Physics

In my high school Physics lessons, I sat next to a big-haired, day-dreamy girl called Jenny. I also sat next to Jenny in art, where she spent three double lessons drawing the stubble on her portrait of George Michael, hair by hair. It goes without saying that here was a girl who needed a creative outlet. It also goes without saying that, in Physics, a creative outlet was far from forthcoming. We were allowed to draw diagrams, of course, but they had to be rendered in a particularly dry and unexciting way. Mrs. Calderbank did not want to see a n artist’s impression of a wooden toy car being zoomed across a too-short desk to prove the existence of gravity, thrust and friction. She wanted a pictoral resemblance of functionality. To Jenny, this seemed like a cruelly wasted opportunity.

Physics, as far as I could see, was alone in its complete opposition to creative expression. In Chemistry, at the very least, she could make a firework displaying using magnesium ribbon and a lighter borrowed from Joanne Rutter. In language classes, our imaginations were given free reign, particularly when we were asked to translate French into English. PE, if nothing else, gave the opportunity to devise creative ways to avoid having a shower. The most inventive thing to happen in Physics occurred when Alan Christopherson created an electric circuit using his train-track braces to make a bulb light up.

To counteract this monotony, Jenny and I regressed to childhood. We adopted a lamp from the cupboard, and named her Leila. We dressed her in a post-it-note ra-ra skirt and gave her tippex eyes and lips. We pulled threads of silk from our ties and gave her hair. We went slowly, quietly mad. Miraculously, we left with B grades, and an alarming inability to remember a single fact about the physical world that surrounds us.  

P.S. Speed equals distance over time.  

Bumble Bees and Killer Whales

Once, when I was about seven or eight, I accidentally put my hand down on a bumble bee. It really, really hurt. In fact, I have only ever felt pain like it on two occasions since: once while getting my eyebrows threaded, and once after being hit by a Renault Clio.

When I tell my bumble bee story, I generally receive one of two responses. People either say "Were you alright?' or they ask 'Did the bumble bee survive?' One could argue, on the basis of this, that there are two types of people in the world: Bug Huggers and Bug Haters. I have to admit that I am firmly rooted in the latter camp. I think my family is the cause of this. For as long as I can remember, our under-sink cupboard has been stuffed with an arsenal of fly spray and ant powder and slug pellets. I was raised to believe that it was perfectly acceptable to flick a ladybird, stand on a spider that was giving you the stink-eye, or spin 360 degrees like a champion discus thrower and put a moth out of its misery with one smack of a slipper.



In fact, it's fair to say that my family were suspicious of most creatures, both great and small. We had no problem with animals that kept their distance: killer whales splashing about in Antarctica caused us no difficulty, they could go about their business freely, but a neighbourhood cat or a squirrel or an aunt's over-excited sheepdog was usually met with distrust.  As a result, I now have no great affinity with animals at all, and when my friends debate whether Alsatians or Chocolate Labradors are more beautiful I have only one response to hand, a response that dare not speak its name in animal-loving company:  "Neither. They're dogs."

My good friend Sara, on the other hand, is a classic Bug Hugger. On a recent holiday to Menorca, she and I hired a car. As we drove, a bumble bee flew in through the open window. In this situation, my family would consider it the front passenger's moral duty to roll up the Michelin Road Map of Great Britain and Northern Ireland and whack the bee, leaving a great orange smudge above Rotherham to serve as a reminder of the crime. Sara merely opened a window, hummed serenely and gently encouraged the bee to reach its car-exiting potential.  She too believes her respect for insects comes from the teachings of her parents, "Although they did quite often kill wasps".

In spite of our differences, Sara and I are prime examples of how these two types of people can rub along perfectly well together, given a little effort. I do not judge the folk who see beauty in bottom-sniffing canines, or tragedy in squished beetles. Sara, in turn, kindly overlooks my abject cruelty.

Having said this, it is always useful to know upfront which type of person you are socialising with, particularly when eating sugary foods outdoors. If you want to find out which type of person you are speaking to, feel free to tell him or her my childhood bumble-bee story.

If anyone asks, the bee did not survive, and I was fine after a gin.



Moths beware

Mankinis

 

Here's an interesting fact about the word 'mankini': it is one of a handful of words that made it into the English dictionary back in 2008, along with the words 'prequel' and 'chugger'.

 

I have always believed that necessity is the mother of invention when it comes to the coining of new words. The word 'prequel' would not exist if Hollywood hadn't gone through a phase of dishing out back-stories to blockbusters. If we didn't hear the phrase "can I just stop you there, Smiley?" from charity muggers every time we walked down the high street, the abbreviation 'chuggers' would be unnecessary.  So why has such a, shall we say, specialised word as 'mankini' been absorbed into the language at all? Where is the demand? Who, prior to 2008, was gesticulating wildly trying to locate the word for a bright, lycra, stretchy man's thong with built-in braces?  Who can we blame for this? 

 

I cannot answer this question, and doubt you are scrawling down a list of names for me either. You may be thinking that, as everything around us has a name, there is no reason why dreadful male swimwear should be an exception. I disagree. There are plenty of things in the world that are created and sold and consumed whilst remaining nameless. The little triangles that stick the corners of your photos down in albums. The rubbery thimble-type thing I put on my finger so I can turn pages quickly in work. Most of the fiddly bits you get in polythene bags when you buy Ikea furniture.  These things are left untitled, and the world continues to turn.

 

Having said this, that rubbery thimble-type thing that I use in work has never been worn publicly by a celebrity. If Oprah Winfrey went around with one on her pinkie, it would soon be bestowed with a name. Finger Bonnet. Paper Poker. Office Accelerator 3000. The mankini was worn by Sacha Baron Cohen in a comedy film, and movie magazine editors needed a caption for the eye-watering promotional photographs. "Sacha Baron Cohen wearing a nameless obscenity" simply wouldn't do.

 

Since being labelled, mankinis have thrived, and have found their way into all good fancy dress shops, to be bought by best men and forced onto unsuspecting grooms on their stag dos in Amsterdam. My friend's husband was one of these Unfortunates. She showed us the photographs of him clasped inside one, like a forest creature in a steel trap. His eyes were shiny, his smile was panicked, and he was almost certainly angling himself to show us his best side. Perhaps having the correct word for his outfit helped him to verbalise his pain.