#Hungry4Democracy

Next Tuesday, 6th February, will mark 100 years since (some) women in this country were allowed to vote in parliamentary elections.  Many who fought for decades to achieve this would be amazed at the fault lines in our democracy 100 years on.

In 2015, the Lib Dems, Greens and UKIP, collectively, got over 24% of the votes, but won only 1.5% of the seats.  In 2017, those who hold power received only 43% of the votes.  First-past-the-post ensures that a large swathe of seats never change hands; thousands of voters can be born, live and die feeling their vote is completely worthless.  Dorset West, for example, has not changed hands in the last 100 years!  This is a situation that leads to apathy on one hand and complacency on the other.   

The solution is electoral reform, and a change to a proportional voting system.  This would also help to achieve the equality that those suffragettes and suffragists were fighting for a century ago.  Every country (including Scotland and Wales) with more than 40% female MPs uses PR.

Many people will be demonstrating and/or fasting on Tuesday in support of this cause.  If you want to join them, please use #Hungry4Democracy over the next few days and, if you are able join in a 24-hour hunger strike from 8.0 pm on Monday 5th February.

(Culled from a longer original by Baroness Sal Brinton,  President of the Liberal Democrats.)

Balls and Bells

I greatly admire the skill of the people who write apps for computers.  The snooker app I have on my tablet is so lifelike because it's fallible.  I mean, there are times when my opponent tries a very fine cut ... and misses completely!  This is my aid to relaxation most evenings.

I've been thinking this week of my teenage years when, with two or three friends, I would venture twice a week to the old schoolroom behind the air-raid shelter at the corner of the churchyard and play snooker on a real table.  One evening, I was alone; the older men greeted me, "Your friends not come tonight? You better come and play with us, then."  So I was made welcome at their table.  The speed of their game was noticeably slower and more thoughtful than the 'hit-and-hope' style I was used to.  As a result, I learned such a lot playing with them.

Sometimes it was at my own expense.  "Just a little top spin on that shot ..."  and, of course, my cue ball followed the red into the pocket, "4 away!" and laughter followed.  There was good advice, too, though; often it came through listening to the comments of one man to another.  The man who encouraged me most, Eric, was probably the oldest there, already in his seventies, I'd guess.  I remember his comment when an opponent had tried a particularly difficult manoeuvre.  "Well done, Jack.  You've got perfect position on the black there ... pity you didn't pot the red, though!"  The red was left in the jaws of the pocket, and Eric clipped it in effortlessly while still laughing.

So much of that game is mathematical, both in the geometry of the angles and in the degree to which energy is absorbed by the cushion, thus changing the direction in which the ball will leave after bouncing off.  The speed of a stroke is also critical: too soft, and it won't reach its destination, but too hard and the ball will bounce out of the pocket again instead of sinking and allowing you another shot.

My other teenage interest - unlike snooker, one that I've carried down to the present day - was bell-ringing.  It's another hobby in which precision is important, in this case precision of timing, which depends on being familiar with a bell and its peculiarities.  With experience, a ringer can quickly become aware of how to control a bell, in a similar way to driving a strange car.

Of course it's very much a team effort ... indeed, it's not something that can be done alone, since each bell requires a ringer!  No one person can make success of a piece of ringing, although one bad ringer in a team can make success difficult to achieve.  Since no one is perfect, most ringing consists of allowing for the slight variations of each other ringer in the team from one stroke to the next, perhaps in pulling a little too heavily or lightly, perhaps in mis-remembering the method.

Ringing, like snooker, was something I learned from people who'd had many years' experience: the man who taught me to handle a bell rang his first peal in 1923.  Many others in that band were of about the same age.  For a fair-sized market town, we had few native ringers, but the bells were good, had an excellent tone and were a joy to ring so, although we could only muster five or six on a Sunday, practice nights regularly attracted well over a dozen, to ring the eight bells.  For weddings or other special occasions, we would draw in help from the nearby villages.

One who came regularly from about six miles away was Albert.  He had an interesting technique, which I find I have adopted, although not consciously copying him.  If he found he was about to pull too quickly after the bell before him, his hands would vibrate forward and back, but at that same level, not making the downward movement until just that second or so later, so as to be in time with the rest.  I don't pretend to understand the science of that, and I don't suppose Albert did either.  Surely such a movement won't slow the bell down; it certainly doesn't change its direction.  My guess is that it simply gives the hands something to do until the right moment to make the downward pull.

Two old men, both long gone now but not forgotten, who played a part in shaping my leisure.

Flashbacks kill Christmas!

According to modern tradition, the Monday of this week is 'Blue' Monday.  It's supposed to be when all sorts of negative forces coincide, such as the weather; the realisation of how hard Christmas has hit our credit cards, versus how little funds there are to pay off the debt; the recent failures to keep New Year resolutions, and so on.

In the very simple life of my retirement, the way it plays out is this.  I'm on the brink of finishing up all the excessive amounts of stuff that I bought up before Christmas.  Many years ago, it used to be a treat for a poor family to have a chicken for Christmas dinner, but I live on chicken in one form or another several times a week.  Instead of chicken these days, there is turkey or goose for Christmas; and the shops are full of all manner of tasty treats and sweetmeats that only appear at this season.

My mind goes back to years soon after I'd left home.  Many a mother finds this problem as the children go their own ways in life: you're still cooking meals for four or more when there's only the two of you.  Well, in this instance, my mother still got a large Christmas cake (I don't think she made her own ... although in the earlier years she might have), even though she could only eat a little bit because of her diet.  It became a regular occurrence in February or March to be offered a slice of Christmas cake when paying a duty visit on a Sunday afternoon!

It's very difficult - and often quite a bit more expensive - when living alone, to buy just sufficient of everything to provide exactly for the feast days and no more.  So I've cleared up all the special food items from the holiday, and now have to revert to normal living: oat 'nobblies' in the biscuit barrel instead of the box of chocolate assortment on the shelf and lemon drizzle slices instead of stollen bites in the cake box.

My normal pattern at breakfast is to put jam on my toast one morning and marmalade the next - I know, I'm very fortunate that I have this choice!  Maybe the bright sunshine this morning confused me, but it wasn't until the marmalade was on the toast that I remembered I'd had marmalade yesterday.  My reaction to this catastrophe was benign, 'well, never mind, there can be jam tomorrow'.  It was no big deal.

Another memory from childhood came to mind.  It was summer and, as often happened on a sunny day, blankets had been stretched over the various structures in our small garden to provide a 'play house', where I could play in the warm fresh air and still be out of the direct sunlight.  It was such a nice afternoon that mum had brought me my tea in the garden.  I took one bite of the sandwich ... and set up such an almighty tantrum that I can still remember it over sixty years later!  For whatever reason, I had expected jam in the sandwich; instead, as a special treat, mum had filled it with baked apple, which she knew I liked.  My love for the apple was superceded by the surprise that it wasn't the jam I'd expected, and I let fly.

Goodness knows what the neighbours thought ... let alone my poor mother!  But, having drifted so far from Christmas into mid-summer, I think it's time I stopped drivelling until next week.

Resolution Activated

Last week I grudgingly allowed myself to persuade me (how schizophrenic is that?) to make a New Year's Resolution - not to waste time.  I'm pleased to report that, a whole week and more into the year, I'm keeping to it.  This has been a really positive week, not only in how much I've fitted into it, but also in plans that have been made for the future, as well as in my general attitude to life.

The weekend was fairly normal, with the resumption of the coffee morning at church on the first Saturday of the month, when we were treated this month to a video of the Northern Lights (Aurora Borealis) as well as the usual background music, provided by a volunteer pianist.  Later I skipped a chilling afternoon at a ringing meeting in favour of updating the background data for my regular investment analysis exercise.

Sunday's regular monthly duty may soon be coming to an end.  The old lady whom I've been taking to church on a rota basis is looking to begin driving again, and enquired of me where I get my car serviced.  In preference to explaining where the place was, I decided it was just as easy to drive round on our way home.  It was only a mile or so out of my way, but she was pleased as punch when she realised how convenient it would be to get to.  Now all that remains is to see whether she will act on the information.

Last Friday I had made my two-yearly visit to the opticians, where it was decided that I would need a new pair of reading specs.  Easiest and cheapest would be to replace the lenses in the pair I already have and, to my amazement, I had a call on Monday afternoon to say they were ready!  At the time I was in the middle of following up some matters decided upon at a Health & Safety meeting in the morning, so elected to collect them the following day.

As well as collecting the glasses, I reacted to the arrival of a catalogue in Tuesday's post to order some new clothes and, perhaps providentially, a parallel occurrence on Wednesday led to me following up an advert in a magazine that arrived, the outcome of which was that, after the first home-group meeting of the new year, I made a booking for a coach holiday.  I had a choice of May or September, and chose the former; I hope the weather will be kind.  I couldn't face waiting all through the summer months for a late holiday after the schools have resumed.  That doesn't affect me directly, of course, but it's sign that winter is on its way, and - in my mind at least - that the holiday season is past.

Yesterday's plans were comprehensively upset, and I was pleased with the way I coped with that.  Thursday is usually the day for monitoring my pension investments.  (That fund may not be large, but it's very lovingly looked after!)  The operation usually takes less than an hour, but as I went through the first stages this week, I noticed something wrong.  A little less haste, and a bit of digging, revealed that, although the process itself was working, it was churning out rubbish because of a few minor but quite significant changes to the names of some of the funds - one of which had evaded detection in mid-December!

By the time I'd worked out what was happening, decided how best to remedy the situation, overcome a computer crash, and put things right, it took nearer six hours rather than the one I'd expected.  However, all is now well, and vigilance against the recurrence of such sabotage is heightened!

Other achievements yesterday included the production of a batch of meals to re-stock the freezer and stop me going hungry for a few more weeks (it's not really that serious, but it sounds good!), and also making bookings for some theatre visits near and far in the coming months, following the arrival of yet another tempting item of post!

I recalled this morning a friendship long ago which taught me so much.  One day, as we sat watching TV, I asked if I might put my arm around her.  She said, in effect, 'If there's something you want to do, try it.  The worst that can happen is that I say no, or not now, and explain why not.'  I put my arm around her, and it wasn't rejected.  That lesson has stayed with me ... although, I confess, I've sometimes strayed into the byways of 'can't do' and 'wouldn't get away with'.  This week has prompted awareness of things I can do - some noted here, and others besides - and has brought with it happiness and a sense of achievement.  Long may it continue!

Going Home

For many years in my late teens and early married life, I sang in a mixed choir in my home town.  Occasionally the standard 4-part harmonies would give way to 3- or 4-part male-voice arrangements, and one of the earliest that I learned was a negro spiritual called Going Home.  The words, by William Arms Fisher, are set to the largo from Anton Dvořák's New World Symphony.  To my shame, I hadn't realised until refreshing my memory this week that it was in fact a funeral hymn, telling of finding familiar faces in Heaven.  However, I have always associated it with feelings of peace.

All of this makes even more strange an experience I had on Tuesday afternoon.  As readers will know from last week's post, I had been visiting my cousin over the new year, and I was on my way home from there.  The visit had been a very pleasant one but it had come to its natural end and I was comfortable about leaving to come home.  During the journey, my thoughts kept going back to a time some nineteen years ago, when I was also returning home after a winter holiday.  It was the last week of December and, although I have no wish to dig up the past, suffice to say that it had been one of the least happy Christmases of my entire life.

On that occasion my return journey had been by air and train; this time I was driving.  Then I was coming home after an uncomfortable holiday to face trauma and upheaval; this time couldn't be more of a contrast.  Why then, should my mind link the two?  And why should that tune, with its feeling of peace come to mind alongside such an opposing recollection?  I shared some of these puzzles with a friend yesterday, but we got no further than agreeing that memory is a very strange phenomenon, and gives us more surprises the older we get.

So, after the puzzles of the journey, I'm now picking up one by one the threads of life back home in the First Garden City.  Wednesday morning was very much routine, with the midweek church service followed by shopping and, on this occasion, other errands in the town as well.  Yesterday I was volunteering at the inter-church project to help the homeless and vulnerable people in our community.  On the home front, all the main strings to my life are being taken up again, and in many ways life will be fully back to normal by this time next week.

The one remaining question is New Year Resolutions.  I don't normally make any ... they're usually only too easy to break!  However, if I'm forced to pledge myself to something in that line, I would say that I'm planning to reduce wasted time, whether that be spending time on activities or disciplines that are not worthwhile or don't bring some benefit, or simply wandering about the flat wondering what to do next.  Generally, to be more active and efficient than previously.

How Was it for You?

Well, it's over for another year, that Christmas nightmare.

There are some people, we are told, for whom Christmas is 'a difficult time'.  I have to admit it, I'm one of them.  That expression is usually trotted out by people who are in a position to help and, to be fair to them, often do so to great effect.  This description of 'Christmas being a difficult time' has a variety of meanings, of course, depending upon the individuals.  Since I can only comment in depth on my own situation, I've been reflecting just what kind of help I do and don't appreciate.

One of the frustrations of living alone is food.  Fortunately supermarkets provide a wide range of 'meals for one', so there is no excuse for going hungry.  However, apart from a certain sameness of such a diet, there is also the question of additives and all the suspicion that surrounds them.  Since I finally retired, I have ensured that at least some of my meals are prepared at home, although the health benefits of home-cooking are undermined by the conflict between having the same meal three or four times in a week and the waste resulting from not using fresh ingredients before they are not longer fresh.  Of course some dishes can be made in 'serves four' mode and then frozen, and indeed I do this, but freezer capacity is limited, especially in a small flat.

So, when it comes to a traditional Christmas dinner, I very much appreciate the invitation to eat with others at this time of year.  It's something that is provided from time to time by churches as part of their service to the community.  Those with the ability - some of whom are themselves alone - join forces to use the church's kitchen facilities to benefit a broader gathering, with the cost partly borne by those attending who can afford it and the balance underwritten by the church.  Sometimes it has been my good fortune to attend such a meal; on other occasions a variety of church families have offered me a place at their table and I suppose that, one way or the other, I've dined alone at Christmas less than half of the time.

Christmas is a time for giving, of course.  Its whole purpose, after all, is the commemoration of the gift of a baby to be 'God with us' here on earth.  In human terms, presents - in their being bought, prepared, wrapped, given and received - represent an important part of the overall Christmas experience, and a not insignificant contribution to the economy!  This is particularly frustrating for me, partly from a lack of resources, and partly from a limit to the number of worthy recipients.

There is particular disappointment in going round the shops, seeing something really delightful and then having that enjoyment 'balloon' immediately popped by the pin of realising that there is no one in my life for whom to buy it.  I favour 'alternative' gifts, where a sum of money is given to a charity in return for a label announcing the purpose for which it will be spent, the label - in the form of a greetings card - then being sent or given to a friend or family member in lieu of a tangible present.

Often the solution to a problem brings with it another difficulty.  The domestic resolution to the matter of the festive meal means that the 'lonely one' is injected into a family atmosphere that isn't his own.  Family presents are exchanged. 'This one is from Aunt Harriet'; 'Here's one from cousin Peter' ... the excitement rises; then out of nowhere - or so it seems - 'and here's one for you'. A present is provided for the invited one; so that he should not feel left out, but at the same time a reminder of all that sets him apart.

Does this mean that I don't appreciate a meal in someone else's home?  Certainly not!  Such pleasures are most welcome; it's just that they're not the comprehensive solution to a problem for which such a solution probably doesn't exist.

Now that their own family commitments have been discharged, I'm spending a few days with my cousin and her husband.  Naturally the whole business of being away from home requires one to behave in ways of normality that are not part of one's solo domestic lifestyle.  One of the less expected of these manifested itself at the breakfast table.  My normal habit at home is to make my breakfast in the kitchen and then transport it to the table.  In my kitchen I butter my toast on the flat surface of the worktop; at the breakfast table I faced this task upon a plate, the raised rim of which hinders the even approach of knife blade to bread.

The experience brings bonuses as well.  I don't have to worry about food, and instead have the delight of communal wiping up.  I'm also planning a variety in worship this weekend.  Rather than attend a local church, I shall take a bus into Nottingham and, for the first time in many years attend a Quaker meeting.  For a couple of years in Norfolk, it was my habit to go the the village Church and the Meeting House alternately and the discipline of silence is a dimension of worship I miss.

For the present, the greatest 'problem' is knowing what day of the week it is.  I think we are all in need of a good strong Monday to sort us out ... is that one I see just around the corner?

Ready for Christmas?

It seems to be the question of the season this year.  More people than ever have asked me, "Are you ready for Christmas, then?"  My response is the non-committal, "As ready as I'll ever be."  It's a question that does demand some serious thought, however.  What does it mean to be 'ready for Christmas'?

Christmas, and consequentially to be ready for it, means different things to different people.  At one end of the spectrum is the religious festival, commemorating the arrival of a baby.  At the other is a sequence of gatherings and parties focused solely on enjoying the company of friends, eating and drinking as much as you feel comfortable with ... or perhaps a little more than that!

To be ready for a religious festival falls on the shoulders of a few who are organising it, although - in our church at least - that few tends to be quite a sizeable number, as more and more are willing to get involved.  But for the average attender, a little forethought is probably the only preparation required, so long as you can get to the venue on time.

At the other extreme, a great deal of organising is involved, laying in stocks of traditional food, nibbles and drinks, decorating the house, preparing games and amusements, maybe organising live music for a big party.  And this is all in addition to the writing and receiving of loads of Christmas cards, and the buying, wrapping and delivering of all kinds of presents, graded in size and value according to the closeness of the relationship to the recipient.

I was ready for my own marking of the season some weeks ago.  Cards were bought, written and stacked up for posting, a few simple gifts prepared and wrapped, and some 'alternative gifts' arranged.  That's not to say that there aren't one or two 'extra' food items, but as one who has neither room nor aptitude to entertain in any meaningful way, these are necessarily few.  For me one of the greatest excitements is the arrival of cards, and the messages - some long, some short and concise - that they bring.

One evening this week, I had a phone call from the God-daughter of a second cousin, who had been passed, for the second year running, my card and newsletter that had been sent to him.  In a wave of overwhelming embarrassment and guilt, she realised that she'd never got around to phoning me last year to tell me that he'd died two Christmases ago!  After reassuring her that she shouldn't worry about that, that these things happen, and so on, I began to look at my card list and noting the absence of cards from one or two other elderly people, wondering whether they, too, might have fallen off the twig of life during the past twelve months.

As I noted last week, many friendships and relationships like this are only updated once a year in this way.  It's a worthwhile exercise to look through the cards before recycling them, to reflect on the notes that have come with them.  One chap who, so far as I knew had remained unmarried for fifty years, had this year added to his greeting, '... and family'.  Another card enclosed the usual single sheet listing all the children, grandchildren and now great-grandchildren, out of which I think I recognised just one name.  Another, which doesn't usually enclose a letter, brought news of a son who had taken his young family off to Australia following up a job offer.  The job didn't work out, and he's now looking for work there.

There comes a point - perhaps midway through the following week - when the parties are over, the energy completely sapped and the larder empty and you begin to ask, "Was it all worth it?"  Unless something really exciting or really terrible has happened, this is another question that's difficult to answer, until that date in January when all the bills have to be paid, and you realise that it was definitely not worth it, and wonder why you bothered!

One reason that most people bother was expressed in a familiar saying I overheard in the supermarket the other day, "It's all about the children, isn't it?"  In a way, that's true, of course.  It's all about that baby in a manger in Bethlehem 2,000 years ago.  But He didn't come just for children: He came as a child, but for us all.  In the sense in which I heard that remark, I have to agree, though.  The sense of awe and excitement that only children seem to be able freely to express certainly evaporates once they've grown up. 

In times past Christmas Day was only the start of a celebration that would go on until Twelfth Night.  The Yule log - in some houses a whole tree-trunk - would be burned from one end, and pushed further into the grate as the days passed, while the celebrations continued.  The modern Christmas razzmatazz, however, stops abruptly with, or even before, the new year, as commerce moves on. 

Today's focus is on the build up to one big day; the whole season of Advent, which puts Christmas into perspective, is squeezed out.  Without this background that gives Christmas its purpose, modern man is lost for a motive for his celebration.  Without that motive, it's little wonder that the celebration falls flat on its face once the food is eaten and the booze is gone; little wonder that we ask 'was it all worth it?'

So, with a sincerity that only some will recognise, I wish all of my readers a truly Blessed Christmas.