Remembrance

On Saturday evening I became a fully paid up Old Bat. 

I had watched some news coverage – I can’t imagine that the blow by blow coverage of a war is going to do me any psychological good and I am haunted by my mother’s words through tears over coverage of the Troubles – “They worship the same God !”.  I watch serious reporters, mostly BBC News Channel and Channel Four. 

Cathy Newman (C4) interviewed one to one Steve Hartshorn, the head of the Police Federation and a former Met Police firearms officer.  Nobody sounds authoritative when shrill.  He handled her well, refusing to be drawn into any opinion about the Home Secretary’s remarks or anybody else’s which could be construed as political.  Not the role of the police.

As Ms. Newman’s teeth closed once more on Hartshorn’s turnup, I switched off.  Well named, Mr. Hartshorn – we used to mix hartshorn and water to revive the fainting.

I rang the relevant section of the Police Federation.  To the woman who answered I said “To whom do I speak to express my appreciation of the handling by the Met and other forces of the demonstrations today ?”   I don’t think such a question had come her way before and she got her manager to whom I said “I just want to tell you how grateful I am to the police for their efforts at appropriate response and containment today, and tell your Chairman he handled himself well on Channel Four News this evening.”  She acknowledged the call, I thanked her and rang off.

I then pulled up the Met on the search engine and found a form where I could express my thanks, again as matter of factly as possible.  They knew the job and they did it. 

Other than personally, it has become increasingly difficult to say anything pleasant let alone express thanks because everybody is busy being guarded against the nasties.     Perhaps a good sociologist would explain that this is how human society works, certainly in the 20^th and 21 century, it swings one way to open and then closes down.  

Being open will come back into fashion again, if you can wait so long.  Not in my lifetime I fear.   

In the past if you wanted to tell a publication how well they had done in an article, or in the comments of some particular columnist, you rang and left a message.  Good luck with that now.  I don’t think they even pretend to acknowledge you or pass the comment along.  Expensive letters are not often acknowledged.

Email ?  Well, email … I love it but there is a widening culture of people and concerns who don’t reply.  Just listen to the young trying to get a job.   25 applications and not a word.  The energy companies are probably not alone in making money out of this.  They leave you floundering, knees in the breeze, while the meters tick to their manipulable favour.

And all the rest of it from mobile phone to WhatsApp you can keep unless it works in a context for you.  That I respect.  Personal choice, horses for courses. 

In the last couple of years I thought for the first time ever, that I was glad my esteemed parents weren’t around to see the mess we are in – environmental, human, political, weather (incurred by humans), national and global – surface, surface, surface – less and less substance.  This may just be my increasing wish to remain integrated in the face of social splintering, projected on to someone older than me whom I love. 

A friend recently said asked me how I managed alone because unless you are a natural solitary (I’m not), being alone has to be managed and I said “I live a day at a time.”   She asked how I did this and I said “By act of will. I only do Sunday on Sunday, Saturday is  behind me and Monday is yet to come.”   You can’t do this if you’re working.  I lived and died by my desk diary.  But now as I set out daily, as much to avoid the dog mess as to smell the roses, I am open to every good and wonderful thing no matter how small.   It seems that has become an Act of Remembrance.