Tag Archives: life

fallout

One of the things that fascinates me about journalism

is that somebody else – not often the person who is writing or speaking it – decides which way the item will be presented, slanted by need for audience, bias of producer, etc. and where we are up to in whatever story.

How can we go on being asked to be surprised at the depth of confusion and misinformation that surrounds Peter Mandelson? 

  It’s how he thrived.  You don’t need to be a major wheeler dealer, gay, a fixer or anything else of any weight.  Most of us know or have experience of somebody like that, from the “I just wasn’t quite sure about him” to the “No way, Jose!”      If he were a builder, you’d use him once but never again. 

Starmer is unpopular so he can’t do right for doing wrong.   It’s only 2 weeks max since I read an article which said, as he was going to be trashed at the forthcoming elections, he might usefully use the time left to make unpopular decisions, he was so unpopular already it wouldn’t make any difference to him and it might to us.

So he makes a decision – that’s difficult enough in the existing system of what I’d call endless chewing – bang. 

  And is promptly accused of throwing the head of the civil service under a bus.

Point of reference: making a decision has (at least) two sides and one of them is that somebody or bodies has to be in the wrong.    Unless you are the Faerie Queen.   And the Civil Service runs the country, never mind who is in power.

If there is a service to be rendered to British public life, it is to revise the system by which we are governed because it takes too long.  Or if it is to stay, we have to negotiate and accept a limited application of short cuts.   By the time all the considerations are over, the situation is likely changed.   Trump exploits this, Putin too (differently, same game) and Xi too.   

I began this week thinking “Oh, stop …”    Whinge, whinge, whinge about the state of our defences and no action.  This lamentably reduced military ability has been achieved over many years- when Labour and Starmer were not in power.

There is an old phrase “guns not butter” and successive governments, lulled into false security by peace, ran down the guns and distributed the butter – better housing and schooling, better medicine, more money around …    We are all very wise after the event.

The Armed Forces and the BBC have this in common: we over economised and wondered why the service faltered.   Neither organization connected with us, the poor devils who finance them. 

I can go on and on about television

(I don’t listen to radio – I confess I loved being part of it but don’t want to listen – never did) but I am bleakly cheered by more and more people complaining about the quality of scriptwriting and the gutlessness of production – an odd wonderful item is not enough when we all pay for this.   The repeats are like echoes down a well, repeating themselves and the programming is dire.   

The few good bits are tucked away later than most of the ageing population – which is the principal audience – stays awake.  

By the same token, the endless repetition

of the same complaints, and the same shortcomings – whether political or artistic – wearies us.  You can see why people switch off to football or snooker, to endless hooey about the Windsors larded with looking back at what once was,

But you can’t live in the past.  We are in the present.  And in that present, I have found joy in much better journalism that I knew existed which includes a piece about the Vice President JDVance and the memorable image “When you look … for Vance’s defining identity, the soul of his true self, there is nothing there, only a pile of receipts from… useful transactions.” (Gerard Baker, The Times.)    Which provoked a wonderful conversation on the bus last week with a CofE vicar, a girl in a wheelchair, a friend of mine and me – exchange, laughter and handshakes.

When did you last hear or see the word “soul” in a political piece?

just so you know…

On Easter Monday with a still dramatically swollen, overheated and badly discoloured right hand (the one I fell on 3 April), I got the bus over the bridge to a small private hospital.   Everything was done. The helpful and tactful  Iraqi woman doctor checked the price of the package  before doing it, and I saw the trauma/hand specialist the  following day.  

No, not the NHS .  My choice.  Yes, more than I wanted to spend but better value investing in health.  Worth it.

So this is an advance apology for an abbreviated piece.  Can’t ask too much too soon of a fractured thumb.

And I have a separate question which has never been asked.

As the striking junior (now known as resident) doctors enter their 15th strike in 3 years,

and it is clear that apart from money, they have  concerns about  the way the NHS is run – structure, systems, etc., – is there any legal reason why they cannot practice outside the NHS ?

I keep waiting for a group to announce “Right, we’re gong to call ourselves Practical Medicine and work directly  for a scale of fees as of this date.”

No love lost for China but the initiative of the barefoot doctors

– look it up – under Mao’s revolution, captured my imagination. (Especially on reading that half the people who go to A&E don’t need to be there.)    In the Chinese experience, I am sure there were great mistakes – China is indifferent to the wastage of human life through famine or accident – but I am equally sure that great good was done in the back doubles of that enormous territory by  doctors with basic skills.

This country is nothing like so big but the numbers  now using the NHS are enormous.

And  I don’t want to read another thing about plastic surgery.  I worked for a plastic surgeon before the extraordinary social development which made people think that a different nose

or bosom or bottom would improve matters.   

I am all for making the best of yourself.  Have seen men and women transformed by the right haircut but my life changed when the man I worked for refused to touch my nose.  “It’s in perfect proportion” he said.  “Leave it alone” … and he made me gown up and watch  a rhinoplasty so that he could explain it to me.

Well, here am I – not the Charlie’s Angels model ie three pretty woman of  roughly 80 trying to be 50 forever which is a show biz thing.  I am not in show business or the image business or any other business but the business of living which for all its various and several complications, I still love.

And I love writing annalog – though perhaps this week, not quite so much.

just me

I just had

a birthday  to which friends rallied, sent wonderful cards,  flowers, called (even from Milan and Portugal –  thrilling) and I started off laughing aloud in the kitchen as  the coffee heated a t 6.00 am (Pam the Painter’s card).  My son came to supper (apart from loving him, I like my son) and I  tripped on a shoelace and fell , banging my head and full weight under my body on my thumb – not broken thank heaven.   And not drunk – clumsy.   

We were  drowning in cake (the Italian Columba, dove shaped

and M&S Lemon Drizzle) and even lousy  television programming turned up the goods starting with  David Attenborough’s treatment of wildlife in a British garden – not my garden, impoverished  by the Peabody light which has now been on 24/7 for three years repelling everything that isn’t underground – and anyway tiny,  or yours, if you have one.  A socking great expanse in Oxfordshire, the desmene of a very old house (nearly 1000 years).   Fascinating and quite lovely.   But oh the music…

Look, if it really is my BBC – that sententious boring  campaign  (“Everything we do is because of you”) – can  we have  some input to it ?   In my favourite tv column every week, I read complaints about music.  It  disturbs perception.  Why do you think they put it in supermarkets ?    Here is the choice – don’t watch: put it on mute or turn the sound up and down because you’d like  some of the voiceover: or suffer.

I’ve got to the stage when a whole programme with very little music is a triumph.  Old films are often very good for soundtrack  without music.   I respect  Attenborough’s work and life and ability but not enough to put up with  an hour of being cued into emotions.  It’s insulting.

Stop telling me how terrible it is to be overly dependent on your smartphone

– yes you know it negatively  influences those younger than you and the young suffer all kinds of social and mental maladaptation as a result.  That’s if they have survived the latest toy giving  which is basically tablet before teddy bear – and no, I don’t mean pills.   But you are addicted…

I don’t have  a smartphone.    I loathe the concept of the mobile phone.  24 hours a day availability to me sounds like madness by invitation. 

  My ex husband told me  he could not have built his eventually very  successful business without the phone in the car and I understood. But how we have gone on from there terrifies me.  And the unholy alliance and crossover from screen to  phone and the idea of social media … no no no. Switched off from Facebook on 

 Defining my life choices by what any number of strangers says sounds suspiciously to me like asking an audience of couple of hundred for clothing and style advice.   Wouldn’t contemplate it.  Start from a different place.  Me.  

a sense of self

My shape, my needs, my interests, my weaknesses, my  choices (lots of quiet and white hair).   And every day, almost without exception, out of that security, I meet people, talk to people, cherish exchange and have  such good experience that it sets me up for one more day sharing a world with the madman Trump.   Because, be sure, that’s hard to live with.

I could list my pleasures  though they are only ever mine.  I could tell you truthfully that having  enjoyed remarkably  reliable health for many years, two years of on/off health problems, complicated  by the unavoidable advance of age from which no diet/lifestyle/heritage will insure you though luck,  good choices and a few  bob may help – that’s been lessons.  In multiple.

I am delighted and grateful  that the NHS finally came through for me  vis a vis my eye, and in the persons of two such kind and competent technicians.  But I regret bitterly the hooha I went through for 3 months. 

I  cheered for the piece on Sir Jim Mackey new chairman of NHS  England whos e strategy seems to be to do with thought not money.  I read a book I liked so much I bought copies for friends (Operation Heartbreak) though I know that recommending books or films or any other kind of art is a risk because you like what you like. 

But you won’t know what you like if you  constantly defer to what some devil you don’t know is thinking. Maybe AI is an abbreviation that really stands for Anti Social Intercourse. Or maybe it stand for Absolute Inanity. 

It’s all right. Just me.

shining

through not round

Upon writing annalog – which I still define as writing copy and most others refer to as a blog –  I wonder whether I am writing for you or for me.   Often and mostly, it’s both.  But I have written stuff, read it and thought – well that’s what I want to write – and then had unexpected feedback or I have written what I thought would appeal to you as well as me and the silence has been deafening. 

I have written before about the wonders of the subconscious mind

– and- in all humility about trying to begin – my phrase is  “to find a way in.”  Above and  beyond the list of things we all have to worry about in the wider world, we all have troubles from the small to the considerably larger and we have different ways of dealing with them.

People  talk about “getting round” a problem.  I commit myself to going through.  This is not because I am better or brighter or tougher, it’s because it works as a philosophy better for me.  It involves making a decision

and taking at least some of the responsibility for the fallout.

We have different levels of power and influence in the making of decisions.  We are different people, we experience things different ways.  

With my anxiety level rising unevenly through 3 months – which is a long time to feel powerless in a personal situation –   I could tell you a long unhappy story about my latest round with he eye hospital.  I have written about Moorfields before ( eg annalog/shruti and the tiger, and others)  always with praise and appreciation.  This latest round has come as a shock to me and a shock that goes on being shocking.

Friends have said I should write about it.  I am not sure.   It risks being a whine – hell, it is a whine.   On several different levels.  But I am near moving on, towards through.   Better an account of that, than the misery of not knowing.

The news media recounts with more and less clarity the ongoing destruction of various wars. 

All of the people involved don’t know.  If they are among the decision makers, they only know  this  decision or that.  Whether it will be positive or not,  they do not know, cannot know.  How or what they decide will play out and what the effects – short, medium and long term – may be remains unknown too.   You will notice a conspicuous lack of names in this writing – we all know the names, we have different feelings about them, but they are the major players, the rest of us exist in varying degrees of powerless, and we wait.

Alongside, the international and national political situation, there have been several books about human pain,

how it is perceived, what it really is, how the current impact of Big Pharma and its witchy pills makes them a fortune and leaves us further powerless.  I remember how people latched on the idea of a name for what ailed them, in the hope that if you could name it, you could treat it and thus banish it.  It works sometimes but not always and we are endlessly told the names of things in the superstitious hope that that will ease the pain perhaps or improve the predicament. 

Pain is part of the human experience, physical, psychological and they are often interrelated.   If you can’t feel pain you are in another kind of trouble.   No signal that something is wrong – again, in the mind or the body or both.    And you can misread the lack of signal as badly as you can a signal – and get it wrong.

And the most experienced doctors  can get it wrong too.

There is endless diagnosis of where we are up to in the history of the world

  – pages of intelligent and informed writing about the countries that are involved, how and why, what it may mean, how it will play, and on the world stage too often, the answer is war.

I can’t go to war with the NHS and the eye hospital.  What I learned is nowhere to fight.   Friends have been generous and supportive.   I have to go through this.    

Really?

Yeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaayyyyyyyyyyyyyyy !

It’s only taken  40 odd years  for me to get there and find myself named in the same sentence as Helen Mirren and Meg Ryan.  How I laughed!

40 years ago I was interviewed by a journalist called Andrew Billen for the London Evening Standard,

in connection with something I was doing on tv.  I can’t remember what and unless it was something of particular interest, I will have done my best, taken the money and gone home.  I remember something of what I wore and certainly where we met. 

Mr. Billen didn’t like me.  I made the mistake of trying to talk him into it, as in “go on, you do really”,  and  probably bored him.   When the  piece was published, he referred to me as being  “almost asexual.”  I am not sure after all this time about the “almost”  but I am certain about the asexual. 

And I was quite put out.

Sex and sexuality had been one of the few securities of my life.  Now apparently that was up for question.

When I spoke to the my endlessly thoughtful manager,  she asked what had happened and I told her what I have just written – that he didn’t like me and I got my response wrong.  And we discussed why I did that and what I must learn from it.  End of.  In those days, old newspapers wrapped chips.

So on Friday morning all these years later, Andrew Billen wrote a piece about the upcoming chat show of Claudia Winkleman, in which he referred to what a tricky beast the chat show is with reference to those who failed, those who succeeded and those who didn’t get a look in – writing “Even the naturals stumble.  Parkinson’s old school chauvinism bombed with several female guests.  Helen Mirren, 

Meg Ryan and the agony aunt Anna Raeburn (he jocularly asked her “your place or mine?” only for her to remind him that he was married).”

I am so glad I had my youth when I did.  Just for the record Mr.Billen, I didn’t find Parkinson anything as much as enormously able and professional.   I didn’t see that interview  in which I am the spam in the sandwich between Rod Hull’s fabulously malevolent emu

and the wonderful Billy Connolly until it was rerun a couple of years ago.  And I wouldn’t have seen it then had not Pam the Painter suggested with some force that I did.

Parkinson behaved beautifully to me, his manner was his manner – and he was good.  He made us all shine. You can disagree with  somebody profoundly but there is a place for the fight – and it wasn’t in my judgement on a night when I had a terrific time.  And it shows.  The thing that most  impressed me, watching 50 years later, was how happy I was.

In the Winkleman piece, I am thrilled to have been mentioned in the same breath as Mirren –  a year younger than me and a very very good actress – and Ryan,

a mere stripling in her late sixties and a very good actress – but don’t infer any sense of late stage generosity.  I was in the clip that came up next when Mr. Billen was looking through background on chat shows.

I have been thinking a lot about my mother recently.  When I was a child and turned up panting with the whichever dog was current, she’d say “What’s the matter with you ?  Think you missed something ?”   When you’re a child, that’s curiosity.  Nowadays it seems to be the terror that you will have missed the latest trend – whether in eyebrows, speech, chins or clothes –  and thus your chance at being  “in”.

If I had rung her about the Evening Standard, she would have dismissed it.  Maybe that’s why I didn’t.

My mother, whose own mother was not kind, was herself bright, penniless,  better than pretty and took no prisoners, and brought me up like that with love. .  She was never “in”.  Nor I.  I danced to a higher power.  She did it her way and I did it mine and her way was a big contribution to the possibility of even a corner of the overcrowded public and media world. 

Everybody in public life  – which means any life – is misunderstood or misrepresented once in a while.   You get on with it   You live.  And I did.

alphabetically speaking

I am very wary of addiction  which, no matter the size of the initial, seems to be offered increasingly  like some kind of social mantra.   As in “ I was addicted … but got clean and  made a marvellous marriage/the latest album/ a million dollars” – whatever success  it has to be to be impressive – and the scale only goes up.  History doesn’t make addiction any more acceptable. 

I don’t like the notion of addiction.  It means something else controls me, money or drugs or drink or violence.  No thank you.  Words taken out of principally medical context into  general vocabulary are too often freighted with knowledge or inference the rest of us don’t grasp or push away. 

40 years ago a very impressive  psychotherapist told me the  practical and psychological ramifications of a true “addiction to shopping” and it wasn’t prancing down the street with a Chanel carrier.   There were crossovers into hoarding, self destruction, poor self worth,  refusal to look, refusal to see.  Not to mention debt. Real ills.

I am tired of addiction being offered to me as some kind of social norm, as an explanation (only ever partial) or a failed A level – that letter again.  If it’s not Gary Lineker’s brother, it’s Liza  with a Z. Famous brother, famous mother – it’s only ever part of the story.     

Addiction easily slides into being  rationalized through “one more won’t  hurt” to a way of life which essentially prevents pain while rationalizing every kind of  dumbass risky behaviour – risky of relationships, risky of family, of money, of responsibility – and, and …  Think about it.  Think about the really hard things you  have had to do, how you had to go through them and what you learnt.

I am no more in favour of any  kind of pain than anybody else and I think the line between what you feel in your mind and what you feel in your body is thinner than many people are prepared to face.  As in “Doctor, doctor – there‘s a pain in my psyche …” and one segues into the other with  appalling speed and ease.  The timing of the thing that switches the pain off – the click – starts out not happening until 5.00 pm, becomes 3.30 am and winds up whenever.   Whenever you want – how’s that for an illusion of knowing what you are doing ?   “I didn’t know what I was doing” is a copout – you didn’t want to know – the next drink will fix it.   If this has a back up of lots of bodies, lots of noise, so much the easier.   God forbid you should be left alone with the person you are. 

There is a big piece of self destruct in this.  And a big piece of self denial.  You don’t want to be this person – this person in pain.  Too hard to be this person – so weak in comparison with whoever else, so boring, so … so .. so   Comparison  begins with C  but it is right up there as a prime motivator to acting like a pillock (begins with P).   Sound like anybody we have been hearing about lately? 

And beyond a certain point, you can’t feel any thing but the blissed out irresponsible stupefied moment.   Which equals  no responsibility, very limited thought process  – you probably still make it to the loo and wash occasionally  but take responsibility for little else – depending on the individual and how much disposable income you can lay  your hands on or lie to yourself about and how much tolerance the other people in your life extend to  you…  And you can evade that for years on the basis of other people’s need  not to know and your own inability to deal with yourself.

Was I addicted?  To patterns of behaviour, not pills, or bottles or injections. Whatever the struggle, it’s called living – living YOUR life.  It is a constant evasion  – unless you are going for sainthood – that you live for anybody else.  The gap is bridged by  intelligence, fortitude, a willingness to speak  – not often but when you do with some  honesty, some sweat and a lot of laughter.

Don’t  dismiss little lives.  There are actors or artists or poets or musicians who can explain the compromises they have had to make or the choices, in order to do  to do whatever it is – and still be  a human. There will always be  a tortured artist.

Afterword: there are no pictures this week, just for a change  – because I couldn’t take a picture of  the young man from the Post Office who has delivered parcels locally for some time.  Tall, thin, Afro-Caribbean with a great grin.  I don’t have many parcels, but I take things in so we began to wave, exchanged names and grinned some more.  He came to the door early to tell me, it was his last day, he had a better job.  So we shook hands and I put his hand briefly to my face and said “ Good luck, take care and thank you so much for coming to say goodbye.”  “Couldn’t just go” he said “not without telling you.” 

London 2026 .   My life’s work is with people, they are not addictive and bring joy.          

breathing

A word of praise for the BBC. 

 Not only are they rerunning Hetty Wainthropp Investigates but so far,  they are doing it in order.   This is  rare.  The schedulers usually throw in any old episode of a long series for the mugs who pay the license fee and use terrestrial tv.  The contempt is that the audience won’t notice the difference. 

Everybody is different.  Pushed to define why this series appeals to me,  I’d fall back on the writing.  Which recently contained a better written version of “You’re breathing – do something with it.” 

With the back injury I recently described, my reading was limited to chunks of serious journalism.  I didn’t always agree with it, but it made me think. 

My father’s maxim was “learn something every day” – ie  do something with your life. I am only describing what I do because it is available to me.

In this late phase of my life, I was always  hearing about people who  did so much, who accomplished and travelled and signed up for extra mural degrees.  I read, again my father teasing “read , mark, learn and inwardly digest.” 

It’s not useful to say I don’t care what Donald Trump says. 

Presidential blurt is driven by all sorts of input, much of which we can only guess at, but he is the President of United States.   Because he can speak in an accessible way,  it doesn’t follow we like what we hear, as Europe learned at Davos – not just the political figures, all the economic ones whose attendance we so often forget – bankers and investors and business.   But it was a wakeup call.   The American Dream is over.  

Various chasms yawn at various feet

– it won’t be the same for everybody.  Keep calm and carry on looks great on a tea towel but the application is GBCute  if we are not going to look at the wider implications and get to grips with them.  The more I read about politics, the less I like it – but I don’t like it (them?) any better anywhere else.   

In the 50s/60s series based on Simenon’s Maigret which runs on Saturday night TPTV, Maigret says to his wife “Politics – dirty word my dear – excuse me.”   It’s like cleaning lavatories. 

Unpleasant, but somebody has to do it. 

And of course ego is involved.  It usually is. I long to be a more useful person.  This week for example, I would like to make people laugh.  I love to make people laugh.  And I accept that a great part of  daily  journalism is to do with distraction – “how I learned to love my body at 44 “ (not a moment too soon),  “I’m a lustful 90” (I don’t care ), Traitors and why Alan Carr is a national treasure (oh spare me!)

I recently began to think about all the  “modern” things that have bypassed me

ie microwave, mobile phone (until recently, still don’t use it), tablet, leggings, white pointed toe shoes (and other outer aberrations like false eyelashes like fences, big lips, plastic bosoms and preformed butts).   The couturier Valentino may be dead but glamour lives. I have never sent a text.  I don’t know what an app is.  I do know that yesterday I met a woman half my age looking for a particular thing in the supermarket and I said “You could probably get it on line”.  “I don’t want to go on line” she said.  “Not for clothes, not for food, not for anything.”  I nearly cheered.  

Making use of breathing means I am living in my life.  It is not over there somewhere,  waiting as at a bus stop for further rehearsal.  This is it.

While acknowledging the use of occasional delivery, I do not want to live inside my home, pressing buttons and I don’t want to live life outside  my house at one remove ie screen filtered.

Allowing for all the bad news, which is sadly as much the attitude of reporting news media (it’s the way they currently do it) as what is happening , I like my life.  I am not big on regret. 

I am capable of meltdown (you should have seen me one day last week) but I get through.   Still breathing.

elephants

AR health warning: don’t read this if you don’t do the “d” word.

Elephants  are mysterious in their size, intelligence and consoling eye lashes ie not many but long.  The elephants I refer to however are the ones we can’t see, the elephants in the room.  Generally we refer to “the elephant (singular)” but I think they are now reaching herd proportions.

The Australian Rachel Ward was the star of a long ago wildly successful TV romance between a priest and a beautiful young woman who “did it”.  She didn’t like bad press and removed herself from acting to a long marriage, children and a cattle ranch up country, all of which makes you want to cheer but for which she gets no credit at all.. 

Recently she posted a happy snap of herself,

greying hair and specs, on one or other internet platform and was immediately attacked for having let herself go.  If  men were disappointed in the dream made(ageing) flesh, women were even more outspoken.  Their criticism could be summed up as “how dare you be happy and look like hell ?” – the latter untrue.  She looked like a woman who got up and did, in the heat, and liked her life.

A woman came almost at me in the middle of London, 10 years ago, who exclaimed my name.  “You look wonderful” she said “- But I suppose you’ve had everything done ?”    To which I replied “Yes – by heaven, 72 years ago .”    You can make of the best of your older self without all that stuff in your face and off your bottom, with a degree of honesty and imagination which will leave you of course looking older (you are !) but still good.  Hooray for Rachel Ward.

The American saying is “three sure things in life – birth, death and taxes.”   And if the actress Claire Foy -much praised for The Crown (Netflix)

– can talk about childhood  and later illness and say that she never expected to live long, hooray for her.  The idea of eternal life is a spiritual promise, not a physical reality.   Age withers us in different ways  but we do die.

Death has its own meaning  – different for different people.  It differs culturally as  well as personally – but however , it comes.  We end.   

Other elephants include Health Minister Wes Streeting.   We hear a lot about Wes Streeting’s ambition  but I wish his stylist would point out to him that a man who wears his collars as tight as that is about to explode – which is NOT a recommendation for power.

I am not going to give  the latest conceited refugee from the Conservative Party to Reform the name check he seeks.  But I heard Kemi Badenoch earlier in the week as well as in summing up her action as leader in this matter and both times remarked how restful and cheering it was to hear a politician answer a  question.  

It is worth remembering that she trained as and worked as an engineer

which makes her rare among politicians in that many of us only grow up to the taking of responsibility  through work.

I could give you a list of other elephant words which we cease to read or hear much because they are currently considered  judgmental.  I thought (among other things) that growing up  (which I longed for) was  about forming opinion,  making choices, and thus the assumption of responsibility.   Does the herd in the room consider growing up? Or has this been supplanted by the denial of death and/or the quest   for eternal youth?

I have seen one or two who have managed to  continue to look remarkably  youthful I but I have seen  many others who range from  frankly silly to  much repaired and run down garden sheds

Life isn’t only about how you look – it’s how you are.   And life was never about  only what you say – it was the way you say it.   I have no idea what  the present government is or isn’t doing for me or us.  They don’t communicate . I don’t want  prolonged flannel. I would prefer a few sentence designed to  communicate rather than obfuscate (Elizabeth I loved that word when it was new)

Not pain. Not avoidance and nothing to do with death.  Yet.

New Year Proper

What I mean is,

when you have got over too much to eat, too much to drink, put away extra  crockery/bedding/toothbrushes, Aunty Betty has finally got the car out of the way so you can stop fretting about what you are going to do when somebody wants to go to work/take the kids to school etc and you really don’t want another family negotiation for 12 months.  And the first bills have arrived.

At 9 I didn’t know what irony was

but I remember my father calling up to my mother in a sepulchral tone “Gas is out …” pause “No post” …  pause “ Dog’s still not home” and wondering why the grownups laughed when I said “Happy New Year, Daddy!”

Last week Pam the Painter asked  “What’s existential ?”   and I said  “I don’t know.”   “Gosh” she said, “I don’t think you have ever said that before”  so I explained – I don’t know how to use it so I don’t use it, and asked why she didn’t look it up on line ? “Because” she said “it will tell me what AI thinks… ”   ah yes. 

In trying to find out whether Waitrose was open on New Year’s Day, the  AI summary said no, but the entry for the branch I wanted said yes.  I rang the store.  They were open.  Maybe AI stands for Approximate Information.

And when we have finished giving all sorts of jobs over to it – do tell me how the unemployed are supposed to earn a living – or shall we all be nourished by a different kind of injection by then?

Whether it is my generation or my personality or both, I am repelled by the over simplification of losing weight – and only now are the informed beginning to talk about what you do afterwards?  How long can you take the drugs? 

How will you look?  What will it do to you?

A friend is using them carefully in accordance with a much  altered food intake and regular checkups. Though she says it will be slow, she looks wonderful.   While another  said “If you don’t alter what goes on in your mind and understand why you eat what you eat, you can do anything you like – it will always come back.”  There are many books written on obesity and I am not going there but at 21 I worked for a man who administered a daily shot, doubled on Saturday to get you through the weekend given alongside a very carefully managed diet: and those who stuck to it, did brilliantly  – like Miss Flynn in a size 14 dress, a plain woman made radiant by liking herself so much better.  After 60 years, the modern edition is cheaper and more accessible – but the marketing

is merciless.   

Even allowing for meteorological  catastrophizing (overstatement necessary to get even passing attention) Storm Goretti promised trouble in the midst of which a contributor was heard to say “And we are asking people not to climb mountains tomorrow “ because, if they do and get into difficulty, somebody else has to risk life and limb to rescue them.       

I don’t know which I like least – the  build up to Christmas or the extended few days to New Year and  beyond – but this year it was all through a filter of pain – big little word –

and I don’t mean discomfort.  I mean couldn’t bend, couldn’t walk much, couldn’t sit much, truly incapacitated.  But hooray for the osteopath and doing as I was told, Thursday 8  January was the first painfree day since  27 November – partly to do with  injury and partly to do with age.  So that was New Year for me.  

But you always learn something – I learned how much I take  for granted  – small movements, cherished freedoms …  It concentrates the mind quite wonderfully when you can’t sit in the structurally chosen writing chair and getting on and off the loo is a time consuming challenge.  

I learned to wait, ideally breathe and wait.  I drew heavily on whatever and whoever was offering whatever support.  I learnt to be rather than to do and breathe and count my blessings. 

So – this is the beginning of New Year Proper – hell on wheels so far but here we go.

a change is gonna come…

From the Prince and Princess of Wales

through the work of Jonathan Haidt (US academic and author of The Anxious Generation through The Amazing Generation) to one of my favourite  writers whose headline this  week was “This  year drop your phone and touch grass” – the thoughtful press has begun to realise the extent of the damage constant access and social media does – to them, the grownups, never mind the kids.   Janice Turner writes “My new year’s resolution is to stop letting Mark Zuckerberg  monetise my life.”   The only figure the billionaires value is the share price.

Imagine a very little girl ,attended by her devoted dog, racing through the house because she heard voices, or movement, or something new.  That was me – I would turn up in the kitchen and my mother would say beaming  “Oh hello … Afraid of missing something ? “  

Natural curiosity has been moulded into must – must know, must see, must comment, must share.  Your experience isn’t enough without “other people”. And you pay for it, monetarily and emotionally.   

Online addiction and what is called slop consumption is not of interest to me.  Never was.  Many of us have forgotten that we have choice in this – or in the case of the Wales’s, the children just don’t have phones.

I have always disliked the idea of being available 24/7.  For what, for whom?   I learned a long time ago that if you didn’t – look at the phrase we use – switch off from time to time, I would be exhausted.   I had to pause.

The screen has it uses, certainly – but once you start zapping around with stuff at the speed of light, to tell you what you could live without knowing, I was reminded of the early days of television where we wondered about the impact on the brain of the speed of film images.

And what could be more unsettling than to compare constantly every aspect of yourself, with somebody else’s in particular or worse, with everybody else.  What happened to being the person you are and using your abilities to communicate?

The title comes from “Ballad for Americans” – I used an extract when I did Desert Island Discs many years ago.  We hoped for change and improvement – and we got it, better health, more food, better schooling, wider horizons, different chances.  Progress was slow but it was progress.  Then we fell in love with speed and sameness and began to reap a terrible whirlwind – the tapering off of individuality, unwillingness to look at what a life really meant, as in  “I must do this because everybody else does” as if by being like other people, that would somehow protect us from life itself. 

Great creative artists know that you don’t just make great art –  in any creative endeavour, you try, you fail, you get lost, you find something else , the journey is long, often not at all the shape you thought it might be 

but endlessly interesting and even if it isn’t at the time, it is when you look back on it, because you see it differently.

This is about our relationship with time, as if , if somehow we could speed it up, we could get to the good bits and skip the rest.   Sorry chum.  The “rest” is part of the whole.   

And when we began to see the impact of this consumerist model on health and education, it got very scary very quickly.   And those of us who walk down the street, greet the unknown as well as the known, shying away from the quick fix and the short cut, were horrified to see the price – the real price of not knowing real grass from plastic.

Denning and I say to each other at regular intervals that we are very glad we are not rich.  Too often, it is inferred that if you spend enough, there is nothing you can’t have.  What rubbish.  Money can’t buy you health or happiness, or help you keep them.  

You have to find a way to be.  There are few short cuts, except getting a job you love as I did, or meeting a life partner and he or she really is but there are moments – the sky at sunset, the softness of snow, laughing at yourself, or with others –this bird, that flower.   

dew on the flowers at dawn

A change is as good as a rest – will you try it?