In which the internet is kind

Warning: more language, I’m afraid. Editorially necessary. Still not nice.

 

There is an awful lot of received wisdom about the internet. One of the stickiest is that it is a wild, cruel place, where people have no edit button, and say hideous things from behind a cloak of anonymity.

As a sub-set of this, there are many stories about women being abused and degraded. Revolting suggestions about parts of the anatomy are offered; death threats are not uncommon. The latest example of this was the monstering of Mary Beard. To everyone’s great delight, the stalwart professor fought back like a tigress.

All this is, of course true. Only this morning, I found a comment on a seemingly benign Facebook page. One man accused another of being a ‘dumb fuck wank stain wife beating cunt’. (Sic. He clearly had no use for hyphens.) This was in regard to a piece about the South American tribes whose way of life is being threatened by the building of a vast hydro-electric dam. You might think that the people who care about this would not even know the expression ‘wank stain’, let alone use it in public. Yet there it was, in all its gratuitous ugliness.

The thing that is not much reported is that the internet is also a place of great warmth and kindness and humanity. It can be polite and charming. It can be helpful and informative. Because of it, I know things I would not otherwise know; I may witness lives across the other side of the world, about which I would otherwise be ignorant.

All of which is a long way of saying: thank you all for the lovely birthday wishes.

The virtual birthday is a new thing. Through Twitter and the blogs, and most of all via Facebook, which helpfully reminds your online acquaintances that this is the great day of your birth, happy little messages of goodwill may wing their way through the ether. They come from complete strangers. They come from friends whom you only know online. They come from real-life loved ones, and far-flung family, waving across time zones. They bring just as much pleasure as actual presents and cards. Someone, somewhere, has paused in their busy day, and taken the time to type. It is oddly touching.

I sometimes wonder if the goodness and generosity and big-heartedness of my internet circle is an anomaly. I am always wary of universalising the particular. And anecdotal evidence is, well, anecdotal. Of course my Dear Readers are of the finest and best: five star, ocean-going, fur-lined remarkables. When you were made, the mould was broken.

Yet, I cannot believe that this place, and the people who come here, are so very unrepresentative. I get glimpses, sometimes, of other people’s interactions, and they too are being funny and kind and polite. If anything, the wank stain crew seem to me to be the minority, the oddities, the furious few who, like small children throwing tantrums, almost cannot help themselves.

Being kind does not make headlines. It also does not shock in the way the ravening hordes with their swearing and their threats do. But it is real, and it is important, and it should not be drowned out by the shouty people.

I also think it matters. I’m going to go back to my hippyish tendency now, but I really do believe that sending the smallest message of affection, paying the tiniest compliment, offering the briefest good-hearted encouragement really does add to the sum total of human happiness. The increments may be minuscule, but boy, do they add up.

Thank you all. You are bloody lovely. And now I am going to contemplate love and trees.

 

Today’s pictures:

A gloomy old day. Dirty sky and intermittent rain. At least last night’s crazy gales have blown themselves out. But today was all about looking for the beauty in the small things:

The last of the snow, in a rare moment of light:

Autumn the Filly:

Myfanwy the Pony, at her woolliest:

A rather dreamy Red the Mare. She may be tired after keeping her herd safe in the high winds. She’s never been a lead mare before, and she’s learning on the job. It’s very sweet to watch. Except when she decides Autumn is getting out of line and must have a charming bite on the bottom. (Don’t worry; it’s a very gentle bite. And Autumn proves herself pretty much unfussed by anything.):

Stanley the Dog has found a most excellent stick:

Here he is, doing sit and stay. He is saying: how long do I have to sit here before I may have my good boy reward?:

Today’s hill:

Birthday

It is my birthday. I am forty-six years old. It’s a bit of a neither flesh, fowl, nor good red herring sort of age, but it will do.

The day raced away from me like a brumby on sunlit plain. It is 6.45pm and only now have I sat down to write this.

It was a day of great loveliness. There were cards. There was an enchanting birthday breakfast. There were flowers. There were telephone calls. Stanley the Dog staged a little parade of adorableness. There were gales, so the horses put on a good old bronco show for me, wild as the wind itself. There were really good presents.

I even did some proper work. I went to one very serious meeting, driving up the valley with my notebook and my business face on, and matters of import were discussed and then an unexpected celebratory drink was produced. There was no great birthday plan, and I prefer it that way (I find birthday plans slightly embarrassing), so this ad hoc celebration was exactly the very thing.

The internet shimmered with sweetness and kindness. Facebook and Twitter hummed with birthday messages. There is something very touching about people one may never meet stopping to remember that this is the day of one’s birth.

And now there is just time for a couple of pictures, of the Best Beloveds -

The running herd:

Dozing pony:

Red the Mare, at her most demure:

Stanley the Dog, with his serious handsome face on:

And the Dear Departeds:

And my hill:

Happy Birthday

Posted by Tania Kindersley.

Today is my mother’s birthday.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY, MUM.

I am very grateful to my mother for teaching me manners, and what to look for in a two-year-old colt.

I gave her a red blanket for the bed, a lavender and hop pillow, and a biography of Ruby Walsh.

‘Oh, Ruby,’ she said. It was only a paperback, but it was easily her best present. She really loves that man like a son.

Too tired now for more words, but here are some pictures.

This is the wood I drive through when I go up to see the ponies:

Garden:

Red and Myfanwy:

Pigeon, doing her sphinx impersonation:

Where the hill should be:

The weather, as you can see, continues gloomy. The seven day forecast says: cloud, cloud, cloud, light rain, cloud, cloud, cloud. Ah, June in dear old Blighty.

In which there is a party

Posted by Tania Kindersley.

I have just read two bedtime stories to the three-year-old. (There was rather a funny one about a wobbly tooth.) So I feel in children’s book mode. Lovely, simple, declarative sentences; perhaps the surprising mention of a giraffe. If I could draw pictures, I would.

So, today, there was:

Special birthday breakfast, for the turning of NINE. Eating of sausages; making of toast. Singing of songs. Dancing. (It must be admitted that I joined in.) Then, talking to the chickens. Walking the dogs; up the valley, down the valley. The serious preparation of some egg mayonnaise sandwiches. A gathering of the birthday party for a small expedition. They returned home to the grand birthday tea. I made: homemade lemonade, sticky chipolatas, cheese straws, a variety of dips. There was a slight 1970s Abigail’s Party theme, as we put cubes of cheese and pieces of salami on sticks. My inner Alison Steadman came out and did a pirouette. The girls seemed to like it.

This will come as no news to those of you who have children of your own, but the gathering of twelve nine-year-old girls in one place is a trip. The shrieks, the jumping up and down, the mood swings, the glimmering smiles, the swishing of hair, the moments of sudden introspection, the wild dance moves. It’s all a revelation to me.

I think it was a success. Everyone seemed to have a good time. The food all disappeared. The Pigeon was much admired and fussed over and petted and adored.

I have absolutely no idea what happened in the world today. I hope the entire global economy is still stuttering on. I hope that the world order did not crumble as we ate Victoria sponge.

Miraculously, there was a moment of quiet at eleven o’clock, as we all watched the silence, and observed the Queen laying her wreath at the Cenotaph, and the old veterans, with their medals and their straight backs, standing to attention in the sunshine of Whitehall.

It’s not the kind of day I am used to. Usually, it is just me and the Pidge and the hill and the still, Scottish air. But it was a good, good day. I am smiling now, as I write this. Someone turned nine, and it was well marked.

Pictures are of the birthday table, with the flowers that we specially arranged, some from the garden, some from the shop:

And the Pigeon, in Ingrid Bergman black and white: