The film is about a group of London teenagers whose mugging of a young woman named Sam is interrupted when an alien drops out of the sky. The kids then kill the alien, bringing down a whole load more trouble in the shape of the alien’s bigger, faster brethren. This is the first of several ways in which the aliens and the threat they pose are used as parallels to Moses’ life. He and his friends are at first dismissive of Sam’s mugging, which they scarcely see as a crime, but in the end, just as they misjudged the consequences of killing the alien, they realise Sam is a person not so different from themselves, that mugging her has deep consequences, and they give her back a ring that has sentimental value to her.

There are a lot of ideas in this film about the meaning of alienation and territory, but aside from one or two slightly heavy-handed lines, the script manages not to be preachy or cringeworthy. Moses and his friends are initially presented as masked and therefore faceless, and we are half way through before we learn all their names. By the end of the film, it’s the police who are faceless, emerging from the smoke (as the aliens did moments before), lights and uniforms obscuring their identity. Although you might not necessarily like these teenagers by the end, it’s hard not to find a kind of sympathy for them. They have no money (at one point, a character only has enough credit for one text – one of several moments that is both amusing and poignant.) Although Moses has a Samurai sword, their most effective weapons are fireworks. The turning point for me was when we see the kids running to face the aliens, Pizza Go Go bike and tiny dog in tow. This is when we are given our first reminder that they are just children. Other moments, such as when one boy apologises for his bad driving by saying, “I’m getting lessons for Christmas” add to this.

Moses and his friends mistakenly apply their own code of existence to the aliens. They assume that the creatures turn up en-masse out of a desire to avenge their fallen friend. Likewise, it’s unthinkable that Moses and his friends would simply leave their home (they are deeply offended when Sam says she doesn’t like the area.) Despite their very different perspectives, Sam, gangster Hi-Hatz and Moses and his friends each individually claim that this is their territory, and their actions are governed by their desire to protect it. And it’s the block that this film is really all about, as highlighted through a lovely first-person shot near the beginning when the viewer is drawn inexorably into its looming bulk. Though Sam seems both to Moses and his friends, and to posh, weed-smoking student Brewis to be alien to the block (Brewis explains he was headed to a party at Fulham and after asking why she’s there, is shocked to learn she lives there) by the end Sam tells police that Moses is her neighbour and stands united with him.

The idea that Moses and his friends appear aggressive out of necessity – from fear and self-preservation – is re-enforced repeatedly. Gangster Hi-Hatz accuses them of bringing both “feds” and aliens to the housing block – another way in which the police and the creatures are set up as parallels. Hi-Hatz at one point suggests Moses might like to graduate to selling cocaine for him, and we are reminded that it is very easy for children from Moses’ background to fall into such a lifestyle by the fact that, in this block, the safest place is the “Weed Room”, where Hi-Hatz grows cannabis. The viewer is drawn into Moses world of alienation and abandonment as the block is sealed off, his female friends flee and the police remain ignorant of the threat within, interested only in catching the muggers. As one of Moses’ friends says towards the end, with regard to his knife carrying (and unnecessarily, I felt, but never mind): “Walking around expecting to get jacked any minute – feels like just another day in the ends.”

I could go on. Anyway, bottom line – watch it!

Here’s our bed-sharing background: when I was pregnant with my first child, I was certain I would breastfeed, so I bought bedside cot because I didn’t want to have to cross the room in the dark. When my son was born, he cried when he wasn’t in contact with me, so I slept holding him. Then I slept with him right beside me in our bed. He’s nearly three now, and has his own room and bed available in it, but he also has a single bed next to our kingsized. Sometimes he sleeps in the single bed, and sometimes he sleeps in our bed. He’s yet to sleep in his own bedroom, but he will. It makes me laugh when people say, “you’ll never get rid of him.” …Because of course there are so many cases of fifteen-year-olds demanding to climb in between mum and dad. Now we have another newborn, and he sleeps beside me too – sometimes in the bedside cot, but mostly in my bit of the bed. He didn’t need to be held, so I didn’t hold him.

When I first became a parent I really beat myself up about bed-sharing. I didn’t think I knew anyone else who did it, and the midwives had told me I’d spoil my child by giving him what he wanted (midwives who clearly don’t understand attachment theory and its very sound scientific basis.) Then I read Three In A Bed by Deborah Jackson, which outlined the many reasons why bed-sharing is a natural and healthy thing (and the norm in most parts of the world, and even in the West until recently.) I learned that some of my friends co-slept. I began to see it as something enjoyable, and as something that could actually benefit my child. There are psychological and biological reasons why bed-sharing is A Very Good Thing.

So this time around, I have no qualms about what I’m doing. My newborn doesn’t sleep under the duvet- he has a baby sleeping bag, or his own blankets. He sleeps on his back, or on my arm. He never sleeps next to my toddler, or up against a pillow. And the chances of me rolling onto him – one of the supposed risks – are zero. As has been proven by various studies, mothers (and sometimes fathers) who bed-share are very aware of their baby’s movements, enjoy a much lighter sleep, and breastfeeding mothers often wake a moment or two before their babies, achieving a kind of beautiful synergy.

Now I simply can’t imagine not bed-sharing. I’d love to be able to sit up in bed watching TV, to be able to stretch out, to not wake up with a two-year-old’s foot in my face. But I think what we do is best for all of us at the moment. Our nights are less disrupted. We enjoy waking up to our children’s smiles (um… usually they smile.) I feel safer knowing that I’ll hear immediately if my child is choking (as happened once) or is upset (obviously my children are never upset. Never!) But although this is something I feel passionate about, I know it’s not right for everyone, and that’s fine. So when authorities trot out ill-informed campaigns that aim to inspire fear rather than informed choice, I get mad. Sudden Infant Death Syndrome is such an emotive topic, and one there are no definitive answers to. So to lay such heavy blame at the door of co-sleeping is inexplicable to me, especially when most deaths involving bed-sharing also involve alcohol or drugs – something the Milwaukee campaign neglected to mention. I’m sure they’re well-intentioned, but the adverts are at best misguided, and at worst deeply offensive, and it saddens me that they might put parents off something that could benefit them and their children.

Lots more info on co-sleeping, (and why it actually reduces SIDS) here:

Dr Sears Addresses Recent Co-sleeping Concerns

Co-sleeping & SIDS FactSheet

Peaceful Parenting

Here he is – another baby boy, born earlier this month. Blame him for me not completing NaNoWriMo this year. And for my lack of inane Twitter rants.

My labour was quite different this time around: three days of mild contractions on-and-off before labour started in earnest at 3pm on the fourth day. I went to the shops, made dinner and watched TV, determined not to pay attention to the contractions (I mean “uterine surges”… I’ve been dabbling with hypnobirthing) until I was sure I really was close to delivery. Then at about 7pm my surges leapt to two minutes apart, and were very strong. About forty minutes after we got to the birth centre, I delivered. The midwife didn’t examine me once- she said from the look of me I was very close. At 10.40pm, my new son was born, in a birth pool, with my husband, mother and older son with me. It was magical.

I had worried about whether or not to have my almost-three-year old present at the birth. I didn’t want him to be scared, or to be a distraction to me. But because we practise attachment parenting, and have never had a night away from our boy (with whom we co-sleep) I wanted him to be nearby. And part of me also thought it might be a good experience for him. I prepared him by showing him pictures of his birth, buying him a book called Hello Baby by Jenni Overend (beautiful book), and explaining what might happen and how I’d behave. We asked him if he wanted to see his brother come out, and my mum was primed to take him out of the delivery room if he seemed distressed. And in the end, he was there throughout. He told me to push. He talked to me between contractions and was there to greet his little brother the moment I lifted him from the water. I’m so glad I didn’t exclude him from such an important event in his life.

It’s… different having two kids. Everyone said it would be a big change, and it is. True, I don’t have any of the first-time-parent culture shocks to contend with: I know how to change a nappy; I know I’ll be constantly exhausted, and covered in baby puke, and reliant on the people around me for support. I had also prepared myself for the fact that my older son might take time to adjust, and would need lots of attention. What I wasn’t prepared for was how much I’d miss my older son. I can’t cuddle him as much as I’d like to, or read to him or play with him or make his snacks. For the first few days, I felt a little heartbroken because of this. Thankfully my older boy took it all in his stride, which I was pleased about, but also a little sad about.

Anyway, we’re finding our feet. Learning to manage our time all over again. Adjusting every aspect of our life all over again, and reassessing our expectations. But it is wonderful, and I feel so lucky to have another little person to share my life with.

I’ll talk about the TV series first, and say that I enjoyed it a great deal. I thought that the characters were, for the most part, excellently portrayed - particularly Viserys, Tyrion, Arya, Tywin, and Joffrey. I can’t deny getting a kick out of seeing fantasy adapted so well, and with such strong marketing behind it. And I was pleased at the reception; I think (with some notable exceptions) there was a minimum of the sneering but-it’s-fantasy-therefore-it’s-shit-and-we-can-mock-you-for-liking-it nonsense that accompanies many things fantasy. Despite knowing the story, I found the final two episodes of the adaptation truly gripping, and felt they captured the epic feel of events beautifully. But. But, but, but. I had a bit of a problem with one scene, which unfortunately soured my viewing somewhat.

Drogo and Dany. On their wedding night, this TV adaptation had Drogo rape Dany. This was not what happened in the book (as has been much discussed elsewhere.) The entire tone of the scene was different: in essence, Dany did not submit – she was forced. I think deviations from the source material are unavoidable when adapting a work of this size, and are to be expected when translating something from one medium to another. But unfortunately, this was a pretty pivotal change, and I don’t buy the explanation that it was necessary because of the constraints of fitting a complex relationship arc into a ten-part TV series. Rather, it felt like a little bit of extra visual drama to end the episode with. This rape changes the entire dynamic of Drogo and Dany’s relationship, even in a world as brutal as Martin’s, which is littered with examples of brutality towards and suppression of women. The problem is, in the novel, part of the reason Daenerys eventually fell in love with her husband is because he was kinder to her than the only other man she had known closely – Viserys.  In the book, Drogo’s (relative) gentleness was in stark contrast to Viserys’ cruelty, and was a nice piece of irony given that Drogo was the “barbarian.” This eventually allowed Dany to see Viserys for the psychotic, deluded tyrant he was, and to begin to stand up to him when, hitherto, he was all she’d known. But in the show, this was largely washed away by a scene I feel they could have done very differently. It really is such a shame because otherwise, I loved the show, but I felt this event made Daenerys much more of a victim than she seemed in the books, and completely skewed the relationship which defines her character, and her rise to power thereafter. 

Now I’ll talk about A Dance With Dragons, which I loved. I know some people found it long-winded, and believe there are too many characters, and that the storylines are spiralling out of control. To those people I say: yeah, and what? Because I like all the detail. I like immersing myself in the complex world Martin has created. And I like the cast of thousands. In these books, history has a tangible impact on the present, and is more than just static back-story. Which is why, for me, I never feel weighed down by detail, even when I can’t remember who the heck someone is. I just enjoy being swept up in a world that feels so real and so well-rounded. I also believe that in this volume more than any other, the various strands to the story seem to be coming together.

I think what differentiates Martin’s sprawling world from other sprawling fantasy worlds is that there are definite stakes here. Characters die (meaningfully – not just for shock value), and are brutalised (with lasting consequences.) I can think of few authors as willing to kill their darlings as Martin is. The stakes are what make these books, because quite literally no horror is beyond possibility. This book contains cannibalism, rape, torture (psychological and physical), bestiality, child abuse and war - none of which felt gratuitous, but much of which was genuinely disturbing. I have to say, when I started this book, I’d forgotten quite how bleak and brutal Martin’s world is, particularly towards women. But despite its brutality, there are still characters you can root for – a thing other books of a similar tone often lack.

Particularly notable for me was Theon’s character arc. I loved Theon’s little internal rhyme – Reek, Reek it rhymes with…- which was at first a source of circling dread that added to the psychological claustrophobia of his chapters, but eventually became his mantra for reclaiming his identity. I enjoyed the many chapters detailing the lands of the east (despite the ongoing Orientalism.) It’s interesting that, since the TV adaptation, a number of people I know have expressed a sudden interest in reading these books – even without having watched the show itself. It’s great to see people who otherwise wouldn’t touch fantasy becoming more interested in it. I hope it continues.  

If for some reason you haven’t sampled Martin’s work, do so. Do so at once.

Edit: I’ve just read two interersting posts on gender in ASOIAF, via the Westeros website. The first, here, also discusses race in the series. The second, here, is a response to the first. Both are well worth a read, and in my opinion contain valid points.

Edit: Here’s another good piece on gender and race in the series.

My family moved to Tottenham from our council estate in Tower Hamlets because racism was rife where we were living, with a strong National Front presence, and as a mixed-race family, we had been harassed on several occasions (one of which I remember very clearly as it was the first and only time I’ve heard my dad swear.) My mum, who is white and English, spent a lot of her childhood in Tottenham, her own mother grew up there, and we wanted to move somewhere where we could walk on the streets without being racially abused. A few weeks after we moved to Tottenham, the Broadwater Farm riot occurred. Although we only lived one street away, we slept through the whole thing in complete ignorance. But I believe this event is one of the reasons Tottenham has such a bad reputation, and it took years to even begin to shake it. All that has been shattered now.

During the 21 years I lived in Tottenham, I went to school by bus, visited friends, the library, the leisure centre, the shops in Wood Green, walked around at night with no fear, and so on. I’ve never been mugged, beaten up or bullied on the streets. Yes, these things did happen, and perhaps I was lucky, but I was happy in Tottenham, and it is a place of happy memories for me. However, I was also aware of the reputation Tottenham had, and how people viewed those of us who lived there.  And reputation is important. It’s easy for those who have not lived in an underprivileged area to dismiss the concerns of those who do. People I know are reluctant to put their postcode on CVs, for fear of how coming from an area with a bad reputation will be perceived. When a (white) relative moved here from abroad, and mentioned he was living in Tottenham, his colleagues said, “My god, why do you live there? There are too many black people there and none of them have jobs.” Seriously.

Elevating an area with a bad reputation involves tackling several chicken-or-egg scenarios. For example, businesses are understandably reluctant to open in areas they’ve heard are prone to crime, but an area can’t possibly hope to improve its image if people don’t move their families or businesses there. For example, if an area looks attractive, and has been invested in, people are more likely to care for it. There is under-investment in Tottenham, and at the moment this is only getting worse, with announcements about the closure of the borough’s youth centres. If a place looks scruffy, people are less likely to treat it with respect. For example, if you are surrounded by a large amount of unemployment and disempowerment, you tend to expect and desire less for yourself.  This is how many young people in Tottenham feel. I know because I was once one of them, and I’m fortunate enough to come from a stable, loving family and have had a good level of education.  For example, there is no denying that the relationship between police and locals has, historically, been bad. If you live in an area where you suspect those who are there to protect you already view you as a criminal, you are less likely to show respect back, and so relations don’t improve.

That’s not to say people don’t try to lift the image of Tottenham. There is a genuine sense of community in many parts of Tottenham. There are a number of very active residence groups, including one my mum helped found. Tottenham is wonderfully multicultural, and for the most part these very varied communities live harmoniously together. And the new Bernie Grant Arts Centre and regenerated Tottenham Hale Retail Park are both welcome additions to the neighbourhood.  But there is a great deal of strain on local infrastructure. Tottenham is home to many transient communities, and people who believe they are only going to be living in a neighbourhood for a short period of time are never going to behave as though it is really their home. Many of Tottenham’s old Victorian houses have been carved into tiny flats housing entire families when they really shouldn’t have (and many local residences have lobbied the council to put a stop to this.) So when a young man (of colour) gets shot dead by police in an area with these kinds of problems, members of a peaceful protest are ignored by police, and all this happens in an area with a long history of police distrust, a match has been struck.

Then there’s the looting. The behaviour of those involved is f*cking stupid, and selfish, and detracted from the original issue. What these people did was criminal – not least because those who looted on Tottenham High Road were damaging the property and livelihoods of people much like themselves. But we live in a society where our worth is judged by what we have and our ownership of status symbols – including, significantly, where we live. So I don’t find it surprising (although I do find it sickening) that those used to striving to prove their worth – who often feel otherwise worthless – covet expensive things, and I am not surprised (although I am saddened) that these people exploited the chaos of the weekend. And many of these people are genuinely poor - remember what happened when Ikea opened in nearby Edmonton? None of this is an excuse for the disgusting behaviour and crimes of looters, and neither am I trying to absolve them of responsibility, but if we want to improve as a society, we have to look at explanations. I know what it is like to say I where I live and see a shadow cross people’s faces as a set of assumptions fill their heads. I know what it is like to be judged on my north London accent and use of slang. And I know what it is like to have the place where I live only ever talked about in negative terms. If people who feel small can prove their worth by dressing in designer clothes and driving a desirable car, maybe others will look at them differently. I know people from many different backgrounds, and the poorest people I know are usually also the people who spend the most on their outward appearances and their status symbols. Looting is never, ever acceptable, but neither is simply dismissing the looters as animals and then having done with it. Society only works when we all agree it does, which means no element of it should ever be ignored or dismissed. The psychology of a mob is not the same as the psychology of an individual, and using dehumanising words to describe those involved simplifies a very complex issue.

I was in Stoke Newington this weekend and passed two women carrying “I Love Hackney” bags. I’d really hoped Tottenham would soon start enjoying the regeneration and affluence parts of Hackney have, but after this incident, I can’t see that happening for a while yet.

I wanted to take part in this because, when I became a mother, I felt very self-conscious when breastfeeding in public. This had nothing to do with exposing myself – this doesn’t bother me, and in any case, it’s very easy to be discreet. Mainly, it was because I was scared about being judged or criticised by those around me, particularly as my son got older. There have been similar flash mobs taking place over the last few days, seeking to mark National Breastfeeding Awareness Week, and highlight the fact that funding has been taken away from it. I’ve read a lot of reactions on the web akin to “attention seekers” and “yes it’s natural but no need to flaunt it” or “smug women.” These comments really do annoy me. Attention seekers? Well yes, that’s what this is about – highlighting an issue, but it’s certainly not about exhibitionism. One glance at the dozens of comments from nervous women on our flashmob’s Facebook group is testament to that. And really, breastfeeding should be so normal and so common that no attention is given to it. The fact that breastfeeding can be labelled as “attention seeking” illustrates exactly what is wrong with our society.

There is also nothing smug about breastfeeding. I’m aware that many formula feeders feel criticised by women who like to champion breastfeeding, and I know some women who breastfeed do criticise those who choose not to. I am not one of these latter women, but that doesn’t mean taking pride in my own choice makes me “smug.” And I have to say, breastfeeding *is* an achievement. It’s tiring, it’s un-glamorous, it’s restrictive and it can be very painful.

There is also a genuine and general ignorance about breastfeeding. A paediatrician actually told me I should stop breastfeeding to help with my son’s constipation problems (note – breast milk acts as a laxative.) I mentioned to him that the WHO recommends a minimum of two years breastfeeding, and his reply was “yes, well – he’s nearly two.” In all honesty, I think the reason he mentioned it is because he was uncomfortable with the fact that I was breastfeeding my son while talking to him (we’d waited over an hour for our appointment, and my son was very restless.) And this is a paediatrician (who didn’t seem to know where to look as I talked.) Sigh. I consider myself to be reasonably well-educated and yet there are lots of things I didn’t know about breastfeeding until I actually became a parent. For example, it is common (in non-Western countries) and very beneficial to breastfeed a child well beyond age one. For example, it is possible to breastfeed while pregnant (I am nearly five months pregnant myself.) For example, breastfeeding an older child will not rot their teeth and will only hurt if they deliberately bite.

I am so glad I was able to be part of something that will hopefully encourage other mothers to breastfeed in public.

For starters, without the pressure of external deadlines, it’s sometimes very hard to force yourself to write- particularly if you have a day job, and a family. Although you could certainly cheat at NaNoWriMo, there’d be no point. The incentive to actually meet this challenge comes from knowing thousands of other people around the world are all doing exactly the same thing.

Also – and most importantly for we self-doubters – it forces you to just write. No sitting for hours contemplating a single sentence (I’m very capable of this) or endlessly planning and plotting but not actually writing (and this.) To finish the challenge, you have to just write, and I think this is the best way to learn how to draft. Honestly, I think a large number of beginning writers, myself included, don’t actually know how to draft effectively. It’s not only nearly impossible to get it completely right first time, I actually think it’s counterproductive. There are new layers and connections to a story that can only be explored through the second or third drafts of a novel. I don’t even think it’s possible to really know what a work is about until you get to the end. I also find I channel a deeper, freer, more creative part of myself when I’m forced to write at speed. Some of my favourite ideas have come when I’ve entered a part of a story where I have no idea at all what might come next.

There are other reasons to try this challenge. NaNoWriMo gets you into the habit of writing every day, which, hopefully, you can continue beyond the month of November. It forces serial restarters such as myself to keep working on the same damned project, and keep moving forward with it (rather than writing fifty different openings, as I seem to have done this last year.) And it puts you in touch with other writers, and with great writing tools (it’s how I found out about the fantastic Scrivener.)

So, I love NaNoWriMo. This is my second year of taking part and I entered it with a lot of concerns about my current project, but I’ve already ironed out most of them. This year I’m also taking part in Picture Book Idea Month (PiBoIdMo.) Thirty days, thirty ideas. If all goes well, I’ll enter December with most of a novel draft and a set of ideas to explore for picture books. Good times, eh?

Yesterday, I went to my first class. Ye gods, it was hot! Just lying on my mat waiting for the class to begin was enough for me to start dripping with sweat (er, I mean glowing. Glowing. Because I am female and females glow, right?) For the next ninety minutes, I trembled through the set sequence of postures, each repeated twice, while a petite teacher armed with a microphone delivered instructions and inspiration (happiness is an attitude, not a destination. Actually, I quite like this.) It was very different from my usual silent Ashtanga self practice. I actually think the constant talking is part of why I was able to get through what was a very, very challenging class. Focusing on her voice meant that the sound of my pulse thudding in my own ears was just that little bit easier to ignore.

The class was very different from my Ashtanga practice, and not just because of the heat. There were some postures we don’t usually do in Ashtanga, and some subtle differences to the ones we do do. The next morning, I ached in places I don’t usually ache after yoga – and this is a good thing. There are no hands-on adjustments from the teachers - a drawback, from my point of view. And we were actually instructed to look in the mirror – something I’ve always done in my practice anyway (please don’t tell.) As the teacher said – Bikram is the only form of yoga where this is encouraged.  Strangely, though, I looked at my reflection, my surroundings, and the other yogis (forty plus, and this was off-peak) much less than I have in any other class. This in itself illustrates what I think is so wonderful about Bikram - I can’t think of a time when my gaze was more inward.

With this form of yoga it is basically all about the heat. Something about the intensity really focused my mind. At no point did I feel I was straining – I was aware of my limits, but didn’t have to strain to reach them; the heat clearly helps with that. The heat also meant my heart was pounding throughout the practice - fantastic cardio. And I really did have to use all my will power not to sit out at some points, which added to the fantastic sense of achievement afterwards. I once took part in a sweat lodge, which I hated at the time, but there is definitely something powerful and healing about extreme heat. And although I felt challenged to the point of exhaustion in this class, I also - paradoxically - felt energised, and came out of the class experiencing a real buzz.

Now I can’t wait to go back. Which is a problem, because I’m not sure how to fit a regular class into my week. And although, after eight years doing Ashtanga, I can do self practice quite easily at home, I can’t really recreate a Bikram environment, and wouldn’t want to. So now I have a new passion. Sigh…

[An aside: it seemed to take me about ten minutes to get my jeans back on after class, even after a cold shower. This won't do - I live in close-fitting jeans. Now why isn't there a health warning about that, hmmm?]

I’m not entirely without criticism. I found the dialogue a bit info-dumpy at times. I thought that some of the “surprises” regarding Cobb’s wife were a little too well advertised beforehand, and the characters could perhaps have been more fleshed out. And I’m also not a hundred per cent sure of some of the logic. (Like, if they were dreaming about the van, why would the jolt of it hitting the water wake them, when it wasn’t really happening.) But damn! …What a film!

I tentatively say that I hope they make sequels. Tentative, because I want to see the possibilities explored more, but I wouldn’t like to see the life sucked out of the idea, because I think it’s such a great one.  

One for the DVD wish list, methinks!