Assumptions

I’m often over-estimated because of my posh middle class appearance.
People think I must have had a top job in some prestigious organisation.
Or they think I’m super-wealthy.
Or they think I live in some splendid mansion.
All quite mistaken.
I’ve always done humble jobs like bookselling and admin.
I’m well-off but not wealthy.
I live in a modest detached house.
 
It’s funny what people assume from my appearance.
I suppose I do the same in reverse.
I get other people quite wrong because of how they look.
I imagine people are poor if they wear very ordinary clothes.
When actually they might be loaded.
Or I imagine they’re narrow-minded if they look rather stern.
Which probably isn’t the case.
 
Then again there’s mistaken identity.
I was once accosted by a man who was sure I was a well-known actor.
I didn’t think there was the vaguest resemblance but he was adamant.
I had to insist several times that I wasn’t this person.
He finally gave in, but I don’t think he really believed me.
I invented an urgent appointment and made my escape.

Pushy parents

Well, Ms Scarlet Blue suggested I do a post about skirmishes, but I don't think I want to relive what at the time were very upsetting experi-ences. So I shall swerve away from that topic and try something else.

Like parental expectations. Parents who expect you to do (or not do) certain things with your life. Parents who want you to be just like them. Parents who expect huge achievements rather than modest unremarkable lives.

They expect you to have lots of children and grandchildren. Or take over the family business. Or be a high earner. When you want none of those things.

My parents were happy when I started work as a journalist, but a lot less happy when I abandoned journalism and became a bookseller. They thought I was wasting my abilities as well as not earning enough.

My mother was always disappointed that I never had children or grandchildren, but at least she didn't harp on about it. She was pleased when my sister had a daughter but I'm sure what she really wanted was a massive brood.

My father clearly thought I wasn't masculine enough - that I was far too sentimental and cared far too much about society's losers. He expected me to be tougher and harder and stop excusing other people's weaknesses.

Yes, there are parents who genuinely have no route-map for their children, and are happy with whatever lives they choose. But there are plenty who're less relaxed and want to push them this way or that.

I see what they're after. They want their kids to have fulfilling lives, they have their own idea of what will enable that, and they try to influence their kids accordingly. But their kids may have very different plans.

No, dad, I'm not a chip off the old block and I never wanted to be.

Self righteous, moi?

Every so often someone accuses me of being smug, self-righteous or self-congratul-atory. I always ask myself if they're right, and if I'm unaware of how I come across. And I always conclude they've got me wrong.

Surely I could only be smug if I'm one of those people who's convinced everything I've achieved in life is through my own efforts, and I owe nothing to anyone else. And if other people aren't as fortunate, that's entirely due to their personal failings.

All of which is patently absurd. Because I'm acutely aware that whatever I've achieved is only very partly through my own efforts. It's mostly down to all sorts of other things I had no say in - the country I live in, my family, my education, my physical and mental health, people I ran into, sudden unexpected opportunities. And the most important factor - a lot of good luck.

I got my first bookselling job because the bookshop concerned had just sacked six employees for misconduct (being drunk in the shop) and they needed six new employees in a hurry.

Jenny and I were able to buy a large detached house because of constantly rising property prices which worked to our advantage. When we met, Jenny had one room in a shared house and I was living in a tiny bedsit.

I landed several jobs because of my good command of English - which goes back to a brilliant English teacher at my prep school.

And of course the biggest bit of luck was meeting Jenny. We've achieved so much together that we couldn't have managed on our own.

So no, I'm not smug. On the contrary, I still doubt myself in all sorts of ways and never believe I'm as intelligent and capable as others seem to think. I always feel as if I'm fumbling my way through life and could come a cropper at any moment.

Good luck isn't guaranteed.

Always a journo

Kylie reckons I'm "ever in journalist mode". Which is surely an awful thing to be, but she might be right. After all, I spent six years as a journalist, so some of the journalist culture must have rubbed off on me, like it or not.

Jenny thinks there's still a bit of the journalist in me. I like inventing spoof tabloid headlines ("Refund joy for tearful Belfast couple"), and I do tend to over-react to a dramatic piece of news.

But despite the residual journalistic quirks, I'm still very critical of journalism and the way it distorts, trivialises and sensationalises important issues. I've never regretted leaving journalism for bookselling, even though many people thought I was crazy.

Apart from anything else, journalism nowadays is hard work. Long hours, low salaries, unpaid internships, constant redundancies. It's a far cry from the well-paid, leisurely, drunken activity it was in the sixties.

But I've never properly explained why I left journalism. Just a few of the reasons:

• So often it never gets to the heart of an issue. It trots out a few basic facts and seldom digs deeper or asks awkward questions.
• It spreads rumours and gossip about celebrities and public figures, much of it malicious and untrue.
• It encourages prejudice of all kinds - racism, sexism, xenophobia, hatred of welfare "scroungers" etc.
• It turns minor incidents into huge controversies (famous actress has wardrobe malfunction)
• It's hypocritical. For example, it laments climate breakdown, but welcomes consumerism and long-distance travel.
• It runs with every fad and fashion, however absurd or irresponsible or pointless.

In the end I just felt uncomfortable as a journalist. There were so many dubious practices I simply couldn't buy into. Bookselling by comparison suited me down to the ground. All I had to do was sell interesting books to interesting people. Nothing uncomfortable there. It kept me happy for 23 highly enjoyable years.

But I still admire a clever tabloid headline.

Unwanted advice

I don't like unasked-for advice. I don't like getting it and I try not to give it. Most of it is plain annoying; it's either irrelevant or offensive or misinformed or smug. I've very seldom had advice that I actually found useful.

When I gave up journalism and became a bookseller, a lot of people were surprised and said I should have stayed in journalism - it was more exciting, better paid, more prestigious etc. I didn't agree with them, I took no notice, and I was irritated by their assumption they knew what was good for me. I spent many enjoyable years as a bookseller (23 in fact) and I never regretted quitting journalism.

When Jenny and I sold our flat in Islington in London and moved to Belfast, once again a lot of people were surprised and said we must be mad to move from a civilised city to an unpredictable trouble spot. We ignored the doubters and now we've been in Belfast for 19 very happy years. We don't miss London's congestion and high prices and pretensions in the least.

Luckily I've been treated to such gratuitous advice very rarely. Family members are renowned for dishing out earnest advice on every subject, but even my family has been reticent in this respect, despite my making decisions they must have found baffling or idiotic or disappointing. Of course that may be because my family are reticent about almost everything.

I try not to give unwanted advice to others, unless they specifically ask for it. How can I possibly know what's in the best interests of another person? Even if I've been through similar experiences, what was right for me isn't necessarily right for them. And suppose they followed my advice and came a cropper because of some crucial factor I wasn't even aware of? So much for my smart-alec interference.

Sometimes silence is golden.