When my sister-in-law baked a cake for my husband’s and my wedding anniversary, she adorned it with a toothbrush and two tiny typewriters, in memory of the time he and I went to Paris. They were symbols of what we were prepared to share (a toothbrush) and what we were not (a typewriter).
The whole question of sharing is tricky. Children feel grown up when they’re allowed to eat grown-up food. Anyone who tried to share the crossword with my father would have been in for it.
A good boss shares your difficulties, aware when something has been changed that was out of your control; and a good employee, I suppose, is one who shares a boss’s concern for the wider picture. Even the most sympathetic and kindly boss cannot control earthquakes, tube strikes, changes in the market. Such a one who shares your difficulties is the one you really try to please.
In any home-sharing arrangement who shares the chores, the last bottle, the stray expenses is crucial. I am sharing my home with a woman under the auspices of the Care and Share organisation; the care’s irrelevant but sharing’s a problematic matter anywhere. Breaking bread – sharing food – designates friendship; in some cultures men share their women with their friends; sharing a joint account is tricky.
In politics some think the rich should share with the poor, Blairites reject sharing much with the old red socialism of Corbyn and McDonnell, Ukip doesn’t think we should share anything with Europe, and plenty of people don’t think we should share our green and pleasant land with immigrants – even those from countries where Britain didn’t hesitate to share their countries in times gone.
Who shares what with whom is always a question worth asking.
What do you think? Have your say below
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