard of, and I will lean over to Fleur and say “We may not know where we are going on this ol’ river, but at least education has provided a map!” She will laugh, and the rest of the Creative Writing bunch will roll their eyes and just not ask because they know it’s an in-joke.

And, when it comes my turn to walk up to that dais and collect that piece of paper that cost me £10,000 and at least a few years off my life in levels of stress, a sound will emerge from the crowd. It will come from roughly the corner my family are sitting in, and it will sound something like “whuuooo-ooo-ooo-ooo-ooo”. That is my mother, and all I will do is smile, because that is the same sound she made when I appeared as Mary in our pre-school nativity, when I danced as a duck in my ballet school’s version of Beatrix Potter and when I told her I had gotten an A in Advanced Higher English – it is the sound of her love and pride and years of endless nagging made worth it.

But, I still have one year to go before this joyous day, and a lot of ‘earning’ to do before I get that “whoo” (and diploma). Part of me cannot wait for graduation, but most of me wants it to come as slowly as possible. Bring on Third Year guys, I know we can do it!

Thank goodness for swine flu

OR: How media hype and paranoia may have gotten me a job in a recession

I was woken up this morning by my phone ringing. I went through the usual thought process of “hmm, something’s making noise – oh, it’s my phone – my phone! [fumble, grab] – hmm, not a number I recognise, never mind – ooh, wait, job-hunt, crap”, and answered with what I hoped was a very professional sounding “Hello”, but which probably came out more as an “ungh?”. A charming lady on the other end asked if she was speaking to a Miss Laura Wilson... How should I know, it’s nine am and you woke me up!

Anyways, by the time I was fully awake some moments later, I realised that I was actually midway through a phone interview for a job with the telephone listening company (who, by the way, have had my CV since sometime in March or so...). I hung up having arranged a proper interview for tomorrow, where I’ll hopefully be much more eloquent and awake, and a huge ironic smile on my face. That’s because my specific job, so they tell me, will be manning the new dedicated NHS Swine Flu Helpline. That’s right, I will be the calming voice on the other end of the line trying to convince you that the slight cough you’ve picked up is really nothing more than that.

So, thank goodness for swine flu? Or rather, should I say, thank goodness for hypochondriacs and mass media hype. If it wasn’t for the combination of the two over, what is, let’s face it, little more than a cold, I might not have been offered a job this summer – and I’ll be really honest, I needed one, both for the salary and to cure what was looking to become a very bad bout of intense boredom.

Now, I have no pretentions that this won’t be the dullest job in history. But at least it is a job, which will get me out of the house and associating with the big wide world. I would argue there’ll be some entertaining moments, and anything can always be considered fodder for “that novel I’ve been working on”. And I only have to commit to it for four weeks minimum, so I can always cut and run if it gets dire. Can’t wait to report back to Trudy Barber on this one...

Wish me luck tomorrow; I’m off to bone up on my swine flu facts! :P

Dangerous dogs or lousy owners?

In the spirit of laziness, and as promised, I give you not a new blog entry, but rather an article by me that was published in Pugwash News Issue 25 (25th Feb 09), on the topic of the dangerous dogs debate. Anyone who knows me will be aware that this is one of my few “hot button” topics, which will get me arguing passionately any time anywhere; to the point where I once attacked a guest at one of the McDougall dinner parties over the issue! This article barely begins to say what needs to be said on the topic, but I think it covered it pretty well in the space Jacob was willing to give me. Enjoy!

Two unrelated but sadly similar incidents occurred recently that have spurred me to put fingers to keyboard and type furiously.

Before I go any further with my views on the dangerous dogs debate, let me state emphatically what sensible people have been repeating, mantra like, for years: there is no such thing as a dangerous dog, only an irresponsible owner.

The first of the unfortunate incidents was the death of a baby, “mauled by the family dogs”, as the news put it. Now, I am not heartless – I feel for this poor family and do indeed believe this is a tragic occurrence. But it could have been avoided. To my mind, the headline should have read “Idiot grandmother leaves small baby alone with excitable untrained dogs”.

The dogs were put to sleep shortly after. This is the typical knee jerk reaction after an event like this: blame the dogs, not the people who left their children alone with the dogs, who didn’t train their dogs in the first place, who probably left the dogs with few other outlets for their energy. I’m not saying the dogs were completely innocent in this case, merely that they are not entirely to blame either.

If you do not have the time or knowledge to properly care for a pet, you should not have one. If you have a small flat with no garden, you really have no right owning a large hyperactive dog, especially if you do not take the time or trouble to exercise it, both physically and mentally. If you do not do your research, or put effort into training and socialising your pet, you deserve every problem behaviour they throw at you. I’m generalising, and being quite harsh, but this is how I feel. When I run away and start my own country, there will be a dog license that all potential canine owners have to qualify for before they are allowed anywhere near puppies with big ‘love me’ eyes,

The second inciting incident was that an acquaintance of mine had his cat attacked, unfortunately, by a Staffordshire Bull Terrier. He started on the typical rampage of how these ‘devil dogs’ should all be culled, which forces me to tote out that other age old chant: blame the deed, not the breed. Yes, Staffies and Rotties and other such dogs have a reputation of being nasty – this is because of their history (long since made irrelevant), the media portrayal of these breeds as macho, and ignorant people who want to look tough perpetrating this image by buying these breeds, raising them improperly and with violence, and then being shocked when they bite. It’s a vicious circle.

But, in fact more people are bitten by Jack Russells than any other breed. Staffies are one of only three breeds actually recommended by the Kennel Club as being good with children. There are Rotties and Dobermans who are being trained as Guide Dogs, who visit people in old folks’ homes, who are the most placid and sweet animals you could ever meet. These dogs are not dangerous. Any dog, any time, anywhere has the potential to bite – so just as you cannot assume that all Muslims are terrorists, you cannot assume that just because a dog is of a certain breed that it is ‘evil’.

Most dog bites occur because the animal is frightened, and feels backed into a corner where they have no other option. Often the dog has been sending out “that’s actually really annoying me, please stop” signals for some time beforehand, but they have been ignored or mis-read by the human in question. The growl is the last in a long line of warning signals, but it is often the first one we take notice of. A little understanding of the way a dog’s mind and body language works goes a long way towards a happy, healthy and bite-free relationship.

I’m skimming the issue, but I hope some of the points I’ve raised with make you think. The next time read something in the press about a dog attack, or a ‘dangerous’ breed, don’t jump on the anti-dog bandwagon right away. Try to see through the media hype. I’ll say it again, and I will be saying it until the day I die: there is no such thing as a dangerous dog, just an irresponsible owner.

More Pugwash related ramblings

One of my faithful readers posed a question to me the other day: what exactly did I do for Pugwash to earn that hypothetical money I was trying to back claim?

Well, to quote my CV: “...meeting deadlines, working within a diverse team and problem solving are all things that this volunteer position require me to do on a regular basis. It involves proofreading, content creation and editing, team management and also a high level of dedication and commitment, as well as a mastery of the English language and intimate knowledge of our Style Guide. I occasionally edit articles for Pugwash Online, and also regularly proofread and manage content for Pugwash Magazine, working closely with all three Publication Editors and our Media Officer on a regular basis.”

I think that statement sums it up, but it’s a bit like being asked to describe a typical day as a zookeeper – there is no ‘typical’, no formal job description. I liaise, I organise, I write, I extend or cut articles to fit, I research, I proofread, I double check the style and design. Every article, page and issue is unique and they all throw up their own tasks and tests. It’s stressful and challenging and as we grow and develop and improve each problem solved is replaced with a new one to be tackled. We are all learning from it all the time.

But, I also eat pizza and M&Ms, make bad ‘your mum’ jokes, yell “amphra-fucking-sand” at Pete, roll my eyes at Tom’s choice of tunes and Jacob’s singing, play about with markers and get mocked for trying to talk reason to the Macs. Like NIAD before it, when I look back at the time spent in the Pugwash office, I will think not of the stress and the annoyances (much!), but instead of the experience I gained and the people I gained it with.

One of my self-inflicted projects for the summer is to go through every issue of Pugwash we’ve ever produced, and collect all the articles I’ve written into a portfolio of sorts. I started this afternoon, and was astonished by the amount of words I have churned out on UPSU’s behalf, and the steady changes between Issue 1 and Issue 29. Keep an eye out for some of the articles appearing here in the future, but for today all I have to offer (besides the reflection above) is a collection of my editorials over the past two years. You can find them collated here: http://tinyurl.com/nog5bq

I personally find them interesting, as they trace Pugwash’s development and remind me how far we’ve come – and make me keen to spend the next year making it go even further.

Until next time guys – I promise to return to non-Pugwash thoughts soon!

Pugwash owes me money!

As a follow up to a 90 minute meeting yesterday, I just spent an hour sending out emails about the upcoming Pompey Guide, and I got to thinking about how much time and effort I’ve put into Pugwash over the last two years. Now, I’m not complaining; yes, it has driven me crazy sometimes, but it’s also been very fulfilling, and I’ve learned a lot.

But I got to doing some math, and the numbers shocked me. With lack of a better blog topic in mind, here goes...

I would say Pugwash business takes, on average, half an hour a day, and that’s probably rounding up on a general basis. So that’s 3.5 hours a week. Times 52 weeks a year – and yes, we do work holidays – that’s 182 hours a year, approximately. And I've been doing it for two years now.

But every fortnight during term time we put out a newspaper, which eats an entire weekend of my time at once. Call it, roughly estimated, 22 hours per issue. We’ve put out 27 issues since I got involved, one of which I had nothing to do with. So, 22 hours x 26 issues = 527 hours devoted to the paper.

And, we put out a magazine every now and again. I think last year we had five issues, and this year we did four, plus a special issue for new students. I would say the magazine takes, on average, three or four hours of my time at once. So we’ll call it 3.5, and that means that I’ve spent 35 hours working on the magazine over the last two years.

So, when we include regular time doing admin stuff etc, the fortnightly newspapers and the magazine, Pugwash has eaten a total of 926 hours of my life since October 2007, roughly. (Which is vaguely depressing, when you put it in those terms!)

Now, Pugwash is strictly a volunteer organisation, and none of us are paid. But, if they had paid me for my work, even at a minimum wage of £4.77 (for 18 – 21 year olds), they would owe me...drum roll please...

£4417.02!!!

At least! I know it’s not a liveable salary by any means, but it’s not small change either, and, I’ll be honest, I could use it. Who do I see about a back payment claim for volunteer work? :P

Until next time, faithful readers!

The end of an era

“Somebody sold out, thinking they could walk away,
But someday you’re just gonna have to say:
There’s no trespassing on this land...”
No Trespassing – George Fox

Today is a sad day in the Wilson family history; they’ve finally made good their plans and started construction on the next lot of Stuart Milne houses. So what you say? Well, it means that today I took Pepper for our last ever ‘field walk’.

The three scrubby fields behind our house can hardly be described as picturesque, nor was there anything particularly special about them. They were just spaces that a farmer didn’t deem fit for his cattle, and so allowed locals to walk their dogs in. I think every dog in Westhill has, at some point in their lives, christened the grass there. Over the years, a regular and familiar path has been worn down by the hundreds of dedicated dog owners.

Pepper was one of the more frequent visitors. We are fortunate enough to live less than two minutes away from these fields, so the entire walk can be done off lead and at his leisure. This is a great alternative to his rainy day walks, which, if I’m honest, do strain the patience of the person on the other end of the lead, left standing in the rain while Peps examines lamp posts thoroughly and ambles along. I prefer to take him on a nice long field walk, and do daily when I’m home unless it’s tipping down, in which case the mud just gets a bit much. I put on the MP3 player and contemplate the world, he sniffs and snuffles in the long grass and then runs to catch up when I call.

So, today I set off as usual, only to discover that my path was blocked five minutes in by a newly erected fence. I sighed; it had begun. Today, aside from that one section, all that invaded our space were fence posts, but I have no doubt they’ll be along to fill in the gaps only too soon. Within a few days even, the fields will be closed off to us, and every other dog walker in Westhill, forever.

Now, we’ve known this was coming for almost three years. And we can’t complain – after all, ten years ago the house that I’m writing this in didn’t exist, and I’m sure someone somewhere mourns the loss of the space it occupies. When I was up in May, some surveillance holes had been dug and some dirt and gravel piled up in a corner of the bottom field, but I didn’t think that would lead to action so soon. I know it’s a minor event in a world of progress, but this affects me and something I enjoy – it makes me sad to think that corporate greed has put an end to this simple pleasure.

I still remember Peps’ first walk in those fields. I know a collection of dogs by name and the sight of their owner because we all happen to walk at the same time. That was where I took the picture of Pepper that I carried with me on holidays and the first few weeks of uni. I’ve danced those fields in happiness (they’re fairly empty in the middle of a weekday, and I forget that the rest of the world can’t hear what’s in my headphones), ran them in anger and walked them in tears. They represent a big portion of the last four years, and when I miss home, I think I miss long dog walks in them the most.

I know there’s nothing I can do, and that there will be other walks, but it still makes me sad. So, appreciate what you’ve got while it’s there, because you never know when progress will come along and start building fences!

All new; hopefully improved

Right then, I’ve booked my ticket back to Portsmouth (I get in the 9th if anyone cares), and I have an announcement to make. I’ve been thinking a lot the past few weeks about who I am and who I want to be and how I run my life and all that palaver, and I’ve come to a number of decisions.

Therefore, the Laura you be greeted by when you next see me will be the all new, hopefully improved, model. She’s figured out her finances and drawn up a to do list to keep her occupied; she’s resolved to be healthier and happier and change some things; and she’s decided which problems to address head on and which ones aren’t worth worrying about. She’s prioritised her life, stocked up on sanity and is all fired up to face the next challenge, whatever that may be.

It may sound like New Years-esque fluff, but I have all the best intentions I assure you. She’ll still be crazy, paranoid and over emotional; she’ll still freak out over little things, live in fear of mice and wasps and failure; and she’ll definitely still need you lot to pull her up again when all this new attitude gets worn away. But for now, here she is.

It’s been a tough nine months. One big thing knocked me down in a gully, and every time I tried to climb out of it something else grabbed my ankles and hauled me back down. I’m not blaming that one thing for all my problems, it’s just a metaphor. But I’ve been doing the self psychology for dummies thing, and I can tell you that that was most likely the beginning. Well, actually the move from Canada when I was 10 was the beginning, but we all have way better things to do than re-hash my entire life! The breaking point was the day I bought my ticket home.

The last time I was this low I was 16. I was in a social situation that largely wasn’t working, and the effort of trying to make it work was draining me dry. I couldn’t cope with my classes and assignments, and I had no idea where I wanted to be going with my life. Other things were going on too – things I don’t wish to discuss here because very few people know about them. But they weren’t un-connected to the stuff everybody saw. It was 16 year old Laura who very nearly broke down and gave up – but it was 17 year old Laura who pulled through, made a few huge changes, and got the grades to get herself into the university she wanted. She was the one who got a job, made a plan, and finally found some functional relationships. She’s the person I had to come back here to find, warts and all.

It’s been four years, and as an older model there are certain features that needed replaced or updated, but thanks to the time lapse I had the parts in stock. She’s been matured, shined up and looked after, and now she’s ready for duty. (Now there’s a tortured metaphor!)

There’ve been personal and professional problems this year, family worries and friend woes. I’ve struggled to cope with university work and I’ve had a few days where I struggled to even find a reason to get out of bed. And not all of those problems have gone away, just I’m now more ready to face them than I was before. This break has been good – I’m now in place where I can go back and deal with things objectively. It’s been a stressful and emotional and hard year and no doubt the next one has some awesome issues to throw at me, but I’ll survive.

There may be aspects of new Laura you don’t like – for example, she has decided that she’s not taking any bullshit off of anybody anymore, and she’s not going to pretend that things don’t bother her when they really do. Nor is she going to pull any punches if the truth is what is required. From now on it’s the real deal, all or nothing, and if you don’t like it, tough. To coin a phrase, she is now a bad-ass mother, who won’t take no crap off of nobody!

She’s re-read Don’t Shoot the Dog by Karen Pryor, and re-committed herself to following its excellent advice. She is a duck, and the world ought to just be water off her back – to follow other advice given by a surprising source.

I’m not really sure what I’m trying to say with this blog, so I’ll stop waffling. The long and short of it is like this: I was hanging out with an old school friend today, and he told me I had changed. I answered “Yeah, I have”. Time and life does that to a person, but it’s up to you if you change for the better or if you just let it wear it you down. I know what I’m picking, this time around. Bring it on world, I’m ready for ya!