Suffer little children...

We often complain about our modern world don't we? Its excess', its violence, its seemingly idiotic notions, its indulgence and its stubborn refusal to view manners, people and events in the good old fashioned way...
However, we don't work backwards. Recently, I was queuing at the post office and the line was long, there being only two till operators, when there was a disturbance some way in front. It wasn't loud but it caused several people to hook out their mobiles and start dialling.
Naturally, I strained myself forward, tipping my head this way and that to look but I could only see a woman mopping up some red stuff by hand with a bundle of tissues. Slowly the line reduced and I edged foreword. But the line had quietened and the usual rabble of Essex folk, complaining that they hadn't seen Eastenders for a week (therefore their entire life was about to fall apart) tuned in instead to the cause of the disturbance and much proved their true worth by offering all the assistance and empathy they had to a young mother and her eleven year old daughter, a pale and choleric thin thing who was in the process of coughing up a huge amount of bright red blood.
That crimson signal appeared to galvanise an entire mini army though and all the Health and Safely issues and factors that we normally dislike so much and which forms such a large part of our modern world, were immediately acted on.
A chap got through to the emergency services. They were then patched through to security who had arrived and who gave then precise directions how to get to the shop because it was in a shopping precinct. A manager arrived and took charge, a woman with protective clothing appeared and began to mop the floor after putting down a slippery floor sign and the queue edged forward slowly.
The child was, by now, finished throwing up blood and sat back in a hard chair, looking extremely frightened and white, tears flowing and inducing the most frightful pity within all of us. However, a paramedic arrived within five minutes and took her pulse, briefly examined her and then, lead by the manager, escorted mother and child away through a back door.
I arrived at the counter to buy some stamps and mentioned to the woman, how sad it was to see a child suffer. She agreed but we could have been chatting about an incident which happened weeks ago for the space where she had been ill was empty and new customers would never know that anything untoward had happened just minutes before. Under such circumstances, she mentioned, it was important to keep the line moving and not let the ill person feel as if he or she was an item of curiosity. All had been thought out before, with all preventative measures and opinions just in place.
I gained the impression of a superb clockwork machine, working continuously just below the surface of everyday life and one continuously geared moreover to our...health and safety. Later, as I left the precinct, I walked past an ambulance, no doubt with the child and mother in it and everywhere was so silent. If I see mother and child again, I will let you know.

Sue Pollard and Def Leopard and J. K. Rowling

I had the delightful pleasure of being introduced to the the wonderfully effervescent Su Pollard last night and our short time together cemented an idea that had been running around inside me old brain-box for some time. That she is as bonkers as a box of frogs on Acid. I don't mean of course that that notion about her had been with me for a time but something else.
But why? I, as most of you, will remember her as the dotty chalet maid Peggy Ollernshaw in Hi-de-Hi and I am not in the least surprised that she has somehow reinvented herself as a charming loon with that distinctive voice. What other way could she go after the series ended twenty years ago? Go on to play Ivy Teasdale in the sitcom; You Rang, M'Lord of course. Like attracts like.
I can see how easily it must have been for her to realise that she had struck the Golden comedy nugget and over the years, merged those fictional characters into her own personality. After all, we all wanted to meet chalet maid Peggy last night. And we did. Even through there was not a camera in site. I was waiting for her to mention that she had always been as mad as a box of frogs on acid. Or the equivalent at least. Never a depressed moment.
And then there is Def Leopard, wining and un-purposely expressing themselves about how much music meant to them around the time they were infants. I just had the impression that they were supposed to say that, as if uttering those things actually justified their wealth, talent and fame. I did wonder if they would have thought the same thoughts or expressed the same words though had they failed in their musical efforts and became motor-car salesmen, insurance advisors and mangers of MacDonalds instead.
I hear J. K. Rowling (as an author of which I do not envy at all) had the plot-line of all seven books in her head when she wrote the first one. I do not doubt that. What I do find hard to swallow is that she would have written book two and the rest had she failed to get a publisher for book one. I know of no mortal man or woman who would spent fifteen years writing 2,000,000 words, all for them to be parked on a hard drive somewhere and never to be read by an exited face. She exists because she exists in other words. She is famous because she is famous, not because she invented Harry Potter.
So what am I on about today? Lost intentions that's what. For every one person who has has luck bestowed upon them, there are probably hundreds or thousands who lay dead beside the road, clutching their novels, their songs, their art, their poetry. Each one probably, having the potential, once the back-room boys get on it, of becoming just as special in our hearts and lives as any other celebrity. Yet, such is life and that's the way the system works. We can't all be famous!
So what is my point? I'll tell you what it is. I wish people would be more honest. I wish people would say; Christ! If it wasn't for that incredible stroke of luck, of being in the right place at the right time, I too would have probably become a lowly-paid cilvil servant, shuffling papers around at my local town hall. Or, I had no talent at all when I was a kid! The fact that I am here doing this and earning a fortune is a fluke.There is only one celebrity I am aware of that has become that honest and that is Bob Hoskins. So that's what I want them to admit. Because greatness has been thrust upon them, they believe they are great and have always been great. And many...most...and I am one of them...are not. George Handel (1685-1759) breaks my theory. Damned infant!
I do inherently believe that we grow towards not only on our strengths and weakness' but also on other's opinions of us. There have been enough experiments to prove this assumption as well. And that is why we ultimately fail...or succeed. Believe in someone today. For God's sake, just do it.

Tribal Wives

I have been watching Tribal Wives, a documentary series on BBC 2 about white women with their own brand of particular problems who go to live for a month with an isolated tribe only to return, complete, happy and fulfilled.
Its not a bad program although I wouldn't walk through a snowstorm to watch it. While I see and understand the changes these women go though, I do feel sorry for them in a way that they could not find the means and strength within themselves to overcome their difficulties in their own country and with their own people. But hey! Do whatever works I say.
However, watching the unfolding drama of these primitive, yes and I meant to use that word, people's lives, I am more than convinced (as if I needed any anyway) that these people can keep their often barbaric, tyrannical and ferocious way of life to themselves.
Husbands are allowed to beat women or even kill them without condemnation, fear is ever present by all, their society is completely unequal in religious, legal and social terms thanks to the ever-present plague of religious belief, animals are slaughtered for celebratory purposes, immaturely, there is little understanding of any other way of life except their own and consequently, there is an ever present need to change what is into what they feel comfortable with instead of maturely accepting a person and their worth.
I'll be honest, I have nothing but contempt for these people, these tribes. I cannot say with any truth that our society is much better in many regards (we do have our own problems to be sure) but when it comes to protection of the person, recognition of a person's status and respect for who and what people are, our Western Christian civilisation wins hands down. I am surprised slavery is still not in operation.These people are no more civilised than the Romans.

I love this story

Perhaps the most memorable story regarding the first editions of the Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone comes from a journalist in the UK. Nigel Reynolds is the arts correspondent on the Daily Telegraph and he was persuaded to meet JK Rowling as she attempted to publicise her unknown book.

They met, had coffee, chatted and JK handed over one of the first editions. Nigel said his farewell and headed back to the office where he skimmed through the book and tossed it into the garbage bin – easily the most costly mistake of his career. Good first editions are now going for about £30,000!

Road safety?

There is a perfect illustration of road safety. It took place in 2005, when road markings and signs, as part of psychological traffic calming measures, were removed. In Holland, Germany and Sweden, accidents were decreased by a third and speed fell by an average of 5%.
It was found that instead of relying on the street system for security, drivers were forced to use their reactions! Heavens! What next! It is believed that the lack of clear markings encouraged drivers to slow down and mingle with pedestrians, forcing them to make eye contact with one another.
I've just seen an advert for Nissan's new intelligent, all mode, SUV 4X4-i; an x-trail behemoth. An earth-resource draining, gas-guzzling, forefinger-up to humanitarianism and a product which serves to undermine the owner's intelligence and driving ability to a degree unheard of. Never before have I unfortunately witnessed a vehicle so designed to offer the driver such a false sense of security and a perfect way to send him or her on a downward spiral of complacement.
Yes, this is what the world needs; A DVD watching, loud music fixated, mobile using, GPS obsessed, air-head, amateurishly and unintelligently driving a 3,000 Ib battering ram. This life-destroying tank just encourages selfish, insecure, by probably overweight and misplaced drivers, to forget caution and restraint and that can only be a bad thing. Almost an evil thing. Nissan and the rest of them ought to be ashamed. Let's hope its a fad and that one day, they and other car designers will take themselves out of the boy's playground, grow up and begin to take their job seriously.
I believe designers have got seriously out of hand. ABS with EBFD and CSC, air-bags, side bags, side impact bars etc, etc, etc. Its all too much. Take away the safety measures and let the human brain do what it does best. Self preservation.

The Change

I think I'm going through the change. No, not that one! That one, the hot flushes, the tiredness, the noticing of grey hair and the realisation that there are probably more days behind me than in front, was a walk in the park really...compared to this.
Yes, this manifestation is wholly more insidious and sly. It catches me unawares, as well as smacking me squarely in the face. For this one consists of a number of things that no one taught me to expect. Items such as, unexplainable skin conditions that wax and wan, the temptation to stay in on a Saturday night, the inability to sit through a two hour film at the cinema without wishing the whole thing would hurry up and end so I can go home and make my hot chocolate, the impossibility of taking a cup of tea after six in the evening without peeing all night, an increased sense of right and wrong, warranting an equal amount of grumpiness, a sad sense of futility as established and long-cherished habits fall away, as I realise that I don't need them anymore and an appalling sense of loss as I discover that I no longer want to learn. That last one, coupled with the knowledge that many of the things I once held so high in principle and that were so important, are surely now gone for good. And worse of all, that I do not care that they have gone.
This change sees me delving more intently into the past and revelling (even wallowing) in nostalgia than ever before. It convinces me that even the periods and habits I once had little time for and the places I had no longing to remain at, I now find fascinating and instructional. And therefore enjoyable. I seek them out. Interest in many subjects is waning. I feel as if I am leaving the intellectual world and all its problems and joy behind, hurtling forwards towards a metaphysical and spiritual place which has no name. It is not exactly discomforting but not too strange either as I have the feeling that this is a path well trod before me and also that I have many brothers and sisters that are experiencing the same. I now understand how my grandparents and later, even my parents were able to leave watching an exciting film on television to perhaps make tea. Yes, the entertainment was not deemed that important. To children, things are so important aren't they? I understand now why my father eventually didn't mind so much when his roses died inexplicably, or why mum ceased making a fuss over small issues. It was, the change.
My need to create is diminished. My need to be recognised is on its way out. My organisational ability has increased. My urge to control my destiny has almost vanished. Names are harder to recall. My imagination does not scare me as much as it once did and I pay less attention to it. It, no longer feels the need to be expressed. Which brings its own sort of sadness.
There is a lesser need for communication, a humbling of spirit. I have begun to understand why authors write less as they age. It is not because their creativity ceases. It is because the soul within grows tired. This new change then would explain why I choose to rest, sitting upright in the morning before I stand, why losing weight is extremely hard, why certain foods, once so freely eaten, enjoyed and digested, now have the same effect on me as poison. Or close enough to it as to cause discomfort. And why my medicine cabinet is stocked with so many life-saving goodies! It explains my choice of going to bed early with a good book instead of a bad person, it explains why I like to snooze in the afternoon, how I can chat with the elderly easily, and why I purchase lots of things of which I have no need. I am in a dilemma. I have the facilities of a strong person yet with all the inherent problems of a weak one.Yes, its the change. Hopefully, the final one. But somehow, I don't think that's true. For I have this almost awful feeling that in perhaps twenty years time, I shall be here (God willing) ready to explain away the experiences of the true last and final frontier of my life.

They are still, my people.

They are still, my people. Perfectly still, if one does not account for the occasional twitch of an eyelid or the sound of a rasping dryness which twitches indiscreetly around their dry lips.
They have a unwieldily detachment. As far away from their youth as one can imagine, these elderly, wheelchair-bound statues whose eyes dry off into the distance, many seeing no detail, but reduced to shadows and the few textures which remain to them.
They are not hungry anymore. They look forward to nothing. And the odours in the still air attest to it. These people, perhaps more than most, live just for the next few moments. Their perspective, if we could ever witness it, would be inexplicable to our earthbound mortal eyes and ears.
Yet, their legs bleed continuously, their weekly perms glow when the summer sunshine strikes them with an unfathomable blueness, their forehead's crease and they cry with anguish at the impossible and the unknowable. It is heart-breaking. And each day I dread going in to work for one reason; ugly news that another has died during the night. It is an impossible job.
The wheelchairs are kept spotlessly clean and oiled. As is their last place of residence. Lined up like some macabre race in the living rooms, they are left, always turned towards the sun. As if that is what they have to look forward to. Their clothes too are boiled spotlessly clean and parched, some to the extent of losing colour. But the few visitors notice details like that. Mother is clean and silent, and therefore content. That is what they notice.
Death reduces us all, it has often been said. But when it catches up, and overcomes, as it will, our feeble and time-limited attempts to keep it at bay, address an expression of thanks to your God that you have friends and family around you; not dry and, to my eyes, still incomprehensible statues.