The Bluestocking, volume 85: Zadie and Oswald
Happy Friday!
As I've mentioned before, I'm currently writing something set in the 1930s, and hoo boy let me tell you that is not a happy thing to be doing in 2018. Historians keep arguing about whether the "rise of fascism" narrative is overdone, or whether democracy is failing is new ways rather than old ones - all very interesting, but those were not conversations we were having in the 1990s, and that in itself should be alarming.
One of my fears is that we're still not taking seriously enough the idea that democratic norms are being broken (see this week's pairing row, or the fact Esther McVey misled parliament without consequences). Labour at least have piled into the first one of those scandals, but they haven't landed a blow on McVey, or the DWP, even when the universal credit programme was shredded once again by the National Audit Office a month ago.
Brexit is certainly part of that - it's sucking all the oxygen - but it's still the case that the shadow cabinet, pulled together out of a small pool of Corbyn-tolerators in the PLP, isn't firing on all cylinders. The actual Cabinet isn't, either, although the loss of two prima donnas might help it feel more like a team than an ego-conainment-paddock.
Because I was so thoroughly depressed this week, I wrote about how we should stop treating populist blowhards as humorous clowns. (Side note: a twitter follower sent me this video of Oswald Mosley campaigning at the 1931 election, where he stood for Labour - the second of his four parties - and a) HOW did this man sleep with his wife and her two sisters and half of London? b) Look at everyone wearing a hat. Where did everyone put them when they went inside?)
On a more positive note, there were some great suggestions about work/life balance. I like the idea of an "end of day" ritual where you say aloud to yourself: I'm done now. (OK, maybe under your breath if you work in an office.) I've also been writing the book using the Pomodoro Technique.
Helen
Now More Than Ever
In my apartment building, as in many throughout the city, we have this new routine. We stand at our windows, all of us, from the second floor to the seventeenth, and hold aloft large signs with black arrows on them. The arrows point to other apartments. In our case, to the apartments of our colleagues at the university. The only abstainers are the few remaining Marxists (mainly in the history department, though we have a few in English and sociology, too) who like to argue that the whole process is fundamentally Stalinist. Which is like calling a child Mary. Who even uses that kind of language these days?
Zadie Smith has joined the anti-woke alliance.
Quick links:
1. "Obviously he feels that a great deal of his sexual clout comes from his position in government, but I don't think it's a reach to assume that the number of people whose specific kink is "MP for Burton" is: none." Ranking those Tory sexts. (NSFW and, indeed, life).
2. Every Shakespeare play in Parks & Rec quotes.
3. I hesitated over listening to the 999 call of the Ukip councillor who murdered his wife, because it just seemed ghoulish. But I can see why the police released it. It's an absolutely mindblowing insight into the psychology of a perpetrator of male violence against women. (He killed his wife after she discovered he was having an affair with his daughter-in-law.) The breeziness. The apparently pre-prepared gags. The greeting of police as if they were there for a social call. I would have assumed that someone who would confess to murder would be doing so because they were distraught and instantly regretful, but no - it's like he's boshing off some admin before going to the garden centre.
Guest gif: workout #inspo from Harrison Ford. Thanks Harrison! #blessed
See you next time!