I'm flitting next Thursday. So far I've packed up the clothes, bags, shoes, scarves, hats, gloves, socks,
dishes, glasses, towels and bed linen. I've been chucking things out as I go and, when I hesitate, reminding myself: four great big rooms into three wee rooms doesn't go so get chucking!
Tonight I started on the books: I made up four boxes and labelled them 'Bin', 'Oxfam', 'Store' and 'New House'. I'm trying to be rational about this: books I don't read but that are of sentimental value go into store. Books I use or am going to need like dictionaries (just why is my spelling so bad these days?) go to the new house, along with my favourite books like those by James Robertson, Iain Banks and Jane Austen. Books that were fashionable 30 years ago or are fashionable now but not likely to be read again - at least not by me - go to Oxfam. The rest go in the bin.
It's not working. The 'store' box is full to the brim, as is the 'Oxfam' box. There's next to nothing in the 'bin' - just a paperback copy of an Evelyn Waugh story that has finally fallen apart and a few collections of pieces by Alan Coren that are not coming back into fashion any time soon. As for the 'new house' box, I caught myself about to put in most of my books in French and Russian, plus books of poetry, books about movies, not to mention a shelf of plays from my degree course (1973) and about 50 travel books about Scotland and assorted European countries - probably all out of date. At that point, I called a halt. I'll look at it all again tomorrow.
I love books. The first books I ever owned were in a gift set my parents gave me when I was - I think - about 8: What Katy Did, What Katy Did At School, What Katy Did Next, plus Little Women and Good Wives. Thereafter, I went to Elder Park library in Govan every week with my father and just read and read and read. I was never big on Enid Blyton, but I read all the books I could find by Agatha Christie, John Creasey and Georges Simenon. Then came Daphne du Maurier, Graham Greene, Evelyn Waugh, Arnold Bennett, Mrs Gaskell...There was no censorship that I can remember. And no advice on what was good or bad. I was left to develop my own critical sense.
Friends tell me of being chased out of the house by parents who didn't like to see them with their nose 'stuck in a book.' I never had that problem. My father was doing a diploma in engineering at what is now Strathclyde University and read all the time. My mother's idea of heaven was to curl up with a copy of the Weekly News. There were always newspapers and books around. I'm delighted that my sister and brother and I have continued that trend. I love working as a volunteer with Glasgow libraries, especially since Karyl (librarian) and Alex (fellow volunteer) are so knowledgeable about books.
All this helps to explain why I find it hard to get rid of books but doesn't help me to actually do it. And I'll have to get it sorted, because the family are coming on Saturday night for drinks and pizza (our version of a Burns Supper) and at the moment they won't be able to get in the livingroom door.
Thursday 23 January 2014
Tuesday 21 January 2014
Who needs satire...
...with this lot around?
You may remember the politician who got the jail, along with his wife, for pretending she had been driving when it was in fact him that should have got the points on his licence and been disqualified. Turned out the wife (now the ex-wife) dobbed him in because he left her for his assistant. She then set up a relationship with a woman. Now it appears the real reason she was mad at him was that he'd been having affairs with men. They have children and step-children, these people, and very important and well-paid jobs, but none of that seems to put a curb on their self-indulgence. What do you call people who have affairs outside their marriage? I call them adulterers, but that kind of judgemental language is so yesterday, isn't it?
Now we have a politician who harassed his female colleagues, using his senior position in the party to get away with it for years. He obviously doesn't see he's done anything wrong so he refuses to apologise and, worse than that, twitter and the media are full of otherwise sensible people defending him, telling us it was just a bit of banter and lamenting that wimmin have no sense of humour about these things. They've obviously never had some creep standing just that wee bit too close, staring down their cleavage, rubbing himself up against them, making off-colour jokes, etc.
These people are killing satire stone dead, folks. I defy the Marcus Brigstockes, Armando Ianuccis and John Stewarts of this world to come up with a scenario that sends up modern life more than these folk do themselves. Heaven help the younger generation who are growing up with these people as role-models.
You may remember the politician who got the jail, along with his wife, for pretending she had been driving when it was in fact him that should have got the points on his licence and been disqualified. Turned out the wife (now the ex-wife) dobbed him in because he left her for his assistant. She then set up a relationship with a woman. Now it appears the real reason she was mad at him was that he'd been having affairs with men. They have children and step-children, these people, and very important and well-paid jobs, but none of that seems to put a curb on their self-indulgence. What do you call people who have affairs outside their marriage? I call them adulterers, but that kind of judgemental language is so yesterday, isn't it?
Now we have a politician who harassed his female colleagues, using his senior position in the party to get away with it for years. He obviously doesn't see he's done anything wrong so he refuses to apologise and, worse than that, twitter and the media are full of otherwise sensible people defending him, telling us it was just a bit of banter and lamenting that wimmin have no sense of humour about these things. They've obviously never had some creep standing just that wee bit too close, staring down their cleavage, rubbing himself up against them, making off-colour jokes, etc.
These people are killing satire stone dead, folks. I defy the Marcus Brigstockes, Armando Ianuccis and John Stewarts of this world to come up with a scenario that sends up modern life more than these folk do themselves. Heaven help the younger generation who are growing up with these people as role-models.
Friday 17 January 2014
Suffer the little...need I go on?
Poor wee Mikaeel.
I came home from a night out tonight to hear that Mikaeel is dead and his mother is being questioned about his death. At the press conference, you could hear how shocked journalists were and see how upset the police were at this outcome. The community that put in so much time and effort looking for a missing child, must be devastated.
The death of a child is never taken lightly because a wee child has had not just an early death but probably no life at all.
In my family, when we're annoyed - and we're easy annoyed - we do a lot of shouting. We sometimes threaten each other: 'I'm gonna mollocate you!' (No, I don't know what it means either). And I sometimes wonder if it's possible to talk people to death, as we seem to do, but at least talking is a good way to release anger. Ill-treating a child? No, we don't do that.
My sister tells a good story about our poor mother lining the three of us up and interrogating us about some major family crime:
- Mammy: So who was it? Was it you?
- Me: no!
Slap
- Wee sister: no!
Slap
- Wee brother: And it wizny me either!
Clout - sound of wee brother getting a thick ear, because it definitely was him - it always was.
Our mammy must have been hard pushed to reach the stage of hitting us and fifty years later, we remember this incident and laugh over it because it was so unusual. But I accept that there are homes where wee children suffer this kind of treatment as a matter of course and probably on a daily basis. I'm just not sure what we can do about it.
Mikaeel's family were 'known' to the 'authorities' in Fife and Edinburgh (and where else, I wonder?) and, no doubt, in the next few months, there will be demands for enquiries into how social workers, doctors, teachers and the police dealt with Mikaeel's situation. But the vox pops with neighbours over the past 48 hours are interesting: they knew the family or knew of them, saw the kids playing on the landing outside their flat and never saw anything to make them contact the 'authorities'. In other words, everybody observed as much as they could be expected to but, as my bro in law always says: when people shut their front door, there's no way of knowing what's going on.
I came home from a night out tonight to hear that Mikaeel is dead and his mother is being questioned about his death. At the press conference, you could hear how shocked journalists were and see how upset the police were at this outcome. The community that put in so much time and effort looking for a missing child, must be devastated.
The death of a child is never taken lightly because a wee child has had not just an early death but probably no life at all.
In my family, when we're annoyed - and we're easy annoyed - we do a lot of shouting. We sometimes threaten each other: 'I'm gonna mollocate you!' (No, I don't know what it means either). And I sometimes wonder if it's possible to talk people to death, as we seem to do, but at least talking is a good way to release anger. Ill-treating a child? No, we don't do that.
My sister tells a good story about our poor mother lining the three of us up and interrogating us about some major family crime:
- Mammy: So who was it? Was it you?
- Me: no!
Slap
- Wee sister: no!
Slap
- Wee brother: And it wizny me either!
Clout - sound of wee brother getting a thick ear, because it definitely was him - it always was.
Our mammy must have been hard pushed to reach the stage of hitting us and fifty years later, we remember this incident and laugh over it because it was so unusual. But I accept that there are homes where wee children suffer this kind of treatment as a matter of course and probably on a daily basis. I'm just not sure what we can do about it.
Mikaeel's family were 'known' to the 'authorities' in Fife and Edinburgh (and where else, I wonder?) and, no doubt, in the next few months, there will be demands for enquiries into how social workers, doctors, teachers and the police dealt with Mikaeel's situation. But the vox pops with neighbours over the past 48 hours are interesting: they knew the family or knew of them, saw the kids playing on the landing outside their flat and never saw anything to make them contact the 'authorities'. In other words, everybody observed as much as they could be expected to but, as my bro in law always says: when people shut their front door, there's no way of knowing what's going on.
Wednesday 15 January 2014
Why we need to be part of Europe
The great thing about volunteering is you never know who you're going to run into. Just before Christmas, on an outing for people supported by the charity Contact the Elderly, I met a woman from Carpathia.
I pretended I knew what and where that was and googled it when I got home. And was amazed.
Carpathia was part of the Austro-Hungarian Empire. It covers the second longest range of mountains in Europe. Germans settled there in the countries now called Slovakia, Czech Republic, Hungary, Romania and Ukraine from the 13th century onwards. They were moved there not from choice but because of the skills they had as craftsmen or because they had experience as miners. The empire these ethnic Germans had served vanished in 1918. But the people stayed on. They had always been 'encouraged' to assimilate, so at various times they became Hungarian, Slovak, Romanian or Russian.
Carpathia was fought over and divided up again at the end of the second world war. You just can guess how these people fared when the 'partisans' and then the Russians took over. Between 1938 and 1945, the German-speaking population of the region was reduced from 128,000 to 20,000. Some were thrown out to make way for other craftsmen. Some were forced to stay because they possessed skills no other craftsmen had.
You can read about Carpathia here: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Carpathian_Germans
The woman I met lived with her mother during world war two. They were farmers. She didn't mention her father. After the second world war, she came to the UK. I don't know about her parents and I don't know how she got to the UK or how she fetched up in Glasgow. Her late husband was a Scot. I don't know if she's been back to Carpathia or if she had children to pass her German culture and her experience of these beautiful mountains on to.
Sitting there in the conservatory of an old people's home at Christmas, she sang me a song in her native German. I recognised it at once. You hear these songs all over Europe in places where people have lost their homeland or just their sense of belonging to that homeland: Catalonia, Brittany, the Gaidhealtachd, Val d'Aosta, Galicia. The list is endless. If all the European Union does is stop us creating the circumstances where people like that woman can be moved around Europe, picked up and dropped and essentially deprived of their basic human rights, that for me is enough reason for the EU to exist and for us to be part of it.
Just because we haven't experienced the horror of war personally doesn't give us the right to dismiss what the EU has done to keep the peace since 1945.
I pretended I knew what and where that was and googled it when I got home. And was amazed.
Carpathia was part of the Austro-Hungarian Empire. It covers the second longest range of mountains in Europe. Germans settled there in the countries now called Slovakia, Czech Republic, Hungary, Romania and Ukraine from the 13th century onwards. They were moved there not from choice but because of the skills they had as craftsmen or because they had experience as miners. The empire these ethnic Germans had served vanished in 1918. But the people stayed on. They had always been 'encouraged' to assimilate, so at various times they became Hungarian, Slovak, Romanian or Russian.
Carpathia was fought over and divided up again at the end of the second world war. You just can guess how these people fared when the 'partisans' and then the Russians took over. Between 1938 and 1945, the German-speaking population of the region was reduced from 128,000 to 20,000. Some were thrown out to make way for other craftsmen. Some were forced to stay because they possessed skills no other craftsmen had.
You can read about Carpathia here: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Carpathian_Germans
The woman I met lived with her mother during world war two. They were farmers. She didn't mention her father. After the second world war, she came to the UK. I don't know about her parents and I don't know how she got to the UK or how she fetched up in Glasgow. Her late husband was a Scot. I don't know if she's been back to Carpathia or if she had children to pass her German culture and her experience of these beautiful mountains on to.
Sitting there in the conservatory of an old people's home at Christmas, she sang me a song in her native German. I recognised it at once. You hear these songs all over Europe in places where people have lost their homeland or just their sense of belonging to that homeland: Catalonia, Brittany, the Gaidhealtachd, Val d'Aosta, Galicia. The list is endless. If all the European Union does is stop us creating the circumstances where people like that woman can be moved around Europe, picked up and dropped and essentially deprived of their basic human rights, that for me is enough reason for the EU to exist and for us to be part of it.
Just because we haven't experienced the horror of war personally doesn't give us the right to dismiss what the EU has done to keep the peace since 1945.
Tuesday 14 January 2014
Monsieur le Président
The British press has got all worked up about the President of France and his affair with an 'actress.'
(And before we move on, can I mention there is a correct way - especially the people that work on Sky and ITN News - to pronounce the man's name? Frong-swah Oh-long-d. No z sound at the end of his first name (that would make him a wumman and he's clearly not that) and no h at the start of his family name. If we're going to slag him off, the least we can do is get his name right.)
There seems to be some suggestion in the UK that M le Président has disgraced his family, his live-in girlfriend and the entire French nation by taking a mistress. The French take a more relaxed view: a woman interviewed in a Paris street last night (this of course is the only place in the French-speaking world that British news people ever venture) was keen to talk about Hollande (and, I suspect, to give us the low down on what a total waste of space he's been as president) but when it came to le so-called scandale, she shrugged. Not interested.
I have to say I agree with her. The only time I am likely to take an interest in what politicians get up to in their private lives is when I stop and think: we pay these people to do a high-profile job so how the hell do they get the time for an affair? Everybody I know is working full out - sometimes at two jobs - running a house, bringing up the family, trying to squeeze in an hour at the gym, going to the supermarket, worrying about their pension. Meanwhile, the president of France is riding round Paris on the back of a moped - a moped, FFS, how undignified is that - followed by his security guards and apparently heedless of the fact that he has the lowest popularity ratings of any president ever.
And anyway, what's he got going for him? He's wee, dumpy, specky, less than animated in front of an audience (his girlfriend had to order him recently to kiss her for the cameras) and totally devoid of ideas for saving the French economy - and have I mentioned the French can't wait for the next election to kick him out?
Since he was trained at the Ecole Normale d'Administration he does speak well. Pity what he says is not worth hearing.
(And before we move on, can I mention there is a correct way - especially the people that work on Sky and ITN News - to pronounce the man's name? Frong-swah Oh-long-d. No z sound at the end of his first name (that would make him a wumman and he's clearly not that) and no h at the start of his family name. If we're going to slag him off, the least we can do is get his name right.)
There seems to be some suggestion in the UK that M le Président has disgraced his family, his live-in girlfriend and the entire French nation by taking a mistress. The French take a more relaxed view: a woman interviewed in a Paris street last night (this of course is the only place in the French-speaking world that British news people ever venture) was keen to talk about Hollande (and, I suspect, to give us the low down on what a total waste of space he's been as president) but when it came to le so-called scandale, she shrugged. Not interested.
I have to say I agree with her. The only time I am likely to take an interest in what politicians get up to in their private lives is when I stop and think: we pay these people to do a high-profile job so how the hell do they get the time for an affair? Everybody I know is working full out - sometimes at two jobs - running a house, bringing up the family, trying to squeeze in an hour at the gym, going to the supermarket, worrying about their pension. Meanwhile, the president of France is riding round Paris on the back of a moped - a moped, FFS, how undignified is that - followed by his security guards and apparently heedless of the fact that he has the lowest popularity ratings of any president ever.
And anyway, what's he got going for him? He's wee, dumpy, specky, less than animated in front of an audience (his girlfriend had to order him recently to kiss her for the cameras) and totally devoid of ideas for saving the French economy - and have I mentioned the French can't wait for the next election to kick him out?
Since he was trained at the Ecole Normale d'Administration he does speak well. Pity what he says is not worth hearing.
Monday 13 January 2014
Heaven help me, it's the DVLA
Because I always do the right thing, I've spent days now emailing and lettering (is that a word?) various agencies that I'm moving house: the council (so I can pay them money for my council tax - how stupid am I, eh?), the bank, my insurers, the doctor, the dentist, the TV licensing people, the factor (scuse me while I spit), my wine merchants (beat that, McGoran), the pensions people, Lovefilm, Oxfam, Eastwood Taxis, Scottish Gas. And so on.
So far, the only agency that has threatened me with a fine is the DVLA. Apparently, if I don't tell them my address has changed, I can be fined up to £1,000. (Who comes up with these fines? And why does the government think those of us who have cars are by definition master criminals just waiting to defraud them?) I have in fact been a big fan of the DVLA up till now, ever since I found out I could renew my road tax online - a wonderful system, clear and concise. I even emailed them a testimonial that would get any of their civil servants into heaven any day of the week. But this time, it's no go: updating my address online is not a possibility: I don't have a licence with a photo - yes, I know, dinosaurs are us. Not that the online form tells you that. It just freezes after you've filled it in, so I had to phone a friend who said she'd been in the same position and you need to get a form from the post office.
Got the form today. Believe me, if you need an honours degree to fill in the 5-page council tax form, you definitely need to be PhD level to complete the DVLA form. It seems you have to send in your passport, not a photocopy or a facsimile. Okay, get the passport out. No, wait, you can sign here and put in your passport number and they'll check your details with the passport office. But you still need a photo and, hang on - is that four forms of ID? No, surely not! Even the post office only ask for three when you try to pay them to re-direct your mail, as I also found out today. If you plan to have your mail re-directed, you need to have utility statements with your address on them. No, of course it doesn't say that on the form! And no, I don't have paper statements - I do everything online and the online statements don't have my address.
So I go back to the start of the DVLA information pages (two A4 pages, let me tell you, each new paragraph more complicated than the one before) and I read it all again. Maybe you just need to send back the form, a photo and your old driving licence. Easy. No, wait: on the envelope provided to send in your documentation, it is written: 'Please write correct DVLA address and postcode as shown on your licence application.' Read the application again. No DVLA address and postcode. Read the instructions again. Nothing. Find a letter on file from the DVLA and hope the address and postcode given are right. Post the form anyway and hope for the best.
If you don't hear from me in the next three weeks, you may take it I'm rotting in some DVLA dungeon - or in the sheriff court on a charge of attempted murder of the minister of transport...who is that, by the way? Just asking.
So far, the only agency that has threatened me with a fine is the DVLA. Apparently, if I don't tell them my address has changed, I can be fined up to £1,000. (Who comes up with these fines? And why does the government think those of us who have cars are by definition master criminals just waiting to defraud them?) I have in fact been a big fan of the DVLA up till now, ever since I found out I could renew my road tax online - a wonderful system, clear and concise. I even emailed them a testimonial that would get any of their civil servants into heaven any day of the week. But this time, it's no go: updating my address online is not a possibility: I don't have a licence with a photo - yes, I know, dinosaurs are us. Not that the online form tells you that. It just freezes after you've filled it in, so I had to phone a friend who said she'd been in the same position and you need to get a form from the post office.
Got the form today. Believe me, if you need an honours degree to fill in the 5-page council tax form, you definitely need to be PhD level to complete the DVLA form. It seems you have to send in your passport, not a photocopy or a facsimile. Okay, get the passport out. No, wait, you can sign here and put in your passport number and they'll check your details with the passport office. But you still need a photo and, hang on - is that four forms of ID? No, surely not! Even the post office only ask for three when you try to pay them to re-direct your mail, as I also found out today. If you plan to have your mail re-directed, you need to have utility statements with your address on them. No, of course it doesn't say that on the form! And no, I don't have paper statements - I do everything online and the online statements don't have my address.
So I go back to the start of the DVLA information pages (two A4 pages, let me tell you, each new paragraph more complicated than the one before) and I read it all again. Maybe you just need to send back the form, a photo and your old driving licence. Easy. No, wait: on the envelope provided to send in your documentation, it is written: 'Please write correct DVLA address and postcode as shown on your licence application.' Read the application again. No DVLA address and postcode. Read the instructions again. Nothing. Find a letter on file from the DVLA and hope the address and postcode given are right. Post the form anyway and hope for the best.
If you don't hear from me in the next three weeks, you may take it I'm rotting in some DVLA dungeon - or in the sheriff court on a charge of attempted murder of the minister of transport...who is that, by the way? Just asking.
Saturday 11 January 2014
Get offa my cloud!
Okay, it's 06.15 and I'm still awake. I've been packing for my flitting - well, thinking about what to keep and chucking some things out - and then I made the mistake of looking at the BBC news website. That has sent my blood pressure up a few notches.
I decided last year I was going to vote for independence. I want the next generation (I'll be fine with my work and state pensions for the next twenty odd years) to have a good life: a decent education, good health care, a chance to earn a decent living. And I reckon independence is the way to go. I'm also prepared to listen to what advantages there are to being part of the Union, although I haven't heard many so far.
But I've really had a bucketload of the scare stories currently being offered by both sides of the independence argument. This is the latest: http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/uk-scotland-25699409
These stories usually appear at the weekend when politicians are least likely to be around to refute them. But I want to warn politicians and the media all the same: be careful what stories you put out there on TV, in newspapers and on the internet. The public are not stupid, though they are being treated that way right now. We see what you're doing and we know that news items like this one are just smoke and mirrors - a way of avoiding discussing the real issues around independence. If you want to, you can come and talk to us at our level - not scare level - if not, fine. At the end of the day the decision is ours, not yours.
I decided last year I was going to vote for independence. I want the next generation (I'll be fine with my work and state pensions for the next twenty odd years) to have a good life: a decent education, good health care, a chance to earn a decent living. And I reckon independence is the way to go. I'm also prepared to listen to what advantages there are to being part of the Union, although I haven't heard many so far.
But I've really had a bucketload of the scare stories currently being offered by both sides of the independence argument. This is the latest: http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/uk-scotland-25699409
These stories usually appear at the weekend when politicians are least likely to be around to refute them. But I want to warn politicians and the media all the same: be careful what stories you put out there on TV, in newspapers and on the internet. The public are not stupid, though they are being treated that way right now. We see what you're doing and we know that news items like this one are just smoke and mirrors - a way of avoiding discussing the real issues around independence. If you want to, you can come and talk to us at our level - not scare level - if not, fine. At the end of the day the decision is ours, not yours.
Thursday 9 January 2014
Is this a predator?
I was leafing through the BBC news website tonight - the way you do in an idle moment - and a name leapt off the page. A former student of mine from my teaching days in Glasgow in the 1970s has been sent to prison for grooming and sexually assaulting teenage boys. The name and the history are so unusual that I know I'm not mistaken.
To begin with, I couldn't believe it. I remember this boy from my classroom. He was clever and hard working. He was pleasant and well-mannered. He came from a lovely family. He had major health challenges, which he managed well.
To begin with, I wondered what happened to him - if anything did - to make him prey on young boys. Then I thought: what if the boys he exploited were in my family? Would I be tempted to understand, having known him when he was in his teens? Frankly, no. Bugger that. I'd want 10 minutes with him with no one watching. Because I don't think he has been punished enough: 18 months in jail and life on the sex offenders' register will not make up for the damage he has done to his victims. In court, it was said his crimes had escalated over the years. In other words, his victims suffered more as he got better at grooming and exploiting them.
The victims are the ones I dealt with when I was a teacher: from the 6 year old girl acting out sexual behaviour she's been taught by someone at home to the 12 year old boy attempting suicide to bring to a halt to abuse by a neighbour. A lifetime of therapy and medication is all these kids face.
My former student is now 51. He has copped to crimes during the period between 1996 and 2004 but I don't think for one minute that's when he started and he didn't stop just because he moved to another part of the Central Belt. That's not how this works. Meanwhile, he's had quite a nice life. Had a job. Had a place to live. The victims aren't always so lucky.
Good luck to him in jail. He'll need it. I hope his time there passes very slowly.
To begin with, I couldn't believe it. I remember this boy from my classroom. He was clever and hard working. He was pleasant and well-mannered. He came from a lovely family. He had major health challenges, which he managed well.
To begin with, I wondered what happened to him - if anything did - to make him prey on young boys. Then I thought: what if the boys he exploited were in my family? Would I be tempted to understand, having known him when he was in his teens? Frankly, no. Bugger that. I'd want 10 minutes with him with no one watching. Because I don't think he has been punished enough: 18 months in jail and life on the sex offenders' register will not make up for the damage he has done to his victims. In court, it was said his crimes had escalated over the years. In other words, his victims suffered more as he got better at grooming and exploiting them.
The victims are the ones I dealt with when I was a teacher: from the 6 year old girl acting out sexual behaviour she's been taught by someone at home to the 12 year old boy attempting suicide to bring to a halt to abuse by a neighbour. A lifetime of therapy and medication is all these kids face.
My former student is now 51. He has copped to crimes during the period between 1996 and 2004 but I don't think for one minute that's when he started and he didn't stop just because he moved to another part of the Central Belt. That's not how this works. Meanwhile, he's had quite a nice life. Had a job. Had a place to live. The victims aren't always so lucky.
Good luck to him in jail. He'll need it. I hope his time there passes very slowly.
Sunday 5 January 2014
It's that man again
My friend thinks Michael Gove will be axed at the next re-shuffle. I think he is a flag-bearer for old-Toryism and the darling of the bank-benchers and will survive - just like cockroaches survive atom bombs.
I don't normally take any interest in the fate of the likes of Gove - he has nothing to do with education in Scotland, thank heavens - but I'm a bit put out at his claim that my view (your view, awbiddy's view) of the first world war is shaped by TV programmes like Blackadder and films like O what a lovely war!
I don't need entertainments like Blackadder and O what a lovely war! to tell me about the so-called Great War. (And these are meant as entertainments, not documentaries*.) My grandfather fought in that war. The only photo I have of him from that time shows him at Trafalgar Square with my grandmother (on the right) just before he left the army:
I don't normally take any interest in the fate of the likes of Gove - he has nothing to do with education in Scotland, thank heavens - but I'm a bit put out at his claim that my view (your view, awbiddy's view) of the first world war is shaped by TV programmes like Blackadder and films like O what a lovely war!
I don't need entertainments like Blackadder and O what a lovely war! to tell me about the so-called Great War. (And these are meant as entertainments, not documentaries*.) My grandfather fought in that war. The only photo I have of him from that time shows him at Trafalgar Square with my grandmother (on the right) just before he left the army:
She was a nurse and never talked about what she had seen but he had plenty of stories about his time in the war. These are what are referred to by historians as 'anecdotes.' Anecdotes are suspect. I used to work for a man who said: Don't tell me stories - give me the facts. But the facts are often hard to come by, especially in the confusion of wartime, and I have a theory that a whole lot of wee stories add up to a pretty good picture of history.
So as a child I heard stories about British horse-drawn guns miles from the front being blown to bits by accident by their own side, leaving not so much as the horses' reins behind, never mind the men, just a hole in the ground. Or the poor bloody infantry in Gallipoli going hungry because someone in Whitehall had forgotten to send enough provisions. I should also say I knew just what the ruling classes of the time thought of the men who had served their country. As his reward my grandfather, a career soldier, was sent to Ireland after the war to be shot at by Irish nationalists. My grandmother bought him out of the army - the only way then he could be released other than as a casualty.
This is all part of the social history of the working class. My father's generation - and here he is aged 20 the day he gave up his safe job in a Glasgow shipyard and joined the Royal Navy in 1940 - they added to my knowledge of the how working people are exploited in time of war. I knew exactly why people like him couldn't wait to kick out Churchill and move the country on to a better future. We owe this generation a lot: the NHS and the welfare state for a start.
All Blackadder and O what a lovely war! did was confirm what I knew. And when I get the chance, I tell the younger generation what their grandparents and great-grandparents did in these wars. Whether they want to hear it or not.
*Similarly, I don't think Allo! Allo! gives a faithful picture of life in occupied Belgium in world war 2.
Thursday 2 January 2014
Happy...
Okay, this is the first, last and only time I'm going to write this here: Happy New Year.
Now that I'm old and time passes so much faster than it used to, a new year isn't so much something to celebrate as an event that makes me ask: What, again? Already?
I'm quite happy to say goodbye to 2013. I was never comfortable with the year because it had a 13 in it. Not that I'm superstitious. But I am a teeny bit OCD. My number obsession includes counting stairs as I go up them (but not down - that would just be weird). I also like doing sums involving dates but any sum involving 2013 was just too hard. So the Berlin Wall came down in 1989. That's...well, em, a while ago - too hard to work out in my napper.
Newspapers are, like me, obsessed with people's ages and years of birth. I once read an article that began: "Hillary Clinton, 57..." What, given who she is and what she's achieved, that's the most important thing you can say about Hillary Clinton - she's 57? I do like doing wee sums to work out how old people are but when it got to working out: Barack Obama was born in 1964 so in 2013 he's how many years old? the only answer I can come up with is: quite old but not as old as me.
I'm happy to admit I'm mainly a word person, having been put out of the Maths department at the end of fourth year, after which I happily took refuge in languages. However, I loved arithmetic (90-100% in the O grade). Hated Maths - 50-55% in the O Grade). I could see the point of algebra but geometry? Trig? Pah!
There's something very satisfying about numbers (especially even numbers in my opinion). Years of listening to Maths PTs in meetings waxing lyrical about Advanced Higher calculus made me want to ask them: You guys (and gals) just love numbers, don't you? But I never dared in case they denied it and left me utterly disillusioned.
So a Happy New 2014 to you all. And if that number doesn't please you, don't worry - 2015 will be along in no time at all.
Now that I'm old and time passes so much faster than it used to, a new year isn't so much something to celebrate as an event that makes me ask: What, again? Already?
I'm quite happy to say goodbye to 2013. I was never comfortable with the year because it had a 13 in it. Not that I'm superstitious. But I am a teeny bit OCD. My number obsession includes counting stairs as I go up them (but not down - that would just be weird). I also like doing sums involving dates but any sum involving 2013 was just too hard. So the Berlin Wall came down in 1989. That's...well, em, a while ago - too hard to work out in my napper.
Newspapers are, like me, obsessed with people's ages and years of birth. I once read an article that began: "Hillary Clinton, 57..." What, given who she is and what she's achieved, that's the most important thing you can say about Hillary Clinton - she's 57? I do like doing wee sums to work out how old people are but when it got to working out: Barack Obama was born in 1964 so in 2013 he's how many years old? the only answer I can come up with is: quite old but not as old as me.
I'm happy to admit I'm mainly a word person, having been put out of the Maths department at the end of fourth year, after which I happily took refuge in languages. However, I loved arithmetic (90-100% in the O grade). Hated Maths - 50-55% in the O Grade). I could see the point of algebra but geometry? Trig? Pah!
There's something very satisfying about numbers (especially even numbers in my opinion). Years of listening to Maths PTs in meetings waxing lyrical about Advanced Higher calculus made me want to ask them: You guys (and gals) just love numbers, don't you? But I never dared in case they denied it and left me utterly disillusioned.
So a Happy New 2014 to you all. And if that number doesn't please you, don't worry - 2015 will be along in no time at all.
Wednesday 1 January 2014
It's all in the name
I was a bit surprised to read there's been a sudden increase in the number of wee boys called Jesse. Not Jesse as in 'Man up, ya wee Jesse' but as in the name of the hero of some TV programme on Sky Atlantic that I haven't seen.
It worries me, this fashion for picking names off the telly.
Not that I like my own name which is bog-standard Scottish and has caused endless confusion in French-speaking countries. My name dates from a time when families felt it was a tribute to relatives to name a child after them. So I am named for my mother and her mother and my father's auntie. My brother is named for his father and both grandfathers and my sister for my mother's sister. In any family gathering, this causes chaos. But it simplified things for my mother who was terrible with names: all she had to do was go through a basic list of 3 till she reached the name of the person she wanted.
A friend's sister found names easy when she moved to Australia in the 80s. She was a primary teacher and all the wee boys were called either Wayne, Dwayne or Shane. In Islay for a while in the 80s, we seemed to have a lot of girls called Arlene, Marlene and Charlene.
It all went wrong from the 90s. Then we got parents seeking original names and not finding them so now we have a few poor souls called Kylie, Chardonnay and Pocahontas and even, I believe, a Chlamydia or two. Scotland now seems to be full of weans called Sophie and Jack. Not traditional Scottish names - and I admit I really like traditional Scottish names.
The trouble is: a lot of names give your age away. They also get copied all the time. So we think we have the only Sebastian in the village and it turns out there are 3 in primary 1.
But the saving Grace (nice name, that!) is that you can change your name. And I'll bet there are a few folk who are glad of that.
It worries me, this fashion for picking names off the telly.
Not that I like my own name which is bog-standard Scottish and has caused endless confusion in French-speaking countries. My name dates from a time when families felt it was a tribute to relatives to name a child after them. So I am named for my mother and her mother and my father's auntie. My brother is named for his father and both grandfathers and my sister for my mother's sister. In any family gathering, this causes chaos. But it simplified things for my mother who was terrible with names: all she had to do was go through a basic list of 3 till she reached the name of the person she wanted.
A friend's sister found names easy when she moved to Australia in the 80s. She was a primary teacher and all the wee boys were called either Wayne, Dwayne or Shane. In Islay for a while in the 80s, we seemed to have a lot of girls called Arlene, Marlene and Charlene.
It all went wrong from the 90s. Then we got parents seeking original names and not finding them so now we have a few poor souls called Kylie, Chardonnay and Pocahontas and even, I believe, a Chlamydia or two. Scotland now seems to be full of weans called Sophie and Jack. Not traditional Scottish names - and I admit I really like traditional Scottish names.
The trouble is: a lot of names give your age away. They also get copied all the time. So we think we have the only Sebastian in the village and it turns out there are 3 in primary 1.
But the saving Grace (nice name, that!) is that you can change your name. And I'll bet there are a few folk who are glad of that.
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