The art of deceiving

Politics is the art of deceiving with a panache born of self righteousness.
We have listened this week to a series of issues voiced in parliament and through the parliamentarians to the public. Terrible patient treatment at Stafford Hospital,our food chain containing horse meat,the right of gay and lesbian couples to marry,and the British reluctance to go along with a call for an increased EU budget allocation.
I am also reading a detailed history of the Spanish Civil War and of the myriad political elements, each at each others throats, each willing,wanting to kill their fellow countryman for a political ideology. The detail is also revealed in a book written by Victor Serg, a book is about the evolution of the Bolshevistic revolution in Russia and the lengths Stalin went to kill the opposition.
Reading of the past and the present one is struck by how far we have travelled in 80 years.
I listened to a speech from President Hollande to the representatives in the European Parliament and the persuasive responses that flowed from the wide and disparate groups that make up that body. Conservatives, Socialists, Liberals, Greens, Communist, The Far Right, The Far Left people from all human view points, each engaged in the social experiment that is Europe.         
The whole event was conducted with restrained passion, expressed by the tolerance to listen. These nations who would have been intolerant of each other before the EU now seemed willing to understanding and consider other points of view whist passionately expressing their own view.     
The one fly in the ointment were the British. Crude, sarcastic, sanctimonious, they revealed that British intolerance of others, particularly Johnny Foreigner, I was embarrassed. Each of the other nations had a positive viewpoint of what was important to the community they serve, the British were like skin heads mindlessly putting the boot in regardless of the human issues at stake. The adversarial despatch box, a verbal slinging match which we are brought up to admire in our so called Mother of Parliaments, has in my opinion, had its sell by date.  We have to learn to seek consensus, to understand the other persons point of view to collaborate towards a better way !!!      

Parenting

Its strange the inherent meaning we conjure and bequeath to groups with a descriptive name, virtually sealing any further thought about them.
The scientist. The vicar. The doctor. The sergeant major.The film actor.The jockey. The parent. They are sealed in aspic with their full meaning and the role they perform set in stone. The vicar can't be anything but kind and understanding.The sergeant major, a tough loud disciplinarian. We know that our attempt to pigeon hole people in this way is lazy since the badge of office doesn't describe the badge holder. We hope that the vicar is kind and the the sergeant major understands the meaning of discipline but we can't be sure. We also can't be sure how to fully describe a good effective parent.
Parenting is a life skill for which we invariably sit no exam, and are required to, drive by the seat of our pants, into all kinds of unimaginable quirky corners. We sit on the side of common sense, we worry and create the worst kind of nightmares for ourselves. We await the dawn when all our good work will be repaid, the children grown happy to assume their own role in this helter skelter called parenthood.
I suppose the first thing we must dispose of is that the child's view of us is the same as ours is of the child. We the parent were the propagators of the child rearing experiment, the child was the ingredient in the cake, temperature too hot or cold and one had a failure on ones hands. In a way it was all experimental, the child could be looked on as some sort of experiment, lets try this and see what happens !!! 
Being outside any sort of consultation process the child begins to realise they been given at least one, maybe two "defectives", the grown ups are just not up to it. Eventually they find voice, usually in their teens and if ever you wanted to know just how short changed you were, now is the time.  
You may or may not recover their affection but don't assume any of those late night, two hourly, back rubbing, getting the wind up procedures, hold any bonus points in their eyes. All the things we did and of course, ones wife did a million more, seem to have been "a duty" nothing more, nothing less, the doctor to his patient,the vicar to his flock, the sergeant major to the men under his care they were all just doing a job as we were and you will not get any further acknowledgement, sad eh !    

Events dear boy

Its a new year, with all that the phrase entails. To some its the opportunity to start or complete a project that has been ongoing and engaging ones interest for some time. The intellect is there, the time available and one is looking forward to the advantages the changes will bring.
For others the time ahead is littered with uncertainty and anxiety as the months unfold. Each day is a trial as one hopes to avoid unemployment and the unpaid debts. The family are in their own cocoon each wrestling with their own dilemmas, the boyfriend, the school work, exams, bullying.
For some the issue is of getting old and being drawn inevitably into a conversation about ones own mortality. The need to fill the day with meaning.
Events dear boy, events. These events are what we crave and value. They make sense of the time-line which is our life's path.They are a milestone not the signpost, they carry no directional element other than that we were in such and such a place at such and such a time. Like a bubble diagram much beloved of the teacher to gather events into some sort of cause and effect sequence, events that are in step with other events but not linked.
Milestones,where you were when Kennedy was shot, are generational, a group of people tied by birth year progressing through a field of relevance, stimulated by current history, the era of tin pan alley and pop music, without that milestone you wouldn't belong to that particular pack.

As I close my eyes and think about my experience today I have to ask myself what part of me took part in the experience. When I visit the shops and integrate with the people there, their actions were part of my world of experience but they were acting out their own world of experience of which my being a part was just a matter of chance. I was not fundamental to their state of mind, nor they to mine.
If the world we call ours is made up of actions and interaction which are separate and unconnected other than through observation, what is it, of my world that is mine that I own individually. 
My mind alone has the power to recognise and provide conjecture as to the why and wherefore of the world around me. My mind could read any one of a number of conclusions to the scene and the interactions I have with all these inputs,visual,audio,smell which can be interpreted by me depending on my mental state. If my mental state is good then the events around me will be deemed good. And so in part we are brothers and sisters of a family called the 40/45ers, exposed to events over time that coloured our perspective on life. We are not alone with our troubles or our prejudice we have come through a life span in good company and we have a story to tell. 
Happy New Year

Overseas - Blighty

OVERSEAS                                          BLIGHTY

It was hot last night in bed                                                I was comfortable, with a little help from the blanket                                                                                                    

   
There's a noise in the garden, it might be a ***                 The noise last night was benign, no threat, go to sleep.

 Parked in the street, will it be there in the morning.         The car has been out on the street for weeks, not a scratch.

Those taxies are a law unto themselves.                             Thanks for letting me in.
  
Gosh it’s too hot, I'm sweating wish we had air con.           It’s cold today, turn on the heating, where’s  the sweater.

 The shacks makes me wonder how much longer.               The gardens are lovely.

The thing coiled up in the shed moved!                               The thing coiled up in the shed is used to water the plants!

That's the 3rd power outing this week.                                Not yet.

Bloody Government. corruption, nepotism,and theft.          Bloody Government. Sack him, he called the policeman a pleb!

 Mosquitoes. flies, and fleas.                                                 Cats fighting and snails that get under the feet.

The local radio/TV is largely irrelevant.                               Undoubtedly, the best in the world!!

The papers, for  advertisements, not the editorial.              Double undoubtedly, the best in the world!!

The food, we score highly, especially the steak !                  Improving and very varied. Our food reflects the population.

Shops, the experience is excellent.                                       Practical but not an extravaganza.
   

Omar Khayyam

There is a rumour in this house that I put off for tomorrow, what can best be done today !
 
Now the rights or wrongs of this statement ( I’m sure I don’t ) lead me to contend that we are all in too much of a rush, particularly after retirement, we carry the habits of a lifetime on into old age !
 
Usually the pressure was derived from within the working environment by another party who wished to develop their own career in some way or another.
 
As the doors of paid- employment bang shut behind us and we are cast out to pasture it seems very unfair that another sort of hierarchy is imposed.
 
The dreadful sound of a repeated mantra “what are you going to do today” or the equally dreadful, “have you looked at the *** yet“. There is no peace in the world.
 
Even the garden shed has a path to its door - there is no refuge.
 
Why must we be so busy. The weeds continue to grow, the paint will continue to peel as we poor souls draw closer to the final act.
 
These last years should be spent watching football on the tele, reading a book chatting to friends in the pub, relaxing, letting go - big sign DO NOT DISTURB !
 
Were all those years spent, confirming, there is no peace this side of the grave?
 
Old khayyam had it sussed
 
 
Awake for morning in the bowl of night
Has flung the stone that puts the start to flight
And low the Hunter of the East has caught
The sultans turret in a noose of light
 
Dreaming when dawns left-hand was in the sky
I heard a voice within the tavern cry
Awake my little ones and fill the cup
Before life's liquor in its cup be dry
 
And as the Cock crew those who stood before
The Tavern shouted open-then the door
You know how little time we have
And once departed may return no more
 
Come full the cup and in the fire of spring
The winter garments of repentance fling
The bird of time has but a little way to fly
And lo the bird is on the wing
 
A book of verse beneath the bough
A jug of wine, a loaf of bread - and Thou
Beside me singing in the Wilderness -
Wilderness were Paradise enow.
 
How sweet is mortal sovereignty - think some
Others - How blest the Paradise to come
Ah, take the cash in hand and waive the rest
O the brave music of the distant drum.
 
The worldly hope men set their hearts upon
Turns ashes - or it prospers and anon
Like snow upon the desert's dusty face
Lighting a little hour or two is gone
 
And we that now make merry in the room
They left, and summer dresses in new bloom
Ourselves must we beneath the couch of earth
Descend, ourselves to make a couch - for whome
 
Ah make the most of what we yet may spend
Before we too into the dust descend
Dust into dust and under dust to lie
Sans wine, sans song , sans singer and -sans end
 
Alike for those who for tomorrow prepare
And those that after some tomorrow stare
A Muezzin from the tower of darkness cries
Fools your reward is neither Here nor There
O come with old Khayyam and leave the wise
To talk, one ting is certain, that life flies
One thing is certain and the rest is Lies
The flower that once has blown for ever dies

Myself when young did eagerly frequent
Doctor and saint, and heard great argument
About it and about : but evermore
Came out by the same door as in I went.

With them the seed of wisdom did I sow
And with my own hand laboured it to grow
And this was all the harvest that I reap
I come like water, and like wind I go.

Into this Universe, and why not knowing
Nor whence like water willy-nilly flowing
And out of it, as wind along the waste
I know not whither, willy-nilly blowing.

What without asking, hither hurried whence
And without asking, whither hurried hence
Another and another Cup to drown
The memory of this impertinence !

The community of the Reference Room

As a young man, staring out from an old scull I sometimes catch my reflection and its scary !!  
Its not the reflection of the shaving mirror I'm used to that, somehow with that reflection, I contrive to believe that my looks are still attractive, there is a twinkle in the eye and of course the years have brought a sense of satisfaction, endowed as I am, with a tale or two to tell.  
No its that "other face" caught unaware, not yet ready, introspective, perhaps unsure.

How we grow into  the later image of our parents. I am my Dad, caught at a time when he was probably troubled by nagging doubt, a twinge of pain that kept recurring, a little unsteady on his feet, perhaps a touch of blood pressure. He must also have considered the future and what it held, not in a maudlin way but as a practical summation of the situation and the issues, getting old brings. Its only a fleeting moment but it reveals more of the truth than the concoction we contrive to project to others.

My Dad was in his late 30s when I came along so we never had that close, "elder bother" link that some father son relationships have. I was doing "kid" things and he was busy doing "dad" things.
He was academic in outlook, head in a book or a quality news paper, ear cocked to a piece of serious music. 
He used to take me to the Reference Library and I would sit and contemplate this world of hushed silence and musty filing systems. The people who used to use the reference room, a large space lined with books, big solid ornate tables and noisy chairs, were from across the social spectrum. Many were students escaping from the noise and disturbance of their family home, others, people perhaps in business who wished to look up a tax problem. There were the lovers of books and the written word for whom a day out amongst the tomes of history, geography,and science were as a day to the races is to a gambling man.
Then there were the men of no fixed abode. They came off the street for a place to find some warmth and a little rest.   Some were well read, they had the time and their education, not formal, was spread across every subject under the sun. The only draw back, given their limited means,  they smelt of yesterday.

I mentioned the filing system. A card for every book kept, in logical sequence, devised for and by the Librarian. The holy grail that made everything accessible. There was a logic and a trail to follow, the sections and subsections led to a request form to be filled in and handed over the enormous desk behind which the librarian and his team sitting waiting. On receipt they would to scurry off with your piece of paper, into the bowels of that part of the library where the bulk of the books were kept.  If it was a project and needed many points of reference it needed many books and the reason for the stout tables was plain, as book upon book was delivered.

Today we have at our fingertip every book every piece of reference material, gathered and sorted by our friend "Google". We are led with highlighted links into pathways we could never imagine, sub plots of knowledge, the events and the people who made the events happen. I had only asked for X but was treated to Y & Z for a better perspective. Its marvellous, but I do miss the community of the Reference Room.        

The athletes did the rest.

How quickly we move on and forget.
I have just been watching re-runs of various Olympic competitions, cycling, rowing, athletics. I had forgotten the atmosphere, the noise, the tension, the emotion and the excitement. It was immense as the drama played out, could we do it again, another win and yet another.the excitement in the voices of the commentators the thrill of seeing their friends and athletic colleagues pull out the stops, lay it all on the line and offer the last drop of energy the last drop of mental commitment.We ordinary mortals can't understand the stress at this level of competition, we could only marvel at the events as the wins unfurled and we continued to win and win and win.The expressions of wild elation from those slight, wispy figures in the women's double sculls, we've done it we've done it, we are the champions!! The expression on the lass in the bow her face was pure poetry, can it be true, it is true we've done it !!  My own throat was full, my eyes were wet with tears as I relived the emotion of the moment. The athletes were the centre piece but a close second came the spectators who cheered and cheered. The country had come alive, had woken to the fact that we could win and win in style.The opening ceremony dashed aside our natural pessimism and the athletes did the rest.