Sarah Standing

Sarah Standing’s daughter was attacked by a girl gang — but it wasn’t an isolated incident. Female thugs, of the sort who ran riot in the 1970s, are roaming the streets again It was a beautiful balmy evening when my youngest daughter finished school last summer. The A-level results had just arrived, and she was happily ambling home from supper with two girlfriends. They were in no rush. They’re 18 and were about to spread their wings, leave London for the first time and head off towards various universities. They were finally ‘grown up’ — with parental curfew lifted, able to judge risks for themselves. And walking along the King’s Road in Chelsea, they had little reason to anticipate what was about to befall them.

Flying out of JFK on 11 September was a sombre experience. As I checked out of my hotel the concierge dropped his daily niceties as a mark of respect, and instead gently urged me to ‘have a thoughtful day’. The handful of star-spangled banners that lined Madison Avenue flapped at half-mast and the skies opened as if in dark protest, chucking down apocalyptic rain and causing the traffic to crawl. As someone who suffers from an unfounded yet pathological fear of flying I decided there was only one way to step up to the plate and board my American Airlines flight to Los Angeles: vodka. As soon as I’d gone through airport security I downed a shot of Pravda I’d slipped into my handbag. Pravda is patently an expensive brand of booze. It cost me $9.

Having made an ambitious campaign pledge and staked his domestic credibility on the promise to radically reform and restructure the health insurance industry, Barack Obama has been forced to endure a sticky summer of sliding poll ratings and sustained Republican attacks. One gets the impression that even die-hard Democrats are slightly ‘over’ their initial enthusiasm for an overhaul, and it’s starting to look as though it may take a lot more than a spoonful of sugar to help this particular medicine go down. There’s a pervading and impatient urgency awaiting Mr President’s next move. Even Facebook devotees tried to jump on the political bandwagon; urging quasi-acquaintances to join forces and virally reiterate a simplistic and watered-down message.

Louis Armstrong singing the Gershwins’ ‘Let’s Call the Whole Thing Off’ only touched the tip of the iceberg. Potato — potahto, tomato — tomahto; for two countries ostensibly sharing the same language, England and America have deeper cultural disparities than merely amusing colloquialisms, and never is this discrepancy more apparent than in the naming of pharmacies. We say chemist, they say drugstore. In the States, the ‘cult of celebrity’ poses a far greater toxic phenomenon than it does in this country. We tolerate fame while Americans positively revere it. To them it is a religion. And mega-fame, just like worshipping the gods, requires a giant leap of faith and an unassailable devotion by those that choose to bask in its reflected glory.

A new twist on an old favourite. Question: How many ministers/blondes/psychiatrists (feel free to fill in the social stereotype of your choice) does it take to change an old-fashioned 100-watt light bulb? Answer: None. From 1 September the joke will have become redundant due to the fact there won’t be any traditional light bulbs left to change. The European Union has banned the sale of incandescent bulbs in order to slash energy bills and cut carbon dioxide emissions. This is an act which will force us all to become eco-warriors or, if we don’t comply, law-breakers. Under the European Directive, from next week manufacturers in Europe are legally not allowed to sell the banned bulbs to retailers.

The Borat-ish ‘burkini’ edict that’s currently causing ripples of concern in a handful of council-run leisure centres is undoubtedly going to provide a lot of challenging design opportunities for fashionistas. Officials are attempting to bar both Muslim and non-Muslim swimmers from entering pools in normal swimming attire during certain sessions unless they comply with strict ‘modest’ Islamic dress codes. Modest dress code dictates that women be covered from neck to ankle (with headscarf) and men from navel to knee. ‘What Not To Wear’ on the beach seems to have unwittingly overtaken global warming as the contentious topic of conversation this summer. Across the Channel, France is also in sartorial turmoil.

‘Last chance for Krakow. Krakow only. Sir, I am not interested in Belfast. When I DECIDE to be interested in Belfast I will inform you. Until then wait your turn and rejoin the queue. Step aside Madam, if you will.’ Robert pointed to a woman with two small children. ‘You’re not listening. I am aware of the fact everyone here wants to board. I understand your concerns, but I am currently processing Krakow. Krakow ONLY. Now, step back behind the barrier and wait patiently.’ Poor guy. He must have known he was asking the impossible. Robert was Ryanair’s Messenger of Doom — a role I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy. Looking down at his clipboard and wiping the sweat from his brow he barked out another destination I’d never heard of.

How nice all our daily lives used to be before millions of David Brent wannabes saw fit to take the mother of all executive decisions and irrevocably tip the scales of justice away from our grasp. Hard to remember, but there was a time when authoritarians were still occasionally allowed to make ‘exceptions’ to the rules. Those halcyon days of reasonable behaviour have long gone. We are seldom — if ever — given the chance to even explain our wrongdoings any more. No rule-enforcing flunkey has the time, inclination, facility, courage or authority to veer off-piste and listen to (let alone act on) gut instinct. To do so is, literally, more than his job is worth. Sad, but true.

First, the good news. And we all need good news. According to the Home Secretary, Alan Johnson, the UK is no longer at a ‘critical’ level of threat from a terrorist attack. We’ve been downgraded to a ‘substantial’ level of alert against al-Qa’eda or other extremist groups. So we’ve gone from a ‘touch-and-go’, worst-case scenario to a merely ‘significant’ one. However, the bad news is that ‘the Fear’ has been replaced by the Big Bogey Man himself — Mr Piggy. Swine flu allegedly now poses a cataclysmic and ‘far greater’ immediate threat to our country’s heath and safety than anything else, and so far the government has spent over £100 million stockpiling Tamiflu.

All right, so perhaps I was a mite distracted. I was busy stirring a beetroot risotto, the television was on in the background, I had the telephone tucked under my chin and was also trying to figure out the solution to 11 down in the crossword (‘desire returns to writer covering S&M, spellbound’ in ten letters), but all these vaguely mitigating circumstances don’t really excuse my outburst. ‘Goodbye. Thank you. September 24th at 10.30’. I said. And then just before I hung up and added more stock to the pot I inexplicably blurted out the codicil ‘love you’. Just like that.

I’ve been reprimanded three times this week for ‘inappropriate behaviour’ — issued with a trio of verbal ‘warnings’. I’ve been reprimanded three times this week for ‘inappropriate behaviour’ — issued with a trio of verbal ‘warnings’. None were handed out by law-enforcers — all came from members of the public. Random do-gooders. Total strangers have found the time, energy and self-importance to publicly tick me off for micro-misdemeanours. It’s a trend. Social vigilantes are the new police. The first time I got told off I was parking outside my house. As I reversed, I was suddenly aware that I had an audience. A middle-aged couple were silently observing me.

When I was young, being given ‘options’ was a treat. When I was young, being given ‘options’ was a treat. It felt empowering — as though I were in complete control of my destiny. ‘Do you want to play Monopoly or Careers?’ ‘You have a choice — a Zoom or a Fab, what will it be?’ ‘If you have a bath now and get ready for bed you can stay up and watch either Top of the Pops or The Persuaders — you decide.’ In those halcyon, carefree, pre-health and safety days both choices were always presented as being agonisingly fabulous, and much of the thrill derived from the deliberation itself. Now that I’m an adult I’ve done a complete volte-face on options. I loathe them.

Logging on to a university homepage I noticed that the first thing it flags up — breaking news — is that they’re installing a £56,000 digital satellite TV system which will ‘transform’ the way students access multilingual news and information from around the world. Apparently the purchase of Exterity IPTV represents the Language Centre’s biggest-ever investment in technology for learning and teaching since it was established in 1994 and is ‘available to staff and students registered with the self-access area, who use it to improve their foreign language skills’. Personally I would have used the word ‘within’ as opposed to ‘registered with’ but hey, what do I know?

I have the fear. The fear wakes me up at 3 a.m. and for a split second I forget what it is exactly that I’m frightened of. And then I remember. I am a mother and one of my children is off travelling and is on the other side of the world. In the still of the night I prioritise The List. I practise the breathing techniques Betty Parsons taught me when I was first pregnant 24 years ago. The ineffectual huffs and puffs that were supposed to transcend pain. The List catalogues ‘worst case scenarios’ and I systematically shuffle my top five in order of anxiety. I have become the peri-menopausal, female Charles Highway of irrational angst. While The Rachel Papers were concerned with getting the girl, my list deals with how to let her go. I try to rationalise the fear.

It’s always the smallest thing that tips one over the edge. It’s always the smallest thing that tips one over the edge. This week I cracked. I sat on the pavement outside King Edward VII’s hospital and shamelessly sobbed. My husband was ill with septicaemia, and I was desperate to get to him. I was panicked, worried sick and keen to get up to his room to make sure he was all right after an interminable night spent apart. I’d found a parking space — this particular grid of private medical care in the heart of London offers perhaps the last bastion of dependably available parking spaces — and hurriedly began the endless process of pay-parking by telephone.

When I was younger (old habits obviously die hard and you have to forgive me for not automatically writing ‘when I was young’ — it’s just going to take a bit more practice), I used to find a particular greeting card amusing. It was a cartoon of a demented-looking career woman. She had one hand clutching her briefcase and the other was held up to her mouth in exaggerated dismay. The caption read: ‘Oh my God, I forgot to have children.’ It made me feel quietly smug as I’d remembered to have my three children by the time I was 30 and it was the career I’d opted to shove on to the back burner. I thought I had nothing much to fear at turning 50. It was just another number.

I am not one of those who believe that God made the highways solely in order for motorists to inherit the earth. But any milk of human kindness flowing through my veins curdles when I am driving on the Embankment during the early morning rush hour. I have to make the big sacrifice of not listening to Nick Ferrari’s breakfast show, since it requires total concentration and nerves of steel to avoid the hordes of cyclists coming at me from all angles. Top-gear city cyclists are a law unto themselves. They’re a hardcore bunch — the very antithesis of a benevolent Boris or those daffy Mrs Tiggy-Winkle handwoven folk who choose to cycle only when the sun is shining and they’ve bought something pretty to put in their baskets.

Ideally I only ever want to come across the word ‘system’ when it’s used by an astronaut and sandwiched between ‘all’ and ‘go’. Ideally I only ever want to come across the word ‘system’ when it’s used by an astronaut and sandwiched between ‘all’ and ‘go’. ‘All systems go!’ has a chirpy, optimistic feel. Eliminate ‘all’ and ‘go’ however and you’re left with no hope. I know I never want to hear ‘the system’ uttered by anyone sitting in front of a company computer or in a position of authority. ‘I’m afraid the system won’t allow me to,’ is nothing short of a polite brush-off.