Embrace technology – but don't forget your memorable word

THE wonders of modern technology mean we can access everything at the touch of a button. But woe betide you if you forget your memorable word...

I Spent a long time waiting in the bank last week. I'd managed to lock myself out of my account trying to use the internet banking service.

Eighteen months ago, it had all sounded so wonderful. They had promised checking my balance, transferring money and arranging direct debits could all be done without going into a branch or standing in a queue.

And yet here I was, waiting in one. The officious computer interface had informed me that I had incorrectly entered my passcode, so I'd had a friend oversee my next attempt. But the interface decided that was wrong too. And then that it was wrong a third time, even though I had a witness to prove otherwise.

Clearly the bank's own system had a problem, so I was happy to ring the "helpline". It was then I fell foul of my own disorganisation. The irritatingly cheery lad on the other end of the line asked for my "memorable place" and my "memorable word". The trouble was they weren't terribly memorable at all - I couldn't even remember having set them. Slightly embarrassed and utterly stressed, I panicked and gave him the likely answers. It had all been going so well up to that point. But now, impossibly cheerful lad informed me that one of the answers had been wrong.

He couldn't tell me which one. No, I couldn't have a second guess. And now he had to lock me out of my bank account. I would have to present myself, in person, with photo ID, at one of his branches, if I ever wanted access to my paltry fortune again.

Subsequently, come first thing on Monday morning, I found myself waiting in my local branch behind a nice Polish family opening their first account, while I cursed all technology and my faith in it.

My inability to remember my memorable place and word, of course, was now paling into insignificance by comparison with my ire at the faulty automated system. By the time I emerged from the bank, my passwords reset and my money accessible once more, I was ready to abandon all electronic devices and throw in my lot with the technology-eschewing Amish people of North America (although I seem to recall even they had credit card terminals in their gift shops).

It wasn't to be because, by the time I got home, I'd used the ATM, paid by chip-and-pin in Tesco, texted home to explain why I was running late and, although I knew what time it was due, monitored my bus's arrival through its newly-installed Star Trak information system. I'd even entertained myself during the journey home with some soothing music on my iPod.

Of course, it's not the technology that's the problem; it's our reliance upon it. Unless you're a fellow gadget geek, you probably won't understand this, but as far as I'm concerned, life without the internet or mobile phones has become unthinkable.

Last year, a fault with a BT line caused chaos in our house. We had no phone line and no internet. No internet, of course, means no e-mail and I just knew that the only really urgent e-mail I had ever received was waiting, right then, to pop up in my inbox, in need of an immediate reply - if only I could get to it.

I couldn't do any work either because my access to the outside world had been cut. It was two days before I remembered the encyclopaedia on the shelf behind me. But gadgetry is just so much easier - and a lot more fun. I remember vividly the entire family gathering around to watch the first-ever cycle of our tumble dryer.

My mum treats the computer as if her every tap of the keyboard might unleash nuclear Armageddon, but she happily Googles for her lace-making supplies. My dad, who is so naturally suspicious of new devices that he waits until he has observed someone else successfully using them for at least a year before he will buy in, actually gets more texts in a day than I do.

As a lover of the latest technology, I use self check-ins at airports, and self check-outs at supermarkets. But I'll admit that even I was bewildered by the automated public toilet I encountered in Stockholm. From the light, the door mechanism and the seat warmer - yes really - to the flush, the soapy water and the hand dryer, everything was automated. For me, it was a step too far. There are some things that are just better done manually. Anyway, how does it know when you're ready for the next stage?

That said, even our cats are microchipped, which means that their temperatures can be taken without the usual indignities.

So, embrace technology, book some yoga lessons - and make sure you make a note of those memorable answers.

Clowns and jugglers and mimes, oh my!

A RECENT study by the University of Sheffield, into appropriate decor for children's hospital wards, concluded what I could have told them long ago: clowns are scary.

After a personal life-long terror of those whitened faces, drawn-on smiles and enormous flapping feet, I can vouch for it.

And I'm not alone. Coulrophobia, to give clown-fear its proper title, is one of the most common phobias on the planet. Three years ago, hundreds of residents of Sarasota, Florida, a town with a proud circus heritage, successfully campaigned to prevent the erection of 70 giant clown statues around their hometown on the grounds that they were terrified at the prospect.

Theories abound about just why these red-nosed entertainers are so frightening. I, for one, don't recall being traumatised by someone dressed as a clown, and I'm not convinced that it stems from not being able to gauge a clown's real feelings. They're just plain creepy.

I do know that I was already a phobic when my parents took me on my first circus visit. And I recall vividly the disappointed and bewildered look on my father's face when his little girl burst into tears at her first sight of his big-top favourites.

You'd think the advancing years would have cured me. If anything I've got worse. I've tried to find comfort in the experiences of others and logged on to scores of anti-clown websites. On ihateclowns.com there is even a forum on which coulrophobics can blog about their own experiences; another website offers clothing and accessories with anti-clown slogans. But none of this has cured me.

Any claims I might have to a genuine phobia, however, are pooh-poohed by friends, who claim that I'm just being miserable. You see, I'm also one of those people that squirms at the mere mention of "street entertainers". I know what you're thinking, but let me try to convince you otherwise.

Take mime artists - and I wish someone would. What could be more irritating? All that "help me, I'm stuck in a box" play-acting just winds me up. I mean, just how many times can you watch someone struggle with an invisible balloon?

It baffles me that someone would want to spend all day doing Marcel Marceau impressions when they could be doing anything else. But then again, the website worst-jobs.com regards mime artistry as "ideal for theatre artists who can't sing, or act, or remember lines".

There exists, believe it or not, an I Hate Mimes Club. And there have been some pretty high-profile mime haters too. A character in a Terry Pratchett book outlawed miming and punished exponents by forcing them to climb an invisible ladder out of a scorpion pit while reading a sign saying: 'Learn the words'.

I don't even think they're all that popular. Be honest, when you see mimes in the street, how many people are standing there watching?

It's the same with jugglers. Is there actually a point to juggling? The World Juggling Federation is an organisation dedicated to "promoting the sport of juggling to a worldwide audience". Juggling as a sport? I'm not even convinced it's an entertainment.

How hard can it be? The average 9-year-old girl can do it. Anyone can learn to juggle, surely? OK, not me, obviously, because I have absolutely no co-ordination, but it would seem to be within the reach of those with even basic motor skills.

There are other forms of silly street performers, too. Stilt-walkers, for example. As a child I could walk on stilts, quite competently as it happens, but they don't impress me either.

Acrobats are amazing, of course, and trapeze artists and tightrope walkers too.

Fire-eaters are also impressive, but, on the other hand, once you've seen one .... And just how do you find out you can do that without setting yourself alight?

I don't think it's so much what these street artists do that bothers me, it's that they choose to do it at all.

There you are, minding your own business, when suddenly, out of nowhere, appears a smart-alec on a unicycle, ambushing you into his performance, making you part of his act whether you want to be or not.

Then there are the street musicians. Not the gypsy violinists, flutists and classical guitarists, who can all add wonderful ambiance to a street scene. I'm talking about the ones with the didgeridoos. The ones who leave you wishing they didgerididn’t.

When the language is in tense

YOU see them all the time when you're on holiday abroad, the Brits whose approach to communicating with foreigners is to speak in English very loudly and very slowly, all accompanied by not necessarily helpful hand gestures.

If you're anything like me, you've probably shuddered at the Basil Fawltyness of it - and then wondered whether you'd be any better.

Taking into consideration the five years I spent studying French, my ability to speak it is shockingly weak.

Five years of describing objects in a room - the dog was in the basket, the cat on the chair, the mouse under the table, as I recall - are of little help when you need to know whether the cassoulet is vegetarian-friendly or not.

Perhaps it's just me. My years of French study were somewhat scarred by a very minor detail in the textbook we were required to use.

It featured a family whose pets included "un chat et un chien" - and a monkey. Yes, a monkey; every French home should have one, apparently.

This particular simian, if I recall correctly, wore a hat and a scarf and rode a bicyclette. But it was also named Nikki.

And, let me tell you, years of "Oui, Nikki le singe?" from the witty teacher every time I answered a question soon wore awfully thin.

I simply stopped putting up my hand.

These same textbooks had been handed down through successive generations of students since at least the 1950s.

Now, you might assume, as we did, that French in 1984 was pretty much the same as French 30 years earlier.

How wrong we were. As we began our O-level studies, a new teacher came to the school.

Appalled by the state of the books we were using, he was rendered nearly apoplectic when he discovered that, thanks to the directions of Cours Illustres, we were all in danger of habitually insulting every French waiter we encountered by calling him "garcon".

Apparently, the appropriate word was 'monsieur'. And it had been thus for a couple of decades or so.

Instead, the teacher created his own lessons, which, much to our amusement, generally featured the singer Michael Jackson.

I can only assume it was an attempt to "connect" with the youth. Regardless, I for one was only too pleased to leave the days of Nikki le singe behind me.

By the luck of the draw, on the day of my French O-level oral examination I was required, in French, of course, to pretend to arrange a date with the examiner.

Even at 16, I suspected this was a pointless task. Not, you understand, that I'm especially opposed to the idea of arranging dates with Frenchmen, especially if he is of the David Ginola variety, but I knew that if I ever were to go on holiday to Paris, I'd surely be far more likely to need directions to the Eiffel Tower or a nice little bistro on the Champs Elysee. And besides, I mused to myself, if Frenchmen are so romantic, shouldn't he be asking me?

Make-believe romantic assignations aside, much of our lesson time was spent learning about past participles, future progressives and past perfect tenses.

All of which would surely prove very useful for those of us planning to move to France, write a novel in the French language, or seek a job at the UN. Since few of my classmates have done any of these things, I suspect that our time might have been better employed. The point, surely, is to be understood in a foreign language, not to pass off one's self as a local?

When you think about it, when was the last time you used a perfectly conjugated sentence in a food shop? You're in the chippy. You don't say: "Good evening, madam. I would like four pieces of deep-fried haddock and four portions of chipped potatoes please." You say: "Haddock n' chips four times, please."

Call me revolutionary here, but I think all most of us really need is a few basic sentences and as many nouns as possible. While it would be rewarding to pass the time of day with the locals discussing the state of the French economy or the philosophies of Descartes, when we're on holiday, our needs are basic: to eat, drink, relax, find our way, keep safe and call for help in an emergency.

For some bizarre reason, just about the only French word I can instantly recall is chaussettes, or socks, but, until I looked it up, I had no idea what they called a fire extinguisher (it's extincteur, by the way). You tell me: in a pinch, which is likely to be the most urgent?

The trauma of the Nativity Play

PICTURE the scene. There is a frisson in the air. The nervous chatter of anxious parents hums through the assembly hall. Out of sight, teachers make last-minute adjustments to swaddling bands, and halos are straightened. Yes, it’s that annual ritual of triumphs, tears and tinsel, Little Donkeys and dropped Baby Jesuses – the school Nativity Play.
You’d have to be a stern soul indeed not to be reduced to some level of teary-eyed nostalgia at the thought of all those six and seven-year-olds just waiting for the chance to shine in front of their families and friends. But while all you proud parents and grandparents, aunts and uncles are beaming with pride as your little ones take to the stage as Mary or Joseph, spare a thought for those who never make it into the spotlight – those for whom the school Nativity Play will be a source of perennial disappointment.
You might have guessed, then, that I was one of those children never destined to take to the Nativity stage. Granted, I was saved the ritual humiliation of being the shepherd who tripped over his lamb, or the wise man who forgot to hand over his box of frankincense. But a part in this lovely Christmas tradition was all I yearned for. Every year as the Nativity casting took place, I sat up straight, looked as pretty as I could, spoke clearly and loudly and smiled manically. But it was never going to work; I was overlooked every single year. Not because I wasn’t serene enough to have been an angel, or demure enough for Mary – although these may well have been valid reasons – but because I was just too tall. I may not have reached giraffe-like proportions as an adult but, when I was six years old, I towered over all but one of the boys in our class. And the same was true for several of the other girls too.
And somewhere along the way, one teacher or another had dictated that it would look much better if the short girls got all the plum roles. As a child I thought this was possibly the most unfair thing in the world and I would try to hunch down just so they might think that this year I was finally shorter than the boys. Of course I was 15 before that happened and the era of Nativity plays was long gone.
Not everyone could play a part, of course. These were the days when the Nativity Play was just that. The pure, unadulterated, Christian story of the birth of Jesus. There were the Holy Family, shepherds, kings, angels, the innkeeper and his wife, perhaps a donkey and some sheep, and occasionally a human star. But that was it. I’ve heard of modern Christmas plays with enormous cast lists, and ones that even feature Harry Potter and the Tweenies, just so that everyone can have a part. Ours didn’t even have a Santa Claus.
Of course, the teachers made sure we didn’t miss out entirely. We were positioned to the side of the stage where we sat cross-legged on the floor, beside the naughty kids and the ones whose attention spans were so short that their acting threatened to break into improvisation. We were given drums to bang, triangles to ting and tambourines to shake. These were particularly popular with us girls because we could pretend to be Agnetha or Frida from Abba.
And, of course, we were allowed to sing along with the carols and Christmas songs – although I have an old friend who told me that a perfectionist teacher once ordered them to mime to the songs because she wanted only the good singers to be heard. What a horrible thing to do to a small child. And at Christmas, too. Nowadays you could probably sue.
I did get to participate in our senior school carol concert, although quite how we had one I’m not sure, Derbyshire County Council having cast disapproval on religion in schools by that point. I think we were all right if we didn’t actually mention God. Anyway, our German class was required to stand before the rest of the school and sing the first verse of O Come All Ye Faithful in German: Herbei o ihr Glaugibigen, Frohlich triumphierend; you see, I can still do it. And for that one shining moment, we were the stars of the show. It didn’t impress my non-German-speaking classmates, of course. They just thought we were showing off. But it was our moment nonetheless.
I feel I should probably now make a confession. I did once appear in a Nativity Play, as the Angel Gabriel no less. And I had lines. But then I was in Brownies and we had no boys to tower over.

What's so awful about being nice?

THE recent final of the TV talent show X Factor, featured a young duo - a brother and sister known as Same Difference. Most people loved them because they were so nice. Yet a few others loathed them for the same reason.

So I'm wondering - what's so awful about being nice?

You might think that nice people are appreciated. But nice, it seems, is an underrated concept. Abhorred rather than applauded, nice people are uncool.

If they're so nice and happy, there must be something wrong with them, right?

Of course, that's not the case - these lucky people just happen to see the positive side of life more clearly than the negative one.

Some people even think that all this likeability is some sort of deliberate facade, hiding an almost Machiavellian heart.

But while we avidly listen to the latest bulletins from the gossips, wouldn't we rather it were only the nice people who talked about us?

I remember at school being told never to use the word nice because it was too vanilla, too non-specific.As if it weren't a description in itself, and yet it is.

It encapsulates something that no other single word does. So why does nice go hand-in-hand with bland?

Why does something, or someone, have to have a dark edge to be taken seriously? How often do we hear someone say they don't like a person simply because they're too nice? What's that all about? How can someone be too nice?

Can it really be that we are all so cynical that we simply can't trust anyone else to be genuinely pleasant? Have we so lost touch with the kindness within us that we can't bear to witness it in someone else?

I don't think either is true, and neither do I think that happy, nice people are born that way - I think they make a choice to be nice and to see the good in others, and I think it's a choice we could all stand to make.

The advantages of encountering such a person were brought home to me the day I ruptured my ankle ligaments. Having been told by the friendly A & E doctor that what I had done was probably worse than breaking my ankle, I was astonished to be told by the nurse who strapped my injury that I wouldn't be getting any of her NHS crutches because the best thing for me was to walk on it straight away. If only I could have.

Now, I understand that such things are in short supply because many people don't bother to return their loaned hospital equipment, but surely a woman who needs a wheelchair to take her to the car is entitled to some sort of sticks or something? Apparently not.

After several abortive attempts to get into the house unaided, I sank to the floor and shuffled over the front step and up the hall on my derriere. Clearly, I was going to need help, whether that nurse thought it necessary or not, and a family member was dispatched to purchase for me my very own set of elbow-crutches.

Several days' enforced house confinement eventually left me in serious need of some retail therapy, so I set off for town. Now, admittedly testing out my new hobbling-with-elbow-crutches skills on a Saturday afternoon was probably not the most sensible plan, but amid the thousands of people flocking into Derby that day, you might have imagined that one or two of them would have noticed my predicament and made some allowances. Not a chance. Sympathy? You must be kidding.

I was bustled, nudged and shoved. I had doors dropped back into my face while I tottered about on my sticks. I had car drivers tooting their horns because I wasn't fast enough across the road. I couldn't even get into one store because I got caught between two sets of heavy doors, unable to push my way in or out, and only released from my glass prison when another customer needed to use the doorway. And no, even they weren't sympathetic, but tutted at my dithering. Did they think I was wobbling around for fun?

It was a sudden and shocking realisation of how someone with a permanent mobility problem must find life - I don't know how they have the patience, or the will.

I was on my way home before I encountered my first Good Samaritan and the restoration of my faith in humanity. A fellow bus passenger took pity on me and offered me her seat at the front. She must have been well into her 80s, and none too steady on her own feet. I think she must have been one of those nice people.

You never know who you may turn out to be

WHO do you think you are? asks the popular television show, but you don’t have to be a celebrity to unearth a fascinating family story of your own. Ten or so years spent investigating my family’s past have thrown up a few surprises about our origins. Like the fact that my great-great-great grandmother, Mary Hargreaves, was born in Dublin. And while this doesn’t mean I’ll be celebrating next St Patrick’s Day, it is remarkable how much this kind of information changes the way you view yourself. As it turns out my once decidedly Derbyshire DNA has pieces from all over Britain. I still feel like a Derby girl, but I can no longer deny associations with other counties and even countries.
I’ve also learned how foolish the idea of social “class” is. On the face of it, my family is of sturdy “working-class” stock. We have blacksmiths, agricultural labourers and elastic weavers to prove it. But there’s also the occasional rich and aristocratic family member like Sir Richard Whieldon Barnett of Hales Hall, who is my fourth cousin. All very exciting; he was a competitor at the 1908 Olympics, a chess champion, an MP, but somehow just not as much fun as my great-great-great-great grandparents, Richard and Mary Wilkes, who worked as village rat catchers well into their dotage. And I can’t help thinking, if I were living in a vermin-afflicted cottage, who would I rather have as my neighbour?
Then there’s the possibility of inheritance. Not in the financial sense – I doubt rat catchers were ever high earners. – but perhaps I had inherited some hitherto unexplored talent from the several artists I had discovered. Sadly, I can’t even draw a convincing banana and probably have more in common with the long line of publicans on my paternal grandmother’s line.
I did find one living relative who carries the art gene – my distant American cousin, Judy, who is a talented painter. And there’s another joy of family research - encountering new relatives. Through Judy I have the pleasure of hearing about everyday life in the charming village of Ballston Spa in New York State.
Other relatives have their own experiences to share too. There’s third cousin Naomi, who runs a falconry centre in the Cotswolds; fifth cousin Julia, who lives in Australia; and seventh cousin Ulrich from Denmark. We have fun trading family news and Christmas cards – and the latest discoveries. Like our connections to Thomas Whieldon, the world-famous potter, and my first cousin (admittedly eight-times-removed); or George Rowley, the well-known china painter for Royal Crown Derby, and my great-grandfather’s half-brother.
Thanks to the dedicated research of these new-found relatives, I have sometimes been able to go back several hundred years in an afternoon. My earliest ancestors to date are William and Joan Whieldon of Ipstones in Staffordshire, who were probably born in 1582, the year William Shakespeare married Ann Hathaway.
I’ve learned about places I’d never heard of before, like Chilvers Coton near Nuneaton, where my ancestors attended the same church as novelist George Elliot. I’ve researched life in the Lincolnshire fens when the early Rippons would have travelled from village to village by boat; studied the smart houses of Wimbledon where my great grandmother worked as a housekeeper; and investigated life at Welbeck Abbey where my great-great uncle Alfred was in charge of the Duke of Portland’s stables.
There have been countless mysteries, illegitimate births, untraceable marriages, lines that disappear into thin air, rumours and speculation, elopements and uncovered secrets aplenty.
And there have been tragedies, too. Great-great uncle Willie Rippon returned from the First World War with shellshock and was haunted by the horrors of his experiences for the rest of his life, while Frederic Rowley fell victim to typhoid fever at his Campion Street home. And my great-great grandmother Eliza Hough died, aged 30, having just given birth to her sixth child.
There have been the horror stories, too, like that of my great-great grandfather working down a Durham lead mine as a 14-year-old. And the sad story of my great-great uncle Alexander Craig, who was born in Bruges in the late 19th century because his father was a commercial traveller, but who returned to Belgium with the Sherwood Foresters in 1915, only to be killed just a few miles from his birthplace.
Researching my family tree has not only introduced me to a host of fascinating ancestors, but I’ve discovered a whole new me. So now who do I think I am? Not just a Rippon, but a Whieldon, an Entwistle, a Poynton. An English girl, a Scottish lass, an Irish woman. If you haven’t already delved into your own family’s history, it’s time you got started – you’ll probably be amazed at who you turn out to be.

There's nothing wrong with an "old fashioned" education

I WAS talking to a woman at the bus stop last week. She was concerned about the amount of homework her eight-year-old granddaughter had been given. “Homework? She’s eight – surely she doesn’t have homework?” I queried. And after a bewildering five minutes of key stage this, and Ofsted that, I discovered just how far primary schooling has moved on since I left Dale School, Derby, in 1980.
I was fortunate to have benefited from what even people of my age would consider an old-fashioned education. Our school in Normanton was run under the auspices of the always immaculately turned-out Miss Clarke. She was petite and ladylike and ruled the school with an iron, if perfectly manicured, hand.
While other school heads were embracing modernity, Miss Clarke made sure her boys and girls were brought up the classical way. No trendy educational ideas for her. From the moment the old school handbell was rung on the playground outside, and the chattering crocodiles of more than 500 children filed inside, we were taught on traditional, if occasionally quirky, lines.
Each morning the school, divided into infants and juniors, attended assembly. We entered the halls to the strains of classical music. The composer of the day was clearly displayed at the front, and woe betide anyone who could not read or pronounce his name. From Tchaikovsky and Brahms to Schubert and Liszt, we learned to recognise a huge range of music. Among Miss Clarke’s favourites were loud or stirring pieces, like Grieg’s Morning or Delibes’ Coppelia. It was all about instilling in us enthusiasm, energy and get-up-and-go. And it worked.
And each day there would be a poem to listen to – like Keats’ To Autumn – and always read with an almost fevered relish by Miss Clarke’s ever-jolly colleague, Mrs Smith, her foot tapping out the rhythm of the words. She read all manner of poems from writers as diverse as John Masefield, Edward Lear and Lewis Carroll. We started each morning with a hymn and a prayer, of course, and to my shame my primary school self never questioned what my non-Christian schoolmates thought of that. But I loved it, and I’ve always valued hymns and prayers for their use of language and poetry, as much as for their spiritual content. There was also the element of everyone doing something together, which just seemed to set us up right for the day.
PE lessons at Dale also had an interesting twist. Confined for most of the year to the concrete playgrounds on either side of the school, or in the assembly halls, our sports curriculum relied upon the equipment we had inherited from earlier generations. Indoors there was the usual gym apparatus with poles to twizzle on and rope frames to climb up, monkey bars to swing on and a range of aged benches on which to balance, all of which bore the marks of 75 years of children’s feet bashing and rubbing on them.
When it came to fresh air fun, there was a more exotic choice. Nestled among the skittles and canes, beanbags and hula-hoops were a set of ancient shinty clubs. Now, unless you went to Dale, or lived in the Scottish Highlands, you’re unlikely ever to have encountered that particular sport. It was a forceful and violent Gaelic forerunner to hockey and quite what this set of clubs, which resembled upturned and flattened out walking sticks, were doing in the PE cupboard of a Derbyshire primary school, no-one seemed to know, but under our teachers’ guidance we would, gently of course, tap a plastic ball up and down the playground around the obstacles laid out before us. It probably owed very little to the archaic sport, but it was utterly engrossing nonetheless.
But I think the most valuable lesson that Dale School taught us was the how to mark the passing seasons and seize the moment to appreciate the world around us. No matter how important the lesson we were having, there was always time to abandon it for a morning spent outside studying a frost-encrusted spider’s web, or a bird’s nest. Then it was back inside to write stories and poems inspired by them. It was fun, but it was learning too, and it never seemed like hard work.
I wonder, with all the emphasis, in today’s schools, on homework and breakfast clubs; with lessons in citizenship and technology; with ICT rooms and interactive white boards in most school; with websites, newsletters and class councils to keep pace with - all the undoubtedly wonderful and essential components of modern education – is there still time for our youngsters to experience the more esoteric aspects of life? It would be an awful pity if, amid all that technology and financial investment, they were literally missing out on smelling the roses.