A place in this world

Sapphire and I have had a few very intriguing discussions lately about bullying.

As she sees it, the school bullying program is about as useful as wearing a leather jumpsuit to a French squat toilet. "All it does it tell kids that they're nowhere near as bad as the examples shown," she says.

She tells me that the examples include kids writing 'Why don't you kill yourself' in SMS messages or 'Die, bitch' on Facebook pages or pushing and shoving kids against lockers.  These produce a collective eye roll amongst the compulsory viewing audience as they're too dramatic and vastly unrepresentative of what really goes on.

When I mention the book 'Queen Bees and Wannabes' by Rosalind Wiseman that we've both read, she again shakes her head. "Even when they discuss the way girls exclude or spread rumours, we're given some standard photo from the 1990s with a really exaggerated set up of three girls talking behind their hands and pointing at a fourth girl standing sadly in the foreground," she says. "It just doesn't happen like that."

"What happens is nasty sniggering instead of genuine laughing, leaving a girl terrified about walking into class with hostile eyes on her as she passes.  How can they pinpoint that kind of almost invisible bullying?"

Sapphire just can't see the jealousy and refuses to let me explain it to her, instead now talking about a wider form of bullying which seems to be freely permitted by us all.

She is a fan of Taylor Swift, admiring not only her songs (and the fact that either writes or co-writes them all), but also her looks (she is a teenage girl, after all) and the fact that she makes mistakes but isn't stupid. "She hasn't been beaten up and gone back to the bloke who did it; she hasn't got gun tatts all over her body; hasn't posed nude or been 'caught' on instagram, hasn't made a sex tape or put up photos of herself smoking dope."

It's old news media-wise now, but I felt really disappointed to read that Tina Fey, who I really admire, and her buddy Amy Poehler (who I've yet to see in anything - that's how out of touch I am) took pot shots at Taylor during their recent hosting of the Golden Globes.

"And yet, Mum," Sapphire says, jabbing her finger in the air to emphasise the matter, "Tina Fey wrote 'Mean Girls' the movie and said that she based it on Rosalind Wiseman's book but still thinks she can make jokes about someone's personal life when it isn't true."  Fair point. 

Taylor Swift herself confirmed that when she said in this month's Vanity Fair, "If you want some big revelation, since 2010 I have dated exactly two people (Conor Kennedy and Harry Styles)..... the fact that there are slide shows of a dozen guys that I either hugged on the red carpet or met for lunch or wrote a song with, it's just kind of ridiculous."

I tell Sapphire that it reminds me of a quote attributed to Jennifer Aniston a few years ago when she described seeing her confused face splashed on the covers of some magazines with the typical headline, 'Distraught Jen's baby woes' or some-such.  She commented that she remembered that particular day because of the t-shirt she had on and realised that the paparazzi had snapped her at the precise moment she'd left her agent's office and had forgotten just where the hell she'd left her car.  Sapphire smiled at this.

Naturally, the quote that has since been over-used as a Swift-bashing quickie came up.  "Katie Couric is one of my favorite people because she said to me she heard a quote that she loved that said, 'there's a special place in hell for women who don't help other women'."  This actually originated from former US Secretary of State Madeleine Albright, but why would all the online and paper mags want to tell readers that when they can say that Ms Swift is a humourless whinger instead?

Later in the interview, Swift was asked if she was 'boy crazy' and I wondered how hard she had to fight to stifle the urge to punch the questioner because it is highly doubtful they would have asked the same question of same-aged blokes Nicholas Hoult or Daniel Radcliffe; or of her previous paramours Taylor Lautner, Jake Gyllenhal, John Mayer or Harry Styles. It's not a question but an insult, yet she said, "For a female to write about her feelings, and then be portrayed as some clingy, insane, desperate girlfriend in need of making you marry her and have kids with her, I think that's taking something that potentially should be celebrated - a woman writing about her feelings in a confessional way.... twisting it into something that is frankly a little sexist."

I hope you really heard and understood that, Tina Fey and Amy Poehler, but your answers suggest not.













Poehler's first remark about the comment was flippant. "Aw, I feel bad if she was upset. I am a feminist, and she is a young and talented girl. That being said, I do agree I am going to hell. But for other reasons. Mostly boring tax stuff."  Not good enough, Ms Poehler: you should have just apologised and tried to remember how you felt and acted between the ages of fifteen and twenty three and not brushed it off with an easy gag.  The photos found in your yearbook above suggest not just that you lived in the time of bouffant fringes but that you were also a cheerleader, so perhaps being in the cool crowd means that you really don't understand what bullying is.

And Tina Fey? "I did not see that one coming.  It was a joke.  It was a light hearted joke."  Uh-huh and that's the kind of bullying that Sapphire is worried about. The 'can't you take a joke?', the 'it wasn't meant to be taken personally' and the 'stop being a drama queen' that is some of the most subtle and damaging form of female bullying and I'm glad that my thirteen year old can see it and name it.

Here's Ms Fey on the far right of the photograph below.  I'm sure that she may not have always found the hilarity in someone commenting about her personal life - or lack thereof - when this was taken.

These cheap digs at people who are damned by the media if they try to defend themselves carries on to girls who see it, laugh at it and consider it their right to do it as well. "My friends all make comments about what a slut Taylor Swift is, Mum, and how all she does is write songs about her ex-boyfriends, but none of them own any of her albums or have listened to anything other than her singles," Sapphire points out. "She writes about a lot of issues."

All I can do is hope that Sapph understands that insults and nastiness are often used to hide insecurity, envy and laziness.  Yes, laziness. Why bother to work hard, or try something different or stick your neck out when it's simpler to knock other people down?

The fallout of such behaviour and results also severely obscures the respect that is felt by a much larger group of other people.  If Neil Young is happy to describe Swift as a 'great writer' - "I like listening to her...and watching her respond to all the attacks. I like the way she's defining herself so I keep my eye on it," and Dolly Parton says she is "extremely impressed with her, especially in her song writing .... the depth of her. She's got the qualities that could last a long time," and Stevie Nicks says that Taylor writes "songs that make the whole world sing, like Neil Diamond or Elton John and .... reminds me of me in a lot of ways. Swift's 'Today was a fairytale' has "stayed in my heart forever," then there are a lot of really good people out there too.  

So, Sapphire, take comfort too that Alicia Keys, Kelly Clarkson, Lady Gaga, Lena Dunham and Ryan Adams also think that she's worth praising instead of attacking.  Having the highest selling first week album in a decade for 'Red' aint too shabby either.

Bullying is easy. It takes little thought, makes the person feel better about themselves and costs nothing.  It's just a damn shame that negative comments seem to have more power than positive ones.  Let your actions do the talking, my darling daughter, and I'll share with my readers the lyrics to one of your favourite Taylor Swift songs:

The Best Day

I'm five years old
It's getting cold
I've got my big coat on
I hear your laugh
And look up smiling at you
I run and run
Past the pumpkin patch
And the tractor rides
Look now -- the sky is gold
I hug your legs and fall asleep
On the way home
I don't know why all the trees change in the fall
I know you're not scared of anything at all
Don't know if Snow White's house is near or far away
But I know I had the best day
With you today
I'm thirteen now
And don't know how my friends
Could be so mean
I come home crying and you hold me tight and grab the keys
And we drive and drive
Until we've found a town
Far enough away
And we talk and window-shop
Until I've forgotten all their names
I don't know who I'm gonna talk to
Now at school
I know I'm laughing on the car ride home with you
Don't know how long it's gonna take to feel okay
But I know I had the best day
With you today
I have an excellent father
His strength is making me stronger
God smiles on my little brother
Inside and out
He's better than I am
I grew up in a pretty house
And I had space to run
And I had the best days with you
There is a video
I found from back when I was three
You set up a paint set in the kitchen
And you're talking to me
It's the age of princesses and pirate ships
And the seven dwarfs
Daddy's smart
And you're the prettiest lady in the whole wide world
Now I know why all the trees change in the fall
I know you were on my side
Even when I was wrong
And I love you for giving me your eyes
Staying back and watching me shine
And I didn't know if you knew
So I'm taking this chance to say
That I had the best day
With you today

I can see why you like it, dear Sapph.

Long haul limbo

Thirty six hours of travel from door to door is a shocker of an experience in anyone's book, so I should not have been surprised when, after our first eight hour flight and three hour transit wait, Sapphire looked at fellow airport passengers standing like pallid zombies gripping their wheelie cases on the flat escalator belts and asked, "Mum, what does purgatory mean?"

That's when I realised that the biblical references we take for granted are not fully understood by kids who have never been to Sunday school or church. Running my hand through my oily hair and blinking out the dried eye boogers whilst trying to keep my morning-breath mouth away from Sapphire's face in order not to make her heave, I tried to give a reasoned reply.

"Well, it's sort of like a half-way holding pen that God supposedly puts you in after you die when he's not sure whether you should be flung down into Satan's evil hands for all eternity or sent upwards to the angels. While he figures it out, you stay in purgatory feeling bored, powerless and in limbo."

"Like airports."

Exactly.

There comes a time when all the movies, soundtracks, thin blankets and bad selfies can no longer overcome the numbness of confined spaces, stale air and overheated oompa loompa-sized trays of in-flight catering.

A time when the urge to reach out and slap a person who is already comfortably reclining in their Business Class seat as you pass them by, cruelly out of reach financially and on proud display as a representative What You Can Not Afford as you trudge through to Cramped Class at the arse-end of the plane.

Mr Migraine had also decided to pay me a visit - just to make sure that the trip back to Australia had an extra element of discomfort to it.  He knew that swallowing tablets on a queasy, travel sickness-prone stomach wasn't an option, nor were ear plugs as they always tend to expand and shoot out of the sides of my head like startled wine corks.

And thus, the plane version of Purgatory began.

Firstly, the dreaded family with a screaming toddler who sat in the row directly in front of us.  Yes, there was genuine pity to be had for the two exhausted parents trying their damnedest to calm down an eighteen month old who was not given their own seat and did not have the capacity to understand why their ears hurt.  Well, for the first two hours at least.

Then, when the parents used up all of the nappies they had, the sympathy vanished quicker than a stewardess when the lighting's turned down and immediately flicked over to the baleful burning hot heat of hatred.  And that was before the kid shat himself so badly that it spurted up and over the top of his nappy, surging towards his shoulders and onto his mother's lap. The stench of warm diarrhoea filled the cabin as his parents struggled to fashion the excrement-encrusted enfant terrible a new outfit from a plastic duty free bag and a handful of serviettes.

Love Chunks nudged me. "The old guy's BO is maturing faster than stilton on a windowsill."

He was right. Ponky Old Geezer had also got on board in Switzerland, already ripe with the aroma of his fortnightly bath day nearly due and wearing what appeared to be his entire wardrobe of winter coat, cardigan, flanelette shirt, wool scarf and flat cap.  He immediately fell asleep when he buckled his broiling bulk into his seat across the aisle from LC, leaving all of his thick, sweat-creating attire on.  Somehow, the baby shit and the fogey funk molecules joined, creating a suffocating arch of repulsive reeks that caused the passenger behind us to start vomiting.

Oh and did you know that 'cabin crew' no longer accept used sick bags from passengers?  Something to do with health and safety or rules or disposal requirements or other. Therefore, the poor vomiting sod had to either a) hang on to the bag that eventually started dripping through the ill-made seal at the bottom; or b) find the strength to be well enough to stagger over to the toilet, wait their turn and cram it into the pencil sharpener-sized disposal chute; leaving a fetching fountain of chunder for other toilet users to happen upon.   We could now add vomit to the circling stench of faeces and elderly essence....

But wait, we too had something to contribute, apart from Love Chunks' rather whipper snipper-like snore.

Sapphire tapped me on the shoulder. "Mum," she whispered. "My head feels really itchy."

I pushed her face gently back into her chair. "Yeah, we've all had dry skin. You know, with the cold air in Switzerland and the hot water..."

Travellers' breath near my face meant that she had more to say. "NO, Mum. I mean my hair is really REALLY itchy."

We shared a sideways look of surprise and recognition.  It had been years. Years!  "OK then, put your head in my lap."

Her noggin looked like a blonde ant farm cleaning up after a cake crumb fight: it was crawling with lice and eggs. There was nothing for it: they had to be individually picked out with my fingers; squashed into a now-dry refresher towelette and destroyed before the little buggers decided to branch out and colonise the rest of Cramped Class.

Three hours it took me, leaving my eyes and finger tips burning. Lice eggs are miniscule and stick to individual hair shafts. Try doing that kind of monkey grooming when the cabin lights have been switched off for nigh-nighs and all you've got is a poxy overhead reading light to go by.  Eventually, all visible signs of infestation had been removed, shoved into a Unicef donation envelope and disposed of (thoughtfully, of course) in the toilet hatch, smearing the spilled chunder remains over the sink.

Ahhhh.  If the toddler would stop screaming or if I could miraculously ignore the noise, things from now on would surely be OK.

Oh, of bloody course. "Love Chunks?"  He stirred awake.

"Whaaa...."

"Um, can you please check my head....?"

And so, for an hour it appeared to anyone still awake that I was publicly pleasuring my husband in Row 43 as he found eleven bugs and several dozen eggs.  The itching stopped, and he tiredly leaned back with his thin blankie to go to sleep, waving away my whispered dog breath-scented sweet nothings of gratitude.

I sat there in moral turmoil.  LC had finally entered the hallowed Land of Nod, his profile at peace, hands twitching occasionally in somnambulant memory of his recent nit picking. The last thing I wanted to do was disturb him, but Mother Nature was calling and I didn't fancy doing an adult recreation of the toddler's overflowing nappy.

"Love Chunks?"

"Whaaa...."

"Um, can I get out to go to the loo....?"

My husband is a generous and kind man to me, and, rightly or wrongly assumes that I'm slimmer than I am.  For that reason, he decided to scrunch up his legs and just lean them towards the right, hoping that I could sort of slide past him without him being required to stand up in the aisle.

It was a noble thought, and no doubt a practical one.

And, for that, I'm still so very sorry that I involuntarily farted at the very moment my tracksuit-covered arse brushed against his cheek.

Pee on Lyon*

* Lyon is pronounced 'Lee-On' which is why I thought 'Pee on Lee-On' would be a witty title until the realisation that it would require an explanation and thus remove all forms of cleverness from it entirely. Oh well, it's done now.

Anyone who has travelled with me - and that means any journey from a half hour dog walk to weeks and weeks and weeks - knows that my biggest concern is always toilets. Where they are, what condition they're in and if they'll be in ready supply when my bladder all-too-readily bellows. You'll be climbing the light house; my head will be impersonating one by swivelling in all directions looking for the ablutions block.

With Love Chunks back at work and Sapphire starting her new school year, my folks and I decided that a further foray into France was not to be missed. Lyon, an hour and a bit's train trip away, was our starting place.

Situated between Marseille and Paris, Lyon is second only to the latter in terms of size and population and seemed like the obvious place to start.

At the impressive and beautiful Place Bellecour, the brand new tourist office beckoned; a bright and beacon representing the famous city. Inside it was even better with funky seats, loads of brochures in an array of different languages and touch screens galore.

It was 10am, so my two morning coffees and glass of orange juice courtesy of the all-inclusive continental breakfast buffet were signalling their intention to depart my being.

"Where are the nearest toilets?" I asked politely, assuming that they were somewhere inside or close by the almost-packed tourist office.

"Across the square, in the underground car park diagonally opposite," the lady said, waving her hand dismissively in front of her.

We walked confidently across the square, dodging the builders pulling down scaffolding and their ubiquitous ciggie smoke and entered the rather acrid bowels of the car park. No matter where you find yourself in the world, the cement cavern of an underground car park is never a spot of beauty or for lingering, and this one was no different.

Twenty Euro cents was nervously inserted into a door that looked as though it had been kicked in on a weekly basis. Alas - or maybe not - it refused to open.

Back at the parking toll booth, the attendant shrugged. "Use zee male."

Unlike the women's, it required no coin as a gap large enough to insert my hand was where the lock mechanism should have been. Using the toe of my boot, I gingerly eased the door open.

It was an ancient porcelain squat job, not seen by me since the privations of a no-star outer-Parisian caravan park stay thirty one years ago. Unlike then, this one was not clean and had been splashed all over in sour-smelling urine. How even the high up flush chain was dripping in the yellow stuff was beyond me and any further thought on the matter was forgotten in the age-old tourist trial of trying to lower myself down to decrease the chances of splashing my ankles; my jeans pushed down but not so far as to touch any part of the floor, walls or door as well as keeping tabs on my jacket, backpack and sun hat slung over various parts of my body.

The door was almost wide open but I didn't dare butt it shut with my head, hoping that my dear parents would shoo any pee freaks away.

Mum and Dad waited for me outside, noting that my face was even paler than usual. It seemed prudent to leave the description for another time but to thank my mother for her sterling advice of always taking a spare breakfast serviette and keeping it in my pocket for paperless cubicles.

Hoping to clear my nose of the pungent smell of piss, I found myself disappointed when we emerged back onto the streets again. The whiff of wee was everywhere. Pavements were streaked with it; corners were splashed in it and gutters were washing leaves further down the drains towards it ....... Didn't men have toilets at home? And what did women do..??

Our bus tour was informative on a number of counts, including the ceaseless stench of secretions about the city.  It was explained that some building owners placed half-sized pyramids of bricks and building debris in corners. "It's not for appearance but to prevent men from using it as a restroom.  It is designed to splash right back at them."  We also took note that the more style-conscious-but-still-anti-urine owners had metal shields permanently installed in previously piss-friendly places. Their shiny surfaces were at the perfect height to return the piss to the pisser, or shield cats from the rain.

After the tour and a walk through the intriguing silk makers' traboules, moody Mother Nature was moaning again.

"Look there," Dad said helpfully. "There's one of those Techno Toilet thingies."

Ah yes, those metallic rounded edge tiny buildings that give you ten minutes to do your business to piped classical music before the door automatically opens out to the world.

I pressed 'Ouvrir.'

Well smack me flat with the lizard gizzard entrails of Tony Abbott's brain.....  The tiny room revealed inside was a hell hole of excrement, the now-expected Lyon wee and a swarm of large and well-fed blowflies. "SHUT THE DOOR!" we screamed in unison, before hurriedly covering our mouths and reeling back from the shock.

"No wonder the homeless lady outside washed herself down in the fountain," Mum said.

Further along, we spotted Techno Toilet Number Two. Needless to say, Number Twos were sadly the main decorative feature as it was thickly and generously plastered all over the walls, ceiling, floor and hand basin with a handful of ancient loo paper sheets stuck to slightly wetter areas as profane embellishments.

"Why on earth would the council have a huge sign saying 'Public Conveniences' and a large arrow pointing here? Surely they're not proud of it," I moaned, struggling to walk with the need to pee and the lingering shock to my visual and nasal sensitivities.

Three was my all-time favourite number, so surely Techno Toilet Number three would not let me down? After all, a normal-looking bloke had just vacated it and didn't appear to be visibly flinching or running away.....

Nope. Shit city with the tang to match.

We found ourselves back at Place Bellecour, seriously contemplating a second visit to the underground car park when Mum spotted a McDonald's: the patron saint of desperate lavatory lovers the world over. "Yessssssss!"

Dashing up the stairs, I saw the sign, pushed through the door, had my jeans halfway down and then stopped in shock. The toilet was filthy, paper was strewn everywhere but on the roll and the seat was liberally dripping wet with waste. But this was McDonald's, a place that had never let me down in Bali, Egypt, Amsterdam, Perth.... Obviously in Lyon it was Pee On.

This time, my squatting skills were not only extended to increasing my chances of aiming correctly and staying dry but also to keeping my large arse aloft over a wider bowl area.  Quite the challenge when my undies were clamping my knees together.  As I exited in dismay, a gorgeous young lady sashayed in: all long straight hair, skinny jeans and the ubiquitous Chanel ballet flats. She was busy talking on her mobile phone and paid no heed to my rather well-acted  - and kindly - 'don't go in there' charade.

She CONTINUED to speak on her mobile phone when she closed the toilet door behind her! Did she have eight hands to maintain a conversation, keep her suede jacket from touching any part of the wall, her leather shoes dry, the oversized designer bag urine free, the hair exclusive of moisture, some toilet paper or alternative wiping material and a method of keeping the hem of her jeans from trailing in the puddles?

We didn't buy a coffee on the way out.
After lunch (not at McDonalds) we trekked up the hill to the cathedral.  Every old city has one.  Toilets too, if the French are feeling generous.

They were, but not for toilet seats or toilet paper.  Just the bare metal, hospital-like commode was installed, in faint deference to the monk-like, no frills lifestyle of the dark ages perhaps. No absolution, just ablution. 

It isn't exactly fair to claim that Lyon's bouquet is wholly whizz-scented; cigarettes vied for top billing as well.  We were staggered at the volume of people with lung darts hanging from their lips and despaired of finding a spot not clouded in second-hand snorted smog.

Toulouse might be famous for violets and Nice for the refreshing scent of the sea, but for my money, Lyon's signature fragrance would be this one: Cigs et Piss.  One squirt (or stray dribble down your trousers) and you'll be instantly transported back to the second largest city in France....

And it was all capped off perfectly when we left Lyon on the train.  As I pulled my tray table down, there was a poem in French, written in beautiful, swirling hand writing. How appropriate then, to see the word 'l'anus' in amongst it.