Why I’m still a Barbie girl

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It’s Christmas 1985 and I’m hiding under the kitchen table. I’m on a festive ‘snoop’ mission. My parents are terse talking about “Wrapping the bloody Barbie van!”

My heart beats at the anticipation of it. The pièce de résistance of our sister’s Santa list. The fantasy gift of mid 80’s schoolgirls – the outfits, the glam, the moulded plastic bliss.

Flash forward (nearly) 40 years later and I’m watching the end of the Barbie movie in a draughty Devon cinema. Whilst my 10 year old son is ready for the off, I’ve tears in my eyes.

This surprises me. It’s less to do with nostalgia (I’ve no clue what happened to my Barbie collection) but more to do with a cinematic stirring of middle aged heart and mind.

I was banking on it being an above par chick flick. Reviews of the release from indie darlings, Gerwig and Baumbach, had stoked right wing ire in a pleasing way.

As we waited in line, I chortled to see teenies in tutus queuing for a quirky polemic on gender stereotypes, the patriarchy and empty consumerist lives.

And it started like a knickerbocker glory dream of a world. As Barbie woke to a picture perfect day the sea of west country mummies cooed at their charges.

As the screen glowed with Margot Robbie’s megawatt smile I felt my 9 year old self revive on a wave of fun. This was a world where women ‘rule’ and Ken’s ‘crave.’

But as my tweenager squirmed and I snuck Maltesers (Sorry darling – but they’re “lighter than ordinary chocolate”) the celluloid mood changed.

Barbie got sad. Barbie was lost. Barbie started to question EVERYTHING. Defeated she goes in search of the sage but scorned Weird Barbie (played by the awesome Kate McKinnon).

This encounter sets Barbie on a mission through the portal to the ‘real world.’ As she drives into the fake sunset, Ken tags along for the ride. And guess what they find – the real world falls short.

On Earth, women are ground down whilst the men rise high. This is when America Ferrera’s Gloria steals the best speech (snippet below) about society’s patriarchal pressures,

“Always stand out and always be grateful. But never forget that the system is rigged. So find a way to acknowledge that but also always be grateful. You have to never get old, never be rude, never show off, never be selfish, never fall down, never fail, never show fear, never get out of line. It’s too hard! It’s too contradictory and nobody gives you a medal or says thank you! And it turns out in fact that not only are you doing everything wrong, but also everything is your fault.

Gloria, The Barbie Movie 2023

As a Mattel employee, working for Will Ferrell’s chauvinistic CEO, Gloria lays bare the reality of women’s Earth lot v the pie in the sky Barbie world.

But Ken is newly inspired by this ‘men rule’ reality. Returning home he flips Barbie’s pink paradise on its head. Suddenly the girls are catering to the Ken’s every whim.

As Barbie and Gloria buddy up to ‘save the day’ cliches abound. But overall, it was an enjoyable, thought popping ride.

For me, the film delivers a message (for girls and boys) of how, in our pursuit of Insta perfect lives, we’ve lost our way.

Whilst we’ve been distracted by looking good, hooking up and ladder climbing, we’ve been passing up on real, authentic life experiences.

In the end, the message that resonated most is that ‘Weird Barbie,’ with all her idiosyncrasies, is the kinda chick you want to listen to. These mavericks are the life guides that can help us make sense of this crazy world.

“Certainly, there’s a lot of passion. My hope for the movie is that it’s an invitation for everybody to be part of the party and let go of the things that aren’t necessarily serving us as either women or men.”

Greta Gerwig, Director, The Barbie Movie 2023

I’m lying on a sun lounger mourning my lost youth

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It’s summer 2019 and I’m lying on a lounger staring at a Cretan sea. Around me the beach life thrums. Fit boys and girls bop to a tinny pop tune. I’m pretending to read but tears pool behind my shades.

I should be HAPPY. We’re away, we’re together, others are less lucky… I berate myself between chugs of tepid water. An adonis comes for the sun bed fee – I mumble in Greek except he’s looking anywhere but here.

I am HOT – must be 90 degrees. Sweat pools at my back and belly. I’ve no patience for sunning and I need a wee. I’m trying to ignore the thought of strangers melting on this bed before me. I reach for the suncream.

Bronzed girls run past, a whirl of giggles, their barely there swimsuits struggling to hold onto curves. I suck my tummy in, hide myself beneath a bikini past it’s prime.

What is WRONG with me? I try to breathe it out. But I’m buttoned up tight; I feel invisible. I want to shout, at the top of my lungs, “I’m still here!!” Instead, I reread the same line.

Once I was an English rose. My fairness drew compliments like confetti, “Meryl Streep!” they’d fawn. But (oh the irony) I thought I was ‘ugly.’ They say “The youth is wasted on the young,” and they’d be right.

Only now, looking back at old snaps, I see my beauty. How I missed the chance to flaunt it – the nectar to bee pull of it. My firm, line-free skin taunts me from history – “Look how you shone!”

Is it true? Am I passed it? Or am I stewing in self pity. A midlife meltdown maybe? I’ll buy a sports car, dye my hair, surrender to the needle, anything to banish this creeping age.

And then she arrives, a goddess in green, grey hair piled high, movie star shades – smoothing a sarong over lounger. She is magnificent. The beach takes a breath, as she lays down.

Catlike she preens, people pause, lips loosening. But she gives no f*cks about onlookers. Instead, she eyes the ocean like a hungry mermaid. And then she stands. People sly peek over papers as she strides to the sea.

Then from nowhere, a singsong voice and water sprinkles, “Mummy! Come on!” And he’s pulling me out of my malaise. Tugging me free of thoughts, as we hot foot over stones to the waters edge.

And so we dive – the cool steals my breath. In that moment I am happy. I look for the lady in green but she is far away, powering towards horizon. I lie back in the water, my ears submerge and beach hum fades. Finally I’m at peace – at peace with myself.

Why does society scorn the ageing female? It’s time to push back!

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It’s past midnight, and I’m social scrolling when I should be sleeping. Night sweats have lured me back to my phone.

As the dog snores beside me I flick through a blur of celebrity ‘tell all’s’ and ‘life crashes.’ My eyes brim as I’m hit by a flood of bile.

Headlines hum with hate. Not for corrupt MPs, global ecocide or social injustice – hate for the ‘ageing’ female. Hate for the ‘hags’ who fail to stop the clock.

“The SHAME of Natalie Portman’s Lost Looks,” “Jennifer Aniston Let’s Greys SHOW.” “Reece Witherspoon Looks OLD.” “Oprah Got FAT.”

“Ugly!” “Worn Out!” “Washed Up!” – this is the media mantra stinging my eyes and stoking my ire. This is 21st century ageism in action – this is misogyny unmasked.

It seems in the west women are not ALLOWED to age. We’re not permitted to accept our fading looks with good grace and live out our lives.

Instead, we must yoke onto ‘youth.’ We must submit to needles of toxins in our faces. We must buy potions. We must diet, dye and cry.

We should CRY endlessly for our lost youths. We should stew in the shame of sands slipping through hourglass. We should hanker after the past not the future.

From the age of 35 our core mission is to outrun the conveyor of life. To kid ourselves we can retain the glow of youth – rather than accept the truth.

The truth that we ARE ageing. That, despite the world’s infatuation with ‘staying young,’ we’re growing older. We cannot go back in time, only forward.

So we become the victims of the ad men selling faux elixirs to turn back clocks. Rather than embracing now we hold a flame for yesterday.

As a middle aged woman, it’s easy to feel beaten down by this rhetoric. As hormonal symptoms creep you can feel obsolete. You can look in the mirror and feel shame not love.

But what if we refuse to let society taint our ageing years? What if we say “F*ck you!” to the youth obsessed commentators? What if we opt to LOVE our selves. To trace our lines, stroke our greys and cradle our loosening skin.

Because to reach midlife and beyond is a gift that not everyone unwraps. We owe it to those who fall short of the milestone to relish this chapter – to embrace our elderhood.

This is the rallying cry of Dr Sharon Blackie’s transformational book, Hagitude: Reimagining The Second Half of Life. This riveting read exposes how western society has derided our value as vibrant, older women. She explores how once revered female elders have been marginalised over time.

How, across centuries the patriarchy got rattled by women’s potency. How our primal connection with nature, healing and the spirit world marked us out. And so we were burned at stakes, chained to sinks and denied a voice…until we pushed back!

And this moment to push back has returned. It’s time to reclaim the narrative on ageing and reject this media misogyny. No digital channel has the right to govern our self esteem. We must reject these headlines of hate.

As vibrant, older women it’s time to step into our power and steal the oxygen from ageism. Let’s seek out role models and archetypes that celebrate life’s journey. Let’s reconnect with our needs and desires. Let’s run towards our older years with hunger and with hope.

In the rallying words of Blackie (2022) “There can be a perverse pleasure, as well as a sense of rightness and beauty, in insisting on flowering just when the world expects you to become quiet and diminish.”

The importance of nurturing creativity

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I am nurturing creativity in my son. It is a conscious thing. I praise his pencil strokes, his flights of fancy, his creative energy. These are moulding years. Experts say that by the age of 8 a child’s sense of self worth is set. That’s such a crucial span of influence. Why is this not page 1 of all parenting manuals?

My son is a budding artist, a photographer, a dancer. We are yet to see what he shall become. Maybe his work shall fill galleries or maybe he shall set bricks in mortar. Only time shall reveal his path. I care less about awards and titles. I’m more concerned that he’s happy, kind and in touch with his creative self.

Why is creativity so important to me? To me it’s a life-skill and outlet that outshines all others. I’m not simply talking about creativity as an artistic pursuit – although this can bring endless joy. I’m interested in the skills of creative thinking – of imagination, of putting ideas into action, of positive collaboration. I’m focused on creativity as a catalyst for learning, cohesion and lifelong wellbeing.

The late, great educationalist and creativity advocate Sir Ken Robinson advised governments and world leaders on the import of nurturing creativity in young learners. Over 20 years ago, as Chair of the National Advisory Committee on Creative and Cultural Education, he wrote the
All Our Futures:Creativity, Culture and Education report. Inside it he championed a national strategy for creative and cultural education that nurtured the abilities of all young people. Through this he said we would grow skills to narrow socio-economic gaps and boost national prosperity.

A key upshot of this report was the launch of the national Creative Partnerships programme which ran between 2002-2011. Working in areas of deprivation – it built learning links between creative and educational communities. As a Director of the Hull, East Yorkshire and Humber Subregion office I observed the power of creativity to change young lives.

Although this programme was brutally cut by the incoming Coalition government its legacy lives on today. If our Department of Education put creativity at the core of learning I’m sure that our country would be healthier, happier and flourishing.

This is why I celebrate and nurture creativity in my son. This is why, when he wants to share his latest idea I listen. The other day he old me about his vision for a new business – ‘Tree Top Cabins.’ He described in detail an eco-friendly utopia where bosses and workers looked after the planet and each other. He talked of making spaces to learn, work and play. I listened to his flow of creative thoughts – his face lit by possibility.

Maybe years down the line, he shall make this a reality. If so, I hope I’m around to see it. Either way, I’m committed to ensuring he continues to make space in his life to be and think creatively. I see it as my duty as a parent to ensure he can express this side of himself.

In our increasingly volatile world I believe that creativity should be a core part of our young peoples survival toolkits. As we face the uncertainties of 21st century life our ability to envision a new direction, to paint to collaborate or sing our hearts out may just unlock a brighter future.

The last Santa Christmas

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I think he’s rumbled us – our 8 year old super sleuth. His heart yearns for Santa but his head is full of doubts.

Its Christmas Day eve – I’m in the hallway delaying the dogs last pee. I shiver at the sight of frosty windscreens. I hear him quizzing upstairs, “it’s just you and mum isn’t it?” The dad’s reply is swift and sure but can it persuade the son?

The debunking of Santa is heartbreaking for every child. I was in the first year of Heavitree Middle – a smirking cad burst my festive bubble. I remember feeling gutted at first; it was wondrous while it lasted.

There’s a loss of innocence when the myth explodes. I ponder this as the dog tugs me across grass. Suddenly I feel sad – like the too blue lights twinkling from trees. The years go fast my boy is growing.

I wonder if I’ve savoured these Santa years enough. The joy of hanging stockings – of charting his sleigh across the globe. Guiltily I fear I haven’t. Too eager to get back to my book or the mindless scrolling of the phone.

In that moment I am sad at my complacency. But it’s no use – I’ve done my best. I can’t go back or freeze time. My boy with a quick mind and quicker feet won’t stop still.

He’s already straining at the reins. It is not my job to hold him fast. I am here to help him grow – to find himself. As much as we’d like to keep our children small they are preparing to fly from the off.

Losing Santa doesn’t mean magic is over. Even as adults we seek wonder – the tingle of anticipation. Whether waiting for a film to start or the first bars of a familiar song – nostalgia wraps us like a still warm bed.

But this is likely the last Santa Christmas. Our junior detective has sprung our con. The Easter Bunny and Tooth Fairy stand anxiously by. As we box the decs and stockings I shall shed a little tear. But we’ll always make room for magic – for a little sparkle turns a grey day bright.

For the love of libraries

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In Exeter Central Library in the ‘80s there was a rocking horse. It sat in the children’s section, regal in its chestnut glory. I waved as I rode to save the fairy kingdom. Later I would thumb through musty picture books. I remember the pleasure of choosing, of lugging my favourites to the desk. The librarian would smile as she stamped return dates inside. Then we’d leave hand in hand, taking the libraries looping path to the city below.

I believe that libraries are one of life’s greatest gifts. Whatever your wealth you can sign up and dig into their treasures. This is socialism in action, the equity of knowledge – of escape through books. The pleasure of reading has followed me from child to adult. Yet a national decline in children reading for pleasure is a trend we should all be worried about.

It is equally shocking to learn that the last 10 years has seen the closure of a fifth of UK libraries. This has worked against librarians advocacy for the joy of reading. On top, the Chartered Institute of Public Finance and Accountancy (CIPFA) highlights a 29.6% reduction in national library spend. Whilst the government blames local decision-makers and vice versa, the public are losing out.

With over a quarter of a million pupils facing literacy poverty and 7.1 million adults struggling to read you’d think this would be a national crisis. But the ‘powers that be’ seem unfazed. Maybe it suits them to leave it this way. Who needs an educated populace challenging the status quo.

But libraries aren’t just places of learning, they are refuges too. Their warmth draws the weary and lonely, the troubled and displaced. They provide a meeting place, a safe space through challenging times.

How many if us know about the 1850’s Public Libraries Act? This pivot point in English social history was driven by reformers and philanthropists. Shoot forward 170 years and we barely celebrate this landmark moment. In our hi-tech, consumer world we’re more likely to order books online than trudge to the library. Yet the libraries social value is as important today as it ever was – maybe more so.

When life gets hard and our pockets empty we can go to the library and get lost in a book. This cost-free ability to escape, to learn and takeaway must not be taken for granted.

We must stand up for our libraries at this critical time. These houses of knowledge need us to shout loud. Above all we must speak up for the less fortunate, the folk that depend on them – for community and hope.

“But libraries are about freedom. Freedom to read, freedom of ideas, freedom of communication. They are about education (which is not a process that finishes the day we leave school or university), about entertainment, about making safe spaces, and about access to information.”

Neil Gaiman, Writer (extracted from a lecture for The Reading Agency 2013

Oh middle age blues

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How did I get here this near half of 90? This middle age, mid-life, midway. How do I feel when I look in the mirror; lines feather eyes, the upturn of mouth.

Society idolises the beauty of youth. Airbrushed Venus’ pout from our screens. We fight the years – buy pills and potions for fear of the ‘after.’

Middle age taunts us like a laughing clown. We run from its mirth to plough pool and pound pavement. We fight the loosening of skin that we poured into lycra.

As milestone birthdays pass it’s easy to fall into the slough. From experience, dodge the photo album’s lure – this only leads to weeping over wine.

At this middle age we can either hark back or look forward. It’s a moment to choose a cup half full versus empty. But its tempting to dwell in self pity, on the beach, in my mumsuit as bronzed nymphs breeze by – oh!

Yet we can’t turn back time. There’s still life to live. Those younger years weren’t all halcyon. My skin was smoother but insecurities hung like the beads around my neck.

I’m beginning to see that in ageing we lose and we gain. In accepting ourselves right here, right now we can start to reframe. We can map a new path.

For there’s strength in my life experience. There’s beauty in the evidence I have laughed. There’s a power in my self-knowledge – in the history that I own.

Middle age, indeed any age is bitter sweet. But life is there for living every day. It’s what we choose to do with it that counts. So I’m hanging up my hang ups. I’m saying bye bye to yesterday. I’m running towards the future with hope in my heart.

The memory of touch

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I have a memory of a cool banister, under my hand. The ridges of wallpaper, at the top of the stair. The tiled sills, cool to touch. The good sofa, smooth with piped edges. The stones in the box, inlaid with shell. The click of the light – on / off.

I am awake-dreaming. I am recalling the memory of a red brick house which was once my home. This remembrance is not just in my head – its trace flows to the tips of my fingers.

What magic is this? How can I recall these nooks of a place, 12 years on? It seems our sense of touch or haptic memory is more enduring than first realised.

Studies suggest that, moments of touch – the memory of an object – it’s dimensions and texture, can last long after that point of contact.

This fascinates me. As humans we hold onto certain memories like a raft sometimes. Whilst remembrance can be selective, looking back can help us understand our past and face our futures.

In a year when we’ve been kept from loved ones, it makes sense for us to hark back. Covid has raised our present and past senses. At times, a flood of feeling has knocked us sideways. Maybe this is catharsis of sorts? Out of control, we’re anchored by memory points; our nostalgia soothes us.

Then I get to thinking, what of those fallen by dementia? The loss of memory in times like these is all the more cruel. The half familiar faces crowding at the door way, unable to come close.

Whilst true, haptic memory is more elusive in dementia patients, scientists have found peripheral tactile stimulation impacts visual and verbal memory. It seems that ‘touch’ remains a powerful, enriching sense.

So, my retracing of steps makes all the more sense right now. Whatever our state of health or mind, the anchors of memory can hold us.

I have a memory of a cool banister, under my hand. The ridges of wallpaper, at the top of the stair. I visit there from time to time, it reminds me of where I come from.