“Trussst in me, jussst in me” sings Kaa the Snake seductively sibilant in the last cartoon personally supervised by Walt Disney, my preferred version of The Jungle Book other than my father’s dessicated leatherbound edition, the one that was read to me until I could read it myself. Yes, liberties were taken but they served the story and some of the voiceovers are unforgettable. Trouble is, I don’t know who to trust any more and I don’t think I am alone.
Trust, it says in the dictionary, is ”firm reliance on the integrity, ability or character of a person or thing: confident belief: faith”. Putting aside waking up to a French political standoff amid the continuing confusion of a British one, on the basis of that definition, I have only faith, trust in the Almighty alone. Oh yes, I shall vote because I can see where to. Do I trust some of those I am going to vote for ? Well, to my mind (see “confident belief”) they’re a better bet than some of the others in the frame. A pretty conditional definition of trust.
I trusted NHS 111 and the emergency clinic when I burnt my arm: advice on the telephone and in person was good and my trust was met. Having long remarked that if I were as sensitive as my feet, I’d be a really nice person – I trusted three lots of podiatrists and only the third has met my needs. Sadly it is much easier to categorise NT (not trusted) than T (trusted).
Trust of the “I put my trust in you” variety involves judgement and experience but it also involves knowledge. If I could do to my foot what the third podiatrist did, I wouldn’t need him : podiatrists are a bit like plumbers. A good plumber is hard to find and finding such a one usually involves expense, disappointment and discard.
Fifteen months after initially consulting my GP at the continued insistence of my son and close friends, I had a current set of (private) blood tests waved aside in favour of a second NHS set : an inconclusive appointment with the endocrinology department of a local teaching hospital ( they twice initiated follow up and twice failed to follow through): and an appointment with the dermatology department of the same hospital where they “had never seen anything like it” and the consultant suggested I used drugs. And just in case you think I am a jammy broad with a big income, it took two goes to find a private dermatologist who gave a damn.
For the first time in my life, I fought over a sweater in a store where I have been a customer for 30 years. Initially too expensive, it was reduced, I wore it twice, it “pilled” and I went back to be told “we usually offer a wool comb with these” to which I replied that if they had, they wouldn’t have made the sale. I was offered a ten per cent reimbursement which I described as derisory, settled for 50 per cent and kept the sweater to knock about in.
Recently seeking legal advice was negotiated as no charge without reference to me (I am sure it was meant as a kindness but I was prepared to pay). No charge meant no action including replying to voicemail or email for five months. The second try suggested – after no reply to my letter – depositing a chunk of money in the solicitors’ bank account before we began and I infer that when that ran out, they would probably stop midbreath.
Spinoffs from one effective product line the supermarket shelves. The advanced school of “packaging the product” is everywhere from weather forecast to Westminster. So much news is bad that everything that can be, must be, given an upward flick, walnut whips a-go-go. I wonder about the going rate of crystal balls. “And who’re you gonna trust ?” See title*.