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I stopped worrying about gender roles years ago. I'm quite happy to be going to watch Mamma Mia tomorrow night which, I am told is as "...camp as a boy scout jamboree". I'll happily sing along to the songs that blighted my childhood, and I shan't worry about growing lady parts.
But sometimes I do worry whether this 'being in touch with my femininity' has gone a bit far. Take this week for example: watching Ten Years Younger I was discomfited to hear myself say, when top hairstylist Andrew Barton had performed his almost alchemical contradiction to the saw that you cannot make a silk purse from a sows ear, "Oooh that's a nice cut isn't it" and it was. But I do feel that perhaps it should have been Mrs C that said it whilst my role was confined to a glance over the top of my newspaper and non committal grunt that signified that whilst I was
prepared to be a partner in watching these predominantly female targeted programmes, I wasn't set on it being an equal partnership.
Similarly, watching Gok Wan's Fashion Fix (again in another moment of marital mateyness) I was surprised to find myself astounded by the apparent preference, of an audience of 'normal women' for Gok's economical fashion fixes rather than clothes costing many thousands of pounds and designed by from some of the worlds best. I mean, even a brute like me could tell that the cloth in the frocks alone cost as much as my car.
But then there was light at the end of the tunnel and I stopped worrying about my masculinity. It seemed that I had missed the point entirely (huge sigh of relief); it was all about empowering women to reject the style stereotypes thrust on them by the fashion fascists and rather be influenced by them to do their own thing.
Gosh.
I think in future, I'll make sure there's a copy of The Grauniad to hide behind, just in case.
There are things in a man's working day - and I think, in this case, it is men - that are sacrosanct. Today I was shocked to find one of those things violated in my own workplace. Since being introduced to the ways of working men 30 or so years ago, I have understood that at certain times - usually about mid-morning - a man might boldly stroll out of the office, with a rolled copy of the Daily Mirror tucked under his arm, for ten minutes private time behind a firmly bolted door. Of course the days of entering the Gents to see a plume of smoke rising like a cloud from a cooling tower, behind a cubicle door, disappeared with the advent of no-smoking policies; but traditions persist and still a moment's meditation away from the fray are welcome.
Today though, as I popped in for a pre-meeting pee I noticed, in the gap beneath a cubicle door, some poor corporate soul felt that even that moment's private time must be sacrificed to the giant corporate leech. A box file, its lid open and resting against the cubicle door, bore along its spine, the legend IT Strategy Implementation Plan Reports; the sound of turning pages said all that needed to be said.
This, I fear, is the thin end of the wedge; how long before we have Wi - Fi points alongside the porcelain and those few most private of moments are disturbed by the chatter of laptop keystrokes from behind closed doors.
Every year at around this time, as the leaves start to fall and Duffle coats are dusted off, there is a primeval stirring amongst men to grow a winter coat - to allow the usually fresh face to take on a more hirsute look (that rhymes if you say it properly), in short, to grow a beard. I know in the houses of some of my friends their is endless debate about whether or not to grow a Winter Beard; I am proud to say that in my own home the debate is only one of style; for we are beard friendly at Crofty Halls.
I have never felt the need for help, support or advice in my hivernal pursuit; I am blessed with facial fecundity. But I was reassured to find that for those men (or women) for whom beard growing is a particular challenge, help abounds. Take www.beards.org for example: a wonderful source of succour for anyone struggling to develop their winter pelt.
For some years I have toyed with a variety of facial shapes from the jauntily tapering sideburns that peter out into nothing just before reaching the pointy chin bit, to the, what haws become commonplace, goatee. This year though, I've decided to opt for the full effect; and I have to say that I am rather pleased with the streaks of white and peppering of light grey. I think maturity has lent a certain depth of texture and warmth to what could otherwise be any old beard.
I think my decision to stick with a traditional beard this year is also partially due to realising that in the world of beard art I wasn't even scratching the surface of the true potential of the form. Take a look at some of these beauties from the World Beard and Moustache Championship, I did rather hope that Mrs C might take a fancy to some of these, quite splendid, styles but the scale of her rebuff was sufficient for me to stick to what I know. I am still tempted however, now I've started it, to see how long I can get away with not trimming my beard, like the excellent examples displayed above by the redoubtable members of ZZ Top (not counting Frank Beard of course, who is the one without the beard).
P.S. I've just realised that many of you will not have realised that I have spent the Summer months clean shaven - I forgot to change my profile picture!
It occurred to me, after our trip to Pickering last weekend, that many of our friends and family simply don't understand camping. They look at you incredulously as you tell them that you chose to sleep out of doors with only two thin layers of nylon fabric between you and the elements (not counting sleeping bag and/or underwear - just so you know). For me it's partly the adventure of having to get by without some of what you would ordinarily consider regular parts of your everyday life: television, en suite, running water. It is also deeply relaxing to sit outside your tent in the warm evening air watching bats dart after aerial insects; and listening to the gentle murmur of conversations from neighbours. There is however one rule that ought to be etched into the DNA of every camper: canvas does not have the same sound deadening properties as brick or stone. This is important if you snore; if you and your partner are amorous; or if you suffer from flatulence: going indoors out of politeness to release a gaseous emission is pointless.
As in much of life, gender stereotypes have their place amongst the members of the Camping and Caravanning Club and in order to understand the camping psyche it is perhaps instructive to look at how men respond to the call of the great outdoors. I was amused to see how the uber-masculine four wheel drive fraternity extend their Stoneage chest beating to their camping:
"I have the biggest and best unit on this site (a caravan is known as a unit)"
"Yes, but I trump your caravan with my Mitsubishi Shogun that could tow two of your caravans"
"Damn you, but wait, my Outback barbecue trumps your Camping Gaz griddle"
"Curses, yet I see that you only have terrestrial TV in your unit: observe my satellite dish...."
And the sun sets on this scene that, bar the details, has remained unchanged since man dragged his first partner by the hair into his cave.
On the subject of camping adaptation's, I found it necessary to make a couple of small adjustments after I discovered that I had forgotten to pack cereal dishes. Throughout the history of mankind man and beast have lived in cooperative partnership; you will see in this photograph that the partnership in my case extended to sharing eating utensils: yes that is the dog's dish; and yes I did wash it thoroughly first.
I have never been particularly competetive: never one of those boys who had to get their fastest, throw farthest, or get 'highest up the wall'. Perhaps that explains why I have never quite understood the desire to grow giant vegetables. It is usually men, who guard their gourds by night, or feed their leeks with secret mixtures. You wouldn't imagine that a horticultural show could be quite such a testosterone laced affair; but when one's wares are laid bare on the white cloth of a display table, the atmosphere crackles with tension and masculine swaggering, as flat capped adversaries let their onions do the talking.
This year Mrs C sprinkled a packet of mixed wild flower seeds over a flower bed at the rear of Croft Hall. One of the resultant surprise contents of the packet was a Great Mullein or Arron's Rod, as it is colloquially known. All summer we have watched as a tiny seedling errupted in spectacular vertical fashion into a giant spike of yellow flowers. This afternoon I wanted to know how big was my rod; applying my Stanley steel tape to its side I measured 2.8 metres - surely I have the biggest rod in Saddleworth, maybe even the world.
Don't listen to them; size matters; and mine is the biggest.
prepared to be a partner in watching these predominantly female targeted programmes, I wasn't set on it being an equal partnership.
