...an ever-fragrant correspondent of mine has recently sternly informed me that she is 'pro-gay.' The putting of it into the pipe and the smoking of it was not specifically invoked, but one sensed the note of that tone in the remark as made.
We do not, on the whole, tend to do religious controversy here in The Wolds. Our tastes are mostly for the quieter life, very much on a live-and-let-alone basis.
The occasional hint, maybe, to one that whilst Jesus may very much want her for a sunbeam, her eternal 'Nearer the Godhead than thou' smile is profoundly irksome. Or tipping the wink to another that tambourines may be all very well at a Romany hoe-down, but daring to bring one into my Church and wave it around during Choral Evensong is absolutely not the thing to do in these parts unless said waver has an undue fondness for hospital catering.
Reining-in Farmer Arthur's fervour for direct action against sinners - his pile 'em high and burn 'em all philosophy - is also necessary from time to time. All for a bit of fire and brimstone myself to put, literally, the fear of God in folk as needed. But when justice trumps mercy at every turn, as it will when Arthur plays a hand, it is not to be tolerated entire.
Other than that and the occasional outburst of ontological nonsense about 'being church' that wafts our way as it must, we are little disturbed in our ways and our faith.
One does though slightly tremble at this edict that being 'pro-gay' is quite the thing, not the least as it implies any contrary stance to be 'anti-gay', which in these troubled times would seem as near unlawful as makes little difference. The 'If you're not with me then you're nicked' note is not cheering.
That then objection the first, as one might in Thomist mood opine. The other, perhaps more a matter of nuance though nonetheless significant, is that it as much imputes that one is not just for it but up for it even. As dear Fr. 'Pepper' Potts would say of his hierarchical people "Everything's forbidden until the day it becomes compulsory."
Am I thus to go about the place demanding of folk to know whether they be 'pro-gay'? Poor lambs, I can hear their bleating cries now: "Pro-gay Rector? Must I really? With my piles!"
Thursday, April 23, 2009
Wednesday, April 22, 2009
Fat Tax - A Vindication...
Avid and intelligent readers of this place (qualities not incompatible I aver) will recall that some while hence H and I both asserted how sensible it would be if commercial enterprises would begin to lay an imposition on fat people for the cost to their businesses.
This was on the back of a silly suggestion that people who were obese should be paid to lose weight. Cash in hand no less for resisting the urge to stuff their faces with yet more meat pies etc.
We rebelled, did H and I, at such nonsense, proposing rather the more assertive notion that if being wilfully fat added to the burden of society - as it must - then due recompense should be exacted.
Hurrah now to discover that precisely this is to occur. At least two airlines - one American, one European - are to charge the fatties more for travelling on their aeroplanes. Quite right too. More space taken, more inconvenience to fellow passengers, more fuel consumed. Why not then a bob or two on the price?
Could indeed this be poor Alistair Darling's way out of our economic mess and misery? Forget a 50% tax on high earners, instead a body-weight tax on the fatties. If we're to talk 'green investment' as it seems doomed we are so to do, then let us begin.
Strikes me, mind you, that our Gordo has been looking a mite more podgy of late. Should we not start as we mean to go on?
This was on the back of a silly suggestion that people who were obese should be paid to lose weight. Cash in hand no less for resisting the urge to stuff their faces with yet more meat pies etc.
We rebelled, did H and I, at such nonsense, proposing rather the more assertive notion that if being wilfully fat added to the burden of society - as it must - then due recompense should be exacted.
Hurrah now to discover that precisely this is to occur. At least two airlines - one American, one European - are to charge the fatties more for travelling on their aeroplanes. Quite right too. More space taken, more inconvenience to fellow passengers, more fuel consumed. Why not then a bob or two on the price?
Could indeed this be poor Alistair Darling's way out of our economic mess and misery? Forget a 50% tax on high earners, instead a body-weight tax on the fatties. If we're to talk 'green investment' as it seems doomed we are so to do, then let us begin.
Strikes me, mind you, that our Gordo has been looking a mite more podgy of late. Should we not start as we mean to go on?
Saturday, April 18, 2009
"Let Them Eat Fibre..."
...how very handy. The NHS in Bristol has taken their time and our money to print leaflets advising the recently unemployed not to become despondent, but to eat plenty of fruit and veg and get a good night's sleep.
Alcoholic abstinence is urged, whilst brisk walks are advised - though not presumably to the pub - to stimulate the endorphins and 'make you feel energised and positive.'
"Taking care of yourself," we are wisely informed, "will help you to stay in good shape so you are able to cope well with life's difficulties. It will also prepare you for your return back to work when a job opportunity comes up."
Perfectly sound advice of course, bleeding obvious naturally. Play well with people about to lose their homes, whose lives are in meltdown? Possibly not.
Let them eat fibre indeed!
Alcoholic abstinence is urged, whilst brisk walks are advised - though not presumably to the pub - to stimulate the endorphins and 'make you feel energised and positive.'
"Taking care of yourself," we are wisely informed, "will help you to stay in good shape so you are able to cope well with life's difficulties. It will also prepare you for your return back to work when a job opportunity comes up."
Perfectly sound advice of course, bleeding obvious naturally. Play well with people about to lose their homes, whose lives are in meltdown? Possibly not.
Let them eat fibre indeed!
Friday, April 17, 2009
Operation Glencoe - A Bloody Death
Now we learn that Ian Tomlinson did not die from a heart attack, but from abdominal bleeding. The news is that the police officer who was videoed hurling him to the ground has been interviewed under caution and is likely to face a charge of manslaughter.
Thus, it seems, justice is prevailing.
The Met has troubled itself to inform me that the name 'Operation Glencoe' was chosen at random from a number of available names. I have told the Met to pull the other one. I doubt they will bother, but one waits and sees.
Did you note the similarity between the baton blow to the legs of Ian Tomlinson and that to a young lady the next day that has latterly emerged on video? The same swing of the baton, the same area of the body targeted.
Coincidence, you might say. Well, I'm not having yet another one pulled. Where, when and how do the police learn such techniques? That shall be my next question to the Met.
Thus, it seems, justice is prevailing.
The Met has troubled itself to inform me that the name 'Operation Glencoe' was chosen at random from a number of available names. I have told the Met to pull the other one. I doubt they will bother, but one waits and sees.
Did you note the similarity between the baton blow to the legs of Ian Tomlinson and that to a young lady the next day that has latterly emerged on video? The same swing of the baton, the same area of the body targeted.
Coincidence, you might say. Well, I'm not having yet another one pulled. Where, when and how do the police learn such techniques? That shall be my next question to the Met.
Wednesday, April 15, 2009
One Wednesday In Sheffield...
...it was, of course, a Saturday on which the Hillsborough slaughter occurred. Its twentieth anniversary falls, now, on a Wednesday. Sheffield Wednesday it is today.
If I were to say how well that day is remembered in this house it might seem almost crass, for who knowing it then could forget it now? I take it though for a strong personal as well as a public memory, for it was the only occasion on which I believe I was struck with a psychic knowing and a terrible foreboding.
H and I had chosen the day for a jaunt to Jodrell Bank. You know it of course the site, among others, of the great radio telescope that in the words of the place itself 'probes the depths of space, a symbol of our wish to understand the universe in which we live.'
A longish stone's throw across the Pennines is Jodrell Bank from Sheffield, but what is that to a device that measures distance in time not space? What quite H and I were doing there is not recalled. Did either of us significantly take such an interest in astrophysics? Not as such would both say then and now.
It was, from the outset, a 'black dog' day. One uses that Churchillian short-hand not to indicate personal despondency, but rather a deep sense of worldly gloom. Something was not right, one just knew it.
Jodrell Bank offers many attractions to its visitors, not the least of which is a small yet fulsome planetarium with regular shows for the viewing public. H and I attended one such show twenty years ago this day. The time was 3.00 o'clock in the afternoon.
As the lights dimmed into the blackness of a re-created primordial universe my sense of gloom became that of utter and unfathomable horror. A stern effort, indeed, was needed not to run screaming from the place.
At that same moment there were real screams being heard at Hillsborough from people who could not run because they were trapped, and ninety-six people for whom there would be no more screaming, or running, or cheering, or loving, or life itself.
We drove home, H and I, after the show. That is I drove, and I should not have for I could barely control myself let alone the car. The horror did not subside as I assumed it must but ever grew in intensity. The world was wrong, I absolutely knew it to be so.
We arrived to the house by early evening and at once on went the television to catch the football scores. Desperate faces to be seen in the studio and on the, by now almost deserted, terraces at Hillsborough. What could that be one at first only casually wondered?
The following hours there was nothing to do other than to absorb the unfolding news of the terrible events of that deadly day.
Only later did I begin to reflect on the precise timing of the thing. The Ninth Hour, the hour of Calvary. Was their moment of dying a cause of my own horror? Did their last screams penetrate my heart and soul? It matters not to anyone but myself, but I believed it to be so then and twenty years on I believe it still.
If I were to say how well that day is remembered in this house it might seem almost crass, for who knowing it then could forget it now? I take it though for a strong personal as well as a public memory, for it was the only occasion on which I believe I was struck with a psychic knowing and a terrible foreboding.
H and I had chosen the day for a jaunt to Jodrell Bank. You know it of course the site, among others, of the great radio telescope that in the words of the place itself 'probes the depths of space, a symbol of our wish to understand the universe in which we live.'
A longish stone's throw across the Pennines is Jodrell Bank from Sheffield, but what is that to a device that measures distance in time not space? What quite H and I were doing there is not recalled. Did either of us significantly take such an interest in astrophysics? Not as such would both say then and now.
It was, from the outset, a 'black dog' day. One uses that Churchillian short-hand not to indicate personal despondency, but rather a deep sense of worldly gloom. Something was not right, one just knew it.
Jodrell Bank offers many attractions to its visitors, not the least of which is a small yet fulsome planetarium with regular shows for the viewing public. H and I attended one such show twenty years ago this day. The time was 3.00 o'clock in the afternoon.
As the lights dimmed into the blackness of a re-created primordial universe my sense of gloom became that of utter and unfathomable horror. A stern effort, indeed, was needed not to run screaming from the place.
At that same moment there were real screams being heard at Hillsborough from people who could not run because they were trapped, and ninety-six people for whom there would be no more screaming, or running, or cheering, or loving, or life itself.
We drove home, H and I, after the show. That is I drove, and I should not have for I could barely control myself let alone the car. The horror did not subside as I assumed it must but ever grew in intensity. The world was wrong, I absolutely knew it to be so.
We arrived to the house by early evening and at once on went the television to catch the football scores. Desperate faces to be seen in the studio and on the, by now almost deserted, terraces at Hillsborough. What could that be one at first only casually wondered?
The following hours there was nothing to do other than to absorb the unfolding news of the terrible events of that deadly day.
Only later did I begin to reflect on the precise timing of the thing. The Ninth Hour, the hour of Calvary. Was their moment of dying a cause of my own horror? Did their last screams penetrate my heart and soul? It matters not to anyone but myself, but I believed it to be so then and twenty years on I believe it still.
Monday, April 13, 2009
Easter Fasting...
...no, that is not a typo for 'feasting', and indeed one shall be mounting serious and traditional charge upon the household larder as a proper aspect of Paschal celebrations. (As dear Dom. Bertie would say: "The only reason I can stand forty days of Lenten fasting is the promise of fifty days of Easter feasting.")
Lenten self-denial is a worthy cause, a small thing for a much greater purpose of course. But then what can and does happen? Dear Fr. Pat quits the sauce for Lent, good fellow, but is then paralytic by Low Sunday in essence - and in his own words - making up for lost time.
I opt for minding my tongue and not being so wretchedly snappy with all and sundry. A humane endeavour, possibly also a holy one of a sorts. But what am I to do now that Lent is done, begin once more the biting-off of heads? Hardly seems the point and indeed isn't the point at all.
So if I now ask of self 'What is it I am foregoing for Easter?', caught up in the very joy of the thing, should I begin with the beer and the baccy? A new beginning, a resurgent Rector in tribute to a risen Lord? One is not so proud, or rather one is only too keenly aware of the lessons of personal history to be so bold.
There is though the dusty and long-neglected exercise bicycle in need of a polish through usage. Should one, perhaps, also not necessarily be driving the three-hundred yards to Ma Martha's newspaper emporium of a morning, as has been one's wont? And might one even astonish the Palladian tribe at supper by opining "No wine for me at this juncture thank you H., I'll just be taking a glass of that refreshing looking cranberry juice"?
No nonsense of course that physical fitness is a precursor to moral virtue. Can't quite recall which heresy that one is, but it is one of the more beastly be assured. I have never, indeed, taken dear St. Bernard at this word that the road to Hell is paved with good intentions, for is not also the road to Heaven so paved with much sign of human frailty? Cleanliness closest to godliness? My arse, as Yorkshire Dom Tom would say. "Where's there's muck there's Jesus." He had a point.
That notwithstanding, a little list of 'Things one is giving up for Easter' seems to point the right direction. I shall begin to inscribe just as soon as this rather good pipe of Shervington's finest black is done!
Lenten self-denial is a worthy cause, a small thing for a much greater purpose of course. But then what can and does happen? Dear Fr. Pat quits the sauce for Lent, good fellow, but is then paralytic by Low Sunday in essence - and in his own words - making up for lost time.
I opt for minding my tongue and not being so wretchedly snappy with all and sundry. A humane endeavour, possibly also a holy one of a sorts. But what am I to do now that Lent is done, begin once more the biting-off of heads? Hardly seems the point and indeed isn't the point at all.
So if I now ask of self 'What is it I am foregoing for Easter?', caught up in the very joy of the thing, should I begin with the beer and the baccy? A new beginning, a resurgent Rector in tribute to a risen Lord? One is not so proud, or rather one is only too keenly aware of the lessons of personal history to be so bold.
There is though the dusty and long-neglected exercise bicycle in need of a polish through usage. Should one, perhaps, also not necessarily be driving the three-hundred yards to Ma Martha's newspaper emporium of a morning, as has been one's wont? And might one even astonish the Palladian tribe at supper by opining "No wine for me at this juncture thank you H., I'll just be taking a glass of that refreshing looking cranberry juice"?
No nonsense of course that physical fitness is a precursor to moral virtue. Can't quite recall which heresy that one is, but it is one of the more beastly be assured. I have never, indeed, taken dear St. Bernard at this word that the road to Hell is paved with good intentions, for is not also the road to Heaven so paved with much sign of human frailty? Cleanliness closest to godliness? My arse, as Yorkshire Dom Tom would say. "Where's there's muck there's Jesus." He had a point.
That notwithstanding, a little list of 'Things one is giving up for Easter' seems to point the right direction. I shall begin to inscribe just as soon as this rather good pipe of Shervington's finest black is done!
Tuesday, April 07, 2009
Operation Glencoe - Ian Tomlinson...
http://www.guardian.co.uk/uk/2009/apr/07/video-g20-police-assault
...This I feared. Let justice be done.
...This I feared. Let justice be done.
Saturday, April 04, 2009
Operation Glencoe - Without Feud or Favour...
E said she might but didn't. Papa, in fear for her safety, sternly rebuked her for the very thought of it, though admitted being tempted himself. H, sensible as ever, said that neither would so what did it matter anyway?
The, at times, lively debate chez Rectory Nostrum was over who fancied beaning up to Town in order to make one's presence felt at the G20 beanfest just passed.
To call E an 'eco-warrior' would be to fly in the face of the evidence of the endless shopping for flim-flam - as I alone would see it - not to mention all-round consumerist frenzy. To call though me an old-school protester would be entirely accurate, with perhaps reasonable emphasis on ancient rather than recent history.
Indeed, the last time one can recall actually taking to the streets to raise a voice in protest would have been the early Eighties, when we to host Cruise missiles on our shores. Didn't much care for the notion then and no more for it now. Not that it made a ha'peth of difference to the outcome, nor indeed did one presume it would. There was though a stand to be taken, so one was. And Felicity Kendal was there, which made the entire day-trip thoroughly pleasurable of course.
One, in this, quite discounts turning out in the necessary attempt to remind Blair, T. that he was really quite nuts in wishing to invade Iraq. Not a 'protest' as such, for to protest one really has to be in a minority. This was more by a way of reminding him that we, the electorate, had a view he best not ignore.
We were - we fondly imagined - just politely tipping him the nod, for he seemed to have missed it somehow, that: 'It is a bad thing to do. It won't do any good. We will hate you for doing it.' No more really than pointing out to a fellow that his flies are undone. Awkward moment but soon resolved. "Gosh yes, thank you for telling me." That sort of thing.
But by then, sadly, he was way beyond our ken, only listening to 'inner voices' and 'the verdict of history', neither of which should be taken as compelling signs of sanity in a political leader. "I only know what I believe," we were told. Oh dear. Quite, quite barking.
From thence on one has largely confined any protesting to the occasional threatened walk-out from some interminable and desperately dull ecumenical gatherings, more in hope of terminating the session than in expectation of anyone making any sense. "What do we want?" "Our tea!" "When do we want it?" "Now!" Bishops can quail at such onslaughts.
But to Town for the G20, it was indeed a temptation. Not that 'eating a banker' would be E's thing at all, she being a vegetarian of pretty strict observance. Nor indeed would I have particularly desired to do battle with Bobbies for the sake of shouting at a closed door or two.
It was though those very Bobbies who nearly made me go, for on checking details of who was intending to do what, when and how, it came strongly to one's notice that the Police were calling their side of things 'Operation Glencoe'!
If you are not entirely versed in late seventeenth century Scottish affairs, you are not perhaps to be blamed. But you must know of the infamous Glencoe Massacre of 1692, certainly in the top three of all-time brutal acts of treachery and savagery by this country's Government against its own people.
The battle order of the day gives something of the flavour of the thing:
"You are hereby ordered to fall upon the rebels, the McDonalds of Glenco, and put all to the sword under seventy. You are to have a special care that the old Fox and his sons doe upon no account escape your hands, you are to secure all the avenues that no man escape...This is by the Kings speciall command, for the good & safty of the Country, that these miscreants be cutt off root and branch. See that this be putt in execution without feud or favour..."
We did indeed hear that the Met were 'up for it and up to it', not a boast one particularly wishes one's police 'service' saying in advance of the exercise of an essential civil liberty in this land. To call, then, the whole thing in honour of the foul stench of executed death that lives to this day in the very stones of Glencoe was at best crass in the extreme.
H, as ever, was right. One did not in the end go to find out first-hand how Glencoe would be re-enacted. It could have been a lot worse on either side it seems.
One though is still waiting for an answer from the Met. A question has been asked of it and it is apparently - though one had not presumed it to be - a 'Freedom of Information request.' Does that mean one will or one won't be told?
The, at times, lively debate chez Rectory Nostrum was over who fancied beaning up to Town in order to make one's presence felt at the G20 beanfest just passed.
To call E an 'eco-warrior' would be to fly in the face of the evidence of the endless shopping for flim-flam - as I alone would see it - not to mention all-round consumerist frenzy. To call though me an old-school protester would be entirely accurate, with perhaps reasonable emphasis on ancient rather than recent history.
Indeed, the last time one can recall actually taking to the streets to raise a voice in protest would have been the early Eighties, when we to host Cruise missiles on our shores. Didn't much care for the notion then and no more for it now. Not that it made a ha'peth of difference to the outcome, nor indeed did one presume it would. There was though a stand to be taken, so one was. And Felicity Kendal was there, which made the entire day-trip thoroughly pleasurable of course.
One, in this, quite discounts turning out in the necessary attempt to remind Blair, T. that he was really quite nuts in wishing to invade Iraq. Not a 'protest' as such, for to protest one really has to be in a minority. This was more by a way of reminding him that we, the electorate, had a view he best not ignore.
We were - we fondly imagined - just politely tipping him the nod, for he seemed to have missed it somehow, that: 'It is a bad thing to do. It won't do any good. We will hate you for doing it.' No more really than pointing out to a fellow that his flies are undone. Awkward moment but soon resolved. "Gosh yes, thank you for telling me." That sort of thing.
But by then, sadly, he was way beyond our ken, only listening to 'inner voices' and 'the verdict of history', neither of which should be taken as compelling signs of sanity in a political leader. "I only know what I believe," we were told. Oh dear. Quite, quite barking.
From thence on one has largely confined any protesting to the occasional threatened walk-out from some interminable and desperately dull ecumenical gatherings, more in hope of terminating the session than in expectation of anyone making any sense. "What do we want?" "Our tea!" "When do we want it?" "Now!" Bishops can quail at such onslaughts.
But to Town for the G20, it was indeed a temptation. Not that 'eating a banker' would be E's thing at all, she being a vegetarian of pretty strict observance. Nor indeed would I have particularly desired to do battle with Bobbies for the sake of shouting at a closed door or two.
It was though those very Bobbies who nearly made me go, for on checking details of who was intending to do what, when and how, it came strongly to one's notice that the Police were calling their side of things 'Operation Glencoe'!
If you are not entirely versed in late seventeenth century Scottish affairs, you are not perhaps to be blamed. But you must know of the infamous Glencoe Massacre of 1692, certainly in the top three of all-time brutal acts of treachery and savagery by this country's Government against its own people.
The battle order of the day gives something of the flavour of the thing:
"You are hereby ordered to fall upon the rebels, the McDonalds of Glenco, and put all to the sword under seventy. You are to have a special care that the old Fox and his sons doe upon no account escape your hands, you are to secure all the avenues that no man escape...This is by the Kings speciall command, for the good & safty of the Country, that these miscreants be cutt off root and branch. See that this be putt in execution without feud or favour..."
We did indeed hear that the Met were 'up for it and up to it', not a boast one particularly wishes one's police 'service' saying in advance of the exercise of an essential civil liberty in this land. To call, then, the whole thing in honour of the foul stench of executed death that lives to this day in the very stones of Glencoe was at best crass in the extreme.
H, as ever, was right. One did not in the end go to find out first-hand how Glencoe would be re-enacted. It could have been a lot worse on either side it seems.
One though is still waiting for an answer from the Met. A question has been asked of it and it is apparently - though one had not presumed it to be - a 'Freedom of Information request.' Does that mean one will or one won't be told?
Wednesday, March 18, 2009
Mid-Staffs Scandal - Being There...
...How far is it one wonders, pondering today the shame and scandal of Mid-Staffs Foundation NHS Trust, from the Boardroom at Stafford Hospital to the A&E Department? Fifty feet, fifty yards? A hundred perhaps at the outside.
How long then would it have taken a Board member (a non-exec doing his or her duty) to walk from the one to the other? Two minutes, maybe five. Hardly more.
Did any Board member choose to take that small walk to save, perhaps, a thousand lives by seeing the chaos for themselves? Doesn't appear so.
Why were phone calls not made to the Chief Constable of Staffordshire demanding that a criminal investigation begin under s.44 of the Mental Capacity Act 2005 on the grounds of 'wilful neglect or ill-treatment' of people who lacked capacity to take decisions for themselves, as clearly was the case on some medical wards? (Perhaps they were, and if not then not too late to make that call now.)
How can Monitor now claim it didn't even know about the Healthcare Commission investigation when it approved Foundation status, or the Healthcare Commission not inform Monitor of their concerns?
How in any sense can the local PCT claim to have 'commissioned' this disaster if they knew nothing of what was happening?
Where was the relevant Local Authority charged with 'safeguarding' throughout its patch?
Can it really be true that the former Chief Executive of the local Strategic Health Authority is now to be the head of the new Care Quality Commission? (When did she last visit Stafford A&E or indeed any hospital ward?)
Why would the local coroner not co-operate with the Healthcare Commission investigation when asked to do so? ("We thought that information from the coroner would be useful for the investigation. We were disappointed that he declined to provide us with any information about the number or nature of inquests involving the trust." p.11 of the report.)
Why haven't Board members fled the country in shame taking with them the architects of this whole sorry mess - those in the Department of Health and their Ministers who designed the whole 'information managed' and 'target driven' monster they have created.
And where else is this happening right now in other hospitals? I would urge today all Trust (the very word makes one wince) Board members to take a few short walks about their respective hospitals. They might learn a thing or two, not to mention save some lives in the process.
Being there is what matters, not reliance on status reports, spreadsheets and data forecasts. Worked for Taiichi Ohno, and he was only making motor cars not preventing the slaughter of patients.
(It is mercifully infrequent that one's real day job intrudes into this pleasant, if imagined, place of respite from the rough and tumble of management consultancy. This time though one is so cross one must speak. There is another world - to be kept at thorough arm's length from the happy doings of my endearing if Pooterish alter ego - and if you must go in search of further unreality you may find it at http://www.hemina.co.uk/ I am hardly ever in. This place is so much nicer!)
How long then would it have taken a Board member (a non-exec doing his or her duty) to walk from the one to the other? Two minutes, maybe five. Hardly more.
Did any Board member choose to take that small walk to save, perhaps, a thousand lives by seeing the chaos for themselves? Doesn't appear so.
Why were phone calls not made to the Chief Constable of Staffordshire demanding that a criminal investigation begin under s.44 of the Mental Capacity Act 2005 on the grounds of 'wilful neglect or ill-treatment' of people who lacked capacity to take decisions for themselves, as clearly was the case on some medical wards? (Perhaps they were, and if not then not too late to make that call now.)
How can Monitor now claim it didn't even know about the Healthcare Commission investigation when it approved Foundation status, or the Healthcare Commission not inform Monitor of their concerns?
How in any sense can the local PCT claim to have 'commissioned' this disaster if they knew nothing of what was happening?
Where was the relevant Local Authority charged with 'safeguarding' throughout its patch?
Can it really be true that the former Chief Executive of the local Strategic Health Authority is now to be the head of the new Care Quality Commission? (When did she last visit Stafford A&E or indeed any hospital ward?)
Why would the local coroner not co-operate with the Healthcare Commission investigation when asked to do so? ("We thought that information from the coroner would be useful for the investigation. We were disappointed that he declined to provide us with any information about the number or nature of inquests involving the trust." p.11 of the report.)
Why haven't Board members fled the country in shame taking with them the architects of this whole sorry mess - those in the Department of Health and their Ministers who designed the whole 'information managed' and 'target driven' monster they have created.
And where else is this happening right now in other hospitals? I would urge today all Trust (the very word makes one wince) Board members to take a few short walks about their respective hospitals. They might learn a thing or two, not to mention save some lives in the process.
Being there is what matters, not reliance on status reports, spreadsheets and data forecasts. Worked for Taiichi Ohno, and he was only making motor cars not preventing the slaughter of patients.
(It is mercifully infrequent that one's real day job intrudes into this pleasant, if imagined, place of respite from the rough and tumble of management consultancy. This time though one is so cross one must speak. There is another world - to be kept at thorough arm's length from the happy doings of my endearing if Pooterish alter ego - and if you must go in search of further unreality you may find it at http://www.hemina.co.uk/ I am hardly ever in. This place is so much nicer!)
Sunday, March 01, 2009
18 up....
...Cometh the hour, cometh not the baby. Appreciating the science to be imprecise, E's due delivery date - and hence this most especial birthday of hers - should have been a fortnight before it eventually came to pass.
'Twas indeed eighteen years ago this very day - that the speciality we celebrate tonight - at thirty-two minutes past midnight E was born. Expected a while earlier, she had kept us all waiting an age it seemed at the time.
The delay, though stressing, did prevent her from being a 'War Baby' for which I am glad. The first Iraq war may well have been a 'just war' in theological terms - I do believe it to have been so indeed - but it was a war in all regards and not the contextual stamp I had been desiring for my first born.
So she escaped that, but not so many other civil alarums and excursions. She nearly died on us, she could have been desperately disabled at birth. The umbilicus was - we discovered - wrapped round her neck, foetal distress was clear to see and but for an emergency Caesarean we would not have her now.
All laud and praise then to the fine surgeon who rescued her. All glory to the nursing staff who cuddled a desperate Ma and Pa through those horrid hours of fear.
But balance that paean I must with total astonishment that, when it was known there were problems within we yet still had to share a foetal monitor with another anxious mother because there were not enough such devices in the hospital for all who needed them. Turn and turn about it was for half-hour on and half-hour off.
That even when we had it, the machine was defective and like a pump sprung a leak needed me to crank some handle or other to make it work! That when the relief night midwife came on duty she knew nothing of our plight, had trouble configuring the monitor - could not even plug it in without assistance - and was clueless when it came to the twenty-four hour clock that was integral to how the machine delivered its news.
Cometh the hour, cometh the Pa. Bursting into the doctor's rest room I veritably screamed at them to sack the useless midwife and get their fucking arses over to my wife at once. To their credit they did all of that and more. The doctor just due off duty after a long, long day stayed with us all night long. He indeed who performed the Caesarean. (Had indeed E been a boy she would now be holding some complex Greek name, not the intended Samuel, that being the nationality of our saviour.)
Was that the note of the first of, doubtless, several posts concerning this magnificent anniversary I had intended? I doubt it was, though mostly one just sets off with a theme without clear sight of how it may develop. But say it I must, having now done so.
Before that night I would have counted myself among those who take what they are given and do what they are told by the NHS. But not from that time onward. That night I, in all probability, saved E's life. Some years later that same challenging attitude and approach to health personnel was to save mine as well.
A fig on the latter, but I will stripe down the first of many proud parent moments - what she has achieved not me - in this: that I acted out of character that night in order to do what was necessary for the life and well-being of my only and beloved child, now turned tonight into a fine young woman these eighteen years later.
It is, when all is said and done, a parent thing.
'Twas indeed eighteen years ago this very day - that the speciality we celebrate tonight - at thirty-two minutes past midnight E was born. Expected a while earlier, she had kept us all waiting an age it seemed at the time.
The delay, though stressing, did prevent her from being a 'War Baby' for which I am glad. The first Iraq war may well have been a 'just war' in theological terms - I do believe it to have been so indeed - but it was a war in all regards and not the contextual stamp I had been desiring for my first born.
So she escaped that, but not so many other civil alarums and excursions. She nearly died on us, she could have been desperately disabled at birth. The umbilicus was - we discovered - wrapped round her neck, foetal distress was clear to see and but for an emergency Caesarean we would not have her now.
All laud and praise then to the fine surgeon who rescued her. All glory to the nursing staff who cuddled a desperate Ma and Pa through those horrid hours of fear.
But balance that paean I must with total astonishment that, when it was known there were problems within we yet still had to share a foetal monitor with another anxious mother because there were not enough such devices in the hospital for all who needed them. Turn and turn about it was for half-hour on and half-hour off.
That even when we had it, the machine was defective and like a pump sprung a leak needed me to crank some handle or other to make it work! That when the relief night midwife came on duty she knew nothing of our plight, had trouble configuring the monitor - could not even plug it in without assistance - and was clueless when it came to the twenty-four hour clock that was integral to how the machine delivered its news.
Cometh the hour, cometh the Pa. Bursting into the doctor's rest room I veritably screamed at them to sack the useless midwife and get their fucking arses over to my wife at once. To their credit they did all of that and more. The doctor just due off duty after a long, long day stayed with us all night long. He indeed who performed the Caesarean. (Had indeed E been a boy she would now be holding some complex Greek name, not the intended Samuel, that being the nationality of our saviour.)
Was that the note of the first of, doubtless, several posts concerning this magnificent anniversary I had intended? I doubt it was, though mostly one just sets off with a theme without clear sight of how it may develop. But say it I must, having now done so.
Before that night I would have counted myself among those who take what they are given and do what they are told by the NHS. But not from that time onward. That night I, in all probability, saved E's life. Some years later that same challenging attitude and approach to health personnel was to save mine as well.
A fig on the latter, but I will stripe down the first of many proud parent moments - what she has achieved not me - in this: that I acted out of character that night in order to do what was necessary for the life and well-being of my only and beloved child, now turned tonight into a fine young woman these eighteen years later.
It is, when all is said and done, a parent thing.
Thursday, February 26, 2009
Captain Ahab - Nineteen Years On
...'Tis now precisely nineteen years since last I read Melville's 'Moby Dick', the book I am now once more close to completing.
How do I know so exactly the date, when barely can I recall the events of last week?
It is this. When last I journeyed with Ahab and his crew on the Pequod's last voyage I could not have been a parent, else I would have only remembered this of him that he, so obsessive in his quest for the White Whale, could spurn the desperate plea of the Captain of the 'Rachel' to join in the search for a missing son, lost when their boat encountered that terrible beast.
The risk of his own crew, the terrible daring of his own life, the insistent demand to catch the terrible fate that awaits him - none of this now matters or signifies. Ahab spurned a parent in distress. That is all I know of him and all I need to know.
It is, of course, between then and now - those nineteen years - that I have lived as a parent myself and, as such, would give all and anything to a fellow parent in distress.
There is that bond of being, to which no other can compare. And thus, today, when Gordon Brown speaks of his sorrowful empathy with David Cameron and his family in their loss of their beloved son Ivan, I fully understand the parental empathy that impels his words. He lost his first child. He knows the hurt as no other can.
The Psalmist writes of 'the deep that sings unto deep.' There is no greater profundity than this.
How do I know so exactly the date, when barely can I recall the events of last week?
It is this. When last I journeyed with Ahab and his crew on the Pequod's last voyage I could not have been a parent, else I would have only remembered this of him that he, so obsessive in his quest for the White Whale, could spurn the desperate plea of the Captain of the 'Rachel' to join in the search for a missing son, lost when their boat encountered that terrible beast.
The risk of his own crew, the terrible daring of his own life, the insistent demand to catch the terrible fate that awaits him - none of this now matters or signifies. Ahab spurned a parent in distress. That is all I know of him and all I need to know.
It is, of course, between then and now - those nineteen years - that I have lived as a parent myself and, as such, would give all and anything to a fellow parent in distress.
There is that bond of being, to which no other can compare. And thus, today, when Gordon Brown speaks of his sorrowful empathy with David Cameron and his family in their loss of their beloved son Ivan, I fully understand the parental empathy that impels his words. He lost his first child. He knows the hurt as no other can.
The Psalmist writes of 'the deep that sings unto deep.' There is no greater profundity than this.
Tuesday, February 24, 2009
'Lights, Camera, Action!'...
There are not a few who, somewhat in general scornfully, would compare the parsonic with the thespian calling.
There are some overlaps one must admit: an amount of dressing up for the occasion, the ability to hold an audience's/congregation's attention for more than the statistically average three seconds, a certain bravado in style and perhaps - dare one own for both callings - a love of being in the public gaze. Beyond that though I will not go.
An actor may well talk of his or her 'vocation', but though I doubt not the person's sincerity I will not take as comparable - certainly not equal in either merit or significance - the ploughing of the field for the Lord's harvest and the treading of any boards for an evening's entertainment.
Does that sound pompous tosh? Am aware it might, but let it rest as it is. Truth enough that the majority of the theatrical or the film crew - as it were - would merely and more humbly aver that they are simply doing what comes naturally. If I were to say, in any riposte, that my belief in my calling is doing what comes supernaturally, then that must be a matter to judge for Him and not for me.
'Tis entirely possible He held His head in His hands on His hearing of my intention to don the dog collar in His name. I cannot tell. One mustn't - as my late and dear Abbot once said - be constantly looking over one's shoulder at the shadow of one's vocation. Leave it alone and try not to fret was his wise advice.
But could the one have been the other? Had not the theological urge taken grip, would I now be lined up for some part in a desperately intense French film with acres of remorse, nudity and regret, or else some block-busting, Oscar-winning, dollar-minting Hollywood epic? Can't say for sure, but whichever would stand me in greater chance of snogging Nic Kidman on set would get my vote! (How venial is the man!)
Note carefully that there are few enough, if any, major filmic types who did not start young. Not necessarily professional and public performance, but an urge at an early age to don a costume or two from adult clothes to hand and thence to burst forth into the drawing room - or back parlour according to taste - with some skit or sketch to lay before the doting parents and the dozing relatives come Christmas or other festive family gathering.
That though not for me. There were but two moments in early life when the 'bug' might have taken hold, but for obvious reasons to be revealed it did not. The first - and so very precious memory - was the time that the late and wonderful Douglas Adams (Hitchhiker's fame of course), I and a few school mates staged a sound recorded recreation of some of the very earliest moments from the original Dr. Who series.
All, naturally, wished to be the Doctor as such, only as PNMJ - check the book for the reference to 'worst poet in the galaxy' and I can assure you he was! - owned the tape machine his was first refusal on the star part. Douglas got to voice a Dalek, rather well as it turned out, and I but the poor fellow who screamed a lot before falling to his death in some implausible studio chasm.
The second - as memorable but for more painful reasons - was a staged school French play, in which I was to be the night porter whose entrance temporarily disturbed the dastardly deeds of a pair of burglars. The plot - such as there was one - required one of the burglars to thwack me about the head with a mallet, thus rendering me silent.
Now even in those pre elven-safety days it was not quite the thing to brain a child with a solid lump of wood. (Some masters may well have employed such disciplinary measures in the privacy of the classroom; but that was a different matter and not something we all felt - both victims and abusers alike - to lay before any wider, less comprehending audience.)
As, therefore, a protective measure - and adding to the visual fun of the thing - I was to be equipped with a WW2 Tommy helmet. The blow was to descend downwards and the padding to absorb the impact. That of course was the plan not - it transpired - the execution.
On the night, 'Robber Two', somewhat carried away with the excitement of the occasion, dealt me a mighty blow to the side of the head, where the usefulness of the helmet was strictly limited. Determined not to cry in pain and thus ruin the whole performance, I could not but somewhat actually pass out. The rest is a blur.
Seeing my collapse, the master/director hovering in the wings apparently had to rush onto stage, swoop me in his arms and carry me off to Nurse who, as ever, was on stand-by for any eventuality.
The audience - parents mostly - apparently howled their delight at this. Not as collective sadists as such - though the point is moot given that they all had dispatched their 'precious' off-spring into the maw of fell boarding school life - but in reasonably assuming this all to be a part of the proceedings. Well it jolly well wasn't!
So what, by a tender age, had I learnt of the acting craft? That he who owns the kit - 'The Producer' - calls all the main shots. Check. That 'The Director' of the whole piece may think he's in charge but isn't. Check. That metaphorical death or, worse, actual physical pain was all that I, as 'Actor', could expect for an outcome. Checkmate.
Not, on the whole, what these psycho-babble coves call 'positive reinforcement' all told vis a vis life in the limelight. No, sadly, were any snogging of the always fragrant Nic K ever to occur - and of course it will not - it will have to be for real and not for film. I can live with that premise.
There are some overlaps one must admit: an amount of dressing up for the occasion, the ability to hold an audience's/congregation's attention for more than the statistically average three seconds, a certain bravado in style and perhaps - dare one own for both callings - a love of being in the public gaze. Beyond that though I will not go.
An actor may well talk of his or her 'vocation', but though I doubt not the person's sincerity I will not take as comparable - certainly not equal in either merit or significance - the ploughing of the field for the Lord's harvest and the treading of any boards for an evening's entertainment.
Does that sound pompous tosh? Am aware it might, but let it rest as it is. Truth enough that the majority of the theatrical or the film crew - as it were - would merely and more humbly aver that they are simply doing what comes naturally. If I were to say, in any riposte, that my belief in my calling is doing what comes supernaturally, then that must be a matter to judge for Him and not for me.
'Tis entirely possible He held His head in His hands on His hearing of my intention to don the dog collar in His name. I cannot tell. One mustn't - as my late and dear Abbot once said - be constantly looking over one's shoulder at the shadow of one's vocation. Leave it alone and try not to fret was his wise advice.
But could the one have been the other? Had not the theological urge taken grip, would I now be lined up for some part in a desperately intense French film with acres of remorse, nudity and regret, or else some block-busting, Oscar-winning, dollar-minting Hollywood epic? Can't say for sure, but whichever would stand me in greater chance of snogging Nic Kidman on set would get my vote! (How venial is the man!)
Note carefully that there are few enough, if any, major filmic types who did not start young. Not necessarily professional and public performance, but an urge at an early age to don a costume or two from adult clothes to hand and thence to burst forth into the drawing room - or back parlour according to taste - with some skit or sketch to lay before the doting parents and the dozing relatives come Christmas or other festive family gathering.
That though not for me. There were but two moments in early life when the 'bug' might have taken hold, but for obvious reasons to be revealed it did not. The first - and so very precious memory - was the time that the late and wonderful Douglas Adams (Hitchhiker's fame of course), I and a few school mates staged a sound recorded recreation of some of the very earliest moments from the original Dr. Who series.
All, naturally, wished to be the Doctor as such, only as PNMJ - check the book for the reference to 'worst poet in the galaxy' and I can assure you he was! - owned the tape machine his was first refusal on the star part. Douglas got to voice a Dalek, rather well as it turned out, and I but the poor fellow who screamed a lot before falling to his death in some implausible studio chasm.
The second - as memorable but for more painful reasons - was a staged school French play, in which I was to be the night porter whose entrance temporarily disturbed the dastardly deeds of a pair of burglars. The plot - such as there was one - required one of the burglars to thwack me about the head with a mallet, thus rendering me silent.
Now even in those pre elven-safety days it was not quite the thing to brain a child with a solid lump of wood. (Some masters may well have employed such disciplinary measures in the privacy of the classroom; but that was a different matter and not something we all felt - both victims and abusers alike - to lay before any wider, less comprehending audience.)
As, therefore, a protective measure - and adding to the visual fun of the thing - I was to be equipped with a WW2 Tommy helmet. The blow was to descend downwards and the padding to absorb the impact. That of course was the plan not - it transpired - the execution.
On the night, 'Robber Two', somewhat carried away with the excitement of the occasion, dealt me a mighty blow to the side of the head, where the usefulness of the helmet was strictly limited. Determined not to cry in pain and thus ruin the whole performance, I could not but somewhat actually pass out. The rest is a blur.
Seeing my collapse, the master/director hovering in the wings apparently had to rush onto stage, swoop me in his arms and carry me off to Nurse who, as ever, was on stand-by for any eventuality.
The audience - parents mostly - apparently howled their delight at this. Not as collective sadists as such - though the point is moot given that they all had dispatched their 'precious' off-spring into the maw of fell boarding school life - but in reasonably assuming this all to be a part of the proceedings. Well it jolly well wasn't!
So what, by a tender age, had I learnt of the acting craft? That he who owns the kit - 'The Producer' - calls all the main shots. Check. That 'The Director' of the whole piece may think he's in charge but isn't. Check. That metaphorical death or, worse, actual physical pain was all that I, as 'Actor', could expect for an outcome. Checkmate.
Not, on the whole, what these psycho-babble coves call 'positive reinforcement' all told vis a vis life in the limelight. No, sadly, were any snogging of the always fragrant Nic K ever to occur - and of course it will not - it will have to be for real and not for film. I can live with that premise.
Veni, Trimbli, Vici...
...Have you been caught up in the whole 'Trimble Nation' phenomenon, the swaying tide of opinion regarding the fragrant and achingly bright Miss Trimble?
We in The Wolds are fairly phlegmatic folk all told and not prone to easy adulation of transient celebrity types. But even here, and certainly within the Rectory, of late there has been much crying up of she who has - finally and dare one say it barely? - led her Corpus Christi team to victory in this season's 'University Challenge.'
Sad to see and read that some mean types have taken to deriding, nay scorning, Miss Trimble's special charism of being smart and knowing stuff. In spades it must be said. I'll have none of it. Lord alone knows how invested in pig ignorance are far too many of our young people. I will have an example of good learning applauded.
And thus one announces an eponymous neologism in honour of a fine young woman and a tightly-fought, near-lost contest:
'To trimble' v.i.: to cause or to suffer anxiety by hesitating on the very verge of much deserved victory.
'Much Trimbling in the Marsh' one recalls from the days of wireless. Keats' 'trimbling heart' is another literary reference.
Paramount though, as we classicists will know, is the maxim ascribed to the warring yet uncertain Caesar, J.: 'Veni, Trimbli, Vici.'
You carry on banging that button dear lady. When you know - and who should not in an educated country? - that the chap in the picture can be none but Dante, then you sing out loud and proud. Put a smile on Paxo's grim face and be assured The Wolds is on your side.
We in The Wolds are fairly phlegmatic folk all told and not prone to easy adulation of transient celebrity types. But even here, and certainly within the Rectory, of late there has been much crying up of she who has - finally and dare one say it barely? - led her Corpus Christi team to victory in this season's 'University Challenge.'
Sad to see and read that some mean types have taken to deriding, nay scorning, Miss Trimble's special charism of being smart and knowing stuff. In spades it must be said. I'll have none of it. Lord alone knows how invested in pig ignorance are far too many of our young people. I will have an example of good learning applauded.
And thus one announces an eponymous neologism in honour of a fine young woman and a tightly-fought, near-lost contest:
'To trimble' v.i.: to cause or to suffer anxiety by hesitating on the very verge of much deserved victory.
'Much Trimbling in the Marsh' one recalls from the days of wireless. Keats' 'trimbling heart' is another literary reference.
Paramount though, as we classicists will know, is the maxim ascribed to the warring yet uncertain Caesar, J.: 'Veni, Trimbli, Vici.'
You carry on banging that button dear lady. When you know - and who should not in an educated country? - that the chap in the picture can be none but Dante, then you sing out loud and proud. Put a smile on Paxo's grim face and be assured The Wolds is on your side.
Thursday, February 19, 2009
The Thousand Yard Stare...
"Gentlemen of the jury, the interest aroused by this case and the lobbying that has taken place over it are presumably well known to you."
Dear Demosthenes, up to his old tricks from the outset. Of course politically founded lobbying was paramount within an Athenian trial - before, during and afterwards - but Demosthenes would merely wish gently to remind the jurors that he knew it to be so, not in any way seek to make an alienating fuss in his opening speech.
The contextual clue of course is in the opening phrase, for where now would one hear reference to an all male jury? Would Demosthenes indeed have managed a 'Ladies and Gentlemen...' with a perfect Rumpolesque warmth, positively welcoming on board representatives of the 'She Who Must Be Obeyed' species?
I suspect he might, with perhaps some practising first. For is that not the mark of the true - if slightly slippery - orator that he (or indeed she) can make a compelling case out of any old set of materials to hand?
A backhanded compliment to the historian A J P Taylor was that he could successfully argue any case of historical causality before a band of eagerly scribbling students, only to return the following day to lecture quite the opposite with equal weight, thus causing consternation and dismay to same scribblers? His entire intention no doubt, and no bad thing for their independent intellectual development would be my view on the matter.
By why he - Demosthenes not AJP - tonight? 'Tis this. If I have regrets in life, one would have to be not ever grasping the ancient Greek tongue. We at school were, fairly arbitrarily, divided into Greeks and Germans. My lot falling to the latter, I can now reasonably enquire of any Herr or Frau the whereabouts of the nearest pharmacy should one ever be needed when out and about in Bavaria. I am, however, by consequence entirely reliant on translations when it comes to making my way through the delights of Herodotus or the difficulties of Aristotle. I do not feel, in that, I have had the greater part of the bargain.
Leaving though behind the regret of not being able to grapple with the original texts, there is little I find more soothing after a hard day's rectoring than to settle down with an ancient Greek author's thoughts on the world as it was, is or might yet be.
Particularly after today and, thus this evening, in especial Demosthenes. There are folk enough gifted at the the full art of public oratory, but I am not one such. Addressing a steaming conference horde on such a topic as 'The Rural Rector - a resource for troubled times?' is neither my choice nor my delight. The question is properly moot - these are troubled times and Rectors do have work to do therein - but I much would rather be out being as resourceful as I might than standing before several hundred of the steaming conference types trying to put that into words.
"Watch out for the thousand yard stare," has been Bro. George's advice on the matter. "If you see that in their faces you know you've lost them." He, being the sort of professional cove whose life is oft wrapped up in such matters, knows full well his onions here. You can sense yourself flying with the sheer wonder of your rhetoric, but when you glance down at the assembled steamers and see their eyes lost into some remote middle-distance, utterly oblivious of your presence and totally deaf to your implorings, well then it is time to wind up and to sit down.
Not saying it was quite that bad today, but in truth not that far off. So no Demosthenes me that for certain. Do I read him then, the assured and smooth speaker whose words echo down the centuries, with some envy? Not at all. I relish the charism he had, rather than growl for that which I do not.
But more on this, for yes my key consideration is that debate is but the beginning; perhaps not even a necessary matter and for certain not a sufficient. For my reading this evening has been interrupted by a woefully distressed telephone call from the wife of one of my farming parishioners. I knew he had been suffering down the years from the financial pressures of his life - little enough money in pigs at the best of times, and these are pretty well the worst of them - so I was not surprised, though of course saddened, to hear her tell me he had broken down completely and been taken away for some much needed medical treatment.
What shook me though from any post-conference blues were her words to describe his pre-admission state. "I knew I'd lost him, Rector, when I looked in his eyes and saw the thousand yard state." It was only then that I recalled the true and desperate origin of that phrase. Not dull conferences, but shell-shock in the trenches during the First World War gave rise to it. That was when they knew a soldier was down - his eyes fixed into some far-distant horror, unable to let go if it.
So are we now come to this, that men - and women too - are to be so crazed by the strife and strain of seeking to survive in the bedlam of economic meltdown that they too will crash as war-torn soldiers once did? Yes they are, is all that need be said. What then the totally average rural Rector is to do to help is not something I'll be asking dear Demosthenes to consider, howsoever an accomplished orator in matters of state. Higher forces for invoking tonight in something so personal and so pressing.
Dear Demosthenes, up to his old tricks from the outset. Of course politically founded lobbying was paramount within an Athenian trial - before, during and afterwards - but Demosthenes would merely wish gently to remind the jurors that he knew it to be so, not in any way seek to make an alienating fuss in his opening speech.
The contextual clue of course is in the opening phrase, for where now would one hear reference to an all male jury? Would Demosthenes indeed have managed a 'Ladies and Gentlemen...' with a perfect Rumpolesque warmth, positively welcoming on board representatives of the 'She Who Must Be Obeyed' species?
I suspect he might, with perhaps some practising first. For is that not the mark of the true - if slightly slippery - orator that he (or indeed she) can make a compelling case out of any old set of materials to hand?
A backhanded compliment to the historian A J P Taylor was that he could successfully argue any case of historical causality before a band of eagerly scribbling students, only to return the following day to lecture quite the opposite with equal weight, thus causing consternation and dismay to same scribblers? His entire intention no doubt, and no bad thing for their independent intellectual development would be my view on the matter.
By why he - Demosthenes not AJP - tonight? 'Tis this. If I have regrets in life, one would have to be not ever grasping the ancient Greek tongue. We at school were, fairly arbitrarily, divided into Greeks and Germans. My lot falling to the latter, I can now reasonably enquire of any Herr or Frau the whereabouts of the nearest pharmacy should one ever be needed when out and about in Bavaria. I am, however, by consequence entirely reliant on translations when it comes to making my way through the delights of Herodotus or the difficulties of Aristotle. I do not feel, in that, I have had the greater part of the bargain.
Leaving though behind the regret of not being able to grapple with the original texts, there is little I find more soothing after a hard day's rectoring than to settle down with an ancient Greek author's thoughts on the world as it was, is or might yet be.
Particularly after today and, thus this evening, in especial Demosthenes. There are folk enough gifted at the the full art of public oratory, but I am not one such. Addressing a steaming conference horde on such a topic as 'The Rural Rector - a resource for troubled times?' is neither my choice nor my delight. The question is properly moot - these are troubled times and Rectors do have work to do therein - but I much would rather be out being as resourceful as I might than standing before several hundred of the steaming conference types trying to put that into words.
"Watch out for the thousand yard stare," has been Bro. George's advice on the matter. "If you see that in their faces you know you've lost them." He, being the sort of professional cove whose life is oft wrapped up in such matters, knows full well his onions here. You can sense yourself flying with the sheer wonder of your rhetoric, but when you glance down at the assembled steamers and see their eyes lost into some remote middle-distance, utterly oblivious of your presence and totally deaf to your implorings, well then it is time to wind up and to sit down.
Not saying it was quite that bad today, but in truth not that far off. So no Demosthenes me that for certain. Do I read him then, the assured and smooth speaker whose words echo down the centuries, with some envy? Not at all. I relish the charism he had, rather than growl for that which I do not.
But more on this, for yes my key consideration is that debate is but the beginning; perhaps not even a necessary matter and for certain not a sufficient. For my reading this evening has been interrupted by a woefully distressed telephone call from the wife of one of my farming parishioners. I knew he had been suffering down the years from the financial pressures of his life - little enough money in pigs at the best of times, and these are pretty well the worst of them - so I was not surprised, though of course saddened, to hear her tell me he had broken down completely and been taken away for some much needed medical treatment.
What shook me though from any post-conference blues were her words to describe his pre-admission state. "I knew I'd lost him, Rector, when I looked in his eyes and saw the thousand yard state." It was only then that I recalled the true and desperate origin of that phrase. Not dull conferences, but shell-shock in the trenches during the First World War gave rise to it. That was when they knew a soldier was down - his eyes fixed into some far-distant horror, unable to let go if it.
So are we now come to this, that men - and women too - are to be so crazed by the strife and strain of seeking to survive in the bedlam of economic meltdown that they too will crash as war-torn soldiers once did? Yes they are, is all that need be said. What then the totally average rural Rector is to do to help is not something I'll be asking dear Demosthenes to consider, howsoever an accomplished orator in matters of state. Higher forces for invoking tonight in something so personal and so pressing.
Saturday, February 07, 2009
The Right Kind Of Snow....
..."The worst snow for eighteen years" they have been telling us, and they are correct.
Not that, ordinarily, I am much moved by the weather as such. It more or less just is, and whatever it is one must do what one must do. Not a terribly Wordsworthian approach to the whole 'grandeur of nature' thing I own, nor indeed the type of 'take it or leave it' approach that would find much favour with dear David Attenborough true enough.
But there it is, the wheels of the parish must turn in rain, wind or shine. A pity of course for any wedding occasion marred by monsoon downpours. My own expressed line on this - that in China such a day would be seen as the Gods raining down blessings on the happy couple - is not one that, all in all, cuts the celebratory mustard I do find. (H has indeed strongly suggested I refrain from such a 'damp' remark, though habit tends to overcome sage advice.)
I even recall a fellow seminarian who let it be known that he was rather keen on 'clouds'. Not in any old hippie way - 'Wow clouds man, they're amazing' - which at least would have been acceptable from a certain class of aspirant: the older convert from paganism so oft found abroad nowadays. No, this chap actually meant that the physics and the chemistry of clouds held a special place in his view of the world and, as such, was worthy of both deep study and endless mention. (Should you ever need someone to empty a room or to close a party on time, then hire Rev Dave X to come and start talking on the particular - nay unique - structure of the cumulus cloud in Spring. Works every time believe me.)
But on this 'worse for eighteen years' thing I am totally on top of my facts here. I do speak though not as a meteorologist but as a parent, or rather at the time as a parent-about-to-become. For it was this season and time some eighteen years ago the we [H and I] were waiting for dear E to decide it was time to be born.
There was a mutually acknowledged concern that a certain Wednesday was the projected 'D' for delivery day, Wednesdays belonging to 'Morse' of course in those days and neither of us terribly keen to miss an episode! But more than that, come the appointed time came also the snows in huge drifts and flurries. The blocking of roads, the inability of hospital staff to reach their places of gainful employment or of ambulances to get outside the gates of their yards - all these were truly and personally troublesome matters.
Staring outside at four feet and more of the white stuff had me gasping at the thought that a home birth, entirely unaided but by self and a manual, was a distinct possibility. ("Just get ready to catch - might shoot out like a lemon pip" was the not so supportive advice of the midwife on the end of the telephone.)
Given then the strong possibility that any travel to the appointed hospital would need to be a self-help affair, it did strike me to check the car was as prepared as it could be for such a difficult journey. Well need I say, it wasn't. The battery proved as dead as all dead things heaped together in a large pile in a dead end going nowhere. Like the car.
This then was the Tuesday evening gone eight o'clock. Morse was not due for another twenty-four hours, but H was strongly intimating that E was on her way!
This then is the nub of it - if you have kept pace - only the local garage could possibly supply a new car battery at this point, and that garage was long shut for the evening with proprietor John Boy (one of those lovely English nicknames completely mis-naming the great, ugly, but sweet gentle giant of a man he was) long gone to his home some many miles away. Many miles away in the snow, of course.
But cometh the hour had to cometh the phone call to John Boy. Nor else a choice. Circs explained, to his everlasting glory the man said at once he would borrow a tractor from his Bro. John Boy down the lane, and drive in through drift, flurry and the freezing night in order to find and fix me the battery I, the car - and H and E - needed.
The story's climax should have me driving through blizzard storm to get H to the hospital on time. Truth though is rather the more mundane. E - a lifetime habit - showed no interest in being timely, rather waiting a whole further two weeks to show herself to the waiting world and the expectant parents both. By which time all snows had gone, roads were clear and the weather utterly unremarkable.
John Boy's kindness and selflessness though have not be forgotten these eighteen years. When the time shortly will come to buy E her first car it will be from his lot we choose. (Might even suggest she gets herself a spare battery. You never know when you might need one!)
Not that, ordinarily, I am much moved by the weather as such. It more or less just is, and whatever it is one must do what one must do. Not a terribly Wordsworthian approach to the whole 'grandeur of nature' thing I own, nor indeed the type of 'take it or leave it' approach that would find much favour with dear David Attenborough true enough.
But there it is, the wheels of the parish must turn in rain, wind or shine. A pity of course for any wedding occasion marred by monsoon downpours. My own expressed line on this - that in China such a day would be seen as the Gods raining down blessings on the happy couple - is not one that, all in all, cuts the celebratory mustard I do find. (H has indeed strongly suggested I refrain from such a 'damp' remark, though habit tends to overcome sage advice.)
I even recall a fellow seminarian who let it be known that he was rather keen on 'clouds'. Not in any old hippie way - 'Wow clouds man, they're amazing' - which at least would have been acceptable from a certain class of aspirant: the older convert from paganism so oft found abroad nowadays. No, this chap actually meant that the physics and the chemistry of clouds held a special place in his view of the world and, as such, was worthy of both deep study and endless mention. (Should you ever need someone to empty a room or to close a party on time, then hire Rev Dave X to come and start talking on the particular - nay unique - structure of the cumulus cloud in Spring. Works every time believe me.)
But on this 'worse for eighteen years' thing I am totally on top of my facts here. I do speak though not as a meteorologist but as a parent, or rather at the time as a parent-about-to-become. For it was this season and time some eighteen years ago the we [H and I] were waiting for dear E to decide it was time to be born.
There was a mutually acknowledged concern that a certain Wednesday was the projected 'D' for delivery day, Wednesdays belonging to 'Morse' of course in those days and neither of us terribly keen to miss an episode! But more than that, come the appointed time came also the snows in huge drifts and flurries. The blocking of roads, the inability of hospital staff to reach their places of gainful employment or of ambulances to get outside the gates of their yards - all these were truly and personally troublesome matters.
Staring outside at four feet and more of the white stuff had me gasping at the thought that a home birth, entirely unaided but by self and a manual, was a distinct possibility. ("Just get ready to catch - might shoot out like a lemon pip" was the not so supportive advice of the midwife on the end of the telephone.)
Given then the strong possibility that any travel to the appointed hospital would need to be a self-help affair, it did strike me to check the car was as prepared as it could be for such a difficult journey. Well need I say, it wasn't. The battery proved as dead as all dead things heaped together in a large pile in a dead end going nowhere. Like the car.
This then was the Tuesday evening gone eight o'clock. Morse was not due for another twenty-four hours, but H was strongly intimating that E was on her way!
This then is the nub of it - if you have kept pace - only the local garage could possibly supply a new car battery at this point, and that garage was long shut for the evening with proprietor John Boy (one of those lovely English nicknames completely mis-naming the great, ugly, but sweet gentle giant of a man he was) long gone to his home some many miles away. Many miles away in the snow, of course.
But cometh the hour had to cometh the phone call to John Boy. Nor else a choice. Circs explained, to his everlasting glory the man said at once he would borrow a tractor from his Bro. John Boy down the lane, and drive in through drift, flurry and the freezing night in order to find and fix me the battery I, the car - and H and E - needed.
The story's climax should have me driving through blizzard storm to get H to the hospital on time. Truth though is rather the more mundane. E - a lifetime habit - showed no interest in being timely, rather waiting a whole further two weeks to show herself to the waiting world and the expectant parents both. By which time all snows had gone, roads were clear and the weather utterly unremarkable.
John Boy's kindness and selflessness though have not be forgotten these eighteen years. When the time shortly will come to buy E her first car it will be from his lot we choose. (Might even suggest she gets herself a spare battery. You never know when you might need one!)
Thursday, January 29, 2009
"And Now We Rise...." John Martyn In Memoriam
http://viewfromthewolds.blogspot.com/2007/02/solid-air.html
...do revisit, as I have just done, these words of mine from some two years past regarding the great and now sadly the late John Martyn.
I add only this. The grave of his dear friend Nick Drake has its epitaph, a line from one of own his wonderful songs. It is now a fitting memorial for them both, reunited once more in eternity:
"And now we rise, and we are everywhere."
Go in peace dear John, play sweet duets with Nick, and thank you so much for all you gave of yourself.
...do revisit, as I have just done, these words of mine from some two years past regarding the great and now sadly the late John Martyn.
I add only this. The grave of his dear friend Nick Drake has its epitaph, a line from one of own his wonderful songs. It is now a fitting memorial for them both, reunited once more in eternity:
"And now we rise, and we are everywhere."
Go in peace dear John, play sweet duets with Nick, and thank you so much for all you gave of yourself.
Monday, January 26, 2009
On Holding The Front Page...
...well perhaps more an inside page than the cover itself, but the principle is the same.
Just settling down this afternoon for the traditional 'power nap' that falls upon one so readily at this lowering time of year, when who but H should bean her way through the very closed study door to announce in high and strident tones that to the devil with a nap, 'Horse and Hound' had just been on the blower wanting a word with our E.
Hard, if you are not a riding family to put quite into words how potent a sentence that is if you are. How can one compare? Say then that motor cars are your thing and young Clarkson, J. should ring up for a chat; or else when scrivening away over some legal tomes as part of your student studies, the Lord Chancellor should happen to stroll round for tea and a chinwag.
That order of magnitude, I trust you see.
But why her and why they I mused to H? Not the sharpest - not nearly half as sharp as required for sure - response I fear. "Stupid man," sighed she. "It's about that dressage competition she won yesterday." Well, of course what else should it have been but that? Just so indeed.
Wasn't going to indulge in any proud parent crowing by mentioning it, but yes she did come a fine first at a show yesterday, and newsworthy enough it seems it is for H & H to want to conduct the smallest no doubt of interviews with her on her victory.
E, at work when the phone rang, could not reply at once. I trust though she bothered to return the call and, equally, assume her acceptance speech was suitably honed - "I owe it all of course to my horse, my trainers and above all my ever wondrous parents, without whose enduring support and endless cash I would not be standing here now." (Hope at least she remembers our names, unlike the overwhelmed and undone Miss Winslet the other night!)
I may have missed my nap, but I shall not miss a discreet note to Bessy at the Post Office requesting her to order an extra dozen or so of the magazine for next week, in order that they may be casually distributed around the parish for all to read and admire.
Probably won't leave them open at the relevant page, but will have to give some thought to that matter: discretion vs. direction. A tricky dilemma you'll agree.
Just settling down this afternoon for the traditional 'power nap' that falls upon one so readily at this lowering time of year, when who but H should bean her way through the very closed study door to announce in high and strident tones that to the devil with a nap, 'Horse and Hound' had just been on the blower wanting a word with our E.
Hard, if you are not a riding family to put quite into words how potent a sentence that is if you are. How can one compare? Say then that motor cars are your thing and young Clarkson, J. should ring up for a chat; or else when scrivening away over some legal tomes as part of your student studies, the Lord Chancellor should happen to stroll round for tea and a chinwag.
That order of magnitude, I trust you see.
But why her and why they I mused to H? Not the sharpest - not nearly half as sharp as required for sure - response I fear. "Stupid man," sighed she. "It's about that dressage competition she won yesterday." Well, of course what else should it have been but that? Just so indeed.
Wasn't going to indulge in any proud parent crowing by mentioning it, but yes she did come a fine first at a show yesterday, and newsworthy enough it seems it is for H & H to want to conduct the smallest no doubt of interviews with her on her victory.
E, at work when the phone rang, could not reply at once. I trust though she bothered to return the call and, equally, assume her acceptance speech was suitably honed - "I owe it all of course to my horse, my trainers and above all my ever wondrous parents, without whose enduring support and endless cash I would not be standing here now." (Hope at least she remembers our names, unlike the overwhelmed and undone Miss Winslet the other night!)
I may have missed my nap, but I shall not miss a discreet note to Bessy at the Post Office requesting her to order an extra dozen or so of the magazine for next week, in order that they may be casually distributed around the parish for all to read and admire.
Probably won't leave them open at the relevant page, but will have to give some thought to that matter: discretion vs. direction. A tricky dilemma you'll agree.
Friday, January 23, 2009
As A Matter Of Fact, I Do Know Of A Better Hole...
If you don't then you won't know that our neck of The Wolds is more hilly than not. Visitors oft remark that they had expected a Cowardesque landscape of unrewarding flatness only, of course, to note on arrival and local exploration the unending undulations of it all round here.
Geology not being a lengthy suit of mine I cannot give account of why this should be, but take it from our newly enlightened visitors it is. That being so, The Wolds could well be the sort of place panicky folk would tend to aspire to when the cry goes out - as soon it must - 'Head for the hills!'
Take it from me, though, that - to paraphrase the old World War One cartoon - there are better hills to whence you should go and thus go to them you must. Why do I say this? Is it concern for your best interests that I should urge you to the Chilterns or the Cheviots rather than The Wolds when in flight from the coming doom? Could rather it be a more selfish desire on my part not to have our small space clogged with indigent incomers?
The latter I fear and also own. But why the jeremiad tone, you reasonably ask? Have I spotted something of such tremendous terror that, like the eponymous OT prophet and all round gloom-merchant, has me tonight so assured of impending disaster I must prepare myself and yourselves for the very worst?
Well, yes sadly I have. Just been listening to this knowledgeable cove on the wireless who told it straight. For, it seems, to buy now insurance against GB plc going bust - that is, to insure against the failure of British Government bonds - not only costs more than the price of the bond itself, but is also at the same rate that would be asked for insurance against the smashed RBS going down the pan.
This is truly chilling. These insurance fellows are not the crazed 'Masters of the Universe' financial types, whose deluded desires for untold wealth have hatched this whole horrid mess. No, these types are the calculating actuaries who know how to call the right odds in any bet. (Handy to have one by your side for a day at the races of course.)
So if they say that we, as a country, are heading for bankruptcy, then you'd be a foolish reader who wagered to the contrary.
We shall all be heading for the hills soon I fear. By all means do so, but just not our hills if you wouldn't mind. We'd hate to be seen as inhospitable and all that, but be advised barricades are in the making, road signs are already disappearing and our ex-SAS chemist [see much earlier] is starting survivalist evening classes.
Just off to the first one now, if you'll excuse me. 'How to cook up a nourishing broth of nettles whilst keeping a lookout for approaching strangers'. Most useful.
Geology not being a lengthy suit of mine I cannot give account of why this should be, but take it from our newly enlightened visitors it is. That being so, The Wolds could well be the sort of place panicky folk would tend to aspire to when the cry goes out - as soon it must - 'Head for the hills!'
Take it from me, though, that - to paraphrase the old World War One cartoon - there are better hills to whence you should go and thus go to them you must. Why do I say this? Is it concern for your best interests that I should urge you to the Chilterns or the Cheviots rather than The Wolds when in flight from the coming doom? Could rather it be a more selfish desire on my part not to have our small space clogged with indigent incomers?
The latter I fear and also own. But why the jeremiad tone, you reasonably ask? Have I spotted something of such tremendous terror that, like the eponymous OT prophet and all round gloom-merchant, has me tonight so assured of impending disaster I must prepare myself and yourselves for the very worst?
Well, yes sadly I have. Just been listening to this knowledgeable cove on the wireless who told it straight. For, it seems, to buy now insurance against GB plc going bust - that is, to insure against the failure of British Government bonds - not only costs more than the price of the bond itself, but is also at the same rate that would be asked for insurance against the smashed RBS going down the pan.
This is truly chilling. These insurance fellows are not the crazed 'Masters of the Universe' financial types, whose deluded desires for untold wealth have hatched this whole horrid mess. No, these types are the calculating actuaries who know how to call the right odds in any bet. (Handy to have one by your side for a day at the races of course.)
So if they say that we, as a country, are heading for bankruptcy, then you'd be a foolish reader who wagered to the contrary.
We shall all be heading for the hills soon I fear. By all means do so, but just not our hills if you wouldn't mind. We'd hate to be seen as inhospitable and all that, but be advised barricades are in the making, road signs are already disappearing and our ex-SAS chemist [see much earlier] is starting survivalist evening classes.
Just off to the first one now, if you'll excuse me. 'How to cook up a nourishing broth of nettles whilst keeping a lookout for approaching strangers'. Most useful.
Monday, January 12, 2009
"...And Not A Penny More!" (How to thrive in a time of recession)
Odd news just in from the rather lovely Borough of Poole. (Second largest natural harbour in the world and all that jazz.)
For it seems a thriving 'Every Item A Pound' store there has been forced to close after a rival shop opened opposite selling the same wares but for a penny less.
Can't imagine it's much fun working the till at such a place, not to mention the cash-up at the end of the day. That though is by the by, for the Great British Public has spoken - "Show us a penny and we're for taking it."
Is this then the dreadful measure of the depth of the recession that people will literally cross the road just to save a penny? Seemingly so on the evidence. (Would that some feral youths of this parish would cross the road to spend a penny at the local public convenience designed for that very purpose and absolutely - despite the metaphor - free at the point of delivery, as it were, rather than simply urinating where they stand on their side of the street. But that is another matter for another time.)
Let us though pursue the thought and in so doing make our fortunes. For if 99p pricing can wipe out a pound, then let us at once pool our resources (in Poole naturally) and chance our arms with a 98 pence a throw model of sales.
Bound to work - for a while - until some dastardly cove comes in at 97p, to be further undercut by the 96'ers. And so forth, thence finally reaching the point of absurdity where someone actually pays you to take the goods away.
Granted then there are limits to the 'pile 'em high and sell 'em cheap' way of doing business. But it will be the richest fellow in town who can chop in at the absolute rock-bottom price with yet a margin of profit howsoever small.
Sets you thinking don't it?
For it seems a thriving 'Every Item A Pound' store there has been forced to close after a rival shop opened opposite selling the same wares but for a penny less.
Can't imagine it's much fun working the till at such a place, not to mention the cash-up at the end of the day. That though is by the by, for the Great British Public has spoken - "Show us a penny and we're for taking it."
Is this then the dreadful measure of the depth of the recession that people will literally cross the road just to save a penny? Seemingly so on the evidence. (Would that some feral youths of this parish would cross the road to spend a penny at the local public convenience designed for that very purpose and absolutely - despite the metaphor - free at the point of delivery, as it were, rather than simply urinating where they stand on their side of the street. But that is another matter for another time.)
Let us though pursue the thought and in so doing make our fortunes. For if 99p pricing can wipe out a pound, then let us at once pool our resources (in Poole naturally) and chance our arms with a 98 pence a throw model of sales.
Bound to work - for a while - until some dastardly cove comes in at 97p, to be further undercut by the 96'ers. And so forth, thence finally reaching the point of absurdity where someone actually pays you to take the goods away.
Granted then there are limits to the 'pile 'em high and sell 'em cheap' way of doing business. But it will be the richest fellow in town who can chop in at the absolute rock-bottom price with yet a margin of profit howsoever small.
Sets you thinking don't it?
Wednesday, January 07, 2009
Shaggers Bottom - A Brief Defence...
...What correlation is there, one wonders, between the utter savage wretchedness of the world and the rising tide of priggish officialdom? The more, for example, feral youths run riot causing mischief, mayhem and indeed sadly sometimes murder, the more does the Constabulary of this land appear to spend its time nicking plain folk for putting jokey advertisements in shop windows or else carving their hedgerows into amusing if mildly erotic shapes.
Most likely said Constabulary, as I fear so many of us, have simply given up on the big things, because they are truly monstrous and largely untouchable. How much easier is it to harass a poor pensioner for cluttering up a shopping centre or the child chalking hopscotch on a pavement, than to tackle the Mad Max gangs that terrorise whole neighbourhoods?
This though is not a rant about policing in its narrow sense, but of the latest Town Hall nonsense that would seek to sanitise our cherished street names. For way down South - not here mercifully - one reads that Lewes Council is to take arms against 'Juggs Close' and to prevent any 'Typple Lane'.
Pompously declaring they will not countenance names that are "capable of deliberate misinterpretation", the local Council sets its silly Puritan hat against fun in any guise. (More cakes and ale cried Falstaff and so do I!)
The worst of it is that in so po-facedly deciding, they are at war with our heritage, history and tradition. The 'jugg' that so titillates - or not - the modern ear is, for example, the name of the basket in which fish was carried in that once great port of Lewes.
We too here have our ancient names for ancient ways, 'Shaggers Bottom' being but the best of them. Yes it is amusing in all so many silly ways, but it is also a remembrance of the valley in which rough woollen cloth was woven in centuries past. A light-industry long gone maybe, but I would as soon lose that connection to our Woldean history as I would see an Elizabethan house torn down for being equally archaic.
Now for myself - as Rector - I own I do prefer not actually to live in Shaggers Bottom as such. There would be complications, it is true, I could and do well live without. But H and E have already heard from their stern and committed master that should come the day our local Council looks askance at the name we'll be moving there the very next day and hang the lot of them say we all. (Well, do I say anyways.)
Is there a New Year equivalent for Yuletide 'Bah Humbug'? There jolly well should be!
Most likely said Constabulary, as I fear so many of us, have simply given up on the big things, because they are truly monstrous and largely untouchable. How much easier is it to harass a poor pensioner for cluttering up a shopping centre or the child chalking hopscotch on a pavement, than to tackle the Mad Max gangs that terrorise whole neighbourhoods?
This though is not a rant about policing in its narrow sense, but of the latest Town Hall nonsense that would seek to sanitise our cherished street names. For way down South - not here mercifully - one reads that Lewes Council is to take arms against 'Juggs Close' and to prevent any 'Typple Lane'.
Pompously declaring they will not countenance names that are "capable of deliberate misinterpretation", the local Council sets its silly Puritan hat against fun in any guise. (More cakes and ale cried Falstaff and so do I!)
The worst of it is that in so po-facedly deciding, they are at war with our heritage, history and tradition. The 'jugg' that so titillates - or not - the modern ear is, for example, the name of the basket in which fish was carried in that once great port of Lewes.
We too here have our ancient names for ancient ways, 'Shaggers Bottom' being but the best of them. Yes it is amusing in all so many silly ways, but it is also a remembrance of the valley in which rough woollen cloth was woven in centuries past. A light-industry long gone maybe, but I would as soon lose that connection to our Woldean history as I would see an Elizabethan house torn down for being equally archaic.
Now for myself - as Rector - I own I do prefer not actually to live in Shaggers Bottom as such. There would be complications, it is true, I could and do well live without. But H and E have already heard from their stern and committed master that should come the day our local Council looks askance at the name we'll be moving there the very next day and hang the lot of them say we all. (Well, do I say anyways.)
Is there a New Year equivalent for Yuletide 'Bah Humbug'? There jolly well should be!
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