Formal Complaint Against Street View Maps

You saw it coming but nobody listened. While you were writing your impassioned grumbling letter to the Daily Mail outlining the many ways in which Google Street Maps is a gross invasion of your privacy those hooligans in their hoodies have snuck in and made off with the television.

One cannot help but marvel at the tragic inevitabilty of it all; of course the house was in public view before, to any Tom, Dick, Harry or criminal who occasioned to walk down the street. But now people can really see it, from all four sides, without having to walk around the block first - and that, unfortunately, can only lead to one thing; ne'er do wells finding your front door (which of course was very well hidden up until now), kicking it down,and pilfering your valuables.

You could take solace in the fact that the aforementioned burgalars hand-picked your house (yours!!) from the thousands on display in the great web-based swag catalogue that is Google Maps. And the fact that, as the site is clearly the work of Beelzebub himself, there is little that any of us mere mortals can do to halt the havoc it will ultimately wreak on our quiet middle class enclosures.

You could also congratulate yourself for the elite class of pillager that your humble abode has been able to attract - after all, this rather resourceful member of the criminal underclass had both the cutting edge equipment and the technological know-how to locate your house on Google and take a good look at it from all four sides, potentially also from above, before being consumed by the desire to steal its contents. In fact it was even likely that the fellow in question didn't even need your television; as, if he is the proud owner of both a computer and an internet connection all evidence points towards his already owning one. But he chose to steal yours anyway. Now that is something.

Not only that but imagine the distance he who masterminded the television heist must have covered in order to rob your humble abode. After all, he must have needed Google Maps in order to discover that the tv set was ripe for the picking and therefore must some sort of of out-of-town criminal, from whom your home would have remained completely obscured had it not been for those Google folk sticking their oar in. Your television was stolen by someone whom can only be adequately described as the Bill Gates/Michael Palin of the thieving world; if nothing else, this is a great achievement.

But this is all besides the point. You are sadly now without a television; punishment, it would seem for your having a home which looks so nice from the outside; four lovely walls and a roof! A dead giveaway, if there ever was one, that this house in particular contains - or rather did contain - a television. Those Google people have a great deal to answer for.

The only guarantee, it would appear, for the safeguarding of future televisions within your home is to make sure that the image of your home is permanently removed from that ghastly site, thus reinstating your home's invisibility to the common thief - well, the well off, computer literate thief anyway. Why shouldn't you campaign for those horrible Street View people to be stopped in their tracks?

Google has made work for idle hands, and, quite frankly, they owe you a new television.

There is nothing else for it. An Englishman's home is his castle and yours has definitly been under siege for long enough. Down with Google!

They have captured a lovely likeness of next door's gazebo though, it would be a shame if that had to go as well..

Love Laughs at Locksmiths

I, on the other hand, congratulate them. Especially for the lock they made on the flat we have next year.

Oxford Road Station, Manchester

Parisian Skies

I cried all the way to the entrance of the channel tunnel. It wasn’t until I saw the Eiffel tower fade into the distance that it’s disappearance was aided by the blur of tears; not until the banlieus melted into bleak, snow tinged countryside that it truly dawned on me that I was leaving the city of love. The fleeting six months I had lived in Paris were the best of my life so far. Even during the packing up of my cosy apartment in the Latin quarter, the reminiscences on the balcony which had played host to many a sunrise, the hurried goodbye to my tearful flatmate, I had not realised I was going for good. Until I had survived the stressful boarding of the eurostar, up to the point at which I had settled into my seat, surrounded by tourists and businessmen, a copy of French vogue and Proust, I did not appreciate that this spelt the end. It meant no more nights at Paris social club; no more sunrises from the Sacré Coeur; no more flush Saturdays browsing the shops of the Marais; no more lazy Sundays in the Place des Vosges.

Desolate in my vintage fur coat, a prize possession trawled from the racks of free ‘p’ star which I refused to leave, and my newly shorn Parisian bob, I stood on the platform of St Pancras. My purse was bereft of the pound coin needed for a trolley, and my arms lacked the strength to pull my luggage, my entire life in packed into two suitcases and an it-bag. I made my sorry way, metre by agonising metre, towards the gates of King’s Cross, a mere platform and zebra crossing away, much to the annoyance of my fellow passengers. By the time I reached passport control, my faith in human kindness was as empty as my purse was of sterling after suffering the frustrations of those surrounding me. In my fragile state, I felt the tears well once again when the grip in my weak hands gave way and, turning to retrieve my fallen cases, I was faced by a genuine growl from the traveller behind me.

It does not take such a personal case to lose faith in human kindness. Simple acts of benevolence; the offering of a seat to an elderly bus passenger, or the kindly cliché of helping an old man across the road are becoming a thing of the past. I was astonished to find, in the midst of a rather humbling explanation to a charity worker on the street as to the exact reason I was unable to subscribe to the cause he was championing (he was unable to accept a donation and as the majority of my student loan had been frittered away on Oldham street, home to the city’s vintage shops and an Aladdin’s cave of irresistible fabrics, I could not guarantee that the necessary five pounds a month would remain in my account to be siphoned) that he was in fact paid for his job. When volunteers are as hard to come by as a size five Louboutin in a sale, there is little to restore any conviction.

That said, the simplest act of generosity is amplified to Saintly status. Given the chance, I would offer my champion up to be knighted at the drop of the hat; the kindly soul whom, seeing me burning despite the frosty January morning, took my cases from my shaking hands, steered them across the road and produced the necessary coin to hire me a trolley showed more benevolence in five minutes that I have been witness to since. It was no grand gesture on his part; neither a detour nor a drastic amount of effort, but his magnanimity was a ray of sunshine through the London cloud, and a ray of happiness into my bereft heart.Sat on my sun drenched (and much cheaper) balcony of my piso overlooking the magnificent gothic cathedral of Santiago de Compostela, surrounded by the Galician countryside and good friends, the only bane on my life of today is the fifteen kilo luggage limit imposed by Ryanair, a pain much softened by the prospect of refilling my barren wardrobe with Spanish purchases. The nostalgic ache of Paris is easily replaced by the flurrying excitement of the flat back in Manchester which next year will be shared with my romantic soulmates and Parisian companions, and the certitude that the discounted Spanish prices will allow for many a visit back to the Gallic streets which haunt my reveries.

Patterns

Both the blessing and the curse with men,
Is that what once was, will be again.

The Era of the Sensitive Soul?

The game is surely up when one of our most prominent icons, the archetypal “Independent Woman” of our time admits that all the feisty demands that any prospective suitor be prepared to “put a ring on it” or witness the proud and flirtatious exploits of the newly liberated Single Lady were in fact the projections of fancy, voiced by Sasha Fierce, Beyonce’s alter ego who it would appear is a cipher for all the strength, attitude and resolution expected of our female icons these days – Sasha looks and sounds like Beyonce but makeup, costume and rousing choruses aside is just a construct – a character who bears as much relationship to the woman herself as Thomas Harris did to Hannibal Lecter (we hope).

So are we disappointed or relieved? Does the position of the feminist cause within the 21st century mean that it is now ok to be a sensitive soul? Is there now hope for the romantic? Or has Beyonce dropped the ball – is it icons like the newly ousted Sasha Fierce that prolong the cause long after today’s women have extinguished their bras and returned to the kitchen? If sisters can no longer do it for themselves and we need to hide behind our Sasha Fierces then surely we shouldn’t expose our apparent strength and defiance as simple illusion. Unless, that is, we have outgrown this phase and entered a gentler age, in which women no longer need to enforce their rights because they have been granted – the point of true equality.

Has feminism reached a point of redundancy or have we reached a new peak of liberation at which we can now cast off our harder alter egos in favour of our softer selves without compromising our right to male respect? Does female empowerment lie with the feminine? Have we come forward in going back to more traditional, softer female identities or had we never left them in the first place?

Do we waive our right to female empowerment when we choose girlishness or does the power lie in accepting these traits on our own terms?

The right to follow Beyonce’s lead and proudly advertise who “I Am” while reserving the right to unleash a more forceful “me” should the situation demand it is surely the best of both worlds while also being illustrative of the divisive influence that social change has on those who do not fully subscribe to the old or the new. The underlying message appears to be that in order to champion the cause of female equality while also maintaining the qualities which make us female most of us have to divide (ourselves) in order to conquer.

Three Little Birds

The Waning of Taste

I’m starting to worry slightly about the effect Spanish life is having on my sense of style. Gone are the Parisian days, when leaving the house in high tops, a lycra jumpsuit and a string vest would be done without a second thought; lazy days wandering the streets in a granddad cardigan and leggings, thrown on without a care, are now but pipe dreams.

The carefully packed compact wardrobe, designed to fit into the strict Ryanair limits and pander to the varied climate whilst allowing for sartorial flexibility has proved fruitless. The cobbled streets and thirty degree incline on which we reside rule heels out entirely; the strong catholic influence in Santiago making the slightest show of flesh an abhoration.

Our first weeks here were flooded with sunshine. Galicia, normally famed for its rainy climes, was the hottest region in the country, yet despite temperatures brushing thirty in February, it was as if the Spaniards refused to bend from the norms of winter attire and went about their business clad in coats and scarves. Imagine, then, the scandal as we dared to leave the house in shorts. I am yet to decide if it is due to cultural differences or simple curiosity that provokes impossibly blatant stares from every passer by. Perhaps this is just the Spanish way, but even so it is for this I feel my fashion sense ebbing away…

It came to me as a sudden realisation on a shopping trip to A Coruna. I was browsing the racks and had picked up a myriad of items to try on, when I looked down and realised instead of the denim jumpsuits and coral dresses I had been lusting after, my arms were full of high-necked, full sleeved, beige non-items. I had subconsciously fallen into conformity.

This was quickly resolved by the purchase of some dropped-crotch, tie waisted trousers and a pair of high-waisted floral dungarees, but although I was in time to stop myself that time, I am unable to stop fretting that the constant staring is whittling away at my individuality. I am certain I shall return to Britain’s fair shores with my appetite for originality sated and find myself, in true Spanish style, open mouthed and unable to take my eyes off the incomprehensible wardrobe choices of the population.

Rainclouds

Don't Get Angry...

When your argument falls on deaf ears it is often helpful to have a creative outlet - don't get mad, get writing. So this is me on my soap box.
Enjoy,
Chloe.xx

It is the ugliest of words when used in the wrong context; a signifier of hatred and degradation which has thankfully been exorcised from the vocabulary of the vast majority. Nigger may now be most readily associated with rap music and gangster culture but its origins are inextricably linked to the slave trade and the subjugation of black people, the effects of which still resonate within today’s society. The word which now is thrown around as a signifier of respect and kinship by a new black generation has a truly unpleasant legacy. Due to the recent attempt by many black contributors to media and popular culture to reappropriate the moniker as something positive, even endearing ,the issue of how acceptable it now may be to use the term has entered a post modern grey area; to ban the N word now would be to enforce a crackdown on the vast majority of artistic output by black people within the arena of popular culture, those artists such as Jay – Z, Nas and NWA who, over the years have exercised an awareness of the dark past of the word and brought it to the attention of the mainstream, to audiences of all races, ages and social class and altered its meaning within a newly positive context.

However, the black and white of the situation is that on the one hand you have an output of media which condones and even glorifies the use of the word and on the other hand the all too recent memories of the Californian and Brixton race riots of the late 80’s and early 90’s, the murder of Stephen Lawrence in 1993 and numerous racially aggravated attacks in the U.S of recent years. Memories which illustrate that the views which fuelled the use of the N word within its original usage; as the ugliest of terms to describe a black person born of a vile hatred which for most, thankfully, is difficult to imagine or understand, are definitely still alive.

It is with this in mind that one might feel some unease upon hearing “nigga” blasting out of a nearby stereo, or indeed in its full glory at top volume in a nightclub, as is the norm these days, made louder still by the 1000 or so white people singing along.

Because this music speaks to white people too – and why shouldn’t it?

As Dr King taught us the “dream” was for black people and white people to one day stand together and feel a sense of shared experience and it is testament to Jay – Z’s phenomenal success as an artist and hip hop as a genre and a cultural export that youths of all races will stand side by side, all musing on the assertion that “Aint no nigga like the one I got” and feel a connection, not only with each other but with the beats and vocal styling’s which are inspired by a generation of young blacks and which 50 years ago would have been compartmentalised and dismissed by the mainstream as “race music” fit for inferior black ears only. It is surely a “dream” come true that is it possible for these club goers to enter by the same door, drink at the same bar and sing, dance and even leave together without fear or prejudice.

It would be naive to claim that sacrifices have not been made for what is now considered the social norm and perhaps one of them is that now those of us who still take offense at the N word have to contend with the growing conviction that it is now ok to use it.

So is it ok to use it? The most satisfactory answer I have been able to conjure up (with the help of Chris Rock it must be said), is not really.

The noble cause pursued by the use of the word in popular culture is redefinition, the use of the word within a context which directly opposes its original meaning, if done often enough will cause it to take on this new definition, thus nigger has metamorphosed from a term used to degrade black people, often accompanied by the crack of a whip to “nigga” which is often preceded by “my” as a term of brotherhood and endearment and usually accompanied by the altogether more positive images of cars, jewellery and accommodating young ladies; the trappings, it would appear, of black success.

The justification of the saturation of this word within popular culture then is that society’s increasing familiarity with the term increases the speed of its evolution; the more we associate “nigga” with the positive the quicker it loses its old association as the weapon of the white oppressor and the black community reclaims nigger as its own. So far, so harmless.

What this cannot do however, is erase the associations that this word has for so many black people who cannot lay claim to its more positive connections and whose memories and disillusions with life within a white dominated culture. For an older generation hip hop culture is a voice which speaks to children and grandchildren in a language which is at times near impossible to understand, except for that all pervading term which leaps out of the music and out of context. I cannot justify any casual use of “nigga” to someone who endured nigger being muttered at them in the street while on their way from sub standard housing to a menial job, who lived under a government who saw nothing in claiming that “If you want a nigger for a neighbour, vote labour” who endured police harassment and brutality and who marched, sat in and boycotted so that I wouldn’t have to.

Because, let’s face it, nobody who uses that word today has any idea of what they are talking about.

The horror of slavery, the degradation of Jim Crow, the evil practice of lynching, all commonplace in years gone by cannot be described in real enough terms to a generation raised on Oprah, 50 Cent, Beyonce and, of course, Barack Obama. Again, this is what we wanted; great strides have been made towards the proverbial Promised Land, if we are not yet at the “mountain top” we are arguably well over half way up the slope, perhaps it is finally time to let it go. However, in letting it go we are also letting go of the legacy of racism and the memory of events which serve to remind us of what we can never allow to happen again; the Grandchildren of those forcibly labelled niggers now proudly refer to themselves as “niggas” - young black people who have set themselves free from the stigma of the word because they take example from the strong black role models which thankfully the more tolerant society in which we now live has granted them.

But in a time which is sadly not free from racial discrimination what are we claiming is the difference?

There is no denying that there are young people today who do possess a deep understanding of their roots and therefore the legacy of this word. I do claim to be one of them and as such would never, ever use that word in casual conversation and react angrily to anyone who would dare do so in my presence, regardless of their racial background. However, the bolder and arguably more ignorant of those with whom I have debated the power which the word has to offend have been quick to point out that it is ok to say “nigga” now – everybody’s doing it.

The irony should not be lost on you that once again I and other like – minded individuals find ourselves vainly challenging the dominant majority because we’d rather not be referred to as “niggas”.

Because it isn’t ok to use that word – not really,not if you aren’t black, not if you aren’t working class or considered “cool”, not in the company of anyone over the age of 40 – and certainly not in the company of those on whom the irony of ‘nigga’s’ new incarnation is lost – those who perceive this small rebellion on the part of those black people who stake a claim to dominant culture through the medium of popular music to be a “get out of offense free card”, a justification for flippant use of a term which for many holds painful memories and belongs in the past alongside them.

This isn’t overzealous political correctness; I am not mounting a protest over nursery school children singing ‘Baa Baa Black Sheep’, nor am I likely to be contacting Jay-Z or Nas’s people with my complaints, nor for the most part will I allow my contention with this word to affect my enjoyment of the music,indeed the use of this word within the hip hop community is with the assumption that the artist is speaking to an audience of a similar social demographic to himself, that group which modern society has decided is allowed to use the N word. It is possible that Hip Hop has become a victim of its own success; the music probably did reclaim the word for those who had been most scarred by its legacy at one point, before commercial success installed the music and the black cultural influences behind it within the popular arena of the dominant (white) culture.

My argument is simply that when faced with the black and white of cultural boundaries it is impossible to redefine a word to suit the agenda of one social demographic while erasing the legacy placed upon it by another. To use the word “nigga” in a positive context would be to naively assume that there is nobody left who would choose to use nigger negatively - an assumption which sadly will always be false. To allow the use of this word without the risk of offence would mean enforcing boundaries for its use, boundaries drawn on the basis of race,thus taking us back to the last time it was deemed acceptable to call someone a nigger in polite company.

The word, like the sentiments which enforced its original use, whether used in the ugliest way possible or as a rebellion against and therefore an acknowledgment of the word’s original function simply has no place in a society modern enough to know better.

Springtime