In 1978, I was refused a bank loan to study mechanical engineering at university. Physics had been both my strongest and my favourite subject at school, particularly the mechanics curriculum. I have always had a knack for understanding how mechanical things work, and wanted to make a career out of designing machinery.
When that door was closed firmly in my face, I went to drama school instead (as you do) and passed my studies there with distinctions.
What sort of girl was I? Was I the sort of girl who did 'tomboyish' things, or was I a dramatic sort of a girl?
I don't think I ever really even thought about it, until a few years later. 1983, in fact.
I was getting ready to drive the 600km from East London (the one in South Africa, not England) to Durban for a holiday.
One of the things I needed to do before I left was service my car. So I pulled it up onto the lawn where the ground was level, and changed the plugs, points and condenser.
That done, I placed a pan under the sump and undid the sump nut (with some difficulty in the confined space). I wasn't sure that the pan was big enough to hold all the oil, so I brought my knitting out onto the front porch to keep my hands busy while I kept half an eye on the draining process. I was trying to finish a pullover to take with me for the trip.
A passing car pulled up onto the kerb and a man stepped out. He told me he had driven past a short while earlier and seen my backside sticking out from under the bonnet. Now he was driving past again, only to see me knitting. He couldn't tell what sort of girl I was, he told me, in an accusatory tone of voice. Apparently he would have preferred me to be either the butch sort of girl who wielded a plug spanner and understood the basics of the internal combustion engine, OR the sort of girl who made her own clothes. His tone of voice implied that he had the right to his expectations and that I somehow owed it to him to be one thing or the other.
Fast forward 34 years and I still haven't decided what sort of girl I am to the satisfaction of people like that random passerby in 1983. While I no longer service my own car (it's the electronics - I like electronic devices and know how to 'drive' several different types, but I don't understand their inner workings the way I do mechanical devices with moving parts), I am equally happy wielding a power drill and a crochet hook, operating a table saw and a sewing machine, making a lacy shawl and a hall stand. I watch rugby and chick flicks. Shoe stores and hardware stores are equally appealing to me. I coo over kittens and drool over drill presses. I feed the yarn and fabric stash and can't resist (yet) a(nother) wooden pallet to add to my collection.
So what kind of girl am I? I'm the sort of girl who doesn't feel the need to be one sort of girl. I'm the sort of girl who has a wide range of interests and not enough hours in the day to pursue them all. I'm the sort of girl who thinks that if you want me to make up my mind what sort of girl I am, you can go and...do something unpleasant to yourself.
That's the sort of girl I am.
When that door was closed firmly in my face, I went to drama school instead (as you do) and passed my studies there with distinctions.
What sort of girl was I? Was I the sort of girl who did 'tomboyish' things, or was I a dramatic sort of a girl?
I don't think I ever really even thought about it, until a few years later. 1983, in fact.
I was getting ready to drive the 600km from East London (the one in South Africa, not England) to Durban for a holiday.
One of the things I needed to do before I left was service my car. So I pulled it up onto the lawn where the ground was level, and changed the plugs, points and condenser.
That done, I placed a pan under the sump and undid the sump nut (with some difficulty in the confined space). I wasn't sure that the pan was big enough to hold all the oil, so I brought my knitting out onto the front porch to keep my hands busy while I kept half an eye on the draining process. I was trying to finish a pullover to take with me for the trip.
A passing car pulled up onto the kerb and a man stepped out. He told me he had driven past a short while earlier and seen my backside sticking out from under the bonnet. Now he was driving past again, only to see me knitting. He couldn't tell what sort of girl I was, he told me, in an accusatory tone of voice. Apparently he would have preferred me to be either the butch sort of girl who wielded a plug spanner and understood the basics of the internal combustion engine, OR the sort of girl who made her own clothes. His tone of voice implied that he had the right to his expectations and that I somehow owed it to him to be one thing or the other.
Fast forward 34 years and I still haven't decided what sort of girl I am to the satisfaction of people like that random passerby in 1983. While I no longer service my own car (it's the electronics - I like electronic devices and know how to 'drive' several different types, but I don't understand their inner workings the way I do mechanical devices with moving parts), I am equally happy wielding a power drill and a crochet hook, operating a table saw and a sewing machine, making a lacy shawl and a hall stand. I watch rugby and chick flicks. Shoe stores and hardware stores are equally appealing to me. I coo over kittens and drool over drill presses. I feed the yarn and fabric stash and can't resist (yet) a(nother) wooden pallet to add to my collection.
So what kind of girl am I? I'm the sort of girl who doesn't feel the need to be one sort of girl. I'm the sort of girl who has a wide range of interests and not enough hours in the day to pursue them all. I'm the sort of girl who thinks that if you want me to make up my mind what sort of girl I am, you can go and...do something unpleasant to yourself.
That's the sort of girl I am.
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