TW3-with-an-E

That was the weekend that was! What a brilliant couple of days. It started with cleaning – now I know that doesn’t sound too great but it was very satisfying if you’re in the mood and are intending to go out in short order, which I did. First on the agenda was Morris dancing at the Plough. If you think of Morris dancing as a bit twee, prancing around waving hankies in the air, then Way of the Wyrd are a breath of fresh air; menacing, dressed in purple and black with fierce make-up and jingling boots, they stomp and roar and smash sticks together in a very satisfying way. Unfortunately it was a very cold day and Morris dancers of necessity perform outside, so I was thoroughly chilled off when the time came to go into the pub. Alas, it wasn’t much warmer inside; the pub is sadly in the process of closing down as the brewery won’t do the necessary repairs to the kitchen, meaning that they can’t serve food. It’s a real shame; they never did keep the beer very well but the pub itself is great; an old coaching inn with large lounge and small bar and a great garden outside. They’ve tried hard with it, putting on live music and barbecues, but as often happens the brewery (Bass in this case) weren’t willing to stump up for repairs. So sadly the next singaround will be our last at this venue.

This is particularly sad as the singaround just gets better and better; on Saturday we had 30-40 people including spectators, about 25 of whom were playing or singing. There was a weird truncated bass guitar with 6 strings (?) played by Wulf, who enjoys bringing in strange instruments; a mandolin, a violin, a banjo played by a man who lives on a boat in Warwick, and lots of percussion including bodhran, drum and maracas. I of course did my orange poem (see Friday’s post) as well as one about Mondegreens. I’m going to have to change that to work in lots of new Mondegreens, and to take out one which nobody seems to get: ‘communication let me down/but arm left ear’:

https://genius.com/Spandau-ballet-communication-lyrics

So after that it was off to pick up a friend and thence to the local mosque for the Iftar. Iftar is the breaking of the fast during Ramadan, which takes place at sunset. As we were asked to arrive at 5.30 I assumed they were being a bit lax about the times. Not a bit of it. We arrived, were given free hijabs (these were not compulsory but I put one on, not because I agree with it but because I didn’t want to seem disrespectful to my hosts.) We sat and chatted for a while. I was in the women’s room because the sexes are segregated, so I didn’t see how many men were there but there were at least 60 in our half of the hall. During our chat, some prayers came over the tannoy: nobody took a blind bit of notice of these, which I thought was strange, but there you go. At about 6.25 there were more prayers and some short talks, after which we were invited to break the fast with dried dates and fresh fruit. There were also spring rolls and samosas as well as small rolls which turned out to be filled with chicken. I thought, that’s not a great meal but hey ho, it’s nice of them to invite us. I blotted my copy-book by taking a drink before this point, which just shows you how hard it must be to fast from food and liquids, but my companion assured me it didn’t matter. After breaking the fast there were more prayers – at some point some of the women went into a corner and did the prostration movements, though most people didn’t – and then the main course came out; rice and curry. It was lovely; and when we’d finished that there were cup-cakes and chocolate cakes and doughnuts and they kept plying us with more and more until we begged for mercy. I have also tremendous respect for the fast; I can’t even manage to fast for a day, and that’s with drinking plenty of liquids. I can’t imagine getting up at 4 a m, making a meal and then fasting from food and drink for the next 14 hours, though I suppose it’s easier if you’re doing it with others. It makes giving up chocolate for Lent look a bit pale – though that’s still a good thing to do.

So that was Saturday. I felt quite spiritually stimulated by the Iftar and warmed by their sense of community, so I enjoyed Quaker Meeting in the morning. After that I wandered into the park to see the Morris dancers again. Were they on at 12.30? No, no sign of them, so I went home, ate something and came out again at 1. No sign. But it was lovely in the sunshine so I sat and soaked it up and eventually two purple-and-black people came along bearing instruments. ‘We’re performing at 2,’ they said. So I went home again and told OH about it before attacking the cooker which I had previously primed with cleaner. Then back to the park where not one but two ‘sides’ (that’s what they call a team of dancers) were assembled. The other side is a bit more on the twee end of the spectrum and don’t do much but twirl about waving beribboned sticks, so I wasn’t so keen on them. OH came along and we met various other people; I was also greatly entertained by a couple of small girls who were copying all the dances. Then home to write a poem about the closing of the Plough in Thorpe Acre. I’ve based it on Goodbye Yellow Brick Road, and thought we might all sing it until I realised how impossible GYBR is to sing…

It’s over, let it go… Monday now, so back to work.

Kirk out

Sitrep: Situation Irritating

Tech hates me; that’s my conclusion today. My phone is dead, my browser has gone wonky so I’ve had to use MS Edge, and Facebook is continuing to censor all my posts; I still get the little ‘processing’ image and then the post appears devoid of content. Perhaps this will pass? Who knows. It makes no sense; it’s like being in some capricious blue dictatorship. Anyway, I’ve decided not to get too steamed up about it – I spend far too much time on Facebook anyway and 90% of my news feed is stuff I don’t want to see and never asked for so it’s probably a good thing. Even so, the sense of being silenced is an unpleasant one, particularly as I’ve been, as it were, sent to Coventry without a trial. But let’s not get these things out of proportion. Facebook is not real life, so let’s get back to it.

I should be getting another phone soon, thanks to a friend who is buying a replacement. The one I’m getting will need a little attention but at least it will work – and the Son (that’s my son, not the Messiah) says that he knows how to transfer apps over. So that’s all good.

Yesterday I went to a prayer vigil for Gaza. Held in the Baptist church, it brought together Christians of various denominations, Quakers and Muslims. I’ve also donated to a sponsored walk to raise funds for Gaza so perhaps I’ll be designated a terrorist now. I’ll post a link when I can but it’s on Facebook and since I’m on a different browser I have to sign in to everything and I can’t remember my passwords and even though I kept a record I see it because it’s on my bloody phone and my phone’s died!!!!

Like I say, tech hates me.

Kirk out

The Relief of Comedy

In case you didn’t notice it was Comic Relief last weekend:

https://www.bbc.co.uk/iplayer/episodes/b006zrvr/comic-relief

Before I go any further I want to say that I think it’s an excellent charity; they help people here as well as in other countries and seem to work by getting alongside people rather then deciding what they might need in a ‘lady bountiful’ sort of way. So far so good. Sadly it’s Lenny Henry’s last year (one of the women in Africa who’d been helped by a CR-funded midwife project named her twins after him: one was called Lenny and the other Henry.) The Katanga-meister was on good form as always but from the comic angle that was nearly all that could be said about it. These programmes used to be manic and anarchic; they had a spontaneous feel and Lenny was surrounded by loads of good comic presenters. What went wrong? This year there was a line-up of glossy-looking people including women who – mainly because of the outfits they were wearing – came across as decorative rather than useful. All of them thoroughly rehearsed, uptight-looking, unspontaneous and deeply unfunny. There were celebrity cameos which were vaguely amusing; skits on The Traitors went over my head as I don’t watch it but I did quite enjoy an episode of W1A where various people were being interviewed as replacements for Lenny Henry. It’s hard to imagine who might replace him, frankly.

I’m sad to say all this because I do think it’s a brilliant project, but I did not enjoy the programme at all: it felt stale and over-rehearsed. It’s no surprise that I didn’t recognise half the presenters apart from David Tennant who was OK and Romesh Ranganathan who looked thoroughly pissed off. They could also have had a much better gender balance and the women could have been dressed in something less revealing than a red sheath and what looked like a very wide black cravat artfully tied around the torso. But it was mainly the lack of the anarchic spontaneity that disappointed me.

None of this prevented me from donating, and you too can donate here:

https://donation.comicrelief.com

Aside from that, my weekend involved breakfast at Morrison’s (very good value) the Celtic singaround at the Moonface, Quaker Meeting and an International Women’s day event (including lunch) at the local Hindu temple. So that was all good.

Kirk out

Preachers

I went to Leicester yesterday in a fruitless search for fluorescent orange hair dye; the shop I used to buy it from has closed down and nowhere else seemed to have any. But in the process of wandering around I was subjected to a barrage of religious polemic from a gaggle of preachers at the Clock Tower. These people are nearly always in evidence but I don’t know why they bother; no-one listens and from most angles they’re inaudible anyway and just annoying. Irritation is a most ineffective form of evangelism. I prefer St Francis’s approach: talk about God all the time: use words if you must – or in Quaker terms, Let your life speak. I don’t know which church these preachers are from and I don’t want to get close enough to find out, but they’re almost certainly pretty evangelical, so I’d steer clear even if they weren’t bellowing out their gospel from the centre of Leicester.

And don’t get me started on the internet. If you go on YouTube as much as OH does you can hardly avoid preachers of all stripes bellowing about abortion or Trump or how much they disagree with Richard Rohr (there’s a guy who has an entire podcast devoted to dismantling the liberal and Quaker-like Catholic priest Richard Rohr). OH listens to a lot of these because apparently ‘it’s important to hear from people you disagree with.’

‘I know,’ I said. ‘I hear from you all the time.’ As a general principle I am in accord with this but there are limits… Freedom of religion is a good thing but sometimes I wonder if religion isn’t privileged too much in comparison with other areas of life such as philosophy and politics. When we have a government seemingly dedicated to outlawing dissent we need more political and philosophical freedom of speech, not more preachers.

Here endeth the epistle.

I shall henceforward be preaching the gospel of fluorescent orange…

Kirk out

Busy, Busy

I’m not used to being as busy as I have been lately. The weekend was busy, with lots to do at home including sticking plastic secondary glazing on the windows and putting up a massive Christmas tree we got from freecycle. On Sunday I was Eldering the Quaker Meeting and then there was a lunch with poetry and Christmas music; I didn’t do any poems but I did end up selling a couple of pamphlets (you too can get one of these; see below). After that we went down the road to a Memorial service; not for a specific person but just as a chance to remember the dead we have known. It’s a good idea to do this around Christmas too, since it’s a hard time for so many people who have lost someone. It was actually very helpful; prayers were said and we each lit a candle to remember the person. And there was tea afterwards with massive amounts of cake; I guess half the congregation had turned up with some sort of gateau and it was just sitting there, so even though I felt really full from my lunch I felt duty bound to eat a slab of coffee and walnut. There’s nothing like home-made cakes; I always find shop-bought ones bland and far too sweet.

Today I wanted to get the car MOT’d: it’s not due until the 18th but I’m going away for a few days so I took it in. The garage used to have a system where you just turn up first thing in the morning and wait your turn in a line of steaming vehicles, but they’ve now replaced that with a booking system so they couldn’t do it today after all. I’ve had to book it in for 18th – at 7.30 am, if you please! I do not please. Still, I guess it’ll get me out of bed.

In the end we decided to leave the tree until after the funeral, which is on Thursday. I’ve ended up booking in to a local hotel for a couple of nights so that I can see friends, so I shall be away from Weds to Fri – then on Sat we are going to babysit the grandchildren so we’ll be in Doncaster overnight.

Busy!

Here are the pamphlets. They’re available for a fiver plus a quid for postage and include such classics as ‘Is Vic There?’ for Victoria Wood; ‘Sarah King’, a cautionary tale first published in Mslexia Magazine, ‘Spike’ written for a homeless choir and performed at Leicester Cathedral. Read these and more – and find out what happens when you phone the ‘Bollocks to Brexit’ campaign. Please comment below to request your copy.

Kirk out

What? Who Was That Now? Bruce Almighty?

I was just checking my email this morning, as you do, when I saw a little notification that ‘God’ is now following my blog. How very nice, I thought. Maybe I’ll follow him in return. It’d be good to see what God’s up to nowadays. So I clicked on the link. At first it seemed like a harmless, if not very coherent description of who God is according to the world’s great religions. Then it took a rather bizarre turn. ‘This is me’ it proclaimed, underneath a couple of photos of a youngish Asian male, and then ‘Would you like me, God, to sign your item?’ All we have to do is send a pony (or fifty quid) and we will get a personalised signature from God! There’s an example on the website which looks a bit wobbly; I must say you’d have thought God would’ve learned joined-up writing by now, but there you go. Check it out for yourselves:

Somewhat disturbingly, the blog is entitled God 03, suggesting that there are at least two, possibly three other Gods out there. Oh no! What are we supposed to do now?

Well, you can’t say writing a blog isn’t interesting.

I don’t often do 2 blog posts in a day but I just had to share that with you.

Kirk out

Desperately Dull

I’ve had a terribly busy weekend rushing around from conferences to shared lunches and picnics, so that I’ve hardly had a moment to myself. On Saturday it was the regional Green Party Conference in Leicester which sixty or so people attended from all over the East Midlands. There was an overview of the election results (very good) an AGM (quite dull) and some workshop sessions (not bad) and the climax was a talk by the co-leader Natalie Bennett. She was quite inspiring and I guess I’d have enjoyed the whole thing more if I hadn’t been so tired (I slept badly due to an overdose of caffeine the day before) but what continues to strike me about the Green Party overall is its lack of passion. I don’t mean to suggest that they don’t care about the environment (why else would you bother joining?) but given the state of things you’d expect at least a sense of urgency. The climate vigil I attend on Fridays is bubbling with passion, with people swapping news stories and railing against the government – but the Green Party Conference was generally all about being elected (which is important, I admit) but I couldn’t help feeling it was just a bit… flat. I did bump into an old student of mine who like me had recently defected from Labour, so that was interesting.

On the Sunday I went to Quaker Meeting and thence to a shared lunch at All Saints. It was Refugee Sunday so we sat down to a buffet of salads, canapes, breads, cheeses and sweet things which was all very pleasant. After that we went to Queen’s Park where there was a brass band concert going on and we saw a couple of friends; also very pleasant. After that I needed to get my head around doing jury service today.

I’m not allowed to disclose anything about court cases, of course, but I’m in no danger of breaking any confidences here as I haven’t been near a courtroom today. All I did was hang out in the juror’s area, drink tea, read my book, read my newspaper, chat a bit and wait endlessly to be called. In the end a group of us were summoned by name. This is it, I thought. They’ve obviously got the measure of me and know I’m the person to summon for this case. Nope, we were just sent home for the day – and in about half an hour I have to phone and find out if I’m needed tomorrow. It’s all rather unsettling, especially as I had to be up before seven, and desperately dull, as Michael Palin once said about accountancy. Before catching the train home I mooched around Leicester and bought myself a bottle of beer which I feel I richly deserve. And that’s us up to date.

Kirk out

Truth Won’t Out?

At some point in the Harry Potter series when Harry is being unjustly defamed, Mr Weasley says to him: ‘As the Muggles say, truth will out!’ Speaking as a Muggle, I used to think ‘truth will out’ too but now I’m starting to wonder – will it? And if it does, will it make any difference? If people are so mired in alternative scenarios, will anything convince them that they’re wrong? Will anything change the minds of Trump supporters who still believe, despite everyone saying in tones of increasing weariness, ‘there’s no evidence’, that the election was ‘stolen’? Who believe that like King Arthur (only much less noble) Trump will return? It’s hard to imagine the Donald chuffing along banging two coconuts together and telling his citizens in mild tones, ‘I am Arthur, King of the Britons, come back to rule you all’ but I’m sure that’s what his supporters expect to happen any day now (for coconuts read private jet, of course). https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ITJFfUptaGo

Over here there are signs that the appeal of Johnson is losing its sheen. But will the truth about this government ever come out? And if it does, will his supporters believe it? And what about those who think Covid is a hoax? Will anything convince them?

I think at this point we should turn to C S Lewis. In The Last Battle he shows how a group of dwarfs, by being determined not to be ‘taken in’, refuse to believe the evidence of their senses and instead reconstruct it in some other way. When they are given a delicious feast, rather than accepting this as a sign of their mistake, they persuade themselves that they are in fact eating scraps from a dungeon floor; they literally cannot see the light because they believe themselves to be in the dark. https://thetalkingllama.wordpress.com/2013/10/04/dwarves-in-the-stable-the-prison-of-closed-heartedness/

This is exactly what happens with prejudice. Say there is a general opinion that women can’t do bricklaying. Does this opinion change when a woman builds a wall? No! She is categorised as unnatural, not a ‘proper woman’. When a person’s mind is made up – or to put it another way, when prejudice is ingrained – not even a whole building site full of women will change it. On the other hand Murray believes he can win his second round match and he wins it – though not before putting himself and us through the wringer as he usually does. So if seeing is not believing, maybe believing is seeing?

What I am seeing but not believing is this sodding weather. It’s June, FFS, and it’s 14 degrees! I think I’ll decide to believe that it’s 25 degrees and sunny. Will that work?

Kirk out

Today’s Guest Blogger: OH on Radioactive Kids

Quaker Oats have nothing to do with the Quakers, as in Society of Friends. Some time ago there was a trend to brand certain products with stereotypical characters, such as Captain Crunch, Matey, the Robertson jam golly and there was also a picture of a Native American man with a war bonnet on the side of some packet or other, possibly flour? Some of these were frankly racist – Robertson jam in particular springs to mind here – and whereas the Quaker on the porridge oats box may not represent an ethnicity, it coöpts the image of traditionalism and simplicity the real Quakers may have in the mind of the public and seems also to associate it with the likes of other groups such as the Amish and Mennonites, who are seen as eschewing modern life for a more rustic approach. However, there was never any association between the Quakers and Quaker Oats.

There are of course many Quaker companies, including for example Cadbury’s and Fry’s. I went to school with someone in the Fry family, who were very rich, but he was very down to earth and just a general all-round good bloke. I went to a party at his house once and it was enormous, and this is in rural Kent, so that gives an impression of how wealthy they really are. The situation traditional Quaker families find themselves in today reflects the similar position some Jewish families are in: because they were excluded from many of the mainstream professions such as the Church and armed forces, not being Anglicans, they made their own way in the world and often had little choice but to start their own businesses, and consequently some of them did get very rich. This is not to say that there aren’t very poor Quakers today as well, just as there are Jews, but the existence of these large companies ultimately owes itself to this exclusion. On the whole, the Quakers seem to have lost control of the undertakings, which is what usually happens when a company is floated on the stock market, and they become unethical in various ways of which I can’t imagine Quakers ever approving. This observation about wealth, though, is not meant to be a criticism of Quakers or Jews. It’s just an observation of how the history of religious persecution sometimes has unexpected positive consequences.

My own childhood was characterised more by Scott’s Porage Oats than Quaker, which possibly has stereotypical issues of its own, though maybe not. The image in that case seems to indicate that Gaels will grow up big and strong, and it’s a very masculine image in quite a positive way. There was a third popular brand of oats though which was definitely inferior. I get the impression it consists of the dust that’s swept up when the oats have been removed but I expect it’s just ground oats or something. Continuing the tradition of misspelling which seems to delight the porridge industry, this was known as Ready Brek, and marketed as “Central heating for kids”. At the time I found this off-putting because I felt the word “kid” had dismissive connotations, and in fact I still do so and I know my own “kids” did as well in the ‘nineties and ‘noughties. Anyway, it was famously advertised like this:https://www.youtube.com/embed/SVAvA6fP8Xw?version=3&rel=1&showsearch=0&showinfo=1&iv_load_policy=1&fs=1&hl=en-gb&autohide=2&wmode=transparent

And famously parodied like this:https://www.youtube.com/embed/Wk0WzCtF0yY?version=3&rel=1&showsearch=0&showinfo=1&iv_load_policy=1&fs=1&hl=en-gb&autohide=2&wmode=transparent

(both of these will be removed on request).

Only if you don’t know, Windscale, since conveniently renamed Sellafield, was a nuclear facility in Cumbria which almost went critical in 1970 and generally had a bad reputation.

Back to Quaker Oats. The above is an obvious joke, but unfortunately seems to be a case of art unwittingly imitating life. Shortly after the end of World War II, the company, in partnership with MIT, fed children at a “special school”, as we used to call them over here, radioactive porridge. Of course, in a sense everything is radioactive, and more so today on the surface of this planet than it used to be due to nuclear testing and other activities, so we’ve all eaten radioactive porridge, but this particular porridge was adulterated with radioactive isotopes of iron and calcium, as was the cow’s milk added to it, to demonstrate that it was absorbed more efficiently from porridge than other sources. However, this wasn’t pure research. It was done for use in advertising the product. And unsurprisingly, it did indeed show that, because it wasn’t really a proper experiment in the sense that it was breaking new ground or establishing a new discovery which wasn’t already considered probable. It was more like the kind of experiment children at school might carry out in a biology or chemistry lab, i.e. nothing really novel and conducted for different purposes. This was also done without informed consent from the children or their parents. Having said that, the maximum radiation dosage each child would’ve received from this would be about 330 millirems, which is the kind of dose one would receive from living for a few months in some inhabited parts of the planet which have somewhat radioactive rocks and minerals such as Cornwall or Aberdeen. However, this is a false equivalence because of the mode of decay involved. I’m guessing that calcium-48 was used, which exhibits beta decay as opposed to alpha. Alpha particles are easily stopped by the skin but can cause damage if the elements which produce them are inhaled, ingested or injected. Being calcium, the dose would have continued for quite some time and will still be irradiating today because it will be in the bones and teeth and if it was that isotope it has a half-life of around 64 billion aeons, which is about fifteen billion times Earth’s age. On the one hand this is good news because it won’t be as radioactive as a material with a shorter half-life, but it does also mean there would be a long-term steady source of beta particles in the bodies of these children, now adults. The risk from such a low dose is very small, but that’s not really the point.

By the time these “experiments” were carried out, 1946-53, the initial honeymoon period ionising radiation had enjoyed shortly after its discovery had been over for decades, and we were firmly in the era of global fear of the A-bomb, although it was also almost the era of the Ford Nucleon, a nuclear-powered car which never reached the market, and there did seem to be more trust in nuclear power at least, as opposed to nuclear weapons, at that time. Nonetheless I wonder if that fear was the reason for the lack of information to the parents. The issue is not so much of real risk as lack of informed consent, and the fact that the “studies” were conducted on children with learning difficulties. That seems much more incriminating than the mere fact that it was done, because if the real risk is that low and it could be sold easily to parents, there seems to be no reason why this shouldn’t have been done in a mainstream boarding school, for example. It’s a similar argument to the one against the fluoridation of drinking water – it isn’t about the real health risk so much as about civil liberties. I’m not going into the issue of fluoridation here though.

But this raises a difficult issue. There are plenty of procedures which carry risks unknown to the general public. In terms of radiation, one of the biggest of these is actually a barium enema, which uses unusually high doses of X-ray radiation because the image has to be obtained through the very thick and mineral-rich pelvis. There is no mention of this in the information given to patients who undergo this investigation as far as I know. There certainly wasn’t in the late ’90s when I had it done. There are of course plenty of other risks, usually covered in consent forms which people don’t read. Besides this, there are a couple of other cases which I had personally always taken for granted but to which other people seemed to take exception. One of these was the scandal at Alder Hey when children’s organs were routinely retained post mortem. Up until this came up, I had always assumed this was common knowledge – that this is what hospitals did. I’m not saying it wasn’t wrong, but this has created a problem for research. The other odd, child-related scandal that springs to mind is the practice by undercover police officers to adopt identities based on documents derived from people who had died as children and had a date of birth close to their own. Again, this has upset the families of many people who did die young (and that category includes me) but until the reaction I didn’t realise that this, too, wasn’t common knowledge. I suppose one normalises things and values change, although this, as usual, makes me wonder how much of what I now perceive to be acceptable would turn out not to be if I thought about it in a particular way.

Informed consent, however, is a problem with a public which is poorly-informed in other ways. If there were more general scientific literacy, and in fact it extends further than this because the identity adoption issue above is not a scientific one, this kind of deception would be harder to excuse. Not that there is an excuse now, but I would expect the mental process with Quaker Oats was that if the parents of non-disabled children had been asked, they wouldn’t’ve given consent, and the question then arises of why this would be. It also raises another spectre: what attitude did these parents actually have towards their children? It took me a while to pick up on this implication, but I suspect Walter White’s attitude towards his son in ‘Breaking Bad’ is not based on unconditional acceptance of his son, disabled or not, and I just wonder whether the parents in this non-fictional situation might have likewise have given consent had they known, not because they weren’t worried about the effects of the radiation but because, and I’m sure this isn’t usually true, they actually loved their children less because they had learning difficulties. Of course I don’t know this, but I have in mind two things here. Firstly, it’s bafflingly common for fundamentalist parents to disown queer children, which strikes me as connected to the idea of an idealised image of how they wanted their children and grandchildren to be rather than loving their children directly. I can only think this is connected to an authoritarian parenting style, but I’ll listen to anyone who disagrees with me on this. Secondly, there’s the attitude, which sadly charities like Autism Speaks seem to encourage, that children on the autistic spectrum are less than ideal, put a strain on the parents’ relationship and need to be “cured”. This seems to be coming from the same kind of place.

Quaker Oats don’t seem to come out of this very well. Not only have they used the image of a Quaker to generate some kind of folksy artificially wholesome aura around their product, but they have also acted historically with remarkable disregard for the wishes of the general public. Having said that, I would also hope that the public takes it upon itself to keep abreast of accurate information and assessing its quality. This has led to such problems denial of anthropogenic climate change and the various issues with the Covid-19 pandemic. And the other thing, which surely hardly needs saying to most people, is that you really are supposed to love people for themselves and not for your image of them, but I would hope this is a small contingency, at least nowadays.

My Rock’n’Roll Weekend

What is a weekend? For many centuries it barely existed as Sunday was the only day of rest and for most people, hardly that: church attendance was practically compulsory and then the women or servants had to have been up since 6 preparing the Sunday roast. Only once it had been eaten and the plates washed could you then grab a snooze for an hour or so. Sunday was hardly a day of rest in our house either since my father had to lead a minimum of three services a day and sometimes four – 8 am Communion, Family Communion, Mattins and Evensong. At one time, before the Great Rebellion of ’72, we were made to go to at least three of these which I think constitutes cruel and unusual punishment.

Saturday was not much better as during my teens I had a Saturday job of one kind or another, mostly in shops and generally involving being on your feet all day. My first job was in a greengrocers, the old-fashioned sort with sawdust and cabbage-leaves on the floor. A man used to stand out the front all day crying ‘All ripe ter-maaaar-ter!’ and I learned to shove fruit and veg in a paper bag, weigh it and then twist the corners all in one fluid movement. It was a very popular shop with long queues out the front and we were busy all day. I ate my lunch sitting on sacks of potatoes – a crusty roll from the baker’s with a thick wedge of cheese in the middle, followed by a Number 6.*

But later on a weekend meant only one thing: the pub! I considered the time wasted if I had not been to the pub for at least two sessions, Friday and Saturday night and preferably Sunday lunchtime as well. Sunday afternoons were for sleeping in front of the TV and sometimes a Sunday evening could involve a gentle folk session but the pubs closed at ten so there wasn’t any scope for much more.

But what of nowadays? Since I am deeply reluctant to come out of lockdown too soon the pub is the last place I shall be going, particularly after reports of people going mad after a few beers and completely forgetting to socially distance (well, you would wouldn’t you?) So nowadays a weekend involves first and foremost a rest from writing and thinking. Well, not from thinking exactly since you can’t stop the brain from working, but a rest from deliberately thinking. I don’t try to think about anything, I just allow the river of thought to flow gently along.

In any case since I am officially an Old Fart I don’t go out much at the weekend. Pre-lockdown a Friday night might have involved a political meeting or folk club, and on Saturdays OH and I might go out for a drink or a meal, though we’d usually be back in time to catch Casualty before bed. My rock’n’roll life, I’d think to myself as I swallowed my tablets and took out my teeth. I might have the occasional ‘proper night out’ – a gig or a party – though nothing compared to those of my youth as I’d still usually be in bed by midnight. Then Sundays are usually Quaker Meeting of course and I’ll usually do a few household chores, go for a walk and then sit in front of the TV for an hour or so. If I’ve got a good book on the go I’ll spend several hours with my nose in it.

All of this is very therapeutic. Most weekends I have nothing to do and I do it beautifully. You know what they say – don’t just do something – sit there!

Kirk out

*Number 6 were a brand of cigarette, the cheapest on the market. Just in case you though it was some kind of bodily evacuation…