My Life in Boxes

 

Yes, we’re moving again. Back in April, everything went into boxes to be stacked into a shipping container; as yet we’ve nothing to move into, so we’re living in the caravan.

Most of the boxes that came out of the attic hadn’t been unpacked since we moved in. In fact there’s stuff still in boxes from a number of previous moves. It’s stuff that we apparently can’t part with even though it never sees the light of day. There’s the sentimental stuff, Dad’s ‘archive’, inherited must-keep stuff, the handy cos-you-never-know-you-might-need-it stuff, ….. even stuff belonging to family members who took off abroad ‘travelling light’ (you know who you are….). 

The ‘When I’m Dead’ box isn’t labelled as such anymore. It was mocked by my sons when they helped with a previous move along with the ‘Not-important-no-need-to-open’ box. Those boxes had sat in an attic for years and I’d forgotten what was in them anyway. It was interesting to rediscover their contents, even though I’m not dead yet and even though the stuff did indeed turn out to be Not Important.

The attic isn’t the only place we had to extricate boxes from. In the little bedroom we euphemistically referred to as ‘the study’, boxes sat inaccessibly beneath, behind or above whatever furniture we’d squeezed in there. One in particular is a big box of photos and memorabilia that I wanted at hand for those reminiscence evenings with the family. What reminiscence evenings, for goodness sake? Like that ever happens, and in any case the box was too heavy to pull out from under so we couldn’t have reminisced over the stuff anyway.

Gareth, struggling with another crumbling hip (now fixed, btw, thank goodness), grumbled about all of my boxes. I should really label and list the ‘Alison’ boxes, the ‘Our’ boxes and the ‘Gareth’ boxes (along with ‘Other People’s’ of course). Looking at the pile of boxes he put aside that he wanted taken to the caravan I was aware of how much stuff is associated with photography, cycling, fishing, dogs……hmph.

Last summer it looked like we’d be selling up and going our separate ways, but hey, ho, we’ve realised that we’re joined at the hip (even if they’re arthritic and/or artificial) and we need each other. We’ll muddle through this new phase in our lives in a new home with a fresh start back in the area we are most familiar with and which is also closer to friends and family.

There is a very funny (Amnesty International, I think) old sketch by John Cleese et al about poverty one-upmanship. The one who’d had it the hardest had been so poor that his family had to live in a shoe box. Our house in Llanelli certainly felt like a shoe box after the houses we've had before. We’ve managed though, to live quite happily in the caravan, and even in a motorhome (with our stuff in storage, of course), but we’d like a home where there’s room to swing a cat. I guess we’ll have to get a cat, then, too, though I'm not sure what the dogs would make of that……or my allergic daughter-in-law for that matter.

As usual I’m wandering off the point……yes, boxes. I don’t want to live in a shoe box and ideally I want somewhere where all of the stuff that is in boxes can immediately find a place. After our search I realised that I was being over-optimistic. I want our new place to be home for life, what’s left of it, but, without a lottery win our choices were limited. What we’ve found is petite and bijou - a bit of a shoe-box again, as it happens, but with scope to expand and definitely in the right place. Such a happy find, though it seems to be taking much too long for us to get in.

Of course, I shouldn’t make light of living in boxes. (Beware -change of mood here) I am very privileged in having a choice at all. These are such hard times for so many and there really is a growing homelessness crisis - people living on the streets with maybe just a cardboard box for shelter. I recently read Raynor Winn’s third book, ‘Landlines’ - another enjoyable read, but one that touches again on the issue of homelessness. She knows all about that. I also watched the BBC series ‘Rain Dogs’ - a raw and often stomach-churning black comedy in which the struggle to maintain ‘home’ and safety is a central theme. 

While ‘the Englishman’s home is his castle’ (so it’s been said……and it’s probably because the English are famous for building castles, especially on other peoples’ land)  ‘Home’ does usually mean security, but for house dwellers with mortgages or rents, it’s now a fragile concept. Interest rates are reaching unmanageable levels and the cost of living spirals ever higher. We have people out on the streets demanding pay rises while the super-rich continue to take the cream. Out-right rebellion may not be far off - it’s happening elsewhere in the world. 

While I browsed Zoopla looking for my dream home yet more refugees and migrants were perilously crossing The Channel and arriving on our shores. It makes me reflect on my own so much more fortunate position. People fleeing war, famine, climate change and oppression, looking to the UK as a haven, arrive without ‘Unimportant-no-need-to-open’ boxes, or any boxes at all, hoping only for safe shelter of any kind and an opportunity to thrive. No doubt there are opportunist felons aboard with them sometimes, but surely not as many as our Home Secretary would have us believe. If you haven’t watched the film ‘Swimmers’, do so. It’s a good story and an eye-opener for what motivates people to leave their homelands and travel so precariously.

I’m also thinking about the stack of stuff I piled up and took to charity - a couple of pictures, some DVD’s, a toast rack, some unused photo albums, lamp shades……stuff that won’t make much difference to anyone really. Stuff and nonsense in the great scheme of things.

When we sold our lovely B&B in 2017 to go travelling it was like a weight lifted off and we had a carefree few years of avoiding the winter and spending the summer living at the beach. Now in post-Covid 2023, instead of the relief of property weightlessness, this time we are experiencing more a sense of ‘Uh-oh’, wondering if we’ve done the right thing. I guess we’ll find out once we have the keys to a little bungalow. 

I wish I could remember the fable we were told in school about the ant and the gnat (I think that’s what they were); the gnat enjoying the sunshine and dancing while the ant diligently used the abundance of summer to prepare for the winter. I must be a gnat, as I’ve not given very much thought to fast approaching winter years - oops! There’s no insurance value in any of my boxes - nothing that I can imagine Antiques Roadshow getting excited about; no chance that I’ll appear on the show fainting on being told that some little item of mine is worth a fortune. Hey, ho.

But, whatever comes, I have nothing to complain about and I’ve been very fortunate. I have boxes and boxes of mementos that testify to the fact, and when I am finally boxed (or urned) myself, those boxes will emerge from their dusty corners along with those bestowed on me by the previous generation and they’ll give my family the same joys and pleasures as we have had of wondering what on earth to do with them. Ha, ha!

Seasonal Magic

Magic. It’s what this time of the year is about. The winter solstice turning of darkness to light; the Christmas story; the making of magic for children with fairy lights, baubles, reindeer and gifts brought down chimneys by a jolly Santa. There is the magic of gatherings where kindness, goodwill and merriment are the main agenda. There’s the magic of pause, time off the work-a-day to attend to each other and to our selves.

Sitting at my son’s family Christmas table this year the magic of life itself sparkled as baby and children giggled and wriggled. There was poignancy, too, as we remembered those no longer with us, the magic of their having been among us something to be honoured.

Watching my grandchildren grow into thinking, conversing, competent beings I marvel at our species. Seeing my grand-daughter leap suddenly from labouring over words on a page to reading fluently boggles my mind. The fact, too, of my being able to formulate these thoughts into patterns that others can read is nothing short of miraculous, as is the technology I’m using to compose it. What an evolutionary achievement!  What an incredible animal we are! Some of us have even succeeded in getting off this planet to explore the moon! And it does not denigrate the concentrated efforts of scientists and engineers to describe such achievements as magical and miraculous.

I love being a creature that can look at the world and see it’s magic, even though I can as easily succumb to world-weariness, as so many of us do in adulthood when the pressures to keep one’s own and others’ body and soul together pile on. We humans have the mental capacity to reflect on our own being - to step outside ourselves, look back and appreciate the wonderment of our arrival into consciousness, into life. I so admire those who can find that appreciation even in the face of life’s difficulties.

When I’m struggling to summon the magic my go-to is very likely to be the sea. There is something about the sea’s constancy while yet ebbing, flowing, rising, crashing, rock-and-shingle-grinding, sand-tickling, lapping, spraying, booming. I love it in all its moods, but I love it best when it reflects all the colours of a rising or a setting sun, meeting the sky at the horizon and gratifying my eyes with an expanse of colour. I am so grateful for my ability to see such magic.

I’m grateful, too, for my body’s other capabilities, even if there has been some erosion of them over time. I marvel at how it does so much without me consciously telling it to, like my immune system helping me to recover from an assault by some bacteria or virus. And, when it struggles, there is the miracle of medicines, natural or derived, again thanks to others of my species who discovered them. There’s also the miracle of our species being capable of compassion and selflessness the apogee of which is a health service (long may it continue, please God and Tories).

And so as the year turns, I give thanks - to family, friends, my fellow humans, to Nature and Life for the Magic. My little prayer is that Magic will prevail over fear and despair to fuel our advancement towards being the very best that we are capable of as a species and as stewards for this fragile little blue and stunningly beautiful planet.

Midsummer Madness

This morning didn’t start too promisingly. The day yawned into my consciousness, its morning breath tainted with the night’s dreams. I have the most bizarre dreams. On the radio the other day, some professor was explaining how our dreams reflect whichever culture we’re in. I don’t think she’d know what on Earth to make of my dreams.

Anyway, I faced the day with very little enthusiasm (we Welsh might say with little ‘hwyl’). However lovely your surroundings (and I certainly can’t complain about mine) when every day is much like another, life can seem tedious. I’m a fickle character so maybe it’s just me. I’m retired and ‘living the dream’; not the dreams that come for me in the night, thank goodness! That would signify that I’m delusional……..(hang on - maybe I am! Oooooer!) but I am easily bored. 

However, the sun came up and called me out to play. Dogs and I headed out. (Yes, dogs plural - we have three, if you didn’t know already, and they’re one of the reasons why my life is a bit complicated……GARETH!!!) We were the first on the beach, white horses in the sea and a retreating tide leaving wet patches of sand shining like tinfoil. Better than a morning wash and teeth-clean, it refreshed me as a sunglasses-and-sandy-toes day reminded me that life is wonderful, even if only in little moments. Who was it who said (maybe it was my Dad) that life is one long period of tedium punctuated with moments of sheer terror? (He was full of lovely quips like that). Well it’s also true that life is punctuated with beautiful moments too.

My blog posts have become more and more infrequent even though I’ve got plenty of time these days to think about things. It’s a luxury being retired, as my son often reminds me, which is why I recently changed my ‘About’ description on Facebook to ‘living the dream at the beach’, instead of ‘learning how to live differently’. What I’ve learned is not much to blog about to be honest, though I’ve started writing on a number of occasions, feeling the need to document these strange times from my own little perspective.

For instance, reading some of Robert Macfarlane’s “Underland - a deep time journey”, sitting in the sun early one morning instead of switching on to The News, helped to settle me and move me to some thought-sharing. To be reminded, for instance, that simply to be alive at all is a miracle; to have come about as the result of a serendipitous meeting of one particular set of DNA molecules and another, all the way back to the beginnings of life itself. 

Of course that feeling of it being a miracle to be alive when you’re subsisting in a city bombarded by Putin’s war machine is presumably a bit different. What can I know about that other than by imagining, and my imagination struggles to get a grip on such a scenario. In fact, having seen footage of what’s taking place in Ukraine I’m mostly struggling to switch off the visions.

And while it’s a far more trivial situation (I’m thinking of Boris and his parties, for instance) the way we are being governed these days seems to be so inept as to almost be comical.

And so, the challenge is how to “keep one’s head while all around are losing theirs” (Kipling, i.e, Rudyard Kipling, not the ‘exceedingly good’ cake-maker). I was taken to task recently for bringing a negative vibe to a happy family weekend get-together. I should have kept my fears for my grand-kids’ futures to myself, apparently.

In ‘Underland’ there is a section describing the work of a physicist in a deep underground lab patiently and interminably waiting for traces of particles from deep in the universe as they travel through the earth; so infinitesimally small that they don’t touch any other particles, except, perhaps, when they get deeper into the planet. That’s the theory anyway, but this physicist’s sense of awe about matter is infectious. Everything causes a scintillation, he tells Macfarlane. Nor is anything really ‘solid’. I was very moved by him saying that he’s “amazed to be able to hold the hand of the person I love”. Isn’t that lovely and romantic?

Who was it who said (or wrote) “Thou canst not disturb a flower without troubling a star”? Everything is connected, and so, I guess, it really matters what we think and do because it will cause a vibration or a scintillation like ripples on a pond. Rupert Sheldrake calls it ‘morphic resonance’.

‘Underland’ describes, as the title suggests, the world beneath our feet - natural cave complexes, catacombs, mining and service tunnels, underground rivers and the fungus world connecting trees in a forest. Cities can almost be seen as having a mirror image of themselves below ground, Paris and Odessa for instance.

I had no idea that it’s possible to navigate so much of that world but apparently there are many who make a career or hobby of it. I can’t say that such activity appeals to me, though the book is a fascinating read……with some scary bits. This morning, on the beach, I looked into some of the deep limestone fissures in the cliff, black pools snaking deep into the blackness and wondered where they might lead. I’m not tempted to venture inside, however. I prefer to live in the light. 

The words light and dark are used in many ways: To shed light on a subject. A dark mood, Lightness of spirit, film noir, etc. Light also refers to weight as in ‘light as a feather’ whereby an object is more inclined to float above than thump to the ground. My astrological sign, Libra, is an air sign. Seems right to me given that I’ve often been accused of getting airborne or of having too many ‘airy-fairy’ ideas (not that I see them that way, of course). 

See, this is how it goes, with me. Is it any wonder that I have bonkers dreams? Where am I going with all this? you might well ask. I guess it comes down to a question about what sanity is, at the end of the day. I guess I could be accused of having too much time to think. It’s what lockdown did to so many of us, didn’t it? Mental health has never been so much of an issue. But, let’s face it, there is an awful lot to think about. We’ve got used to living in Peace, affluence and comfort…..in the developed world, at least, and now it’s all under threat. Well, well, wouldn’t you know. It had to come apart some day, like that old, threadbare favourite pair of jeans, still being worn while pretending it’s a style statement. We’re all pretending that things are ok.

I’m still trying to live lightly as though the little things I do make a difference, like resisting the urge to get another car for gadding about in while Gareth is in work (he’s back with the National Trust and needs our car for the commute). Mind you, it would be an insanity to go back to having two cars in the current climate of fuel prices and rocketing inflation, whether I’m resisting to save the planet or not. (I can’t afford another car, anyway, so hey, ho…)

It’s funny, actually, if it didn’t unfortunately remind me of how insignificant my efforts to be minimal are, that this country has just had a major blow-out on our Queen’s Platinum Jubilee. In a nod to the Climate Emergency the light show used LEDs apparently and what a show; what an extravaganza! Lots of nice words were said with reminders to be kind to the planet, each other and our fellow creatures and the occasion glittered. Years ago I found a souvenir brochure of the Coronation lying in rubbish at the house my family were moving into. I was three and enjoyed looking at the pictures of a sparkly, bejewelled queen. I thought she was a fairy.

I did think about writing a blog post entitled ‘Platinum Platitudes’ but ran out of ideas. It would be a platitude to say simply that it was a very nice occasion, and she seems like a nice, dignified old lady who’s had to deal with some nasty family stuff. My Dad always urged us to have a ‘sense of occasion’ but I can’t think of much more to say about it….. Sorry. I hope you enjoyed a street party somewhere with that all important sense of community. I suppose it was a good excuse for one; heaven knows we need something to celebrate. But, we also need to mobilise against the dark forces of greed and corruption that are destroying the planet we inhabit. There isn’t another one.

So now you can see how the dark fissures in my mind gape at me, luring me to some depths that could swallow me whole. I shouldn’t lead you in either, I guess, so I’ll look for a light-hearted ending…………ummmm…….

Well, the sun is still shining at the moment and there is still bird song. The wind is swishing the long grass in the field behind me and there are the distant, comforting sounds of sheep and tractors; diligent farmers ensuring there will be food on tables. It is midsummer; the solstice just a couple of weeks off, so maybe I can be excused this bit of midsummer madness- my much-ado-about-nothing mind wandering, as I brace myself for tonight’s midsummer dream. Perhaps I’ll create a dream diary to share - it could be entertaining. Take care, folks, however many of you are still reading my blog, and stay sane.

These are the days…….

 

vladzhuk@vladzhuk

 

I’ve been staring at this page wondering how to put into words my thoughts and feelings about what’s happening in the world. It would be much more comfortable and sleep-conducive if I could believe that it’s all fake news. In the days before TV, radio, internet we would probably have known nothing about disaster until it was on our actual doorstep, but now we receive images of bombed out cities, death, destruction and mass displacement of people from their homes on a 24 hr basis. We also see the face of our planet changing with the climate and the displacement of even more people from places that are no longer habitable. There is so much suffering and we watch it all on our screens.

One particular image last night shocked me to tears: A young family caught in a bomb blast; a child in warm and colourful clothing with a little rucksack packed for the evacuation journey, lies dead alongside the others. I can’t get the picture out of my head. My grandson, Reuben, turned nine last weekend, and celebrated with his friends in a laser-zone party, shooting each other with light rays. They all de-mob’d, unscathed, to a feast of pizza and cake while in Ukraine, children like them die trying to escape a real war.

Images of dead and suffering children hit us in the stomach more than any, remaining indelibly in the recesses of the mind with the other pains, guilts and terrors. Who can forget the drowned Syrian infant washed ashore after a disastrous Mediterranean crossing, his family fleeing from a Middle-Eastern war; photos of children carried out from Hiroshima after it was nuked in WW2; children wasting away in famine; dead-eyed, traumatised children in refugee camps around the world……. The archive is a very grim memento.

“There will be wars and rumours of wars, but let ye not be troubled”, my grandmother used to quote when, as an emotional teenager, I ranted about some injustice occurring on the globe somewhere. It’s surprising that she should have been so sanguine given that she’d lived through two world wars. Her own children, my father and his sister, at the ages my own grandchildren are now, were packed onto a bus taking them away from Swansea to stay with un-known families in mid-Wales. The effects on them of their evacuation were evident into their old age. The traumas of conflict are many and they are being racked up minute by minute, hour by hour, day by day, year upon year, upon year.

I write this blog so as to have a record of the times I’m living in. I usually make an effort to find a lighter side to the issues I’m talking about, but I'm at a loss here. When I search for light relief in  programmes that usually have a witty take on current affairs I find the comedians also struggling to find the comedy. 

While trying to suppress the awful images of other people’s terror, my mind turns to the possibility of a nuclear disaster, and how to be ready. What provisions should we stow away? Do we need barricades of some sort? Is there a bunker nearby? What would we do with the dogs? What provisions have my sons made? (I hope they’re thinking about it, too)……. And even without being nuked I need to think about this brick and concrete yard that we call ‘the garden’ being an outside pantry. So much for my plans to pretty-up with sun beds, pretty lighting and lots of flowers.  Currently, we’re in a self-imposed semi-lockdown in order to keep our travel, food and heating costs down. What’s it called? - ‘Bunker mentality’? Something like that….It’s all ‘mental’ whatever.

Maybe someone soon will find their way into Putin’s bunker and ‘take him out’. He’s definitely ‘mental’ along with those doing his dirty work. That’s my opinion anyway, and I have tried looking at things from his point of view (I did initially anyway), by studying some history. If he believes he’s liberating anyone it’s an insane way to go about it. This morning I heard that having reneged on ceasefires to let people escape to western areas in Ukraine he has finally opened some humanitarian corridors; into Belarus and Russia! I guess he wants the Russian people to see a flood of refugees coming east and to see his efforts to liberate Ukrainians as working. As if!

None of us is perfect, individually or as nations and I do in general stand by the principle of letting “whoever is without sin throw the first stone” but, hey, this situation calls for something, some effective response, and NOW!

So……., it’s fires, floods, pestilence and suddenly again, war, unless you’re tucked up nicely somewhere safe and secure without access to any media of information. If you’re not, then you’ll be hearing phrases like ‘existential threat’, ‘the death of democracy’, ‘the rise of tyranny’ cropping up as often as the word ‘unprecedented’ did when the pandemic broke out in 2020 (and I’ve just re-iterated those phrases, given that they’re at the forefront of my mind as I write this blog post). They’re just words and if all you’re hearing is the crack of guns and the crump of bombing you won’t be much interested in what phrases are being added to the lexicon. But surely, there must be some words that would be capable of bringing an end to conflict and suffering. We must find them. 

At the moment I have no words to adequately describe this time in our history, and I’m just one of the many who are trying to do so - the documentarians, the diarists, the narrators, the archivists, the journalists, bloggers, vloggers and also the ‘conspiracy theorists’. It’s a human need to see a narrative, to know the story, but in these post-post-modern days there appears to be an acceptance of there being any number of conflicting narratives with truth elusive and ‘unnecessary’. And I ask myself whether this assessment of mine is even ‘true’ (such is logic).

I am sixty eight, born as Europe found ways to live peacefully and prosperously as it emerged  from the horrors of the early twentieth century. From my position of good fortune I have looked on as others have lived less fortunately, and now have to look on as my grandchildren’s generation faces God-only-knows what. Feeling helpless all I can do is pray for Heaven to help them all.

“Those were the days of our lives, yeah, The bad things in life were so few…..” (Queen)

Taking Liberties

I
I asked Gareth how, as a photographer, he would capture the idea of ‘freedom’.
“Dogs running over a hill”, he said. (My photo effort here)

So thinking about freedom……..Sheesh! Who isn’t thinking about it at the moment? From close-to-home to across the globe freedom is a big issue. So often we trade our freedoms for protection and then we have to remind ourselves what it was we wanted to be protected from so we can renew the contract if necessary. Some, like care-workers, for instance, are checking the small print to see where mandatory vaccination was mentioned. Of course, vaccination issues may not be front and centre in the minds of people facing famine, war and tyranny, with their very basic existential freedom at stake; how can I know, but, I’m just a little person in a little corner whose life is relatively safe enough (for the moment, maybe), trying to get my head around things and I figured on starting with the more banal stuff - like whether a party in Number 10 is unforgivable. Contentious? Hell, yeah! Bear with me, let’s see where it leads.

If you’re a libertarian (just had to check my spelling there as ‘librarian’ wouldn’t make sense) and you become leader of a government just as the country, the world even, enters a pandemic (real or invented - let’s not go there), how would you deal with it? To begin with, I guess you’d cautiously let people know what’s going on and give some advice as to how to protect oneself and ones loved ones. And that’s how it was at first, wasn’t it? Boris phwawed and mussed up his hair as he asked us all to wash our hands etc. Then, formulated Guidelines started popping up all over the place and became progressively more proscriptive as people asked for more detail; questions like “If I’m to stay within 5 miles of my home and the nearest supermarket is 5.5 miles away, what am I to do?”, “Is it ok to walk my neighbour’s dog?”, “Can I play golf/go surfing/drive to a walking spot”, “We’ve got five kids, so should I get rid of one to stay within the rule of keeping group sizes to no more than six?”  “Should I report someone sitting on a park bench?”etc. (I’ve made those up, but they’re close to reality).

The barrage of questions required refinement of the guidelines; a process that continued until they became a set of rules, laws even, that were often enforced enthusiastically with fines and prosecutions (there are always the conscientious sorts who like getting others to stick to ‘the rules’). I mean, imagine the frustration of those trying to manage things. However lenient a parent’s style might be, when kids seem incapable of working things out for themselves, and an occasion calls for it, boundaries and rules are laid down and have to be enforced And just as kids do, some people were busily disobeying the rules, whether for devilment or on principle. Whatever.

I doubt, though, whether Boris sat at his desk every night fine-tuning the guidelines so that every Tom, Craig and Jemima could find an answer as to how they in particular should behave in the circumstances. Our Covid-19 regulations were drawn up, I imagine, by committees of committees and you’ll possibly be familiar with the old reference to committees being like camels. Or, maybe it was some poor little person in a windowless office with a laptop, churning out rules;  straw into gold, like in the Miller’s Daughter fairy tale (I wonder who might Rumplestiltskin be in such a scenario - your guess). And, I seriously doubt whether Boris even read much of those regulations. He was busy making babies and having his flat redecorated.

I think we easily forget that government is a two way process. People react to how government behaves and vice-versa. Rules and legislation came about in the pandemic because so many of us demanded them for our safety. For many people freedom means protection, with rules that ensure the behaviours of others don’t impact on ourselves. I myself have bristled in shops when people seem blithely ignorant of the need for social distancing, stopping myself short of actually demanding more policing of it. I have to remember that my first response to being told that a killer virus was abroad was to exercise common sense. I soon discovered that everyone has a different notion of common sense in which case there’s nothing common about it at all! And then what?

I’m not a Boris fan, but I think his initial task was simply to get us on board with protecting the sadly neglected, under-funded, under-resourced, under-staffed NHS and I doubt he thought much further than that about how human behaviour works. Or am I underestimating him? Brexit? He’s been said to have some talent in ‘reading the mood of the public’….No….that was Cummings et al, surely. Winning the election? You can always win with nice promises. But as everyone knows, you have to keep them if you want others to remain on-side. You have to be seen as honest, sincere and trustworthy. Hmmmm. It looks like he’s been telling porky-pies. Naughty Boris!

Oh dear. This is turning into a ramble through the brambles of the pandemic again and the thorny issue of whether our government has made a hash of it. But I’ve started so I’ll finish. Those parties at Number 10 - If the rule-makers enforce the rules but don’t follow them themselves, what are we to make of it? Well, we can react angrily and demand resignations. After all, so many people lost loved ones without being able to spend last moments with them…..because of the rules. People across the country were being dutiful rule followers while our rule-makers were having parties. I very much doubt (in fact I know) that it wasn’t just Number 10 having parties. Not everyone was following the rules. Nor was it a rule that all happiness be forbidden because of the tragedies befalling others. I had moments of transgression myself though I was careful not to offend or to be a risk to others. I know that to be free I must not intrude on the freedoms of my fellows, but I believe that such deviances were and are necessary to remind ourselves of our individual sovereignty; in a world full of joys as well as hazards. I hope I’m not coming across as callous, but what really is the best way to behave when at any moment we could meet death? Do we shrivel and hide away in darkness, or do we live in the light?

To be honest, I’m not much bothered about whether the gang in Number 10 gathered together in the garden after work for a wee drinkie or two with cucumber sandwiches, canapés or take-aways. Are we still a free country? It’s best not to say one thing and do another, though, as most parents quickly discover, and as as our governors are now discovering, too. However, I’d be much more concerned about our leader if he was an authoritarian autocrat. Maybe that’s what he is - a bully. Certainly there are some, now standing in the wings of government, who could emerge as fully fledged tyrants. Or is he still, in his peculiar bumbling way, maintaining loyalty to libertarian principles……. even if those only apply to himself and his wealthy friends?

In my eyes, Boris is a clown and I didn’t vote for him but I think the furore over parties in Number 10 is a big distraction from the erosion of our freedoms going on elsewhere in government. Look to the Home Office for example and the creep of legislation there. The House of Lords can’t hold it back forever. And who will replace Boris when he falls? Uh-oh.

It’s a farce.

Note that I’m in Wales and have made no mention of Welsh government through the pandemic. Simply put, our Welsh government has a little bark and doesn’t bite very hard. Also, Wales is a lovely land so most of us haven’t complained too much about being locked down in it.

There are of course much bigger issues we can and will fret about, like an impending WW3 if Russia decides to impose itself on Ukrainian liberties, the creep of AI, new virus variants, Climate Change. There’s so much other stuff, but this little blog isn’t the best place for all of that, not at the moment, anyway.

So there I am, dear reader. A little clearer where I stand in relation to the pantomime of our UK government and a bit surer of what freedom means to me at least….I think. I chose not to be boosted for instance but that’s another story, so until next time - please ‘like, share and subscribe’ (only kidding - that’s apparently what you’re supposed to add at the end of blogs and vlogs).

A Yule Blog

Catching up with Facebook I’m late to the party with my seasonal wishes. Sorry. While I’ve not had Covid (as far as I know), I have had writers block. It’s not great having a blocked blog. Anyway, here is my wish for 2022 - that however eventful or uneventful it is, we all manage to hang on to the ideals of peace, goodwill, health and love for all (and by all, I do mean All).

We’ve now slipped into the New Year, whether on ice, oil slick, banana skin or dog poo, and here we all are, still alive (I certainly hope you are, dear reader). Pandemic aside, with all of the divisions it’s brought with it, 2021 was an adventure. I think it’s fair to call it that, even if a lot of the time was spent skipping around trying not to catch something or infect each other (some of us anyway). Mask wearing became more casual and at the tail end of the year people were queuing up for vaccination boosters instead of amusement park rides. If this becomes a regular thing it might be good to involve Merlin Entertainments in ways to keep the socially distancing queue (contradiction in terms?) happily distracted while they wait. It is a British talent, though - queuing. Maybe we actually, deep down, enjoy it.

A year ago, at chez nous we added four spaniels to the world of dogs. It didn’t do their mother much good though and poor Pwdin has been on a series of medical treatments ever since for some strange, unidentifiable malaise. It’s hard to have much confidence in any diagnosis as the vets at our usual surgery get younger every time we attend, as do so many of the professionals we come into contact with these days. It’s a truism to say that we get older every year and I’d like to stop counting, but it’s always a disconcerting surprise to be met with a child doctor, vet, nurse, police-man or whatever. And then there are politicians, too…..let’s not go there.

Ha! Gareth just interjected by reading me comments from a dog-blog discussing the amount of hair shed by spaniels. Hmmm, I didn’t need it confirmed on-line, Gareth; I’d appreciate it if you’d just vacuum as often as I seem to! (As I write, he’s still reading the blog)

Dragging last year’s memories from the recycling bin in my brain, we had our summer time at the caravan and turned the house over to AirBnB. It was a good way to keep the place dog-hair free though Gareth was regularly commenting on the amount of hair people left in the shower. We were pleased, however, that most guests treated the place respectfully and when we moved ourselves back in in November we haven’t had to fully redecorate and refurnish. If we AirBnB again this summer, though, we may well have to redecorate and refurnish as the present incumbents (us) haven’t been quite as respectful.

As I sit, I occasionally look up for a glimpse of sunshine through my dirty window (argh! there are snot marks where the dogs sit with their noses to the glass pining for the great outdoors that they know exists somewhere beyond our little yard). Anyway, now that I’ve added window cleaning to my post-Christmas house-keeping list, I can go back to digging into that memory bin. Special memories, like my son’s weddings, are, of course, safely stored, though I must be sure to properly archive them with the family history archive that my mother bestowed on us. Actually, she intended that my younger sister inherited it, but it seems to have remained with me along with the enormous archive of writings from both our parents, currently stuffed into the under-stair cupboard, the attic and little bedroom. If we’re making New Year resolutions, one of mine is to make a new assault on those boxes, reducing the volume sufficiently that when I pop my own clogs, it’s manageable for the next generation. I’ll never know what they choose to do with it, of course, but the importance my parents placed on it has certainly weighed with me. I don’t place much value on stuff, but I do have enormous difficulty disposing of things people have written. Heck, my heart churns after each visit by the grandchildren as I have to decide what to do with their ‘artwork’ and little written messages. My mother had the same problem, which is why clearing my parents’ home was such a heart-rending (and back-breaking, time-consuming) chore.

Some of the greatest delights one has as a grand-parent, is time with grand-children, even when they like to point out, as they often do, that one is old and likely to die soon. I’m lucky in being able to see two of mine regularly but the pandemic threw down a huge obstacle course between me and my other two, who live in the Midlands. We did have them to stay with us at the caravan for a few days in August though, and it was very special. I am acutely aware, however, that both of my grandsons are rapidly approaching the point of knowing grandparents as just wrinkly, hard-of-hearing things that move slowly, make naff jokes, and are utterly stupid. Soon I’ll be watching them from afar instead of having them cuddle up to me in bed after a sleep over. As a struggling-to-keep-up-with-everything young mum, I looked forward to the days when my kids were more self-sufficient. As a grandmother, I grieve (as I also celebrate, of course) each new step that my grandchildren take towards maturity. Of course, I praise the blossoming that I’ve seen in my now-mature sons, but my grandchildren are to me precious buds that herald a new Spring; little flowers turning their heads to the sun, ready to burst into full growth, and I do so enjoy the early Spring! My own petals started dropping off a while ago. I’m shrinking, too - a fact noted with great delight by my older grandson who will very soon be taller than me. With each inch upwards that he acquires, I appear to lose one! 

These children are getting too smart, by far. The other evening we took an evening walk for Reuben and Ivy to see the Christmas lights on people’s houses. It was about 5.00 pm so maybe people weren’t at home or hadn’t switched on and I expressed my disappointment and dismay at the limited show. Reuben then pointed out that I don’t even have any Christmas lights adorning our house-front so can’t really complain. He got me there. 

Looking up again from this page, the snot marks on the patio door window have disappeared into the shatter of raindrops and the sky has turned grey. Gareth will soon complain about me being still in my dressing gown and the need for us to get out for exercise and air. The dogs have given up on me completely, and have gone back to their beds. The grey doesn’t quite call me out, I must admit. There’s been no white Christmas - just a mild and soggy one. We venture out each day knowing that we’ll have three soggy doggies needing major mud-removal before putting on our slippers, pouring a brew and sitting in front of our virtual fire (such a comforting illusion, this YouTube fireside!) COP26 happened (you know I’d have to bring it up at some point) and I’m waiting to see how much effect my meagre attempts to reverse climate change have had. Can’t see anything yet, I’m afraid. By the way, if you’ve not seen it, watch ‘Don’t Look Up’ on Netflix - entertaining as well as meaningful. 

Well, I’m just about blogged out, now, dear reader. The blog is backing up again and I’m wary about flushing it with any flow of new random thoughts from my Christmas-addled brain. Best just to wait and let it clear. Gareth is bustling about, making the point that he’s now ready to venture into the great known and the dogs have awoken, braced to pull his sled (as if). So, I’d best get myself dressed and in the meantime wish you all the very best and hope to see you in 2022.

Certainties

Rift

The most valuable thing about travelling is that it gives you a new perspective on things. As I sit here with my morning cuppa, I think about my Canadian kin, sleeping half a world away. I so recently shared their day-to-day, looking at the world through their eyes.

I am no longer the person I was before I leapt from this corner of the globe, flying through different time zones to land on Canadian soil (tarmac, actually, thank goodness). I treasure my memory and joy of those welcoming hugs. And those lovely, familiar faces appearing in the flesh before me was miraculous. It was my own domain that was suddenly half a world away. I’m back at home now, and in the same way that we might edit our holiday photos, my mind is busy sifting and sorting the views I was presented with in those five very special weeks.

My environmentalism had made me feel guilty about taking a plane. I remembered the beautiful, plane-free, blue skies of lockdown, feeling the earth breathe clearly for a moment. But air-travel made it possible to be at my son’s wedding. I guess that makes me a doting mum but nevertheless a hypocrite. I arrived in BC at the tail end of an unprecedented (there’s that word again) heatwave. My brother-in-law was red-eyed-tired from managing fire-fighting crews and at my son’s lakeside home the ominous presence of wildfire smoke across the water focussed my mind on how climate change is a reality, making the urgency of reversing it more apparent. And yet, enfolded there in my family, I learned that any suggestion of a ‘climate emergency’ is taken with a pinch of salt - fake news put out by ‘the media’ to keep us all enslaved and compliant in a paralysis of fear.

Smoke

Back at home, not only is ‘the media’ full of talk about the climate emergency but a dear friend of mine is in jail for her part in an Extinction Rebellion protest. She’s 82 and passionate about the need to draw attention to the issue. But she has drawn a lot of abuse on the chat feeds for her actions and as her friend I felt the need to counter some of them. The responses were very unpleasant (one threatened to bury me) and left me wondering why we have to be so rude to each other. What has happened to thoughtful, respectful dialogue? I am using an on-line platform to write this blog, but I have come to deplore how on-line communication is full of vitriol and fabrication.

When visiting a funfair as a child with my grandmother, our favourite attraction was the Magic Mirrors. Her laughter at the distorted images she saw of herself was infectious, drawing in others to see what was so hilarious. The image of ourselves that we see in others is very often not one that we recognise and seldom do we find the distortion amusing. Wouldn’t it be nice if we could laugh hilariously instead of attacking the ‘mirror’.

Then there’s Covid-19. That has divided us, and big time! To travel to Canada I had to have proof of being double-vaccinated; a vaccination ‘passport’ in other words. My sister practices Ayurvedic medicine and is refusing to be vaccinated even if it means she will be barred from travel and entry to various establishments. She and her family are part of BC’s push-back against the creep of bureaucratic pressures that limit freedom and choice, claiming that so many Covid-related restrictions are illegal. Throughout my visit I witnessed widespread distrust of ‘the powers that be’ and of the corporate media. It’s somewhat the same on this side of the planet, of course. Who knows what information to trust? To accept that Science knows what it’s doing when we roll up our sleeves for some strange substance to be injected into us is a huge leap of faith. Yes, the vaccines were tested, but let’s face it, it’s still early days and there is much yet to learn about how they affect us; it’s still experimental. Similarly worrying, many of those who have accepted their part in this global experiment (out of fear, or solidarity….whatever), are evangelical about the need for it; vociferous in their criticism of those refusing it. I took the vaccine in spite of my reservations, thinking of myself as something of a guinea pig in advance of my family receiving it. My own brood have now all had it. It was their own choice. I now have to hope and pray that the awful implications so many of the anti-vaxxers predict, don’t materialise.

Fake news. How do we identify it? How do we find truth in a world where narratives contradict each other? What can we count on as arbiters of truth? Science? The Law? The Bible or Quran or whatever? Few trust politicians any more. 

This photo appeared in The Guardian 23 Nov 2020

Logic is seeing coherence in a set of premises, theory or viewpoint. Science, like detective work, is seeking evidence for a theory or viewpoint. A theory may be coherent and have internal consistency, yet lack evidence or be based on flawed evidence.  Also, investigations can turn up evidence to support (or refute) a theory yet miss that which goes the other way. An investigation which is in the pay of some commercial interest is unlikely to be trustworthy. For instance, the mobile phone company Motorola carried out a ‘scientific’ study into the connection between mobile phones and headaches. Also, many scientists, keen to promote themselves, may well be less than rigorously objective. The overlooking of inconvenient contradictions is well documented in the history of Science.  Nevertheless, inductive reasoning or empirical method is the tool of both science and legal investigation in establishing fact. What other way is there? We just have to do it right and remember that our ‘truth’ can be overturned in the light of new evidence. This is true for journalism as well.

“Follow the money” is a good mantra if we’re unsure of the motive behind a piece of news or propaganda.  But, if you are a conspiracy theorist it’s an inconvenient fact that many have made money inadvertently from this ‘pandemic’ (excuse the inverted commas - some argue that it’s just another flu and there is no pandemic). Does the acquisition of new wealth in this context mean that Covid-19 is a sinister invention for the very purpose of benefitting from it? No - correlation is not necessarily causation. 

The case is still on-going, of course, as to whether a bio-weapon escaped or was deliberately released from a lab in Wuhan; whether the mortality rates have been exaggerated; whether health services have been overwhelmed (in Canada and many other places, apparently not); whether the event is providing governments with an excuse for authoritarianism and repression; whether a virus was created by Big Pharma in order to boost their profits…..and so on, as we all try to dig deep into ‘what the heck is going on’. Certainly it’s an unfolding story. I don’t think any of us knows how the story will end, and none of us can claim to be certain of any of it (oops, I just contradicted myself - I should have said “maybe it’s an unfolding story….”) 

So what do we do in these circumstances. We are free to believe what we want, I guess, and I will contradict myself again by saying that while I would caution anyone to be too sure of anything I have nevertheless often admired people with a strength of conviction; it’s what leadership is made of. You have to wonder, though, about lemmings……(and sheep, and cults, and wars). So often we have been warned about the danger of blindly following along. George Orwell comes to mind - “Animal Farm” was on the pre-16 school curriculum at one time.

One evening in Canada we watched ‘The Matrix’. Gareth and I recently watched ‘The Matrix Reloaded’. I’ve been told that actor Keanu Reeves maintains that the film is not fiction but a documentary. ‘Matrix 4’ is due to come out this winter and I’m curious what its message will be. Dastardly plots, conspiracy and corruption is what good suspenseful movies are made of. They can feed into our consciousness such that our ‘suspension of disbelief’ becomes permanent and the fiction becomes a reality. I wonder - do such movies create or alert us to conspiracies? ‘Animal Farm’ was Orwell’s commentary on the folly of Communism, according to my teachers and according to the literati. I’ve never spoken with Orwell, however, so do I trust that information? Maybe he was simply telling a silly story about a bunch of pigs who took over a farmyard. I’d better track down Keanu and the creator of the Matrix movies to find out whether they are allegorical, factual or just entertainingly fictional. Oh boy - that means getting on a plane again, and will they speak to me anyway? Will they tell me ‘the truth’?

When a story popped up recently about a horrific event in the Danish Faro islands it would be a comfort to think of it as fake news; that a massive pod of dolphins were not really lured to a barbaric death and then rotted away as a result of there being too much meat for the islanders to use. 

While I do have the choice to believe or disbelieve that humans are on course to destroy ourselves and the planet, to ignore the alarm bells seems foolish to me. There is good science and bad science, but for me there looks to be very strong evidence for us humans having brought about a climate emergency. Am I a lemming, then, running toward the cliff, duped into believing a lie? Is the ‘real’ story that I am some sort of cash-cow, an enslaved tax-payer, farmed for the sinister desires of a small but super-powerful elite? The number who think so is growing, “waking up” apparently and ready to resist. 

One thing that my Canadian sister and I agree on is that humans have the capacity to overcome the dark and sinister elements of our world through love, hope and positivity. We really do have the power to manifest a better world simply by imagining and living it. My sister and I may be following different narratives but ultimately we both want a happy and healthy future for our descendants.  

And so, on both sides of the planet my family lives, breathes and tries to make sense of things. It’s a shame we can’t all be on the same page of the story, and we don’t even know if we’re reading the same book, or even using the same language. Things are, nevertheless what they are in spite of what we think they are (note my form of the “it is what it is” current mantra). Truth will out eventually though, and of that I really am certain.

I have downloaded this photo from Pinterest
Chinchillagirl2950 on Deviant Art