Don’t Panic! Don’t Panic!

What’s the best way to start a fuel crisis? It’s easy; first you have a referendum, then you leave the European Union, then you have a pandemic and last of all you tell people there’s no need to panic. Right now we are being run by a dysfunctional Dad’s Army where Captain Mainwaring has been superseded by Corporal Jones who’s rushing around trying to keep his trousers on and telling everyone not to panic. To be fair, the great British public have no small share of blame in this, going around selfishly buying petrol they don’t need (at least unlike loo rolls, there’s a limit to what your tank will hold, though I’ve seen pictures on Facebook of a man filling his boot with bottles of the stuff, which surely has to be illegal.) And yesterday I was driving along the ring road when I fell into a traffic jam. Unusual, I thought, for this time in the morning. Maybe there’s been an accident. I should have known: as we inched closer to the scene of what I always think of as a follon – the Spanish for fuck-up – I realised it was caused by people queuing to get into the petrol station. Not only that, but someone in the other side was waiting to turn into it, a completely hopeless cause, and blocking traffic on that side. I drove self-righteously past, smug in the knowledge that I’d filled up last week. And just as well I had.

Some parts of the media have a share of the blame too, in spreading stories of impending shortages which then become a self-fulfilling prophecy. But seriously, panic buying has to stop.

Got to go now, the tank’s less than half full so I’d better get some before it all runs out. Actually I know where to get some. But don’t tell ’em, Pike!

Kirk out

They’ve Taken Some of My Essence

Had a rather early start this morning to make a 7.50 appointment for blood tests. They’re being thorough; several phials of my essence are now whizzing off to be tested for vitamin D3, vitamin B12, coeliac, immunoglobulin and something else relating to the liver. So we wait to see if I have any or all of these problems. I can’t fault the staff at the surgery – they’re unfailingly pleasant and helpful when you get through to them. The problem is getting through. Anyway, here’s hoping something will come of this lot because I’m really sick of being tired all the time. On the way back I bought some mini-ciabattas and Abergavenny goat’s cheese for breakfast, but what I really wanted was to be in France, to have gone out for a walk and come back via a small patisserie where I could get some croissants and pain au chocolat.

The lack of a holiday is starting to get to me. It’s been nearly two years since I had a proper break and I realise I’m not alone in this regard but there’s no real prospect of getting away this summer either, and that’s starting to depress me. I would love to have a week by the sea somewhere quiet, just to walk and swim and cycle and read and chill out – it’d be great. But the best I’m likely to do is a weekend in Wales and some days out on the bike. Oh well, better than nothing I suppose.

I sent off another short story yesterday and I’m preparing another to send soon. It’s all about keeping the momentum going; I found this when I was unemployed in the ’80s and applying for jobs – it’s much better just to keep applying without worrying too much about the outcome. So as soon as a story comes back, I’ll send it somewhere else and, just as I did eventually get a job, so I will get more stuff published. I made a list of publications yesterday as I keep forgetting, and it’s more than I thought. Did no-one read Mem Mat yesterday? I didn’t get any comments on it.

Mind you, the job I eventually did get was problematic. I’d been going to a Job Club – these could either be good or useless depending on who was running them and fortunately this one was run by a pair who knew what they were doing. They encouraged me to apply for a job with an arts organisation; the post was for a manager and even though I didn’t have management experience they thought my teaching skills would come in useful. What they didn’t tell me was that the guy running the Job Club had also worked there and had the most awful time with the other manager. I don’t totally blame them for not telling me about this guy, who I shall call Kevin, but he turned out to be worse than David Brent. He was incompetent, devious and manipulative and he drove me round the bend. I ended up making a complaint to his manager and after that he went around with a wounded expression as if he couldn’t quite believe I’d done that to him. Anyone who’s ever worked in a toxic environment will know how demoralising and debilitating that is. But as it was still the 80’s and I was in a management position I was earning a good salary, even if the job was a bit like this one in Black Books:

Anyway, it paid for a holiday in Spain which eventually led to me living there. So that was all good.

Enjoy your day.

Kirk out

Privileged? Moi?

Years ago OH and I tried to make a series of these jokes, such as ‘Pretentious – moi? Pedantic – I? Repetitive – me myself personally? and so on. It was necessarily quite a short series but it amused us for about five minutes.

Then this morning I was wondering what it must be like to be privileged; to have doors open for you, taxis waiting, queues jumped, money always available and waiters jumping to attention. I can’t imagine it. And then I thought, what about the kinds of privilege I have – like education, race, class and so on? And I guess the answer is that when you have privilege you don’t notice it. I don’t notice that I’m driving and NOT being stopped by the police, or walking down the street and not being abused, or not being being able to access certain classes or join in certain discussions; not being able to climb steps or negotiate kerbs. When you have privilege it’s like the air you breathe; you don’t notice it till it’s not there.

From time to time there are people – usually journalists, sometimes politicians – who deliberately put themselves in the place of the less privileged; sometimes to make a point, sometimes just to find out what it’s like. George Orwell did this when down and out, doing some of the worst jobs and living in the filthiest holes in London and Paris; Polly Toynbee (in Hard Work in Low-Pay Britain) did some of the worst women’s jobs in the country and from time to time politicians have tried to live on the dole for short periods; the one I remember most is Matthew Parris who thought he was going to save £3 a week and ended up sitting in the dark for three days because the meter had run out. But noble as these efforts are, they are transient; at the end of it you know you’re going back to your old life and even if you don’t, you generally have the safety-net of family, friends, contacts etc who are all likely to be well-off and able to help. You have hope; more than that, you have a time-limit when you know you’re getting out. You may be in purgatory but you’re not in hell.

I don’t really know where I’m going with all this, except that when people like Lawrence Fox say there’s no such thing as male privilege, I think ‘how would you know?’ Because basically unless you’ve had your oxygen taken away, you don’t know what it’s like not to breathe.

One privilege I shall definitely enjoy soon is Wimbledon. It’s late this year, presumably because of Covid, not starting till June 28th but I’m looking forward to it. Andy Murray has a wild card so it’ll be interesting to see what he can do.

Have a good weekend. We’ll be doing the non-Sabbath thing tonight and tomorrow so I’ll be incommunicado for that period.

Kirk out

I am Doing Reconnaissance

Having cycled 18 miles or so over the (admittedly long) weekend I’m going to have a rest today. I was going to cycle to Barrow yesterday, meet a friend, have lunch and then over to Quorn and back via the road, but this proved to be a little overambitious. It’s a lovely ride along the canal to Barrow – I’ve walked it many a time – but what I had forgotten is that the path crosses over at Pillings Lock and there’s a Bloody Great Bridge over which bikes must be carried. I reached it; I looked at it, I looked at the map and I thought ‘nah. This is far enough.’ So back I went, and far enough it jolly well was.

I’ve been thinking, as one does at this time of year, about holidays and travel. Like most of us I imagine I’d really like to get away but apart from the fact that nobody really knows what’s going to happen with Covid, I’m beginning to rethink tourism altogether because as a tourist you feel like a walking consumer. There are, it’s true, delightful holidays where you don’t have to feel that way at all – hiking in the Dales, climbing Monroes in Scotland, renting a cottage in the depths of France – but on most holidays you tend to feel like a walking market in which people are always trying to sell things. Buy this! Eat this! Look at this! Get the t-shirt! You can’t blame them – it’s the way most of them make money – but it’s not a pleasant experience. But though tourism may bring income to an area or country there are many hidden costs, not the least of which is accommodation. Last time I went to Southwold I felt very sad as I walked around and realised how many of the lovely houses near the sea front were actually holiday lets. Instead of staying in the heart of a town we were living in a tourist village where most of the locals had probably been completely priced out. I have very strong feelings about second homes too – appealing though it is to have a pied-a-terre somewhere delightful, it often means that local people are priced out and that you end up living in a community of city dwellers who only come down at the weekends. Besides, people have no business owning two homes when some people don’t even have one.

We’re going to have to stop flying anyway, so why not rethink tourism altogether? Instead of regarding the world as a spectacle to be consumed, see it as a place to be discovered. Instead of photographing everything, see and interact. Let’s forget tourism and bring back travel: in fact, let’s regard travel as a form of reconnaissance. Then again perhaps it’s like one of those irregular verbs: I am doing reconnaissance, you are a traveller, they are tourists.

Kirk out

A Message of Heartfelt Gratitude

This is going to be a rather cryptic post as it’s addressed to the person who put an envelope through our door some time last night or this morning. I was completely choked when I saw what was in it, and I just want to say from the bottom of my heart, thank you. You know who you are – although I don’t.

That’s all for now. More later, including some possibly exciting news…

Kirk out

Let’s Play ‘Hammer the Poor’

Words cannot express, though I must try to make them, how much I loathe the system under which we live. It’s a system which rewards the rich, no matter how undeserving, and hammers the poor, no matter how they came to be so. It’s a system which assumes that wealth equals merit and that the poor deserve their fate. It’s a system which bypasses, even demonises, compassion and makes an enemy of welfare. It’s a system which punishes benefit claimants and hammers those in debt.

I’m not one of the worst-off. Not even close. I’m not on the streets or hanging on a phone line trying to find out why I owe the DWP money having received a threatening letter, nor am I a refugee about to be put on a plane in the middle of the night (Priti Patel makes my blood boil). I have somewhere to live and clothes to wear; I can’t be deported and nor, thank god, do I claim benefits. But I do have a substantial overdraft and no means of paying it off. Until recently I was coping with the charges: they made a hole in what I laughingly call my income but I could manage. And this month I was sure that in spite of Christmas and Daniel’s birthday (neither of which I grudge in the slightest) I had enough in my account to cover the charges. But this morning I had a text from the bank which I am not ashamed to tell you made me cry, because it informed me that I was about to go over my overdraft limit and should pay in funds today to avoid further charges. Fortunately I can ask OH to help me out here, otherwise I would be on a downward spiral to god knows where.

This has happened because last January the bank decided, out of nowhere, to virtually double the charges for those owing over a certain amount. Why? Just because they could, I guess – they didn’t bother giving any sort of rationale for it. I guess they needed to make up some money they were losing elsewhere, and who better to take it from than people like me; the poor, the overdrawn, those with nowhere else to go? I mean, they could hardly ask the rich, could they? You can’t ask someone like Jeff Bezos for money – he’s far too well-off. As George Bernard Shaw’s Millionaire says, ‘a man as rich as I am cannot afford anything.’ But we shall leave the rich in their self-made prisons for now and consider how many people out there are in my situation; stuck in some kind of debt incurred through no fault of their own – losing their job, an inability to make enough money, disability or illness – and being hammered by government, banks and other bastards. We feel isolated and helpless, we feel constantly hammered and unable to climb out of the mire. We feel abandoned by society and blamed for our own problems. We feel defeated.

We have to do better as a society, to find ways of helping each other. This is not a plea for money but for a better way of doing things. So let’s give our minds to that and together we will find a way.

Kirk out

On The First Day of Christmas

We all know the carol, right? On the first day of Christmas my true love sent to me… but when actually is the first day of Christmas? As Nigel says exasperatedly to Adam in Rev, ‘if I have to tell one more person it’s not Christmas yet, it’s Advent, I shall go stark staring bananas.’ I can’t find a clip but I promise you that’s actually what he said. Meanwhile here’s another quite pertinent clip:

Technically Nigel is correct: it’s Advent until Christmas Eve when the festive season actually begins. It may actually begin with Midnight Mass, I couldn’t swear to it. You’d think I’d know these things having been brought up in or very near the church, but I’ve blotted it all out – much as the church spire used to blot out the view… anyway, the first day of Christmas is actually Christmas Day, and the season of Christmas is the twelve days thereafter.

Not that you’d know it now. Christmas begins as soon as someone can get away with setting it all off. Of course this year is different, but normally you sense that retailers are nervously watching each other wondering who will be the first to break cover and announce their Christmas collection. It’s generally some time in October; we don’t even get the chance to celebrate Guy Fawkes (don’t get me started on Hallowe’en) in fact the children have barely settled into another school term before the Great Rush begins. By Christmas Day evening it’s all over; the presents have been torn open, the dinner eaten, the crackers pulled, the Queen watched (or avoided) and the dishwasher stacked. Or some poor sod sent into the kitchen to wash it all up.

It’s not that I’m particularly a traditionalist. I’m not Nigel, but I do deplore the over-commercialisation of Christmas, the guilt, the sense that you have to show you care by buying expensive presents, the overindulgence in food and drink. But more than all that, it’s the fact that Christmas nowadays is completely front-loaded. The whole thing is out of balance; we jettison the period of fasting and reflection and skip straight to the feasting. All cultures – so far as I know – celebrate something; the new moon, the harvest, a new birth, a coming to man- or womanhood. Jesus was not born on 25th December; the Midwinter celebration is much older than Christianity which was merely grafted onto it. But all traditional cultures have fasting as well as feasting and all the major religions include periods of abstinence as part of their calendar. It’s about balance – and our culture is way out of balance.

I’ve also become somewhat plaintive about the absence of the Queen from our airwaves. I’m not a flag-waving royalist; I’m on the fence about the monarchy, but I do think she should have put in more than one appearance during the current crisis (or crises). I think she should have made a series of speeches to encourage people which, though they might have nauseated some, would have provided comfort to others. If we’re going to have figureheads like the Queen, they should at least pop up and say something in dark times. So whether it’s her decision not to speak or someone else’s it’s a bad decision. Mind you, I wouldn’t put it past Johnson to prevent it on the grounds that it might make him look bad.

Or worse.

Anyway, that’s where we are. We try to celebrate Christmas by not panicking and not buying too much, just a few nice things. Oh god, how many presents have I got left to buy? Can I get my Sainsbury’s order in on time? Oh no, I haven’t sent any cards yet!

Aaaaaaaaaaaand breathe.

And let’s spare a thought for those who are going to be alone.

Kirk out

New Shoes and Curtains – The Last Drop

I’ve been a tad spendthrift this weekend. Like most people when I’ve been without money and spending my nectar points on groceries because the folding stuff has unaccountably vanished along with the gold and silver pieces, when I get money I tend to go a bit mad. Not ridiculously mad, just slightly mad. And so in short order I bought curtains for the study, new shoes, a couple of books, some beers and a bottle of wine.

The curtains were slightly problematic. I had the measurements carefully logged on my phone and when I got to B and Q I was happy to see they had the exact shade of green that I needed. I even got a pot of the paint I’d used and placed them side by side to check. But for some bizarre reason they don’t sell curtains in pairs (why would anyone want a single curtain?) and there was only one left in the size I wanted. Oh well, I thought, I’ll get some in the next size up. But somehow or another I got the height and drop mixed up and when I got them home they fell to the floor. By which I mean they were too long. Never mind, I said to myself. Being an expert needlewoman I can cut off the extra and make it into curtains for the futility room. So I cut the curtains to the right length and put up the new shiny silver curtain rail and Bob was eventually my uncle.

At this point the words ‘new shoes’ began to whisper in my mind. If I ever go to any sort of formal event I’ve basically got the choice of trainers or purple DMs. Not the best choice with a long black or blue dress. A pair of black lace-up shoes may not sound very exciting to you but to me they are the very stuff of life: when the Doc shop in Leicester closed down I got three pairs of Docs in the sale and one of them was a pair of flat black lace-ups which I wore until they fell apart. Since then there has been a flat black lace-up shaped hole in my life which, it occurred to me on Saturday morning, I now had the means to fill. So off I went to Clark’s (mask – check, gloves – check, wallet – check) and was served by a delightful young lady who did not mind at all the teetering piles of boxes as I tried on several pairs in various sizes. I like Clark’s because they are the only place to do width fittings for adults and I have wide feet. I love the shoes and would go to bed in them if I could.

After that, what with Waterstones being next door, what could I do but browse the ‘BOGOHP’ (buy one get one half price) table? It’s be rude not to, right? I quickly snapped up a couple of books I’d had my eye on for a while: Lockdown by Peter May and Westwind, a re-release of an early Ian Rankin. They have things in common which I didn’t know when I bought them but I’ll tell you more about that another time.

And that was my weekend. How was yours?

Kirk out

Wealth is Wasted on the Wealthy

I had an idea or two in mind this morning but now they’ve flown, and I’m feeling a little like Fran in this clip from Black Books when, given a job as a favour from one of Manny’s underworld mates, she is asked to give a presentation with no clue as to what her job is about or even what the company does.

The rich – or at least those who comment in public on the issue of wealth inequality – are fond of saying that they ‘earned’ their money and therefore have a right to keep it, thereby implying that poor(er) folk just don’t work hard enough. There also seems to be an attitude that they know how to handle wealth, whereas poorer folk wouldn’t be able to. There may be some truth in this; a number of people who’ve won ridiculous amounts on the lottery fritter it away and end up as poor as they were before. But it’s about the mindset. How rich do you feel? Do rich people really, genuinely appreciate what they have? Or do they take it for granted and only want more? How many yachts is enough?

Of course ‘the rich’ are not a homogeneous group, any more than ‘the masses.’ It all depends on your perspective; when you look at crowds from a distance, people appear much closer together than they are in reality. So that although ‘the powerful’ (who are largely contiguous with ‘the rich’) always pull together when threatened, at other times they are probably further apart than we imagine. Like Orion’s belt, they only look like a constellation from where we’re standing.

I’m working on supposition here, since the wealthiest people I know have large houses in the suburbs and a social conscience; I don’t know anyone with a private jet or an estate or a fancy yacht, let alone any owners of multinational companies or bosses who get six-figure bonuses. (My brother-in-law did once have a boat but it sank a couple of years back after he’d spent years doing it up.)

But do rich people actually appreciate how rich they are? I suspect they don’t; furthermore I suspect that, just as I have no concept of what it would be like to have millions in the bank, so they have no idea what it’s like to worry about the rent or to choose between heating and eating. As Paul McKenna says, after a certain point it’s not about what you have but your attitude towards it. Are you poor in mind? Do you always want more? Do you compare yourself with others who have more? How rich do you feel? To be ‘poor and content’ may be a mealy-mouthed cliche but if you’re rich and discontented there’s nowhere to go. You’re on a treadmill.

So: as Fran so helpfully says, what are we doing? What’s it all about? Is this the best that we can be?

What am I doing here?

Watch the clip – it’s really funny.

Kirk out

PS I’ve recently learned the Greek for rich, which is ‘plautos’. Hence ‘plutocrat.’