Democracy?

I believe in democracy. Really I do. I believe that everyone should have a say in how things are done. At least I thought I did. In a couple of weeks’ time we are supposed to turn out to vote for a Police Commissioner. That means the man (I say man, but of course it could be woman, it’s just easier!)  in charge of crime in my area will be there, not because he knows anything about crime, but because, probably with the help of one of the political parties, he has managed to convince the majority of people that he will ‘do something’ about whatever is the latest popular cause. Come re-election time his priority will be to get re-elected again, not look to the long-term safety of the area. After all, if he loses he is out of a job. There is no incentive to look to the long term. If he does lose, any problems are the province of whoever had the temerity to beat him. If he wins he will have plenty of time before the next election to put in place ‘populist’ measures. The electorate has such a short collective memory after all.

Democracy is relatively easy in a small, static, population.  Everyone knows everyone else, or at least knows who everybody is. Personally, not through ‘the media’. This makes choosing between candidates so much easier. Of course it also makes bribery easier too! But at least a voter is more likely to vote for the man, rather than the Party, resulting in a representative who is more interested in doing what is best for his local electorate rather than pleasing his party bosses. When the population rises, and becomes much more mobile, this local connection is lost. Party becomes the reason for most people to cast their vote, and the candidates become connected instead to the party machine. The party then becomes obsessed with winning the next election, and the priority is the ‘short term’ popular fix, not the long term good. Politics becomes a career path (how many MP’s actually had a ‘proper job’ outside politics?) rather than a calling to represent the electorate who put them in their very lucrative job. You only have to remember the recent expenses scandals to understand quite how lucrative. In the modern era it is more important to look good on TV rather than actually have any great degree of knowledge or true talent.

I am not sure how the problems of Parliament can be addressed, I am not clever enough. But I can take issue with the idea of elected Police Commissioners. It was not all that long ago that the electorate dismissed out of hand the idea of directly elected mayors. That must have sent a message to the Government because there was no referendum on Police Commissioners. Perhaps they knew they would lose? I have seen a lot of letters in newspapers from people who disagree with the idea so much they do not intend to vote. This is a mistake. The turnout will probably be dismal anyway and this will reduce the figures even more. What I intend to do is turn up at the polling station and write ‘none of the above’ on my voting slip. I still do believe in democracy, just not for everything. If an MP is really bad at his job there are enough of them to counteract his mistakes. A Police Commissioner is on his own, in a job where his credentials are political rather than related to police work, and his decisions, taken politically, can have dire effects. No thanks.

What would you give up?

 

Someone, under circumstances I won’t repeat, said to me ‘I wish I was 20 years younger.’ While heartily agreeing with these sentiments in the spirit in which they were expressed, one real drawback struck me.  Which 20 years would be ditched? For to be 20 years younger would, of necessity, mean 20 years of experiences would have to be lost. Not necessarily 20 consecutive years, but considerably more than the odd ‘bad day’ here and there.

Every one of us is the person we are as a consequence of our past. Change one bit of it and it has an effect on the outcome. The good parts everyone would opt to keep, but the bad parts are equally important. Random chance plays a huge part in who we are.  I am a ‘war baby’, born because my parents both joined the RAF. There is absolutely no way they would have met in normal circumstances. My father died in the Berlin Airlift because he switched duties with another navigator. If he hadn’t my life would have been hugely different. As a single parent, my mother made a decision to send me, and my brother, to boarding school, paid for by the people of Berlin. She chose one in the wilds of Somerset because my uncle had spent some time in the war on a farm in the area. Pure chance, but as a result I had a wonderful childhood in a happy caring environment. This I would definitely not change. Boarding school, private education in general, has a huge effect on one. Smaller classes, and in my case, a very small school, means you lose a lot of the stress of battling for attention in a huge school. You feel you matter. And the values instilled by the wonderful Miss Burridge and Miss Mary are still with me today.

Before I started school at 8 we visited relations in America. While there my mother was offered a chance to relocate to Pennsylvania. She refused, reluctantly I think, because of my grandfather who had been widowed shortly after my father died. If she had stayed, think how different life would have been. I’d have been an American! Would life have been better? Who knows?  But I would be a very different person.

I met my first husband when he tipped a cup of coffee over me in a coffee bar in Stratford upon Avon. It was the early 60’s so a lot of coffee was drunk in these bars! We were both working in hotels, but different ones on different shifts. That meeting was pure chance. The result was three wonderful children (well, wonderful most of the time!) who I would certainly not switch for an extra 20 years. As an aside, we moved to Yorkshire to live and work and my brother took a job there instead of Bristol because we were there. He has been married to his Yorkshire lass for over 30 years.

Okay, my first marriage ended in divorce, but I wouldn’t rather it hadn’t happened. We had some really good times, and I have some very happy memories. No, even not taking the children into account, I wouldn’t wish it hadn’t happened. I then had 8 years as a single parent, and had a ball! I’d married pretty young the first time, before I’d managed to sow many wild oats (except perhaps for 3 months spent in Berlin on a holiday job, organised by the Stiftung Luftbrukendank !) The 8 years on my own, except for the children, more than made up for it. So that 8 years can’t go.

I spent years involved in local politics – fun – and archery – productive! I met my second (and current) husband at the local archery club and we’ve been married 28 years. That time definitely has to stay. Then there are the 10 + years I’ve spent studying with the Open University. The only regret about that is that I was offered a place in the 70’s but turned it down because it was too expensive at the time. I could have found my passion for ancient history, especially the Romans, early enough to do something with it. But if I had so many other things would have been lost. I might never have come back to  Warwickshire when my marriage broke up, so never met my husband. Who knows, it might have been a hugely successful life, but………?

I would love it if the consequences of age weren’t beginning to make themselves felt. You know the sort of thing. The odd ache and pain, the ‘senior moment’. But  taken all in all, it’s a small price to pay for the experiences that have made me the person I am. Not sure what other people think, but I like who I am.

Age is relative.

I've had a very strange couple of days, agewise. (I hate those -wise words, but I couldn't think of one that was more fitting.) I know that,by virtue of the year of my birth, I am no spring chicken. Whether I actually feel that old depends on so many changeables. Who I am with, what the weather is like, what I am doing at the time, how much sleep I've had, and so on. You get my drift. But most of all it is the reactions of others, and how you relate to them. The worst experience I have had will be familiar to anyone over the age of 50. A visit to the doctor will elicit the deathly phrase, 'It's to do with your age'. I will give you two examples of recent 'agist' experiences.

Last night we went to Malvern Theatre to see Sandi Toksvig. I'd been trying to get tickets for a performance of hers for years, always missing out. So we braved the vagaries of the dreadful parking to go. Now Sandi is about 14 years younger than me, but she was talking about problems of ageing. One of the problems rang a bell with me. She suggested that it is possible to suffer from deja vu and amnesia at the same time. 'I'm sure I've forgotten this before.' Well, yes. Recognise that. Also the splendid story about giving up 'tiny' knickers on her 50th birthday! But come off it Sandi. If you feel like this at your relatively young age how am I expected to feel having 14 more years 'in my dish' as they used to say in the Regency period? But she did redeem herself at the end. There is a wonderful way of cheering yourself up, and she had the entire audience doing it at the end. Play 'Ode to Joy' very loudly, stand up, and conduct with vigour. Splendid! Great physical exercise as well as the lift to the spirits.

A gentleman?

Two days ago I had one of 'those' phonecalls. You know the sort of thing. A complete stranger trying to 'help' you claim for missold PPI, or trying to get you a better mortgage, or......! Always the same foreign female voice under a different name, and a script to follow regardless. These I just hang up on, though I am tempted to just put the phone down and walk away, leaving the line open so they can't use theirs! This one, however, was different. It was an extremely cheery chap, on a clear line, (he said London and I am inclined to believe him) trying to sell me 'carbon off-sets'. After a very friendly conversation I explained that, good as his offer was, my husband and I were both pensioners and hadn't any money to spare. His instant reply to this was 'Gosh, you don't sound old enough to be a pensioner!' That lad will go far! Whether it was just a line or not, it did wonders for my morale. And that's what it's all about.

This reminds me. A friend asked what was the definition of a gentleman. I have two. The first would apply to the gentleman on the telephone. It's a man who makes the lady he is with feel like a lady. It has nothing to do with morals, and everything to do with morale boosting.  I know very few who fit that criteria, a handful perhaps. One actually ended up in prison, twice, but I still think of him fondly because of the huge boost to my morale when he was around. This picture is good because I met the gentleman when he was playing cricket. The other definition is a bit more raunchy. A gentleman is a man who has callouses on his elbows!

But back to ageing. There has been a lot of publicity recently about the desirability of everyone over the age of 50 taking statins as a matter of course. I have taken every statin available. Each and every one has produced the most debilitating side effects (what the gentleman suggesting everyone takes them describes as 'minor') which resulted in an inability almost to put one foot in front of another. My specialist now agrees with me, I am much better without them. So I stopped taking them, and feel about 20+ years younger.

Ageing is so much more than years. It's a state of mind. Sandi Toksvig did remind me of my years, but in such a way as to make it a laughing matter, something to joke about. As we get older many of the things that seemed so necessary in our youth fade into insignificance. Comfort is, to a degree, more important than fashion, hence the 'big knickers'. We know who we are, and are content with that. More power to our elbows I say.

Nostalgia

Ki Bo Bae

One way or another it has been a time of nostalgia.

Aida Roman

Mariana Avitia

For the past few days I've had a real blast from the past. In the dim and distant past I was a pretty competent (no better than that!) archer. In fact it was due to archery I met my husband, though I have to admit I can't remember the first time I met him, he was just around! So, thanks to the wonderful technology from the BBC, I have been watching the cream of the crop. Yesterday was the last few rounds in the women's competition. Expected to be a clean sweep for the Koreans, two brilliant Mexicans decided to spoil the party! The winner was Korean, Ki Bo Bae. She beat Aida Roman into silver medal position by virtue of a 'sudden death' closest to the middle single arrow. Mariana Avitia took the bronze.Well done to all of them. But especially for their sheer nerve at the crunch moments. I just hope the men can do half as well today. Congratulations too to whoever decided to use Lords as a venue. It seems to have been a huge success.

I actually went past Lords in a Green Line bus on Monday. For some peculiar reason it had been decided that a planned visit to the British Museum to see the Shakespeare Exhibition should take place on the first Monday of the Olympics. The result was an amazingly easy bus journey, and an almost deserted British Museum. As for the exhibition, highly recommended. Especially for the First Folio, and the Robin Island Shakespeare signed by Nelson Mandela. Do go and see it if at all possible.

Coming away from there we decided to visit the Bomber Command Memorial at Hyde Park. This was an eyeopener. The inscription is from Pericles, and is so apt for the men who are being remembered. My father was not Bomber Command but he was aircrew during the war. He flew as navigator and bomb aimer in a Mosquito with his friend and pilot, a Canadian called Ken. The plane itself was very fragile, and they made most of their flights by night. Much courage was needed. But they did have lucky charms! Mosquitos were twin engined, and each engine was called after the wives, Marjorie, my mother, and Millie, Ken's wife. It must have worked because both men came through the war without a single scratch. This one is in the Mosquito Museum, a place that is full of Foggy Dewhurst type enthusiasts.

Glad to see I appear to be getting better at the technicalities of this blogging lark! The pictures are the ones I wanted, and in the places I wanted them! Thats a decided improvement on the frustrations of earlier posts - though I have to admit to seeming to lose this at one point and almost have an apoplexy. Great joy all around when I found it.

Ducks!



This is what I have felt like for the past month, along with most of the rest of the country! What bright spark decided to call a drought in the year when we had the Queen's Jubilee AND the 2012 Olympics? That was just asking for trouble. A couple of days ago, when the North East really caught it, we thought we were badly done by here in leafy Warwickshire. On a visit to the local Waitrose we got trapped in the store when the heavens opened and the thunder and lightning crashed overhead. By the time we got out (all of 5 minutes!) the car park was 4 inches deep. The journey back home, though short, was pretty hairy. Thanks are due to all the hard work done on the drainage recently in Alcester. Serious flooding is now much less likely.

I am now in serious mourning after the departure from Wimbledon of my main man! For Rafa to lose at this point is a tragedy of Homeric proportions. Okay, so I exaggerate a little, but only a little! I love my tennis (to watch not to play I hasten to add). It's a fantastic game to shout and yell at. Much better than golf, which I do play. Thought the weather has played havoc with that in recent weeks. Every time I put my name down to play the heavens open - or so it seems. The problem with golf is the aftermath of a 'shower'. Unlike a tennis court a golf course tends to stay wet for some time. Result, a sea of mud to plough through - if the course is open. But to get back to Wimbledon. With Rafa out I have to find someone else to support. (No point in yelling to no good purpose!) The obvious one would be Murray, but I do find him very hard to warm to. The smug Swiss one is a complete no-no. So that really only leaves Novak. Unless we are in for a complete upset. That would be interesting. Perhaps Del Potro?What I do love is the way the commentators get so excited when one of the British players actually manages to win a match! The poor sods then don't have a chance. All eyes are on them, they get stuck on a televised court, and buckle under the weight of expectation.

I have decided that laughter really is the best medicine. We went to the Roses Theatre in Tewkesbury again last night, (it really is a cracking little theatre) to see Dr Phil. His humour is - robust I think is one word for it, rude is another - but he is funny. I haven't laughed till I cried for quite some time, and boy did it feel good. It helped just a little to make up for the depression that sets in at the sight of yet another wet and windy day. We even got a lesson in CPR at the end. Apparently the tune to use is the Archers theme tune!

I am feeling a little guilty at the moment though. It is the holidays from Latin until October, and I had told myself I must do at least an hour a day, for at least five days a week. This has not come to pass! It's at least five days since I last did any. I don't even have the excuse that I have been too busy. I'm retired for heavens sake. I can find time for anything if I really want to!  I have been trying to read a book about Roman Law. And I do mean trying. I get a real bee in my bonnet about writers who spoil a fascinating subject by trying to be too clever. They use great rolling periods and convoluted sentences. And don't even get me on the subject of using the most obscure word possible. So the book is currently on the shelf waiting for me to have another go at it. It will have to be soon because it has to go back to the library soon. I am just so glad I didn't actually buy it! I will finish it - really I will. If I can stay awake long enough. Communication is a vital part of academic literature. If you send your audience to sleep that is not communicating.

The Olympic Torch is due in our small town tomorrow. I will end on the subject I started with. Please can we give the rain a miss - just for a while?

Up girls and at 'em!

This is my old school motto! The school song is even more uplifting. The chorus goes:-

                                "Up girls, Truest fame lies in high endeavour,
                         Play the game! Keep the flame burning brightly ever!"

Hill House, Otterhampton

Hence the title - Up girls and at 'em! In an Olympic year this seems particularly apt. But the reason I have been thinking about my school days, back in the dim and distant past, is the biannual school reunion a few weeks ago. St Hilda's School for Girls was (it closed in the 1970's) in Otterhampton, Bridgwater in Somerset, and was run in exemplary fashion by the Misses Lilian and Mary Burridge.  It started in Westcliff-on Sea but evacuated to Somerset during the war, moving into Hill House, where it stayed until it closed. I arrived, aged about 8, in the early 1950's. This picture, taken recently, does not do it justice. In the days I was a pupil it was 'held up' by a magnificent covering of Virginia Creeper.  The building was, with the surrounding park, at the heart of the school. I can't remember a time when we stayed indoors when there was the slightest excuse to get outside into the fresh air.

The St Hilda's Fellowship have a 'big' reunion every two years, since being reformed due to the impact of Friend's Reunited! They are popular enough for old girls to come from as far afield as New Zealand and Canada. When we get together there is a lot of talk (the decibels have to be heard to be believed!) and a concerted effort to do something that 'we used to do'. One year it was a school sports day (my husband still cherishes his medal for the 'not so little visitors' race!). Another year the school nativity play in Bridgwater Arts Centre on the hottest day of the year. I still smile when I remember the conga to Country Gardens (the tune we came out of the last assembly of the term to) out onto the pavement in Bridgwater, to the amusement of the passers by. What on earth were these 'ladies of

Riding in style!

a certain age' up?

This time it was to be a picnic and a bus ride around the Quantocks seeing old haunts. What made it really special was the bus! It was pure art-deco, beautifully maintained, and painted bright yellow! The drive was absolutely splendid, causing quite a sir amongst the local population. We stopped for tea, for a walk on the beach at Kilve, and a stroll up on the Quantocks. All the time the chatter went on. My husband, Paul, and Jean's husband David, had wandered off for the afternoon, but got back before we did. The look on their faces when they saw the bus was a picture to behold!

What really struck me was the values we had been brought up on by the two Burridge sisters that were apparent in all my old school fellows. Education was fairly important, but who we were as people was much more so. I've already mentioned the 'outdoors' nature of our lives. What I haven't yet mentioned is the almost complete lack of Elf and Safety! We were expected to learn the difference between 'stupid' and 'testing oneself''. We were allowed to go down to the pool for a swim before breakfast if we so chose. But we were expected to let someone know we were doing so. We were allowed to climb the huge fir trees in the garden/park, but not alone. We were taken out in the school minibus in small groups on fine Saturday afternoons, dropped 3, 4 or 5 miles from school and expected to walk back. All these things would be expressly forbidden today. We had rabbits we were expected to look after properly. (Breeding was forbidden, but it was amazing  how often the rabbits 'got out'! How else were we to learn the facts of life?) For those, including me, who chose, there were horses in the stables. Some girls even brought their own. It was all about taking responsibility for your own life. And the 'girls' I met in Somerset recently had all done just that. Not bad Miss Burridge and Miss Mary.



Gill with the school bell!

I can't miss the opportunity to post just a couple of pictures of my old friends! This first one is Gill Duckham, who, I have to admit, is the one friend I would have absolutely no difficulty recognising after any number of years. Gill, you haven't changed a bit! She is ringing the old school bell, the method by which everyone knew where they had to be at any given time. Gill rescued it when the school closed, and brings it to every reunion.                                                                                            

Always smiling Linda

Denise on the right

Linda, who came over from Canada with her sister, was always at the centre of everything. And continues to be! Even the story about Denise and one of the nights we were allowed to take our mattresses up onto the roof to sleep! I won't repeat it here just to spare Denise's blushes. But what school now would let it's pupils sleep, unaccompanied, on the school roof! And have a midnight feast up there!

Paul and I stayed at a hotel in Holford, where we used to go on school picnics. The morning we left we made the time to walk up to Holford Glen so I could show Paul one of our old haunts. It just reminded me how lucky we all were. We had a proper childhood, full of love and care. Something a lot of today's children are missing. They grow up so early, and miss such a lot.

I must just mention the splendid Clive and the Latin lessons. The last one with Clive was last Wednesday, but I was very happy to discover they will continue in October, with a new teacher. I just hope he is half as good as Clive, who will be sadly missed. It took me a very long time to find a suitable Latin class - I am so glad I don't have to start looking again!

Heroes and Heroines

I have never been one of those people to have lots of heroes and heroines. Even as a teenager, when it was almost expected that one hero worshipped the latest musical fad, I was never much enamoured, even of the supposedly magnificent Beatles! I couldn't see the point of four mop topped Liverpudlian lads prancing around a stage! The only person who really got my feet tapping was, I am ashamed to admit, the swivel hipped Elvis Presley. Perhaps this has something to do with the fact that I was told at a very early age that I was tone deaf. (In much later years I was told by an OU music tutor that this amounted to child abuse!) I certainly have a few sporting heroes. When I started playing golf it was the beautiful Freddie Couples! Even now I mutter his name as I swing my club. His rhythm is wonderful to behold and really slows down my own swing. Of course my father was always a hero to me, he died far too early for him to be anything else. A regular in the RAF who came through the entire war without a scratch, and then died in a plane crash during the Berlin Airlift trying to save the very people he had been helping to bomb only a few years before. This is the famous Candy Bomber, the American pilot who used to drop little parachutes full of sweets to the children waiting below. But up until now I have had very few heroines. Perhaps my headmistress at school, the wonderful Miss Lillian Burridge, who seemed to have the ability to dictate the weather! I can't remember a single wet school sports day or fete day. There must surely have been some, but all I can remember is Burridge weather! This continues to this day at our biannual school reunions.

What has changed? The magnificent Professor Mary Beard. Firstly I admire her for her sheer erudition. Her knowledge of Classics seems to be boundless. Secondly I admire her ability, and her willingness, to pass on this knowledge - not as easy at it sounds as those who have had teachers who 'know it all' but are singularly inept at teaching it to anyone else. But what I really admire about her is her ability to be so happy in her own skin. She is able to just be herself, without any aids or artifice, and it's their loss to anyone who doesn't like her. This has been made truly apparent this week with all the hooha about her magnificent TV programme about the real Romans, and the totally uncalled for criticisms of the much to be pitied A.A.Gill. Pitied because he must have such low self esteem to write what he did. For anyone who doesn't know what this is about can I direct you to Mary's blog  A Don's Life. http://timesonline.typepad.com/dons_life/  where there has been much discussion. The television programme Meet the Romans is, as to be expected with such an engaging presenter, entertaining, informative, and full of wonderful asides about the real people of ancient Rome. Mary has the ability to inject humour into her work second to none. This is not just her TV work, but her lecturing and her books, which have that rare quality in academia of being actually readable! She is also, as I know, blessed with a wonderful memory for faces, and a complete disregard for 'status'. Thank you Mary. I know I am older than you, but when I grow up I hope to be just like you!