by Margaret Atwood

I am late as usual to read this. I hung on until all the women in Handmaid’s outfits had finished parading in front of Waterstone’s – it was all a bit gimmicky for me. I mean I don’t mind a fancy dress launch (so long as no-one is asking me to wear it) but blimey, some people were treating this as a religious experience. I do think that The Handmaid’s Tale was a big deal book. There were themes around religious fundamentalism and perhaps more interestingly how freedoms and democratic norms are lost inch by inch and tiny decision by tiny decision. It was also a megaphone into misogyny. I read it in a couple of sittings.

I haven’t watched the TV series. Too many bodies hanging off walls for me. I understand that there was some of that in the book but over many years of reading, I have developed the skill of being able to read whilst mentally putting my fingers in my ears and whistling loudly. That way, I can be reading something disturbing but not really taking it too far in. I really am a delicate soul you know. I think that Margaret Atwood has said that the TV programme and its ongoing sequels have influenced the plot of this book and it shows. You can certainly imagine this coming to a screen near you.

So…The Testaments. Well it’s a completely different book. Whereas The Handmaid’s Tale was full of heavy duty ideas and challenges – this is a racing page turner. It’s Mission Impossible with long frocks and ritual torture. It follows three women – Aunt Lydia (nasty piece of work from first book) Agnes (a young daughter of a commander) and Daisy (another young woman who lives with her adoptive parents in Canada). We get to see some of the motivation behind Aunt Lydia’s behaviour and you will probably work out who one of the women is fairly early on. My main issue was a change of heart by one character which is never explained and seems a little bit – well – out of character.

But, she’s a great writer and this is a really good book. I’m not sure that it is Booker level good. (Although I have never really got the hang of the Booker I’ll be honest). I didn’t like it as much as I liked some of her dystopian science fiction but that’s probably just me.

I have been sitting here for an hour eating mince pies while choosing Christmas presents online and working out my Christmas entertainment. I have decided to break the habit of a lifetime and go for Christmas a bit early this year. This is because (a) I am enjoying looking forward a bit and (b) I could do with being a bit more organised about Christmas for a change. (I have no sensible reason to excuse excessive mince pie eating at this time of year – except that both they and I are in the same room alone). If you are a member of my family by the way whether by blood, marriage or soon to be marriage, you should know that I will be issuing a three line whip for one of the Christmas Musicals that are on the big screen this year. Singin’ In The Rain is probably favourite but I have a few in mind. Get your diaries ready kids!!

Anyway – it’s only eight weeks to Christmas and we will be a bit busy in the run up. Our friends on the Crisis Care Team (Honestly – I am so grateful for them, I could lick them sometimes) they think they have found somewhere for Aged Parent. It seems very nice but we are going to look at it properly next week. The only issue is that it is twenty minutes away in the car. I was very exercised by this (AP isn’t bothered – she wants to go and go now). However, HOH has pointed out gently that maybe the idea is that we are a little further away so we didn’t go quite as often now she has more support.

She may feel that she could do without my support to be fair. I brought her washing home as usual this week but I am not really up to speed with the new fangled washer-dryer. I’m more of a line dry woman myself but we are not allowed washing on the balcony – that will get us up before the Residents Association I suppose and anyone who has seen Rosemary’s Baby knows that never ends well. Anyway, I have to do AP’s underwear in the dryer because HOH is not too keen on having it all on airers in the apartment. Not because he’ll be overcome with lust or anything. It’s just that he is dealing with ladies pantaloons etc. on the ward for a lot of the day and doesn’t like to see it at home. Fair enough. I seem to have gone overboard with the washer temperature and I am sure everything has come out smaller. Not Brazillian thong smaller you understand but definitely smaller. Ah well – she is talking about de-cluttering.

I’m watching His Dark Materials again and not enjoying it as much. Firstly because (probably because of BBC budget constraints), not everyone has a little cute CGI animal following them around. I thought everyone who had a soul was supposed to have one? I’m finding it a bit annoying. Also, as someone else said, why are all the daemons either cute or exotic? Why does no-one have a cow or buffalo or a pig? Also, and this just may be me, but I don’t think anyone has successfully produced anti Christian polemic that isn’t a bit clunky and obvious. I think I can probably see where it’s going. I think my daemon would be a big pig. Possibly a greedy one. Back to the mince pies.

The Untold Lives of the Women killed Jack the Ripper by Hallie Rubenhold

In 2015 there was a bit of a hoo-hah in the planning department in London’s City Council. Planning permission had been granted to convert a Victorian house into a small museum which would examine “Women’s History”. As this subject had been woefully under-represented, this seemed an excellent idea.

The planning department, therefore, declared themselves somewhat startled when the covers came off at the new attraction and they found it was named “The Jack The Ripper Museum”. It seemed the only “Women” who qualified to have their “History” examined were those who had died horrible, brutal deaths in and around Whitechapel in 1888. When questioned as to whether they had been somewhat economical with the truth in their planning application in order to get a dodgy old screams and bloody bandage type place past the planners, the proprietors declared themselves shocked and offended. Indeed no – they said. This was just a slight change of focus and the Ripper’s victims would have their lives examined in forensic detail and we would all get to see them front row centre for the first time.

Probably against everyone’s better judgement, the museum was allowed to open and the women’s lives were examined using the medium of several pieces of A4 paper with a bit of descriptive detail but, unsurprisingly, these have not proved as popular as the room which is described as “not suitable for children.”

This is a long introduction to this book which takes the exact opposite approach. (Please forgive photo of book next to remains of lunch – slovenly behaviour). It is about the canonical five women who were killed over a period between August and November 1888. You will, however, find no description of their deaths or the state they were found in, the murderer is not described and there is no speculation as to his identity. Instead, there is discussion around the women – their backgrounds, their families and their lives – and it’s a bit of an eye opener. Despite the way the women are usually described – only one, Mary Jane Kelly was actually a prostitute. The others were women who, when things began to go wrong, found that females had little or no support to get back on their feet.

One lady was an alcoholic and despite the love and support of her family (who sent her to a sanitarium to recover) eventually she relapsed and left her family because the drink became more important. Another, whose husband found the charms of the lady next door irresistible to the point that he moved her in, left her children because she had nowhere to take them. Her husband was supposed to pay her some kind of financial support but, once he proved that she was with someone else, which anyone living on the street needed to be to remain safe, he stopped the payment.

The women moved in and out of the workhouse to get medical treatment and guaranteed food. No-one stayed in the workhouse for very long though because conditions were, intentionally, very harsh. The idea being to discourage anyone who felt that a week in the care of the authorities was preferable to a week of hard work. In reality, for the poor, neither in nor out of the workhouse was a good option. You lose some, you lose some.

These were women who had lived through terrible circumstances and been unable to get out from under them. These women certainly weren’t perfect and they made bad choices but they were not who we often think they were. Under different circumstances, they could be you or me.

I thought this was excellent. The women are interesting and sad and they feel like what they were – real people. There is social commentary – women had few rights and this made their circumstances so much more difficult to overcome. It’s not a preachy nagging thing though – it tells stories about the women and it’s important that they are heard.

They say that when you buy a dog that loss is always on the horizon. They don’t live as long as us generally and (if all goes according to plan) in the end the day will come when you say good-bye.

This week, we said good-bye to Morecambe. Those of you who have followed our travails over the last few weeks will know that he has struggled with separation anxiety and we weren’t quite sure about the way forward. Especially when someone kindly pushed an anonymous note under our door basically saying “Shut Your Dog Up”. (Are Christian Curses unacceptable? Asking for a friend).

It was a long weekend last weekend. We tried a dog behaviourist, a Doggy Day Care lady (she ended up with a bitten thumb for her trouble) and lots of friends and we had to reluctantly accept that there was no way forward. The vet said that he felt that there was a neurological problem and that his age meant that to put him to sleep was the kindest decision. Well it might be for Morecambe buster but we have been devastated. HOH – who took him to the vets to do the deed – has been particularly traumatised.

People are very kind aren’t they. You watch 15 minutes of Brexit coverage and you could be forgiven for thinking the country is full of self-serving lunatics who don’t care about anyone but themselves. Well I have a house full of flowers and bagful of “so sorry” messages that prove otherwise and I for one am jolly grateful.

At the moment, we still miss him like mad. We miss walks, cuddles on the sofa (if he was in the mood) and saving the last bits of food for him. But we know that we gave him a fantastic life and eventually we won’t feel like this. Eventually.