This is one of those days when you just want to hide,
but there is no reliable hiding place. The world is in at the front door, your identity can be stolen, what used to be called your privacy is compromised in the name of progress, if not dead. That old phrase about there always being somebody worse off than you is horribly true – doesn’t make you feel any better about your own trouble, but it is true.
So instead of making a list of all the things that are wrong ( heaven knows, a long list) here is the tiny AR banner, still flying positively in the breeze.
I long ago faced that, even if I could stand the style (not always the case), I couldn’t stand the repetition of what is called “rolling news”. Same thing over and over and over again. Repetititon sounds like indoctrination. I prefer print.
The Sunday Times arrives as you’d expect, the daily Times the other six days though there has often been a hiccup on Saturdays. For some weeks it didn’t arrive at all
and I had conversations with several different people trying to sort it out, one of whom was magisterially drunk at 8.00 am. I am sure the money is poor, they spend all days on complaints. It is not a great place to be.
Then there were weeks when the Saturday edition arrived smoothly and now we have entered another game -it arrives later. This week I open the door, my hair is up, I am wearing an all concealing robe. The car – same car as the week before – pauses. Out gets a young man. “Good morning” he says without irony.
as good as a handshake
I say smiling “Thank you “ He beams. I add “Later every week – but thank you.” He inclines his head, still smiling and says “Have a nice day madam. You are most welcome.” I loved “madam” – me with mucky teeth. Sets you up for the day.
Last week began well with an uplifting photograph of some of 62 state school youngsters
who had exam results which opened them to offers from Oxford or Cambridge, still the benchmark of a level of academic achievement. All those kids come from not very much and even if you suspect Oxbridge isn’t what it used to be, that opens the door to other offers with a more sympathetic campus. So hooray for everybody involved – the young, their families, their teachers, the effort.
Particularly necessary in a week which documented 25 per cent of all entry class children as not toilet trained, can’t read, don’t know what a book is. Parents who have children literally because they can, like a pup, feed it occasionally, too often knock it about when it gets in the way; either makes it or it doesn’t.
The dog may grow up to snarl and bite and so too often does the human version.
We are a society of mixed messages. We sentimentalise white weddings (horrifying expense) and having babies but not talking to each other or bringing children up – and no, I don’t mean which fork to use – I mean helping the young fit in to life to the extent that they can make the best of it and then make choices.
The church one block over and up the road has been given over to the Copts and recently they had some sort of community do – trestle tables set with things, children milling about – and I saw a young man, wrapped in his traditional white shawl, sitting off by himself, near railings I had to pass, so I asked “You are Copt ?” “Yes” he said. “And today is a festival?”
He said it was, it was do with the death of Mother Mary, a figure greatly respected by them – and several other sentences I couldn’t get between the gap between us, his accent, the traffic and my cloth ears. But he concluded “… and there is lovely food. Here” he scooped a sort of small meat ball with sauce into a piece of flat bread, and offered through the railings to me. I thanked him and ate it. It was delicious. We sort of bowed to each other and I came home.
Annalog 