It has been a busy week in the Holme Valley,
even though summer does seem to have come to an end, somewhat prematurely, is
it’s still nine days to the solstice.
Sadly, though, the warm and humid weather of last week has well and
truly broken, at least for the moment.
Before it did, we had a very pleasant barbecue last Sunday evening,
outside on the decking. The first time I had been out there, using the ramps
which Owen so kindly constructed for us, this year. That, together with
starting writing it too late in the day, was one of the reasons why last week’s
blog was so late.
Anyway, a pleasant time was had by all, and the mobile
little barbecue thingy that Debbie bought from IKEA to take on holiday with us
when we go off in the camper performed very well, browning vegan sausages,
pretend prawns, and rashers of faux-bacon, all of which were accompanied by a
big bowl of salad, chopped and mixed by yours truly. Half way through, Granny arrived with Zak and
Ellie, having walked them over in the warm of the evening. There was plenty to
go around, so she ended up staying as well.
Eventually, however, she felt the pull of home, and tottered off into
the night, faithful poochies at her heels, as always.
This is why you should never leave a party before the end,
or else you might miss the floorshow. It
had been a terrific evening up to that point, but then the Titanic was having
an absolutely spiffing voyage, until it hit the iceberg. Attempting to negotiate my way back up the
ramp, over the threshold and into the conservatory, somehow, I got stuck half
way up. With the benefit of hindsight, I should have turned round on the
decking, and gone up backwards, then I could have used my legs as well for
additional propulsion.
Anyway, I didn’t, and though – as it says in all the best
police statements – drink had been taken, the main problem was my wheels
started slipping, and my arms weren’t strong enough on their own to hold me.
Debbie rushed from inside to the doorway, leant out and grabbed the lapels of my fleece, all she could reach in that
instant, but it started to come off over my head and the inevitable ensued. Gravity triumphed over levity, I rolled backwards, then, on “landing” on the
decking, the wheelchair itself tipped over backwards, with me in it. I managed to take
out a small stone ceramic owl that lights up in the dark (we only have the
classiest garden ornaments, us) and one third of a garden lily. The owl was
stuck back together on Monday morning, and the plant re-potted, and both are
doing fine, in case you were worried.
I, however, was not so good. Stuck in the chair, on my back
with my legs in the air, I couldn’t reach my mobile to summon help. There was
no way that Deb could get me back in the chair on her own. She shouted that she’d get me the house
phone, and reappeared in the doorway with it. For some reason not entirely
clear, but probably to do with speed and panic, instead of just coming out and
handing it to me, or dialling 999 herself, she threw me the handset. Because I was currently lying on my back like
a stranded beetle, waving my legs in the air, my catching wasn’t at its best,
and because it was dark, her aim was a bit wappy too. The phone struck me a
glancing blow on the forehead just above the left eyebrow, and skidded off into
the darkness, amongst a load of shrubs in tubs. We recovered it the following
morning, surprisingly no worse for wear. Unlike my head.
Meanwhile, I had managed, by dint of wiggling my hips like
Chubby Checker, to send the wheelchair one way while I rolled the other. This
meant that at least I could reach my mobile. I dialled 999 wearily, and
explained what had happened. I asked for an ambulance, because the last time I
fell off my banana board while transferring into the chair, about two years
ago, that’s what they sent. This time around, the 999 operator started asking
me if I was actually injured bleeding or unconscious, and seemed unsure whether
I needed an ambulance or not. All I could do was reiterate the situation, and in
the end I just said send who you like, send the lifeboat if you must, but
please send somebody.
A few minutes later, with commendable speed and despatch,
three burly firemen knocked at the door, and were admitted through the kitchen
by Debbie. Having assessed the situation, they did a “fireman’s lift”, plonked
me back in the chair, and wheeled me up the ramp and into the house. I thanked
them, and they left. Upsetting though
the experience was (spiritually, and literally) it did have a hidden up-side.
Previously, there had been some speculation as to whether the elevated decking,
now getting on for 20 years old, was going to rot through, but the fact that it
took the combined weight of the aforesaid trio of burly “pompieres” plus me,
indicates that it is probably a lot stronger than it looks.
The next day, I felt like crap. I had a bump on my head from
the phone, bruised ribs, and I had strained the muscles in my right shoulder.
Gradually, during the week, things improved, and at least it took my mind off
my thumb, which has, conversely, quietened itself down a bit. I have since
suggested to Debbie that maybe next time we have a barbecue, though, we should
just invite the fire brigade to send along a delegation from the outset, as
this would save a lot of time at the end of the evening.
Matilda has had, for her, a busy week, also, including,
unusually for her, having to defend her territory. I was sitting working on
Wednesday and Matilda was sprawled out like a discarded set of bagpipes on the
cool floorboards in the front room. A movement out of the corner of my eye
caught my attention and I looked up to see Poppy, the little black cat from
next door, sitting in the middle of the conservatory rug, having no doubt come
in through the open door (open because of the stifling heat). Matilda saw her at exactly the same time, and
thundered across the room. Poppy turned tail and fled, with Matilda lumbering
after her. At the turn, the order was 1. Poppy, 2. Matilda, and in third place,
the fat old guy in the wheelchair. A short head separated 1 and 2, and several
lengths 2 and 3. I sat at the door, calling Matilda back, aided by Misty, who
had come in to see what all the fuss was about.
Eventually, Matilda returned, eyes like saucers, and tail the size of a
bog-brush. As predicted, she had failed
to catch the interloper, as I saw Poppy later on in our front garden.
The next day, on Thursday afternoon, Deb and I were sitting
in the kitchen when Deb drew my attention to the conservatory door, which was
again open. A squirrel was half way up the door jamb, clinging on like a gecko,
and craning its neck to see whether there might be any additional sources of
food inside. Matilda did not need to be
involved in this instance, as the squirrel in question met Debbie’s stern gaze,
got the full-on gamma-ray treatment, quailed, jumped down, and fled up the tree.
As I said to Debbie, they are getting too tame for their own
good, really, though they did have a rude awakening when Ellie and Zak were
here on Friday. For some reason, Zak (65 in human years) suddenly decided he
was affronted by a squirrel with its nose in the dish on the decking, just
outside the open door. In one bound he was off and after it. The squirrel
escaped, of course, but Ellie had also exited through the door, after touching
the floor just once in between the armchair where she’d been sleeping and the
outside world, in a manner reminiscent of the late, great Freddie, who was
legendary for hurling himself at the glass whenever there was a squirrel in the
garden.
Ellie is not allowed outside unsupervised, because she has a
habit of turning every excursion into an adventure, and, true to form, this
time, when Zak returned from his pursuit, he was alone. The previous time she
escaped from out the back, she was found in the front garden of a house seven
or eight doors up the road, heading resolutely towards Netherton with no
obvious route plan. The time before that, she tried to get back into the house,
but unfortunately it wasn’t our house, it belonged to one of the neighbours.
You begin to get the idea. With some weariness, we prepared for a full scale
search, possibly involving external agencies. However, Ellie saved us the
trouble. When Debbie went out of the front door to start traipsing up and down
the road, searching, Ellie was rooting around unconcerned in our front garden,
and was unceremoniously scooped up, scolded, and replaced in the armchair, with
the door from the conservatory firmly shut, after the dogs had bolted.
Sadly, that has been more or less what has passed for fun in
our household this week. Last night, Granny, Adam, and the dogs came round and
I made them egg and chips for tea while we all watched England draw
inexplicably with Russia in Euro 2016 because of the masterly tactical move by
the manager of stubbornly refusing to put our two best goal-scorers on the
pitch. Mathematically, we can still qualify, as the old saying has it, but it
may not come to that, and Hodgson’s cunning plan that this is such a crucial
tournament that we can get away with fielding the Second XI and going out at
the group stage may not be necessary, as we’re highly likely to be disqualified
anyway, because of the behaviour of the England fans, sorry, thugs, in
Marseilles. Calling these people fans is like calling ISIS muslims.
The fact that we seem to have somehow managed to create such
an atmosphere of xenophobic bile that it has culminated in us having, in
effect, exported our version of the Blackshirts to Europe, is probably another
unintended consequence of the Brexit debate. Back home, here, the level of the
“debate” though it hardly qualifies to be called such, has reached a new, nasty
pitch this week, with only 11 days to go to the poll itself. Actually, the Brexiteers do have a point.
There is a large group of young men in Europe, who will soon be making their
way to Calais, intent on entering Britain, and these people are violent,
lawless, ignorant, intolerant, and intent on fostering hatred in our towns and
cities. The trouble is that they are England football fans, they all
have British passports, and we can’t really stop them coming back, however much
we might want to.
It has got to the stage now where it seems that, on the
Brexit side at least, the debate is being conducted entirely on emotional
terms, with a driving force of unfocused xenophobic nationalism that is
completely – and unashamedly – unconnected with facts or reality. In this respect, it has gained a boost this
week by the yet further, continuing, celebrations of the Queen’s 90th
birthday, which seems to have been going on now for about the last three
years. The whole country is decked out
with Union Jacks and street parties and, while I am an admitted monarchist
(because the alternatives are all much, much worse) the atmosphere it has
fostered, combined with the Brexit campaign, is at least febrile, and at best,
very, very weird. A friend tells me of an informal discussion she witnessed
between two supermarket workers and a customer. The customer had a “Brexit”
badge on her coat and one of the supermarket workers was congratulating her on
it, then turned to point at her colleague and said “Oh, take no notice of her,
she wants to stay in, she’s a traitor!”
Now, this is one colloquial exchange and in no way
statistically significant, but that use of the word traitor strikes me as
highly significant, redolent of the mindset of the Brexit supporters, and the
reason why it really looks as though Britain, in 11 days time, will perform an
act of insane self-harm, in economic terms, which will take two generations to
repair, if indeed it can be repaired at all. Because somehow, Brexit, through a
campaign which is an admitted tissue of lies, has nevertheless come to engineer it
that the patriotic thing to do is to vote to leave, and anyone who thinks
otherwise is a traitor.
I don’t normally link to other articles in this blog. I know
that’s sort of the whole point of the internet, but I prefer if possible to use
quotations and give a reference to their source, because I think it spoils the
flow of reading something if you have to click off it and then read something
else, and then click back again, but I will make an exception this week. I have – in the last few days – read two
articles that have more or less summed up, for me, the case for remaining. Both
are very long, and challenging reads, and one at least is larded with invective, but
they both repay reading. In fact, speaking as someone who was, at the start of
2016, vaguely considering voting to leave until I saw who else was in that
camp, and, as a consequence, started to look into the economic implications of
a “Brexit", I’d strongly recommend – especially if you are thinking of voting to
leave, or still undecided – reading both of them, even though it means
investing half an hour or more of your life.
are the articles in question. I apologise for the F-bomb in
the second one's link, but as you will find in the article, if you read it, he is even more
exasperated than I am with the imminent act of collective self-harm we seem
about to inflict.
If you don’t read the articles (and by the way, despite
being on Facebook, the first one is actually a well-marshalled summary of some
actual facts, especially on the immigration issue) William Gadsby Peet, in the
second one, made two or three particularly telling points about the ability or
otherwise of a “Brexited” UK to strike new, independent trade deals quickly enough to prevent economic
chaos. He points out that, in the event
of a vote to leave, the process takes two years. That is two years of economic
uncertainty, stagnation and lack of confidence, lack of investment, and
pressure on the pound. Plus an end to any existing support we get from the European Social Fund, the Europpean Economic Development Fund, and any specific disaster funds such as the flooding fund. Germany and France,
in particular, will be in absolutely no hurry to strike any sort of deal with
the UK,
post-Brexit. It is in their interests not to, after all. If the UK is allowed
to waltz away, and then everything carries on much as before, with no apparent
dire consequences, this will send what they consider to be the wrong message, and feed the incipient groundswell of the right wing
in both those countries towards their own “Frexit" and "Gerexit” movements. And that is the last thing the EU wants. It
wants to be able to point to Britain
as an economic basket case and say “look, this suffering is what happens when you turn
your back on the EU!”
As for trade deals with the rest of the world, he points out
that they, too, will be in no hurry to sign anything. By leaving the EU,
Britain will have telegraphed to the rest of the world that it is now in a
situation of desperately needing to sign up trade deals elsewhere, and the
longer it is left by the countries with whom we want to trade, the more they
can delay, the better the terms they will get from us, as desperation sets in
further. I’ve written many times that I
am no fan of the EU, especially as it currently operates, and in the unlikely
event of the UK voting to remain, I certainly don’t see it as an endorsement of
the status quo (other ageing rock bands are available). It has to change and improve, but we can only influence that process in our favour if we are at the table when the deals are made.
In any decision involving the UK’s future, the economy has to be
paramount. Anyone who has bothered to look into it already knows that
immigration, in economic terms, has a positive effect on the economy. In terms
of the Brexit argument it is a distraction, being used to whip up xenophobia in
the face of economic sense. Immigrants come, they get jobs, they pay
taxes. Those jobs in turn create more
jobs, and the economy grows, and with it the tax take, which is the way out of
the wasteland left by the careless bankers and their world economic crash in
2008. If you want the next generation of
kids to grow up with the best prospect of getting a job, buying a house,
getting on in life, and generally living in a stable and prosperous society,
the only sane choice is to put away your bunting, stop blindly waving that
Union Jack, tell the Daily Mail where to stuff its straight bananas, and vote
to stay in and try and make the best of it.
Like me, you may not do so with a spring in your step and a song in your
heart, but if we don’t, then the lights are going out all over Europe, and we shall not see them lit again in our
lifetime, in the words of Sir Edward Grey. Liz Hurley has apparently said that she is all
for voting Brexit if it means we can go back to having old fashioned high
powered light bulbs, screw cap or bayonet. I’m sure that her light bulbs will
be a great comfort to her, when she gets back home after queuing in the street
to catch a loaf of bread thrown off the back of an army lorry. Always assuming
there is any electricity to run them.
It’s not just the weather that has turned nasty with the end
of the week, either. As I was typing this, listening to the jazzy, syncopated
plopping of heavy drops of rain landing on the conservatory roof, news was
coming in that 50 people have been shot
dead in a nightclub in Orlando, Florida, an incident seemingly
unconnected with the fact that Christina Grimmie, a singer, was gunned down on
Friday night in the same town as she signed autographs after a concert. At the time of writing, though ISIS has endorsed the action, there is also a theory that
it was simply the “lone gunman with a grudge against gays” theory. Donald Trump, who is undoubtedly the
Antichrist, has tweeted on the atrocity “When will we be tough, smart, and vigilant”-
basically jumping the gun (no pun intended, I assure you) and blaming it on
terrorists.
I know rhetorical questions are usually posed without any
expectation of an answer, but in this case, Donald, in answer to your
question, your idea of “tough”, will only make domestic terrorism worse, you
will never be “smart”, and as for “vigilant”, unless you keep all of your
citizens under 24/7 surveillance, with the total loss of civil liberties that
implies, “vigilance” will not solve matters. Maybe that is the sort of society
you, and your supporters, want. Goodbye,
America,
it was nice to know you.
There was one little gleam, though, this week, one gleam in
the gloom. Les Binns was on the news. Les Binns last crossed paths with me
when, back in the day, as they usually say, he used to run a copyprint machine
at the office, back in the times when I used to have a real job. He progressed to a slightly more hazardous
existence in the Army, doing one or two tours in Afghanistan, dodging bullets and
IEDs. After that, our ways had parted,
though I do occasionally see things his mum posts on Facebook. Imagine my surprise, then, to click on the
news and find him being interviewed. He, now aged 42 and working in private
security, had been on a lifetime trip to climb Mount
Everest, and was within striking distance of the summit when he
stumbled upon a female Indian climber who was having trouble with her oxygen.
Further on, another climber, male, from the same expedition was also in
trouble. I have read (given that Debbie
is quite keen on mountaineering) books about climbers who have gone summit
blind and ignored the distress of others. You can see why. It costs about £40,000 to climb Everest,
these days. And it must be so tempting
to just pass by on the other side, and carry on plodding upwards.
Les did not. Les told his Sherpa that he wasn’t going to
summit, and instead, commenced trying to help the two stranded climbers back
down the mountain to safety. The woman’s life was saved. Sadly, the male
climber was too far gone, and didn’t make it. Everest is a dangerous place,
though not as dangerous as K2, where
apparently 25% of climbers on average die on the descent. By stopping to help these people, and
changing his own planned schedule, we should not forget that Les put his own
life in considerable danger. Once things start to go wrong at 29,000 feet, they
don’t often magically right themselves.
So, well done, Les, you probably wouldn’t remember me if I fell off a
shelf onto your head, but I am proud to once have worked in the same office as
you. And in what Shakespeare called a naughty world, your good deed stands out.
Today, for all its drizzly dreariness, is the feast of St
John of Sahagun. He was born John
Gonzales de Castrillo in the town of Sahagun, Leon, in Spain, and was educated by the
monks of the Benedictine monastery of Fagondez. He was ordained in 1445, and at
that point he resigned all of his benefices except that of St Agatha in Burgos, as a protest
against religious pluralism. He spent
four years studying at the University
of Salamanca, and then
began to preach.
In the next decade he achieved considerable fame as a
preacher, a worker of miracles, and for his ability to, as it was put “read
men’s souls”. After a serious operation,
though, in 1463, he retired and became an Augustinian friar. He denounced evil
in high places, and several attempts were made on his life, ending when he was
poisoned on 11 June 1479, allegedy by one of two women who had taken offence at
being denounced in a sermon about them living “in concubinage” with a powerful
nobleman. Not long after his death, in
1525, the process of his beatification began, culminating in October 1690 when
he was canonised by Pope Alexander VIII.
Apart from the preaching and the miracles, I can sympathise
with some bits of the life of St John of Sahagun, especially the bits about retiring after
a serious operation (been there, done that) and denouncing evil in the rich and
famous (ditto). Other than that, though,
I can only conclude, as I have been forced to do with several other saints I
have researched, that the conditions for sainthood were a lot more relaxed in
those days.
As for me, next week is pretty much more of the same. One of
the four books I have been working on simultaneously since as long ago as I can
remember, has finally gone to press. Technically, this means I should be
feeling 25% less oppressed, but it doesn’t seem to work like that. Two of the
four are my own projects, and it’s looking increasingly likely that I’ll have
to ditch them (even though I have pre-orders for both) in favour of working on
books by others. It’s the only way it’s going to happen, as other stuff is fast
coming up on the rails. Sad, but true.
Still, the end of term is approaching, which will at least
be an easement for Debbie, although there is still the baptism of fire of the
exams to go through, first. It’s getting
to that stage where I need to make a big list of everything that needs doing
before we go away (if we even get there). But with the end of term comes the
end of summer. I know the Solstice is theoretically midsummer, but inevitably I
can sense a change, a downward decay in things, from then on. The flowers of July are living on borrowed
time, and the blossom of May is gone, long dispersed and dead for another year.
So, this autumn and winter is, for me, a pretty depressing
prospect. At best it will be full of hard work, cold dreary weather, and
struggling against the same 17 intractable problems, while having to
acknowledge that I am, probably, getting weaker in my upper body. Six years on
from my formal diagnosis, I’m not surprised, I suppose, but it’s another thing
to worry about, even though worrying about it is futile, since it will happen
whether I worry or not.
My petition https://petition.parliament.uk/petitions/120545
has now got almost 12,000 signatures, so that looks like
it’s headed for being another small victory,
since there is no way it will get the remaining 88,000 needed to trigger
a debate in parliament before 16 August, even assuming parliament, post-Brexit,
even wanted to debate it. 12,000 is still, though, a significant wodge of
people who want to see the animal welfare laws strengthened.
So, in an attempt to stay sane, in addition to this crazy
life I chose of trying to sell books to people who have little or no disposable
income, I’ll carry on sketching, and doing the occasional thing for myself
instead of others. I’ll stake up my herbs, some of which have been knocked down
by the rain, I’ll polish my clock, and I’ll continue trying to implement the
power of gradual change and small victories.
And I guess I’ll carry on praying for the welfare of me, mine, and those
less fortunate than ourselves. Despite
the fact that my relationship with Big G seems to have become troubled over the
years, we are more or less still on speaking terms.
That, at the end of the day, is all that someone in my position can do. So now I’m going to make some gooseberry tarts.
That, at the end of the day, is all that someone in my position can do. So now I’m going to make some gooseberry tarts.
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