Out early, milk anyone ?

 A world without cars, or at least putting distance between them, I descended past the suburban houses down a narrow path into open parkland. It's 7.00am, I had forgotten the milk and not wishing to make my guests any more crotchety I set off to walk to the shop.
I don't know what a collective of dog walkers is called but they were out in force, walking together, meeting to compare the current history of their canine companions. "Has he had his injection, what did the Vet say" ? They are a happy bunch, not able to wag their tails they chatter and wish you good morning, a far cry from the piercing gaze of the people in the cars as they swish by on their way to an appointment, no time to dwell, no time for anything but the starting clock within some office building in the city. The worry on their faces as they contemplate a motorway full to bursting, that hidden agenda over which they have no control but which their colleagues have no sympathy.
The dog walkers are oblivious of this, their clock is governed by the whistle of the kettle and the early morning tea. Walkie's !  Rusty stirs himself out of his warm basket, are these humans mad or simply obsessed. Anyway it will be good for some canine chat and I might get a chance to nip that bully boy Sam in the behind he's getting too big for his boots.
The early morning, sun is out and the birds are in full throat seeking to establish their existence by calling out their distinctive song. And what a chorus it is, the clear piercing notes of the blackbird, the rhythmic cooing of the doves the tiny cheep cheep of the wren. An orchestra that starts as the first light begins to chase the darkness away, as if the dangers of the night need to be suspended by the sound of "I'm all right". "I'm all right".
It's voting day and the schools have metamorphosed overnight into polling stations.
The busy political clique, optimistic that this will be their day are out manning the stations, sitting behind their tables lists in front, "name please".
There was for me, always something symbolic about turning up to vote. I suppose it was a bug I caught from my Dad who was a political animal. Voting was an opportunity and a responsibility, voting mattered, it was part of the social contract. How could you complain about Government if you couldn't be bothered to vote and try to influence events with your vote. The sense of the importance of this day was never lost on me although in the many years I lived outside this country I never had a vote and I remember the occasion of my first election since coming home I felt reunited by the functionality of casting my preference.
I'm home now and the sleeping beauties are oblivious of my errand of mercy (mercy to myself, they might have killed me otherwise). They haven't digested the sights and sounds of my walk nor the tip tap of writing my impressions to you all but soon I must break the tranquillity for the rough and tumble of family life !!!

When is a sheet not a duvet

When is a sheet not a duvet, when it's a sheet !! That's obvious isn't it ?
My little world was invaded by aliens at roughly one thirty this morning when a contingent of the Welsh light infantry (with some heavier detachments) arrived on my doorstep.
They came like waifs and strays, creeping out of the dark, without a knock, (they had their own key) to disturb my tranquillity. One was disorientated as she made her unsteady way towards the front door, the advance party having reconnoitred the way ahead and secured the lounge went back to find the missing detachment. There had obviously been some murmuring in the ranks on the way over from Wales but this was nothing unusual since the battalion had only recently been formed and discipline was weak.
The corporal in charge soon established control with a few homilies whilst blinking into the light came the main detachment heading, as always, for the toilet ! A little abashed at this early hour but soon finding her feet, looking for promotion and the sergeants stripes she quickly did the rounds.
The corporal meanwhile after establishing base and having fed the horses was not to be usurped and quickly did her own appraisal of the site for the nights bivouac. A place to obtain food (the fridge was full) a place to cook and wash and most important given the hour, a place to get their head down. My own part in this onslaught was of a rabbit caught in the headlights, impressed by the near military efficiency but startled by the near silence as the takeover was carried out.
King of my castle one moment I was soon reduced to that of a servant offering tea, sorry no milk (bad oversight) and a sandwich,( no thanks we carry our own provisions). Still there had been, until then no outright condemnation of the Quartermaster or the accommodation but this was early times and after the usual pleasantries a more detailed inspection of the barracks revealed a major problem, the sheet was not a sheet but a duvet cover and all hell broke out. How could one possibly make a mistake like that ? The opprobrium deepened with reference to ignorance and stupidity as a search broke out to find a sheet.
The flowers by the bedside were forgotten, the freshly washed towels laid neatly on the bed like a 5 star hotel were ignored for the missing sheets. For people so tired after such a long journey one could only wonder at such trivia but then any Achilles Heel in provisions  is useful to establish supremacy.
I can only quake at the thought of breakfast !!!

A funny old game

It's a funny old game, politics !
Who would have thought that a Scottish Nationalist Party would be a major cause of keeping the SNPs arch rivals in power in Westminster.
The Conservatives don't miss a trick and have been pumping the airwaves with the spectre of the Labour Party needing the SNPs vote to get through some of their bills in Parliament. The idea that a political party, who's raison d'etra is to break away from the very parliament it will have a say in controlling, is an anathema to many.
Removing the nationality issue, the SNP should have a natural affiliation to a proper Labour Party but of course the Labour Party often resembles a watered down version of the Conservative Party.

The SNPs manifesto and the urgings of Nicola Sturgeon resemble something of the Labour Party, pre Blair with proper socialist pretensions and one would have thought that Ed Miliband with his claim to be left of centre would have found some common ground with Sturgeon.

Never mind the rational, always a casualty in the political maelstrom of half truths and down right lies, the spectre of those pesky Sots having a say in in "how we run our old school tie business is not on old boy" ! The fact that for 300 years we have run theirs is of no consequence, the fact that with 45 seats they can not force any bill through that the rest of the House doesn't want is of no interest. All you have to do in this country is shout fire and everyone runs.
Any jingoistic claim is amplified by the bulk of the press who just happen to be owned by exceedingly wealthy people.  Mr and Mrs Pleb swallow what they read and shriek. The very parties that go out to bat for them are the ones they turn on, it's as if Alice was down the rabbit hole and everything is made surreal. It's as if by voting for the exclusive upper class party the working man believes he is joined to the wealthy by symbiosis and becomes one of them !!!
I give up !!!

the power of the blog

The power of the blog was emphasised in a powerful true story drama called the 
"C Word".
It was the moving story of a young women and her family, who having been diagnosed with breast cancer, embarked on the torturous road of treatment.
One of the strengths she found to get through this was by writing a daily blog to set down her hopes and fear, her frustrations and triumphs so they were not bottled up inside.
Writing is cathartic. There are so many events of which we have no control but in which we have an interest and writing about them and what we think about them, has the effect of going beyond the passive into a state of some sort of partial interaction. By publicising at least one point of view we hope that it will get others to think.
How often one comes across the expression "I can't be bothered", or its modern equivalent
"I can't be asked".
It's an expression of passivity and withdrawal, it means that you are only interested in things that effect you directly, the rest has no meaning and carries no weight.
The world beyond our personal experience is full of richness and can teach us a lot, not least about ourselves as we search for meaning
This women was dying and like most people in that situation she had no parallels to give her guidance but in writing and focusing her mind as she wrote it became clearer, the path less a minefield, easier to negotiate.
Eventually she published her blog in the form of a book which became a best seller and an inspiration to people in a similar situation.
Blogs or writing of any kind is the slow motion working of the mind and given we all have one, it is fascinating to explore the whys and wherefores of our prejudice or our optimism as, as the bard says, we pass this way but once !!

May Day

The days when today, the 1st of May (Labour Day) were celebrated in Red Square Moscow with a massive march past the Praesidium to a grumpy salute from Alexei Kosygin or a more cocky wave from Nikita Khrushchev are long gone. 

The huge threatening presentation of power as the rocket launchers and the lines of tanks passed through the Square was a reminder to us in the West not to poke the bear too hard or we would regret it. The might of the "Collective" and the power of the industrial machine which Stalin had assembled to compete with Capitalism was on show on May the 1st and in countries such as ours with a far less overt military machine we understood what raw overt power meant. 

Like the parades of the Nazi Party  (The National Socialist German Workers Party) in front of Hitler in Berlin. 

These parades which went on for hours were more than just propaganda they were a display of virility, of masculine strength to indicate the power of a nation. The all male martial marching songs, crisp and measured, sung in language of verbal precision, clear and precise the message came across loud and clear. The blond haired, pigtailed, blue eyed madchen gazing adoringly at this massed assembly of manhood were a crystallisation of the breeding plan that claimed a superiority over other races.

We never had the drive to present ourselves in this way. Our troops were a somewhat motley assembly of largely, part time soldiers. Only the Guards Regiments were significantly smart and had any sort of military stature. We were not a martial nation, we were scornful of authority and prided ourselves on our rudimentary individualism.

May Day to us meant dancing around a May Pole, holding a ribbon rather than the rifle, and celebrating Spring, the awakening of life not its destruction !!

Don't shout at me.

What a weak kneed society we have become when a manager giving someone a verbal bollocking in front of the TV cameras drew so much criticism from the Match of the Day football pundits. 

It seems everyone has been tainted with a sort of Political Correctness where no one should receive criticism, only 'watered down praise'. "It hurts the lads", to be told they played like a bunch of dummies said the pundits and will respond negatively at the next match.

What a load of twaddle ! 

They then drew the comparison of how you handle young players in a youth team where encouragement is needed to protect the young psyche but, and even there, one should never reward a poor performance.
The premier league players are grown men, astronomically well rewarded for what they do and if so sensitive would never survive a building site environment where you get verbally roughed up quite often and have to wait a long time if you need to hear praise from the boss.
I hear this pandering to the soft feminine side of our character (an oxymoron if ever there was one), the culture of, its "prizes for everyone, and no one is  either a winner or a looser"  a philosophy which has taken hold in our state schools.
The privately educated child is not led to believe that you win by loosing, you win by winning and you better get used to the idea ! That is why they succeed. Their internal antenna is tuned to find ways to win, simply taking part is not enough.

Our place on the high street

I still have to rate the program, "The Big Question", as one of the most thought provoking programs on television. I don't know if it is shown overseas but it should be. It portrays Britain, in so far as the people who live here as an assembly of many different hues and even more a multitude of sincerely felt opinions which are coloured by background and cultural variations.

The rich sub stream of humanity that parade down our high streets is confusing to a person of my age, who remembers a very different high street, one more inclined to my own experience of life and growing up with the various totems which I thought of as my identity but which have had to be put aside in an attempt to come to terms with the new society.
Change is unstoppable and we are told, is healthy but of course there are winners and losers and whilst we educate ourselves to cope with, not only the change but the reason and the background for change, it makes us insecure.  
Cultural norms, not so much based on the individual but on either a religious or a cultural basis have bubbled to the top and in our previously fragmented secular society which has developed post Thatcher we have no composite collegiate to fall back upon for sustenance or guidance.
Now, being agnostic both towards religion and my English culture (part of spending so much of my life's outside the country) I find being British confusing to say the least, particularly when comparing myself to those who now lay claim to being British with whom I have little in common, other than my humanism. Is the belief in the common man enough. Can I adapt to a universal brotherhood when the people I would normally share a train journey with come from a series of backgrounds that are clearly differently to my own.
My tribe has surrendered its position to take up the comfort of a pragmatic approach to virtually everything whilst around us "the others" are feeling more and more sure of their own tribal affiliations.
Do our traditions, not withstanding the onslaught of PC and the need to placate "others" at every turn, do they mean anything and are they worth fighting for ?