“Who’s “we”?”: The Danger of Unity

Yesterday I was looking at ways that “we” could be inclusive, in order to reduce the necessity for people to feel that they are “them”. By having everyone on one side of a line of acceptance, then there is a theoretical possibility of peace.

Then today I was watching “The Sound Of Music” and was struck by this little conversation between Liesel and her former love-interest, Rolf. Rolf, a little grumpy and brusque, gives Liesel a telegram for her father:

ROLF: Give this to your father as soon as he’s home.

LIESEL: He’s on his honeymoon.

ROLF: I know.

LIESEL: You do?

ROLF: We make it our business to know all.

LIESEL: Who’s “we”?

ROLF: See that he gets it.

The movie reminds us of Hitler’s strategy with the Anschluss. Instead of there being (was it) Germany and Austro-Hungary (? my historical knowledge has walked out on me), Hitler and the Nazis tried to convince the Austrians that they were German “really” – as they spoke German and shared much culturally with the Germans. Hitler tried to convince the Austrians that they were part of the Nazi “we”. And as such, the border separating the countries was meaningless and the Anschluss took place. They became united – from a “them” and an “us” to a “we”.

Rolf is characterized as having lost his own personal identity and relationships and he identifies with the Third Reich/Nazism.

Liesel asks the question “Who’s ‘we’?” There is a unity being promoted/assumed of which she is unaware.

Captain Von Trapp, in the movie, wants to stay being a “them” as far as the Nazis are concerned. He is willing to give up everything to avoid working for the majority, the insidious aggressor who assumed his cooperation.

So, what is my point?

Maybe convincing people that they are part of a greater “we” is not the life giving freedom “we” might imagine.

We say hello to the fishes :-)

We went to commune with some other species today. We went to the Sea Life Centre at Loch Lomond. This is the view from the roof terrace:

But inside, it’s all a bit “other” looking through thick glass at these creatures we share the world with.

First up were the otters, looking as if they had stepped out of a children’s story book – that is until you see them eat two-day-old chicks and some beef. You don’t want to mess with an otter. *restrains self from otter/ oughta pun*

We brushed past a pair of depressed looking pike and off to the rockpools!

The aquarium staff were impressively animated telling children about crabs, anenomes and starfish and letting them stroke and hold them. I was quite worried for the spider crab, but it didn’t seem worried by the handling. It wasn’t flexing its pincers, so wasn’t alarmed, I don’t think.

Hard to imagine what they are thinking, although I don’t know how much each animal thinks. Especially the anenomes. (Their pool was beautiful – they were almost all in hues of pink. Very girly.)

Rays are odd looking creatures. One of them did a kind of bob to the surface thing, like it was coming up for a chat, and blow some water up. Random. Must be odd being that flat. Not if you are a ray, I suppose.

My favourite creature was a very impressive Giant Pacific Octopus. Very complicated and loose anatomy. Great suckers.

With my nose pressed against the glass I wonder about the rights and wrongs of keeping creatures in an aquarium. Research, education and conservation – balanced against monotony for mullet and the limits of a tank for an octopus that ‘should’ be in the Pacific ocean, pulsing its orange way through the depths.

 

*fails to decide whether to sing “All things bright and beautiful”, “What a wonderful world” or “Under the Sea”*

Hugs: An introduction to the pitfalls

Yes, I’m sure it is all very nice to hug people. I even do it (Shh! Don’t tell!) but that doesn’t mean I can’t have hang ups about it, does it? It doesn’t mean that I don’t fall down the cultural gap between the train and the platform sometimes. Easily misjudged.

First of all there is my height. I am pretty short, truth be told. This has caused hugging problems in the past. Either my nose gets crushed into someone’s chest, or I go the other way and flip up my head and hope against hope that I don’t snap my windpipe. But usually it’s only a lapel badge in the eyelid.

Then there is my crisis about motivation – my eternal search for the ‘why’ in the situation. Why is this person hugging me? Why, after many happy, happy years in a hug free universe did we all slip simultaneously into this quest for mutual cosiness?

I am all for (well, I ‘get’ the idea) of embracing the bereaved, greeting an old friend, congratulating – all these hugging contexts make sense and, I think, always have.

It is the other ones.

In general greetings and partings in life, I am perhaps too happy to skip the transitional phase. Surely, you may think, I could just shake off  the hugging awkwardness and wade on in there, after having perhaps invested in some neck-saving high heels. But should I?

And then there is the air-kissing thing. It was all fine until the mid nineties when it all went kind of European and the one air kiss turned into sometimes-it’s-one-side-and-sometimes-it’s-two. Fraught with problems. What if you go to the wrong side? What if you don’t know it if its a one side or a two side? What’s the rest of your anatomy supposed to be doing? What if it all goes wrong and you end up with your nose in the ear of someone you’ve only just met?

Why not just not do the hugging and kissing?

The problem is that some people hug, some people don’t, some people are undecided and no one knows precisely the level of hug tolerance of everyone they meet –  leading to an infinite amount of possible clashes of hug-related compatibility! Oh the stress!

You see someone approach, looking enthusiastic to meet you. Do you adjust your head to optimum height, based on the level of their shoulder? Do you pucker up, all set to go “Mwah!” into their ear while remembering to keep all your saliva to yourself? Do you decide to go with the right arm above theirs, and the left below? Or is it the other way? Or can you just go one-sided and mid-way to hedge your bets? In all the confusion, do you accidentally elbow them in the ribs and knock off their glasses with your nose?

To be continued. Not necessarily tomorrow.

🙂

*(((HUGS!)))*

Independence Day thoughts from a Scot with a big “Undecided” post-it note on her head: the beginning of a possible mini-series on the road to the referendum.

 Happy Independence Day USA!

As for the “land of the free and the home of the brave”, if you take our two media icons – “Braveheart” and “Brave” – you might be talking about us. Except there’s a debate about how free we are, in that we are not independent from the rest of the UK.

I think, at the outset I am probably not in favour of an Independent Scotland. There’s hardly anyone here.

*sounds of empty streets, empty buses, sheep baa-ing*

Perhaps that’s unfair. I live in a village – but when I ever go anywhere outside of Scotland – there do seem to be a lot of people around.

Given that our population is addicted to obesity, vacuous entertainment, fatty food and government freebies, I can’t imagine us being independent and not drowning in a vat of debt and chip fat.

So saying, I am open to persuasion – gentle, though. Politics wearies me. Who knows, maybe there are a lot of go-getting high-flying types who can underpin the government with talent and integrity in the long run…?

So, at the moment I am in the “if it ain’t broke, don’t fix it” camp.

But I am watching this space.

Learn and Live

‘2+2=4’, he wrote.

“Winston?”

He looked up, vacantly, licking at the snot on his upper lip.

“Winston, have you finished your calculations yet?”

Winston looked down at his sums – his “calculations” – and shook his head. He wiped his sleeve against his nose and bent his head again to his jotter. Mrs Ogilvy moved on.

Later, when the bell rang for home time, he ran into the sunshine towards his mum. His soft hand clasped hers and they left the playground, swinging their linked arms as they walked along. Winston closed his eyes and turned his face to the sun. Inside, his eyelids glowed red.

“So, how was your day?” she asked.

“Fine,” he said, thinking of nothing but the warmth of the hand he held and the heat of the afternoon sun.

He longed to get home, and get out again: to climb over the fence at the back of the garden and hunker down at the edge of the pond and watch the flies and midges hover and swarm; to count the ducks; to see the reflection of the sky glitter magically with sparkles on the surface.

But first, there was homework. A column of twos, a column of ands, a column of numbers, a column of equals signs and a column of answers.

He knew some of the answers. There were other answers he didn’t know. But the good thing was, that when he had pencilled in the answers he already knew, the other answers didn’t seem so hard. There were simply no other answers that would fit.

By the time he settled himself at the side of the pond, the sky had darkened to a hopeful pink, and above the pond he could see the usual pattern of insects, in their cloud of activity. They left him alone: alone to watch. It was as if they were trapped in an invisible, freeform bubble. Few midges broke ranks. They floated as one, replacing each other in perpetual rotation. Winston supposed they were free; they just chose to stay together.

Beside him, he had gathered some stones. From the pile, he chose four smooth pebbles. He dipped each one in the water and then rubbed each one clean on his t-shirt. The evening sun caught their shine. Each one glowed pink for just a moment. He held two in each hand. Four stones. Two and two make four. That was one that he knew.

He passed one of the stones from his right hand into his left and lobbed the remaining stone into the middle of the pond. The pond gave a satisfying gulp and set about sending out the circles.

Every molecule on the surface of the pond felt the effect of the wave, and in turn became part of it. At the spot where the pebble had pierced the surface, the molecules were thrown into ordered disarray. They bobbed violently, before passing on and passing out the energy. To Winston, the circle on the surface of the pond appeared to be getting bigger, but really, it was a series of different circles, a new one created with every tiny passing moment; a seamless representation of the same shape, but made up of entirely different molecules.

The circle lost its shape as it met with the irregular edges of the pond, and a breeze ruffled the surface, making the sky’s reflection appear as though a thousand tiny black boats had momentarily set sail. Winston shivered.

He stood up, and put the three remaining stones into his pockets and went back into the house.

His tea was just about ready. He went to wash his hands before his mum had the chance to tell him about germs, ponds and the relationship between them. He ran the water until it made his hands tingle. He squirted out some soap and rubbed his hands together. Sure enough, the water became impressively discoloured.

He took the stones out of his pockets and gave them another wash. He had figured that his hands were clean, but the pale brown water swirling down the plughole suggested otherwise. He rubbed at the surface of the stones with his thumb, and saw more clearly now the lines and marks on each stone. Pores, layers and more variety of colour than the simple grey he had thought they were.

He buffed them up on the hand towel, leaving grubby marks.

He sat at the table with his mum and his gran and considered the plate of spaghetti bolognaise. A mess of worms and mud. Or sick, even. And that stink of parmesan. Like grated feet. That bitter tang of tomato, dripping down through the mesh of pasta, tarnishing the pale, golden strands.

He set about rescuing clean strings of spaghetti from the pile. He scooped as much of the sauce away from the pale pasta as he could and began cleaning each one. Why couldn’t they leave the mince on the side? Or in the pan, even? Why did it have to be dumped on top of what had been, at one point, a perfectly decent plate of plain pasta?

He put one end of a piece of pasta in his mouth and sucked hard. It gradually snaked into his mouth, leaving a kiss of sauce on his lips that he wiped off with the back of his hand.

“Gran’s worried about you,” said his mum.

“That’s right, Winston. I think you are spending far too much time near that pond. It’s not safe for a wee boy like you. You should take one of us with you.”

“I’ll be fine,” said Winston, “I just like looking at it. I won’t go in. I promise.”

“See?” said his mum.

Winston’s gran inhaled disapprovingly and deftly spun the prongs of her fork in the hollow of her spoon and made an impressive spool of spaghetti that she ate neatly. He’d like to learn how to do that. But maybe today wasn’t the day to ask Gran that trick. He’d wait until she’d forgotten about the pond.

She had taught him all kinds of useful things: how to completely submerge a bottle in the bath while ensuring every air bubble escaped; how to leave a full, upturned cup of water on a table; how to make bubble mix; how to take a coat hanger, bend it and use it to make the biggest bubbles ever in the whole wide world.

His mum was less interested in helping him. She just wanted to look at him, to hold him and to search his face for contentment. He hoped she found it there. He looked into her face searching for the same.

When he looked into her face, he sometimes saw his own. At other times, he saw his gran’s face behind hers. He thought of the three of them as a paper chain, hand-in-hand-in-hand through the past, cut out of the same bit of paper. Of course, if he were to make a paper-chain of the three of them, he would have to have trousers on and they would have to have skirts, but they could have the same face, he supposed. All three of them.

After dinner, he went up to his room and set out the three stones on his desk. He set his angle-poise lamp to shine on them. They looked like contestants on a game show. Maybe he could decorate them. Get some wool and glue and make hair; get some googly eyes from the drawer. Maybe he should take them back out to the pond and lob them in and watch the circles grow. Maybe he should throw them in at the same time and watch as the circles met and cancelled each other out. Maybe he should leave them here, in a row.

The next day came and Winston opened his jotter on the desk for Mrs Ogilvy to see.

“Well done, Winston,” she said, smiling. “You’ve done very well there. All correct.” She stamped a stamp next to his work saying, Mrs Ogilvy’s Star Pupil. Then she moved on to look at the other jotters.

Each jotter contained the same work. The same columns with the same answers. The handwriting was all different, and some of the fours and sevens were back to front in some of the jotters, but everyone had completed the work well. Mrs Ogilvy beamed warmly at the class.

“Primary 1, I am very pleased with you all. You have worked hard and have learned a lot about addition. Now, for homework tonight, instead of working on your number stories in your jotters, I want you to think of a calculation for me to do. I challenge you to challenge me!”

Winston thought it odd that Mrs Ogilvy looked so pleased with herself. She was going to end up with twenty-four calculations to do, unless anyone forgot to make one up, or hadn’t a clue what she’d meant.

In his room that night, Winston began to think about his calculation for Mrs Ogilvy. He was free to choose any calculation he liked.

Winston thought about his stones: four, take away one.

He thought about the midges: how many midges does it take to make a cloud?

He thought of the pasta: how many strands of spaghetti can a gran spin in one flurry and eat in one go?

Most of all, he thought of his mum’s face. He knew that it lay behind his own face. Behind his mum’s was his gran’s. How many faces lay hidden behind hers?

He didn’t know the answer to that one. But he knew he had three answers in the right places, so it should be possible to work it out.

Somewhere, sometime, a rock had been thrown into a pond and the circles had come. Today there were three of them making the wave. Before them, there were memories. And then, only black and white images. Before then, there must have been others.

Thousands of tiny black boats that momentarily set sail.

 

Half a day half a day half a day onwards…

The children have half a day of school before the holidays.  Today was the tie-ceremony for the P7s as they move on to high school. I haven’t got a child in P7, but I went along anyway.

The children sang well and the tie thing was done very smoothly with only a few hairbands getting knocked askew in the process.

Despite the fact that this was a real transition for the P7s, and mediocrity didn’t get a look in at this ceremony, I find myself thinking about this quote fromThe Incredibles:

Helen: I can’t believe you don’t want to go to your own son’s graduation.
Bob: It’s not a graduation. He is moving from the 4th grade to the 5th grade.
Helen: It’s a ceremony!
Bob: It’s psychotic! They keep creating new ways to celebrate mediocrity…

So, anyway, counting down to “summer” 🙂

Ignoring the weather forecasts. We have waterproofs.

Having an Indiana Jones moment, I think

Which movie is this scene in? I can’t remember.

Indiana Jones has gone through a gauntlet of cunning traps and ends up at a crevasse where he needs to make a leap of faith, as the bridge he needs to cross is invisible.

He consults his little diary and sees a diagram of someone walking confidently out into mid-air and is heartened.

He is no fool though, is Indie, so he takes a handful of dirt and throws it over the bridge and – hey – the bridge sort of appears. And off he steps…

I am standing at such a crevasse.

I am having a career break! *uncharacteristic excited yelp* For the next YEAR I will get up in the morning, actually EAT my breakfast, and think: I don’t think I’ll go into work today.

😎

There are literally HOURS of working time left before I step out onto the invisible bridge of A VOID and see if there is life beyond work.

There will be, I suspect.

Mine, I suspect, Galatians 2 verse 20 notwithstanding.

I love my job. It is really fun and it doesn’t involve phones. I will miss it, while at the same time I suspect the year will go in too quickly. It will be nice to hang out with the children and read them more books.

I have all kinds of unrealistic plans. Well, I have all kinds of plans – all of which are realistic in isolation – but one year and too many targets… it will be interesting (for me anyway) to see what I actually do…

Will I just eat curry and watch CSI on loop?

Will I write 3000 words a week and have a novel by the time I turn 40?

Will I lose weight, get fit and come to be known as “The Whippet”?

Will I have an efficiently run household with laminate signs everywhere detailing rules and procedures?

So, consider this post a handful of dirt over an invisible bridge.

When I step out, I may turn out to be like a cartoon character who shoots off into nothingness, pedals furiously and plummets.

Never mind.

At least it’ll be something to blog about.

Jubilee Reflections

A weekend of cultural phenomena is over. Time for a cup of tea.

Thousands of Union Jacks being fluttered in front of the Palace by hundreds of thousands of people. It made me think about what we are told about some other countries – that they HAVE to act as if they are fans of the authorities or they are in fear of their lives or their freedom. It is great to know that Republicans were free and welcome to stand with their placards stating their objections to the monarchy, knowing they had every right and freedom to do so. What a great country/kingdom!

I am sure that group mentality had a lot to do with the popularity of the event – but I do find it amazing that the Queen managed to draw the crowds.

There were some horrible days in the past, with most of her children’s marriages going horribly wrong, then all the bad feeling and accusations surrounding the death of Diana.

But Elizabeth, Queen of Scots/II pulled it back. What a great turn out – and not a sniff of coercion. A public ballot for tickets – and then hundreds of thousands turning out just for a glimpse.

I think it is to do with the reality of it. When I watch Royal processions and formal events I always draw a parallel with Disney and the palaces and processions that are put on for the crowds -with Mickey at the centre. But none of it is real.

The royal show is real. It is flesh and blood and history. The whole river taken over for the flotilla. The city standing still for the processions and the concert. Flags and people lining the streets looking out for the Queenie wave. People sleeping out so they have the best spot to see things.

For some people it is important to be there, to live the history being made.

Such a contrast to the London of almost a year ago with rioters taking hold of the streets and a spirit of lawlessness – suddenly turned into this respect for duty and service that the Queen embodies for many.

So, what do I think of it all?

The BBC do a good job in terms of capturing the key images, but their commentary varies in quality. The event organisers need a raise. Comedians are not funny.

The Scottish reaction has been interesting. I think it is kind of odd that Alex Salmond is pro-queen – but with her Balmoral links, the Royal Mile and all that – maybe the royal thing is an asset for a hypothetical Independent Scotland. It’s the union of parliaments, not the union of crowns under scrutiny these days. Not sure how the monarchy thing would pan out if we were independent.

However, by being constant, the Queen has managed to leave the past in the past and get on with the present. Who’d have thought that Camilla could take a place on the balcony?

I hope the Queen gets to go and have some relaxed banter with the Duke of Edinburgh, and a cup of tea.

I’ll never see another Diamond Jubilee (unless the Queen dies very soon, Charles abdicates immediately, William reigns till 2072 and I live to be 100. Well, 99 and a half).

Scunnered O Jaguars?

After all my panda nonsense last night, I turn my attention to “The Jaguar” by Ted Hughes. This is a poem about a zoo also, so I seem to be on a zoo theme. Not that I’ve been to a zoo for a couple of years. I don’t think Ted Hughes would particularly approve, come to think of it…

I plan to do a line-by-liner on this. Here goes:

The apes yawn and adore their fleas in the sun.

The opening image is sunny and relaxed. The apes are sitting about scratching – all they are focused on is their fleas – there is nothing else to do.

The parrots shriek as if they were on fire,or strut
Like cheap tarts to attract the stroller with the nut.

Here we have a pair of similes. The calm of the first line is disrupted by the parrots shrieking, as parrots do – but we are unsettled by the image “as if they are on fire” – just like Katniss or something… – it is as if they are in distress or in danger of being consumed. Their other behaviour is to “strut like cheap tarts” – again they are described as being vulnerable, undervalued – they are cheapening themselves to beckon the members of the public who have come to the zoo to see them. Parrots do strut – but again, it is the poet’s image that it disturbing. He sees the parrots as perhaps prostituting themselves.

Fatigued with indolence, tiger and lion

To be “fatigued with indolence” is paradoxical – the big cats are tired out from too much laziness – they are fed up. This is not a healthy place to be, or a natural state for these powerful animals. The stanza break at this point emphasises the next word: “lie” – as if there is some deception beneath it all:

Lie still as the sun. The boa-constrictor’s coil
Is a fossil.

Here we have another pair of similes – the tiger and the lion are supposedly lying as still as the sun. Perhaps this is supposed to convey a steady oppressive heat that is draining the animals of their energy. Perhaps it is a lie – and this lack of activity is a front (did you see that news story today about the cheetah in South Africa? Maybe it was lying”). Anyway – to what extent is the sun “still”? I am no physicist. Sorry. But from our perspective it appears to move, even although it is really us. Do other things orbit the lion and the tiger? I suppose they do. They lie still and the world rushes by… The next image is also a simile. (Is it also synecdoche?) The snake is being compared to an animal that is extinct. The poet goes beyond the peril of being on fire, or the vulnerability of strutting… it is as if this animal has been dead for countless millennia.

Cage after cage seems empty, or
Stinks of sleepers from the breathing straw.

The pattern established so far is taken on by the poet’s use of repetition here “cage after cage” – with apparent emptiness – where it is uncertain whether or not there is life. Then we have only a bad smell of animals that cannot be seen. It is the straw that has been personified here. The straw is breathing – by (tenuous) implication – the animals are not.

It might be painted on a nursery wall.

We have the idea from this image that the zoo scene is like a picture in a nursery – safe, static, animals. The kind of poster a child would like to point at and identify animals by name – rather than the immediacy and fear of seeing them in real life in the wild.

But who runs like the rest past these arrives
At a cage where the crowd stands, stares, mesmerized,
As a child at a dream,

The pace of the poem changes here with “But” – the poet is taking a different tack here. We have the alliteration of runs, rest and arrives that rolls us along to see this amazing sight. Like the crowd, the second line of this stanza also stalls with the list (alliteration of the ‘s’) “stands”, “stares”, “mesemerized” – So we have a set of three words linked by the letter s -that have a cumulative effect. First you stand, then you stare – then that stare is so engaged with what it sees that you are mesmerised. The reader at this point wants to see too – to by drawn in my the hypnotic sight that Hughes is holding back. There is another simile here – “as a child at a dream” – the safe images on the nursery wall that can be pointed at and rationalised are now in the terrifying realm of the dreamworld. The crowd are like children staring at something totally other, totally detached from their usual reality.

at a jaguar hurrying enraged

The stanza ends with the concise description of the animal – speed and fury! This animal is in stark contrast to the other animals. It is “hurrying” rather than fatigued or indolent – if you are hurring, you have a place to go, a thing to do – there is a sense of urgency and purpose about his behaviour. He is also enraged – he is emotionally engaged – he is full of his own wildness. He is naturally furious.

Through prison darkness after the drills of his eyes

Here we have the powerful word “prison” – which you could argue was a metaphor – or you could argue is literal. It is interesting that the jaguar is going through darkness when it is clearly a very hot and sunny day. Is he coming out of his sleeping quarters? Or is it metaphorically dark for him as he cannot see where he is going?

On a short fierce fuse.

His eyes are described as drills on a short fierce fuse. Here the images are that his eyes are sharp and penetrating – and also that there is something of the imager of a bomb here – that he is furious and there may be some explosion of anger, metaphorically.

Not in boredom—
The eye satisfied to be blind in fire,
By the bang of blood in the brain deaf the ear—
He spins from the bars, but there’s no cage to him

The poet makes the point that this animal is not bored, as the others were. This animal is still wild in itself – “blind in fire” – the animal is unaware of its captivity – it cannot see that is “as if he were on fire” – in that vulnerable, unhealthy state of being held captive. Great alliterative line here as the jaguar charges into the cage side bang/blood/brain – he crashes into the cage as he is still wild – it is as if it is not real to him. (He too is in a dreamlike state of hypnosis – the reality of captivity has not yet become real for him). Again, great image – as the animal “spins” – which would have been dramatic for the onlookers – but even although the animal has crashed headlong into the cage – from the point of view of the jaguar – there is no cage – he is as wild as ever.

More than to the visionary his cell:

Here he is compared to a visionary – someone with wisdom and accurate perception (?). The jaguar is compared to someone who, although he lives in a tiny and simple cell, he understands profound truth. The jaguar -although contained – knows he is wild – and because he is convinced of that, he is, in his own mind, free:

His stride is wildernesses of freedom:
The world rolls under the long thrust of his heel.
Over the cage floor the horizons come.

I love how the world rolls under him – just as I was considering whether or not the sun was still – there is the idea as to whether we walk and the earth stays still – for the jaguar, he stays still and the earth moves – as if her were balancing on a ball – which, in a way, he is. He makes the earth turn for himself – he is free. But he is not.

The reader is left with a question as to how long this profound wildness, this profound freedom will stay with the Jaguar, in the hot oppression of the zoo.

“Hunger Games” by Suzanne Collins versus “The Handmaid’s Tale” by Margaret Atwood

WARNING!!! SPOILERS!!!

I WILL RUIN THE END OF THE HUNGER GAMES TRILOGY!

I make no apologies: YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED!

Both women had a dystopian vision of the future of America, but only one was a great writer. Margaret Atwood wins this contest hands down.

Katniss. As a narrator she did a good job of keeping us up to speed with what was going on and how she felt. But she ends up with Peeta?! What was she thinking? (I know, she was thinking Gale directly or indirectly caused the death of her sister because deep down he thought that children were fair game to use as collateral in securing the success of a revolution…) But really! Peeta! Can I just say… she didn’t love him. He was nauseatingly worthy. She would never have married him.

The narrator of the Handmaid’s tale is so much more real and believable. We know she is in love with Luke – but she doesn’t know if he is alive or dead. She is, as she admits, selfish and flawed – and uses Nick – but she is consistent and her stance is completely understandable in the society in which she is placed.

The setting of Gilead was so well drawn. The red outfits so vivid, the archaic-sounding shop names, the barbaric wall of victims; the dust in the sitting room, the heat of the garden, the discomfort of all things – our narrator, therefore Atwood, made it real. I loved how the 1980s and the years that followed in Atwood’s imagination were present behind the theocratic state – the memories of “normality” that were shadows in the narrator’s memory.

Collins was trapped by her plot. We knew Katniss had to win, as she was narrating. The revolution had to come. It’s a sin to kill a mockingjay and all that. I think that was her point – that once the initial game was won, Katniss was trapped in a bigger game, playing her part to the bitter end.

The plot of the Handmaid’s tale is so much more realistic. It is one life plucked out of a hellish society and we follow it until it goes off the map. It is far less tidy at the end – but compelling nevertheless, as this life the reader has watched wander nearer and nearer to danger and “freedom” walks off the page and into a van… and then the ending. Genius.

The dystopian societies? The Capitol and Districts sort of worked – but they were a bit clumsily delineated. In “The Handmaid’s tale”, there were similar ideas – some colonies for atomic cleansing, some for cotton picking – and our narrator trapped for almost all of the novel in a perfect looking town, masking fear.

Atwood’s novel was first published in the UK in 1985 – hey – one year after 1984 and parallels aske to be drawn. We don’t have thought police, but we have “eyes”. We have the same fear of being caught thinking own thoughts and living own life. We have the same reduction of sex to an impersonal/”political” act. In “The Hunger Games”, the political control is less complete, less dominant for the characters. Katniss can jump a fence, catch a rabbit, meet dissidents in a shack… any time she wants.

“The Handmaid’s Tale” and “The Hunger Games” deal with hugely different themes, despite their superficial similarities. The Hunger Games was about media manipulation, power, fame, entertainment and values. “The Handmaid’s tale” was about women and their role in society. It was about power, corruption, influence, fear, oppression, politics, freedom… It was also about history and how any present is made up of elements of the past – and how any one life is a part of that history that feeds into the future. So, Atwood wins. As the narrator reflects on how much she did not appreciate her freedom in the 1980s, I could completely see how free she was, until it all went wrong.

So, “The Handmaid’s Tale” – hardly a pleasant read – but great.