WOM (or W.O.M)

When I was younger I went camping. 


(Don't worry there's more to this story.) 


Probably over ninety percent of my holidays were camping holidays around europe (well, England and France... let's not get above our stations). Each year,  once or (if we were unlucky) twice, we'd stuff everything we possibly could into our little grey car. We took it all: duvets, fold-up table, chairs, buckets and spades, knives, forks, portable campfire -in the guise of a calor gas canister, shower rack, sometimes the cat... but none of the good stuff. The TV, stayed at home. The toys, stayed at home. The videos (including the prohibited Young Ones video), stayed at home. Anything that was of any use to someone who wasn't interested in picking mushrooms that, after consumption, always ended with diarrhea, seemed to stay at home. As a result whilst we were on our camping trips there was the necessity to seek out our own fun(ghi). (HAHAHA)


We, my brother and I, were given money for the whole holiday. The money had been saved from household chores like bedroom cleaning and car washing or stealing it from our sleeping grandma's handbag. On top of the saved funds, our parents contributed... on the understanding that it would be distributed throughout the holiday and not in one massive, treasure chest-like, chunk. That's right, I was essentially given 'per diems' as a reward for  putting up with sleeping in a mouldy tent and having to wee in a bucket at 2am.


I think I was given, daily, something like £2 which, at the time, was marvellous. I would ration it and try and save it so that on the last Friday of the last week I would get myself Something Good. 'Something Good' was undefinable. One holiday it was a figurine of a rock with lots of mini rocks on top with the sign: 'Rock Concert' on it, the next holiday a fluorescent fly swatter which also transformed into a frisbee. The possibilities for that £10 (I'd always managed to spend four pounds on candy floss and Push Pops), were endless. Not only were they endless, they were mine - no one was allowed to comment on my purchases before they were made (I think a crack pipe would have been an exception. Maybe). I would show them off afterwards and there might have been the odd comment, but that £10 felt like the beginnings of my own assertions at being a grown up. And then came the WOM.


I don't remember where we were (the WOM has made me erase all traces from memory), but, as always, Friday had arrived and I was searching for my 'Something Good'. My 'this will make me happy and cool AND ironically witty at the same time' (- like the Rock Concert, although at 10 I didn't know what irony or wit was. I still don't). There was so much to choose from: bucket and spades (obviously not), little plastic men who, if you threw them at a wall would stick to it (a high possibility), body boards (too expensive), furry worms that were tied to invisible cords so they looked to be moving on their own... So many choices. I knew I had to separate the wheat from the chaff, find a brilliant 'Something Good' And then... I came across it. I had found my 'Something Good Amazing'. I had found the thing I would take back home that would remove the need for the TV, for the Videos, for the cat. I had arrived. I bought it and bounded back to the mouldy tent. 
Me: "Here, look! This is what I've bought. Isn't it amazing?"
Dad: "That's a WOM".
Me: "I know! it's incredible. Look at what it....Hang on, what's a WOM"
Dad: "That is"
Me: "No.. I mean... what does WOM mean?"
Dad: "Waste. Of. Money"
Me: "But...Oh..."
My dad saw my 'Something Amazing' for what it really was: a waste of money. I was hurt, and angry and wouldn't be told. I stomped off with it and was grumpy for the rest of the holiday. It was me and the 'Something Amazing' now. In it together. To conquer the world.


What I had actually purchased was a bright orange balloon filled with sand. On the front of it was a smiley face and scribble lines for hair. If you squeezed it the face would distort and it seemed like you were sharing a joke. It also felt nice. 
In the car on the way home I squeezed it too hard. It burst and sand went everywhere. I started to cry.

 Beware the WOM.

Escargots, Schnecken, Lumache

Snails.

A couple of days ago a good friend of mine, we'll call her 'Chief', trod on a snail. Crushed to death instantly. She was, and I believe still is, full of remorse. We've all done it... it's dark, it's been raining, we need to go to the shed/garage/underground blitz bunker and we aren't looking, and can't really see, what's beneath our feet. We stroll to the bottom of the garden: 'Tra la la la la, Oh my hasn't it been raining hard? That'll do the begonias no end of good. Maybe I can replant them in the... crunch. Oh.' Immediately you know what's happened. There is no question that you've trodden on something else. You know you have just killed a snail. What the first thing you do? Check the sole of your shoe (if, indeed, you were wearing shoes. If not, worse luck), and look around on the ground for more so as not to maim the rest of the family and feel a bit bad; but do you feel remorse?  
There are many things that snails are, and high on the priority list of most people they are not. I would imagine you, like me, are more careful on that particular journey to the shed/garage/tanning salon at the bottom of the garden following your recent snail trample, but the next night, in the pitch dark after a heavy rainfall, snails have eluded your memory completely until: 'Tra la la la la Well Marvin, I really must say, what you just did in there was something I haven't seen done since I was holidaying in Thai...crunch. Oh'. 


So why do some people feel a real sense of sadness when that underfoot termination occurs? Maybe it is a sense of care for all things living? Maybe a responsibility? Maybe, as Chief suggested, it's because the slimey buggers are actually ingenious and carry their mobile home with them wherever they go. Unlike slugs (which I bet you wouldn't know you'd even stood on, except for the momentary skid on your tread, which could've quite easily, you tell yourself, been a soggy leaf or a sodden plastic bag), snails cart their little coiled houses for their whole lives. They also race against other snails. This, obviously, makes them infinitely cooler. When I was younger I used to race snails up the window until one day, because they were so slow, I forgot about them. About three days later I returned to find one snail shell empty (dead) on the window sill and the other shell still stuck to the window. When I went to remove it I found there was no snail inside only a crusty residue which had been baked in the heat the day before (also dead).


I guess there isn't much we can do in terms of snail death. We can be more careful, keep our eyes open, try to remember there will always be a few lazying around after dark in the rain, but what's the point if the French continue to insist on eating them bathed in garlic. Snails, sadly, just aren't one of the nations favourite animal, which I find sad because I like them immensely (although this is probably only propelled by guilt due to the incineration incident), so maybe for me (and my guilt), next time you see a snail give it a little high five for being cool (this will have to be an imaginary high five as they don't have hands, and the force of a human hand would surely crush them to death) and then go about your business. It may just make the snails life a little bit brighter. 


That's right, a post about snails. I never said it would be interesting. 

My Lady Nicotine

Of late I have been questioning my smoking.

One of my favourite books is My Lady Nicotine by J.M. Barrie (Yes, the very same: Hand eating crocodiles, flying fairies, Lillys made from tigers, boys not growing up but being able to fly... you know the one). Nicotine is a wonderful book. Splendid. In fact I urge you to go out and buy a  copy... except you can't because it's out of print. I'll lend you my copy... except i won't because it's a first edition. Anyway. The book is glorious. It depicts the tales of a man who is reminiscing about his bachelor days as a smoker. It's witty and became an instant favourite when I stumbled across at a shop in The Lanes, Brighton (that makes my life sounds far more exciting than it actually is... just to confirm, I travelled there by coach). 

For the central character, who we will call J for that is the only description Barrie gives us, everything tobacco is romanticised now that he is a non-smoker. I find myself doing this too... and I still smoke. When he talks about smoking his briar (pipe for the likes of you and me), I imagine myself sitting on a big leather armchair, slippers gently tipping off my toes, pipe tucked loosely between my lips...I'm imagining being a man also, obviously. I feel a connection with him and want to jump into the book and sit on his house boat smoking the 'Arcadia Mixture' with he and his fellows. Because he is no longer allowed to smoke, his spouse forbids it, his memories are nostalgic and full of warmth for his past situation.

Recently I have been *considering* (very gently, mind) giving up the filthy/delightful weed (please delete as applicable), but every time I think of this book I want to stuff a load of cigarettes in my mouth and laugh heartily with my chums at our adventures. 

What is it that keeps me smoking? I very much doubt it is My Lady Nicotine... but certainly the ideas the book presents are desirable to me. Maybe I should buy an armchair, and a pipe and grow a moustache or maybe I should give up smoking. Sadly I think the former would be much easier. Even the moustache. 

First Post

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