It’s hard to think of any satisfactory way for Game of Thrones to proceed now, short of Daenerys unleashing her dragons and barbecuing every man in the Seven Kingdoms.
Hell is underwater in Kirsty Logan’s debut novel. The most electrifying parts of this damp pilgrimage are when Logan takes us beneath the surface, into the sea, diving back down into the world that was our own. The Gracekeepers is set at an unspecified point in the future, but far enough away for rising waters to have swallowed the soil and for landed life to have taken on the element of myth. I might as well get this comparison out of the way early: yes, it is a little bit like Kevin Costner’s Waterworld, but it is Waterworld via Marina Warner.
I learned to make lace when I was small, solemnly winding my bobbins with white thread then working over the pillow with deepest concentration – twisting and crossing the splints of wood, carefully weighted with scavenged beads, never learning so well that my hands could work without stumbling, but working all the same. I made my first few pieces, slack-tensioned and a little sloppy. My older female relatives and family friends inspected them indulgently but unimpressed. They were Bedfordshire women who had learned the needle arts at school, women who had been educated for domesticity, women who could not believe that I would leave school at 16 unable to knit, sew or make pastry. “I could make this,” my grandma would say, plucking the unhappy hems of my Topshop jumpers. “Didn’t they teach you anything?”
Their lives didn’t stop at what their education had fitted them for, though, because this generation of women lived and served in World War 2. Air traffic control. Fork lift trucks. Munitions manufacture. Sock knitting. Forestry. All the work that drove the pulse of winning a war, that kept life ticking over, that men were not there to do – that was women’s work, and they did it well. They weren’t much honoured for it, though. It wasn’t until 2005 that they received a monument. A few weekends ago, I was in London with my children for the marathon, walking from Westminster to Trafalgar Square to kill time at the National Gallery before we expected to cheer their dad, who was running. We stopped and talked about the monument to the women of WW2. “Why aren’t they just on that one?” asked my son, pointing back up the street at the Cenotaph.
Because they weren’t counted when the Cenotaph went up. Their work was non-work. Just air, like the holes in my lace. Wind the bobbins, twist and cross, work the piece, catch all the nothing in the looping patterns of the thread. This is how we see women’s work – the pretty arrangement of nothing. In Anna Karenina, Levin teases his wife Kitty for her needlework. Her broderie anglais strikes him as a frivolous absurdity: he calls it “one of her feminine freaks” and says that “respectable people mend holes but she made them on purpose.” Shortly after this, Kitty nurses his brother through a serious illness. Like her cutwork, this is a kind of labour that leaves nothing but air behind it. Levin has his agricultural plans, which will lead to crops, profit, growth. The clean sheets and hot water Kitty supplies are essential to health and life, but they generate no substance.
In war, men made heaps of bodies, women made the things that would be consumed and need to be made again. Female work is barely admitted as a kind of labour, really: it is a natural outcrop of women’s caring nature, another of our feminine freaks. When we talk about the economy, we talk only about the work that is presumed to count – the labour that creates value. As Katrine Marçal writes in her book Who Cooked Adam Smith’s Dinner?, this explicitly excludes all the unpaid work that women habitually do, none of which is included in calculations of GDP despite it being essential to the function of society: “The fruits of male labour could be stacked in piles and measured in money. The results of women’s work were intangible. Dust that is swept always collects again. Mouths that have been fed grow hungry. Children who sleep, wake. And after lunch it’s time to do the dishes. After the dishes comes dinner. And more dirty dishes.”
Someone will have to clean up the monument to the women of WW2 now: yesterday, during the anti-government protests, some political genius sprayed the words “FUCK TORY SCUM” on it, in screaming red. Some anarchist piss-baby with his face swaddled up, deciding where to express his contempt, and he chose to desecrate the tribute to women’s labour. It took 60 years to recognise that work, and now we are in the middle of a savaging of the welfare state that hurts women most – hurts women, because women are treated as a kind of natural resource, generously supplied by benevolent nature like air or water or soil, there to do the work that the government has decided cannot be paid for anymore. Caring for elderly or disabled relatives, cutting back on her own meals so the children can eat – this is women’s work now. Wind the bobbins, twist and cross, work the piece, catch all the nothing in the looping patterns of the thread. When do we get to count?
Photo by exfordy via Flickr
I love elections. “But it’s my superbowl!” I wheedled to my manager, as I persuaded him to give me the Friday after the general election as holiday. I have studied the candidates’ form, rehearsed all the permutations of results in my head, and weighed each party’s prospects. There’s a part of me for which this is sport in the most dispassionate sense: I enjoy watching what power will do, and this year the outcome promises to be deliciously tangled. If I follow my usual habit of staying up until it becomes obvious who will be prime minister (something I didn’t manage in 2010), then I would probably need to cane a stroke-inducing quantity of caffeine to defer sleep while the coalition negotiations are all worked out.
There’s a part of me for which this is sport in the other way, too. I am tribal. I want my team to win, deeply. My team is Labour – they are not the perfect representation of my politics, but they are my lot nonetheless. However, this is the first time I’ve ever voted for them feeling entirely happy with the decision. My first election, in 2001, I wrote my X in the Tory safe seat of Rutland, for a candidate who couldn’t win, representing a party that had introduced tuition fees – which, as a student at the time, was the policy I resented most furiously. As a voter in Hillsborough in 2005, I muscled through my misery about the Iraq war and supported Labour. (For what it’s worth, I no longer have quite the raging certainty about Iraq that I did in 2002. It was a bad war, badly planned, with terrible consequences; but I now think that non-intervention could have been an equal horror. So while I am still anti-war, I am not as furiously convinced that being so makes me the better person.)
In 2010, I lived in Bath – a safe Lib Dem seat (then, less so now) with a likeable incumbent. So I voted Lib Dem, and have regretted it ever since. I would not have given my sanction to the policies the Liberal Democrats have enforced in coalition, except that I did and there’s no way to take that back. And this year is different. The two party system, clearly, will not hold. The governments of the foreseeable future will be coalitions, and though they will be coalitions formed through the results of first past the post (for now – I suspect that electoral reform is an imminent prospect now the two major parties have to make concessions to the minor ones), it means I feel differently about the legitimacy my vote can confer. Having voted Lib Dem in the hope of keeping the Tories out and got Tories anyway, I figure I might as well vote for the party I’d prefer to be governed by and get Tories that way.
I might be wrong about this – certainly I’ve argued with my husband on this point, and he has a good case that it is recklessness to split the left-wing vote in a constituency that could return a right-wing MP. (Bath is not turning red. That simply will not happen.) Here’s the thing: I like this recklessness. I like, for the first time in my voting life, shoving my paper in the slot and thinking, “Fuck it all, this is what I actually want.” Something hopeful, something proud, something not determined by the cringe of fear and fretful calculation. After all, I do love elections.
It’s nice to condemn the usefully loathsome Hopkins, but what she has said is merely a frank statement of the politics our government has been enacting at our borders in our name for years now.
Let’s play a round of the world’s worst game: Can You Be a Feminist and…? Maajid Nawaz, man, lapdance fan and self-proclaimed feminist can kick us off.
The research into the so-called “nonce gene” disintegrates under any kind scrutiny at all. Why do we want to believe in it?