Tag Archives: writing

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.

you can dream…

Do you think if I feel absolutely wretched with streaming cold, I could dance like Gene Kelly? 

One of my favourite  film  moments is  when he dances in the pouring rain to the title song of Singin’ in the Rain.  Somewhere along the line I read that he had a temperature and so on, but the show must – and did – go on.

Sadly my guardian angels don’t do swaps.  You get what you get.   So the only dancing is my fingers on the keys.

Generalisation

is I suppose inevitable but I prefer it tempered,  as in qualified by  “most” or  “many” or even “it seems that…”  I loathe hate and detest  “all men” just as much as I detest  “all women”.  You couldn’t possibly know them all, don’t be silly.  So though historically, though men are heavier, stronger and more aggressive and had to be for the race to survive, from Eve on, women were part of the way we live too.

So this week – drowning in images of the current President and his yeasayers, I looked to the distaff sides and found small  goodies.

Reese Witherspoon

was apparently less than keen on  acting and now has a successful career as a producer.  Her daughter is beginning to make headway as an actress.  To quote RW  from a podcast I haven’t heard “ better to pursue your talents rather than your dreams.”   I was really struck by this. 

If you are the sort of person who will only know if you prove it to yourself that what you want won’t happen, I can see following your dreams.  Though a very average  5 ft 4ins (sorry, metric free zone), slim enough but not wand thin, I wanted to be a model. 

Marie Lise Gres

My mother bless her chased up hard earned money to let me attend a short modelling course where I was kindly disbused of any hope I had in that direction.  I emerged and got on with life.  I would like to think I reimbursed  my mother but I  bet  she waved it away..

However lesson absorbed.  Never mind all that warbling about  impossible dreams – live the possible ones.   And I did.  And you learn – not always slowly or easily  – but you do learn.  I used to hesitate about explaining I worked for a women’s magazine in case it sounded exclusive of men.  And then I was told, more than once, that men read those publications to learn about women.   

I learned too that though John Wayne

might be quoted as saying “Men are men, and women are women, and I can’t think of a better arrangement”, life was actually  quite a lot more complicated and various than that, and this was long before apparently compulsory  discussion about gender and choice and hormonal knitting patterns. Men and women were very different one from another, via enlightenment, personal experience, education and personality.  And they were all people.  Some you liked, some you wanted to biff in the ear – and not always divided along lines of gender.

You may not be old enough to remember that a faction felt that feminism was a misled idea because women didn’t like other women. 

Let me be the first to argue that there are women – as well as men – I don’t want to eat with.  Duplicity and ill manners and worse are not gender specific.   You learn to pick your fight and how to fight, and when to give in, when to quit and when to shout hooray.

As a woman writing about the Tate Modern  show for Tracey Emin

did last week.   Apart from being a really helpful overview |(good ? bad ? irrelevant ? I didn’t know) it showed you a woman who did what she wanted to do – she made art and put her money where her mouth is –  into a rundown seaside town where she created an art school and a training kitchen and café for the long term unemployed.  “I live art, work art, facilitate other people to do art” she is quoted as saying.  “I have come home.”  62 years old, followed her talents.  Know your dreams for what they are – dreams -and don’t confuse them with realities. 

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.          

unstiff upper lip

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.

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.