What not to say

Hidden behind all this jollity is my husband's illness. This time, I am very relieved to report, he is not in much pain and he is not wasting away while doctors drive me insane by telling me he must be fine. Instead, he is having difficulty walking. We do not as yet know officially why, but Dr. Google has given us a clue. 

Now I very much regret never having learned how to drive. I seem to recall staring at a black rotary phone on the wall when I was 16 or 17, phone book open on the kitchen table, and not having the courage to call a driving school. The four great fears of my childhood were 1. Drowning 2. Dogs 3. Adult strangers 4. Talking to adult strangers on the phone. (That's the order in which I got over them.) Childhood swimming lessons were hell, and I never learned to drive.  

The upshot is that we have had to ask a fellow TLM-goer for the favour of driving Benedict Ambrose from a bus stop on the way to church to actual church. So that is how we are. He's getting another scan this week, we're seeing his oncologist next week, what's new with you?

My preferred way to cope with BA's return to illness is not to think or talk about it. Seeing someone you love sick and sad is one of the worst things in life. The less I think or talk about it, the better. If someone outside our marital dyad wants to talk about it, I feel trespassed upon.

I am learning--the hard way--what not to say to someone whose spouse has cancer and hopefully what not to say to someone who does have cancer.  Very high up on the list of what not to say--and it turns out this occurs frequently enough to appear on cancer care websites--is that you know of a miracle cure. 

1. Don't impart your knowledge of a miracle cure.

The miracle cure can take four forms, in my experience. There is the secular mango smoothie miracle cure. There is the traditional Catholic holy oil cure. There is the palm-to-the-forehead-falling-backward TV evangelist cure that apparently some Catholics now indulge in. And then there is the summon-a-Medivac-helicopter-to-remove-him-from-the-satanic-schemes-of-the-NHS-and-take-him-across-the-ocean-to-the-Mayo-Clinic miracle cure. 

For the record, this last one is the worst, especially when accompanied by both the accusation that you are criminally negligent of your spouse and the fantasy that people who love him have agreed that you need an intervention. 

Do not impart your knowledge of a miracle cure to a sick person or his/her spouse unless you are their very best friend/beloved sibling, and they are now so desperate they will try anything. 

If you are a mere friend or even just an acquaintance but really cannot stop yourself, just send the holy oil by post with a nice letter. When B.A. was slowly sliding into a coma, I very much appreciated kind letters, and I even anointed B.A. with the holy oils that came along with them when it looked like he could be dying. It is important to note, however, that I was in the now so desperate they will try anything stage. I had also asked for kind letters over Facebook. And I'm also a traditional Catholic, so miraculous holy oil is almost obviously within my range of what is tasteful. 

Incidentally, someone once insisted in putting me in touch with a nun who sent me chalky gravel from a miraculous shrine where other infertile married ladies went to beg God for a child. I was told to put the gravel in a glass of water and drink it. Readers, I drank it. I'm lucky to be alive--and that nun is also lucky I'm alive, for otherwise my family would have sued her order into oblivion. 

Unhappy desperate people will do stupid things. Their families should keep an eye on them. 

2. Don't talk about another person who has cancer. 

Thinking about your loved one's cancer is bad enough. It is too much to have to think about other people's cancer, too. If you combine this with a miracle cure, it will intrude upon the thoughts of the patient or the spouse that God might love that other person more than them. Or that God already sent them a miracle, and now look what's happened. 

3. Don't ask the spouse how the sick person is when the sick person is around. 

If you really want to know how a sick person is, ask the sick person. If he's my sick person, he will appreciate you asking and will tell you some polite version of the truth. 

4. Don't ask the spouse how he/she is in a gloomy, caring voice. If the spouse looks cheerful, sound cheerful.

The spouse of a sick person is probably not really fine, but in Anglo-Saxon countries she or he can automatically say "I'm fine" and change the subject. In other countries, you probably shouldn't ask unless you really want to know. The answer could be "I'm stressed out of my mind, and I wake up in the middle of the night imagining the worse, and we've had to tear up our retirement plans, and I'm terrified we're going to end up on a council estate being terrorized by fentanyl dealers. How are you?"

5. Don't say "What can I do to help?" without having contemplated the wide range of what that could be. 

Horror of horrors, they might need a loan. Or a drive to the rubbish tip. Or a drive to Mass every Sunday. Or someone to call the Council about something complicated. Or to find out something to do with taxes. Or to make and bring a meal every Thursday. Or to mow their lawn and the next door neighbour's lawn, for he always used to mow her lawn, too. Or to babysit their sullen 10-year-old. Whatever it is, it will not be as easy and fun as one batch of cookies. 

If you are lucky, the answer will be "Please pray for us." At any rate, think hard about what it is you are willing and able to do for a sick person and his or her spouse before you offer, and be specific.

"If you need a drive next week, I'd be happy to pick you up from ...."

"If you'd like a lasagna, I made too many for my party and I could drive one or two over." 

"Listen, I'm going to the rubbish tip tomorrow, and I'm wondering if you have anything to go."

"Hey, it's a gorgeous day, and I'm dying for some exercise. Does your lawn need mowing?" 

That would be really very kind--but only if it's something that you very much would like to do, of course. Nobody likes feeling beholden. 

Meanwhile, I am truly very grateful for all the prayers and love to hear that children pray for us every night. My faith in the prayers of innocent little children is much stronger than my faith in Padre Pio holy oil, etc. 

6. Don't talk about it without first asking "Do you want to talk about it?" 

If he or she does, you won't be talking about it. You will be listening about it. Are you up for that? If not, don't ask. And you don't have to ask if it's not your job to listen. Me, I have a therapist, two priests and a mother.

Advice put into practice

The other day I noticed that an acquaintance had an elegant new haircut. It very much suited her, and I said so. She later volunteered that she had recently had chemotherapy and this was one of the few things she could now do with her hair. I said that I was sorry to hear about the chemo, and she thanked me. Then I said that her haircut was indeed very smart and that I was glad to see she was still [out and about]. "Oh, always," she said cheerfully.  

End of conversation. I did not mention BA. 

 

"How to ask a girl to dance (6 mistakes)"

A Polish friend once grumbled to me that all the young single women in his town were interested solely in mountain climbing and dancing. My advice was that he should either seek women elsewhere or hire a private dancing instructor. I also recommended instructional videos on YouTube. 

"Dancing is a human activity like singing and cooking," I said (in Polish, so I really said something like "Dancing is a people thing like to sing and kitchen"). "Everyone can learn people things."

Coincidentally, for Christmas this Polish friend sent me a bag of Boże Krówki toffees wrapped in quotations by post-Vatican II saints. The last toffee wrapper revealed a Thomistic thought of Mother Teresa of Calcutta, i.e. "Pokora to nic innego jak prawda," which in English is "Humility is nothing other than the truth." 

I very much like this saying, for it is another way of telling people to be rooted in the reality of who they are. It is not about putting yourself down or bewailing your lack of "talent."* It is not humble to say that you cannot sing or dance, especially if you belt out songs in the shower or perform a secret two-step behind closed doors. It is more humble to acknowledge that you could sing and dance as a child and would probably be able to do so again with instruction and practice. 

I offer myself as evidence that a monolingual ballet-program dropout can, with enough persistence, converse in three languages and teach waltzing classes, although not at the same time, and all imperfectly. 

That said, I did come across an amusing video about mistakes to avoid when asking girls to dance, which combined my new interest in dance instruction (formerly high up on my list of worst nightmares) with my decade-plus interest in Polish. Thanks to the physical comedy, I think it quite hilarious and will share it here with a rough translation.  

Incidentally, I am credibly informed that the dance instructor is not himself Polish and has a strong accent of some other Slavic nation, and therefore I should not feel bad about not hearing all the words. To be honest (humble), I hadn't been feeling bad. Polish is hard. Not grasping the totality of a foreign-to-you language is not a moral issue. But now I am bragging, for getting past the agony of error is even harder than Polish. 

Take it away, Dimitri!  

Hello. I'm Dmitri. In this guide, I will show you how to invite a [potential] partner to dance and how not to ask. Let's begin. (He raises his thumb). First thing. Never say to your partner, "Hey! Come here!" (Buzzer.) It's a mistake. Always use a line like this: "May I ask you to dance?" (Harp.) Always an elegant line. 

(Thumb raise) Okay, second thing. Never grab your [potential] partner by the arm. (Buzz.) Always offer your hand. And she will give you her hand. (Harp.) Always wait for her decision. Never do this (He puts out his hand) violently. 

Okay, third thing. NEVER do a mating dance in front of a [potential] partner. (Mating dance begins!) I know that a lot of guides on YouTube advise that you encourage her and so on. NEVER do this. (BUZZ!) It is simply laughable. (He looks serious in the studio) If your [potential] partner, the lady is a decent sort, she really isn't going to judge you. If you like the music, go up to her (Harp) in a very dignified manner. Keep elegant. DON'T do a mating (he folds hands) dance. I beg you. 

(Raises hands) Always approach your partner with a wide smile. (Partner twiddles hair.) Never go up to your partner looking like you're about to kill her. (BUZZ!) That is always ridiculous. (He approaches with a wide smile.) There is always a big chance that she [Harp muffles what I assume is] will accept your proposal to dance. (He leads her away.)

Fifth thing, be prepared to dance.  [...] Don't go rocking up to her like a bear.  (Buzz.) First, master the basics of a dance. The simplest is Disco-Samba. It works for all types of music that you might encounter at a pub, a wedding, a dance club, and so on. 

Remember that even if you follow all the guidelines I have laid down, always expect refusals. (Knee to rear.) If the girl refuses, if you're a normal guy, if you don't look like a homeless person, [...] then just ask another girl, the girl beside her. For example if a girl says to you, "Ew, yuck, ew," simply tell her you're not asking her and ask a girl who is very modest, whom nobody has asked. That way, you don't lose face---and--- (he shrugs) you get a partner for that dance. 

(Hands fly apart.) Remember that a great girl, a decent sort of woman, never judges you [? I think that's what he's saying) at a dance, or a wedding, or your graduation dance, and so on. If a woman refuses to dance, well, she's just not your woman. 

I hope that I have helped you a little, and and I invite you to our dance course. Ciao! 

Thank you very much, Dmitri, and thanks also to the many kind and patient Poles I know who have contributed to my ability to hear actual Polish words and not just zh-sz-cz-yaka-JEEV-na-koh-bee-ET-a.

*What we usually ascribe to talent usually comes from  hard work done for a long time under expert instruction. Then there is that little extra God-given something that separates the impressive from the astonishing. You probably won't be the next Fred Astaire or Eleanor Powell, but you can learn to dance. 

Newlyweds in a Housing Crisis

It is time to return to my fictional Suzie and Scooter and discover if it is true that Scooter's wife won't have to work. I will being by observing that although I am Susan, I am not Suzie. For one thing I am old enough to be her mother and, for another, I was enormously ignorant about money until my husband got sick. If you can't be a good role model, at least be an effective warning to others. 

Right, so to recap, Suzie spent her income with abandon from the age of 12 to 13, when she was shocked to discover how much she could have saved. Fired by the completely natural, healthy and traditional ambition to save for her eventual wedding, she watched every penny she made after that like a hawk. When she was 18, she put her life savings into a low-cost Stocks and Shares Investment Savings Plan, and thanks to adding 75% of her earnings to this pot for another 7 years, she has a Considerable Sum. 

I forgot to calculate in her pension earnings, so let's say that Suzy's nest egg made her £10,000 between 2022 and 2023, that is, before her 25th birthday in 2023. 

Suzie was not allowed to marry Scooter until he was solvent, so they were engaged for an entire year. They married on Suzie's 25th birthday, and it was all very romantic and glam. Suzie had horrified her colleagues by retiring from salaried employment a week before the occasion, and Scooter's take home pay was £2000.80 a month.  

After the honeymoon, Suzie discovered that a lifetime of earning, saving, and gloating over her ISA made it difficult to be happy doing nothing but housework, shopping, and sewing, so she found some people happy to pay her to walk their dogs. Scooter refused to touch a penny of her ISA income, saying his salary should be enough. 

But was it? Having looked at rentals in their town, I have determined that they had to pay at least £975 a month for a 2 bedroom flat (the second bedroom, which is tiny, fortuitous, as Suzie was pregnant by her 26th birthday) in a decent neighbourhood. I have also asked British car owners how much it costs to run a car per month. As the clickbait headlines say, the answer may shock you. 

Here are Suzie and Scooter's average monthly expenses for 2023, not including their wedding or honeymoon. 

Rent: £975

Groceries: £250  

Car (including petrol): £250

Council Tax: £153

Gas & Electric: £150

Entertainment (including the Pub): £100

Broadband: £30

Church donations: £40.80 (The 80p was for the coffee & biscuits after Mass, 20 p a time)

Charges for both mobile phones: £30 

Gifts for others (excluding Christmas): £20 

Sundries: £30 

TOTAL: £2,028.80

Oh la la. £28 over. Fortunately, Suzie made £250 a month from her dog-walking. The £222 she and Scooter saved from it went into a Lifetime ISA, in which they are growing a down payment for a home of their very own. 

Objections

Holidays: Having been on Suzie's self-funded dream honeymoon this year, they didn't feel the need of another holiday. When Scooter gets a raise in 2024, they will put most of the extra money in a Holiday Fund. 

Emergency Fund: Scooter, who enjoys his work but also reading FIRE books with the zeal of a convert, wondered if the £222 ought not to go into an Emergency Fund instead. Suzie, however, suggested that they should consider the Capital Gains of her self-earned dowry their Emergency Fund. Besides, the UK government tops up the Lifetime ISA by a 25% (up to £1000) bonus per year. This bonus is, depending on your outlook, either "free money" or a well-deserved tax return. 

Scooter's Gym: Scooter quit paying gym fees, for his enlightened employer offers gym memberships in the work benefits package. 

The Low Broadband Bill: They don't have a home phone, and they are willing to switch whenever to keep a cheap beginning deal. 

TV licence? They don't have a telly, and I will not repeat what Suzie and Scooter said about the BBC. 

Christmas: The wheels came off the budget car at Christmas, and Suzie dipped into her Capital Gains after all. However, she used most of the money to buy materials for rag dolls. She made rag dolls for everybody who didn't get a bottle of gin, and they were so popular she is planning to make and sell more on Etsy. 

Clothing: After a year of no new clothes and shoes, Suzie has had it. Everyone has a weakness or two, and Suzie's is her wardrobe. Therefore, on her 26th birthday, she told Scooter she had set herself a family clothing budget of 25% of her capital gains. At this date, that represents £2,500 a year and is well under Suzy's tax threshold. Suzie, like all right-thinking capitalists, loathes taxes.  

Baby Stuff: Suzie is in this unsalaried-married-woman situation because she is that kind of Trad. But like most Trads, she is in a family and a community that is delighted to shift boxes of baby stuff from one home to another. But whatever else The Baby will need when he or she is born this summer, Suzie and Scooter will pay for it out of Scooter's raise and Suzie's clothing budget. 

Conclusion   

Scooter and Suzie can't quite live on one salary in the city in which they live. Therefore, Suzie doing odd jobs and then beginning her own home business, which her creator (me) has decided will flourish, is the only way forward for now, unless she contributes more of her capital gains, which Scooter has vetoed. 

Scooter has a solid profession, a good work ethic, an amiable heart, and a fantastic household manager, so I am not particularly concerned for his and Suzie's financial future. When they are middle-aged they will think about the penny-pinched first years of their marriage with nostalgia. 

*UPDATE: You may be still reeling at their monthly rent and wondering if they would not be better off buying a home. The answer is: not yet. Even if Suzie were to scrape off £30,000 of her capital for a 10% down payment, and even at just a fixed rate of 5%, they would be repaying about £1,579 per month on any flat or townhouse in their town resembling a family home. They would also have to pay monthly home insurance and boiler insurance. If anything needed repairing, they would have to pay for that, too. 

Incidentally, my musings should not be taken as a substitute for professional financial advice. If you're curious about FIRE in the UK, check out Monevator. In the USA, Mr. Money Mustache is a superstar. In Canada, the Millennial Revolution have interesting (if foulmouthed) things to say. 

The January Waltzing & Swing Party

If you decide to restore Western Civilization, you may need a bigger room. 

That was my conclusion a month or two ago when a swing dancing instructor remarked that we could use more space. Indeed, I had become so concerned by the Hope of the Future crashing into stacks of chairs that I had already begun to ask the gentlemen to move them into smaller half of the hall, closer to the tea table. But I then made enquiries about the parish hall of a Protestant ex-church down the street, went to see it, realized that it was practically perfect, and then was crushed by the price. 

But when RSVPs (hooray!) came marching in for the January Dance, I rolled up my sleeves and attempted to haggle with the ex-church hall owners. They patiently repeated their initial offer, dependent on me making a number of reservations in advance, and I took it. Catering, they wrote, could be arranged at an additional fee. Catering, I wrote, would not be necessary. 

Fortunately, one of the Hopes of the Future has a car and was willing to transport 27 china cups and saucers, a teapot, spoons, paper cups, a 2-L coffee thermos, a cookie tin, a tablecloth, lemon squash, coffee, tea, milk, sugar, a tablecloth and two tea towels from the McLean home to the hall. And, delightfully, another of the Hopes brought his electric piano, having offered some time ago to provide live accompaniment. 

So much could have gone wrong, and in fact something did: the street door locked at some point, shutting out three latecomers from Fife. Not being familiar with the quirks of this door, absorbed in teaching the waltzing lesson, and having been told the young ladies had gone somewhere for lunch, I didn't discover their plight until I checked my phone for potential messages. By then they were on the bus home--and no wonder as the weather was frightful. 

As it happens, I was lucky I didn't lose more people on the way, as not everyone had read the memos about the new hall or were exactly sure where it was. And this reminds me of something else you need when you are restoring Western Civilization: a committee, and not just for big events. 

On this committee should be a driver of china sets, of course, but also someone to round up guests from Old Place A and lead them to New Place B. You may think you can do everything yourself, but if you have worked a 44 hour week (including Saturday), prepared After-Mass Tea & Coffee for 35+ people, and are beset with domestic cares, you probably can't. And you must plan for this long before your Civilization-restoring endeavour, for on the day of, you will be suffering from task overload.

"Where is Maria-from-London?"

"She left."

"Did anyone go with her?"

Long pause. 

"She seemed to know where she was going."

Incidentally, I also lost three guests to illness, and one was MIA. Their places were partly filled by one Sunday morning RSVP and Maria who was visiting from London. (She believed she could come along to the party after Mass, and she was correct for she is a girl and another girl vouched for her. And if a Kind Friend should send this to her, she should get in touch via our chaplains so I know she got home okay.) Thus, for the waltz part of the party, we had 11 men (one on the electric piano) to 9 woman (one teaching). When one of the men made his farewells at the break, we had 10 men to 9 women for the swing-dancing: an almost perfect ratio. 

At first I felt daunted by the large hall. Our hall, denuded of tables and chairs, feels like an extension of my home. For one thing, I know where everything is. With the new hall, we had a hard time finding an electrical socket for the piano. In fact, the big room didn't seem to have one. Fortunately, the pianist had brought an extension cable.  

But while reviewing the "closed change" (in which the dancers move forward directly instead of turning), I was thrilled when everyone came dancing down the long wooden floor toward me to the music of our talented musician. And I was delighted when I saw the nine couples dancing out the Lindy Hop in a big circle, with the two instructors dancing in the middle. Renting the new hall was worth it. 

In fact, it was definitely worth it, for I swallowed my pride and put out a donations box. The Hope of the Future more than covered the difference between the cost of the parish hall and the cost of the new hall. It occurs to me that if I drop down dead, they will want to, and be able to, keep the waltzing parties going themselves. The thought makes me very happy. 

Perhaps that's how endeavours naturally progress? You have an idea, and enough people are attracted to the idea to take part. Then they tell you what they think of their experience, and you make alterations. After a while, you introduce new elements as experimental improvements. If they work, you keep them. If they don't, you put them aside. When you need volunteers, you ask for them. If volunteers appear, you are on the right path. And then, if you really do need donations, you ask for them too. And if you get donations, it's full speed ahead. 

By the way, one of the most delightful moments of the party came right at the end when our musician was improvising a piano accompaniment to a jazz recording and two of our most talented Hopes were swing-dancing with the teachers. I am very much looking forward to our Eastertide Dance, when teaching will be minimal and such spontaneity maximal.  

 

Love is as strong as death 2024

I have been so worried about how my fictional characters Suzie and Scooter are going to make do on £2000/month that I asked my Facebook friends how much it costs to "run a car"--as the British say. Neither Benedict Ambrose nor I had a clear picture because, like my Canadian grandparents, we are car-free. The answer is between £250 - £350/month, if the car is actually paid off. Yikes!

It is the anniversary of my Canadian grandmother's birth today, and it would be kind if readers said a prayer for Gladys' Protestant soul. She rarely darkened the door of any church, but she told me near the end of her life that she was an Orangeman--Q.E.D. I prefer to dwell on the fact that her family was from Scotland and that she lived for a short time in Edinburgh itself. If she is permitted to know, she must be pleased that I moved here. 

Incidentally, I had it in my head for years that until 1940 or so, immigrants to Canada (or the USA) necessarily came stuffed into the hulls of coffin ships, fortunate to survive the journey, fortunate not to die of typhoid on the shore. They had wept when they said good-bye to their loved ones, for they were unlikely to see them or their ancestral village ever again. 

This is not actually my ancestral experience. History does not relate how comfortable my great-great-grandfather was when he went over from Ireland in the 1840s, but the German side of my father's family crossed two decades later in First Class. The two Scottish sides of my mother's family emigrated in about 1900 and then 1914, but the 1914 bunch went back and forth across the Atlantic until the Second World War. No heart-rending scenes on the shore for them. 

Meanwhile, my grandmother volunteered for years at the local old folks home with a couple of pals. Her pals, a married couple, played and sang while my grandmother danced with the residents--proper dancing, of course. People born before 1900 were not doing the twist, let alone whatever it was my friends and I were doing in the 1980s. It seems very fitting, then, that I am hosting a Waltzing/Swing Dance party today. We are moving into a new hall, my expenses have doubled, and I must go to wrap a shoebox in some cheerful paper: I'll be accepting donations now. 

What Suzie Did Next

Here is the Part 2 of "The Fiscal History of Well-dowried Suzie." If you don't wish to have the plot spoiled, please go to Part 1 where we first meet Suzie as a penniless 11-year-old. 

What Suzie did after getting fired

Suzie, being Suzie, promptly got another job at the same salary. She also went out for coffee with Scooter, and then to lunch, and then to dinner, exciting great interest among their friends from CSU days and motherly types at Mass. 

Scooter shared his professional dreams with Suzie, and she quietly looked up the salary expectations for entry level positions in his field. Scooter was not inclined to talk about money matters, which was just as well, as Suzie still believed with every cell of her body that it was wrong to talk about money outside one's own family. She did, however, begin to offer to split the bill when she and Scooter went out. 

From long habit--and also because it gave her an excuse to talk about Scooter--she discussed "going Dutch" with her mother during their weekly financial conversation. Suzie's mother said going Dutch was fine as long as she never gave Scooter presents or offered to loan him money. Bending a point, she said Suzie could continue to bring a bottle of wine to Scooter's parties and could even give him something small and ephemeral, like homemade cookies, for his birthday.

Naturally, Suzie's mother herself had already looked up the salary expectations for Scooter's field and casually discovered how much he was paying in rent.

Suzie's 24th birthday: another £18, 637 (plus capital gains)

All Suzie can now remember about her 24th birthday is that Scooter proposed marriage when they took Hortense for a walk by the river, she said yes, and then--in a flurry of Jane Austen-inspired romanticism, she suggested that Scooter should ask her father's permission. 

Suzie's father, wondering why his daughters always put him through this, asked Scooter if he could support Suzie in the manner to which she had become accustomed. He was mostly joking. 

"Well," said Scooter. "To be honest, I don't have a bean."

"What?" said Suzie's father. 

Scooter realized that perhaps he shouldn't have put it that way.

"I mean to say, I'm not penniless," he amended. "I mean, I've only got £5,000 in student debt, and I have a second interview with MacLeod & Stewart for an entry level position --."

"Young man," said Suzie's father for the first time since his youngest son had married. "Young man, have you ever done a day's paid work in your life?

"Well, er, of course. Here and there. As you do. Membership counter at the club, that sort of thing. Oh, and teaching undergraduates, of course, although technically my stipend--."

"Are you aware, sir," said Suzie's father, who was rapidly becoming his own great-great-grandfather, "that Suzie has worked almost every week of her life since she turned 12 years old and has amassed a Considerable Sum?"

Poor Scooter had been aware that Suzie had had a job all through university and at some point had begun paying for her own coffees, movie tickets, and whatever else when they went out, but he hadn't had a clue about the Considerable Sum. However, he was a traditionalist, had Strong Views on what the duties of  husbands are, and his parents (at least) were pleased with his academic success to date, so he said:

"No, but I'm an engineer, and.. and... And anyway my wife shouldn't have to work."

"No, she shouldn't. Not when she has small children in the house," said Suzie's father and, suddenly remembering how one of his own little girls had once come home so tired and wet from walking a particularly ill-trained schnauzer that she was shaking, became as close to enraged as he ever did. 

"There will be no wedding until you've paid off your student debt--YOU, not Suzie, and not your parents---and that's all I have to say on the subject," he said. "Now go to your room. I mean, leave my room. My office. Out!"

What Scooter did next

Scooter told Suzie shamefacedly that he had made rather a mess of things, and he was sorry. He described his conversation with her father in painful detail and made wild plans about how he was going to pay off £5,000 within two months of being hired by MacLeod & Stewart.

"More likely five months," blurted Suzie, "and not at the rent you're--."

She blushed scarlet and fell silent. 

"No, go on, " said Scooter. 

"I'm sorry," Sid Suzie. "I never discuss money outside the family."

"But I'm going to BE family," said Scooter. "At least, as soon as I pay off my stinking student loan. And I strongly suspect you're going to be the household accountant."

That was too much for Suzie all at once, so they made a date to talk about money, and Scooter went back to his overly expensive flat more determined than ever to get that job at McLeod & Stewart. He looked at his dusty guitars with revulsion and wondered how much he could get for them on eBay. 

Suzie, deeply disappointed that she would not be a June bride after all, tried to reason with her unusually truculent father. What did it matter if she paid off Scooter's silly little loan?

"I want to know that he can do it himself, that's what," said Suzie's father. 

"But Daddy--!"

"Don't 'But Daddy' me. By sending that young man into my office, you were asking me to stick my oar in and so my oar in I have stuck. No wedding until he pays off his debt."

"But that will take months," wailed Suzie. "Even if he gets this job with MacLeod & Stewart, his take-home pay will probably be only £1800 a month, and his share on that 2-bedroom flat is £500, and he's paying a 'Band F' council tax, and his gym membership is £100 a month (unless he's on the off-hours rate), and there's the telly licence and his car and he'd have to live on rice and beans!"

"So be it," said Suzie's dad and threw her out of his office. 

Scooter got the job. His take-home was actually £1820.50/month. He very much appreciated that extra £20.50. 

Suzie's 25th birthday/Wedding Day: another £18,637 (plus capital gains plus rings)

Suzie would have had a net worth of £171, 555.86 on her 25th birthday/wedding day had she not chosen to spend £10,000 on her Dream [if Winter] Wedding and Honeymoon. To her tearful surprise, Suzie's parents told her they would make up the rest from the money she had given them for room and board. Thus, Suzie's net worth was £161, 555.86 (not including the wedding presents, which were many and generous). 

Scooter's net worth was---we won't go into that. But at least he had paid off his debt and could look Suzie's father in the eye. He refused Suzie's offer to contribute to the household bills 4% of her net worth per annum, saying that there was as yet no need. MacLeod & Stewart had given him a raise, so his take-home was now £2000.80 a month. (The 80 p went into the change dish at After Mass Coffee and Tea, 20 p at a time.)

Suzie quit her job a week before her wedding day, which made many of her colleagues uncomfortable, since it reminded them of the Bad Old Days when most women did that. And interestingly, after her nice long honeymoon, Suzie discovered that housework and cooking weren't enough work for her, so she found some nice dogs to walk at 30/hr and learned to sew. 

2024

On her 26th birthday/1st wedding anniversary this week, the now-pregnant Suzie was amused to see that her Stocks and Shares ISA capital, which she has still not touched, made £10,000 during her first year of marriage. (She herself had made £3000 from dog-walking, which she contributed to the household expenses, although most of that ended up in a Down Payment for House fund.) 

To unroot ourselves from the realities of sex, class, ontology and, above all, inflation, Suzie had become Mr. Darcy. And now Scooter is reading FIRE books, so that one day he might become Mr. Darcy, too.

THE END

UPDATE: I believe that spending over £10,000 (let alone £20,000) on a wedding is shocking--and that expectations in this area actually discourage marriage--but I'm not going to throw stones at a girl who began saving for her own when she was 12. In fact, it was that goal that first led her towards making her the relative fortune she has now. Suzie also permitted herself to spend up to 25% of her regular earnings, which prevented FOMO syndrome.

Meanwhile, I think I have proved that it is indeed possible for someone to save £150,000 before his or her wedding day, if he or she works for it and saves 75%-80%. Benedict Ambrose thinks the story is rather lowering, and that it would take an unusually determined and disciplined teenager to work that much and that consistently. However, I pointed out that until Suzie was 16, her work was babysitting (which is easy once the children are asleep) and dog-walking. 

What I find lowering is thinking about all the money I have made since I first began to babysit at 12 or so. Where are my youthful earnings today, eh? Where are my not-so-youthful earnings? Gone with the wind, moi drodzy! Gone with the wind.

The Fiscal History of Well-dowried Suzie

Suzie, like many other homeschooled children, grew up in a kind of genteel poverty: a well-worn 100% lambswool kind of life. She wasn't very conscious of this, however, as almost all the other children she knew were also homeschooled. Moreover, her family didn't own a television, she was not permitted to use the internet, she did not have a mobile phone, and she never watched a film that was not thoroughly vetted by her parents. 

Although ignorant of the dark sea of vice to be found through these electronica, Suzie knew something about money, for her parents frankly discussed bills before their children, while making it plain that such information was never to be discussed outside the family. (One of her elder brothers had mentioned the family finances at Latin Summer School, only to be informed by one of the other boys that his own father was richer than Peter's father, which Peter took as a slight, and chaos ensued.) Thus, Suzie, who knew nothing of designer labels, knew at 11 that the Gas Bill cost £34/m and the Electric Bill cost £32/m. These and other unhappy phenomena meant her mother could not be disturbed between 2PM and 5PM, for that was when she resumed her former, ancient career as a bookkeeper. 

Suzie's 12th birthday: £0

By her 12th birthday, however, Suzie was discontented with her lot. I am not sure why. Maybe she was tired of wearing her sisters' hand-me-downs. Maybe the holes in the (real) Aubusson carpet depressed her. Maybe she too had an altercation at Latin Summer School. At any rate, Suzie declared that she wanted something or other, and her mother said that if she wanted extras, she would have to work for them. 

To Suzie's mother's surprise, Suzie declared that she was quite willing to work and pointed out that she had been doing unpaid kitchen and garden and childminding work at home for years. "So have I," snapped Suzie's mother and a row ensued. But afterwards, Suzie's mother sought her out as she sulked in the frozen garden and made her a deal: Suzie could embark on a career of babysitting for £8 an hour if she promised always to discuss her income and outgoings with her mother. Also, Suzie would have to hand over 20% in deductions to go into her wedding fund. 

Suzie agreed and found a regular 4-hours a week gig within her extended family. She worked for 50 weeks (her mother insisted she have 2 paid-work-free weeks at Christmas), and earned £1600 cash. She obediently handed her mother £6.40 at the end of every week, which was a very good thing because Suzie spent the rest in wild abandon, all under the watchful but strangely lenient eyes of her parents. In fact, she was quite shocked when Christmas rolled around and she had barely enough to buy Christmas presents. She asked her mother for the saved 20% and, just like any other government would do, her mother refused to hand it over. 

Suzie's 13th birthday: £320

Suzie was furious when her mother pointed out that, had she not frittered her money away, she would have had more than £1000 in her savings account. And she had also, while reading a contraband magazine at the hairdresser's, discovered that the average British wedding costs £20,000. Therefore, she decided to increase both her income and her savings rate in a dramatic way. Henceforth she would find more baby-sitting customers, put 80% of whatever she made in her wedding fund and take only 20% for her weekly allowance. Thus, Susie found 2 more paid gigs within her child-heavy community and for a year made do with a £19.20/week allowance. 

Suzie's 14th birthday: another £3,840

At 14, Suzie was delighted that she had saved an extra £3840, but decided to increase her allowance to 25% of her income. She also now wanted a dog, having become charmed by the species at one of her babysitting gigs. Her mother said she could buy a dog if she took a regular job walking them for a year. To family amazement, Suzie discovered that dog walkers in her area commanded £15 per half-hour walk. She added some dogs to her list of charges. Her spending money became £41.50 a week, which impressed Suzie so much, she started being careful with that, too, saving for quality clothing items.  

Suzie's 15th birthday: another £6,225 minus £1000 for Hortense the Purebred, so £5225 

At 15, Suzie purchased Hortense the Hound, and she had a very tiring year walking both Hortense and all the other dogs on top of her babysitting, homeschool work, chores and church. She took the dogs for walks along the river and dreamed of her future husband and their fairy tale wedding--in Falkland Palace, I think she imagined. She gave herself a £41.50 a week allowance, which her mother came secretly to envy. However, Suzie's mum pointed out to herself that a good chunk of that was spent on Hortense's needs, including insurance and obedience school. 

Suzie's 16th birthday: another £6,225

Suzie became tired of walking so many dogs, so she fired her doggie clients, raised her babysitting charges to £10 an hour and took a Tesco-he Supermarket job at £10.50. (Her mother, who harbours patrician notions, cried in secret.) In total she had 20 hours of paid work a week that year (which is not outrageous when you're homeschooled), earning £205/wk. She still took 25%, banking the rest, so her allowance was now £51.25. 

Suzie's 17th birthday: another £7,687

On her 17th birthday Suzie had £23,297 saved up, a dizzying sum more than adequate for the Average British Wedding. Her father, who never expected Suzie to stick to 20 hours of paid work a week, exclaimed that at this rate, she would have a down payment for a house when she married. Suzie, however, had found the book on the FIRE movement her mother planted under the sofa and dreamed of endless riches--or at least "£10,000 a year" from her capital like her beloved Mr. Darcy. She decided to cut back on her allowance spending and take extra shifts at The Supermarket so she could save an actual £10, 000.

Suzie's 18th birthday: another £10,000

On her 18th birthday, Suzie set up a Stocks and Shares ISA (Individual Savings Account) with a low-cost investment platform. Her initial deposit is £33, 297. She began university but continued to work a 20 hour paid week, giving herself an allowance of £60, which funded her transportation from home to uni and back, books and etceteras. Every month, £750 went from her chequing account to her ISA. She suffered greatly from an unrequited crush on a genial but feckless chap in the Catholic Student Union named Scooter. 

Suzie's 19th birthday: another £9,000 (plus capital gains)

Suzie continued to work and save capital and spend her allowance. She was shocked whenever her peers complained about not having enough money while spending long hours in the cafeteria playing cards. She suffered greatly from an unrequited crush on a particularly lazy chap in the Catholic Student Union named Hector. Hector was very handsome, at that age, and enjoyed nothing more than taking naps on the CSU sofa in the middle of the afternoon. She became rather good friends with Scooter, who couldn't understand what all the girls saw in Hopeless Hector. 

Suzie's 20th birthday: another £9,000 (plus capital gains)

Suzie turned 20 with mixed feelings. She enjoyed her work and studies and being (she was told) the best dressed girl in the CSU and very likely (she said only to her mother) the richest, barring any trust funds. However, she had been saving for her wedding since she was 13, and she didn't even have a boyfriend. 

What was wrong? Was she too forceful when she spoke? Was she too ambitious? Maybe she should spend less time behind the cash register and more time at CSU events? Maybe--dark thought--she wasn't pretty enough? Suzie's mother told her that most of the boys simply hadn't grown up yet and that Suzie would probably have better luck among the grad students. Meanwhile, Suzie was not just pretty, she was objective lovely. (Suzie's mother then hurried out of the room to burst into secret tears.) The day before her 21st birthday, Suzie got a full-time management job at The Supermarket and the in-house magazine had a field day. 

Suzie's 21st birthday: another £9,000 (plus capital gains)

Suzie had a smashing ceilidh for her 21st birthday, funded by her parents, grandparents, and herself. Everybody talked about it for the rest of the year not only because it was amazing but because the COVID lockdown struck two months afterwards. Chaos ensued at the uni, and Suzie had almost all the worries of everyone else who was supposed to graduate that year. She was deemed an essential worker, and thus continued to work for The Supermarket--now full-time. 

Suzie's new take-home pay was £24,850/a, of which £1553/m went into her Stocks and Shares ISA and £300/m went to her parents for room and board. Suzie wore a mask, would refuse the vax, and read Daily Sceptic and Monevator. Thanks to Monevator and years of governing her feelings behind the cash register, she refused to panic when the market tanked. She had her fiscal reward, that's for sure. Yay, tech stocks! 

Suzie's 22nd birthday: another £18,637 (plus capital gains)

On her 22nd birthday, Suzie felt very strange and left her online virtual birthday party (at which guests watched a video of themselves at her 21st birthday ceilidh) early. She had COVID. 

Scooter, who had come home from his graduate program at the Max Planck Institute (Mainz) when COVID hit, was quite worried about her. Not knowing what else to do, and greatly hampered by the lockdown, he sent her an enormous bouquet of flowers. Suzie's mother, finding the astonishingly large tribute socially distanced at the door, began to make subtle enquiries about Scooter. 

After recovering from COVID, Suzie went back to work and, when harassed about the vax, told people she had had COVID and was now immune. A friend in upper management warned her that her coat was on a shoogly peg.  

Suzie's 23rd birthday: another £18, 637 (plus capital gains)

Sometime after Suzie's 23rd birthday, Scooter finally got it together enough to ask her out for coffee after Mass. Suzie, in a panic, said she didn't want to because it would ruin the friendship. Scooter pointed out that it was only a coffee, come on. In response, Suzie literally ran away--clickety click in her beautiful shoes. 

In a huff, Scooter asked her open-mouthed younger sister if she would go out for a coffee with him. Naturally, she agreed and great was the drama in the family home afterwards. (Suzie's parents hadn't had such a great laugh [in private] in years.) 

About a week afterwards Suzie was fired by The Supermarket and escorted to the carpark by security. She went home crying to find Scooter on the doorstep. He got up, anxious to explain, and she fell into his arms. 

To be continued...

UPDATE: All characters in this story are completely fictional and are not based on anyone in real life. Hearty apologies to any Hectors who might now belong or have belonged to a British CSU. Also apologies if I unconsciously know anyone who studied at the Max Planck Institute [Mainz]. You're not Scooter.

UPDATE 2: After discovering the difference between dowered and dowried, I have changed the title slightly.

Economic realities: an argument for the self-made dowry

"My wife should not HAVE to work," said the nice young man who brought me Godiva chocolates about 30 years ago. 

He had a super job, for then, and my mother pondered the situation speculatively. He was slightly older than the rest of our gang and had a very good head for business. Presumably he was tentatively attracted to my contrasting frivolous nature. I was so frivolous, however, that I didn't give him any encouragement, and eventually he courted and married someone else and had many children and is no doubt a pillar of the community. 

What remained with me was that interesting phrase "My wife should not HAVE to work," which seemed  a nice balance between the "married women must work to feel fulfilled" message of the secular world and the "married women should not work" position of social conservatives of that era. It also echoed my family life, as my mother (while, of course, doing housework and volunteer work) did not HAVE to do paid work. Her mother had also not HAD to do paid work. Thus, for two generations, "husband works, wife works--if she likes--for pin money" was the norm for the married women of that side of the family. 

Flashforward to today when all the married women of my family (except my mother) do paid work. In fact, all three of us have what you could call careers. And these careers take the place of a little something traditionalists all forget about when they talk about women not working: our paycheques' Indian cousin, the DOWRY. 

I was thinking about Jane Austen today, and her rootedness in her own reality, and how dismayed she must be (if permitted to know) that her fans daydream about her reality instead of being rooted in their own. Worse, her fans forget the crippling challenges of women of Austen's class and era, which involved attracting men not only with their youth, beauty (same thing), and charms but with money.

By the way, at a dinner party the other night, a young lady suggested that before feminism life was better and easier for women. The quick response to that would be "Which women?" However, what first came to mind was the cafe in which my mother worked as a university student/waitress in the 1960s and in which I worked as a university student/sandwich maker in the 1990s. (Same place, different business.) In the 1960s, my mother was routinely pinched or patted on her bottom, something today we would call sexual harassment or assault. In the 1990s, I never experienced anything like that at work. 

But to return to the 19th century, women who expected to live a certain kind of life were expected to help fund it with inherited money. If there was no inherited money, they were considered very fortunate if they married well regardless. Meanwhile, the well-dowered woman was not allowed control of that money; the business was managed between her male relations and her husband. The idea was that women had no head for business. (Presumably most of the women of that class didn't, having been told that they didn't and not having the opportunity to learn the art.) 

I agree that wives should not HAVE to work. How lovely if all of our husbands made a family wage, enough to pay for all the household needs and the children's education and to have a tidy sum invested to pay for old age, especially the wages of the single women and married men taking care of us in hospitals or the old folks home. However, thanks to the economic realities of our day, and the fact that our parents (or St. Nicholas) have not magicked up dowries, many--if not most--wives do actually have to work. 

There is a way around this, of course. The path has been cleared by the Financial Independence/Early Retirement movement. As it has appeared for the last 30 years or so that young women are practical go-getters, now the majority at colleges and universities, and young men spend much longer focussing on their hobbies, dreaming dreams, and delaying marriage, all that remains is to encourage single women to save as much of their wages as they possibly can before they do marry. By the time Scooter has given up his dreams of rock and roll godhood, established his career and is looking for a wife, his college pal Suzie, upon whom he has had a secret crush for 5 years, will have had time to amass, let's say, £150,000 since she first began working a part-time job at 15. (Yes, that's a lot, but I need a round figure.)

Invested at 6%, if Suzie never takes out more than 4% a year, that sum will be able to contribute £500 a month to the household finances without Suzie ever going out to work again. Naturally, she has never said anything about this to Scooter, and when he rockets back into her life with hearts and flowers, she continues to keep a maidenly silence until marriage is in the air. 

"My wife shouldn't HAVE to work," Scooter, if a trad, will then say. 

"She won't have to work," Suzie will reply---and (unless Scooter loses his job/dies without life insurance) it will be true.  

P.S. Not being a Gordon, I think married women should work if we want to, not just if we have to, as long as it does not interfere with our family life, especially if we have children. Same goes for men, by the way.

UPDATE: It occurred to me that the idea of earning £150,000 before getting married could be one more mental burden on Gen Z women. If it's helpful, you could think of your university diploma, your trade papers, or your professional qualification as a dowry. Or you could, if in deeply in love with a trad Scooter, explain carefully and kindly why you will probably have to work before the babies come and after they have grown up.

UPDATE 2: It also occurs to me that amassing a goodly sum before marriage is something young men could potentially do, too.     

UPDATE 3: If anyone has time to figure out how a 25 year old can realistically have amassed a life savings of £150,000 (or $150,000), that would be a fun addition to the conversation.

UPDATE 4: I have figured out a reasonably credible scenario. Stay tuned!

I am Susan

It is a truth as yet unacknowledged that any woman over 45 in charge of some aspect of parish life could be a Susan. 

Thanks to Twitter's "Susan from the Parish Council," English-speaking Catholics online have had a chuckle or two at the expense of the elderly ladies who dominate parishes and fight for the Spirit of Vatican Two. And I don't doubt that many of these ladies are tyrants who deserve a bit of mockery, although I note that the promulgation of the Spirit of Vatican Two was not their fault.

I laughed at Susan, too, until I found myself crying bitterly in a car park because my TLM community was probably being moved to a chapel with a tearoom that would have been inaccessible to the disabled, difficult for parents, and dangerous for children. I believe the clergy involved rather liked the pretty chapel, but I was furious. Sometimes when you scratch a Trad you find a member of Alpha Sigma Nu.  I went on the warpath, and without knowing exactly how or why it happened, I note that we were not moved in the end. 

Recently I discovered that plans are afoot to renovate the tearoom for which I went to war. I wrote to my opposite number at the Earlier Mass to discover what this meant to her After Mass Coffee and Tea and to my After Mass Coffee and Tea. It was, I reflected, one Susan writing to another. 

Yesterday someone gave me a board game called "Jane Austen's Matchmaker Chapter Two," which made me feel that my Susan tendencies had not gone unnoticed. However, I would like to point out that I am not at all interested in matchmaking and (once again) that Jane Austen described the lives of multi-millionaires. I like to provide rational entertainments and hope to help restore Western Civilization by reestablishing basic tenets of social behaviour, but machinations around seating arrangements and forcing X to dance with Y are not my thing. In fact, I now find the whole concept frightening. 

Matchmaking is frightening because marriage is a very serious thing and should only be entered into, in the West, because both parties are so crazy-in-love that they sincerely believe their hearts will implode if they don't marry each other. (The right man for any woman is the one who is so tactful as to be crazy about her at least 5 seconds before she is observably crazy about him. He also should have a good character and a job/trade/profession, naturally.) Marriage only works if both parties are thoroughly decent to each other and to their children, and I'm frankly terrified of the alternative. In fact, I'd rather think about being a Susan.

The difficulty with being a Susan is that some of the mirth being a Susan excites is not entirely down to being strong-minded, but being strong-minded, female, and over 45 (and, like a Karen, of European extraction). Laughing at someone because she is female and aging (and pale) strikes me as unfair. It is especially unfair as many women first feel confident and have their feet on solid ground for the first time since childhood after the age of 40. After feeling frightened and unsure for about 28 years, you finally feel confidence rushing through your veins. You perceive a problem, you take action, and all of a sudden you're a Karen--or a Susan. Unjust! 

However, women over 45 complaining because women over 45 aren't taken entirely seriously is scarcely new or original, so I will stop. Instead I will note that I also received yesterday two beautiful mugs from northern Poland in tribute to my dance-making endeavours, which was splendid. 

I will also say that my waltzing parties are now so successful that I have engaged a larger hall. Once again, I encourage my fellow Susans out there, especially the Trad Susans, to consider hosting social dancing parties of your own. 

Right Bach-a-ta

That was supposed to be a pun worthy of my husband Benedict Ambrose. Meanwhile, I didn't know what bachata was until I half-joked to my visiting sister that we could go to an Edinburgh Salsa Night, and we actually did. 

Happy Epiphany, by the way! Happy New Year and happy continuing Christmas. B.A. and I had an amazing Christmas holiday with many built-in treats because my sister Tertia decided to fly across the ocean to join us. 

If you have followed the prices of transatlantic airfares in December, you will know how generous Tertia's decision was. Thus, we pushed the boat out and reserved a table at Prestonfield House and bought tickets for both a public ceilidh and a New Year's Day race meeting. Later we added tickets to the local pantomime, and my sister treated me to the Salsa Night. 

Tertia is a keen salsa dancer. She goes out and salsas at least once a week. She is also fluent in Spanish and has travelled widely in Latin America. She even took tango lessons in Argentina. Let's just say, she knows her stuff.

"Is it salsa or bachata?" she asked organizers both electronically and in person.  She does not like bachata, so she wanted to be clear on this point. 

"It's a mix," they told her. 

Innocent me had no idea what the difference was. I know almost nothing about Latin (let alone Dominican Republican) music, and I was looking forward to Salsa Night with secret gloom. However, I remembered that I, however improbably, now teach youngsters how to waltz, so I asked Tertia for a preparatory salsa lesson. I salsa'd in the sitting-room, and I salsa'd at the bus stop. I felt more enthusiastic after that.

When we got to the club, which was in a part of Edinburgh I had mentally apostrophized as dodgy, we discovered a smallish dark and crowded room with coats and bags piled up along a wall. Couples were dancing about hands-in-hands, and the DJ seemed to be playing pleasant tunes. Tertia gave the room a knowledgeable glance, and before I knew it she was dancing the salsa elegantly with a stranger. 

Sadly, there was not as much salsa as bachata. My sister discontentedly told me that they were playing one salsa for every three bachatas, and that people were dancing the bachata in a weird, twisty, inauthentic way. 

I enjoy dancing done well--or not done well, but joyfully--but I did not enjoy watching strangers dancing the bachata. I have since discovered that the richer, more educated people of the Dominican Republic did not like the bachata, either. It was associated with the very poor and with brothels. 

Believe me, the brothel element was very much on display that night. Some of the women danced in a creepy, over-sexual way, like pole dancers in movies, only with men as the pole. One girl kept flicking her head back in a way that made my flesh crawl.  

To distract myself, I though about my lovely waltzing-and-(currently)-swing-dance parties, and how I would never permit any Nice Catholic Girl I knew to dance the bachata, even if I had to knock her down and sit on her. It also made me think about Catholic critics of all round dances, and how right they would be if all round dances were indeed like that. Finally, I felt 100% justified in creating spaces in which Catholics can enjoy dancing without being exposed to scenes like the one before me.   

Tertia consented to dance the bachata, but in a refined way that didn't look (to me) too different from the way she dances the salsa. To ensure her tastes were respected, she explained to partners how she preferred to dance it, as she told me later. (I enjoyed overhearing her speaking Spanish, but I didn't understand a word. The Spanish-speakers, unsurprisingly for Edinburgh, were not from Latin America but from Spain.) I'm very impressed and edified that my sister has the confidence to negotiate how to dance a dance before dancing it. It's a pity, though, that she had to do that. 

Because the organizers of the event seem to have been kind and thoughtful people, I hesitated in writing this post. It's not that I have a problem being judgemental. (This current fad for refusing to judge behaviour is not good for society.) It's that the organizers are real people, and I am concerned that some Kind Friend will find my post and send it to them. However, I so rarely go out to dance clubs these days that the contrast between this dance and my dances really made an impression. 

The next night we went to the very not-sexy public ceilidh. It was great fun, if crowded, chaotic, and a tiny bit dangerous. The best men dancers wore kilts, I wore my MacLean sash, and when crowd all took hands and sang "Auld Lang Syne", I felt quite choked up with Scottish-Canadian pride.