After a long silence...pleading for a little less dissing

I have been uncharacteristically quiet for some time, I know. I had my Mom to stay for six weeks, and we spent that time exploring garden centres, visiting coffee shops, going birding and doing the Daily Telegraph cryptic crossword puzzle every day. Things I just don't to do very often because I don't know anyone locally who shares my interest in any of these activities, and - apart from the DT crossword - doing them alone just makes me sad.

When she left - after a couple of false starts, because she flies staff rebate and has to go on standby - the Black Dog took full advantage of the void and moved in with me for a bit.

But I am on the mend.

Since we last spoke, my younger son has moved out of home into his very first flat. Now Mr Namasi and I are rattling around in this overlarge empty nest and using words like 'downsizing'.

Also...the Rio Olympics. Isn't it exciting? Team GB is currently second on the medal table. This little island is doing very well for itself. Usain Bolt is delivering the goods as expected. 'First ever' medals are being won for countries with small populations and large challenges (like Kosovo), and it gets, erm...very dusty in homes all over the world as we watch the victors hearing their anthems being played. And let's not forget the first ever Olympic gold medal to an African American swimmer, in a wonderful 'in your face' to a history of exclusion of black swimmers from local swimming pools until relatively recently. Of course, as a South African expat, your friendly upsycho is delighted at the world record breaking win in the 400m by Wayde van Niekerk.

But what's with all the dissing that's going on? Gabby Douglas's hair has made more of an impression than her gymnastics, for Pete's sake! What the heck is that about? One competitor refused to shake hands with his opponent after their judo bout (and got sent home for his trouble) because they have different religions. One victor failed to place her hand on her heart during the anthem - shock horror. Commentators are being ludicrously sexist: attributing women's wins to their male coaches; making comments like 'she swims like a man' (seriously?!); and calling Simone Biles the next Michael Phelps ("I'm not the next Michael Phelps, I'm the first Simone Biles."); completely overlooking the fact that the Williams sisters have won more than one gold medals than Andy Murray (an oversight Andy Murray was quick to point out).

I don't get it. I find the athletes breathtakingly admirable. Their discipline, dedication and skill are remarkable. I don't give a rat's ass what Gabby's 'edges' (whatever they may be) are doing. Or that x person's body isn't flattered by her (and it's usually a her) clothing. I reckon they're all pretty damned amazing, and I can't wait to see what happens next.

Before (cat not included)

I try to counter the negativity with a positive attitude to my work. I'm also participating in a FB meme: posting five positive things about each day for five days.

After (sans cat)

Most of the projects I'm working on at the moment are commissioned pieces. I try to pour love (oh hush!) into what I do, and I hope that it shows. I hope that the clients feel that the investment in their chair/patio set/dog grooming parlour has been worth it, when they see them gain a new lease on life.

Turning heads

When I was younger, if I may say myself, I turned my fair share of heads. I had good bone structure, big eyes, healthy hair, and a pretty damned decent figure. I even had a brief foray into photographic modelling.

A brief modelling 'career'

Now that I'm on the far side of 50, I don't turn heads with natural assets any more.

I do, however, turn heads when I visit the local supermarket in my work clothes. It never occurred to me before to notice the gender divide on the expectations of dress and appearance when nipping in to the local Sainsbury/Tesco/whatever to pick up the ingredients for tonight's supper. But I'm here to tell you that it's real.

I face a choice: I can either pop in to the shop in my workclothes, or I can shower and change, only to get totally scruffy again when I get back home. To me, it's a non-brainer. And I often see local workmen in the supermarket, dressed in whatever they were wearing when they realised they needed a sandwich for lunch or some chicken to make a Thai stir fry for the family later. Dirty jeans, safety boots, paint-spattered dungarees... No-one turns a hair.

Dungarees and a dust mask

But I turn lots of hairs in my paint-spattered dungarees. There are double takes, nudges, and even - on one occasion - sotto voce grumbles of horror from an impeccably turned out elderly lady.

I recently had the opportunity to turn one encounter into a pleasant conversation.  I was in CostCo at the meat counter, standing near a little girl and her Daddy. The little girl looked at my attire and turned to say something to her Dad, pointing at me as she did so (she was only little). She realised that I was watching her and was utterly mortified. I said "It's not usual to see ladies dressed like this, is it?"

Her Dad was clearly relieved that I didn't take offence and explained that she was asking if that was paint on my clothes.

I looked straight at the little girl and confirmed that it was, indeed. I said, "These are my work clothes. I've come straight from work and I'm buying something for supper. I suppose that's what you're doing, too?" She nodded.

I explained, "I've been painting somebody's kitchen today. I know it's not usual for ladies to do work like that, but it's what I do. And I love it. Because girls can do anything!"

Her Dad added and emphatic "Absolutely!" before the little girl, completely without prompting, said, "Thank you."

I told her she was most welcome and took my leave.

So let them look. Let them nudge each other. Let them make their sotto voce grumbles of horror. I'm a girl who wears dungarees to work. And if I have to make a quick detour to the shops, I will do so in my dungarees. And maybe, just maybe a little girl will see me and think that she might also enjoy a job that just happened to involve getting dirty or wearing dungarees, and maybe those jobs aren't just for boys after all.