The drainage man got out of his vehicle and swept me into a big hug. We last met 25 years ago. “This is” I said delightedly hugging him back “the nearest I get to being a star !” Me with an allergic eye condition and looking like hell and he and the other plumber, both of them, pro’s. and the strange little leaks on the bathroom floor are because of rats. Rats that got in because of a serrated pipe that they like nibbling.
No there was no smell. Rats are supposed to be clean. Both men set to work, Thames Water is due before 9.30 tonight. The eye itch is so unsettling, I can’t think or look or concentrate beyond making cups of tea and thanking heaven for the professionals we rarely talk about.
So this week is an annalog free zone, I’m sorry. New mantra “You can’t do what you can’t do.”
Take care, be well, be nice to your plumbers, count your blessings and I will be here next week with a bit of luck and a cold compress.
We know that in large concerns – whether private, governmental or any other kind – mistakes will happen.
We say so to each other. Perhaps the kinder among us wonder how it feel to be among the errors, the dropped. I admit with humility – fearful.
And I further admit that I prefer my dealings with these big concerns to be in writing. That way I have a record.
But even written records – usually from the other fella – falter. Or just drive you mad.
For one of the few times in my life, I got so vexed with BT (bloody tsunami ?) that I wrote to the Chief Executive -old fashioned letter, registered. And was allocated a professional woman who has helped to guide me through the combination of lack of communication, indifference and confusion that has been my lot since I came “back to BT” – culminating in one of those sweetness and light circulars about doing their best for me
… The air above my head was bright blue , as I enter my fifth month of trying sort out the difference between what I say and what they say and what they do and don’t do.
I am not at all surprised that there is a current story which says that children’s standards of learning are massively improved when phones are banned. Not rocket science.
But while this was ongoing, and there were various other troubles in the ether – trouble comes to us all and usually in multiple, it likes company you see – I did not expect to have such disappointment at my eye hospital where I have been a longterm patient. That they have done all sorts of good things, I would be among the first to say – which is perhaps why not getting sensible direction out of their A&E when I had a streaming, itching eye infection was such a shock.
A shock which culminated in my third visit (first to look at me, second to have eyes checked by optometrist, third for lack of improvement) with a nurse telling me “There is no more we can do for you, you should see your GP to be referred to a dermatologist.”
Sometimes this business of intuiting psychological runes trips me up. It was Sunday. They were shortstaffed. She may have been more than usually tired of elderly ladies asking for help. I said “But all I want is guidance that I am doing the right thing …” (knowing – for you do learn as you go through life unless you are committed not to – what a song an d dance it would be – and me still streaming and itching – to start again with another speciality) . “That’s why you should see the GP” she said firmly.
So I did not say cryptically “So why didn’t we start there ?” I did not insist on telling her I was their patient for 8 years plus. I did not tell her what I had been told by the triage nurse I first saw or the optometrist of the second appointment.
I gave up.
When I came home I wrote the one sensible woman I know who has a dermatologist of repute. I had a look under dermatology on line and this morning I rang my GPs’ surgery at 8.00 and explained that, in spite of my good intentions, I seem to have gone round in a circle. Could they help me ? And I have an emergency appointment, just let’s hope ….
Further, it is alleged by the young man who is standing in for the helpful woman at BT (she has gone on well deserved vacation) that the BT engineer will be coming to see me between 10.00 and 12.00 And I have a new handset – I’d love to know the deal between Royal Mail and BT because their deliveries come belting through. Unlike carefully posted in advance birthday cards which don’t arrive for 10 days , first class mail indeed. Another enormous concern trying to retrench, deliver, make a profit and so on, all at the same time.
When people say “There is always somebody worse off” while it may be true – certainly in my case – it doesn’t make you feel any better about how bad your own case is. I feel frightened and angry and confused. Simultaneously.
It stands for No Thank You. Any variant of thank you is pretty dated. I have never forgotten the silly girl whose her boyfriend said “It would be nice if you thanked my mother, she’s gone to a lot of trouble” to which she replied “Oh I don’t like saying thank you. It makes me feel obligated.”
On the contrary, I use it as a bridge, punctuation, conclusion. |I have had a lot of help in my life and it has not occurred to me that, proportionately, grateful was a terrible thing to feel.
Faced with all sorts of heavy duty happenings, let’s start with – you are an ordinary member of the public and you just don’t know.
No matter what political system we are discussing, it is predicated on your compliance and relative ignorance. Of course there are impressions and impressions are shaped by personality and life experience, who influences you, what you feel, what you think – and that can change.
I doubt we would ever have heard of Charles Spencer if his sister had not married the then Prince of Wales, now King. And 29 years of fester is a good example of fixation. Do we see mistakes more clearly when looking back?
Just other people’s ? Or our own too?
I am not a great Royalist. People are people, some you like , some you don’t. It’s to with face and images and the latter are manipulated by clothes and contexts for a start. And I am very aware of placement – how you look, who you’re with, what you do, gesture – because reading and interpreting that is a living for many.
So response to the long ago death of Princess Diana is – for me – best characterized by letting her rest in peace.
Her life was unquiet for a whole slew of reasons I am not going to discuss because so many other people have. Here is my position: it was long ago, it is at some level a private matter. Do I want anything to do with a book by the lady’s younger brother, a muck raking exercise I’d bet he has never mentioned to his older sisters ? Bad taste. NTY.
There was an item in the press this week about the difficulties which followed surgery abroad – this time on eye lids, but in the recent past on breasts and bottoms. Heaven knows who you’d trust with penis enlargement… we won’t go there. And young men turn to silicone too which may be a benign substance but if it’s wrongly placed, it’s in the wrong place. And you will want it moved.
We used to talk about an extension to the house – a new kitchen, another bedroom, a shed in the garden. Now many of us endlessly discuss what used to be called plastic surgery
as if it were something to do on holiday and when it goes wrong, we bring it to the beleaguered overworked overextended NHS for help and resolution.
If you can take what you see as a fixable problem abroad for a certain sum of money, the same cost should be mandatory to rectify it here – paid over several months if necessary, but paid. In what is an increasingly medicalized society, to the detriment of the training, commitment and hard work of many medical practitioners, I don’t see why anybody who pays into it or works in it, should be used like this. NTY.
Why can’t we let the Pope and Macron have differing points of view without referring to the Pontiff’s “snub” of the French president ? Couldn’t we just have two grown ups who have to represent difference ? You mean , for a political visit to be judged successful, it must end in total consensus ?
NTY.
Why is it wonderful to have opened special Christmas counters in September ? NTY
You can understand why people shun conventional media which endlessly chews over AI, the state visit of the Chinese President to the USA, Zack Polanski and Nigel Farage, what Andy Burnham said – leavening our helplessness with endless stories of bad news, malpractice and conjecture, the end of the world as we know it.
What I want to know is where we go from here. I am about as far from Pollyanna as it is possible to be but the endless recital of ugly ? NTY.
but when you have a multi outlet chain, it stands to reason that different things will sell better in different areas, the success of shop layout may vary – bigger works better in an area of socially mobile glamour , smaller where there is a stable population, more to do with what you can afford than impressing the neighbours. Some boom with automation, some prefer to have at least a few humans so you can buy 2 items, change one, discuss a problem – why this is still out of stock after three weeks, etc. – it’s the personal touch.
And I am convinced, of course I am, that the personal is what makes the difference – through the staff to the customers and out of the door – to bring them back again.
Since 18 July when my local Waitrose closed, reopening 18 September – I have had to deal with Etsy goofs,
systems with more knots than a sea scout manual, and the NHS , accessing a new letter from whom yesterday took 20 sweaty minutes. I tried buying a sweater from H&M yesterday, to be charged five times over, couldn’t clear it, threw the whole thing out, swore and started again. It’s only easier when it’s easier.
Mostly it makes you long for the transaction that took place in the dry cleaning and tailoring outlet this morning – enter, go behind curtain to change into garment to be altered, pinned into place,
given receipt, agree date for collection, have a nice day. Apart from being one bus ride away and much closer than any other branch, MLW (My Local Waitrose) has got its size and its esprit de corps off to an art form. It works for us, it works for them , they work for us.
Every name that follows is fake, everything else is real. Winifred embraced me at the door – she makes me think of the women of whom Nelson Mandela said “When you strike them, you have struck the rock.” I went to find Matthew the manager who had promised me that everyone who wanted to come back, could – to offer congratulations. Enzo kissed me on both cheeks. Miranda who calls me Miss Anna hugged me – “how lovely to see you” we kept saying to each other – and it was she who told me “Oh we quite enjoyed where we were – you know, a change and all that – but we missed the customers !”
Panan, whom I first met as a boy and shared books with, a dazzler, greeted me and reappeared five minutes later with flowers. Of course I know it’s the company that pays – it’s also the company that thinks. Slava and I shared not a word, just a long meaningful embrace. She is still a long way from home …
There was a young man playing old folk rock on a guitar, glasses of wine, happy excited voices, some new people but a lot of what you might call shopping familiars – people you see there day in, day out, week after week, the people who ask after you when they notice they haven’t seen you for a bit. As the staff noticed when I was taken ill – that was moving. They see so many people. And then up came Rosie who when I last saw her, had to have dental work done and was very nervous about it – all done now. And when I said what a welcome, she grinned and said “Well for you it comes at a price – we want you to give us a good write up”.
It is a wonderful thing to feel that you can have all the items you always want, as well as new lines: that the frozen stuff has been tucked into newly efficient self effacing wall cabinets, priority still given to fresh fruit and vegetables (one of the very few places that sell cooking apples – and no not for pies : for stewed apple which I now sweeten with marmalade instead of sugar.)
I wish you could teach more people that if you don’t give, you can’t get back. It doesn’t follow that because you’re nice, everybody is nice to you. But it is a position of strength. Think of the niceness diffused out into the atmosphere. Social investment, never wasted. And you can only afford nice in a big set up like MLW, if the way the thing runs is more of less correctly positioned and you can go from there. In other words, the professional makes possible the personal.
I don’t know how this came about but although I have been known to write on Saturday or Monday, I think of Sunday as homework day. I send the copy and pictures to my “hands” who puts them up Tuesdays, occasionally a day later and on we go.
But I didn’t wake till 7.30. Can’t remember the last time I slept till such a time, not a glass of wine or a pill in sight. And the newspaper was as depressing today as the broadcast news yesterday.
I thought of a column called unposted – a letter to Nige and his crypto bankers ( yes, make the obvious joke), a note to the BBC about two segments of something watchable that then vanishes, every good thing being shown after 10.00 at night … but my interior life,
the life of the mind, the soul, the spirit has been gladdened this week and the positives make a better story .
A woman I only know professionally though it is obvious we share mutual respect has been led on and left in the dark by various cancer specialists, all of whom she sees through a famous insurer (ie privately, money hard earned) for 10 months. She said she was thinking of writing to her original specialist who was very good – I endorsed that. And added she must then confront the insurer.
What I did not expect was that she would send the letter to me saying she felt nervous, what did I think? I was an d am immensely honoured , trusted with such a confidence, replying positively at once.
The bus
yielded three wonderful encounters last week – one with a young woman working at a famous museum, the material of whose dress I admired (never lie) which led to a conversation up to what she did, how she got there (she referred to making history into a living – a wonderful phrase). I have invited her to supper, quite prepared to be rebuffed – I am not everybody’s taste.
A couple of days later I saw two girls – 17, not more. One blonde with dark blonde hair and slate blue eyes and the other dark and curly. As I rose to get off, I remarked on the blonde’s sweater – a slave to colour, me – same slate blue and prune stripes. In their acknowledgement, I picked up a slight accent so immediately asked – gently, nicely – where they were from? Israel they said. I speak two words of modern Hebrew called Ivrit and they mean welcome. They emerged spontaneously from my lips. They were so excited – “our language on a London bus!”
Two words to give such joy.
Going in to the second shopping trip, a young woman got on the bus – small, slender, hair the colour of conkers,
in biking leathers and hesitated though there was a seat next to me (perhaps there is an invisible warning sign ?) I patted the seat and said “Come and sit down, my goddaughter has hair the same colour as you and was teased about it at school years ago …”
Her face relaxed and we began to talk. She was German, her English was terrific. Why? She said” Oh, I am very interested in England and the English. I learned English at school and I just pushed on with it.” And are you studying, working? “No, no.” she said. “I just got on the bike and came to London.”
Everybody has a story, every body is a story. If like me you are the interlocuter, the initiator, you have to decide in a millisecond what to ask, whether to ask, whether to pass and I thought the best I could do for her was the simple interested kindness of a much older person.
So we talked about books and colours and when I rose to leave the bus, I said – sounding just like my own mother –“Now you take care on that darned bike, the roads are full of the don’t -care and take care of yourself generally. It was wonderful to meet you” to which she replied across the unbridged gap of touch “You are the best thing that has happened to me since I came” and I felt she was on more than one kind of journey.
in various stages – when you go to secondary school or university, when you pass your driving test, when you get yourself into a first class financial screwup and sort it out yourself. Or have your first cigarette, expensive, bad for you but lovely. You have cigarettes, I have a rare YSL or Chanel lipstick because the colours always work for me and I wear them till they are gone.
Growing up goes on and on,
much longer than you expect if you are open to it and I am. You remain so because it is the light in the sky and at least some of the keys to one of the kingdoms. Not shut cupboards – open doors.
News is a fascinating business because there are so many people involved in discovering, packaging and bringing forward issues the rest of us haven’t thought about, don’t know about.“I wasn’t listening” Nigel Farage is quoted as saying which sums up both the enchantment and the danger of Reform – not listening to anybody but themselves.
There are always stories that appeal to you and those you shove away, not of interest. There are what we might call “sleepers” – stories that have been around for ages – like the woman who killed her three children in the US. This has highlighted the isolation, exhaustion and sheer unwellness of multiple early motherhood ie several children under (say) 9.
What I have yet to read about is the husband’s part in all this and how extraordinarily slowly social history changes. This is the week that one of the most committed American feminists Gloria Steinem
died, the end of a life devoted to a life you could live ie not everybody wants to be married, have a husband and have children. Hardly new but clearly still new to some. You and a partner – that’s one thing – but if you are not going to do children well, don’t have them. Wanting them is not the whole story – it’s why you want them. I have sat with men and women who have known from their earliest beginnings that they were not wanted.
Growing up means choosing a version of events to which you can commit. I was brought up to go to work. It has shaped and fed my life and made me grow up. I didn’t set out to have one child, it’s the way things worked out. But I would rather have one with whom I have a relationship of meaning,
still, he 45, me 82 – that’s my growing up, perhaps some of it, and commitment.
Growing up means you can buy all the sleeveless things you like, I can’t wear them they don’t become me and I would always rather have long sleeves rolled up. Even in my recent stay in hospital I didn’t see a woman in a nightdress that became her.
I cheered for the tv critic who lambasted cop shows on tv – choosing is growing up. I would rather switch off the worst tv programming it has ever been – mindless repeats, cop and game shows – and read a book. Or do a crossword, Or go for a walk. Or the clean the kitchen cupboards, anything rather than sit there, glazed, in front of nothing I want to watch.
Growing up involves facing what there is – not what you wish there was. Friendship changes as you grow up.
I have just filed a friend of many years because he can’t do change. It has to be as it was because (a) that’s what he wants and (b) he can’t hack it any other way. It had been coming for 2 years. And it came. One more step on the pavement to maturation.
There is no final point in growing up, you don’t “pass” as in an exam. There is a series of markers where you reflect on steps forward. Growing up doesn’t mean growing old – though that comes to us all. Growing up is the journey and great quote from Elliott Gould it is always now.
Both my parents were bright, well read, learned as they went along and remained open to that all their lives. However, one of the family sayings was “What I don’t know about that would fill a book.”
Book nothing, darlings – a veritable library.
This is about a million miles away from “Well, I don’t know, I’m sure” as if ignorance were somehow distinguished and a right. Look, we can’t all know everything but we can be interested and aware.
My second husband was a headhunter
corporate variety
– he found jobs for men and men for jobs internationally, with considerable success. He had been in the Met, yes, there is a story about that, another time. It is not momentarily relevant. In the 80s and 90s he did a lot of work in the Middle East – he was a great salesman. They loved our engineers, who helped to build desalination plants.
We have just had the hottest summer on record, killingly hot, and we are talking in that desultory British way, about what we can do to meet the changed weather pattern. And I learned from a small article in my much appreciated daily newspaper, (it took a week to get to tv) that Thames Water built a desalination plant involving all the usual cavils – wrong place, too expensive, ineffective – dear heaven, how come we can export skills but not use them to advantage at home ?
We are an island nation, with others like us. Surely we must think about harnessing the surrounding sea to make water without salt ? You know it’s a story when it turns up in the US news report which I read regularly. Though most of us know that Thames Water is like BT – big with big flaws.
In the furnace of the summer days,
you could go shopping early in the morning before the heat rose. But you could not go on the same outing to a department store, or a bank – even one day a week – early. Oh no. That would have required phonecalls, liaison – oldfashioned organization.
Forget AI, this is management which was heretofore in the hands and brains of humans.
Wouldn’t that have been a good story alongside all the heat prostration and dying plants ? Just think – the banks and the stores could even have got together and chosen the same day(s) of early opening.
We mourn the passing of Dolly Parton for all sorts of reasons and we notice how rare it is for one person to end in garlands from all sides – because Dolly could manage
– the look (wigs alone, a full time job): the music, the tours, the arrangements – not by whizbang thank you ma’am – but by the slog that made her career shine, shine, and shine again. I have long thought that musicians are like farmers, they know how hard you have to work to make something grow
Yesterday I met a young woman in Peter Jones which is part of John Lewis. I was looking for two items in a new cosmetic range with which I am impressed. Buying on line is give up and give over time.
PJ’s didn’t have what I wanted. The saleswoman spotted this, and went off to check , in the stockroom and on line. She returned to apologise, and ask if there was another brand acceptable. There was, for one item, but they didn’t have it. At which point (nothing to do with me, I was speechless with admiration) she took the tester to her line manager , who mumbled (I watched and listened) and went past him to the next up the line who agreed with her.
She brought the container back to me and apologized that the store had disappointed me. Free product because it was a tester. I shook her hand and thanked her.
I told her that her behaviour became both her and the store.
Two things to learn from this. There is often a way, I am not going to say always, but often. And we need to learn to use language formally, properly, to reach others. There is no short cut to this if we wish to survive. I am the living exponent of this, talking to reach people was my consolation prize when I was ill as a child. Not talking to fill space – talking to accomplish connection, information, improvement. You don’t need a machine to do this – you need a human.
This time last week I was sitting in the corner bed of a small surgical ward (six of us) wondering what came next,
framed with polyester blankets, imaginatively designed light fittings with not enough light for anyone with sight difficulties to benefit from, a television and a telephone, neither of which worked, wafted by overhyped air conditioning which was cold at night and dried the eyes. The nurses were busy, attentive and apparently effective. I was there for inside of five days and I shall resist the temptation to hitch a matronly breast and speak confidentially about what was wrong with me. Dramatic and not much.
I went out very carefully in the cooler bit of the hottest day (Friday) to buy more Dioralyte on the instructions of my GP, took a bus two stops there, decided (erroneously) to walk back, faltered on the home stretch. I reached to put the key in the lock, it balked with the heat, I sat down in a heap on the first bin and fell back fainting on to the second.
My friend and neighbour AJ heard the noise and fell downstairs to rescue me. He opened the door and took me in (approved hold under armpits) to the short distance to the kitchen where I fainted again. He put me in a chair, gave me a large glass of cold water, rang the community ambulance, found and began to put useful things in a small bag. .
I was slow but I was myself and I wouldn’t have missed the ambulance crew for anything. I have never “had” to be taken to hospital before and said so. They said “But you’re 82 … how did you manage that ? “ John told me it’s the best job in the world “you get to help somebody and get a terrific adrenaline lift” (see Breath by Australian writer Tim Winton)
The hospital photo’d my head and my gut – and sent me to bed. Between Sunday and Wednesday, they’d do a sigmoidoscopy,
give me bed rest and light diet and nurse me – I felt like a fake for never producing any significant problem.
I was to be allowed home on Wednesday at 1.00 – they needed my bed (I’m not surprised). It took till 5.20 to leave the building, drugs had to be made I knew nothing about, papers had to be cleared – like going across the Berlin Wall. I had warned everybody to stay away because the NHS, however much I appreciate and respect it, eats time. God bless the Black Cab
and its driver, I came home.
Hardly was I in than AJ came to check on me (imagine the telephone between him/me/my son – nothing if not practical) with messages and Sarah came from the other side to go through the fridge with me and make sure I had food for supper and overnight, she would go and get it. (She had watered the garden while I was away).
I kept saying thank you and being grateful and once alone, emailed my son, my dearest friends none of whom are nearby and thanked heaven. (Especially when I subsequently discovered that a neighbour I do know has sold up and is gone, in those few days – she was here when I arrived … the world moves on and you don’t know what happens.) I shall be grateful for my neighbours for the rest of time. Just think … and you keep reading articles about how we don’t have them any more.
I couldn’t write. I felt very old and very light , a bit unreal. There was something from the hospital on the computer, I had papers tucked firmly into my handbag. None of these will receive attention until Monday 24th. Can’t do what you can’t do.
At the moment, I feel I shall not be much use at anything ever again but this is highlighted by not being able to read for one of the few occasions in my life and by a long long summer, a newspaper full of not very much – what my parents used to call “holiday editions” – and the endless preoccupation with bad news. And latterly, with having seen dramatized last night by a knighted actor an idea which should have been left as a book. And the journey to recovery being more than a bus ride.
girl. I went and looked and came away. I recall from the dim and distant past that the first thing I ever bought in Harrods was dusters for my sister, hardly a Harrods shopper. She wanted the dusters but I wanted the bag.
Though I have lived in London ( except for 2 years in New York) forever, I don’t know it like the back of my hand (which has changed anyway). I know certain areas but they change, coming in and out of focus depending upon importance or relevance. London
was always a vast city, including or excluding this or that depending upon your opinion. And I have lived in the built up bits, not in the suburbs. I like it.
Yes I hate the mess but the mess is everywhere, a psychological condition which clearly indicates the low level distress in which many of us operate, many without knowledge or insight, guarded by the phrase banned in my family home – “don’t care.” I do. Hence AR ragpicker – 14 pieces in the street on the way to the bus.
Nothing to do with garbage disposal. Thoughtless people.
Last week, as part of using my renewed health and strength again, I went to my old favourite, Harvey Nichols. No I never bought “everything” there, I did a lot of looking because it was worth looking at – what they had, how it was offered to me. As good as a gallery.
Sadly – and I don’t bore easily – it was boring. Layout to contents, I didn’t like what was on offer. I saw a lovely evening dress for which I have no use and not another thing that lingered in the memory, up to and including labels I admire. The several staff members to whom I spoke were agreeable. So it’s not them. It’s just all wrong.
And not a thing you could afford if you weren’t laden with money – there should always be something – so you can have the bag and the illusion of being part of it.
Maybe, I hear you say, the time is wrong ? If you are worrying about the gas bill, you are not in the market for higher end ready-to-wear. But you know, a cat can look at a king.
And maybe even admire the ermine trimming … Just not there. So I was interested to see Mary Portas talking about its putative sale and what’s necessary to move it forward from stuck in oh dear.
She came to HN from Topshop where she had notable success and it was hoped she could do the same again. And she did. But this is all retrospective – it’s about what was. Is what is, so different ? She notes in her comments. that 70 per cent of Generation Z would rather shop in a physical store than on-line. I’ve always wondered about buying on line – cut. line, length, colour, shape, contents, suitability – and that weary business of sending it back if it isn’t right.
I have been lucky on line (the stonking success of the first jeans I bought for years, from Land’s End, modest price, perfect fit and the nicest woman on the phone when I rang to say thank you) and very very wary. Not much, not often but then I was never at any age or with any money, a shop every week girl. Shopping AR was targeted.
I could always be sidetracked – but I did not go out to wander and window shop aimlessly.
I do realise this is about as far from Harvey Nichols as you can get and being the next best thing to a nun -just me – I haven’t even touched on menswear – though I tried to buy interesting coloured socks for a present and was sent elsewhere by the assistant.
People have different relationships with clothes, as they have different relationships with people. They feel differently about shopping. They don’t know what they think, they are covered – in the cheap and it’ll do, to the expensive because it’s fashionable , because some “influencer” says so. Modern shopping is the victim of the confusion that exists between “me, me, me” and “who ?” In an unhealthy time I’d rather invoke rodent than ripoff.
Aesop’s fable of The Town Mouse and the Country Mouse
Anna's 40 year long award-winning journalistic career as an adviser (nowadays we say "agony aunt - she loves the job, hates the title) has spanned magazines, radio, television and newspapers; including a 14 year run at Capital Radio with her groundbreaking show 'Anna and the Doc', and 7 years at Talk Radio hosting 'Live and Direct' and her work was rewarded with a Gold Sony award and induction into the Radio Hall of Fame....Read More
