I woke far too early this morning, but that sometimes happens and it doesn't bother me. I like to lie there and think about things, tidy the large cupboard in my head, make peace with my memories and mull over ideas.
This morning I was remembering an uncomfortable occasion that must have been following me like a thread, or an inverted trail of Hansel and Gretel pebbles, for much of my life. As a family we attended Jesmond Presbyterian Church which was in a chic, at that time student-y part of Newcastle. McMum and McDad had lived in Jesmond when they were newly married, and there was no Presbyterian church in the village where we lived, or nearby actually. So on Sundays we put on our Sunday best and piled into the car for the 25 minute drive into town.
The church was big, grand and empty. Presbyterianism involves a lot of telling off. My brother and me would sit and be told off by the minister along with the rest of the congregation before, with the other children, heading off to Sunday School in a room at the back of the church, while the grown-ups got told off by the sermon, long form. The little girls went out first, followed by the boys.
Once, as a protest against being forced to wear a kilt, Bruv went out with the girls. 'But I'm wearing a skirt!', he argued when he was (yes) told off about it later. Maybe that's something that should be put in a gender critical pipe and smoked.
When you were primary school age, Sunday School wasn't too bad. There was a jolly, if strict, chap who once told us a wonderful story about a blended animal called a Camelephantelopelicanary. I can't remember the point of the story, just the name of the animal, but it was quite a remarkable concept and an interesting approach to religion.
The parents would come to find us after their part of the service, and one day they said 'Mr McVitie has asked if he can make a recording of you singing'. 'No', I said.
Mr McVitie was one of those men who looks old even when they are young: it was partly to do with the way he dressed. He wore black pin-striped trousers and a matching funeral-black waistcoat and jacket. He was portly and he wore wire rimmed spectacles with indistinct eyes behind them, and on his feet, exceptionally shiny black shoes. He had a round, unexpressive face, with a crisply-cut bristly sandy-grey moustache (or maybe he didn't?) and disconcertingly pink marshmallow-like lips (he definitely did). Yes, he was very pink.
'No', I said. But little children my age weren't allowed to say no. I stood frozen with distaste in my Sunday-best dress. He stood at a respectful (ha!) distance with his portable cassette recorder in one hand and the small microphone extended in the other, his arm outstretched towards me pointing it at my wavery little voice. In his eyes was a look of neediness that was utterly disconcerting. He was taking something from me: my littleness, my vulnerability, trying to capture my innocence in a not very innocent way. I could feel the imbalance of power, the sense of being ganged up against by adults and made to do something against my will.
At the end of the recording, triumphant, he withdrew his extended arm, thanked my parents and everyone went home for Sunday lunch.
And then, so much later, I spent years and years writing and researching a book about the capture of women's voices in recording studios by men, and the control of the way they sound and communicate. Do you think these factors could be related?
https://www.equinoxpub.com/home/shes-at-the-controls/
The drawing isn't a very accurate portrait of either of us! Years later, he came to McSis's wedding and blanked me. I did say hello anyway, and noticed one very, very long strand of white hair growing out of the bridge of his nose: an external conscience, perhaps.
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