Gay marriage - England and France

I'd not been aware until recently of the legislation coming shortly before the French Parliament to extend marriage and adoption rights to same-sex couples. The UK is going through a similar debate, but - as so often - the framework of the question is in fact quite different.  In France same sex couples are permitted to enter into a PACS - a pacte civil de solidarité: a type of union recognised by the State, but fundamentally different from the UK's civil partnership.  A PACS does not confer rights equivalent to marriage as a matter of law: the parties define the rights they will have against each other on a separation, for example.  The UK's civil partnership legislation, on the other hand, was carefully drafted to place same-sex couples in the same legal position in every respect as their heterosexual counterparts.  The only resulting difference was the use of the word "marriage" for the latter. 

The French "mariage pour tous" legislation is a substantial extension of rights for same sex couples, whereas in the UK the question of gay marriage is basically one of terminology.  This does not of itself mean that the UK debate is unimportant - even if the prospective legislation is a minor tweak by comparison with what is happening in France.

The spectre at this particular feast in both countries is of course the Christian Church - be it Catholic or Protestant.  When I hear ecclesiastics insist that marriage is for men and women only I cannot escape the feeling that I prefer the churches to deal with the nature of God rather than the structure of society; there is a historic confusion of theology and sociology that needs to be nailed.  I personally don't believe that the churches should be obliged to celebrate same sex marriages.  But it strikes me as obvious that society has changed and that same sex unions should be recognised by the State, with all the attendant rights and duties equivalent to marriage.  And having got that far, it seems stupid not to call it marriage, leaving the leaders of the church howling on the sidelines rather than facing up to their own problems of celibacy, child abuse and dwindling numbers.

Strangely, I have no particular axe to grind on the matter.  Paul and I entered into a PACS when in France, which is recognised by the Civil Partnership Act, for English law purposes, as equivalent to a UK civil partnership.  Ironically, therefore, by crossing the Channel from France to England our rights have automatically been upgraded.  Tough for the French bishops to accept, but that's the way it is.

Antony Mair




 

And we thought it was almost over...

Sometimes a facelift can take a long time...

 

Before the Christmas period I thought that the scaffolding on the front of the house would be down within a few days.  Silly me.  Scaffolders seem to operate on the basis that their structure stays in situ until needed elsewhere, so why take it down over the Christmas break?  unfortunately the break also coincided with our realisation that our amiable builder was not really getting ahead as he had promised, and today we had to agree to part company with him and (gulp) arrange the balance of the work ourselves.  Fortunately we have been using workmen direct in No. 7 who can be deployed to finish off what's needed at No. 8 - but of course this means delay.  Not that we are alone in this: our local doctor told Paul recently - in the course of a two-minute consultation very different from the chatty sessions in Ribérac - that he had had builders round for what was meant to take six weeks and they were there for four months.  Ouch.

 

However, now we have wrested control into our own hands we shall have only ourselves to blame fof further mishaps.  Hopefully, too, this spells the end of those middle-of-the-night worry sessions where you feel things are out of control and heading in the wrong direction (to the extent they are heading anywhere!).

 

On Monday next, however, painters start in No. 7 so there should be progress on that front.  And the other positive factor is that we have - so far - been spared the norovirus, aka winter vomiting sickness, which seems to be cutting swathes through the population.  I just hope that it spares, too, the workmen who will - fingers crossed - help us to get back into the Shoebox by the end of January.

 

Antony Mair

Looking back, looking ahead

The Roman god Janus, looking back to the past and forward to the future

I write this in the midst of a howling southwesterly gale, which seems to have been going on for about a week.  I thought this sort of thing only happened at Land's End or the Shetland Islands, but evidently not.  The northwest corner of the Matchbox is timber-framed on both walls, as a result of which, when the wind screams off the sea, there is distinct movement in the top bedroom, where we have been sleeping - not to mention a roar down the chimney.  We keep reminding ourselves that the building has stood for more than two centuries, but it takes a bit of getting used to.

It's been a year of immense transition: moving country, settling in a town we didn't know, refurbishing the Shoebox and Matchbox, getting to know new people.  It's seven months since we left France, and only now do I feel we're beginning to settle.  We hope to move back into the Shoebox at the beginning of February, and by that stage we should be approaching normality.

In the wider world, I find it impossible not to feel concerned about what is happening.  We have lost faith in our churches, our policemen and the media.  The guardians of civilised standards appear to be falling away, one by one.  I have little faith, either, in our squabbling and posturing politicians.  More fundamentally, I sense that the growth model of capitalism - on which global "economic recovery" is based - is now obsolete.  What I am hoping for in the New Year is for a wind as strong as our current gale to blow out the cobwebs of old concepts and bring back originality, flair and some lateral thinking.  And then for some calm and some sunshine.

A very happy New Year to you all.

Antony Mair 

Happy Yule

 

 

Until recently I had always thought that references to "Yule" and "Yuletide" were folksy Disney-speak, going with logs, real or chocolate.  "Christmas" was the obvious term for the festival celebrated on 25th December, with all its Christian connotations and origins.  I knew that the Fathers of the Church latched onto the symbolism of the arrival of Christ and the period just after the winter solstice; and that the early Church grafted its festivals onto pre-existing pagan ones.  But I'd never really put it all together.

The Celts and Druids had a tradition where the waning year was represented by the Holly King, who did battle with the Oak King, representing the waxing year, who would reign until midsummer.  The Oak King is behind the custom of burning the Yule log - "Yule" being a Germanic pagan festival in the same period. It has been suggested that the word is linked to the word "Wheel". 

The period after the solstice was - and is - usually the coldest and hardest in the year.  There was no food available for animals and to avoid the cost of feeding them through the winter they would be slaughtered.  This gave an excuse for a gastronomic binge.

So there you have it - holly, Yuletide log, and lots of eating and drinking.  Sound familiar?   "Yule" seems to bring pagans and Disney together, which is an apt summary of what happens in the UK at this time of year.  So that's what I wish you all: a very happy Yule.

Antony Mair

Last days of scaffolding

I have almost forgotten when the scaffolding first went up: but apparently it will be coming down this weekend at the front - the back still has it since the new windows at No. 8 need painting, which can only happen after the Christmas break.  The picture above shows it at its most picturesque: but for the past couple of days it has been like living behind Niagara Falls, due to the amount of rain.  In fact, we woke this morning to find that the well in the basement of both houses seemed to be filling up, rather alarmingly.  An emergency drain-clearing company was called out, and a certain amount of prodding and pumping took place.  The water is slowly subsiding.  Our new friend Steve the Drainage Man is to come back for a more detailed inspection when it has drained away.

Living with builders has been more than wearing.  There have been times when the only place to escape has been the basement kitchen of No. 8, due to painters at windows and joiners wherever the painters aren't - if you see what I mean.  No. 7 has had the second coat of lime plaster drying throughout, but today the final coat has gone on and I am actually organising a painter to come in and redecorate at the beginning of January.  Phew.  I am hoping we shall be able to move back there at the beginning of February - there are just the small matters of a new bathroom to be installed, bookshelves in the study, redecoration throughout, and something done to the battered floorboards. 

Boundaries are a concept foreign to builders: they display great curiosity about us and our lives, and somehow expect us to be interested in theirs.  The idea that they are simply there to perform a service for us without necessarily becoming our nearest and dearest is entirely alien.  One of the joiners came into the kitchen one day and asked what I was preparing for dinner.  He then told me what he would be cooking that evening.  It's difficult at this point not to say "shouldn't you be getting back to that window?"

Roll on February!

Antony Mair

 

Meanwhile, Santa's on his way...at the Dolphin, at any rate!

The end of the world...but not for Nigella

Something going wrong in the Christmas season?

 

Christmas is always a tad surreal, but seems particularly so this year.  People who have never previously heard of Central America are now muttering knowledgeably about the Mayan calendar and imminent Armageddon.  The other night we heard a programme on the dreaded Radio 4 about American "survivalists" who have constructed bunkers into which they intend to retreat on Thursday night.  Appearing on Radio 4 usually requires removal of any sense of humour, and the survivalists fitted the bill.  I considered the possibility of our also retiring to a bunker, if we can find one at this late stage, but rejected it on the basis that a post-Armageddon social life restricted to dinners with survivalists is too dire to contemplate.

 

One person who must share this point of view is gastro-celeb Nigella Lawson, currently featuring in a cookery series called Nigellisima.  (So no hint of a personality cult there.)  At a time of austerity, belt-tightening and turnip-cooking, Nigella has decided to swim against the culinary flow.  Between shots of a glitteringly festive London we had romantic pictures of Venice, with mouthwatering goodies on display.  Her recipes feature a cornucopia of exotic ingredients: marsala and mascarpone abounded, though a winter salad, constructed from three varieties of radicchio, was included to cut the richness.  Nigella prepared the last in a silk dress cut low over her shapely bosom, arching her elegant brows as she smiled into the lens.  At the end we saw a gathering of London glitterati sampling her dishes.  Not a turnip or survivalist in sight.  I'm not sure what the Great British Public thought of it, as they watched with a tray of microwaved Iceland produce on their laps, but we enjoyed it. 

 

Actually, I might get in touch with her and see whether she's retiring to a bunker, and, if so, where.

 

Antony Mair

Santa looks for a cab to avoid infestation

 

 

High camp in Hastings and Bexhill

 Aida - Act IV

 

Verdi's magnificent opera "Aida", which we saw on Saturday at the Hastings Odeon via the Met Opera HD transmission, has its camp moments - particularly in the Met's production.  Close-ups of Olga Borodina as Amneris brought Mrs Slocum to mind at times, from the old sitcom "Are you being served", and the barechested soldiers looked as if they had just popped in between the gym and a Gay Pride march.  This grandest of grand operas seemed, curiously, to work best in the last Act, with the intimate beauty of the entombed lovers.  But it was still a feast for the eyes and ears all the way through.  Alas, we were only ten in the auditorium.  Those who are unable to get into the London cinemas for these showings should come down here to boost the numbers.

 

A very different performance yesterday afternoon, at Bexhill's De la Warr Pavilion: the London Gay Men's Chorus's Christmas show.  I didn't know what to expect, but as things turned out I loved every minute of it and found myself positively weeping with delight at the combination of camp comedy and undiluted professionalism. 

 

After a dismal week with builders, the weekend lifted the spirits: better weather also helped, so we hope to be ready for the week ahead.

 

Antony Mair