I've come to the conclusion that I am one of life's great dabblers. In terms of hobbies and pastimes, I've never really had an all consuming passion. There have been a lot of things that have piqued my innerest over the years but nothing for which I've fallen hook, line and sinker.
That said, I have actually quite enjoyed some of the activities that I've tried; A week long catamaran sailing course down in Cornwall a couple of years ago was very pleasurable.
But I think there is one common denominator shared by any pastime with a degree of social interaction associated with it; The windbags with whom one has to rub shoulders.
In my usual role as the token novice, I should be used to the probing questions full of shop jargon. It's almost as if they were designed to make one feel out of one's depth and I never know whether it's better to try and wing it or plead ignorant for I find both will invarably lead to my being held in utter contempt; Indeed, in the sailing club I was Ok up to a point until I felt like a frog trying to cross the pond finding myself with no more lily pads onto which I could hop.
But it's more the schoolboy enthusiasm exhibited by hobbyists and their voracity for in depth discussions of the technical minutiae of their field of innerest that I find isolating as a woman. Let's face it, most of the things I have tried have been very male dominated and the fact that we live in a country that gave the world the hobby of trainspotting should have told me all I needed to know about the British male hobbyist in his natural environment.
So, a couple of weekends back I decided to try something a little more fluffy and found myself entering a grand apartment in Bath's Circus for a taster course in ayurvedic massage. I took a seat in the lobby among a group of middle aged looking, white, middle class women mostly attired in apparel that could loosely be described as "ethnic".
I turned to the woman to my right and attempted to break the ice.
She fixed me with a steely gaze and barked "Have you Glastonburyed before?"
"Well, I did jump the fence a couple of times in the eighties!"
"So how did you feel about cheating Water Aid?"
(I did feel like pointing out that it was CND back then, an organisation I had no qualms whatsoever about defrauding but I didn't)
Oh dear, a bit of back peddling and making out that I am a regular customer at Gothic Image got me nowhere. And then the woman to my left joined in and added that she had "Glastonburyed" last year and wondered what I was doing there since no budding bodhisattva worth his or her salt on their journey to enlightenment wouldn't have NOT "Glastonburyed" at some point on their spriritual path.
"Glastonburying", for the record, has nothing to do with attending the eponymous festival, but living and fully immersing oneself in the Somerset town's hippy trippy culture until you are so far up your own chakra that it would naturally occur to you to take a course on ayurvedic massage.
An absolutely ghastly experience that had me yearning for the company of the phillumenists at the British Matchbox Label Society, whose august ranks I hope to join after a little taster course next weekend.
That said, I have actually quite enjoyed some of the activities that I've tried; A week long catamaran sailing course down in Cornwall a couple of years ago was very pleasurable.
But I think there is one common denominator shared by any pastime with a degree of social interaction associated with it; The windbags with whom one has to rub shoulders.
In my usual role as the token novice, I should be used to the probing questions full of shop jargon. It's almost as if they were designed to make one feel out of one's depth and I never know whether it's better to try and wing it or plead ignorant for I find both will invarably lead to my being held in utter contempt; Indeed, in the sailing club I was Ok up to a point until I felt like a frog trying to cross the pond finding myself with no more lily pads onto which I could hop.
But it's more the schoolboy enthusiasm exhibited by hobbyists and their voracity for in depth discussions of the technical minutiae of their field of innerest that I find isolating as a woman. Let's face it, most of the things I have tried have been very male dominated and the fact that we live in a country that gave the world the hobby of trainspotting should have told me all I needed to know about the British male hobbyist in his natural environment.
So, a couple of weekends back I decided to try something a little more fluffy and found myself entering a grand apartment in Bath's Circus for a taster course in ayurvedic massage. I took a seat in the lobby among a group of middle aged looking, white, middle class women mostly attired in apparel that could loosely be described as "ethnic".
I turned to the woman to my right and attempted to break the ice.
She fixed me with a steely gaze and barked "Have you Glastonburyed before?"
"Well, I did jump the fence a couple of times in the eighties!"
"So how did you feel about cheating Water Aid?"
(I did feel like pointing out that it was CND back then, an organisation I had no qualms whatsoever about defrauding but I didn't)
Oh dear, a bit of back peddling and making out that I am a regular customer at Gothic Image got me nowhere. And then the woman to my left joined in and added that she had "Glastonburyed" last year and wondered what I was doing there since no budding bodhisattva worth his or her salt on their journey to enlightenment wouldn't have NOT "Glastonburyed" at some point on their spriritual path.
"Glastonburying", for the record, has nothing to do with attending the eponymous festival, but living and fully immersing oneself in the Somerset town's hippy trippy culture until you are so far up your own chakra that it would naturally occur to you to take a course on ayurvedic massage.
An absolutely ghastly experience that had me yearning for the company of the phillumenists at the British Matchbox Label Society, whose august ranks I hope to join after a little taster course next weekend.
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