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Long ago  one of the chants was “Not the Church and not the State/women will decide our fate” and we marched, sang and signed until a woman’s right to abortion was  legal.   I’d do it again.  Women’s reproductive rights is something I care passionately about.

So apparently did Michelle Obama which is why it was her theme when she appeared for the now defeated  Harris in  Wisconsin, a swing state the Democrats needed to carry to have a fighting chance.

  And  she and her party got it wrong. 

You will by now have heard all this but I am revisiting it  because that was the state.   A handsome and intelligent woman, Michelle Obama wore too much jewellery, a deeply unbecoming  hairdo and black.  Black has limited application in campaigning politics.  Even the most tasteful bling says  “We’re different” and even allowing for  how people love celebrity, she missed.  

We see

the image before we hear a word.  Human beings respond faster than you can imagine to non verbal information.  And when the speaker  said her piece, I thought she’d stop.  But  no.   She went on and on, whether  because it was on the monitor or  because she thought she’d bridge the gap by  sheer volume of words, I can’t imagine.  To watch was hard.

I’ve done a lot of public speaking.  You try to  guess your presenting image into the right place  but then, you “read the room.”  Humans do that – not the monitor.   And if you have to turn the spoken vehicle from what you thought you came to say  to something  else,  that is part of the skill.   Because in that crucial address there was no inclusion, no offer, nothing to make you feel if you had been there, that she came to speak to you.

So who cares ?

While nearer home  The Archbishop of Canterbury

resigned over the concealed abuse of children under the auspices of the Church of England, the presiding national religious body by a man, over 40  years, now dead. Some may say that the damage is done, though the beatings and sexual abuse live on in the bodies and minds of his victims who have campaigned for years to have the Church acknowledge its complicity and the cover up. 

40 years ago at least, a nurse whom I will call Kay came to see me with alopecia.  And that’s what she wanted to talk about  although her dysfunctional relationship with her parents soon became apparent.  I was just about to marry my second husband, the flat we had taken on was being decorated and that’s where  we suggested she stayed, so that she had time to get her breath back.  Which was fine until the silhouette of a man coming down the fire escape at the back fell across her , woke her from sleep

and she rang in terror.  My  husband (very nearly) told me to keep her on the phone while he drove up there and in due course they returned.  He told me  how the shadow had reminded her of her father who had abused her from the age of four.

It took time but Kay made it.   Being in touch diminished, you can’t live people’s lives for them – until she rang to tell us that her father  was applying to a theological college.  My husband rang, he was her first witness and he was ex Met.   My  police clearance was high but I was too well known at the time.  We were told among other things “We must forgive him.”

If the Church retains the right to  administer its own difficulties, then it must accept and understand that the only thing that would have stopped this hateful assailant  was a decision.   Decision though carries the impact of judgement. 

Oh  “judge not, lest ye be judged.”    

So the State uses too many words (going on and on and on is an illness on both sides of the Atlantic).  And the Church prays rather than  take a position even when children are abused.   Which leaves me asking – who cares ?  And before we decline into anarchy, the only constructive answer is  the individual.   I hope.

Hope by Jo Wade

it was a cold dark November day when I came home from school, about 10 or 12,

and asked my mother  what sort of a day she had had .  “Awful, thank you” she said.  “I spent all day waiting in for the gasman.”    On-line doesn’t very often do it for me.  I recently filled out all kinds of stuff  for Malwarebytes and was asked to prove who I am in yet another piece of kit which verifies (gevalt)  that I am indeed  who I say I am.

However last week the cats came back.  Not really In multiple, it only take one to do damage, and he frightened the robin to death.  I quite like cats, and I know it is the nature of the beast but it is your beast and  that’s why I don’t have one. 

And I don’t want them – and have had them – messing in the garden.  I have opted for plants and birds, the latter in short supply.

So  I found organic  cat repellant and I ordered it.   So far, so good.   Then I found an offer for something I really wanted. and did that too.  At that point I needed a rare second cup of coffee.  and then I found beeswax candles.

This may be very routine to you but it isn’t routine to me.   However I know you can go from here to Hai Phong looking for what you want – and not find it.  And here was what I wanted. 

I came home from lunch yesterday – having done three errands as well as eaten, not a moment too soon, procrastination truly being the thief of time  – to a discreetly screened package in the garden.   It was Silent Roar, scented with the urine of lions.  I just hope it works and gives felon felines  the sort of headache that stops them short and repels all boarders.

Of course what I would really  like is the lion to materialize as the cat gets into the garden, roar and shrink back magically into the pellet – but you can’t have everything,   Even on line.  So  I wrote to  the supplier Fitfit and said it arrived, in a sensible place, thank you –  which a human acknowledged with the words  “You’re welcome.” 

The  second offer is en route, emails, texts and all,  and I am currently experiencing  the 2024 version of my mother’s extended wait because not every delivery crew rings the bells, uses the knocker or speaks to the neighbours to see if they will take in the delivery.  All too many of them are thinking about the next stop before they dump the item on the front step, and the rate of casual theft round here  is rising.

So I have taken a view: I  will wait.

  I learned to wait, a long time ago and this is waiting in a good cause. I managed to delay the ironing yet again  ( I hate ironing)  but went through a drawer or two, read the articles I had  set aside from the paper  – and took delivery from the smallest agreeable Filipino of an offer on  firelighters, the first time I have ever used ebay.   Sensibly packed and marketing heaven – with a small box of matches in the bottom, how classy! 

Can I be this lucky tree times in a row? 

We shall see.  However then the computer had migraine and I used another long wait – till I was told how to temporarily fix it –  to do the aforementioned  ironing (grrrhh), and all sorts of other domestic trivia like relining drawers and reorganizing storage.  

This has resulted in a weekend quite a different shape from my usual one.  When I belted down to the supermarket much later than I usually go, the  Chinese lady who works on the sushi  bar (I hate sushi but we always speak/laugh/wave – these are people not automata) looked up taken aback:”But you usually come in in the morning !”   So I wagged my finger warningly and we both grinned.

I have breathed and prayed and been, and life has flowed round me as if I were a small rock and that sense of solidarity has been oddly comforting.  Human beings are creatures of habit, me too, and it is never bad to change the habit.   I think it’s called a learning curve.

For some reason – unexplained or even referenced

by omnipotent London Transport, the news media or word of mouth – the buses I use were up the creek yesterday. An agreeable teenager at the bus stop confirmed he could find nothing on his ‘phone, checked with the drivers of two other buses coming through better late than never, amid buses out of service, drawing blank. So I came home. not buying the card I thought I must get, or the bits and pieces at the supermarket … I made do and devoted the day to staying off the unresolved swollen ankle and allowing the bruised fingers further R&R.

Surprise, surprise, nothing on tv. Couldn’t think how to hold the book without using SP (sore paw), didn’t really want to read. Thought through tasks to be done as in “I could …” or “what about ?” and rejected them as compromising my stated goals.

The secret Puritan all would be malingerers expect to turn up at the door asking “And what do you think you’re doing ?” didn’t materialize and this time, I could account for myself. I was resting which is sometimes what you have to do.

What I did not expect was how busy my head would be. Oh yes, I sat and thought and dozed – and then as if released by a Pandora, other trains of thought started, some of this of course midwifed by media.

Please stop telling me this person or that person is for Trump or Harris.

We don’t have a vote in the US and the ballot won’t be decided (please God) by Elon Musk or VPutin or the Chinese operatives whose presence is probably more worrying but harder to turn into headlines. It will be decided by the American people , stuck in an electoral system open to abuse and less and less likely to turn up the best person for the job (not a new perception) – because they can’t raise the money to campaign. It will be as it is.

Then I thought about the Darlington Nursing Union, a group of nurses whose hospital an d whose union have toed the party line about a trans identified male colleague being allowed to share their changing room. And well done health secretary Wes Streeting for meeting with them.

I have not shared space with other women to change my clothes very often in my life and because of early exposure to medicine, might be more matter of fact about nudity than some. But changing my clothes at the end of a shift and having to contend with disagreeable commentary because your rights are currently more fashionable than mine ?

No thank you.

I wish I could reach Janice Turner (Times on Saturday) who has written the second of two stand out pieces (the first about Chris Kaba) to acknowledge her twice over for making me think. But though we have the most sophisticated communications systems , it is harder and harder to get through the modern bramble forests – when all you wanted to do was say thank you.

My response to fashion is mostly puzzlement and dismissal. Of 16 Things To Get You To Look Now there wasn’t one I would give house room. I may need clothes but they have to work for me and years ago I opted for style over craze – unless as occasionally happens – the latest thing happens to be just right for you.

The Badget has been praised, castigated, analysed and shrugged into existence. Another it will be as it is. I just wish every member of the current lot to understand that poor communication, the wrong tone and rigidity (received by the watching populace as smug and unthinking) was a major contribution to the unravelling of the Conservative Party as the public (us) received it.

And I know somebody who could really help them – beyond me.

I thought about looking back and looking forward and decided I preferred looking around, looking at where I am, even when it is unknown and might be uncomfortable. I counted my blessings again – and once more, sent every positive thought to friends unwell and friends bothered – and went off to drink another glass of water.

Note: This is without pictures – No picture function on the new computer – call me a fool! I will not talk about normal – but try again next week.

It’s been quite a two weeks,  having got through the disappointment – with myself as well as the specialist – of hearing half an expensive tale (I thought it would be a short cut – hah! -private medicine), the computer went where good computers go – and all that ensues, followed. 

Pam the Painter, of a sensitive disposition, rang sounding as upset as I have heard her, her house infested with mice. And if one more person mentions peanut butter – listen, they are mice, they eat what they eat and we hope it’s poisonous.   A funny, kind patient person, Pam was torn between inveighing against  pest control, being grateful for old friends and longing for the little swine to emigrate, so she could sleep.

A dear friend who has been living with his male partner in a folie a deux for many years emerged into the sunlight of simple pleasure  (except it’s never simple) to discover in dramatic terms what many in his circle already knew -that his erstwhile Significant Other, provoked, is a shout you down and lash out angry  bully – and in between gouts of tears, threatened suicide.   My  son broke up with his longtime  girlfriend.   And I fell over – no six inch heels, no swigs of  wine – uneven paving stone, thank you local council under any political party dominance, weight of body on smallest two fingers of left hand, bloods thinners making  bruising dramatic.

Like most right handed people I  am very right handed, I  take the left hand for granted but the last few days have been sobering – carrying, moving, shifting – heavens, wringing out a dishcloth, washing that side of my face.  I am being taught a new lesson in patience (see Edith Wharton whose poem on patience I clearly need to read again.)

When Rosemary (NHRN) arrived for coffee – drinks it black, is a former athlete, has perception and uses it – she looked at me, I looked at her and extended my swollen hand and she was on the telephone to her equally admirable husband almost before her bottom hit the kitchen chair.  He said one of the three A&E’s which are equidistant from me, ice pack and so on.   I could still move the fingers so I opted for the ice pack.  And Rosemary put her foot down because she can and I am a wuss about ice other than in a rare favourite drink (brandy and tonic).   

I have spent two afternoons reading  Tudor period fiction (thank you  CJ Sansom) with the strap on ice pack  Rosemary immediately ordered and far from feeling  cross,  I am grateful I was brought so swiftly to my senses. 

Son having dropped 10 kg weight on foot in gym (see annalog /when you can) went back to GP who referred him to clinic which can’t see him till 24 December, remembered a unused medical insurance, chased it up and after much to-ing and fro-ing, has an appointment next week, the second round at A&E (in desperation) having revealed what the first didn’t – two broken toes.   

Second and third rounds with unhappy (understatement) friend saw death recede, practicalities emerge and  the weight of denial for years and the chains of civil partnership prove sobering.

By this time  I was tempted to what we used to say at school when there was a run of wrong things – “God’s gone off me.”  But in the matter of temptation , I’d always say “be tempted, don’t fall.”

I didn’t break my fingers (thank you heaven).   My son came to supper and though tired and sobered by his emotional and physical travail, seemed like himself  – and in writing to say thank you, added to that impression (tyh).   When, on the day I fell,  I couldn’t open  a can of  soup and issued into the street saying aloud “I need a man !” , swanned up to the very young delivery man opposite, channelling all my mother’s formidable charm and said “Excuse me, I have hurt my hand, could you help me open this” and he beamed at me, and did.  Chicken soup of course. Thank you heaven.

Sorry ladies and gentlemen – no annalog because no computer – one of several things designed to me awake at night.

Back next week commencing 28th October 2024 – I’ll be here if you’ll be there.

It’s been

foot month.   I won’t bore you with mine but my son dropped a 10kg weight on his in the gym and although nobody can figure out how he didn’t break it, the contusion and bruising is considerable and he is signed off work for a month.   And champing at the bit.

There are a whole group of people who live by the most constructive kind of displacement therapy. 

They are always busy – work, other work, committed social lives, obligations, getting from a to b which is often more demanding than for some time (road works, rail works, flooding, increased traffic).  

My neighbour Helen (not her real name) is self employed and that’s feast or famine, do it while you can –  so the last three or four months have been scarcely time to breathe and visibly tired, over 12 hours a day, 6 days a week, one project begetting another, don’t wish to disappointment the client, keep going.

At last, she came to lunch (do try garlic puree

between the toast and cheese) and talked about the weekend.  Her husband (Red Beret, fitness teacher) had fallen on a running course in Denver and was finding recovery hard.  And they have a country place.  In hopeful innocence, I envisaged a quiet few days. But she went on to tell me what the next three or four days comprised.   Which is part of why I only ever had a boyfriend with a country place once – a second set of domestic and social responsibilities although the view from the loo is preferable  – if you have time to look.

And Wal was visiting Rhodes when his host had a stroke  – hospital, taxis (“I am now an expert on local buses” he told me proudly.  Don’t knock the achievement of that for a man who grew up with a chauffeur and a Rolls Royce), full scale family upset (naturally), shop, child, mother flew in, wife scared  twice  over (query  losing him and query what becomes of her).   This for a man who likes things organised, seeks control, worked like mad for years and years, and was looking forward to a quiet week and Lambros’s chips.

And Amy (see annalog/Amy and the Beast) who after major surgery is seeing some of her friends in a new way and finding dealing with it – in her own mind and with them – difficult – because she was always the go-to guy and as I have often found, it’s easier to fight for somebody else than yourself.

I am honoured that I can communicate with Amy (NHRN) both electronically and personally – and so could share with her my small but significant advance  in two halves – the first twenty years ago – the second last week.  And I saw a book recommended* which I shall suggest to her.

There is only so much you can say to a bright complicated man, especially if you are his mother but I hope he will use the time rather that fretting against it.   That really is pointless though most of us do it, from time to time. 

Helen and her husband will have to apply their combined and considerable wisdom to beginning to understand that time off enables rather than depletes.   You can be (old Met police phrase) so fit you’re edgy but there is no point if the level of use and pleasure in that use is as sad as a failed cake.

But the success story of the week is Wal who made a journey into a kind of physicality (hugs. tears, clinging – all across limited English and no Greek) and allowed himself to grieve through that for something long ago and deeply personal, to let others help him, even if only superficially.  Interestingly the tears he shed for himself released a rare bout of rage against noisy neighbour, and constipation.  “How interesting !” I exclaimed when he told me.  “Why ?” he asked so I said “The body can only do what it can do.  You were in a give give give situation and the bowel went into neutral short term, don’t need that, do the other stuff.  Happened to me once.”

“But you know” he said in conclusion” I think it did me a lot of good.”   I think so too. 

When you can …

• Wintering: the Power of Rest and Retreat in Difficult Times by Katherine May     

Does Anna Wintour have a double ? I can’t think the power in the land of Vogue

would be on a bus but the woman had the right hair, the omnipresent dark glasses, and the assembly of clothes was that rare thing – absolutely wrong and absolutely right, from earrings to shoes.  I said how lovely her hair was.  And it was.  It had shape and line.  And she thank ed me in a clear, deepish voice which was another part of the harmonious whole.  I’ve sought line from the age of nine when I saw my first ballet and struggled to explain why I preferred Lucette Aldous. My mother suggested  she had  “line”.  

I don’t think I could  define it easily but as it’s a standing joke that I can’t talk without my hands –  I could probably show you. 

Whoever she was, this woman and I exchanged several remarks on a bus by now blessed empty of overweight tourist and Saturday shoppers.  And when she got out she waved goodbye.   A movie moment, interesting and  attractive, away from  worry and insecurity and fear.

Fashion is a recognised speciality in journalism.  And I was never in it.  

I just bought Vogue whenever I could for years until I gave up on the British edition because the US edition was a far superior publication – much more editorial, a read more than a look.   I read about health and food to eat rather than look at, this artist and that film, books, all sorts of well written considered bits and pieces.  The clothes were American rather than European but that was educative too. I have long been less interested in “the latest thing” than what worked for me.  Magazines were my first love but times move on and I regret their changing, but not the experience of them in my life.

The day before, the splendid postman had left me with one of those cards that warn “postage to pay “ and an address.   And when you looked up the newly sited collection point, there were three alternative versions of opening hours, so I left it till the day, checked and prayed.  

The first time you go somewhere is always a bit fingers-crossed. The old site was simple, in a building labelled Post Office.  This was now a Customer Service Point (I laughed aloud)

in an edifice labelled Royal Mail where electric doors opened before you touched them bringing you into a space with a chair, a notice and a counter behind which stood a man in his late fifties wearing a Royal Mail red knitted shirt and glasses.   And in front of which stood a tall young man with black hair gathered loosely off his face because of the rain.   

One of the nastiest allusions of older women among themselves is “Fancied him, did you ?”  No I didn’t.  I thought he was beautiful -like  a tree or a young animal.   The man at the desk asked me what I was there for. I produced their card, he excused himself to the young man and left to deal with us both.  I turned to the young man who was Japanese and said “Your hair is like black smoke.” He gave me a big grin.  “And where are you from ?” I asked, and he named a city I have never heard of, adding “ In the south.”  

I named the order of his islands with my hands  -Hokkaido, Honshu, Shikoku, Kyushu – he nodded at the last and asked surprised how I knew this ?  I said “Miss Kirk for Geography.”   He is studying interior design – we talked about my kite shaped raincoat

(take a bow Cocoon, a British company) I talked about the line again and – he said  “You are professional  – teacher ?  doctor ?” I said “journalist” and he asked where ?

The Royal Mail man returned and asked me how I was going to pay ?  “I said “In money” and we all grinned. “And” I said “you haven’t asked me for identification.  I brought my passport specially  … “ “I don’t need your identification “ he said.  Moment suspended.

We shook hands all round.  

On the lengthy plateau that was the majority of my earning years, I fell into thinking that I worked so hard

that the money was bottomless. I can remember thinking it.  Not true.  It is nowadays – and maybe always was – less a case of “the buck stops here” – which has other implications as well – and more that the buck goes elsewhere.

Apparently the immensely rich Lord Alli invested in Kier Starmer (please, let’s can the title – such a drag) and the Labour Party over time, well before Starmer was PM.  Starmer is a barrister and he must know the law to an extent.  And as a major figure and putative leader, he has long had advisers. 

Why then was not a formal arrangement set up with a list of what it could and could not be used for, with receipts so there was an accounting of it ?  

It might not be bleach clean but it would be Persil – washes whiter ?  To be used meticulously by the  image consultants and  advisers, because nothing could be more refreshing ?   Instead of which … I won’t go through it again, you have read about it till you puke.

Worse, a very minor edition of trial by media, confession on camera. 

Heaven forbid.

We heard to saturation about what Huw Edwards knew, suffered, accomplished and abused  – including chunks of public money.  Where was management ?  

But if you hear “depression” in connection with a public face working all hours, on show  above and beyond – call a meeting, first option not last.  Performer, his/her representative, ditto legal rep., managerial head and head of department,  BBC legal rep.  That’s business.  

And show business (even the hallowed BBC News) was always about business.  That buck again.  After a legal sentence, even such a one, HE won’t try a comeback but he’ll have a bit put by.

And now it’s Philip Schofield, not in spite of his efforts everybody’s darling –  just as disturbed as HE but more confused, having entered the unreal world of tv stardom at an early age and continued to feed the beast of successive unrealities up to his latest escapade on camera.  Where was ITV Management when the rumours began ?

Though such a meeting would be complicated almost line by line by the extent to which the person in question can or cannot differentiate between reality and fantasy, truth and lies, self interest and self interest – this last increasing exponentially alongside the other considerations .

Duty of care goes to hell in a bucket if we are making a buck and though the buck in media is story/rumour/allegation, allusion/illusion etc rather than  something more solid, and who tells you about it, that builds into  loyal audience opening the door for credibility, longevity and a major confusion between performance and reality,

as in he looks like a nice person so he is a nice person.

This last is everywhere in business.  That’s why management is important.  And it is preferable that the tools of management are used wisely and well rather than punitively.   It is not long ago when any mention of  “mental health issues” sent the suits  (what we called management) running for the hills.  Let alone bisexuality, indetermination, suppressed homosexuality.  Or greed.

The long shadow of Jimmy Savile just moves to the side and comes back again.  Where is the machinery  through which complaints/misgivings/ concerns can be heard  ? Person to person, not through increasingly more dubious, abused and hacked technology ? That has been ticked on the scan sheet of political correctitude.  But where is the management to follow through with them ?

The frightening rise of credence to Donald Trump in the US is that so many of his supporters (and he) think of life as a game show.  Who Dares Wins.  Of course all too often Who Dares lies dead under oncoming traffic.  Don’t let’s make the same mistake, not the ruling party, not the public.  Politics is about all of us.   And if as Yuval Harari says we have the most sophisticated communications systems the world has ever known but can’t talk to each other and are living through the rise of the machine, that is something we can address: the buck stops here. 

This is a copout phrase if ever I heard one.   It opens the door to stuff we don’t like but to which most of us surrender, because allegedly everybody else does – this last being  a major rationalisation too. 

So I was not researching an idea when I asked for a seat for the first time in my life.  I call what follows  “a sociological experience.”  It teaches me something about others in the society we share, even if I don’t like it. 

On the buses there is a section of seats marked for the elderly, people with sticks,  pregnant women or

… etc etc.     I often sit there. And there is a growing habit of people putting their children in a seat including the earmarked ones  and either sitting along side them or standing over them.  If the bus isn’t full, or the child is unwell, fine – but as a child I sat if necessary on my  mother’s knee or stood in the space in front of her – not much of it but I was small.  Same with my son, and he with his daughter.    

Tired, I asked a woman if I might sit in the seat occupied by her five year old son.   First blank denial, then disapproving and ineffectual huffing. My impression was she didn’t know what to do.  She might lose face with her child ? 

  I gave up and walked away.   (A friend who walks with a stick has been through a similar experience.)

Fortunately there was a seat further back next to a delightful woman (born here , family from St.Lucia) into which I subsided gratefully, remarking  “I don’t get it.”  And we began to talk about this reversal of child and parent, and other modern ways we didn’t enjoy.   She said she was bewildered by it (I judged her to be in her fifties.)

Charm and grace are hard ideas to write about.    Some people are apparently naturally charming , fake is often horribly obvious and even if you  couldn’t explain why this person or that piece of  behaviour  annoyed you though superficially perfectly pleasant – it’s because you sense something to be “off”.  

At his invitation, I recently took a couple of ideas to my 11 year old neighbour JJ who is playing The Cheshire Cat in Alice in Wonderland at school. He gave me the script and we met to discuss it.  I suggested that instead of a grin, he bared his teeth which is what many animals do to show they are no threat.   And that he use the grimace as punctuation.  We went through some lines – yes !   And his mother put a home made card in my hand 24 hours later to say thank you .

Charm can be encouraged like any other gift.   And grace in the sense I mean it is close – Anna means graceful and I try.  An American painter called Norman Rockwell, whose work was commissioned by The Saturday Evening Post and featured on its cover, once made a picture called Saying Grace.  It illustrated just that, at a traditional Thanksgiving meal.  But this is not the 1950s in the US, and culinary tastes have changed.  I wanted to call this piece saying grace because it is about small graces expressed, and why we won’t risk that any more. And before you say “Well, it’s just the way we live now …” at bottom, I believe this is about that great contaminant, fear.

As a young woman I was taught to look for eye contact.  Good luck with that now.  People look beyond you, at the ground, at the screen and because of earphones of one variety or another they often can’t hear if you greet them.

But in years of talking to people anywhere I find them, I have very few knockbacks.   Because you may be safe up there in your ivory conversational tower,

but that’s only because you don’t know how or have forgotten how to do it outside a limited social group. 

Thank you takes a couple of seconds, it’s free and everybody beams.   Charm ?   Tick.  Grace ?  Tick.  Loss of face ? Nil.  Empowerment ?   Total. 

There was no early decision

to be a journalist although my mother’s father was one for Northcliffe when the Daily Mail was a newspaper.  I was employed, I was not a secretary though for 10 years, it kept body and soul together and some of it was interesting.  A moment occurred when I was typing up a discreet ad for the next month’s edition for Forum (who would not let me write for them

– I quickly  came to see that omission as a blessing) .  I forgot all about insecurity and introspection.  I did not care if I had to do it ten times.  This was going to lead somewhere.  And thank you heaven, it did.

It was my experience that if you let somebody know you could type, you would be asked to type.  Like the General Manager of York Rep., in between learning the banal lines of the play for which I was hired.  I didn’t make that mistake again.

I spent years being told (in spite of dues to the appropriate union) that I was not a journalist, I was that lesser thing -an agony aunt – so I got stonefaced about claiming  journalist as my title.   And upon reflection distinguished journalism

– the tribute is always personal – shed all kinds of light in my life. 

A neighbour was briefly locked out this morning until her husband and enchanting tiny daughter came along to rescue her and in that time, she told me she read a paper on line and I said “No, won’t do.”   I need to look at the page, think and evaluate. 

Occasionally (I am a tittle tattle free zone) I spit bullets – as at the lack of attention to the documentary on culling badgers and bovine tb – which directly impacts farmers. Or  I find one of those bits of good news so many of us would like to hear.  Like a growing campaign to limit the age of the smartphone user, in direct response to the unexpurgated exposure of children to pornography and competitive imagery which directly contributes to the extraordinary rise in mental illhealth and social malfunction.    

Or I find something I feel I need to know – a dubious gem as in – The Taliban (may they rot in hell) who have done everything they can to cancel Afghani women. 

Women are forbidden education, swathed in voluminous robes, latticed veils and gloves and now forbidden to be heard speaking, singing or reciting poetry from inside their own homes.  (That’s how Stalin got Osip Mandelstam, by poetry.)

British cricket engages with the Afghani side, and while the former Defence Attache defends this, he informs us that Afghanistan is top of the list for British aid, some $550 million of it.

48 hours after I read this, the BBC news channel reported that an estimated 2 million children were suffering from several degrees of malnutrition in Afghanistan.   So what is that aid money being used for ?  (Rhetorical question, weaponry and testosterone going as they so often do hand in hand, particularly when augmented by brainwashing levels of prayer.)

And I remember the locum dispenser in the chemist answering when I asked where he was from “Afghanistan, madam – the land of tears.”   

The coverage of war written by Martha Gellhorn sent me off to read all sorts of other things, John Simpson’s spoken coverage did too  and I realised the other day that the two books I have offered even people I don’t know are both  by journalists –  A Bright Shining Lie about the US war in Vietnam by Neil Sheehan (now gone to glory) and Robert Caro whose memoir Working is always on my bedside table – a man who looked and looked and looked some more,  and asked questions and went back and asked them again.  And again.   Not till he got the right answers but until he got as close as he could to the truth.  God love the man, inspirational.

“All the news that’s fit to print” was put up in lights over Madison Square in New York in October 1896.   It was a gauntlet thrown down when Adolph Ochs acquired the stranded New York Times  and set out to prove that quality  meant something and journalistic quality something else. 

I’ll drink to that.