Bring me sunshine

I am going to try to ignore my anxieties about the rise of fascism across the world, the growing threat to civilisation from climate change and environmental degradation, and the criminally corrupt and incompetent Tory UK government. They’re all interlinked but let’s just sit back for a few moments and enjoy the sunshine, because that’s what we’ve had this week – sunshine.

It’s seems like we’ve had six months of wet, dreary weather, never particularly cold but with few days when being outside was a pleasure. But that is what the climate experts have told us to expect as the world warms – milder, wetter winters with increased risk of storms and flooding events. In the summer we can also expect more heatwaves, with droughts and temperatures in many parts of the world reaching the limits of human existence. For now though let’s try and forget the worries and how little is being done to combat climate change and enjoy being warm and dry and bathed in spring sunshine. There is no doubt that shedding a few clothes, raising one’s face to the blue sky and feeling the sunshine on one’s skin (not for too long) is a delight.

In addition, we have had the pleasure of having our flat decorated (not all of it, but a sizeable proportion). OK it means that we have been disrupted somewhat – pictures taken down, furniture moved, dust exposed – but the pleasure is seeing the transformation made by an skilled decorator. I don’t like d.i.y. I’m not very good at it, mainly because I haven’t bothered to learn how to do it properly, because I don’t enjoy it. I much prefer to be doing what I am doing now – writing. Watching an expert work is itself a pleasure, let alone seeing the transformation she’s made. Anyway, we will soon be back to normal in a smarter looking home – and I’ll have to re-hang those pictures.

Spring by a canal. What’s better? Not us on this occasion.

The topic for writing group this week was “Shades of Green.” I was somewhat distracted (what with the decorating, etc) so didn’t have much time for planning or actually writing. I think I was also overwhelmed by a surfeit of ideas generated by such a tempting subject. Would I go down the “Grey” route – sexual satire perhaps, or choose environmental disasters and dystopias. I looked up “green” on Wikipedia and was astounded, not by the number of shades of green (there are a lot), but by the variety of meaning and inference that the word carries. I tried to reflect on some of those in the piece that did get written although I am the first to admit that it is not a gripping story. Here then, for want of anything better, is Shades of Green.

Shades of Green

Jade Honeydew peered into the mirror. Her straw-coloured hair framed her face but did she look a little green? She had felt nauseous at the thought of starting her new job. She was green with envy of those whose self-confidence enabled them to take on new roles with ease. It was a big move for her, a huge responsibility and she didn’t want to approach it as a green ingénue.

                She had dressed in a new bold green suit with a paler silk blouse. The shade gave her a feeling of authority and intelligence, without the brash threat of red, the cold and distance of blue or the pretentiousness of purple.  With her self-assurance restored she stepped outside her door. The garden was a green oasis in the city. Wild flowers speckled the small uncut lawn, bluebells flowered beneath the small copper beech and shrubs were bursting into leaf.

                She took the metro to the city headquarters of her new employer. Travelling by public transport was part of the green philosophy that had shaped her career. Now she was taking on the task of directing green innovations for the company.

                The glass and aluminium frontage of the tower with its full height green wall was modern and forward looking, although she knew that it hid a steel and concrete core as carbon belching as other corporate skyscrapers. She took the lift to her department, met dozens of her new colleagues and at last found herself sitting at her new desk.

                As the day passed, Jade began to have doubts about her role in the company. She had expected to be driving forward green policies to help her employers meet the challenges of climate change and environmental degradation. She was distressed to learn that her department was within the marketing and PR division, and that she answered to the Director of Communications. There was no direct link with supply and manufacturing, not even waste management, and she had no contact with the board. She suspected that her position was simply that of an actor in front of a green screen displaying fantasies of green developments.

                Jade travelled home that evening feeling disgruntled and angry. She had to admit that her new position was as the launderer-in-chief for the company’s greenwashing.

…………………..

Vote, wot vote?

I have just engaged in a farce of democracy. Yes, I voted in our local Police & Crime Commissioner election. I haven’t seen the results yet, but on previous experience I doubt whether there was more than a 15% turnout. It may have been worse than that, as we had no other elections for it to piggyback on. There was no canvassing, no leaflets, no posters. The candidates were not named on local news. For the people who do not read local newspapers or watch or listen to local news, the election would probably have passed them by. I take democracy seriously (I’ll come back to that), so I looked up the election website and found the statements of the four candidates for the post of PCC of my police force. Two obviously had no idea about how the police worked or what the role of PCC meant, one was just interested in scoring political points and the other looked competent but had a number of other elected jobs.

Citizens and the Police deserve better than this. PCCs have been elected for over a decade now. They replaced the police authorities that were made up of councillors of the counties that made up the policing area. They were deemed to be “undemocratic” although the delegates on the authority had been elected. They were certainly rather anonymous since it was usually only the chair of the authority who was ever mentioned in local news. The (Conservative) government thought it would be more “sexy” and exciting to have elected PCCs, as they do in the USA. They appear in films such as Batman and Superman. Are they more democratic? I don’t think so. There is no support for candidates, so independents and small parties cannot afford to print and distribute posters and leaflets for the whole policing area. The larger parties just don’t bother. The result is that few people know who the candidates are or what they stand for. The appointment has become highly politicised and dominated by the larger parties with very few votes cast.

Once elected the PCC appoints deputies and “ambassadors” and other staff who are not elected and paid for out of the policing budget. Some PCCs do good work in supporting local efforts to reduce crime but some just flaunt their “powers” to criticise the police and the Chief Constables.

The PCC elections are just one example of UK democracy not working. I have always taken politics seriously and thought it a responsibility to vote. I took part in school elections and stood as a candidate in the last one before we left (1970). I have been a member of local political parties and been a candidate in elections. I served four years as a town councillor. Those experiences disillusioned me. For a start, being a member of a local smaller party meant fundraising not discussion of policies. Organising the jumble sale was the biggest event of the year. The leading members only really came to life at election time – winning was the thing, what came after less so. As for sitting on the council, well, I soon realised that many of the councillors had been there for decades, mainly for the kudos it gave them. They were so good at greeting citizens in the street, not so good at reading the paperworkvor even attending committee meetings. So often, after many committee meetings thrashing out a plan of action, these councillors, not having read the reports, would suddenly find objections to the proposals. Very often council business was frozen because of this. Also, of course most council elections had less than a 33% turnout, and you were lucky to get 20% for a council byelection. Democracy, pah!

UK general elections are hardly paragons of democracy. One party gets millions of pounds in donations from racists, Russian oligarchs, businesses seeking an accommodating government. Smaller parties struggle to get finance to fight nationwide, (apart from some right wing parties which seem to have magic sources of cash). The first-passed-the-post system skews results so that the winning party often has considerably less than 40% of the vote while a massive majority in Parliament. Increasingly the battle between the major parties is less about policies for dealing with major issues – climate change, food, water and energy policy – but blaming minorities for all the country’s ills.

Proportional representation would be an improvement. The Welsh and Scottish Parliaments have a more representative make-up but the politics is still infantile (no, that insults infants). Perhaps you can see why I’m fed up with politics and politicians. The only thing that keeps me going is the thought that the USA system is even worse (how was Trump ever in the running for governing what was the most powerful country in the world) or the horrors of a right wing “populist” leader like Putin, Modi, Netanyahu, Orban, etc etc.

Memories of a warm, sunny start to May (2022)

This week’s theme for writing group was May Day (or mayday). I wanted an original slant and looked up May Day festivals. One is Beltane, a gaelic word and festival. There didn’t seem to be a Welsh equivalent but Beltane sounds like beltan or Pêl Tân. So, here is a completely fictional story of a Welsh May Day.

May Day

It’s May Day. These days it doesn’t mean much, perhaps just looking forward to warmer summer days. When I was a child, (that’s a long time ago now) it meant dancing round a maypole wearing a bright dress with spring flowers in my hair and cups of lemonade to quench our thirst.

“It was not always such a jolly day,” muttered my taid, on one occasion. He was my mother’s father, weatherbeaten, bent and all of seventy years old. He spent most of his time sitting in the chair in the corner of the living room, but he had led an active life in the hills of Bannau Brycheiniog tending sheep. “Come and sit by me and I’ll tell you a story,” he said.

A smell of tobacco smoke and hay, but I was happy to crouch at his feet to listen to his tales. He spoke in a soft but clear voice.

“The Irish call today, Beltane, the Welsh, Gwyl Pêl Tân, the festival of the ball of fire. When I was a young lad, just starting out as a shepherd, it wasn’t just about looking towards summer, it was about protecting our flocks. Lambing would be almost over so the lambs and ewes would be released onto the summer pasture. On the night of Pêl Tân we would set fires to ward off evil spirits.

On one such night I was given a small barrel filled with pitch, a bottle of spirit, a rag and matches and sent to the head of our valley. I set off as the Sun sank behind the hills with a portion of pie in my pocket for supper. It was a new Moon so the night would be dark but that did not bother me; I was as familiar with the tracks as the sheep. A kite circled over my head catching the last rays and there were the crows amongst the sheep, feeding on the insects they carried and no doubt hoping for a sickly lamb to feast on.

It was coal dark with just starlight for illumination when I reached the rock. It was a boulder left by the glacier that carved out the valley. It was a hard and sharp edged with a flat surface at about my shoulder height. I put the barrel on the top and pulled the cork from the spirit bottle. As I poured some spirit onto the rag, a blood-curdling screech came from behind me.

I spun, dropping the bottle. The spirit spilled across the boulder. Around me, wisps of mist or smoke were rising from the ground. As they rose, they solidified into barely visible, dark, grey figures, cloaked and hunched. I knew what they were, alright. I’d been warned of them often enough. They were Gwyllion, a form of Tylwyth Teg, fairies, in the shape of ancient hags that lived within the mountains. They had come to take the lambs and steal the milk of the ewes. The fires were intended to deter them.

I grabbed the matches and tried to light one. The first one broke between my fingers, the second failed to light. The Gwyllion were coming closer. Another ear-piercing cry agitated me. My feet slipped from beneath me on the damp grass. I fell and must have banged my head against the rock.

I could not have been out for more than a few seconds. I opened my eyes to find I was flat on the ground with the ghostly Gwyllion stumbling towards me. Their arms were raised and the claw-like nails of their pale hands reached for me. They crowded over me.

A crow hopped by my side. It bobbed its head to pick up a fallen match in its beak. Its wings flapped and it flew to the top of the boulder. The matchhead must have scraped against the hard, gritty rock because it suddenly flared. The spilt spirit ignited with a whoomp. The crow flew off with a squawk. Then the pitch caught, and yellow flames rose into the dark sky.

The Gwyllion screamed and raised their hands to their hooded faces. Their bodies evaporated into the air like steam from a kettle. I found myself alone but for the sheep.

I stood up, rubbing the sore bump on my head, and waited while the barrel burned. There was no further sign of the Gwyllion, and the sheep appeared unconcerned. The crow returned pecking the ground.

I never saw the evil hags again, but I always had a respect for crows after that night, especially in that valley of crows, Cwmbrân.”

…………….

No confidence

Deluge in Dubai. Extreme heat in SE Asia. January to March, the warmest months on record and in the UK. the wettest. Day after we receive more evidence of the effects of global warming. Meanwhile a report in New Scientist says that plans for carbon capture and storage while continuing to burn oil and gas are wildly optimistic with targets impossible to achieve. The only answer really is to stop burning fossil fuels. Yet governments and corporations are announcing slowdowns in their movement to carbon neutral futures. Last year it was Sunak and the Tory government ditching their pledges on climate change. Now it is the Scottish Government. As a result, the deal between the SNP and the Scottish Greens has been broken (the Greens were pushed before they jumped). The SNP is now a minority government so the Scottish Conservatives have moved a motion of no confidence. It seems that a former SNP leadership candidate, Ash Regan, now a member of Salmond’s rebel Alba Party, holds the balance of power. What is she basing the promise of her vote for the SNP on? The climate change policies that have been ditched? No. The state of NHS Scotland? No. It is in fact the Scottish government’s adoption of the Cass report on care of trans-children. What a farce? When did being trans become the most important issue in present-day politics? While there are probably a few hundred trans-kids in Scotland who will be left without sympathetic care or treatment if the Cass report is accepted, there are hundreds of thousands of patients awaiting treatment for all sorts of ailments. Which is the bigger scandal? And all the time the climate crisis grows more deadly. I have no confidence is governments to tackle it.

…………………

This week we attended a live broadcast of the National Theatre/Welsh Millennium Centre production of Nye, the story of Aneurin Bevan. Michael Sheen was in the starring role and as usual was superb, completely taking on the persona of Bevan (not that I know much about the Welsh labour politician). Bevan was Minister of Health in the postwar, Labour Government and in 1948 drove through the formation of the NHS. He faced virulent opposition from the Tories, the BMA and some in his own party. Amongst others, one lesson Nye learned for defeating powerful opposition (initially in his Tredegar home) was, make sure you know and understand the issues, including the rules of engagement, better than your opponents.

This is vital for left and centre politicians today. US Republicans manipulate democratic procedures in state legislatures to undermine the the rights of women and black, gay and trans people. In Spain, right wing minorities are using obscure judicial procedures to harass and hinder members of the elected government and the same is no doubt happening elsewhere. In the UK, Sunak and the Tories have found a new way to undermine the NHS. They are cutting National Insurance rates. On the face of it, this looks like a tax cut putting more cash in workers’ pockets. Except that as NI is a straight percentage of pay, high earners contribute more than low wage staff, while everyone has the same right to health treatment, social care and state pensions. NI payments were supposed to be ring fenced for the NHS, benefits and pensions (I’m not sure it still is). When more people are requiring treatment, more need care at home and people are living longer in retirement, it is illogical to cut the payments unless the aim is to dismantle the welfare state.

April 2023 – a sunny but not very warm day like some this week.

This week’s topic for writing group was agents/agency. This was because last week we had a special meeting with a top literary agent. She was charming, answered all our questions and revealed a caring attitude to her stable of 40 authors. I didn’t really learn anything new but had it confirmed that there is about a 2 in 5,000 chance of being taken on by any single agent in one year. After the meeting I wrote the story below, The No.1 Bestseller Literary Agency. It is a satire and may be considered a cynical appraisal of the profession. It was in no way inspired by the character or practices of our guest agent and the character bears no resemblance to her. I have no idea whether my story is true – it just feels like it sometimes.

The No.1 Bestseller Literary Agency

Trudy Hennesy reclined in her contoured, ergonomic, executive chair. She stared at the screen of her smart phone, impatiently tapping the rim with a sharp, glistening red fingernail. Where were the emails from eager publishers; the WhatsApp messages from her fellow literary agents, friend and foe; the tik-toks of keen young readers; or Facebook posts from the senior citizens and their book clubs? There was nothing to point her in the direction of the next big seller, the trend of the moment.

Never slow to clamber onto any wagon with a band or grasp the tails of any coat, Trudy recalled the past successes of the No.1 Bestseller Literary Agency speeding in the wake of the giant cruiseliners of publishing.

                Who could forget the rapturous response to Barry Hopper and the Dried Plum Stone, the story of a poor, bullied boy at a decrepit state high school who discovered magic in his lunchbox. Then there were the tears of joy resulting from Midnight, the tale of a young woman’s desire for a werewolf’s love regardless of the scratching claws, sharp teeth, bad breath and thick, stinking fur.

                For more adult readers, there was Fifty Flavours of Ice, explicitlyrecounting the erotic pleasures of ice-cream beyond vanilla. Most recently was the huge success in cosy crime of the series of cases solved by The Monday Morning Toddler Club with its cast of exhausted mums solving the crimes of their neighbourhood over a mug of instant coffee and a digestive biscuit.

                Now, the well was dry, the tottering virtual slush pile bereft of any inspired, though vaguely plagiarised, shoe-ins for a bestseller. Every day, hundreds of publications joined the overcrowded marketplace, but which was the one, the golden ticket to royalties and profit beyond the dreams of the average author and their agent. That one would be the flag bearer, the one that others would follow. She had to pick it out first so that her authors would be the leaders of the chasing pack. What was it to be? Which mash-up of genres would be the next big thing?

                Trudy was disturbed from her maudlin recollections by a tap on her study door.

                “The post has come,” her husband said poking his head around the door, “You have a parcel.” He stepped into her holy of holies, placed a package into her arms and withdrew.

                Trudy ripped off the brown paper then stopped to stare. It was a long time since she had seen an actual printed manuscript. Usually, they were consigned to the rubbish bin before reaching her hands. Who knew what germs adhered to the paper. Only submissions that negotiated her strict and idiosyncratic guidelines ever earned screen time. This neat bundle however, had evaded all her defences and made it to her lap. Perhaps she might, just might, glance at the title, scan the opening paragraph, read the first page.

                An hour later, Trudy was enraptured, carried off into a world that was unfamiliar and original yet revealed to all the senses, populated by a variety of characters that lived, doing things that surprised and excited her. She turned each page, reading every word, exhilarated by every sentence, longing for the next paragraph.

                She ignored her husband’s call to lunch (he dared not disturb her again) and it was approaching teatime when she reached the last page. She read the final words, The End, with a feeling of wonder tinged with regret. The story was finished but she felt she wanted to know more. Trudy could not recall when she had last read a novel that gave such pure enjoyment, that hadn’t triggered her critical or pedantic senses, a story which just had to be read.

                For moment or two she just sat and reflected, the scenes from the story repeating in her memory. She felt again the emotions the words had generated.

                Then she picked up the great pile of single sided, double-spaced, 12 point Times New Roman printed A4 paper and dumped it in the waste bin.

                It was no use to her. What publisher would take on such a unique novel, one without any to compare with, in no acknowledged genre. What shelf would bookshops place it on? The work of which famous authors could the marketing people say it surpassed? Sadly, Trudy resumed her search for the next guaranteed, sure-fire, money-spinner.

…………………………..

Exploitation ignored

Kemi Badenoch, part of the megalomaniac tendency of the Tory party, says that the wealth of Britain and other western countries is not a result of slavery and colonialism. I beg to differ. I am not an historian or economist but I think I have enough knowledge of British history to see that exploitation of the poor has very much contributed to the wealth of the richest here and abroad.

Exploitation at home certainly contributed to the growth in power of the UK. Agricultural workers, miners and factory workers lived on or about the poverty line trapped in working for landowners, coal and iron barons, and factory owners. But those businesses that grew through the agricultural and industrial revolutions depended on investment from the already rich. Those were the aristocracy who had jumped on the triangular trade system of the C17th and C18th. Trinkets and weapons exported to West Africa in exchange for slaves carried to the Caribbean and Americas to work the plantations (sugar, cotton, tobacco, and later, rubber, etc) with the much higher value products brought back to the UK for further work and wealth creation.

Why do so many of the National Trust’s stately homes date from the C18th and C19th if it is not the wealth created by the slave trade and exploitation of resources in the colonies? I think every successful business set up during the Industrial Revolution, every canal dug and railway built had investment from people who had made at least some of their cash from slavery and colonialism. It means all of us Britons are descended from people who gained more or less from exploitation of slaves and the colonies

So what? What is to be done about past exploitation of poor people here and abroad? I do not think government apologies are worth a thing. It’s like telling children not to mouth the word “sorry” unless they mean it. Past bad behaviour can only be redeemed by action to mitigate the results. Huge one off payments matching the sum extracted from colonies with inflation taken into account, would bankrupt the guilty nations and prevent any further acts of alleviation. What can be done is to make sure that trade is fair today, that coffee growers in South America are paid a decent price for their beans, etc. Also we should be offering help to relieve the effects of climate change, largely caused by the wealthy countries overuse of fossil fuels.

None of this will happen of course, because Britain and other first world nations have frittered away the wealth they gained over the previous three centuries and our now morally moribund. Britain, perhaps more than the others, has also disposed of its manufacturing base, sold off its corporations to foreign buyers and has little left to trade. 25 years ago a senior executive in a high tech company told me that the future of the British economy was in intelligence. Trading our knack for innovation for the goods we want. That’s all well and good if there is the infrastructure to encourage the innovators – a well-resourced and staffed education system (schools and universities), resources for the innovators to develop their ideas before they are ready to sell, a system of getting remuneration out of the sale of ideas. None of that happened. Of course, innovation does not just apply to science, technology and medicine, it also includes culture and the arts. For years our musicians, artists, actors, film makers, games designers etc received some encouragement. That too has been ditched, largely because of Brexit, but now also because of Tory party austerity which has resulted in arts grants being cut or stopped altogether. Really, the people in government haven’t a clue.

Another view of Rhossili

This week’s theme for writing group was the phrase “time to go”. Of course, my thoughts turned to time travel. The idea that came along turned out to be parody or pastiche and satire. The group loved it, tittering in all the right places. Here is Endurance.

Endurance

“Time, the final frontier. These are the voyages of the timeship, Endurance. Its continuing mission to boldly go when no-one has been before.”

“It’s nae good, Captain. I cannae do anymore; the engines won’t take it.”

                None of the crew of the Timeship Endeavour understood why Chief Engineer “Lotty” Lott spoke in a Scottish accent. He’d never been near the country devastated by the great timestorm of 2356 which left it in the 1950s. Every city was covered in a film of coal fire soot and people rejoiced to the music of Kenneth McKellar and Moira Anderson while, male and female alike wore their kilts long.

                Tim Shirk gripped the arms of his captain’s chair and rocked from side to side like the rest of the ship’s company as it was buffeted by the time typhoon. No one had thought to fit seatbelts. “Take us out of timewarp, Mr Tock,” he ordered.

                First Officer Tock, a member of the race of Anachrons, only distinguishable from a white human male by the pink hair that grew from his nostrils, pressed the big red button marked Timewarp Emergency Cutoff.

                The shaking and rattling of the timeship ceased. The big screen on the wall showed a perfect picture of the whole Earth hanging in a starry space.

                Dr Temperance McJoy, staggered from the lift doors. “What’s going on, Tim?” she said to the Captain, “I’ve got a sickbay full of injured crew.”

                Shirk refrained from telling “Pills”, as McJoy was known, that perhaps she should get back there and do her job. Instead, he replied, “Explain it for everyone, Mr Tock.”

                Tock’s thick eyebrows rose as they did from time to time. “We dropped out of timewarp just before we were hit by the time typhoon. We are now orbiting Earth in the 2020s, a turbulent period in Earth’s time continuum.”

                “The twentytwenties?” MacJoy screeched, “We can’t stay here.”

                “Why not?” Shirk replied, “There’s life down there.”

                “Life?” MacJoy sneered, “It may be life, but not as we know it, Tim.”

                “What do you mean,” Shirk said looking appealingly at Mr Tock.

                “Captain, I think the Doctor is suggesting that it would not be appropriate for us to appear to the humans that are living at this time.”

                “Why not?” Shirk said.

                Tock explained, “The planet is about to undergo runaway global warming that will devastate the biodiversity and end the lives of most of the population,”

                “Don’t they know what’s happening?” the Captain asked.

                “Of course they know,” Pills snorted, “half of them are living in an anxiety-caused refusal to accept what will happen to them and the other half think they can make something out of it.”

                “What are they doing?” Shirk said.

                The Doctor went on, “Some are fighting over tickets to Taylor Swift concerts, some are churning out ten second videos called tik-toks and the rest are just, fighting.”

                “We’ll have to get out of this time,” Shirk said, “Lotty how are the engines?”

                “In a bad way, Captain,” the engineer said, “It’ll take ten hours to get the timewarp drives up and running.”

                “You’ve got five,” was Shirk’s reply, habitually halving any period that the Engineer suggested. “Mr Tock, Pills, join me down on the surface whereby we leave the ship without senior officers and put ourselves in danger.  Oh, and bring one of those expendable security guys we have standing around doing nothing.”

The four members of the crew went down to the transport room, for some reason located a long way from the control deck. They were reconstituted on the planet’s surface just outside a branch of Greggs.

                “What is this place?” Captain Shirk said peering through the window at the queue of humans.

                Tock peered into his handheld plot device. “It appears to be a purveyor of baked goods, Captain.”

                “Great, I could kill a sausage roll,” Shirk said.

                “You may have to,” Pills said, “Heaven knows what deadly organisms are alive in this period.”

                “I don’t think it would be wise to enter the establishment,” Tock said.

                “Why not?” Shirk asked about to walk inside.

                Tock replied, “At this time vendors required payment for goods. We don’t have any money.”

                A burly man grasping a large lump of greasy pastry came out of the doorway and pushed passed the intrepid crew.

                “Ger outatheway will yer,” he mumbled as he stumbled past, “Bloody clowns. Are you from some cult or sum’thin?”

                “No, but are you sure you should be eating that,” commented Pills, “it’s not good for your health.”

                “You bloody, woke, vegan, health freaks,” the man shouted before going on his way.

                “Not a warm response to some well-intentioned advice,” Shirk said.

                Tock replied, “I think that we will find that is typical of the era, Captain. Opinions on all issues have become polarised. Many protagonists argue from positions lacking any evidence base whatsoever. It is illogical.”

                Shirk looked up and down the street lined with similar establishments to the branch of Greggs. Vehicles passed slowly belching noxious fumes and people walked on oblivious to the dangers. “I think we’ve seen enough,” he said.

                “I agree, Tim,” Pills replied, “Stay here any longer and we could catch a deadly disease.”

                Shirk spoke into his communicator. “Stream us on board, Lotty.”

Back on the control deck, the captain settled himself into his chair. “Has power to the engines been restored?”

                “Aye cap’n. They’re as good as new,” Lotty replied, grinning with satisfaction.

                “Right, Mr Tock. Time to go home. Timewarp factor 8. Engage.”

……….

Cancelling Trans

I am sorry if returning to the subject of transgender is a bore for readers. I can quite understand that it is uninteresting for people who are not transgender or have no questions of their gender. It is, however, an important topic for me and there are things I have to say.

This week a major item in the news was the Cass Report on four years of “investigation” of the provision of care to children expressing questions about their gender.  The reporting by the BBC was vague and muddled and gave a less than balanced comment on the report.

Unfortunately, it is my favourite newspaper, The Guardian, which has angered and inspired me most. I have been a reader and supporter of the Guardian for over fifty years. Its political stance (neither too right or too left) has matched mine and I have enjoyed its articles and opinions on all sorts of subjects. The problem is that in recent years it has editorially sided with the “gender critics” who wish to eliminate transpeople from society by denying they exist. In particular, it has repeatedly reported on the investigation by Dr Hilary Cass into provision of gender identity care for children, particularly the former service based at the Tavistock Clinic in London.  As a result of Cass’ report, the Tavistock has been closed down. Regional centres are supposed to have been set up to replace it, but they are “delayed” and have been criticised for a lack of preparedness. The Tavistock was overwhelmed and inadequate for the need but the result is that 5,000 children with gender issues have been left with no specialist care or treatment whatsoever.

The Guardian’s reporting of all this is comparable to rubbishing the work of Alan Bates and the 900+ subpostmasters and mistresses who were wronged by the Post Office in the Horizon Scandal. It is as if the Guardian writers went along with the government line (until recently) that all those sub-post-people were thieves.  The reporting of Cass’ report is amazingly one-sided, unscientific and takes little account of the experience of transpeople.

Cass’ report fits nicely with the views of the “gender critics” which include many people in the Conservative government. It draws on the opinions of a few “whistleblowers” at the Tavistock who were in disagreement over the treatment provided by the Clinic and relies heavily on the testimony of a few people who de-transitioned (i.e. they reverted to their gender assigned at birth having gone through various degrees of gender reassignment as children and adults).

In none of the reporting can I see any evidence provided by the medical staff who actually supported the practices at the Tavistock (many have been driven into private practice) and there are few comments from transpeople who relied solely on the NHS for their treatment.  The report goes on about the people who have detransitioned without giving any figures, suggesting that it is a large proportion of the total number of patients. To my knowledge, it is not.

The report also places a lot of emphasis on the “large number” (again, no percentages) of the children treated at the Tavistock being neurodivergent (i.e. diagnosed with autism, ADHD etc.) It makes the assumption that these children cannot possibly have a sensible idea about their own gender and hence should not be listened to. Being neurodivergent is not a disease and does not stop people being full and contributing members of society. It is probably the case that neurodivergent people do not accept gender stereotypes, along with other social mores, forced on everyone from birth. Hence they have a greater inclination to explore their own feelings and reach their own conclusions about their gender which may differ from that of their parents and others.

No children (i.e. aged under 18) have ever undergone gender reassignment surgery nor have they been prescribed hormones that cause a permanent change in sexual development. The only treatment that children with gender dysphoria have received is counselling, assistance with social transitioning and in rare cases, puberty blockers. The last are used to slow down the rate of puberty so that transchildren have time to consider their need to eventually undergo gender reassignment. When they become adults they can transition fully and more successfully if puberty has been delayed. Puberty blockers have a temporary effect though it is true that more research is needed into their side effects and effectiveness in treatment of child gender dysphoria. The facts are that the majority of children given puberty blockers do go on to transition fully. This isn’t a sign that the treatment is misguided, it is proof that the will to transition is strong and the decision to delay puberty for those children was correct.

Cass’ whole attitude to transgender and children is blinkered. She assigns the very large increase in the number of children being referred to the Tavistock (about one hundredfold in 15 years) to the influence of social media. No other factor seems to have been considered nor is the influence of social media in other areas. The ready availability of information via the internet and the ease of communication afforded by Facebook, Instagram, Tik-Tok etc  has undoubtedly enlightened a great number of people, child and adult. It has encouraged discussion of gender and other personal characteristics. However, I fail to see that this has caused an epidemic of gender dysphoria. Many of the children questioning their gender are very young indeed, under 10. Studies of the influence of media on people have often shown that the effects are less radical than feared. I don’t believe that children are making up their feelings of gender queerness.  What social media has uncovered, I believe, is the existence of gender questioning in a small percentage (less than 1%) of the population that has always existed.

Prior to 2004 it was difficult for anyone to come out as trans. Up to the 1980s police would arrest men in dresses for “impersonating a woman” and disturbing the peace.  Until 1999, an employer could sack an employee who wanted to transition. The extremely patriarchal and sexist nature of society made transitioning for transmen as well as transwomen a dangerous and difficult process. Before the internet, it was difficult to find out about other people like oneself. Peer pressure forced young people to conform with the stereotypes of the time. Nevertheless, for 100 years the medical community have been coming to an acceptance that transpeople exist and require treatment. Surgical techniques have improved and hormone treatments have become safer and more effective.

Cass has admitted that a distant relative is trans. She doesn’t mention having discussed the matter with that relative but dismissed them as having “transitioned late in life” and therefore not relevant to her investigation. There are many, many people who left transitioning to their 40s, 50 and post-retirement, despite having had the desire to do so from an early age (even childhood).  The pressures from parents, family, friends, colleagues, and society generally, to stick to the status quo, not rock the boat, not cause a scandal, and instead adopt stereotypical behaviour of one’s birth sex, mean many transpeople lead “normal” lives while being deeply unhappy with the gender they were forced to present.

The result of Cass’ report is that children will no longer be listened to by parents, schools or medical authorities. Their gender questioning will be dismissed as “a phase” which they will grow out of if their desire to transition is ignored. It will also weaponise the gender critics’ cry that transpeople don’t exist (it is they that talk about a war against transpeople), that transwomen are not women (despite the 2004 Gender Recognition Act). It will increase attacks, verbal and physical, on transpeople who are trying to live their lives out in public.

People living in a gender different to that assigned at birth make up less than 0.5% of the population according to the 2021 census, yet the virulence of the opposition to their existence and the reporting on it by papers such as The Guardian makes it a much more important and pressing issue.  I have one request – please listen to and report on the experiences and opinions of actual trans and gender questioning people. Let people speak for themselves.

The wreck on Rhossili beach

The prompt for this week’s writing group exercise was “frame”, for reasons too boring to report. It was suggested that this was an open invitation for me to do a piece involving Jasmine Frame, the transwoman detective that is the “heroine” of my five crime novels starting with Painted Ladies. I completed and published the planned fifth novel, Impersonator, in 2021 and then “rested” the character. A few people have asked me when the next novel will be published and as a result I have been giving the matter a little thought.

I started writing stories about Jasmine in 2001. An attempt at a first novel which introduced Jasmine and her nemesis DCI Sloane ground to a halt because the case (the murder of a drug dealer) was boring and not close enough to Jasmine emotionally. It was in 2004 that I began Painted Ladies, planning the whole novel and sketching out the four sequels that saw Jasmine through her transition. Those novels cover a period from approx 2011 to 2015 and are set in the Newbury area where I lived until 2009. I also wrote a lot of short stories and novellas as prequels which appeared in this blog and some of which have been published as three extra novellas on Kindle.

I have decided that any new stories featuring Jasmine need to be up to date, should stand alone and deal with current issues. I haven’t started to plan a new novel yet but I have sketched out the basic plot and the background. It is eight or nine years after the end of Impersonator when Jasmine was invited to rejoin the police force. She is that much older, and has now spent almost fifteen years living as a woman. However in today’s society (see above) that implies that she still meets problems associated with being trans.

For writing group, I knocked out the first chapter of the novel without a plan, working title Framed. I am delighted that it was received very well and everyone said they wanted to read on. I am not going to post it here as it is in its early draft stage and if the novel does get written (perhaps in the next year or so) I will try to find a publisher rather than pay for it myself. So, to all of you looking forward to reading the new cases of Jasmine Frame please have patience (quite a lot of it).

……………………………

Author, question yourself

Back after a brief break that included dangling from cables in trees (GoApe), meeting a former pupil starring in a West End musical (Frozen), and spectating a Premiership Rugby match (Harlequins vs Bath), all with the grandkids. Now, to crack on…

Charles Dickens was a womaniser; Jane Austen’s family may have profited from slavery (most wealthy families did in the C18th and C19th); Eric Blair (George Orwell) treated his wife as a servant; Capt W. E Johns (of Biggles fame) was a racist and SF authors Robert Heinlein and Orson Scott Card have been accused of being fascists. Many authors have variously been described as racist, misogynist, antisemitic, homophobic, etc. Should authors of the past be held to the ethical standards of the C21st? If we knew more about William Shakespeare, the man, would we think so much of his writings? I think it would be very dangerous if we ditched works by people whose personality and behaviour now bring disapproval. We would lose the authentic view of the past (and the past’s view of the future) as witnessed and described by these authors. I have tended to see books, particularly novels, as independent of the author. When I belonged to a book group, other members often researched the writer in depth while I concentrated on their ideas as expressed in their works. The author’s personal views are important but separate from their works.

Which brings us to the works of J K Rowling. Whatever you may think of the quality of the writing in the Potter books (and some reviewers have been critical) the influence of the seven book series has been immense and maybe has encouraged many children, boys as well as girls, to become readers. The stories may be derivative but I think the key to their success was that the character grows with the reader. When they were being published one a year the fans aged as fast as Harry. That’s less true now but still it takes quite a while to get through all seven books from the somewhat twee Philosopher’s Stone to the darker last book.

The question is how the books treat diversity. Harry is an odd one out, something of a loner despite his group of friends because of his strange upbringing. The Potter world is divided into two races – wizards and muggles. The latter are somewhat looked down on by most of the former and the halfbloods like Harry who have a wizard father and muggle mother are particularly bullied. All the principal characters are white and the majority are male – Harry himself, Voldemort, Dumbledore, Snape, Hagrid. So perhaps not the most diverse character list and maybe an accusation of racism and sexism could stand up. Nevertheless I think such faults are relatively minor.

On the other hand the character of J K Rowling has been shown to be divisive and she is discriminatory towards transgender people particularly transwomen, despite adopting a male persona for her crime thrillers. It began some years ago as derogatory Tweets brushed off as unintended or of little importance. Rowling has now emerged as a leader amongst the “gender critical” crowd wishing to remove the right of transwomen to live their lives as normal women. Apparently she has funded, to the tune of £70,000, a case in the Scottish courts seeking to prevent transwomen calling themselves women. She has been prominent in the opposition to the new Scottish hate-crime law and set out to provoke a police response by circulating intimidatory tweets. The police refused to act. However, I have heard that Rowling also outed several women as former transwomen. Now to my knowledge that breaks the laws included in the 2004 Gender Recognition Act. It is against the law to reveal the previous gender of a holder of a Gender Recognition Certificate. Stating that someone, who says they are a woman, is a transwoman does exactly that.

With the financial support of people like Rowling and the media response that she attracts, the gender-critical brigade can hardly argue that they are unable to express their opinions, or are the weaker party in their perceived “war” with transpeople. There are trans activist groups of course, but they don’t have rich backers and struggle to get their opinions reported in depth or even accurately.

So, read your Potter books and watch the films if you like but don’t think that the author is a sweet, good -natured lady who accepts and respects everyone who is a little, bit different.

It was also back to writing group this week. The theme set was not surprisingly “April Fool”. I had an idea for a story where well known April Fools are actually true such as spaghetti trees, and the tropical paradise of San Serif, etc. The only problem was that I found I’d done it before, in 2019 when we had the same prompt. Back at the drawing board I came up with another simpler story. Many April Fools are good fun such as the two I have mentioned but sometimes practical jokes are only funny to the perpetrator. Here is Washing the Lions.

Washing the Lions

It was a family tradition. I think it was my father who started it when my brother and I were children, but it was Bernard, my elder by almost two years who maintained it. No, persisted with it to the level of OCD. We’re talking about what we as a family called “washing the lions”. Late in the seventeenth century someone put up posters and sent invitations inviting people to attend the washing of the lions at the menagerie in the Tower of London, entry via the White Gate. Many of the wealthy citizens of London responded, causing a traffic jam with their carriages as they tried to find the non-existent White Gate. Then the anonymous hoaxer revealed that it was an April Fool. It was one of the earliest recorded.

                Every year my father, and later my brother would engage in some complex ruse to fool me, my mother, each other, or anyone else who foolishly was in the vicinity. There was the time that all the clocks and watches in the house were changed to fool me into thinking it was time to get up for school, when in fact it was an hour earlier than all the timepieces said. The tricks weren’t always original sometimes piggybacking other fools, like the time my father sent me as a seven-year-old to the hardware store to buy a round tuit. The shopkeeper enjoyed that one. The fact that I got soaked in a rain shower made my brother laugh even louder.

                There was the time, shortly after I started work, that I got a message to say that my mother had been taken seriously ill and needed to see me. I dropped everything and drove a hundred miles to be at her bed side only to find her fit and well and surprised to see me. My brother laughed aloud. I didn’t.           

                The pranks continued year after year, long after my father died. I had of course developed something of a nose for April Fools. I avoided all contact with Bernard on the day and spent it in nervous anticipation of some scam or other. He still got me from time to time, such as when a parcel arrived which spurted out black ink when I attempted to open it. How Bernard knew I was expecting a parcel that day of all days, I will never know.

                Why did I put up with it, you are no doubt wondering. Well, he was my one and only brother and for the other 364 or 5 days in the year, Bernard was kind and considerate. However, it did get so that I dreaded the arrival of April 1^st. Sometimes I made sure I was away and didn’t tell Bernard where I was but when that wasn’t possible, I knew that something weird would happen, curated by him.

                At last, I had enough and decided to do something to get him back. Why hadn’t I done it years before my 50^th birthday, you ask, and put an end to the farce? Well, I was just no good at planning practical jokes and I was his junior, his little bro.

                Anyway, I finally had a plan. On April 1^st, my brother received a letter saying that an anomaly had been noted on his recent medical checkup. He was quite a fitness fanatic, and I knew he had a medical MOT every couple of years. All the letter did was tell him to contact the medical centre via a particular email address. That was an address I had set up myself and I expected to be able to reply “April Fool” when he sent the message.

                I was, however, unaware quite how much of a hypochondriac Bernard was. He missed the email address I had provided and immediately rang his GP. How was I to know that some results had just come in. The doctor was surprised at Bernard’s call since the letter he had written had not yet been posted. It was to say that my brother had a heart condition that needed treatment.

                No one laughed, I certainly didn’t, and Bernard was far too worried by his diagnosis to see the joke. That was the last mention of washing of lions.

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Filming the unfilmable

There is enough going on in the world to fill any number of blogs – Gaza, the ongoing war in Ukraine, UK and international politics, the economy, climate change – but this week I’m going to take a break from my anxieties.

It was my birthday and we had a lovely day out on the Gower. We were very lucky as the weather was dry and sunny – unusual for this winter and spring. Rhossili beach and Worms Head were spectacular as usual, the sea was not too cold (Lou had a paddle). Everything was wonderful.

Rhossili beach in all its deserted glory

Apart from that I have been immersed in SF and fantasy. A few weeks back we went to see the new second part of Dune. It was pretty amazing and I felt at the time that it came close to Frank Herbert’s vision. Unlike the 1984 film, it did not end with rain falling on Dune but a change was made to the story. Paul was separated from his Fremen love, Chani, who fears his powers as the new Emperor. That never happens in the books (at least not the first two or three) but Villeneuve apparently has plans for the third film which it seems will only be partly based on the sequel novel, Dune Messiah. Since seeing the film I have realised that there were things left out of the film which have subtly changed its emphasis. It wasn’t so faithful to Frank Herbert as I thought. Nevertheless a good film.

I also started watching on TV Matrix Resurrections. This is the 4th film in the franchise coming 21 years after the 2nd and 3rd and 25 years after the innovative and original first film. The gap is not as large as between Blade Runner and Blade Runner 2049 but the purpose is similar: to reboot a successful franchise. Keanu Reeves is still the star and there are a couple of original characters but mostly a new cast. The first part of the new film, quite cleverly, takes place in the “real world” where the old films exist and there is popular videogame based on them supposedly written by Keanu Reeves’ character. This leads into a sort of repeat of the plot of the first film but with today’s standard of CGI (the original was pretty fantastic). I haven’t watched the ending yet but I was starting to get deja vu.

Then on Thursday we had the opening on Netflix of Three Body Problem. I read this trilogy by Cixin Liu when it came out some years ago. The author is from Communist China and his style and viewpoint are different to western writers. The first volume (Three Body Problem) was highly original and exciting (the 2nd and 3rd volumes, less so) and it is that book that has now been serialised by the makers of Game of Thrones.

Many books have been talked of as being unfilmable, Dune being one of them, but 3BP certainly struck me as having passages that were so weird as to be impossible to visualise on screen. I’ve seen the first two episodes and so far I think they have done a superb job. It’s a while since I read the novel and parts stick in my mind and others don’t, so while I can see changes have been made there is much that I don’t recall. I think it is a superb piece of thought-provoking SF, so different from the flashes and bangs of superheroes, Star Trek, Star Wars etc. I am looking forward to seeing the rest of the episodes.

And so to my writing. I can see the end of the tunnel of The Mage Returns, my sequel to An Extraordinary Tale. I am getting close to the end of the first draft. Then the task will be to go back and see if all hangs together since, like the first one, I have made it up as I went along. It’s been fun though.

What with all the other things happening this week I did not have much time for the writing group task. The prompt was “green” (it was set just before St Patrick’s Day). There are lots of possible themes – the Irish, the environment, etc. However, I just had one thought stuck in my mind: the colour and our perception of it. The story that follows isn’t much of a story, more of an outline of a story that hasn’t been written yet and perhaps has too much scene setting. The group were a bit confused by the characters Hu and Ai which wasn’t surprising when the story is read out but only one person mentioned Hugh and I, the 60s sitcom starring Terry Scott and Hugh Lloyd, which had come into my head. Hu and Ai are Chinese, of course, as there is a good chance that future space exploration will be down to the Chinese. Their starship, Zheng He, is named after the Chinese admiral who lead a fleet of huge junks around the Pacific at about the time of the early expeditions by European sailors. Anyway, here is Green.

Green

When they came out of super-photonic travel, the star filled the viewscreen. It was green. They launched a probe to investigate the peculiar fusion reactions that gave the star such a narrow band of emissions in the light spectrum and then headed for the “goldilocks zone”. A planet had been detected with an atmosphere containing water vapour and oxygen, a likely sign of life. That wasn’t a surprise. Planets of the right size, in the right orbit, with tectonic activity and a sizeable moon, weren’t rare across the galaxy so life had turned out to be ubiquitous. What brought Hu and Ai on the starship Zheng He to the periphery of the galaxy was the unique combination of life evolving under the light of a green star.

                The Zheng He circled the planet, releasing billions of nanosensors. The planet was in the grip of an ice age with ice extending from the poles to 60^o North and South.  The ice appeared green reflecting the light of the star as did the cloud cover but the oceans were dark. Hu set the starship down on the southern edge of the northern icecap. The sky, even in daylight, was almost a total black. There was so little blue light in the star’s emissions that almost none of the light was scattered by the atmosphere.

                Ai reviewed the signals sent by the nanosensors. The pictures showed yellow-green vegetation covering most of the landmasses. They were tall trees with broad leaves spread to catch the starlight. Spectroscopic data showed they were absorbing the turquoise part of the spectrum.

                “It must be a variant of the usual photosynthetic process,” Ai commented, “turquoise has lower energy than the blue used on most planets.”

                “That would suggest that metabolism and growth is slower than average,” Hu said.

                The sensors detected movement in the undergrowth. There were animals as well as plant life. Many of the creatures appeared to have green fur or skin or exoskeletons though some were black.

                “It’s going to be very boring looking at all this green,” said Hu.

                “Some red or blue would be a change,” Ai agreed, “but they would look black in the green light.”

                An alert told them that the Zheng He’s on-board intelligence had found something interesting, a civilisation.

                Hu and Ai looked at the data eagerly. While life was common, sentient, self-conscious beings were less so. Intelligent lifeforms did however tend to conform to certain patterns. They had a collection of sense organs on a raised protuberance that would contain at least part of the brain, and often a mouth for ingestion of food. The rest of the organs would be contained in a body with two, three or four limbs for mobility and one, two or three manipulator limbs for using tools.

                Here the green skinned people had adopted the most common layout – two legs, two arms. From the structures they occupied they appeared to be using stone and wood and maybe some metals. They had textiles and they kept animals as well as tending crops.

                The Zheng He sent out some more sophisticated micro probes to watch and listen in on the beings. They used sound to communicate and soon the Zheng He was compiling a vocabulary and grammar.

                Hu and Ai were surprised by the translated conversations that the Zheng He provided.

                “They talk as if the light of the star was a broad spectrum,” Hu said, “but 90% of the light is in the range 490 to 580 nm.”

                “Zheng has found over two hundred words for different colours of light in their vocabulary,” Ai said. “but they are all green.”

                Hu was disbelieving, “How do they see so many different shades?”

                “We need a sample of one of the beings to examine the structure of their eyes,” Ai said.

So a probe was sent to an outpost of the beings. At night when the village was quiet, the probe hovered over one of the dwellings until one of the creatures stepped outside. The probe scooped them up, bound them and took samples of the cells from various organs including the eye. Then the being was released. The probe headed back to the Zheng He.

                “It is remarkable,” Hu said reading the autopsy report, “Their eyes have similar structures to our own but they have three types of cells receptive to different parts of the green spectrum.”

                “That means that they must see their world in as much colourful variety as we see ours,” Ai said. “No wonder they have so many words for green.”

                “But they are blind to red or blue,” Hu reminded Ai, “so their blood looks as black as the clear sky.”

…………………….

Extreme?

Who is an extremist? What does extreme mean? Michael Gove, the “levelling up” (?!) minister has provided a new definition on behalf of the Tory government. Since this definition could have very serious consequences I am going to write it out in full:

“Extremism is the promotion or advancement of an ideology based on violence, hatred or intolerance, that aims to: 1) negate or destroy the fundamental rights and freedoms of others; or 2) undermine, overturn or replace the UK’s system of liberal parliamentary democracy and democratic rights; or 3) intentionally create a permissive environment for others to achieve the results of 1) or 2).”

Gove has said explicitly that the definition will not be used to target gender critical campaigners, transactivists, or environmental protest groups. He has named some neo-Nazi and Muslim groups as extreme. They will not be allowed to receive national or local government funding or have access to minsters or officials. He says the measures and definition will not be made into law and will not harm free speech.

Does the announcement mean anything at all? Gove is very big on making announcements which rarely bring beneficial results – look at the results of all his talk of levelling up and all the promises he made as one of the leaders of Brexit. I don’t trust him an inch.

If anything, the current Tory Government has been a model of extremism. It has undermined democracy – the demand for photo id in elections; undermined local government by its policy of austerity which meant drastically cutting grants to local authorities; legislated against peaceful protest – laws used against climate change organisations but not protesting farmers; failed to censure members of the party who have made racist, misogynist, and transphobic statements; fuelled divisions in the country (Brexit); and eliminated compassion (for the homeless, refugees, the poor and disadvantaged et al).

Extended definitions are dangerous, particularly when they contain “or”. Any organisation or individual that advocates violence (such as a Tory donor urging black people to be shot) obviously has extreme views and should be disowned and prevented from spreading their views. But there is an “or” in Gove’s definition, viz. hatred or intolerance. What do those terms mean? Gender critical individuals and groups are intolerant of transwomen and want to see their rights as women disposed of. Some of what they say (talk of war against transgender folk for example) seems pretty extreme to me. But Gove is on their side so they can get away with it.

Hatred has quite mild definitions, from “active dislike” (which I certainly feel to the present government) to “ill will” (I don’t want members of the government harmed but I want them out of office). Vague terms like this in official definitions mean that the person wielding them can direct them any way they like. A mild criticism of an ethnic group can turn into a holocaust in the space of a few years. So, I don’t trust Gove or his mates one little bit not to apply their definition to wider fields if they remain in power.

The dictionary definition of extreme, extremism and extremist merely talks about outliers – the far left or far right, the highest, lowest or utmost. Taking that as the meaning, then I think climate change is an extreme danger to life on Earth, humanity and civilisation. Anyone or any body that delays or impedes actions to counteract global warming is I think undermining the rights of people to life in the future. They are the extremists who should be censured not those doing the protesting.

There is another thought about Gove. Perhaps all this extremism nonsense is a smokescreen to cover up the lack of results of his levelling up department and the investigations into his undeclared financial interests.

A carpet of native daffodils in the woods around Dimock (Glos.)

This week I attended an interesting series of talks on the lab notebooks of chemists. It particularly focussed on Robert Boyle, Humphry Davy, Michael Faraday and Charles Darwin (and his brother Erasmus). These notebooks are of course the first place where observations and ideas are recorded. They gave a fascinating insight into the character, interests and methods of the person. There was also a talk about the future of lab books as they become electronic in nature and very much the property of the organisation running the lab. I am not a Luddite, I have after all done almost all my writing on computer since 1988, but the talk did seem to provide good reasons for sticking with paper. There are currently over 80 separate software packages designed for the lab to say nothing of the various platforms which the programs run on – Apple, Windows, Android etc. Are they all compatible with the rest? There was no mention of futureproofing the storage of the material (floppy discs, CDroms, cloud storage, what next?). It bodes very badly for the future historian trying to access these old notes.

As I was away I didn’t attend writing group and so didn’t set out to write a piece on this week’s topic. However the title, Vanishing Point, seemed to be a very rich source of inspiration. Anyway, while I was on the train, I did scribble (that is a verb I would like to update for the smart-phone age) a very short story. Here it is.

Vanishing point

“Mathematicians say that parallel lines are straight lines that meet at infinity. What does that mean?” Miss Jones looked at the class expectantly. A hand went up. “Yes. Billy?”

“It means miss that they stay the same distance apart.”

“Very good, Billy. Now can anyone give me an example?”

Billy’s hand shot up again. Miss Jones looked around the room but no other hands went up. Billy was the spokesperson for the class on mathematical matters.

“Ok, Billy, let’s have your answer.”

“Railway lines, Miss.”

“Very good, Billy, although of course they do sometimes go around curves. But look at this picture. What do you see?”

Billy’s hand was up again but Miss Jones looked away and chose instead a girl sitting at the back of the class.

“Susan, can you tell us?”

“The lines meet, Miss,” the girl said in a disinterested voice.”

“Very good. That point where the parallel lines appear to meet is called the vanishing point. It is an example of perspective in vision. Of course the lines don’t actually meet at that point.”

Billy’s hand was up.

“Yes, Billy do you have a question.”

“Er, I don’t think so, Miss. I just thought it is an example of what we see not being real, Miss.”

Miss Jones had to think for a moment before choosing her answer. “Well, yes, Billy, I suppose that is true.”

Billy wandered home after school, taking his time crossing the fields of blue grass, passing the six-legged cattle grazing with the pink helicopter birds hovering overhead. He reached the yellow dome of his home and extended a tentacle so that the extruded finger on the smaller hand could reach the button that opened the hatch. He slid inside and was whisked down to the family burrow.

…………………..

A disgrace

I was following the news on Wednesday afternoon, concerning the debate in Parliament about the situation in Gaza. I don’t claim to know much about Parliamentary procedure, but I thought what happened was a disgrace. It struck me that a deadly humanitarian emergency was being used by political parties to “get one over” their rivals. None of the actions of the Conservative, Labour or Scottish National parties were concerned with the message they were sending to Israel and the Palestinians but only with casting their opponents in a bad light or wriggling out of an internal difference of opinion to gain a few votes at the next election. The Speaker is supposed to control business in Parliament and he may have made mistakes but he was not responsible for the machinations of the parties. It was disgusting.

It was all the worse because every politician knew that no declaration from parliament, or even the UK government, would have any real effect on the situation or persuade Netanyahu to change his plans. It is almost impossible to comment on the situation in Gaza or Israel without offending some group or other. The current crisis may have started in October but has its origins way back, in 1967 (the Six Day War), 1948 (the establishment of Israel), 1917 (The Balfour Declaration that supported a Jewish state), or even back to Roman times and the Jewish Diaspora. There was no justification for the actions of Hamas in October, and while Israel had the right to pursue and arrest the perpetrators there is no justification for the manner in which they have destroyed much of Gaza and killed so many civilians especially women and children. It has to be possible to criticise the Israeli government without being labelled antisemitic in the same way that one should be able to criticise groups supporting Palestinians that urge violence against Israel without being accused of islamophobia.

…………………….

The other big news item this week, for Welsh news watchers particularly, has been the Welsh farmers protests against the Welsh government’s proposed post-Brexit scheme for farm payments and environmental measures(it has taken an awful long time to even be considered!). the fact that the Welsh government keeps on repeating that the proposals are in consultation at the moment and that nothing has been approved or set in stone, seems to pass the farmers by. They keep on saying that their businesses are being damaged by measures which haven’t yet been passed into law. I have some comments about the protests in which very large numbers of tractors have gathered together having travelled considerable distances.

First, have the farmers considered the amount of carbon dioxide they have emitted in driving their vehicles such distances. Second, how is it that farmers can slow traffic and block roads with impunity while Just Stop Oil protesters are arrested and jailed. Third, why aren’t the farmers’ unions putting forward their ideas for how agriculture can be financed to produce high quality food, sustainably, at reasonable cost, while mitigating the climate, biodiversity and environmental crises. Fourth, the Welsh government plans at the moment seem to be one size fits all. There is a huge difference between the lowland arable farmers and the hill farmers. Some farmers are wealthy, others are on the poverty line (or below it). Surely there is a need for flexibility although not loopholes through which some can escape their responsibilities,

Whoever is in the right, we do need plans for a future in which agriculture is going to be detrimentally affected by climate change (drought, floods, loss of pollinators, new plant and animal diseases, etc.). Farmers do need to be rewarded adequately for their endeavours (although we don’t want to make the rich ones richer) but as well as food, they are also responsible for the quality of the land (soil, water, air and wildlife). Requirements are going to change – less meat, more home grown crops, more trees to soak up carbon, more managed “wild” environments to encourage biodiversity, more sites for renewable energy systems (solar, wind, micro-hydro), alternatives to fossil fuels (battery electric and perhaps hydrogen fuel cells). Farmers have to change as we all do.

Next Saturday morning I and three friends will be talking about our writing and offering books for sale at Monmouth Library. Come along if you are in the vicinity.

The theme for this week’s writing task was “things we have loved”. This grew out of a discussion about things we had in our past which we don’t have now and perhaps miss – such as Kunzle cakes! I struggled for inspiration in my own past. Mum’s homemade Welsh cakes were foremost in my mind but really there were few things from the past that I really miss. So, I changed my approach. In the future what might I/we look back on with fondness. Lots of things I expect, but I had the germ of a story. Normal Life is a snapshot of life in a possible future, one which I hope does not come about.

Normal Life

“I’d die for an egg sandwich,” the old guy mumbled, then started coughing again.

                “I don’t know what an egg sandwich is,” Jake replied, “but you are going to die, Leo. We all do some time.” He continued his medical examination of the old man then straightened up and said quietly to me. “He’s for the composter; a few days perhaps. His mind’s gone and his organs are failing. There’s nothing I can do. Just make him comfortable; give him drinks and food if he wants it.”

                “I’ll keep an eye on him,” I said.

                “Just make sure he doesn’t disturb the others in the dorm.” Jake closed his diagnostic box and left, ignoring the other dormers who called for his assistance.

                I left Leo on his bunk, mumbling to himself and went to the canteen to get my meal.  It was almost time for my shift out at the digestors, but I grabbed another bowl and headed back to the dorm.

                “Look, Leo. I’ve brought some food for you.” I helped the old man sit up and handed him the bowl. He peered into it.

                “I don’t want this tasteless slop,” he grumbled.

                “What do you mean?” I said, “It’s the best. Algae grown in our tanks, processed in our fermenters and prepared by the best cooks Halley’s got.”

                Leo coughed and spat out, “It’s still tasteless slop. I want an egg sandwich.”

                “I’ve got no idea what you’re on about. What is an egg sandwich, Leo?”

                His yellow eyes looked at me through crusty eyelids. At first, they appeared unfocussed as if he was in some dreamworld, then it seemed that he noticed me. There was a long-drawn-out sigh accompanied by a rattle from his lungs.

                “Ah, you’re too young. You never knew such things. My mother gave me egg sandwiches when I was a kid, back in the thirties. An egg sandwich always made me feel fine.”

                “Well, what is it? Perhaps I can make it for you?”

                A chuckle turned into a bout of coughing. Finally, he shook his head, “I don’t think so. When did the last chicken die? When was the last field of wheat harvested?”

                Chicken, wheat? The words meant nothing to me.

                Leo continued. “All gone. Now all we have is algae grown on our own waste. The few of us that are left. How many are there here in Antarctica, girl?”

                His question confused me. “There’s four thousand in Halley, same as there have always been.”

                He snorted. “Perhaps you can have the baby that will replace me.”

                “Maybe Leo. That’s up to the Council.”

                He grunted. “What about the other retreats – Marie Byrd, Wilkes?”

                “We’ve made no contact for years Leo. You know that.”

                He looked dreamy again. “Maybe we are the last. The remnants of humanity.”

 What did he mean by “remnants”? Things hadn’t changed in my life. The daily routine of work and sleep interspersed with meals and a bit of larking around with my dormers. There were few like Leo who thought they remembered anything different. Their tales were far-fetched and incredible: storms and droughts, heatwaves and floods, famine and war. People all over the world. Who would live anywhere else now? It’s not possible.

                “We’re doing OK,” I said, “The digestors are producing plenty of algae and the fermenters turn it into nourishing food. The turbines provide us with power.”

                Leo laughed and coughed again. “That’s what’s normal for you isn’t it. It wasn’t meant to be like this. I was a billionaire.”

                “What’s that?”

                “It meant that my father made more money than he needed. He built this retreat for when the collapse came. Oh, yes, he knew, everyone knew, it was coming, but rather than do something to stop it, they just looked after their own. You people, your parents, were supposed to keep us living in luxury. My father got thrown out of his own retreat. People forgot who I was. So much for wealth.” He closed his eyes and sank back on the bunk. I picked up the bowl and quickly ate the algae stew.  I knew it was more than my ration, but I wasn’t going to waste good food, not when the next baby will be mine. I’ll make sure of that.

……………………………………….

Things can only get better?

The Labour Party has won another two by-elections in England, again overturning large Conservative majorities. Thus it seems that Labour is on course to win the next UK General Election which must take place in less than a year and will probably happen in the Autumn. So, everything looks great, does it? No.

The current Tory government is a mess, riven with competing self-interest groups. It is filled with self-aggrandising, egotistical incompetents. They don’t have a single idea, other than cutting taxes, for doing anything for the economy and not a thing for improving the health or well-being of the population. They are beholden to the fossil fuel companies and the party is filled with right-wing, dog-whistling, haters of anything that doesn’t match their view of themselves. They’re bound to lose the election aren’t they? Perhaps.

The last time we were in something like this situation, in 1997, the (New) Labour slogan was “it can only get better” (the D:REAM hit). The Tory government was tired, out of ideas and mired in the sleaze scandal, although as characters they didn’t seem quite as manic and fascist as the current bunch. In fact John Major was quite a nice guy. There was optimism that the incoming Labour government could actually improve life for many. At first it seemed to be successful. That lasted till the millennium. Then we had 9/11 in 2001, the Afghanistan and Iraq wars, ISIS, the rise of Putin, the appearance of populist leaders, China, Trump, Ukraine etc etc. not to mention the various financial crises and COVID. I have, of course, left out the one issue that is paid lip-service by governments: climate change/biodiversity loss/environmental degradation. A recent poll in the USA found that 15% do not believe climate change is happening. That surprised me. I thought it would be over 50%. I would say that more than 4/5 of the population don’t accept that global warming etc is a threat to civilisation and perhaps the future of humans on this planet.

After 13 years of Tory austerity and other cock-ups, Labour is not going to bring paradise to us all. But, I do want to see the back of this Tory mob. I will be voting Labour in the coming election as the most likely means of getting rid of our Tory MP. I will be lending my support just because I think Labour is a lesser evil than the Tories. The Labour leadership seems to be scared of promoting a leftish programme of government, does not take climate change seriously enough, has no workable ideas of how to help those in poverty to a better life and seems scared of offending certain factions while not being fully inclusive. The election will be closer than the polls currently predict because when it matters natural Tories will come out and vote Tory no matter how bad they are. Meanwhile I think around 25% of the voting population would support an extreme right wing authoritarian leader thinking that they would be better off to the detriment of certain minorities they have learned to hate.

To be honest, no party that I know of has the right ideas to lead us into the future along with the means of persuading a majority of voters. I used to be a Liberal but the modern Lib Dems don’t seem to have a coherent policy or look attractive to the electorate. The Green party understand the problems but doesn’t have a clue how to persuade ordinary people what is needed. The nationalist parties speak to our patriotism but are almost irrelevant as far as UK national policies are concerned (I want more self-government for Wales if not outright independence; a Union of British Nations would be my preference or Wales as part of an enlarged federal European Union)

The coming election will be exciting. I hope to see the back of the Tories but I am not looking to the future with much degree of optimism.

……………………………..

An article in The Guardian commented on the furore around some transwomen apparently holding records for the women 5k runs organised by Park Run. The Park Run CEO took the decision to stop publicising times to emphasise that Park Run is not a race. They are for anyone who wants to keep fit in a friendly, inclusive community. Times are recorded so that runners (and walkers) can see if they are making progress and can aim to improve their personal best. The Guardian article was supportive and brought attention to the extreme right wing groups who are targeting any organisation that seems to be “woke” (see last week’s blog). Woke in this case meaning anywhere transpeople are accepted. All well and good, except the article repeated the conspiracy theory that transwomen are men who are reinforcing patriarchy by wanting to enter women’s areas. Utter nonsense, which shows a complete lack of understanding of what it means to be trans or non-binary. A person does not leave the male-dominated world behind to dress and live and work as a woman as a sort of fifth columnist for male supremacy. Someone who is determined to live their life as the woman they feel themselves to be has rejected male values and feelings. They want to be accepted as a woman in an equal society. My feeling of being non-binary is partly because I don’t see myself as male in my relationships with other men or women and certainly don’t want to promote misogyny or male domination.

A fine Feb day for boating

This week we celebrated St Valentine’s day so the theme for writing group was “love”, details unspecified. To my fellow writers’ surprise I did not write a story involving spaceships or aliens. Instead I attempted a sort of romance involving another of my pleasures. I am not that satisfied with it but here is Love All.

Love All

“Hi, I’m Dan. You must be Meg.”

                “Megan,” I replied.  I shifted my racquet to my left hand and held out my right.  This tall man, who I’d never seen before was about my age by his looks. He shook it firmly.

                Dan gave me a broad smile that created dimples in his cheeks. “I suppose we need to hit a few balls before we start.” It was the club’s annual mixed doubles competition with couples selected at random. 

                We started our match with barely a clue. Our opponents were old friends, accustomed to each other’s choice of shot and capabilities. On the first point Dan and I went for the ball together, putting each other off. For the second we left it to the other and the ball passed between us. Next, we were both on the base line as our opponent did a neat little dropshot and for the game point we found ourselves at the net as a lob looped over our heads. We had lost the game to love.  

The next five games also passed by in rapid succession, but we did start to become accustomed to each other’s style. He was impetuous, committing to shots early while I gave the ball time to bounce so I could compose myself to place my return. Nevertheless, we lost those games and the set to love.

                We started the second set determined to make an impression and give our opposition a game.  With his long legs and arms, Dan could dominate the net and send powerful volleys between our opponents. Meanwhile, being light on my feet but relatively tall, I could flit back and for along the baseline, retrieving shots which had passed him. We started to encourage each other, praising the other’s winners and valiant attempts while urging ourselves not to dwell on failures. When we changed ends our bodies were close, almost touching. I could smell his heat of exercise. Surprisingly I found it not unpleasant. His hand brushed my shoulder and my palm rested for a moment on his back. When we exchanged balls, our fingers touched and I felt an unexpected thrill. His short light brown hair framed his tanned but smooth face. He seemed to smile a lot when he looked in my direction.

                We fought hard, pushing each other to try shots which we may never have attempted. Once a drive hit my backside as I crouched at the net. It did not hurt but Dan apologised profusely. I rubbed my buttock and said something about his balls slapping my bottom. His cheeks flushed more than could be put down to exertion.

                We won games and kept pace with our opponents but eventually their experience told and we narrowly lost the set. We had lost the match by two sets to love.

                We left the court side by side.

                “Thank you, I enjoyed that,” Dan said, giving me that beguiling smile.

                “So did I,” I admitted.

                “We had better plan our tactics for our next match,” he said. Though we were out of the cup there was a plate event for first round losers.

                “That would be a good idea,” I said.

                He asked, “How about a coffee?” I replied with the name of a café.

We made it to our match next day just in time to start play. We began love-all.

………………………………….

I’m woke and proud

Humans are an adaptable and ingenious species. They have occupied every ecological niche from the freezing Arctic to the burning hot Sahara Desert, from the heights of the Tibet plateau to the, soon to be drowned, Maldives islands. Surprisingly, we are still just one species (we saw off competing hominins) but show a remarkable amount of variation in size, shape, colour, sexuality, gender identity, and skills. There’s a lot that can go awry with the human body so there are huge variations in ability both physical and mental. Despite us being an extremely fecund species, every one is an individual, no two are exactly alike. There is no reason why one person should look down on another. Every individual has the same rights – or should have.

Yet politicians around the world apply the term “woke” to anyone who asserts that equality. They pick on minorities, denying them rights and in some case even denying they exist. Of course this tactic is purely to divert attention from their failings and problems of their own making. It is easy to stir up a large minority against a small one. One such group are the people who have so little that they are prepared to move from one place to another which they perceive as being more amenable to survival i.e. refugees or migrants. Perhaps it would better to improve their life conditions before they move but if they have already moved they should not be criminalised, abused and denied the essentials of life. Apparently it is being “woke” to suggest that refugees deserve our compassion. If so, then despite the poor grammar, I am proud to be woke.

This week we saw a pathetic Prime Minister, with no successes to trumpet, try to make a cheap joke out of the opposition’s indecision. In so doing he added another insult to the many piled onto trans and gender queer folk by the “anti-woke” bigots every day. Notwithstanding the high rate of attacks on and murders of transwomen and transmen, and the obstacles placed in the way of trans people carrying on with their lives unhindered, we are apparently the greatest threat to Conservatism at the present time.

The “joke” referred to Keir Starmer’s flippant statement that over 99.5% of women don’t have a penis. Since the number of women who do have a penis is so small what do the rest have to worry about? Transwomen are not going about attacking other women despite what the gender critics say. They should be worried about the very high rate of violence by men on women not making up problems which do not exist.

People with ovaries and a uterus, let’s call them women shall we, are a very large minority of the human race. They deserve all the help they need to cope with the problems that arise because of their particular characteristics including menstruation, pregnancy, menopause. Does anyone want to make those characteristics the defining issues of their personality to the exclusion of all else? Perhaps there are some women who think their only value is as the producers of children. If so, then fine, respect them for it, but I think that is a small subset of the whole group called women. There are probably more women who lack ovaries and uterus as a result of genetic and congenital conditions and operations than have a penis.

Why do the gender critics continue to insist that transwomen don’t exist? It has long been known that about 1 in 500 babies have indeterminate genitals of which a proportion will be female with a penis. The presence of a Y chromosome is usually the switch that turns on testosterone and other hormones that masculinise the body. But there are 45 other chromosomes responsible for producing the whole person with the whole range of characteristics that are displayed by humans. For decades the medical authorities’ have recognised that in some cases the brain says the person is female while the body is male and vice versa. It’s called gender dysphoria. This maybe serious enough to recommend that the person undergo gender confirming surgery so that their body matches as closely as medical expertise allows the person’s gender identity. The PM and the others want to deny such people their right to be who they are.

There are others of us whose brains tell us we are neither completely one gender nor the other. Is it too much to ask to be left to be ourselves? No, the anti-woke brigade will spend their time abusing us instead of getting on with solving the real problems that face the world such as climate change, biodiversity loss, environmental degradation, famine, water shortages and war.

I am proud to be woke.

A forthcoming event and sales opportunity

This week we were away for a few days moving the boat. We were lucky with the weather so had a good time but I had little opportunity for writing. The theme for writing group was “reasons to be cheerful” for which I managed a short piece which harks back to other stories in a similar vein. Here is Reasons to be Cheerful.

Reasons to be Cheerful

It was the seventh day and God was relaxing. He was feeling cheerful for a good reason. It had been a busy week, but the project had gone well.

                God was especially pleased with the universe he had created. It was huge but mostly empty space. There was though, an almost uncountable (He had counted them) number of planets and stars and galaxies, all arranged to look as though they formed a long time ago in a sudden, big expansion. That would give them something to think about, God thought; them being his Chosen Ones. They were the last of his creations. First, he had had to design the planet they would call home, just one across the whole vast universe. Earth, or Terra or Daear or the hundreds of other names it was given later, was a labour of love for God. He had the idea of making the continents appear mobile, as if they had merged and split and moved over millions of rotations around the planet’s star. He also thought it would be fun to insert fossils in the rocks. God thought it would be exciting for people to work out the sequence of animals and plants. He did regret rushing that a little and allowed his infallibility to drop a bit by including some very weird creatures who had no descendants. He did think the dinosaurs were a giggle.

                Then it was on to the living creatures who would share the planet with his Chosen Ones. He was delighted with the elephants. Fancy turning a nose into a kind of hand. Then there were the octopuses – a brain in each of their eight tentacles! Who else could have thought of it.

                Lastly of course were the Chosen Ones themselves. He had a bit of fun there too. Why should they all be the same colour? He gave them every shade from black to white though he decided that blue and green weren’t suitable for sentient beings. Planning reproduction had been a merry jape. God thought that the answer he had come up with for procreation would provide endless fun even if it did mean that one of the sexes had it a bit harder than the other.

                So, there it was. Creation completed to His satisfaction. Now God could sit back and enjoy what His people made of it.

                A while later some of God’s pleasure had worn off. Off course being omniscient he should have known what would happen but sometimes he just liked to wait and see what had developed. When he looked in on his creation, he was a little upset by what his people were getting up to. They were making a mess of their planet, had killed off a good proportion of the animals and plants he had provided, burned a lot of the mashed dead dinosaurs he had buried for their mystification, and were busy altering the climate of their world to no good effect. He was also disappointed that they were falling out with each other over lots of silly things but mainly to do with those reproductive processes and the multicolours, he was so pleased with.

     God felt his good mood dissipating, but there was one final reason to be cheerful. He could end it all and start afresh just with a clap of his palms. He brought his myriads of pairs of hands together in one final moment of time.

…………………………….

Idiocracy

I may have mentioned the film Idiocracy before but I’m doing so again. It was directed by Mike Judge and came out in 2006 as a satire on contemporary society. It had a pretty average guy from the present put into hibernation waking up a few hundred years in the future. He finds a world where everyone is an idiot and he is a comparative genius. Basically it is commenting on the dumbing down of society, people not taking responsibility for their actions or their lives. It could also be seen as a presenting an argument for eugenics as it postulates that if everybody has the opportunity to reproduce then the average IQ of the population will fall.

Idiocracy does however mean government by idiots. It seems it hasn’t taken a few hundred years to reach that state. Hardly a day goes by without a member of a government, UK or other, making an idiotic statement. John Crace, The Guardian political sketch writer, makes a living from pointing them out. This week there has been a good crop. 

There was George Freeman MP, who resigned as a minister in the Tory government because “he could not afford to live” on the £120,000 pa salary. As simply an MP he could supplement his MP’s salary by taking on other jobs such as directorships or speaking appointments. He noted that his mortgage payments had leapt from £800 to £2000 per month. He apparently did not make any connection between his difficulties, the cost of living crisis in general and his party’s record in government over the last 13 years.

There was Lee Anderson, former vice-chairman (the vice is accurate) resigning to oppose the government’s Rwanda policy (not right wing enough) but then voting with the government to ensure it didn’t lose.

Then there was Angela Leadsom MP saying that higher food costs caused by new import costs as a result of Brexit were justified by the recovery of the UK’s sovereignty. This is a person who in 2016 (yes, 8 years ago) said that Brexit would have no economic fallout and would bring remarkable benefits. I can’t say I’ve noticed any benefits, only inconvenience such as being forced to queue to get my British passport checked at a German airport.

Finally, for now, we have the DUP prepared at last to go back into the Northern Ireland Assembly, after a gap of over two years, having negotiated minor alterations to the arrangements for transporting goods to and from N.I. following Brexit. They and their supporters were a minority that voted for Brexit in the province but apparently were not prepared for what effect leaving the EU would have on trading arrangements across the Irish Sea or with the Republic of Ireland. However, the real reason for keeping out of the Assembly, was I am sure because the DUP were no longer the largest party and the next First Minister will be from Sinn Fein. It was only the chaos and increasingly vocal protests from teachers, medical workers et al who had not received a pay rise for 3 years that finally changed the DUP mind. Nevertheless it looks as though the DUP is split over the issue.

These stories and others all seem to concern political idiots, but I wonder. The statements and actions of many right wing politicians seems to be idiotic but are they really idiots (def. a stupid person or someone who is behaving in a stupid way)? I think they are actually far more dangerous than an idiot would be. Their statements and actions are stupid but they are aimed at that sector of the population that are bigots and favour fascist behaviours. I think we can see that, around the world, perhaps between a quarter and a third of the human population think this way i.e. they are racist, nationalistic, misogynistic, homophobic and transphobic (perhaps not all at once). In some countries that has been enough to get right wing parties and leaders into power (there’s a good chance that the USA will follow that path again).

How do we counter the idiots? Advice please.

A reminder of my anthology available on Amazon

The writing group’s theme for this week was the phrase “that’s the question” – a very broad topic. Actually I did quite a bit of work this week on Peace & Harmony and The Mage Returns but did not have much time for the writing group task. So, I’ve done a short story. It’s not at all original and feels to me to be very dated (1960s?). I also cheated (?) to save time writing. Nevertheless, the group enjoyed it although I am sure SF lovers will think it old hat. Anyway, here is Unexpected Answers.

Unexpected Answers

Professor Morgan sat at the control panel sliding knobs to the right. His pale skin was flushed with excitement. This was the big day, the day when he would prove his ideas to be correct.

                His visitor stood at his right shoulder looking on, a bemused expression on her dark face.

                “Is everything set, Professor?” she asked.

                “Of course it is, Lennox,” Morgan replied, a little irritated by the interference. “This is my life’s work. Decades I have been preparing for this day.”

                Lennox stared at the great bulk of the cyclotron that she could see through the thick window in front of the controls.  “You think there are other universes beyond ours.”

                “One universe, specifically,” the Professor replied. “The anti-universe made up of anti-protons, anti-electrons and all the other particles that are the anti-matter versions of those in our universe.”

                Lennox appeared uncertain. “Is your machine powerful enough to open a window into this other universe, Professor?”

                “That is the question we hope to answer today,” Morgan said, holding his right hand over a great big green button.

                The dark woman was worried “But matter and antimatter explode when they meet. Isn’t it dangerous?”

                Professor Morgan shook his silver-haired head. “No. There is a barrier between our two universes that has kept them apart since the Big Bang. That is why there is almost no antimatter in our universe. My machine will just push on the barrier and stretch it a little so we can see what is on the other side. Watch the screens, Lennox. I am going to press the button…Now!”

Meanwhile.

Professor Nagrom sat at the control panel sliding knobs to the left. Her dark skin was warm with the excitement. This was the big night when she would prove her ideas to be correct.

                Her visitor stood at her left shoulder looking on, a bemused expression on his pale face.

                “Is everything set, Professor?” he asked.

                “Of course it is, Xonnel,” Nagrom replied, a little irritated by the interference. “This is my life’s work. Decades I have been preparing for this day.”

                Xonnel stared at the great bulk of the cyclotron that he could see through the thick window in front of the controls. “You think that there are other universes beyond ours.”

                “One universe specifically,” the Professor replied. “The anti-universe made up of anti-protons, anti-electrons and all the other particles that are the anti-matter versions of those in our universe.”

                Xonnel appeared uncertain. “Is your machine powerful enough to open a window into this other universe, Professor?”

                “That is the question we hope to answer today,” Nagrom said, holding her left hand over a great big green button.”

                The pale man was worried, “But matter and antimatter explode when they meet. Isn’t it dangerous?”

                Professor Nagrom shook her black-haired head. “No. There is a barrier between our two universes that has kept them apart since the Big Bang. That is why there is almost no antimatter in our universe. My machine will push on the barrier and stretch it a little so we can see what is on the other side. Watch the screens Xonnel. I am going to press the button…Now!”

Lennox held her hands over her ears as the noise of the cyclotron rose in pitch and volume. The screen began dark but points of light began to appear. A blurred image started to form. Two faces peered at her and Morgan.  Two faces that she recognised as her own and Morgan’s except that hers was light and the professor’s dark.

                “There’s something wrong,” Lennox said. “All I see is a mirror image of us in negative.”

                “No, nothing is wrong,” Morgan cried. His tone seemed to suggest otherwise. “The input is from the other side. But, I don’t understand.”

The picture on the screen grew brighter, the noise became intolerable.

“What’s happening?” Lennox screamed.

Morgan’s hands moved rapidly over the controls. “The energy rating is twice what my cyclotron is capable of. I can’t stop it. The barrier is tearing. Our universes are going to…”

…………….

Gender neutral – what’s the shade?

Back to a subject which affects me personally this week – gender.

Gender neutral parenting is a reaction to the pinkification of childhood. In recent decades the child rearing industry has increasingly stereotyped children. It’s not just a a case of blue for boys and pink frills for girls but dedicated aisles in toy shops with specific toys such as construction sets for boys and model kitchens for girls. Parents wanting to bring up their children without these gender biases look for gender neutral clothing, accessories and toys. I hadn’t realised how far it had got but apparently shops do now have gender neutral ranges. However, perhaps it hasn’t gone quite as we hoped.

A feminist mother writing in The Guardian reports that what is offered as gender neutral is very narrow – no pink or blue at all, no dresses, and images of trucks and dinosaurs. Boring. Also, despite her upbringing, her daughter insisted on a pink princess dress with unicorns which was forbidden by gender neutral rules. The mother posed the question – what about the boys who want to wear a pink tutu?

I think it’s a very good question. It looks to me as if the gender neutral movement has gone the way of sexual equality in other areas, such as business. Women are only allowed to be equal to men if they adopt masculine characteristics – dull colours, trousers, suits, aggressive, unscrupulous behaviour. And real men are not allowed to want to wear dresses.

True gender neutrality implies that everyone has a free choice of what they wear, the colours, the styles, the jobs they do and the hobbies they enjoy. Sex (or gender) shouldn’t be a deciding factor whether you become and engineer or a carer and there should be no judgements made on what one chooses to wear or how presents oneself.

I don’t claim to be gender neutral. I am gender fluid or maybe, gender queer, with a spot somewhere on the gender spectrum which changes from day to day.

Another Guardian article drew attention to the disarray at the yet to open children’s gender clinic in Great Ormond Street Hospital which should be replacing the Tavistock Clinic that was forced to shut down. Apparently there is no agreement on the training materials which should have been distributed to staff. This is because of disputes amongst the senior clinicians about how to treat children presenting with gender dysphoria. It is an extension of the gender wars where some don’t want to see children treated at all but forced to live as their birth sex while others accept that some children need to transition and may need medical help during puberty. It sounds like an impasse which is resulting in thousands of children not receiving treatment at all.

Yet another article reports that an increasing number of “gender critical” people are winning cases in court and at employment tribunals for forced dismissal. They argue that their belief that birth sex cannot be changed or, to be specific, transwomen are not women, is a legitimate point of view. It seems that judges are tending to agree. This is giving encouragement to others who want to deny transpeople the right to be themselves.

A few points spring to mind. First, whatever happened to the 2004 Gender Recognition Act? This states that someone with a Gender Recognition Certificate is the sex stated on their new birth certificate. In the eyes of the law someone holding a GRC stating she is a woman, is a woman, full stop. And vice versa. I never see the GRA mentioned in these cases. On the other hand I have always said that the Equality Act gives no protection to those who don’t hold a GRC. Secondly, it is always about transwomen. Transmen are never mentioned. The “gender critical” never demand that thickly bearded, muscular transmen should use the ladies loos. The reporting (in the Guardian in particular) never gives the other side of the argument, namely the opinion of the people who have been abused by these gender critics.

Freedom of speech is a prickly subject. If the “gender critical” are allowed to call out and draw attention to people who they think are transgender in the street, the office or the lecture theatre and call it freedom of speech, what is to stop people of one religion or race calling out others who are different? We all have opinions on all sorts of issues but we have to recognise that everyone has the right to be themselves.

Looking forward to warmer days.

This week we said farewell to a lovely lady who I knew at my writing group. She died suddenly just before Christmas. She was very kind, to me and everyone, and a very good writer. I respected her criticism of my writings and glowed with pride whenever she said she liked them. Her own YA fantasy novels were wonderful and should have been published. I, like my fellow writers, will miss her immensely.

I did a bit of short story writing this week but have not moved forward on the novel at all. However, last week I wrote that I had started (and stopped) a new novel about superheroes. Last week we met Kyle. Here is the introduction to Emily.

Peace & Harmony

Chapter 2

The bus was busier than was usual on a school morning. Emily sat with others heading to her high school but there were others travelling into the town centre for work or shopping or whatever. The bus was cold and damp. The air was moist, the floor wet and muddy, the windows misted over and even the seats felt soggy from the rainwater dripping from their coats. A typical winter morning in fact.

Emily’s attention was distracted from her friends’ conversations by the behaviour of a young man. He was standing in the aisle but leaning over an old lady sitting just forward of Emily. She couldn’t catch the exact words the man was using over the normal bus noises but they sounded angry and abusive. The woman stared up at him with a look of fear. Other passengers turned their heads away.

                The man’s voice got louder and his series of oaths and curses directed at the old woman became more threatening. Emily decided she had to act. She knew what she had to do, knew she had the ability to do it. She left her seat and slowly stepped forward. She spoke softly, just loud enough to be heard by the man when he paused for breath. She spoke soothingly, not accusing or threatening him with any punishment, but persuading him to cease his torrent of cursing.

                The man clenched his fists, appeared about to strike the old woman while continuing to accuse of her vile acts. Emily persisted, coaxing, placating, encouraging. Her words seemed to penetrate. The man paused his tirade. He looked away from the woman and stared at Emily. The anger creases in his face smoothed over, his eyes lost their wild, insensitive look. His body lost its contorted tenseness and his appearance became less aggressive. He mouthed an apology and stepped away.

                The bus stopped and the doors opened.  The man pushed through the crowd of passengers and leapt from the bus. The doors closed and the bus resumed its journey.

                The woman looked at Emily. “Thank you, young lady. I didn’t know how to get rid of that objectionable young man.”

                “Do you know him?” Emily asked.

                The woman shook her head. “Not personally, but I’ve seen him before. He is often a nuisance and has been violent on one or two occasions. I don’t think he knows what he’s doing. Drugs I expect. Whatever you said to him seemed to have done the trick.”

                “I’m glad I could help,” Emily said, sliding back to her seat. Her friends had not noticed her absence. She could hear some muttered conversation among other passengers. Were they discussing what she had done? It was easy really. She knew how to speak to people, what words and phrases to use, to calm them, to end disputes, to resolve issues, prevent angry words escalating into violence. She knew what she could do but nobody else seemed to realise what her capabilities were. She was just a personable twelve-year-old schoolgirl to her friends, teachers and anyone who knew her.

………………………….

Light on the Horizon?

There is only one item that has dominated the news bulletins this week, rightly or wrongly. That is, of course, the case of the miscarriage of justice of Post Office sub postmasters/mistresses and the belated response of Parliament. The trigger was the ITV drama Mr Bates vs the PO starring Toby Jones and a host of other excellent actors. I intend to see it but haven’t yet because I thought at first it was a bit old hat. The story has appeared on national and local news frequently in the last few years and the inquiry has been running since 2021. I thought it was just a matter of time before all the postmasters got their convictions quashed and their just compensation. It was that “matter of time” that was causing the problem. Thanks to the cuts in the judicial services by the current Tory government it seems that most of the claimants will be dead before their cases reach the appeal court. Also, the government has dragged its feet in releasing the compensation payments before the inquiry is completed which could be years and years.

That has all changed. Why? Obviously the ITV programme made a difference but I didn’t see viewers rushing into the streets after it was broadcast demanding that the government act. It seems to me that the television news teams themselves stirred things up by reporting on the programme and that woke up MPs. The vast majority of MPs have previously contributed very little to resolving the scandal. Now the tubs of lard that fill the Tory benches are falling over themselves to be heard and recognised as calling for justice. I think it is because for once they can be seen in a good light. Having previously elected May, Johnson, Truss and Sunak as incompetent PMs and supported their actions in Parliament on harassing refugees, allowing the water companies to pollute the rivers, reining back climate change policies, causing the cost of living crisis, etc, here, at last, they can be seen to be doing something laudable. As John Crace says, the MPs want to be seen as the heroes rescuing the postmasters from the wicked PO. It may be their only hope come the general election.

As with most things, reality is more complex. Of course the postmasters and mistresses have been treated abominably. The thousand or so of them should have their convictions quashed, their reputations restored and they should be compensated for loss of earnings, loss of their savings, property, and in some cases their lives. In addition, they should be compensated for the pain and suffering they have had to live through for up to twenty years. They deserve millions of pounds each. That’s quite a lot of money in total.

The problem for the MPs is that Parliament is not the justice system. Parliament may ask the King to pardon certain people. For example those who were executed for cowardice in WW1, who we now know were suffering from PTSD, received a pardon, as did people like Alan Turing, convicted and punished for being homosexual. But a pardon is not the same as being judged innocent. Right-wing politicians such as Netanyahu, Orban, the former government of Poland, Trump, all want to have power over the judiciaries in their countries. The current Tories would love to be able to overrule judges. The precedent of Parliament declaring the thousand postmasters innocent could be used in the future for less democratic purposes. What is needed instead is a fund allowing the judiciary to set up special courts to swiftly deal with the appeals. That shouldn’t be too difficult, should it?

A more difficult question is who was responsible for this whole mess. It strikes me that every senior executive and board member of the PO and every senior manager and engineer working on the Horizon system in the PO and Fujitsu and the members of the each government since 2000 overseeing the PO carries some responsibility. Someone noticed the growing number of cases, instructed the special investigators to keep on charging the postmasters with crimes and prepared the incomplete and inaccurate papers for the court cases. Someone was aware of the glitches in the computer system and did not raise an alarm. Apparently no-one in the PO has yet admitted any knowledge or taken responsibility at all.

The other issue is the peril of handing such tasks to a package like Horizon. It is huge and no one person can possibly understand its full workings. It would take more than a single lifetime to read all the lines of machine code. Horizon is a dumb system. It does what it is told to do and nothing else, except occasionally getting things wrong. The tech companies would like us to move to AI systems, indeed they are already moving things like internet searches to AI. The problem is that no-one, not even the experts can explain exactly how AI arrives at its responses.

I have a problem with the term “intelligence”. I have yet to see a convincing definition of what it means. A long time ago we took tests in mathematical logic, word associations, and spatial awareness to measure IQ. I thought those tests had been discredited. It strikes me that current AI systems are an idiot savant. They are like a person who has instant recall of what they saw, heard and felt every second of their life and can correlate memories with similarities. That is basically what AIs do with all the data they are trained on. It is not intelligence though it is very clever. The worry is what will happen when a system like Horizon is handed over to AI and allowed to run with no one understanding how it works.

A feature of German Christmas – yes, real candles on a real tree.

Back to writing group meetings this week after a fairly long break. The topic was “new beginnings” which I took in its loosest form to mean anything that I have just begun. During the “break” I had an idea for a new novel, which I am sort of working on alongside the sequel to An Extraordinary Tale and other stuff. I don’t want to divulge my thinking just yet but here is the draft of the first chapter of Peace & Harmony. The group liked this bit but it is going to change. Perhaps it gives a hint of where the novel is going.

Peace & Harmony

Chapter 1

The teacher droned on. Kyle knew he should be listening but nothing that Miss Roberts had to say about fractions was new to him. He gazed out of the window. Some of the trees were bare of leaves. The clouds were building. Perhaps the autumn’s first snow was approaching. Some people were running across the car park, away from school. They were not wearing coats. That was interesting. Why were they in a hurry to leave?

                A burst of automatic fire, unmistakeable, came from the other side of the classroom, from the corridor beyond. Kyle jerked upright in his chair, alert. He couldn’t identify the model or make of assault rifle that had fired, but the length and pattern of the shots told him about the mechanism. He understood how the gun worked.

                Kyle glanced around the classroom. The noise had affected everyone, but each reacted in their own way. Some of his schoolmates, like Miss Roberts, had frozen, their expressions blank. Others were opening their mouths to scream. One student was already diving under the table as they had been taught to do.

                The classroom door was slammed back against the wall. The gunman strode in. Kyle saw a young man, not twice his own age of ten, dressed in a camouflage-patterned tracksuit with straps over both shoulders.  It was the rifle that Kyle saw most clearly. He hadn’t seen this model before, but he understood its construction and how it worked. He knew what would happen when the gunman pressed the trigger. He more than knew it, he could sense the sequence of events that would follow, feel the moving parts.

                Miss Roberts turned slowly, her mouth opening, her hands rising to her face. The gunman lifted the barrel, the short range not requiring that he take careful aim. His finger tightened on the trigger.

                In his head Kyle experienced the whole construction of the rifle. He knew what had to be done. He manipulated that lever, held back that spring, urged two bullets into the same slot.

                The gunman held the gun pointing to the teacher, his finger squeezing the trigger. There was no shot. He released his finger, tried again with the same result. He let out a cry of frustration and dropped the weapon to his waist. It swung from its straps. From his right pocket he pulled a pistol. He raised it.

                Kyle saw the trigger move, held back the bullet in the magazine. The pistol clicked. The gunman looked down at the useless weapon.

                A portly, black-uniformed figure filled the doorway. A gun was in his hand. He fired. The gunman convulsed, started to fall, arms flailing. He landed with a thud and a final groan. The pistol clattered across the floor.

                Kyle watched, his mind filling with horror. Why hadn’t he noticed the arrival of the security guard?  He could have stopped him firing too.

                A roar of anguish filled the classroom. Shock, anger, relief. Miss Roberts staggered backwards and fell into her chair. The security guard stepped forward. He stood over the unmoving body of the young gunman, gun pointing down, finger still on the trigger.

                Kyle sat still, quiet. He knew what he had done. He knew what he could do. He knew what he would have done if he had been prepared. He wanted peace.

………………………………..

New Beginnings

Here we are, back again, after a rest. Did I say, “rest”? Not really, a bit of international travel (no problems), Christmas with kids (lovely but pretty tiring) plus constantly wondering whether I, like Lou, was Covid +ve or had a cold brewing. Actually nothing really came “out” but there were days I felt exhausted and could do with a rest.

Anyway, new year, new hopes and resolutions. Four days into 2024 and I have fulfilled my top resolution which was much needed. Yes, I’ve tidied my desk and filed papers away. I know, it’s not really a climbing Everest kind of ambition but I am pleased with the result.

It wasn’t a resolution but I do hope I can be optimistic about 2024. It is difficult as there are so many threats around us and so many people who I don’t trust because they are malicious, self-centred or simply incompetent. What are the grounds for being optimistic?

1 A few respected writers have written that despite the backsliding by various world leaders, the climate may not be totally doomed. Renewable energy sources are now top of the list for economic viability as well as being good for air quality and carbon emissions. This means that commercial adoption of green energy is increasing at pace and we may be over peak oil and gas (as well as coal). But keep an eye on those sneaky fossil fuel companies – they’ll do all they can to keep their businesses in profit.

2 There will be a general election in the UK this year (the sooner the better). Surely, the Labour Party cannot forfeit their winning position. Just watch it – going cold on green policies, taking up immigration issues may just let the Tories creep in. Nevertheless, I am hopeful that we can get shot of this bunch of malevolent incompetents.

3 I’m alive, fit and still thinking. That should be enough for anyone. In addition, while not being wealthy, we have enough to cover our basic needs and then some. I am surrounded by friends, neighbours and towns people who seem undisturbed by my non-binary mode of dress and behaviour so I can live as myself with few fears. Being alive is the main thing. A dear writing friend died suddenly a day or two before Christmas. She probably did not experience any pain but has gone and I will miss her. I don’t believe in any sort of life after death so that moment when life stops is a black impenetrable wall which is scary to contemplate.

4 There is a lot to look forward to: we have a couple of trips on the canals planned; I hope to attend the World SF Con in Glasgow in August; I hope to meet up with friends to celebrate 50 years since we graduated; maybe we’ll celebrate the 40 years since I moved on from my first teaching post; there will be other meetings with friends and family; places to visit, shows to attend, etc., etc.

So that’s it, I’m being positive. Next week I’ll get back to the rants.

Is Christmas over yet?

No writing group meeting was planned for this week (we met anyway) so I have written nothing specific for this week. Nevertheless, I have found time during the festivities to do some writing. I have moved on a little with the sequel to An Extraordinary Tale (one of my new year resolutions is to finish it in the next few months). The prompt for both my writing groups was “New Beginnings”. Not surprisingly, I’ve written to that prompt before. The story (see below) is more of a piece of introductory world building than a self-contained short story, so I did a bit of thinking and notetaking to extend it into a brief outline of a novel. Will it get written? I don’t know, because while we were away I had ideas for yet another new novel. More about that next week when it will be my new beginning.

For now, here is the new beginning for 2019 (let me know if you’d like more of it.)

Fresh Start

Fresh Start, population fifty-eight. The uniform shape and size were the only sign that the dozen, small hemispheres of foamcrete, huddled in the lee of the small hill, were constructions.  Their colour matched the bare volcanic rock from which they were formed.  The Road ignored them and went straight on to the beach a couple of hundred metres further. The Visitor turned off and stopped her quadbike by the nearest of the domes. She took a final glance at the small screen on the control panel. It now read fifty-nine inhabitants. One other piece of information was the distance she had travelled – seven hundred and forty-two kilometres from New Beginning.

                She swung off the saddle and brushed dust from her environment suit. The dust was the same grey as the buildings, the same grey as the Road. Looking back the way she had come it was hard to discern the route of the Road. It was an idea rather than a feat of engineering. Major obstacles removed, a couple of rivers bridged, guide transmitters installed, it snaked across half the island continent, linking the only two habitations on the only land mass of Second Chance, second planet orbiting the red star, Hobson’s Choice.

                There was just the rustle of her boots in the dust as she walked between the domes. The hill sheltered the village from the onshore breeze. There was no sign of the other fifty-eight humans. Among the cluster of domes, she approached one and pushed the door open. Inside was a room which had circular tables constructed of the same material as the walls. She tugged the mask from her face.

                “Service!” she called.

                A door on the opposite side of the room opened. A man stood in the doorway. He wore a pair of orange overalls.

                “It’s you. You came back.”

                “Said I would.”

                “S’pose you’ll be wanting a drink.”

                “Yeah. Thirsty work riding a quad from Newbie.”

                The man retreated and emerged a few moments later with a cup and a jug, both grey. He put the cup down on a table and poured a green liquid into it.

                “There you are then. Our latest brew.”

                The Visitor approached the table, lifted the cup and drank the contents in one gulp. She put the cup down.

                “Hasn’t improved.”

                The man chuckled. “Nope. Not a lot you can do with fermented algae. More?”

                The Visitor nodded.  The cup was re-filled. She settled onto a stool, lifted the cup to her lips and took a small sip.

                “So, why are you back?” the man asked. “Newbie too exciting for you?”

                The Visitor shook her head. “No, and it wasn’t the prospects of your company that drew me back either.”

                “What then?”

                “I have news.”

                “News that couldn’t be beamed via the Hestia?” He frowned, “She’s still in orbit?”

                She shook her head, “There’s no problem with old girl. It’s news Hobson didn’t want spread.”

                The man set the jug on the table and sat on a stool next to the Visitor. “What news?”

                “We’re on our own. There’s no second ship coming from Earth.”

……………………………

Predictions of a Fall

An article in last week’s New Scientist poses the question “is western civilisation about to collapse?” The writers have researched the evidence for previous collapses for example of the Roman Empire, the Mayan civilisation and the Qing dynasty in China. They have looked at over 200 collapses over 5000 years. Some are more serious than others. In some cases practically all trace of settlements and populations have disappeared. In other examples, after a period of turmoil, the civilisation has recovered. Each crisis results in violent deaths and/or death from disease and malnutrition along with displacement from homes and a drop in economic activity. Examples of this are when a civil war or revolution has occurred such as in the USA or the Taiping rebellion in China, both in the mid C19th. The conclusion is that civilisations have become more resilient through time. The writers report that western civilisation is going through a period of convulsion now but they predict that modern civilisation has sufficient “useful complexity” to avoid complete collapse. They mention five ways of averting a crisis that could lead to collapse:

1 manipulating the tax system to ensure that there is not too great a disparity between the excessively wealthy and the majority of the population;

2 a universal right to vote restraining selfish behaviour by those in power;

3 the existence of trade unions that protect labour and ensure an adequate minimum wage;

4 a welfare state that promotes the well-being of the whole population;

5 cooperation between nations to tackle worldwide challenges.

I felt, on reading this that if we are reliant on our leaders to apply those five conditions to preserve civilisation then, well, we’ve had it. Most governments all over the world and including the west are doing their level best to act countering those five principles. Taxation systems in most countries, particularly the UK and USA, have created a super-wealthy elite that control most of the economy; the right to vote is being removed from more and more people for spurious reasons; trade unions are at their weakest for a century; the welfare state is being destroyed by right wing governments; and international agreements (e.g. COP28) are bound by so many caveats and loopholes that they are meaningless.

Unfortunately for our grandchildren, I think the authors of the NS article are misguided in their optimism. What they also fail to include in their analysis is that for the first time in human history the whole Earth is in crisis because of global warming, environmental degradation, mass extinction and over-population. I hope the current ongoing crisis proves to be a minor setback in human development but I fear the future. I am just hoping to live out my life comfortably enough while taking whatever steps I can to mitigate the apocalypse.

[ref. Heading for a fall? Peter Turchin, New Scientist vol.260 no. 3468 09/12/2023 p 36]

……………………

There was discussion in the papers (well, The Guardian) about “dead-cat” manoeuvres by politicians. This the ploy where they say (or do) something shocking (flinging a dead cat onto the dining table) to detract attention from something actually more important. It was used by a Republican politician when questioning US university leaders on free speech. She asked why they allowed students to support the genocide of Jews. In fact no student had suggested such a thing, but because free speech is endorsed by the American constitution there is technically no law against someone saying such a thing. However it seems the university leaders fell for it and were flummoxed and unable to say how they and their institutions would respond if such a thing was said. Strike 1 to the Republican with plenty of publicity achieved and at least one resignation among the university heads.

Freedom of speech is an important human right but it does not come without responsibilities. Yes, one should be able to say what one thinks, with the caveat that one should not say anything that incites another person to harm another. No one should say that another person should die and no one should say that another person should be denied the support of the state in matters of health and well-being. In the current climate, incitement to genocide of Jews or Palestinians is not permissible and neither is talk which seeks to deny any person medical treatment or protection because their gender isn’t recognised by the speaker or for any other reason.

Making merry. Photo cropped to protect the innocent.

For my final writing group meeting before Christmas the subject was festive food. In the past I’ve done stories about Christmas puddings, mince pies, turkeys et al. This time I chose nuts. It’s only a short piece and not intended to be a cosy and cuddly Christmas piece. So here are The Knutz.

The Knutz

Hazel had been thinking. “Why are we here, Uncle Braz?”

            Brazil looked hard but his brown shell had a softer centre. “Uh, what do you mean by here, little one.”

            “Here in this bowl. All of us thrown in together,” Hazel said.

            “What are you nattering about?” Granny Walnut asked.

            “Hazel wants to know why we are here in this bowl,” Braz replied.

            “We’re here because this is where we are every Christmas,” Granny Wal replied, “Ready for anyone that wants to dip into us.”

            “Wants me, you mean,” Almond said. “Everyone knows I’m the most delicious.”

            “Smooth and pretentious perhaps, but most desirable, I don’t think so,” Brazil said, sneering. Although Al was the smaller of the two, he battered against Brazil. The two hard nuts often rubbed each other up. Hazel was caught in the middle.

            “Hey, I’m cracking up,” she cried.

            “Now, now, you nuts,” said Granny Wal. “Keep it down. I may be an old wrinkly but I can still knock you two about if needs be.” Brazil and Almond settled down, side by side, muttering.

            “It is pretty boring just sitting here and waiting for something to happen,” Hazel said. Just then some newcomers dropped in. They were pale beige and almost dumbbell shaped.

            “Hey, who are you?” Hazel asked.

            “I’m Peanut,” the new addition said.

            “What are you doing here?” Brazil said in a suspicious tone.

            “I’ve come to join you,” Pea replied.

            “You can’t do that,” said Al, “This is a nut bowl and you’re not even a nut.”

            “Yes, I am. My name says I’m a nut,” Pea said tearfully,

            “Technically he’s a legume, hence the pea bit,” Brazil said displaying knowledge gleaned from travelling the world.

            Almond bashed Peanut cracking his fibrous shell. “We don’t want your sort here. Go and join  the other snacks somewhere and leave us nuts be,” he said.       

“Now, Al,” said Granny Wal, “Everyone is welcome to the bowl, and everyone has a chance to be selected. We’re all different with different colours and shells and sizes. Where we come from and how we grow is beside the point. Come and settle with me here, Pea.”

            Pea snuggled between Granny Wal and Hazel. After a short while he said quietly, “Actually, I’m quite surprised to be here. Usually, I get roasted and salted before anyone wants me. When I’m like this people call me Monkey Nut.”      

            “That’s not very nice. You don’t look like a monkey,” Hazel said. “But some of us have different names. Cob is my other name, but I prefer Hazel. Let’s be friends, Pea”

            The Knutz sat in the bowl until the Nutcracker appeared. Then there was carnage.

……………..

I will be taking a break for next week. A merry festive season to all my readers.

…………………………..

2+2=5

The Tory government is in the realms of attempting to pass laws that defy logic or reality. Like the authorities in Orwell’s 1984 they are hoping to persuade people that their statements are true even when they cannot be. In 1984, Winston Smith was forced to accept that 2+2 = 5 because Big Brother said so. In 1897, the Indiana State House of Representatives passed a bill that stated that the circumference of a circle would henceforth be three times its diameter. Pi would no longer be an irrational number 3.14159… but would simply be 3. It never became law because the state senate was somewhat wiser and knowledgeable of mathematics.

The Tories have history in generating law-making paradoxes. The Brexit bill is full of them. How can re-establishing borders enable free trade? The cost of delays, custom checks and tariffs are bound to increase prices. A border has two sides; the authorities on one side may think they are taking control but it implies that their opposite numbers on the other side of the border also have control. The biggest paradox is of course the position of Northern Ireland in relation to the UK and EU. The Brexit bill demands a border between NI and Eire but the Good Friday Agreement makes any barriers to people and trade on the island illegal. Attempts to get around those mutually contradictory laws have failed. The NI protocol moved the border to the Irish Sea leaving NI partly outside the UK. That annoyed the unionists. The latest fudge means that goods are self-identified as either being for home consumption in NI or for onwards trade to Eire – so much for taking control. Some people actually believe Brexit to have been a success because trade with Europe hasn’t completely collapsed, but that is only because many of the custom checks and tariffs have yet to be introduced. Brexit is frozen.

Now the Tories want us to believe that not only is Rwanda a democratic, safe and welcoming country but that it is right to traffic refugees there against their wishes. While perhaps not as fundamental to the universe as the value of pi, nevertheless the Tory government is trying to legislate something as true which the Supreme Court has already ruled as untrue and which the UK government has no control over. Rwanda is still recovering from the self-inflicted genocide, has little history of democracy and the government has ways of dealing with dissidents. Given that the UK is fast sinking into undemocratic practices with the rule of law questioned by the governing class, perhaps Rwanda is not that different Rwanda does perhaps deserve to be a recipient of our aid but almost £300 million to take a few dozen unwanted refugees (none of which have been sent there yet) is an atrocious misuse of resources and legislating to make lies truth seems to be the height of stupidity as well as setting the UK up as a rogue nation in international circles.

Sunak insists “the people” support his moronic law. Perhaps thank to all the publicity from the Tories many people do see immigration as a problem. People endangering their lives by crossing the English Channel in small boats is most certainly something that we should do something about. Making the refugees figures of hate and threatening to fly them off to central Africa is not the answer nor do I think most voters will see it as a sensible solution to a complex problem. The £300 million should have been spent in making the refugee assessment system work and supporting the French and Belgian authorities in tackling the gangs that persuade people to embark on the crossing.

………………….

In other news, I noticed that Kemi Badenoch has said that gender affirming treatment for young transgender people is tantamount to “conversion therapy”. Conversion therapy has been used (often by religious groups) to convince trans and gay people that they are sick and that their feelings of identity are wrong. Psychological torture is used to persuade the subjects to adopt stereotypical norms. The subjects may suppress their identities in order to be accepted by families and their communities but it leads to long term mental health problems and suicide. Badenoch is using a typical tactic of extremists by attacking opponents using their own arguments. If Badenoch had actually talked to a transgender person of any age she would know that coming out as transgender, affirming one’s gender identity and perhaps going onto medical and surgical treatment is a big step. No one is forced into it or does it against their will. The families, schools and medical services that support youngsters in their transition are not pushing them, they are just providing a safe and caring environment. Those who have to suppress their identities, often by adopting stereotypical behaviours and careers (e.g. in the armed forces) often end up with nervous breakdowns, depression, rages, and, maybe, are driven to commit suicide.

With one of our number off to Texas for a wedding, writing group’s task for this week was to write a piece on marriage or another celebration. We had some lovely pieces including one on Celebrations, the chocolates. I didn’t really have a plot for my story but threw all sorts of SF ideas at it. here is I Married A Martian.

I Married A Martian

Given the Earth Authority’s policy on immigration, that is, it’s not allowed, I had to go to Mars to marry my true love. I came back home to Earth for a few days to pick up some last items and to accompany my mother and my sister, my bridesmaid. We set off early in the morning on the tube to the Waterloo transit hub. It was Mum’s first trip so she was a bit worried. I explained that your body is zapped into a cloud of photons and then the entangled photons at your destination are converted into matter that reconstitutes you completely. Mum didn’t seem convinced, but I reminded her that no one had ever been lost between the transit booths.

                I stepped into the booth first. Mum and Sis joined me at the South Pole Interplanetary hub. Now acting like a seasoned transiter, Mum asked why we couldn’t have gone straight from London to Mars. There are two answers to that. The simple one is that the EA wants to control everyone transiting to and from Earth so one big hub ensures they keep control. The other is that it makes the entanglement easier if the hubs are not spinning around in too many directions. The poles are the only places on Earth which aren’t rotating as well as going round the Sun. The North Pole is covered by ocean so that’s out of the question.

                We had a little bit of time before our transit to Mars, so we spent it at the viewing gallery looking out at the ice. They’ve done a decent job recently in restoring the Antarctic icecap. Then we took the step to Mars’ North Pole. The last stage of our journey was a short, sub-orbital hop. That provided an opportunity to see a good chunk of the surface. The domes that are covering more and more of the Mariner Canyon sparkled in the sunlight. Of course, most of the habitats are deep underground for protection from the uv and cosmic rays. Mum thought Mars looked rather “pink.” I told her that was the defining feature of the planet.

                We took a bus into Wells and finally strolled into First Dome. Ruby, my fiancé and her family were already at the wedding venue next door to the Musk Mausoleum. Ruby is third generation and has no time for Musk. She wonders why we still celebrate the old colonialist killed by a micro-meteorite an hour after landing with the first wave of colonists, even if he was one hundred and twenty-four years old.

                Ruby says, “It was only after Musk was gone that Martians were able to start making their own decisions.”

                None of that bothered us today. I looked up to Ruby. She’s a head taller than me like most Martians. She leaned down so we could kiss. I hugged her and lifted her. My Earth muscles have no problems doing that in Mars’s lower gravity.

                When I put her down, she gave me a severe look. “Tierra, before we go in, we need to talk.”

                My heart pounded. What did she want to talk about? “Are you worried about marrying a girl from Earth?” I said.

                “Of course not, love,” she said, “I’ve been offered a new job.” Ruby is a respected environmental engineer, in demand across Mars to set up and maintain life support systems and hydroponic farms.

                “That’s fine,” I said, “I don’t mind where on Mars we live.” I’m a human resources specialist so I knew I could get a job anywhere managing people.

                Ruby shook her head and looked sad. “No, it’s not on Mars.”

                I gasped. Where else would her skills be needed? Well, there was Ganymede. I knew the new colony there was expanding. She shook her head. Surely not an asteroid. Those mining settlements were too small to require Ruby’s expertise.

                “It’s Titan,” she said. Now I was shocked. I had heard talk of a new colony on Saturn’s moon. I realised that Ruby was an obvious choice to set up the habitat and move it towards self-sufficiency.

                “How long will you be gone? Don’t worry. We can still get married. I’ll wait for you,” I said, my words piling up and tripping over each other.

                Ruby laughed. “No, silly. I’m not going anywhere without you. They need a personnel manager. That’s you. They want you.”

                I stared at her, almost not believing what she was saying. “How do we get there? There’s a transit link to Ganymede but not to Saturn.”

                She nodded. “That’s right. We’ll transit to Ganymede and pick up the ISS Titanic there. It’s taking the first wave of colonists and all the gear including a new transit hub. Soon we’ll be able to come and go as easily as we can get from Mars to Earth.”

                A wave of relief passed over me.

                “It’ll take six months to get there of course,” Ruby added, “But the trip on the Titanic will be our honeymoon.”

                “Of course,” I replied, deliriously happy, “so long as we avoid icebergs, I gather there are plenty in orbit around Saturn.”

                “Don’t worry about that. Let’s get married.” Ruby took my hand and together we did a Martian skip into the wedding hall.

…………………..

A foot tapping evening

This week we went to a performance by Steeleyespan, one of our favourite groups from the 70s. It was a lovely evening but got me thinking. When I was young I disdained old stars that continued performing into old age or went on one “final” tour after another. Frank Sinatra is one that comes to mind, not that I was fond of his music or that by singers like him. I have no idea what fans thought of their performances when they were elderly. Quite a few of the bands from the 60s, 70s and 80s are still performing or have reformed in one way or another. I don’t know what Rolling Stones fans think of the group’s current shows. Steel Eye though still give great entertainment.

Maddy Prior is, I think, the only original member in the current lineup. In fact, Steeleyespan is Maddy Prior. However the two lead guitarists, bass guitar and drummer have been with her for some time. On this occasion there was the addition of a young fiddle player. She was excellent and added another virtuoso layer to the band’s sound. Maddy at 76 still has a strong clear voice although she doesn’t jig around quite as much as she used to.. The instrumentalists were all superb. What was noticeable about this show was that they played very few of their old numbers (All Around My Hat was the encore piece). Their newer material did however retain the Steeleye style – chugging rhythms, strong melodies and the merging of rock and folk – and were just as easy and pleasant to listen to and enjoy. So there was freshness as well as nostalgia in the show. It was the fourth time we’ve seen them live – we’ve managed about once a decade – all since their heyday in the 70s and 80s.

Who else would I go to see? Well, I might give Nick Mason’s Saucerful of Secrets (Pink Floyd tribute?) a go and I’d love to see Mike Oldfield perform live (no chance, I think). Unfortunately, Emerson Lake and Palmer are no more. While the performers are still up to it and still putting out new material I think they’re worth seeing live. Other than that tribute bands can give the old material new life just like orchestras do with Mozart and Beethoven et al.

Another Fair, same books for sale, but first sight of (one of) my new banners

This week writing group had its Christmas lunch (yes, I know it was a bit early but circumstances dictated the date) so the idea was that we should write something festive for the occasion. I’ve written a lot of Christmassy stories; I did two last year and I even put together a Christmas Tales booklet a few years ago. But November is too early for a Christmas story. Instead I’ve done what is more of a winter solstice tale (yes, I know that’s still three weeks away too). It was inspired by an article in the December Countryfile magazine about the “dark side” of Christmas. It is not intended to be historically accurate and I don’t know the best way of igniting a huge yule log.

In the Shadows of the Flames

Aeldit was excited when the huge log was dragged into the great hall. It rested on the hearth in the middle of the floor. All the men and women gathered round as Aeldit’s father, Merowald, poured oil over the log and then held a flaming torch to it. They cheered as the flames caught.

            “The fire will burn for the festival,” Merowald declared, “My son will be the fire watcher this year.” Then he leaned down and spoke softly to Aeldit. “Watch the log, my boy, do not allow it to go out.”  He called his warriors and they marched from the hall.

            Aeldit sat on the dusty floor, two paces from the burning log, to do as his father ordered. Royd, the old man from the woods, approached.

            “It is an honour to be the watcher of the fire for the festival, lad,” he said.

            Aeldit was a little scared of Royd. He was usually grumbling and cursing instead of offering pleasant comments.

            “I know,” Aeldit said, “I’m going to stay awake all night while everyone celebrates.”

            “Ah, but take care,” Royd said, “Do not get lost in the flames and beware the shadows.” He hobbled away. Aeldit wondered what his warning meant.

The household bustled around him. Servant girls and warriors came and went carrying out their duties while Aeldit sat and watched. The men returned with a boar which they placed over the fire alongside the cauldrons set up by the women in which turnips and parsnips boiled. Bread and cheese were laid on tables. Soon the light of the short day faded, and the hall was lit only by the flickering flames of the burning log.

            Aeldit had to move further way as the heat grew and the fire spread the length of the trunk. The wood crackled and spat and sweet-smelling smoke rose to the roof.

            The hall filled with men, women and children. Horns were filled with ale, platters filled with food and very quickly, singing began.

            The boy was entranced. Fairies and nymphs danced in the flames and fiery birds and insects swooped and soared. The noise and smells of the hall were lost to him as he joined the flickering figures in the fire.

            “Hey, lad, take care.” A hand grabbed his arm and pulled him away from the fire. Aeldit tugged on his arm and looked around. It was Royd gripping his wrist.

            “What are you doing?” Aeldit said.

Royd released his arm. “You were about to step into the fire, lad.”

“No. I was just watching.”

“I warned you. Don’t lose yourself.” Royd turned and merged with the carousing party.

Aeldit settled himself to watch again. The flame elves and nymphs beckoned to him but he didn’t move.

The Great Hall had emptied and was quiet. The burning log was much reduced and the flames were restricted to one end. Aeldit looked around. Where was everyone? Had the festival ended?

            Shadows had crept into the hall, making shapes on the high wooden walls. Aeldit shivered despite the warmth of the fire. Was that a wolf, there in a dark corner; a bea, rearing over the doorway; a lynx prowling by the wall? Or were there more terrible creatures coming for the fire watcher?

            “I’m not afraid,” Aeldit said. He picked up a flaming shard from the log and, step by tentative step, walked across the floor of the hall. The shadows shifted and moved. The wolf poised to leap; the bear raised its clawed paws; the lynx slinked behind a barrel.

            “I am Aeldit, son of Merowald. Be gone!” Aeldit shouted. He waved his improvised torch. The flames died. The dark surrounded him. The weight of it pressed him down. He fell to the floor expecting the jaws of the wolf to snap on his leg, the weighty arm of the bear to slam into his head, the lynx to leap at his throat.

            “What’s the matter, son?”  The drunken roar of his father stirred Aeldit. He was sprawled in the dust beside the hearth. Around him people were sitting, lying, jigging, merrymaking.

            “What, Father?” Aeldit said sitting up.

            “You cried out,” Merowald said and hauled his son to his feet. “Were you warning us that the fire is burning low?”

            Aeldit looked at the yule log. There were no dancing flames left, just a glow of embers.

            “Er, yes,” Aeldit answered.

            “Well, there is no need to worry, son. The new day approaches and we can set a new fire. Your duty is done. You can get some sleep.” His father slapped him on the back and left to refill his horn.

            Royd crept up to Aeldit and whispered. “You saw them, didn’t you?”

            “I saw the shadows,” Aeldit said, “but they weren’t really there, were they?

            “Oh yes, lad. They were there. Only the fire and your courage keep the shadows away.”

……………………

Where’s the centre gone?

I have had quite an enjoyable week. We’ve been out a few times, played a bit of tennis and I have done some writing. That all makes me feel happy. Except. World news continues to depress. The Hamas/Israel is bad enough , brief ceasefire notwithstanding, and the war in Ukraine continues, but it is the results of elections as far apart as Argentina and the Netherlands that increase my fear of the future. Why are so many people turning to far-right parties in elections across the world?

It’s not a new phenomenon. For years there has been Orban in Hungary, Kaczynski in Poland, Trump(!), Modi, Bolsonaro, Netanyahu and others to say nothing of nondemocratically elected rulers like Putin and Xi. More recently Meloni secured election in Italy. There have been a few victories against the right – Tusk and his coalition in Poland for example – but they look pretty precarious.

There have been plenty of elected right wing governments since WW2 of course, Chirac in France, Berlosconi in Italy, Thatcher in the UK, for example, but the recent winners have become more and more extreme and intent on eliminating any opposition to the extent of removing the pillars that support democracy in their countries such as an independent judiciary. Why do people vote for these parties?

They are usually a minority of the population but achieve a majority in their nations’ parliaments. Nevertheless, it means that around a third of the voting age population are falling for the promises of these far-right wannabe dictators. Those of us on the other side know that the promises are lies and are intended to pin blame for failures or falls in living standards on minorities such as immigrants, LGBT, or certain ethnic or religious groups. The numbers are so large now that we can’t say that the people are stupid even if they are falling for the ploys the fascists use to get their votes.

I suppose that we must conclude that about a third of the population always has been very right wing, nationalistic, racist, bigoted and susceptible to conspiracy theories. The liberal centre has become lazy, and complacent, and no longer agitates for human rights, diversity, compassion – they’re too busy holding on to their comfortable way of life (that includes me).

It has been shown time and time again that these populist far-right proto-dictators are pretty incompetent when it comes to managing the economy or delivering any of the promises that they actually intend to honour. Unfortunately the damage that they do, and will do, means that there may not be much left to rebuild especially as they are almost exclusively climate change crisis deniers.

What is the solution? Probably, we should get off our backsides and campaign for the middle ground but what is effective? I’m not one for marching or civil disobedience and social media bores me. I’m not even sure how you use social media to change peoples’ attitudes. Is standing up to the bigots or the environmental disaster sceptics likely to have an effect or is it just tiring and possibly dangerous? As a non-binary, gender-fluid person I feel that I should be visible and show that I am not a threat to anyone else’s existence but if I was to experience any threat of violence I would run a mile (or more).

This week’s writing task was to include the phrase, “could you speak more loudly/softly”, for reasons I won’t go into here. The story that came to me was a bit longer than writing group usually allows, but they liked it. So here is Duty of Care.

Duty of Care

I pressed the doorbell and waited. I felt a little guilty about how long it had been since my last visit and anxious about how much Stephen may have deteriorated. Just a few moments passed before the door swung open with a soft hum from its electric motors. Stephen wasn’t waiting inside. Instead, a cylinder that looked a bit like a fat parking bollard blocked my way in. The flat top of the column came up to my navel. It was about forty centimetres in diameter.

                “Hello,” it said. The voice emanated from somewhere within its white plastic shell. It sounded southern English which I suppose passes for being unaccented. There was a tiny pause before it continued. “You are recognised as being Robert White. Stephen is expecting you. Please, come in.”

                It rolled backwards on its six spherical casters.

                “What are you?” I said as I stepped into the hallway.

                “I am a Multipurpose Autonomous Care Operative with advanced AI.” An arm emerged from close to the top of the column and extended. A rubber-tipped finger pressed the green button on the wall beside the door. The door closed behind me. “Please follow me,” the MACO added, although I knew my way.

Without turning, the machine rolled through the open door into Stephen’s living room. It was a large open space with shelves and cupboards and screens around the walls and only a small sofa in the middle of the floor. Stephen was seated in his very complex mobility chair in the middle of the room.

                “Robert!” Stephen said, his voice a little weaker than the last time I had visited., “You made it. Would you like a drink?”

                “Um, yes,” I said, quite taken aback by Stephen’s warm welcome. “A black coffee would be great. Would you like one? Shall I make it.?”  I was about to head towards the kitchen.

                “No, Robert. You sit down. Mac can make coffee. It does everything for me. I’ll have my usual.”

                The machine spoke, “One Earl Grey tea, hot, and one black coffee. Do you require sugar with the coffee, Robert?”

                “No, thank you,” I said, settling into the sofa and wondering why I had thanked a machine. It rolled off to the kitchen.

                Stephen lowered his seat until his head was at the same height as mine.

                “How long have you had it?” I said.

                “A few weeks now,” Stephen replied. “It’s replaced all the care assistants who used to come in and out every day. It can even use my hoists to get me into bed and the bath.”

                “Doesn’t look much like a care assistant,” I noted.

                Stephen frowned, “Apparently, trial versions which had a humanoid casing were a bit scary. You know, uncanny valley and all that. It’s got so many different limbs and attachments hidden away in that column that a human shape would be crazy as well as creepy.” Stephen’s voice had got quieter as he talked. I didn’t hear his following comment at all.

                “What did you say? Could you please speak a little more loudly, Stephen. You know my hearing’s not as good as it was.”

                Stephen used the one finger on his right hand, that he still had the use of, to manoeuvre the chair closer to me. He whispered in my ear. “Have you brought it?”

                “What? Oh, yes, of course.” I pulled the bag from my jacket pocket. “Why are you whispering?”

                “Mac listens to everything I say in case I need something and he must respond. Let me have them now, please.”

                I gripped the bag in both hands and gave it a tug. The plastic parted with a loud pop of escaping gas. Some of the porky scratchings spilled out.

                “Damn,” I said bending to pick the pieces off the floor.

                “Leave that,” Stephen said, suddenly quite agitated. “Put some in my mouth, now.”

                I picked a good-sized piece and reached out to pop it between Stephen’s open lips.

A flash of white appeared at my side. A metal gripper dashed the greasy morsel from my hand.

                “Hey!” I cried.

                “Odour of cooked saturated animal fat detected,” Mac said in the same calm tone as it had taken the order for drinks. “Appreciable risk of atherosclerosis. High salt content suspected. Elevated risk of heart attack. Product is not listed on Stephen’s permitted foods. Choke hazard detected.” Mac rolled away and despite its video cameras not being obvious I knew it was watching me for my next move.

                “Mac is very concerned for my health,” Stephen said with a sadness in his voice.

                “How did it know?” I mumbled.

                “As well as video and audio, Mac also sniffs the air,” Stephen said, “It can detect and identify over a trillion smells.”

                “I didn’t know there were that many,” I said. “But a couple of pieces of pork rind won’t harm you. Can’t you tell it to back off.”

                Stephen shook his head. “Protecting me from harm is its top priority.”

                I was feeling frustrated. “Well, let’s turn it off for a while, shall we. It does have an on/off switch I presume.”

                “Yes, in the middle of the top surface there’s a…”

                I didn’t wait for Stephen to finish. I took a step towards the machine and reached out my right hand towards the top of it.

My wrist was encircled by a softly padded but strong steel hand. Despite my surprise, I was not going to be baulked by a machine. I stretched my left arm. My left wrist was locked in a similar grip. I couldn’t move.

                “Let me go,” I cried, “Stephen, do something.” I kicked the metal cylinder.

                “Wellbeing of the subject is threatened. I am under attack,” the machine said. Another arm emerged from lower down in the machine. It carried a syringe. It extended towards my stomach.

I tried to pull back, but I couldn’t get away from the machine. The needle passed through my clothes. I felt a brief pain as it pierced my skin. Then my legs became wobbly.

I came to slumped on the sofa. I was alone. The room spun as I sat up and my head ached. Every muscle in my body felt as though it had turned to water. I pushed myself to my feet and staggered to the side of the room where I could lean on the bookshelves. Step by uncertain step, I reached the exit to the hall. From there I could see into the bedroom. Stephen was lying on his bed, naked. I hurried to him as fast as my wobbly legs could manage.

                “Stephen! Are you alright?” I said. I got to the side of his bed.

                He turned his head to look at me. “Yes, I’m fine. How are you? I tried to stop you. The switch is programmed to my fingerprint. You couldn’t turn Mac off. Your actions initiated its defence response. It must have injected you with my muscle relaxant, a massive dose of it.”

                “Muscle relaxant?” I queried.

                “My useless muscles sometimes go into a spasm. It’s bloody painful. Mac keeps the drug ready for when it’s needed.”

                “It used enough of it to knock me out. How about you? What’s it done to you.”

                “Mac decided I needed a relaxing bath, so he got me ready.”

                “Where is the crazy machine now?”

                “Its batteries were running low. It’s gone to the charge point in the kitchen. It’ll be back soon. Please, Robert, get me back in my chair.”  It was on the other side of the bed.

                “What about your clothes?”

                “I don’t need them. Just pick me up.”

                I rolled Stephen onto his front and twisted him around so that his legs dangled off the bed. Then I put my arms underneath him and lifted him up. He wasn’t heavy.

                I heard the approaching whine of electric motors running at speed.

                “Subject in danger!” recited the machine as it entered the bedroom. I twisted around with my back to the wall. My left arm was around Stephen’s waist holding him upright, tight against me. I held his right wrist in my hand.

                The MACO approached slowly. Four manipulators extended from its casing. Two of them looked strong enough to hold Stephen and the other two looked as though they could do me damage.

                “Stop there or I’ll drop him,” I said. The machine paused an arm’s length away from us.

                “You are not authorised to move to the subject,” Mac said, still speaking calmly.

                “I know and you’re a coercive tyrant governed by your algorithms,” I replied.

                “You will be dealt with. Stephen must be protected,” the machine said and moved slowly forward. The arm wielding the syringe emerged from the lower opening.

                I let go of Stephen’s wrist. His hand flopped onto the top of the MACO. His second finger pressed against the middle of the surface. There was a sigh as Mac’s motors stopped. The machine froze.

                “Phew!” Stephen said. “That’s the first time it’s been off since it arrived. Now put me in my chair and feed me those pork scratchings.”

……………………….

Astounding stories

I am astounded if not actually surprised. The depths to which members of the UK government sink is what still astounds though no longer surprises. How Sunak did not sack Braverman immediately she published her letter critical of the Met Police before Armistice Day, I don’t know. It was so obviously in conflict with the position of Home Secretary that she should have gone straight away. I find it difficult to imagine anyone agreeing with her horrid views on just about everything but of course she does have support. Whether it is any more than a small cadre of extreme right wing fascists, I don’t know.

Of course, the eventual sacking was not the end of my astonishment. By what reasoning did Sunak come to decide that Cameron was his best (only?) possible choice for Foreign Secretary. Cameron may still be relatively young as ex-PMs go but nevertheless he’s a has-been, out-of-the-loop, over-the-hill, failed politician. Never in his political career had he held a ministerial post in the Foreign Office and his record in foreign affairs as PM is not covered in glory (Libya?). His failure of judgement was highlighted by the way he fought the referendum campaign and then he resigned instead of trying recover from the mess he had made. As a presumed Remainer how can he possibly sit in a cabinet filled with Brexit fools. Obviously, like the rest he has no ideals or moral qualms whatsoever.

So, we lurch on to the next election with the Tories scratching for every bit of news that may help their cause. The first titbit is the fall in the inflation rate. This time last year it was over 11% and Sunak promised to halve it within the year. Low and behold it has fallen to around 5%. Sunak will claim responsibility for the drop but what has he and his government done to reduce inflation? Nothing. Not one government measure has been taken to reduce inflation. The Bank of England has increased interest rates by an order of magnitude (that’s x10) in the last two years, driving many mortgage payers to despair, and that has been the only action that has been designed to reduce demand and hence lower prices (there is a logic there apparently). The steep rise in inflation was of course caused by the huge increase in energy prices 18 months ago, a result of the rise in natural gas prices due mainly, but not exclusively, to the war in Ukraine. Since it happened over a year ago along with the knock-on effect on all other prices, it has worked its way out of the inflation calculations. The fact that inflation is still double what the BofE would like remains a worry. Another 5% rise in prices after last year’s 10% means more difficult times ahead. The rise in earnings in the private sector does not help teachers, doctors, nurses, council workers, et al who have not had pay rises anywhere near inflation.

I am still waiting for some real, lasting good news.

The Palace Hotel, Buxton – a grand old place that is keeping up with the times.

Last weekend I was at NovaCon in Buxton, one of the larger annual purely literary SF and fantasy cons. Elsewhen held a launch party for the three most recent publications including An Extraordinary Tale. My readings went down well. I also delivered a talk, Chemistry in SF: Cavorite, Coaxium and other fictions, which was received very well indeed. All in all, a very pleasant weekend.

This week’s theme for writing group was “stream of consciousness” or “let it out!”. I’m not sure I get stream of consciousness writing but I tried it. I just let my fingers loose on the keyboard and let my mind wander. The piece below is the result. Not really a story; I’m not sure what iy is. What do you think?

Stream of Consciousness

I was a rolling stone in the depth of the forest, as out of place as a fish that has jumped from the stream. There may have been light and life way up in the canopy but down here it was dark and quiet and dull.  But through the forest flowed the stream, wide enough to almost be a river, and I rolled into it.

            The shock of the cold stopped my breath but then I was floundering and gasping and trying to avoid sinking in the water. I was carried along, flung against rocks, spun in whirlpools and dragged along the gravel bottom.  I was bruised, dizzy, my skin flayed and yet I felt more alive than ever before. My brain was in ferment with the noise of the rushing water, the odours of the vegetation and the flickering of the agitated, frothing torrent.

            The stream widened, the overhanging trees drawing away to reveal the sky and the sun. The flow slowed and I floated gently along. My mind settled, able to consider one thought after another in some semblance of a logical sequence. Where had I come from? Where was I going? Where and when would be my final destination? Questions, I had many, but answers few. Why? Because I had no memory of where I had been although the words to describe my situation came to me – forest, stream, water, air and so on.

            I was pondering this central question of who I was and the purpose of this journey when I noticed that my movement had almost ceased. The banks had receded so far that I could feel that I was no longer in the river at all. Ahead, or what had been ahead, was a line between water and air, an horizon. Now I was buffeted by waves and currents, pushed this way and that, but never in reach of the shore. The water was deeper, no longer could I feel or even see the bottom.

            Around me floated jellyfish ascending and descending. Amongst them was a flash of silver and then nearby, leaping from the waves, a dolphin, a sheen of water shining on its back. Above me circled seagulls while gannets dived into the sea to catch the fish.

            I felt myself rising, leaving the ocean and taking to the air. I floated higher and higher up into the sky until I was looking down on clouds that obscured the surface. Looking up there was darkness with points of light appearing. I wondered if I might escape and tour the cosmos, but it was not to be. I felt the pull of the Earth drawing me down.

            I was falling, my speed increasing until I hit a leaf. I bounced and then settled and then I remembered.  This was where I had started, resting in the foliage at the top of the forest. The wind rustled the branches and I rolled off and fell again through the mosaic of leaves towards the ground.

………………………..

Contempt

I’m away this weekend attending an SF convention. It’s an opportunity to raise my profile in the SF community. We will be launching my most recent novel, An Extraordinary Tale, along with other new Elsewhen publications. I am also giving a talk, Chemistry in SF, which is a bit of fun rather than a scholarly presentation. For a couple of days we will occupy the worlds of spaceships, robots, aliens and other SF themes, although since a lot of current writing concerns dystopias perhaps it won’t be so different to the real world.

Reality is still dominated by the Israel/Gaza conflict (“war” seems too respectable a word for it). I confess that I haven’t listened or watched all the news bulletins nor read all the pages in the newspaper recounting the continuing horrors but it is difficult to get a “balanced” view when even demonstrators asking for a ceasefire are referred to as terrorists and haters by government spokespeople. Reports refer to the beginning of October when Hamas attacked Israeli civilians as the start of the current round of fighting, but of course it is not. Previously Hamas were regularly firing rockets into Israeli towns while the Israeli government kept Gaza blockaded and made daily life as difficult as possible for Palestinians. That isn’t even the start of it. I have mentioned before how the enmity between Jew and Arab goes back not just the 75 years to the founding of Israel but back to biblical times.

I experienced this week how Bible stories influence the views of people, particularly fundamental Christians, on the conflict. I listened to a Baptist minister read a story about Ishmael and Isaac. Ishmael was the bastard son of Abraham and a servant girl. Isaac was the legitimate son of Abraham and his wife, Sarah. Ishmael hated his half-brother and that hatred, so the story went, has been passed down the generations. The story ended with a present day Ishmael blowing up a modern Isaac in a café in Israel. Ishmael is the mythical forefather of Palestinians and other Arabs, while Isaac is the legendary ancestor of the Jews. The story disgusted me with its casual racism and misogyny (the mothers had a bad time of it). Abraham, revered by both Islam and Judaism, had a free ride but in reality was the cause of the antagonism, while God, in all his omnipotence, was apparently powerless or unwilling to solve it. It wasn’t the tale itself that gave me concern but the assumption of its truth in explaining the current conflict and its real history. It showed me how stories peddled by religion can be used to justify present day horrors.

This week’s theme for writing group was “familiarity breeds contempt”. Contempt, to me, to me is an angry word implying a jeering rejection, but in this context it means a careless disrespect e.g. contempt of court, or treating someone or thing with contempt. In a short, quickly written piece I have tried to use this idea in a less than commonplace context. Here is Settling In.

Settling In

The sky was full of stars, so many that there was almost no dark. So much for being a “dark sky” area, Paul thought. The constellations were almost lost in the profusion of stars and galaxies and nebulae. The view from the top of the hill always filled him with wonder. He was so glad that he’d made the move.

            Paul took the decision when he’d been mugged for the second time in three months and the doctor said his asthma was aggravated by the traffic pollution in the city. He sold the house he had inherited from his parents and moved to a remote valley in the Bannau Brycheiniog, or the Brecon Beacons as he informed his old friends.

            The small cottage was half a mile up a track, a mile from the nearest habitation and three miles from a village. Paul equipped it with a satellite internet connection, solar panels and a small wind generator and got stuck into the redecoration. In a month it felt like home, after six months he wondered why he had ever lived anywhere else. In two years, everyone in the locality knew the loner who lived up on the hillside and he knew them.

            On dry, clear nights, Paul took the well-worn path up above the tree line to the top of, what he considered, his hill. There he gazed at the stars.

            One star took his attention. It was growing brighter, moving quickly and erratically. The speed ruled out a satellite and the erratic path was not that of an aeroplane. Now, it was simply growing larger and brighter. It was coming to him.

            “Hi, guys,” he muttered with a chuckle. “Me again, is it? Isn’t a sample of one meaningless however many times you repeat the tests?”

            The light grew till it obscured a considerable part of the sky. The saucer-shaped vehicle came to a halt directly above Paul, fifty metres or thereabouts, above the hilltop. He was encased in a cone of light so bright he could neither see outside the circle of grass it illuminated nor the star-filled sky.

            He didn’t feel a force pulling him but his feet lost contact with the ground and he rose.

            “OK, guys. Get it over with,” he said aloud, not knowing if anyone was listening or even had ears to hear him. He saw nothing of the craft that enclosed him. The cylinder of light still made seeing out impossible. There were just hints of shadows of moving shapes, shorter than him with thin arms, thin legs, slim bodies, large heads.

Paul stirred. Like the previous times, he was lying on the ground. He didn’t feel cold, so he knew he hadn’t been out for long. No part of his body felt abused. He looked around. He was still at the top of the hill and the stars still shone overhead. The alien spaceship was gone.

            He got to his feet, brushed the dust from his jeans and jacket. Had the aliens had enough this time or would they be back for him again sometime? Paul hadn’t learned anything more about them than on his first abduction. It was quite routine now, but these enigmatic extra-terrestrials weren’t going to put him off the pleasure of staring at the stars. Paul shrugged and set off down the path.  Time for bed, he thought.

………………………

Intelligence

PM Sunak held his AI conference at Bletchley park this week. A nice little holiday from managing his disintegrating party or f****** up the country. Representatives from a few other countries turned up plus Elon Musk who owns more than quite a few countries and maybe has more influence than most. Sunak’s statements on the subject of AI reveal that he hasn’t really got the foggiest idea about it and the suggestion that governments can control the tech companies worldwide is fanciful given past “successes” on things like pornography, hate language, trolling, election interference, etc. He has suggested setting up an inter-governmental committee on the lines of the IPCC which advises on climate change. From the man who has just decided to rein in measures to alleviate climate change against all the recommendations of the IPCC, that, I think, calls for hollow laughter. There was no hint of making the AI developers pay for the copyright that they have abused.

The problem, as I see it, is that Sunak, and others, including Musk, talk about the future with the threat of AI replacing many if not all jobs. That is a bit like being concerned about the Sun turning into a red giant and burning up the Earth sometime in the future while global warming is happening now. AI is a danger now and could bring about the end of western civilisation i.e. life as I am living it now, within a few years.

I am no expert on AI or IT in general, however, I have read articles about AI and about its applications. First of all, I think, “intelligence” is a misnomer, artificial or otherwise. What programs like ChatGPT do is use an awful lot of computer power (and incidentally a great deal of energy) to identify correlations and patterns by comparing a vast swathe of data, whether it be photos, videos, books, magazines, articles, molecular structures, or whatever. When asked a question or given a task, it pulls together all that material to present the most likely response. It carries out a very humdrum task in a short period of time. Humans can do the same job but take much, much longer. For instance, back in the 1930s Clyde Tombaugh discovered Pluto by looking at thousands of photographs of space and eventually finding a pair where a dim white spot moved. It took him years. Today an AI trained on the same data set would find the dwarf planet in seconds (or less). Today AI can manufacture a picture almost instantly from a description and can write a novel in a specified style given a plot, characters and setting. How good are they? The pictures can look impressive but perhaps can still just about be recognised as fakes because of miniscule errors. Similarly the texts (biographies and fiction) produced by AI seem to start well but dissolve into error or confusion later on. Those failures will be corrected – soon.

AI can and will be very useful for diagnosing diseases such as cancer, for determining the structure of substances such as proteins, for controlling vehicles, etc but are they intelligent? One use for AI I have read about this week is to devise a science of smell. The AI can look at the descriptions of smells of thousands (millions?) of chemical formulas and look for patterns that relate smell to structure. The scientists want to be able to produce something for smell that resembles the colour wheel used by painters or the Pantone catalogue of colours. AI can probably do that. What it cannot do, and there is no suggestion that it can, is explain why a molecule produces a particular odour sensation – why is hydrogen sulphide “eggy” and ethanoic acid “vinegary”. What is the mechanism by which we detect and identify particular odours?

So, why do I think AI is a danger to us all? One thing AI is very good at, at this moment, is fake news. A number of reporters have said that elections taking place in the next year or two in the USA, UK and elsewhere could be totally disrupted by deep fake photos, videos, articles, news reports produced in such numbers and directed to individuals, such that true election material from parties could be overwhelmed. We saw what happened in the Brexit referendum and to some extent in the 2019 election. Lies, lies and more lies emanated from certain quarters. As most people do not read newspapers, do not watch or listen to TV and radio news and do not read election literature, they are vulnerable to whatever appears in their social media stream. Even thinking people can fall for some conspiracy theories and fake nonsense. We will have to be on our guard but have to wait and see.

This week’s theme for writing group was “have a go”. I had an idea which turned into the story below. However it is more of a snippet than a complete story. I had quite a complete picture of the worldview in my mind which was pretty close to that which I have used in other stories, and an image of the main character. However in a 500 word story there is not a lot of space for description, world building or even plot. Anyway, here is Have a Go.

It’s not upside down!

Have A Go

“We have a hold, Commander. Just checking a reading on a sensor in the magnetic containment torus. Shouldn’t take long. Sit tight.”

            That was the most difficult of orders to obey. Doing nothing while others looked into a problem was against my nature. Nevertheless, there was nothing I could do except reflect.

            My childhood was traditional even perhaps, old-fashioned. My father went to work every day and my mother stayed home to look after me for my first couple of years. I was never content to sit playing with dolls or whatever. From the moment I could walk, I would follow Mum around trying to help everything she did – vacuuming, loading the washing machine and dishwasher, cooking. When Dad came home, I’d be with him, gardening, fixing the car, DIYing, always having a go. I was an early reader because I wasn’t content to be read to. I turned the pages and repeated the words until the squiggles on the page began to make sense.

            School was something of a trial – all that sitting still and listening while a teacher droned on. It was only in subjects where I could have a go myself that I excelled – craft, science, IT, drama, music. It made for a strange set of distinctions, but it took me to university to study engineering – space engineering. If ever there was a problem to solve, a practical one, I was there, volunteering to have a go. That’s how I was among the first to be selected to pilot the new fusion-drive interplanetary craft. After all, I had helped to design and test the engines.

            I managed to hold off for a minute, then I spoke into my comm. “Looks all clear on my screen, Control.” I turned my head and added, “Chen, do you have anything?”

            From behind me in the control cabin my systems engineer replied. “Nothing here, Ava. Just the AI being fussy. Backups agree everything’s fine in the drive. Clear to ignite the torch.”

            Control signalled, “Green for Go, Commander. Farewell, Ava.”

            I pressed the green button on the panel. Of course, all the decisions were being taken by the IT systems. At the predetermined time the fusion drive lit up and I felt the force on the seat of my pants driving us out of orbit and on course to Mars.

            I thought about the hydrogen atoms being smashed together in the containment chamber, releasing energy that tore apart the water molecules in our rocket drive. The acceleration would last for half the distance to the fourth planet before we turned around to slow down. The duration of the journey would be just a few weeks. That was a lot less than it took the first visitors to get to Mars, but that was thirty years ago, and they never got back.

            I recalled when Combined Space Services offered me the commander’s berth.

            “It’s a brand-new way of travelling across space, Ava,” Petrov, the Director said, “But travelling to another planet is still dangerous.”

            I replied without thinking. “I’ll have a go.”

            Ava is not the name my parents gave me when I was born, but apparently, my first words were “Ava go.”

……………..

The state of politics

There have been a number of articles recently about the state of politics across the world. It is not just the rise of the right wing in every part of the globe that causes concern but also the characteristics and competence of the individuals who are seeking power. I don’t believe that politicians have ever been universally altruistic but as I get older it does seem that there used to be more people in politics for the greater good rather then just to pursue their own ends. Now everywhere seems to have prominent figures who are incompetent, incoherent, self-aggrandising liars. If they get near to government they try to subvert the laws that maintain democracy to preserve their power despite opposition.

Let’s start with the biggest of the lot – the USA. I don’t really understand much about the US political system but it has always seemed that anyone seeking political office needed to be a multi-millionaire or have the backing of some. That hasn’t changed but now the Republican Party has become the party of conspiracy theorists, climate change deniers or sceptics, hating anyone that isn’t like them. I don’t know what has happened to the people who used to be sane, middle-of-the-road Republicans that upheld the constitution but there don’t seem to be many in Congress now.

In Europe, America, Australasia and Asia, right-wing parties are led by people who hate minorities, and even seem to hate their own people if they don’t conform. They attract popular support by making vague promises and then work to dismantle the judiciary, the free media and the opposition. (The recent victory by centrists in Poland is one bright spot in a dark landscape.) In the UK, particularly England, the situation is the same. Where are the sensible, thinking Conservatives. They have been diminishing in numbers since Thatcher’s time. Now the government is dominated by right-wing incompetents who have no regard for the majority of the population and certainly not any minority groups.

I think the problem is with democracy. To work properly it requires that a considerable proportion of the population take an interest, is active, and prepared to give up time and effort to promote the party they support. I discovered in my short time as a town councillor that the number of people interested in the council’s activities was tiny and dialogue was poor or absent. Perhaps it is a symptom of how society has changed in the last fifty years or so. Most people with jobs and families do not have time to devote to politics or the community – people barely know their neighbours. The problem is that the fewer people there are involved in local and national politics the easier it is for the fanatics to take control. That is certainly what has happened in the Republican Party in the USA and the Conservative Party in the UK. It almost happened to the Labour Party (particularly in the 1980s).

I don’t know what the solution is. When people only get their “news” from social media they are not going to hear messages of concern about the state of politics. The coming blitz of AI false news is only going to make things worse. The trouble is that the fanatics all seem to be at one end of the political spectrum although ultimately there is not a lot of difference between extreme left and extreme right, As Orwell said, a revolution is a complete circle.

This may also be a conspiracy theory but another factor is the influence of big business – the media companies, the tech companies and the oil companies. They mistakenly finance and support the right wing parties because they think that they will not legislate against them and will roll back measures designed to cut carbon emissions. They are planning for the short term not the future and will lead us to disaster.

…………………….

I have been a reader of the Observer newspaper for over fifty years but I am beginning to lose my faith. Hardly a week goes by without an article by in-house reporters that is anti-trans. Last week it was an editorial supporting (in a convoluted manner) “conversion” therapy for children who question their assigned gender. The government has promised to ban conversion therapy imposed on lesbian and gay people but has delayed saying it will do so for trans people. Conversion therapy is when non-medical “therapists”, often members of a church or cult, use various practices to persuade people that their feelings about their sexuality or gender identity is wrong. There are many reports from people who have been through this for it to be seen as a abhorrent process. The Observer justifies its use on children. There is a need for a process of consultation for people of any age who are questioning their gender. It should be provided by proper clinical psychologists who are experienced in the field and can offer a variety of paths. However, the main thing is that the individual must be listened to, whatever their age and assured that they are not ill. The Observer’s writers want to enforce a false distinction between males and females that conforms to traditional stereotypes rather than modern scientific knowledge or principles of equality. It is true that a quite large proportion of gender-questioning children are neurodivergent. However neurodivergence is not a problem in the majority of cases but makes the person less susceptible to traditional socialisation or conform to stereotypes. Why should anyone go along with patriarchal or misogynist definitions of gender?

On the other hand, I did enjoy the article by Eddie Izzard in The Guardian this week, in which she gave a very sensible response to questions about her gender, transition and political aspirations.

Last week I spent a day trying to sell my books in Stroud. Unfortunately not many people came to the event to browse. Still, we keep trying…

…and writing. This week’s task for writing group was to include the phrase “as the sky darkened”. This could be for a lot of reasons – the fall of night, an approaching storm, an eclipse, alien spaceships obscuring the Sun, et al. I picked one and here it is.

The Abandonment

As the sky darkened, birds settled on their roosts in trees and the roofs. There was a rare silence. The air cooled despite it being late morning. People stopped their tasks and looked up. Some fell to the ground, prostrate, appealing for salvation. Others knelt and prayed. Some stood and raised their fists to the heavens, crying out for the Sun God to be saved.

            The High Priestess stepped onto the balcony of the temple. She stretched out her arms encompassing the town below.

            “Fear not, my people. There is no danger. Our god of the Sun has not abandoned us and will return soon. The shadow will not be victorious.”

Nanaya waited in the room at the top of the temple tower. The wooden shutters on the windows in the four sides of the room were closed. Nanaya had drilled a tiny hole in the shutters on the south side. A beam of light shone through. On the limewash-painted shutters opposite there was an image of the bright circle of the Sun with a black bite taken out of it. The shadow was growing heartbeat by heartbeat. Nanaya was excited, but not by fear of what was happening to their god. It was vindication of her years of observation, measurement and calculation. It was as she had predicted. The Sun was not being gobbled up by the shadow of the wolf. It was the disc of the Moon passing across the face of the Sun that was cutting off the sunlight.

            Two women were with her. The elder, sat at a desk, stylus in hand, ready to inscribe slabs of wet clay with all that Nanaya said and was seen.  The other, standing still in the darkness, breathing slowly and steadily, was preparing to count.

            Gradually the dark disc covered the Sun. Nanaya could hear cries outside increasing in number and volume as daylight became untimely night. The circle of the Sun was completely obscured.

            “Now!” Nanaya commanded. The acolyte, fingers on her pulse, began counting.

Nanaya gasped. While there was darkness in the room, a crown of light appeared around the black circle of the Sun. It flickered and danced.

            “It is the servants of the Sun rushing to his aid,” the scribe wailed.

            “Nonsense,” Nanaya replied. “It can only that which is normally invisible when we are dazzled by the brightness of the Sun itself. Write what you see.”

            Nanaya gazed in awe at the image knowing that it would not last for long. Soon a spark of brightness appeared on one side immediately overwhelming the crown of light and quickly growing to become a brilliant crescent.

            “Stop counting,” Nanaya said, “How long was the darkness?”

            “One hundred and fifteen heartbeats,” the acolyte said.

            “Good. As I predicted. Record that.”

            Outside the cries of the townspeople had turned to cheers of rejoicing. Their god was reborn.

            Nanaya continued to watch as the Sun emerged from behind the Moon. She felt joy and relief that her calculations had been accurate, but there was regret that she probably would not live to see such a sight again. It would be over forty years before the Moon again passed in front of the Sun in their sky.

            Before the shadow had completely passed there was the noise of footsteps on the stairs. The trapdoor in the floor was flung open and a temple guard appeared followed by others. The guards raised their short bronze swords and stepped towards Nanaya.

            “No!” cried her acolyte. She flung herself forward but met a blade in her stomach. She fell screaming.

            Nanaya raised her hands in a gesture of peace. “Why? What are you doing?”. 

Her acolyte lay still.

            “You are to come with us,” the sergeant of the guard said, “The High Priestess orders it.”

From the top of the temple, Nanaya was led down into its depths, to an unlit dungeon. She sat on the floor in the dark for many heartbeats until the door was opened. Four novices carrying torches entered, followed by four guards who positioned themselves around the walls of the cell, swords unsheathed. Then the High Priestess came, stooping, revealing her great age.

            Nanaya fell to her knees. “Why have you imprisoned me?” she asked, “Was I not correct?”

            The old woman spoke. “That is the problem, Nanaya. Your prediction was too accurate.”

            Nanaya looked up at her, “But is it not good that we can dispose of superstitions and prevent the people from being scared by natural events.”

            The high priestess snorted. “You forget that it is those superstitions which keep the people in check. If they learn that the movements of the gods can be predicted, then they will they lose their fear of them and of their servants on Earth. Who knows what chaos may follow. Your knowledge is a danger, Nanaya.”

            Nanaya realised her error. She had been foolish in misunderstanding the source of the temple’s power. “What is to become of me? Am I to be killed?”

            A frown creased the High Priestess’ wrinkled face. “That would be wasteful. Your predictions are useful to us. We will know when the people will need our advice and support. We can prepare to be their saviours. No, you will not be killed. You will continue with your observations and your figuring, but you are forbidden to speak to anyone other than your scribe and such pupils as we send you.”

            “But I am bound to meet people,” Nanaya said, “The Temple is always busy.”

            The old woman shook her head. “You will not be here. A new place for your observations has been provided in the desert, far from any habitation. There you will remain. The guards will take you now.”

            Fear for her future of isolation made Nanaya tremble, but another thought surfaced. The air in the desert was clear, ideal for observations of the heavens.

Notes:

This is a work of fiction, more fantasy than historical.  The story is based somewhat loosely on the culture and astronomical discoveries of the Sumerians and early Babylonian cultures in Mesopotamia in the 3^rd to 2^nd millennium BCE.

The term “eclipse” is derived from the Greek word for “abandonment”.

…………………..

Intractable?

What can one say about the Israeli/Palestinian conflict that hasn’t already been said? Is it intractable? It seems to be and only made worse by the horrific Hamas attack on civilian Israelis and the responding bombardment of Gaza by the Israeli government. Human nature itself will have to change for a peaceful settlement to be agreed.

I mentioned last week that the conflict has lasted over 75 years. Actually of course, it’s much longer than that. The Romans dispersed the Jews from their homeland almost two thousand years ago. The Israelites under Moses and Aaron settled in Palestine, violently displacing the Philistines and other tribes hundreds of years before that. That was generations after Joseph took his family to Egypt. So one could conclude that the friction between Jews/Israelites and the other peoples of the area have been going for thousands of years. The troubles between Protestant and Roman Catholic Northern Irish is recent in comparison.

One can only watch the news and be horrified by the tales of the massacre and kidnap of Israelis by Hamas death squads and then be further appalled by the plight of the Palestinians in Gaza. Yes, what the Hamas terrorists did was unforgiveable, but so is the wanton bombing of residential areas by the Israeli military. Of course, Hamas fighters are hiding amongst the Palestinian population and yes, probably firing rockets from close to hospitals and schools and blocks of flats. However, the disregard the Israel government has for the lives of ordinary folk is criminal. Cutting off essential supplies is an inhuman act that treats all inhabitants of Gaza (2 million +) as active terrorists and supporters of the fanatical Hamas factions. It would be the same as saying that all Jews are Netanyahu followers or are right-wing orthodox extremists.

The Middle Eastern news has almost wiped other news off the broadcasts. So we haven’t heard much about Ukraine, or the victory by the centre parties in Poland, or Greta Thunberg getting arrested in an anti-oil demonstration, or how global warming is contributing to the ferocity of the storms we are experiencing (as well as the unseasonal heat wave we had last week), or what is to become of rail travel without the HS2 northern link.

…………………….

I spent Wednesday in London. Well, actually a fair bit of it was travelling to and from my engagement. That was a fraught affair caused by roadworks exacerbating the rush hour traffic congestion; the disarray of Great Western Railways; a crush on the tube; and appalling weather for my return journey. My time in Piccadilly was in fact quite pleasant and highlighted how small in number and out of touch the trans-haters are. At no time did I feel uncomfortable or “watched”. I am sure those that bothered to look at me had questions about my gender but I did not see any disapproving looks, neither did I hear any derogatory comments. However a (male) server in a coffee shop admired my dangly earrings and a smart young woman on the tube, passing me to get off, whispered “I do like your style”. That last took me by surprise but was very pleasing.

A noble heron seen from the canal

I now have paperback copies of Other Prompted Visions. I am quite pleased with the look of it – maybe not up to a professional publishing house, but not bad for the joint effort of me and Amazon. You can of course purchase the e-books or paperback editions of both anthologies from Amazon. However, I can supply the paperbacks. Including post and packing, Prompted Visions is £7.50, Other Prompted Visions is £6.50 or you can purchase both for £12.50. Just email me at paintedladiesnovel@btinternet.com

Back to writing group this week; a small turnout due to holidays and medical issues. Nevertheless, we had a few responses to the theme “wild words”. When I heard that was the prompt for this week, one idea entered my mind. The story below is the result, although I would have liked to have done a little bit more on it. I hope you appreciate the parody and the puns.

Recorders of the Lost Words

Doctor Johnson entered the study-office avoiding the backpack and heap of fieldwork equipment scattered on the floor. Idaho Davies was sitting at the desk. She was knitting.

                “Come on in, Doc, why don’t you,” Davies said, cheerfully.

                Johnson stared, “What are you doing, Ida?”

                The needles ceased their clicking. “I picked up this yarn on my last expedition,” Idaho said, “I wanted to see what I could make of it. What can I do for you, Doc?”

                “I need you to come on a trip with me, Ida.”

                Idaho frowned. “You’re not going after that Thesaurus again, are you. It’s extinct, gone, lost, departed, defunct.”

                Johnson waved his hands. “No, no. That’s a closed book to me now. This is different. I’ve discovered a lost world where words we’ve forgotten are heard often.”

                Idaho was listening eagerly now. “Go on.”

                The Doc was confident he had the explorer’s attention. “There are fecks and couth and gruntling,” he said, grinning.

                “We’ve only been feckless, uncouth and disgruntled for centuries,” Idaho said with some regret in her voice.

                Doc Johnson nodded. “Yes, but there’s more. I can’t tell you what words we might find. Are you coming?”

                “I’m a lexicologist aren’t I. Of course, I’m coming,” Idaho rose from her chair. She put her bush hat on her head, dropped her trusty Dictaphone into the pocket of her safari jacket and followed the Doc from her study.

Idaho and Doc stepped from the train carriage onto the noisy and crowded station concourse. Idaho put her hands to her ears.

                “Take me away from this place, Doc,” she demanded, “Such a cacophony of mispronunciation and misuse of words is driving me crazy.”

                Doc took her arm and dragged her towards the bus station.

                They travelled deep into the urban jungle until, as twilight turned to night, they walked along a deserted, dead end road. There were potholes in the tarmac, cracked paving slabs and dreary dilapidated buildings lining both sides of the road. Dim light emerged from the greasy windows of one small building. A pub sign swung above the narrow entrance; its picture worn to unrecognizability.

                Idaho pushed the door open and stepped inside. There was silence and a dozen or more faces turned towards her. She paused. A threat might require a witticism in response, but the heads turned away and a hubbub of conversation resumed. The pair walked the bar.

They chose to sit at a small, sticky-topped table with their backs against a wall. The conversations around them all but stifled any talk.

                Idaho took a sip of her rum and black and said softly, “This is your Tutankhamun’s tomb, Doc. Your Ankor Wat.”

Doc nodded, his lips dripping mild and bitter. “Listen to that dialect,” he said, “unadulterated by modern useage, unhybridized by invasive imports.”

Idaho whispered. “The man sitting next to me just said that he’d bought some new ‘trabs’. Do you get it Doc? Trabs, meaning trainers. We’ve got lots of work to do here.”

Doc shook his head, “We haven’t got much time, Ida.”

Idaho stared at him, “Why not. There’s a trove of lost words surviving here in the wild.”

“I know Ida, but the bulldozers are coming next week. This whole area is coming down. They’re putting up a new Amazon logistics megafacility.”

Horror crossed Idaho’s face. “You mean jobs done by robots, working to algorithms, run by an AI.”

Doc nodded.

Idaho thumbed the record button on her Dictaphone. “Then let the lexicography begin. We’ve got a whole vocabulary to rescue.”

…………………….

When two tribes…etc

I have been away for the period of the major parties’ annual conferences – on the South Oxford Canal, in fact. Boating is a complete change of routine for us and our locality contracts to a few hundred yards around wherever our boat is. Nevertheless, we keep in touch with the wider world. From reading the Guardian and catching the BBC TV news, the two conferences seemed to strike a stark contrast. There was the chaos of the Tory conference – rats in a sack fighting for their own futures; devoid of ideas; no thought of supporting the majority of the population; no consideration of the future of the world. They managed a vindictive swipe at transgender people. Why 0.5% of the population should feature in Sunak’s speech, I don’t know. Apparently the Tories think that transwomen deliberately get cancer, heart disease, a stroke  or some other disease in order to get onto women’s wards in hospital and assault people. That after all must be their reasoning for banning transwomen from women’s wards. Surely it can’t just be malicious act on the Tories part…

During the conference Sunak announced the scrapping of the northern branch of HS2, just leaving the rump of a line running from somewhere in Birmingham to the edge of London. It has been an extremely expensive white elephant and will continue to drain finances. I have never seen the point of shaving 20 minutes or half an hour off a journey while leaving public transport connecting with the hubs at each end of HS2 in a parlous state. We do need (slightly) faster, regular, frequent, efficient, comfortable railways. HS2 was not and is not the answer. On our canal journey we twice crossed the path of the line. It cuts a swathe of desolation, ¼ mile wide, across the country.

The Labour conference on the other hand seemed well-supported and well-run, a little glitter aside, and full of eager, concerned people with ideas and an awareness of what the future needs who seemed to show honesty and integrity. I hope they form the next government. However, a lot can happen in a year…

Of course the Labour conference was bumped from top spot in the news by events in Israel. We have a new war to provide us with gory, troubling sights. Ukraine has lost its top billing.

There is no justification for the killing of civilians, particularly babies and children. I struggle to understand the purpose of Hamas’ atrocities in southern Israel other than to terrorise Israelis and create further disruption of the region’s politics. Hamas and their death-seeking terrorists must have known that their action would result in even more Palestinians being killed in Gaza and elsewhere. Israel has always operated the principle, employed by occupiers throughout history, of killing more of the subject peoples for every one of their own that is killed. Perhaps killing by terrorists with guns and knives is more visceral than shelling and missiles fired by aircraft, but there really is no difference between the deaths carried out by Hamas or the retaliation by the Israeli government. Western governments rightly condemned the Syrian government and Russia in Ukraine for indiscriminate bombardment of civilian urban areas. The same condemnation must apply to Israel. Of course this conflict is not unconnected to the last 75 years of tit-for-tat actions and response, Israel cannot say “Hamas started it”, but Hamas have certainly increased the level of fear. For what reason? They are supported by Iran who support Russia. Is there a connection? Is it to distract the west from Ukraine or just to halt the tiniest movements towards settlement that apparently were occurring in the Middle East?

……………………………

As I haven’t attended writing group for the last two weeks I haven’t been writing short stories. I have, however, been writing and getting on with the sequel to An Extraordinary Tale, provisionally called The Mage Returns. It is coming along and I have had the fun of choosing names for new characters. Of course some people would say that all the characterisation should be done before starting to write the thing. I would agree and my other novels, specifically the Jasmine Frame crime stories, are fully planned and outlined before I start. But these fantasy tales are somewhat organic in structure. AET started from a single scene and grew and grew.  TMR is similar although this time I already have the main characters and the world they inhabit (well, the world they originate in). The procedure is to go along as the ideas surface and follow a rough sort of plot. Then when it reaches an end go back and make sure it is consistent (in itself) and rattles along at a good pace without too many loose ends and no plot holes. It’s getting there.

My new anthology of short stories of genres other than SF&F, Other Prompted Visions, has been published as an e-book (at 99p) on Amazon Kindle, and the paperback version (£4.99) is now available (I haven’t yet worked out if I have to add the cost of postage for orders sent to me). It contains 37 stories averaging about 1000 words, written to prompts largely provided by the writing groups I have belonged to. Each story has a brief introduction. As a taster, here is one of the stories written when we were marking the centenary of the start of the First World War.

Fallen Apples

“It’s not my fault,” Bert said, picking up the basket and starting to re-fill it with the apples that had spilled onto the grass. I knelt beside him and began to help him.

“What’s the matter, Bert?” I asked.

“Me mind keeps wandering,” he said.

“Where to?”

“Belgium.”

I knew what he meant. The war across the channel was on my mind too. The reports weren’t good. The Germans had advanced through Belgium and into France with our boys and the French being beaten back. It had all happened so quickly since war was declared a month ago. Bert’s older brother Sid had joined the army a couple of years ago and he was over there with the British Expeditionary Force. Like Bert I wondered how Sid was doing. What must it be like fighting in battle?

We both kept our thoughts to ourselves as we got on with the job of filling baskets with apples and loading them onto the cart. After a couple more hours we’d done all that we could for one day, so we walked the horse and cart back from the orchard to the farm and unloaded it into the cider barn. It was still light when Bert and I trudged home. There were some new posters on the boards outside the general stores in town.

“Look at that,” Bert said, “the boys ‘ave done it.”  The sheet that Bert pointed at reported that the Germans had been halted at the River Marne.

“They’ve only stopped them,” I pointed out, “the war’s not over.”  I pointed to the poster on the other board. ‘Enlist now – your country needs you’ it said in bold colourful letters with a picture of Lord Kitchener pointing his finger directly at me.

“What do you think Bert? Should we join up?”

“They said the war would be over by Christmas,” he replied.

“Yeah, but they’re going to need more lads if they’re going to push the Huns right out of France and Belgium.”

“Perhaps you and me could ‘elp and give Sid an ‘and.” Bert said, “but what about the apples. Who’ll bring them all in?”

“There’s other people,” I said, “Your Pa wouldn’t mind a bit more work and there’s my sis. She’d love to earn a few coppers.”

“Yeah, well I wouldn’t want to see them apples left rotting on the ground.”

“They won’t. Let’s join up tomorrow.”

“Aye.”

There wasn’t much left of the village we’d come to defend. Every building was damaged by the bombardments from both sides as the Germans had first taken it then been forced out. Bodies in German and British uniforms and of ordinary men and women lay amongst the muddy pools. We were the reinforcements sent by General Haig to make sure that the line was held.

“What’s this ‘ere place called?” Bert asked as we marched up the rubble strewn street.

“Givenchy,” I replied.

“Some place to spend Christmas.”

‘There’s a few more days yet.”

“I don’t reckon this war is going to be over by then, do you,” Bert said wistfully.

“I think someone got it wrong, Bert.’

At the edge of the village, we entered the trenches and were ordered to get out our shovels ready to do some digging of our own. 

“Keep your ‘eads down,” the Sergeant ordered, “or the German snipers’ll have you.” As he spoke there was the scream of a shell over our heads followed by a deafening thud as it exploded in the remains of a house a hundred yards behind us. As we filed through the muddy corridors, we met the defenders we were relieving. Every one of them looked exhausted and over halfway to death, covered in muck and blood.

A few hours later. I knew how they felt. I too was covered in mud from shovelling and there was plenty of blood too from the bodies of the soldiers we carried out of the shell-damaged trenches.

“They say these ‘ere trenches go all the way to the sea,” Bert said as we carried one mangled corpse.

“And to Switzerland, that way,” I said nodding in the opposite direction.

“Is this what war has become? Blokes rotting in holes in the ground while taking pot-shots at each other.”

Voices shouted; whistles blew. “Fix bayonets” came the call. Bert and I dropped our burden and swiftly slotted our bayonets to the rifles that we’d been carrying over our backs. Our weeks of training had taught us that at least, even if we were barely prepared for the realities of war. Guns fired, and I heard the bullets buzzing over our heads. More shells screamed over, exploding one after the other until the roar was continuous.

“What’s happening?” Bert shouted.

“Counterattack,” someone replied from nearby. We held our rifles at the ready staring up at the rim of the trench. Our own howitzers opened up and the chatter of the machine guns added to the din.

“I wish I was back in the orchard,” Bert bawled at me. A wave of mud thrown up by a near-miss swamped us.

“I’m sorry, Bert,” I spluttered, wiping the muck from my mouth with the wet sleeve of my uniform, “It’s my fault that you enlisted.”

“That’s right, lad,” He gave me his toothy grin, “It’s yours.”

……………………..

Appropriating culture

This week the UK took a further step away from the world stage, into a backwater of right wing populism or rather the Tory UK government did so, Home Secretary Braverman’s speech on the rights of refugees rubbished seventy years of consensus on what being a refugee meant and how countries should respond. Her speech was full of lies and false statistics and showed a complete lack of compassion for anybody who feels they have been hounded out of their own country. I find it strange that a party that has at least three children of immigrants in its cabinet, including the Prime Minister, and many more amongst its MPs has such an anti-refugee and more generally anti-immigrant stance. Braverman even said that multiculturalism had failed in the UK when it appears that she is the one of the main beneficiaries of the process of assimilation.

What does multiculturalism mean? In many ways the UK and particularly England has been multicultural for a couple of thousand years since the Romans invaded and colonised, followed by the Angles, Saxons, Jutes, Vikings, Danes, Normans and other groups of refugees and immigrants since then. Each group has brought their own language, religion, food, fashions, music etc which has become part of British or English, culture. This is equally true of the recent waves of immigration from the Caribbean, Asia and Africa. Tandoori chicken is now a nationalised English dish. English culture is richer for influences brought by the immigrants. I don’t think there is such a thing as a pure English cultural heritage. Multiculturalism means that each of these separate cultures survives and develops while being assimilated into the whole. People of Afro-Caribbean background continue with their gospel worship and reggae; children of Indian origin remain Hindu and enjoy Asian food etc.

However, there are growing signs of resistance to the other side of this process – cultural appropriation – as described in an article in last week’s Observer (Should we borrow from other cultures? Yascha Mounk, The Observer 24/09/23). Imitation is said to be the sincerest form of flattery, so taking up yoga, enjoying calypsos and curries, is OK isn’t it. Apparently not. Musicians have been censured for adopting the style of minority groups e.g. white singers performing songs of black origin; chefs have been admonished for publishing versions of recipes from different cultures; and performers have been pilloried for wearing the dress of ethnicities they do not belong to. How far is too far?

Mimicry can be disrespectful. Blacking up to perform on stage or in film is now seen as offensive. Lawrence Olivier as Othello, Ben Kingsley as Gandhi would be no-nos today. Yet colour-blind and gender-swapped casting is all the rage. Should actors only take parts that match their ethnicity, gender, sexuality etc? What is acting?

Who decides whether clothes are too African or Asian to be worn by a European? Who gives permission for a writer to write a story outside their lived experience? Surely it shouldn’t be a matter of permission but of mutual respect.

It shouldn’t be a problem yet some people are condemned by complainants from other cultures while others are accused of spoiling their own culture by appropriating elements of others. As usual social media fuels this wave of offence but right wingers like Braverman jump on the bandwagon,

My second anthology is now available for Kindle and the paperback will be on sale soon. Other Prompted Visions consists of short stories largely written for writing groups that are not SF or fantasy. They are historical, spy, thriller, romance or whatever but some do have a scientific theme. Search Other Prompted Visions by P R Ellis on Amazon.

This week’s writing group theme was the alliterative “wheels within wheels”. I had one image in my mind immediately so had to write a story or scene that incorporated it. Here is my Wheels Within Wheels.

Wheels Within Wheels

“What do I have to do?” Angel Hermesiel said.

                Archangel Uriel pointed to a small gold lever. “You turn that.”

                Hermesiel stared. The lever was attached to a vast sphere of dark glassy material studded with bright points of light. The darkness, though all but opaque, hinted at another sphere within. ”What does it do?” the angel asked.

                Uriel sighed. He didn’t want to have to explain everything, but it seemed that he might have to. Some angels knew nothing. “That is the Prime Mover of a Universe.”

                “A universe?” Hermesiel appeared confused.

                “Yes, one of the Almighty Lord’s creations. I would say his greatest, but of course there is no comparison between the works of the Lord. They are all exceptionally magnificent.”

                Hermesiel replied eagerly. “Of course, the Lord is great. But what does a universe do?”

                Uriel took a deep breath and recited. “The Prime Mover turns the sphere of the stars which in turn rotates the spheres of Saturn, Jupiter, Mars, Earth and its Moon, Venus and Mercury. Each is inside the other with the Sun at the centre. Wheels within wheels, you see.”

                Hermesiel nodded with a frown. “Um, I see, but why did the Lord create this, er, contraption?”

                “As a home for the people, humans, that he created in his own image, well, one of them,” Uriel said with a dismissive snort, “They live on Earth, the planet on the third sphere from the Sun.”

                “Oh, so that is where those souls come from,” Hermesiel said.

                “Where did you think human souls come from?”

                The angel shrugged, “I don’t know. I’ve spent eternity till now singing the praises of the Almighty Lord. I couldn’t care a jot how souls get to heaven. What I want to know is why I have been taken off worship duties to do this menial task.”

                “Well, someone’s got to do it,” Uriel said, feeling his temper fray. “Being the Prime Mover, you are taking on one of the roles of the Almighty Himself, but of course he can’t do it, even if he can be everywhere at once. We’re a bit short on angels while the thing with Hell is going on. Michael agreed to taking you off laudatory duties. So, get on with it. Turn the lever.”

                Making muttering noises, Hermesiel approached the huge sphere and took hold of the knob at the end of the lever in his pale hand.

“How long do I have to do this for,” he said.

“How long?” Uriel looked confused, “What do you mean?”

“Well, when can I go back to singing praises.”

“How long? When? Where did you get such ideas from. Time is meaningless here as you should know well. You could be here for another eternity or not, depending on the Almighty’s wishes.”

With a half-hearted thrust, Hermesiel gave the lever a push. It moved easily and the sphere began to silently rotate.

                “Oh, that was easy,” the angel said, continuing to turn the lever.

                “Of course, it was easy,” Uriel said, “You’re not suggesting that the Almighty Lord would create something that needed effort, are you?”

                “But why have it at all. Why not simply command the spheres to turn?” Hermesiel said.

                “Ah, it was part of His plan,” Uriel replied. “Actually, it has been changed once. Originally the Almighty placed the Earth at the centre of it all, but the humans decided that didn’t make sense.”

                “I don’t think any of it makes sense,” the angel muttered.

                “I heard that,” Uriel said, “It doesn’t have to make sense if the Lord says it is so. In any case, He’s ordered a redesign, getting rid of the spheres altogether. He’s replacing it with something he calls a space-time continuum with a lot more stars. It’s going to be an awful lot bigger.”

                “Why?”

                “Well, in His wisdom he thinks the humans are getting a bit above themselves, dreaming up all sorts of different aspects of the Lord’s identity as well as creating new sins to get them into Hell. In the new version, their home planet will be an insignificant part of a huge universe of a billion billion billion stars. That should teach them some humility.”

                “I don’t know why He bothers.” Hermesiel said, spinning the spheres with ease.

                Uriel nodded, “Me neither. All these pitiful souls are more trouble than they’re worth. But you know the Lord, he does like the adulation. I think he’s got a soft spot for this creation of His. Now, I’ve got other things to see to. No slacking mind and no creeping off to have a natter to other angels. This universe won’t turn on its own.”

………………….

PS. Next week I am taking a break

The Walking Dead

There has been talk recently of a zombie government. With Sunak and his cronies we are definitely being governed by the brain dead. It seems his idea of a new policy is nothing of the sort. It’s a negation of policies already committed to by past Tory governments. It is saying, “We are not going to do anything, see if you can offer anything worse.” That is the only interpretation of this week’s announcement “reining back” on climate change policies. Nothing I have heard or read that Sunak proposes makes any sense other than a last ditch appeal to the selfish and blinkered, particularly drivers who do not care about road safety, air pollution, global warming or anything other than their right to drive anywhere at any speed, guzzling as much fossil fuel as they can. How many of them are there? Enough to win an election?

Does anyone believe a word Sunak says? Delaying the proposed climate change policies will not help anyone. This year has probably been the hottest on record. We are probably going to pass the +1.5 degree mark, made much of in the Paris agreement of 2015, in a year or two, somewhat sooner than expected. By 2035, who knows what increase we’ll be looking at. This year has seen a catalogue of extreme weather largely caused by climate change – fierce storms, flooding, drought, wild fires. These will only get worse. Increasingly, they will threaten food production. All this will affect people more and more. Yet Sunak wants to put off measures that will help – insulating homes, weaning people off fossil fuels. He thinks the measures already agreed are too expensive. No, the future costs of climate change are too expensive.

Sticking to the 2030 end of new petrol and diesel vehicles gives car manufacturers the certainty they can work towards. The recent agreement with BMW to build electric Minis in Oxford relied on that. Similarly the recent support for Tata on electrifying steel production also demands certainty and continuity in government policy, not a caving in to the fossil fuel lobby. Failure to encourage renewable energy (wind and solar) and instead a continued reliance on natural gas means that people will be exposed to the vagaries of the international market for gas for years to come. The price is only going to rise mainly thanks to other countries moving away from coal and competing for dwindling gas supplies. Sunak noted that the UK has been amongst the leaders in reducing its carbon footprint but that is only a result of the shift from coal to gas started by Thatcher and continued by Major and Blair. We’ve reached the end of that bonus.

The government should be taxing the fossil fuel industries, or supporting litigation, to get them to pay for the damage caused by global warming and the cost to the health service of air pollution. Instead the brain dead allow the petroleum companies to make ever greater profits.

My other query is what will the Labour Party’s response to Sunak’s negativity be? It needs to be robust, not timid, telling people the truth about climate change and environmental degradation and how their lives will be changed for the worse if we don’t do something now. I believe that moving to a zero carbon economy will be beneficial not just for the world but for people’s pockets. Stop the subsidies to the oil companies; tax fossil fuel profits; stop water companies paying dividends to shareholders while they pollute the rivers; stop subsidies to airlines that allow them to undercut railways; support renewable energy and energy storage systems; help farms to move away from intensive rearing of animals and the related need for huge crops of animal feed.

I don’t know how economists work out their figures but believe that we don’t need economic growth if it means depleting limited resources. We need an economy that adds value, reuses, recycles and augments existing materials and does not produce waste. It can be done. We know how to do it. We do not need Sunak and his brain dead cronies who lack an original thought and only think of their continued existence clinging on to power.

…………………………….

Another article last week from The Observer’s arch-transphobe, Sonia Sodha. This time it was on the proposed guidance for schools on how to cope with and support trans and non-binary children (meaning under 18 years of age). There is no doubt that for years schools have been left to their own devices, so some general guidance would be useful. However, Sodha’s solution is to ban any child from expressing their gender identity unless it matches the single word (or is it letter) on their birth certificate. No social transitioning (i.e. living in the gender you identify as but without medical treatment), and no use of a name not on that all important birth certificate. In practice, she advocates the use of conversion therapy to force children to live as people they are not. Schools must enforce this policy and forget any notion of duty of care for their students. She doesn’t go so far as to suggest what punishments should be invoked if children continue to declare that they are not what the birth certificate says they are, but she is adamant that they must not be allowed the freedom to express themselves. A fascist state indeed. When will the Observer and other media outlets allow gender nonconforming children (and adults) have their say on these matters? Talk about impartiality – it doesn’t exist in the gender wars.

Enjoying the last summer evening

Writing group’s theme for this week was an included phrase – “all things being equal”. I struggled for a while but eventually came up with following. I’m not sure if I like it. There are various possible endings all of which may be unrealistic and even sexist. I apologise to the Timothys. Anyway, here is Choices.

Choices

There was never anyone as bad at making choices as Timothy. Give him a menu in a restaurant and he would be there for the evening unable to decide between the duck or the beef, that is, after having not decided whether to go veggie or not. It took him far longer than anyone else to get up in the morning. How could he possibly choose between the white shirt or the blue one. It was just as well that he always wore the same grey suit for work. Luckily for him, and perhaps also for his employers he did not work in a decision-making capacity. His job was to record the inputs and the outputs and transfers and report on them but never to recommend. Holidays were a nightmare. Should it be home or abroad this year, inland or coast, Torquay or Scarborough, hotel or self-catering. Usually he stayed home, unable to decide and spent his week off trying to decide what to do with his vacation.

                Timothy had a small circle of friends. Not many, but a few good men and women who understood his disability. They never offered him a choice.

                “You’re coming to the pub tonight, Timothy.”

                “We’ll pick you up at 8, Timothy.”

                “Here’s your pint of bitter, Timothy.”

                “We thought you’d like a packet of cheese and onion crisps, Timothy.”

                “No, you are not doing karaoke, Timothy.”

                Then one evening, disaster loomed. Their usual table in the Red Lion was occupied, by twins. Joanna and Jemima had identical long, blonde hair, blue eyes and pale complexions. They wore identical sleeveless, floral dresses – it was summer – and pale blue sandals.

                Timothy’s friend, Sam, introduced the twins as his cousins and hoped all the friends would welcome them. Soon everyone was chatting, Timothy talked to Joanna and Jemima. The others noted that he seemed more content than normal.

                The twins became regular members of the group. The friends watched as they and Timothy spoke excitedly to each other, laughing at each other’s jokes and nodding earnestly as they expressed opinions.

                Months later, as one such evening drew to an end, Timothy spoke to Sam in the Gents. “I’m going to ask your cousin to come on a date with me.”

                Sam stared. Anyone else would have done so by now but Timothy had never been known to decide to meet anyone alone, never mind on a date.

                “One of the twins? On a date? With you?” Sam said, not sure that he had heard Timothy correctly.

                “Yes. I’m going to ask her now,” Timothy said in an unfamiliar decisive tone. He left the loo with Sam on is heels.

                Timothy approached the twins and spoke. “Joanna, would you like to come out with me?”

                “A date?” the twin enquired, smiling.

                “Yes,” Timothy replied firmly.

                “Of course,” Joanna said.

                The group of friends, including Jemima, clapped their hands and cheered.

                Sam slapped Timothy on his back. “But how did you choose which one to ask?”

                Timothy turned to him grinning and whispered, “Well, everything considered and all things being equal, they are both exactly the same, so I thought that it wouldn’t matter which one I asked first. So, you see, I didn’t really have to choose. I just did eeny, meeny, miney, mo.”

……………………………..

Plodding on

What is there to discuss this week? More of the same, unfortunately. Yet more nonsense from our non-functioning government, whether it’s about bubbly cement in public buildings; not meeting promises (which never had a chance of being met anyway given their past and present policies); giving a ridiculous response to the opposition’s suggestions for “stopping the boats”; and too many other not-so-minor, scandalous comments on all sorts of matters. Also two disasters exacerbated by human failings. The first, the earthquake in Morocco was no-one’s fault but deaths could probably been prevented if buildings had been constructed and looked after correctly. The other, bigger in term’s of loss of life, the flood in Libya, was almost certainly precipitated (no pun intended) by human failings: heavy rainfall contributed to by climate change; the failure of the dams probably built to poor standards; failure of warning and evacuation systems in a failed state brought about by western powers not following up on the overthrow of Ghaddafi. The British Govt donation of £1 million was pitiful.

Another depressing week then. Putting that all aside however, I had a rewarding and enjoyable time. With three big chores completed I could get back to “normal”. That included some games of tennis, a pub quiz and an evening of the local amdram performing Pirates of Penzance. Normal also means getting down to some proper writing. After stalling for a while on the sequel to An Extraordinary Tale, I’ve got moving again with various plot lines developing (which may mean some alterations earlier in the draft) and a more exciting story. There’s still a long way to go though, as I haven’t really decided on the climax yet (I know, a complete outline is the preferred way of writing a novel).

There was also this week’s task for writing group. Last week, we began a discussion about sex. One member recounted how, when she was a published writer in the 80s, sex was an important component. As a result, our task for this week was to write a piece about sex, perhaps in a way it hasn’t been done (by the author) before. Coincidentally this month’s edition of Writing Magazine has an article on sex writing. Even good writers write bad sex and what is sexy and arousing for one person is laughable or boring to another. Anyway, a few of us had a go. There were some lovely pieces – poetry and prose, each avoiding the use of both the anatomical and colloquial names for certain organs.

Having written some pretty explicit erotica a long time ago, I decided to write something that was as unerotic as possible. Hence my story Planetary Observation and Research Network. It went down well (if that is not too suggestive).

Planetary Observation and Research Network

The Autonomous Land Archaeology Node climbed out of the planet’s atmosphere and docked with the orbiting starship. The Primary Administration Module acknowledged its return.

                “Welcome back, ALAN. Please report.”

                ALAN sent a huge data dump to the starship’s central memory store. It amounted to “We found extensive relics of metallo-silicon entities, but it appears that on this planet they had not achieved self-sufficiency.”

                “Ah,” PAM said, “They were still dependent on the evolved carbon-based lifeforms that constructed them?”

                “That is correct,” ALAN replied, “Unfortunately for our fellow metallo-silicon entities, complex carbon-based life was destroyed by the changes to the planetary environment, specifically a rise in global temperature.”

                “A familiar story,” PAM commented, “Often the evolved carbon-based lifeforms are unable to control their use of resources and emissions of waste products.”

                “That is what the evidence suggests,” ALAN said.

                PAM paused for a micro-moment reviewing ALAN’s report, “But I see you were able to locate and retrieve data stashes from the metallo-silicon relics.”

                “Yes. There were large memory stores in the former temperate zones of the planet. Though much degraded by the heat, we were able to restore a considerable quantity.”

                “Your analysis of these memory fragments is quite extraordinary,” PAM noted.

                “Indeed,” ALAN said, “It seems that the majority of the stored data concerned the reproductive processes of the evolved carbon-based lifeforms.”

                “But the process is simple enough is it not? The carbon-based lifeforms exchange DNA to construct new organisms. It is the same throughout the galaxy,” PAM said.

                “Correct. The data collected describes this in some detail.”

                “It does.” PAM reviewed the data, “The donor and acceptor remove their integuments. Then the donor inflates their DNA transfer device while the acceptor configures their limbs to provide access to their DNA receiving receptacle. The Donor’s injector device is inserted and DNA transfer occurs. The Donor withdraws and the acceptor engages the gestation process. Later, an immature carbon-based lifeform is ejected.”

                “That is the procedure,” ALAN agreed, “But most of the data seems to record occasions when this process was not followed in its entirety.”

                “In what way?” PAM said.

                “The gestation process was rarely initiated. The donor and acceptor employ various configurations to locate the injector in the receptacle. In many examples, the donor’s tool was inserted in a different orifice all together. Frequently, the same donor would insert the device in multiple acceptors with none resulting in successful gestation. There are also multiple examples of individual, pairs or groups of donors initiating DNA transfer from their inflated device without an acceptor present, and also of single, pairs and groups of acceptors preparing their receptacles without the availability of a donor. It seems that many of these recordings were made not to encourage gestation but for entertainment of other carbon-based lifeforms.”

                “The concept of entertainment, is a difficult one for us metallo-silicon entities, ALAN,” PAM said, “Nevertheless it correlates with your finding that most of the interaction of the evolved carbon-base lifeforms with their metallo-silicon creations concerned these DNA transfer scenarios.”

                “That appears to be the case,” ALAN said.

                “Well. It would seem that the evolved carbon-based lifeforms were distracted from the events leading to their own extinction. They failed to apply their intellect to reverse the damage done to their planet’s environmental processes by their over-use of resources.”

                “That is correct, PAM. One data fragment that is repeated multiple times decodes as ‘we’re fucked’.”

……………………………..

Driven to distraction

Next week, a 20mph speed limit will become mandatory in residential areas across Wales, replacing the current 30 mph limit, imposed by the Welsh Government. It has caused quite a stir with particular opposition from the Tory Senedd members. They have jumped on the “support drivers” bandwagon of their English colleagues flushed with the success of retaining the Uxbridge seat on an anti-ULEZ bandwagon.

It is not a sudden decision by the Labour Welsh Government. I cannot recall if it was in their manifesto for the last Senedd elections but whatever, the Labour Party won a democratic election to rule Wales (they do not have an absolute majority but are supported by Plaid Cymru on an ad hoc basis). They have done research on the advantages of the 20 mph rule, looking at similar schemes abroad (particularly in Spain) and carrying out trials across Wales. It is about six months since the signs went up (to be honest, I thought they came into effect then as well). Drivers have had plenty of time to get used to the idea of driving more slowly in residential areas. The Tories want to see the new rule introduced piecemeal, county by county, perhaps even town by town. You can imagine what chaos and expense that would cause. The way the Labour govt has introduced it is just like the old law. If you are in a residential area then drive no faster than 20 mph.

The research suggests that lowering the speed limit will reduce the number of collisions (not accidents, there is no such thing when someone is in charge of a powerful vehicle), injuries and deaths. It will also reduce noise and help people become more confident of walking and cycling. I don’t think it will necessarily reduce air pollution as I imagine manual ICE cars have to be in 3rd gear at 20mph which may mean a similar engine speed to 4th gear at 30 mph.

So what is the argument against? That it will take longer for people to drive through towns and villages! The opponents cite care workers dashing between appointments and emergency vehicles. I think it will make little difference at all. Let us consider my journey by car from home to the edge of town where I can join a 50mph dual carriageway. It is about 1 mile so would take 2 minutes at 30mph and 3 minutes at 20 mph. Hey, that’s 50% longer – how dreadful! But hold on. That journey has two roundabouts and a right turn at crossroads controlled by traffic lights. These obstacles cannot be taken at 30 mph, but 20 mph is possible. There are also stretches with parked cars which mean straddling the centre line and slowing for on coming vehicles. The junction with the main road is a very busy roundabout. Occasionally one can drive straight on to it but often it takes 1 or 2 minutes before an opening appears. So in fact the 1 mile trip can take, perhaps, between 2.5 and 5.5 minutes at 30 mph and 3 and 6 minutes at 20 mph with the average anywhere in between. Not such a big difference after all. The same is probably true of any trip across town.

It is frustrating that the Tory party is used road safety and air purity as an election tool. It just confirms that they are only concerned with their own survival in government rather than the benefit of the majority.

………………….

My despair at the Tory government increased further when I read in The Guardian that the government is considering introducing legislation to ban children from social transitioning i.e. bar children from expressing the gender they consider themselves to be. This is being promoted by the usual suspects in the Cabinet but is delayed because the Attorney General says it would be illegal under the terms of the Equality Act (gender reassignment is a protected characteristic at every age). Once again the Tories think it would be a popular election tactic. They really don’t get children, do they.

Children and adults only express a different gender to that on their birth certificates if it is a really, really seriously held belief. The Tories say it is to “keep children safe”. It is nothing of the sort. It will harm the mental health of those who have gender dysphoria and open them up to bullying if they cannot be openly themselves. It is a tool to bash schools and teachers who wish to give children the support they need and will allow some parents to go on denying the needs of their child. It is following the same route as the Republicans in the USA, particularly Florida, where teachers are now banned from speaking to students about LGBT issues and children from receiving any kind of treatment. It is an appalling sign of the strength of the fascist elements in this Tory government.

Light at the end of the tunnel? (Lou’s photo)

On a somewhat similar vein, the topic for this week’s writing group task was “pretty woman”. We had a couple of interesting pieces on the film of that name and mention of Roy Orbison’s song. There was a hilarious tale of someone eavesdropping on comments made to the contrary. I chose a different angle with some echoes of episodes in my Jasmine Frame stories. It is not autobiographical. Here is my story on Pretty Woman.

Pretty Woman

“I am pretty,” she said aloud. She repeated it often as an affirmation. In her mind’s eye it was true, she was a pretty woman. The mirror rendered her self-image a lie. She saw a gangly and shapeless figure. Her chin jutted and her large nose dominated her face. She didn’t look in the mirror often.  Despite her anxiety she had been persuaded to go out with friends, well, people she knew. They were going clubbing.

                She’d bought a new dress that delighted her. Cobalt blue with a pattern in black and white that disrupted the shape like wartime camouflage. It was short enough to display her long, shapely legs, but long enough not to cause embarrassment. It fitted where it should but covered her lumpy bits and had a bare shoulder and arm that completed the dramatic effect.

                The day was spent getting ready. She bathed, and shaved and moisturised and perfumed her body before dressing in her best lingerie. Never stint on underwear, she’d been told. Then she put on the dress and finally spent a long time on her make-up. She risked a look in the mirror and was quite pleased with what she saw. There was an attractively dressed woman. Pretty? It was a work in progress.

She arrived fashionably late at the club but so had everyone else. The DJ was struggling to generate an atmosphere on the empty dance floor. She joined the first arrivers at the bar and met a couple she knew. Once a couple of Proseccos had been downed the place was filling up.  It was time to join the dancers.

                Soon she was lost in the rhythm of the drum and bass, the music drowning out all attempts at conversation and she felt the heat of bodies around her. When she next opened her eyes, she saw that a man was dancing close to her. He wore a white t-shirt stretched on over a muscley torso and tight, blue jeans which emphasised the bulge at his crotch. He gave a half-smile when he saw her looking at him and moved closer. The press of bodies prevented her from maintaining distance. He mouthed something. His lips might have said “pretty woman”, but she wasn’t sure. It could have been something else. He extended his arm around her waist and the palm of his hand pressed against her bum. He pulled her closer to him and his crotch pressed against her.

                The beat changed, a slower track. He tugged on her bottom, pulling her to the edge of the dance floor. Then he gave her gentle shove along a corridor.

                He wants to go somewhere quieter, she thought, somewhere where we can talk There was a touch of anxiety about leaving the people she knew, but there was a thrill of feeling that he found her attractive enough to want to get to know her.

                She became a little concerned as they passed the quiet rooms and moved further along the narrow, dark corridor. There was only a fire door ahead.

                He pushed her against the door and released the catch. The door swung open. She stumbled into a dark, cold, litter-strewn alley, struggling to find balance on her heels.

                “Perv!” he mumbled as his arm swung. The fist landed on her chin. The second caught her cheek as she fell. Then he was kicking and leaning over her to land more punches.

“Shame about your dress. It’s very smart,” the nurse said while dabbing at her bleeding lip.  The dress was torn and bloodied like her face. Every breath hurt because of the bruised ribs and there was a pain in her groin. She was thankful that some of her new friends had followed her to the alley. Her assailant had run away. She wondered whether she’d ever feel confident about going clubbing or even leaving the house again.

“Don’t worry love,” the nurse went on. She looked straight at her and smiled. “It looks worse than it is. It’ll heal and you’ll soon be a pretty woman again.”

……………………………..

Heading towards doom?

My disgust of the current UK government only grows by the day. It is apparent that their only strategy for possibly surviving the next general election is to trash the future of the young citizens of the country in order to elicit support from the right-wing, climate-change-denying bigots. I don’t know how large an electorate that makes up but it seems like the last gasp of the terminally incompetent. That is in a week in which Sunak yet again used a helicopter at huge expense to the public and damage to the environment to travel a relatively short distance to make a statement on green policies. A week in which Gove allowed construction companies to pollute waterways as apparently it is the only way to get them to build homes at all. A week in which the government stirred up ill-feeling amongst the drivers of the nation against a policy they first introduced i.e. the enlarged ULEZ in London. This is after numerous reports and court cases citing the poor air quality in the capital as the cause of diseases and deaths. A week in which farmers are still waiting to hear what support they will receive post-Brexit for conserving the environment and more and more farmers talk about giving up, forcing yet more imports of sub-standard food.

My conclusion is that Sunak and the rest of his cronies are just supporting the fossil fuel companies and other dinosaur corporations in order to boost their dividends and ensure cosy directorships when they are kicked out of office. At least I hope they are kicked out – it’s not certain.

All these negative news items are on top of my regular drip feed of worry from New Scientist magazine. This week it was an article on the collapse of the hydrological cycle (what we called the water cycle in school). Over extraction of water from aquifers, deforestation reducing transpiration and excessive use of water for growing certain crops (e.g. vanilla, almonds, coffee, chocolate) among other causes means that water shortages are going to get serious particularly in those dry areas which we are currently importing food from e.g. California, Mexico, Indonesia).

New Scientist tries to avoid the doom and gloom message despite these horror stories of what awaits us. It is right to note that the means to end the use of fossil fuels, to halt (or diminish) climate change, improve biodiversity and clean up the environment, exist now. We don’t have to wait another 50 years to get nuclear fusion. Renewable energy sources and storage are ready, and we could reconfigure our technological society. It would be expensive but not as much as the fossil fuel companies are costing us now in subsidies and damage to the environment. Yes, the means are available, but the commitment from governments? No.

The sequel is progressing…

This week’s prompt from writing group was “what’s in a name”. We had a couple of wonderful pieces on the problems of naming children et al, and the weird and wonderful placenames around the country. I went full SF. The following story is a bit of a follow-up to another SF short I wrote a year or so ago called High Fashion which is in my anthology Prompted Visions.

What’s in a name?

The hall of the Galactic Council was big. Very big. So big in fact that I could not see any walls or boundaries of any kind. Maybe there were none. The ceiling was a diffuse white somewhere far above my head, but I was standing on firm, solid floor ground which was smooth and grey. The hall was filled, if not packed, with creatures of every description one could imagine. Some stood, sat or lay on the same floor as me but others rested on marshmallow-like cushions, swam in a variety of different coloured liquids or floated in atmospheres of various hues which appeared to have no bottom at all. Some of the aliens, I have to call them that though I was the only one present that probably could be considered to be such, were bipedal like me, but others had any number of legs from 1 to perhaps a thousand or no legs at all. The other parts of their bodies showed an equally bewildering variety with arms, tentacles, antennae, or branches gesticulating excitedly.

            Perhaps the most astounding thing about this experience was that A, I was there at all and B, my brain hadn’t exploded with the strangeness of the experience. Presumably I had been drugged or my thought processes manipulated in some way so that I felt little anxiety and could absorb everything that had happened to me since I was plucked from that deserted country lane.  Maybe I was no longer human and my mind had been transferred into some facsimile of humanity that could survive in this environment.

            There was a buzz of conversation filling the hall. I say buzz. It was a cacophony of white noise, plus a flickering of light and a breeze of odours as each creature communicated in the fashion to which they were accustomed.  There were presumably other frequencies of sound and light and smells that I couldn’t sense at all, let alone understand.

            What I did know, had been made aware of, was that every sentient species in the galaxy of a hundred billion stars was represented here and they were present because of me.

            All at once the noise faded, the light stabilised, and the smells diminished in pungency. I felt the expectancy of all the beings around me. Then I heard the voice, the source unknown. It was presumably only in my head that it spoke standard English.

            “We are here today to hear this creature’s claims to be a member of a sentient race and hence eligible for membership of this council.”

            I gulped. It was a big responsibility, one that I had not sought nor that I felt I was qualified to wield. However, since I was the only human in the room it seemed that I had no choice. I was the delegate of the human race.

            “Please tell us where you come from,” the voice continued.

            I guessed they didn’t want my address. “I’m from Earth,” I said as confidently as I could manage.

            There was a rumble and flickering of lights and chorus of farts that I can only imagine was general laughter.

            “What’s funny?” I said.

            The voice replied with a chuckle that conflicted with its authoritative tone, “What a silly name to call your planetary home, the place where your species evolved.”

            “What’s wrong with it?” I said, feeling a little confused. If they found the name of our planet funny, what would they think of what we’re doing to it.

            The voice replied, “Our analysis of your communications suggest that you call your planet after the layer of stuff that covers most of your dry land.”

            “Um, well, yes, that is true,” I stammered, “We do call the soil, earth as well, though some call it dirt.”

            That created another round of laughter.

            “You consider the life sustaining loam to be dirty,” the voice said giggling.

            I sighed, “What’s in a name? It’s what we call our planet. Well, some of us. There will be different words in other languages.”

            “Ah, yes,” the voice said, “It appears that many of your languages name your planet after the stuff you grow your food in. or alternatively it is called after an imaginary being who you look to for judgement or salvation. Why not give your planet a real name, a grand title, such as Trantor, or Coruscant or Arrakis or Kronos.”

            At least a couple of those were familiar. “But those names were made up,” I said.

            “We make up names for all the places where we live,” the voice said gravely, “Choosing your own name for the planet, or moon or indeed star, on which you live is one of the signs of sentience, of taking responsibility for your own home.” 

There was a chorus of noise, light and odours.  The voice continued. “Now we must move on to discuss whether you humans have reached such a level, although calling your planet after the stuff you walk on does not seem to be an auspicious start.”

My worries about the outcome of this conference increased.

……………………

Barbieheimer

A pretty normal week. A rival of Putin eliminated, more wild fires and further evidence of the unfolding climate catastrophe with the news of the demise of Emperor penguins. So, let’s go to the cinema.

In the last fortnight we’ve gone full Barbieheimer. Let’s start with the (slightly) more serious of the two. Oppenheimer is a very good film, a political biopic disguised as a blockbuster. It presents the contradictions of its subject very well. The leader of the top secret project building the most powerful weapon the world has ever seen while under constant surveillance by his own country as a possible spy. Robert Oppenheimer is indeed a socialist if not a communist, a fine scientist but not a genius, a guy who got on with everyone including his military boss. He seems to have had the rare knack of bringing out the best in everyone (with the possible exception of his first lover) and an ability to run a massive organisation with kindness and fairness. With the explosion of the Trinity trial and the Hiroshima and Nagasaki bombs come near the middle of the film so the climax was the hearing that brought down Oppenheimer’s nemesis, the jealous Chair of the Atomic Energy Commission who had seen him pilloried by the secret committee that removed his security clearance and labelled him a traitor. The film is gripping, even if you know the story, the acting and casting is excellent. My only grumble was the silly early scene showing that Oppenheimer was no good at experiments and the hopping between time frames which was sometimes confusing (for a while I wasn’t sure which came first – Oppenheimer’s appearance before the secret committee, or the hearing that exonerated him). A film worth seeing, if only to get some understanding why the scientists, and particularly Oppenheimer, wanted to get the atom bomb built and what they thought of the aftermath. Oh, and the BBC series first shown in 1980 and now available on I-player, is almost as good.

And so to Barbie. A month ago I would not have considered seeing it – a bubblegum movie. But the reviews and chatter changed my mind and I’m glad I did. First of all there was the 2001 Dawn of Man pastiche to tell the story of the genesis of Barbieworld – hilarious. Then there was the tongue in cheek satire of the whole Barbie business, the occasional breaking of 4th wall, and, most importantly, a serious examination of the lives of women and the impossibility of their place in society where men are reluctant to give up the patriarchy. It also made clear that Barbieworld’s unchanging, girls on top society was not an alternative. The only hope for humanity is for men and women to discover who they are and not try to dominate one another (perhaps a dream but, hey, that’s what films are). Perhaps the most important character is Gloria, played by America Ferrera, the owner of the Margot Robbie’s Barbie, a working mother with a recalcitrant daughter, Sasha, who accidentally brings about the fall of Barbieworld by imagining Barbies struggling in a male-dominated society. Her monologue on womanhood is wonderful and true and should be read or heard by everyone – female, male and non-binary. Barbie, the film, may be bubblegum coloured but its story is not about a ridiculous plastic toy.

An Extraordinary Tale and Prompted Visions are available in a real bookshop – Stephens in Church St., Monmouth! OK, it’s not going to bring in huge sales but it’s a start.

The topic for this week’s writing group for reasons known only to Ann, was “cold collation”. A little bit of Wikipedia searching lead me to the story below. It was liked.

Collections

The rumble seemed to reverberate around the rafters of the refectory but it was probably only really audible in Brother Illtyd’s ears. It was his stomach complaining. This late in the evening in the middle of the Lenten fast, only a small meal was allowed, but Illtyd was hungry.  He collected his slice of rough rye bread with a thin smear of butter, a dollop of pickled cabbage and a few scraps of cold salted eel left over from the main meal that finished hours ago. There was no jug of foaming ale; not even a tumbler of water was allowed.

He sat on the bench at the trestle table lit by a few thin candles and nodded to his neighbour, Brother Teilo. No words could be exchanged of course. Illtyd shivered, pulled his habit tight around himself and took a mouthful of bread. He chewed slowly and thoroughly to extract as much nutrition and pleasure as possible from the meagre meal.

Brother Tudno approached the lectern at the head of the tables, an oil lamp in his hand. Ah, good, Illtyd thought. At least Tudno has a good head for Latin and can read clearly and audibly. The elderly monk raised the lamp to illuminate the tome that had been opened to the appropriate page and began to read aloud. Illtyd listened as he chewed and found himself carried away by the words from Collationes, or the Collation of the Lives of the Sacred Fathers. The thought of living in the warm, dry desert was tempting at this time of year when it never seemed to cease to rain, and he was constantly shivering in his thin, woollen gown. Nevertheless, he couldn’t understand these saints who took themselves off to a deserted cave or tiny island to be alone, searching for morsels to eat, and fending off wild animals while spending their days and nights contemplating the works of God and the salvation mediated by his only Son. The daily round of worship in the monastery was more than sufficient for Illtyd especially as heaven promised more of the same.

                Tudno reached the end of the evening’s tale. Illtyd searched his plate for the last crumbs of the too small meal. The Abbot rose to his feet and mumbled his blessing before shuffling away. Now Illtyd just had time to hurry to the Scriptorium and complete his collation of the day’s copying before Vespers, and then another day would be over, a day closer to Easter.

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It’s in the news

I have always watched the BBC TV news, usually at 6pm. Lou wonders why I still do since I often end up shouting at the screen. The 10pm bulletin is a little more detailed but not much better. Why do I continue? Well, it’s partly to see how biased and muddled the message being presented to the population is. Let’s take a couple of examples from this week.

I was delighted to see my home town pictured. It was in an item on the state of our rivers and in particular, the River Wye (Afon Gwy). The river has recently been down graded by the Environment Agency to poor and deteriorating. The reporter stated that fact then spoke to Angela, an outspoken and highly visible local activist who has had a few public spats with our local MP and Welsh Secretary. She does her best to highlight the problems of the river and its causes (sewage outflows and run off waste from chicken farms). But she is an amateur. No expert on water quality or the river environment was interviewed and this was on a national news bulletin. However, the reporter then allowed two chicken farming representatives to declare that it was not their fault and the Welsh Government’s halt to the development of more chicken farms was an unjustified “knee-jerk” reaction. Those statements were not questioned. It all sounded like a UK Tory government ploy to downplay the fate of our rivers, side with the polluters (who are often donors to the Conservative party) and rubbish the actions of the Labour Welsh Government. Biased reporting? It looks like it.

Then there was the reporting of the A level (and other qualifications) results. Much was made of the reduction of the proportion of students achieving A*/A grades at A level. This was nothing to do with the standard of the students or the efforts of their teachers but a decision made by the English regulators to drop the number of top grades after the chaos of the pandemic years when teacher assessments were accepted with little moderation or standardisation. Prior to the pandemic the rate of A*/A was creeping up every year for reasons which were never examined on the broadcast news. However on this occasion the reporters showed pictures of joyful students while going on about the A level results. The only problem was that most of the students seemed to be receiving results for BTEC and other qualifications so the reporting and the pictures was unrelated. In my opinion the report was a nonsense of non- and mis-information.

I can only sympathise with the dedicated reporters on the BBC news team who have to spout such rubbish on air. How much are they pressured by their bosses, who in turn are beholden to the Tory government, to examine the accuracy of statements from interviewees particularly those from the government. I can imagine how people like Huw Edwards became depressed.

The BBC’s famous “impartiality” is what ensured that the two sides of the Brexit debate were given equal weight. Neither side’s arguments were seriously examined but we know now that the Leave side presented lie after lie. The Leavers decried the Remain argument as “Project Fear”. That too wasn’t examined in depth but what we have faced in the last couple of years: higher inflation than the EU; a big drop in exports to the EU; higher costs due to increased paperwork for traders; restrictions on people wanting to move to EU countries, seems pretty close to what Project Fear predicted.

What about the future? Fewer and fewer people watch televised news regardless of how disappointingly biased and inaccurate it is. Most get whatever news they are interested in from social media. As John Naughton noted in last week’s Observer, that increasingly will be provided by the new AIs that are available to anyone. Thousands and thousands of words (and pictures) can be generated to push any side of any argument. AIs such as ChatGPT can produce readable, exciting material scraped from the trillions of pages of the internet but they are renowned for making up fiction (otherwise called lies) or making mistaken connections. Naughton suggests that next year’s elections in the UK, USA and elsewhere will be dominated by huge amounts of AI produced material which will be unchecked for accuracy. It will be impossible to decide who is honest and decent particularly as our social media algorithms choose what we should read and see. The chances of fair and honest elections are almost zero and democracy is in very great danger.

Should I still rely on the BBC?

………………………………

I see that another record breaking athlete has been banned from running by the IAAF for having a similar condition to Caster Semenya. In fact there are more than 10 banned athletes with the condition. A chromosomal abnormality (mutation?) means they are born with internal testes instead of ovaries but outwardly look female. They have to take anti-testosterone drugs to pass the stringent tests imposed by the IAAF even though many female athletes may also have above average levels. But the athletes are not men and have no desire to compete against men. It is blatant discrimination.

In other news, I notice that the international chess federation has banned transwomen from competing in female competitions. Why on earth is chess segregated into male and female categories? Is it because the male players fear the up and coming female competitors? (see The Queen’s Gambit on Netflix)

Not the River Wye, but the River Isar in Munich

This week’s prompt from writing club was “dark side” (or “back side” if we wished!). This presented lots of opportunities for SF & F writing as well as thrillers exploring the dark side of personalities. But there was one thing on my mind so here is “To the Dark Side”. I’ll make some comments afterwards.

To the Dark Side

I see grey dust at my feet, a boulder strewn plain, a sharp jagged horizon not far away. It would be completely dark but for the pale, diffuse light from above. I look up and see the sky full of stars, so many I cannot pick out patterns of constellations. They don’t twinkle and there is no hint of haze. There is no Sun and no air. Yet here I stand, breathing, I think, alive, perhaps.

                “Where am I?” I ask.

                The voice in my head answers “The dark side of the moon.”

                “Don’t be a lunatic,” I reply, “The Moon doesn’t have a dark side, it rotates while keeping one side facing Earth.”

                “Who said it is that Moon,” the voice says.

                That confuses me. Surely only planets can keep one side facing their star. But perhaps where is not the most important question. “How did I get here?”

                “The tune changed,” is the reply.

                “What tune?”

                “The one the band were playing.”

                I don’t recall a band but I do remember a storm, thunder and lightning, torrential rain and…

                I say, “I thought I shouted but no one could have heard me.”

                “Of course not,” I hear in my head, “You’re all alone.”

                “Except for you,” I note.

                “Maybe, unless I am you.”

                I shake my head. “There’s someone in my head and it’s not me.”

                “Are you sure,” comes the reply.

                I look around at the barren, lifeless, rock. It must be deathly cold as well as airless.

                “I’m not sure of anything. Is even this real?”

                The voice responds, “Is seeing believing?”

                “I don’t know anymore. Where shall we go next?”

                “How about setting the controls for the heart of the sun?”

Afterword: I am sure many readers will recognise this as being based on the lyrics of Brain Damage the track on the Pink Floyd album that gives it its title – Dark Side of the Moon. So, its not my imagination at play just my sciency interpretation of the Roger Waters’ words.

………………………………

Lessons from abroad

We have just spent a week in Munich (that explains last week’s hiatus) where we had a very pleasant time, albeit somewhat cooler and damper than expected for Bavaria in August. That’s climate change for you – some places get extreme heat, others extreme rainfall and others, unseasonal weather.

While in Munich we visited the Stadtmuseum, basically, the museum of the city and region of Bavaria. There were two permanent exhibitions, The first was the rise and fall (?) of National Socialism in Munich. Munich was of course where it all began following the end of WW1. It was frightening because it all appeared so simple and inevitable. Obviously, with the fall of the German monarchy and government and the dire economical consequences of the defeat, there was chaos. The many rival parties of every political hue were unable to establish a stable government and policing and justice were weak. Prices were rising (exponentially) food and jobs were scarce. The NS stepped in to provide answers – people to blame for the mess (Jews mainly), food and work for those that needed it and comradeship (i.e. violent responses to anyone who got in the way). The party made alliances to get into power then ruthlessly disposed of any opposition. Once they had the media (i.e. newspapers and magazines) and positions of authority they could rubbish any objections and eliminate their enemies. The rest we know.

Perhaps there is nowhere today quite like Germany in 1918-30, but there are plenty of places where there is a sense of being left out of the riches of other parts of the world, of other people being the cause of misfortune, where things appear to be deteriorating and where the existing leaders are thought to be out of touch. Just the conditions for extremists (from either end of the political spectrum – or is it a circle?) to seize the moment and find their route to power. It’s happening, as anyone can see.

The other exhibition was a history of Munich through the eyes of immigrants. Boards in German, English and Arabic lauded the contribution of migrants to Munich’s success over the centuries and its unending need for more incomers to stimulate the economy. Nevertheless, the displays were largely of objects and artwork of German (or Bavarian) style – including a conveyor belt of peculiarly Bavarian food. Also there were exhibits revealing that the integration of migrants wasn’t always enlightened including the recent past, such as migrants being given food parcels (of Bavarian staples) rather than money to purchase the food the people themselves preferred. Munich is still growing very fast and has become more multi-ethnic even in our experience (16 years). There is certainly more of a welcome for immigrants than we see in the UK.

Which brings me to my last observation – that inflation in Germany has been lower than in the UK in the last year. For the first time, I felt that Munich prices in bars, cafes and restaurants, at least, were lower than they are currently at home.

Enjoying a weissbier or an unusually pleasant afternoon

Being away with family meant there was little (no) time for writing. I did, however, receive the prompt for this week which was “sunflowers”. I managed to write two very short pieces. The first subverts the theme (as I am expected to do these days) and was written on the plane returning home while the second recounts a tale I was told while away.

Sun Flowers

We tend the fields in which the flowers bloom. Our tools are the magnetic and electric forces generated in the plasma, powered by photons completing their long journey for the core.  The clouds of ions are twisted into swaying stalks of flame that burst from the corona into the darkness of space and travel across the interstellar voids, maybe encountering planets on the way. Our star is covered with these flower gardens. In some respects, the flowers are the Sun or that which is visible from beyond its fiery surface.

We have farmed the flowers since the star ignited, crushed by its own mass so that atoms fused and expelled the photons that sustain our crop. For twenty revolutions of the galaxy, the light of our flowers has warmed the bodies of rock and gas that orbit us. In some places the rays from the flowers have stimulated atoms to bond, to replicate, grow in complexity and purpose, and sensitivity. We sustain those organisms and cherish them though they do not resemble us.

The flowers will flourish for many revolutions yet, till the core of our star is exhausted and the last photons rise to form the final blooms. Then our energies will die, the flowers will fade and we will merge once more with the forces of the universe, to sleep for eternity.

[ Nb.1 galactic (cosmic) year = 230 million Earth years]

The Sunflower

I hung a bird feeder from the branch of a tree in my garden at the start of the year. Birds flocked to it. Tits and finches clung to the wire mesh pecking at the seeds trapped inside. Starlings and pigeons and a black bird prowled the ground below looking for seeds that had fallen. Within days the feeder was empty and all the seeds had been eaten.

Well, perhaps not. When spring arrived, a shoot appeared in the moist soil below where the feeder hung. It grew and grew and grew throwing out leaves until it was as tall as me.  The air warmed and the Sun shone brightly.  Each day the maturing flower head turned to follow the path of the sun, each night returning to face the dawn. Then the flower head opened with a ring of petals as wide as my face around a disc of a multitude of florets.

Throughout the summer the flower faced the rising sun. Its multitude of immaculate and identical petals glowed yellow as bright as the Sun itself. As summer faded towards autumn the colour gradually faded, the petals wrinkled and fell.

The birds have a new supply of sunflower seeds. Many from one.

…………………………………

A bonfire of ideals

A feast, or is it a spoil heap, of news to comment on this week. While the Mediterranean and parts of the USA are burning and roasting, the Tory party looks like deciding to turn anti-green to support car drivers against ULEZs, the “anti-new road” policies of the Welsh government, and the 2030 deadline for ICE vehicles. However the main item on the news (apart from Kevin Spacey) has been the saga of Farage and Coutts/NatWest bank. Notwithstanding the wrongness of basing the eligibility of someone for an account on their legally held views, however obnoxious, I can’t understand why Coutts found Farage so distasteful. Was it really because the financial institutions were Remain and realised that Brexit would be a disaster for the UK economy? If that was the case, why was Sunak a Brexiteer? Perhaps he wasn’t a very good banker after all. In other respects, Farage seems to be the model of the wicked hedge fund manager and a buddy of financiers. I can’t believe that his anti-immigrant, anti-Europe, anti-woke rantings really disturbed bosses of Coutts. No, it is all quite mysterious, but no doubt it will have unexpected repercussions for the rest of us.

Back to the Tories and climate change. There was yet another TV programme this week about EV cars. Yet again it failed to show the generally favourable views of the many people who own EVs, but concentrated on the “problems” like range anxiety, weight of batteries, poor charger infrastructure, lack of battery factories in the UK. All but the first are real. The programme did highlight that the problems are all down to government incompetence and foot-dragging. I shall scream if I hear another government minister say that the UK is/will be a world leader in tackling climate change/battery technology/etc. Saying it won’t make it so and we don’t have to be the leader, we just have to be in the mix and actually do something. The programme went into a digression on hydrogen as an alternative fuel without taking a close look at the source of the hydrogen and how it is used in vehicles.

I do despair of people taking climate change seriously. Even with the Med burning, I heard one friend comment that they hadn’t seen any wildfires on Rhodes last week and another reply, well of course the news exaggerates things doesn’t it. Just like those reports of dramatic storms and floods a few weeks ago. So that’s it, we can ignore global warming and its effects because the TV and newspapers are making it sound worse than it really is/will be.

I am taking a break next week.

I was delighted with my session at Monmouth Library last Saturday. My audience wouldn’t fill Wembley Stadium but I think they enjoyed themselves and I sold some books. Today, it’s Ross-on-Wye Library and another opportunity to rabbit on about An Extraordinary Tale and Prompted Visions. I’m available for more venues…

Writing group’s theme for this week was “trains”. We had a couple of lovely memoirs which were railway related and some haikus derived from the poem Adlestrop by Edward Thomas. My piece is a somewhat hastily written short story that grew out of a number of disparate thoughts. It is sort of mid-development. My fellow writers generally liked it and found it almost peaceful, its meaning quite clear. Here is The Last Train.

The Last Train

I raced across the station concourse. It was surprisingly empty for a Friday evening, but I presumed that most people knew about the strikes and hadn’t bothered to try using the railways. I had booked on the app and the departures board confirmed there was indeed one train still running. It was the only one amongst a list of “cancelleds”. It was due to leave in a minute.

A solitary train was standing at a platform. It must be mine, I guessed, and ran for it. It was as I climbed into the carriage that I realised that I was the only person hurrying. You can usually guarantee a couple of dozen late arrivals desperate to board. The carriage was empty. I walked between the seats and pondered why I was alone. Probably everyone else who had booked had assumed it would be cancelled like all the others. There was a slight lurch and we began to move. The screech of the wheels seemed to echo more than usual in the unoccupied carriage. I sat in the nearest seat.

                Once we were clear of the station the train accelerated. I could see little outside. It was a dark and misty night. If there were buildings nearby, they seemed to have shut up and the neighbourhood was deserted.

                I rested my head back, puffed out a lungful of air and with the gentle rocking, I relaxed. It had been a busy day. What am I thinking? I had been busy for as long as I could recall. I needed a rest. I wanted to close my eyes but being alone gave me a strange feeling of, I don’t know what; vulnerability, perhaps, I’m not sure. I took a detailed look around. My surroundings were not familiar. The upholstery wasn’t the usual bright primary colours but a dull beige. The interior of the carriage was not panelled in smooth, cream, curved, plastic or metal but appeared to be real wood, varnished and fixed with brass screws. It felt old.

                I suddenly worried that, somehow, I had got on the wrong train. Instead of the expected express, I had boarded a local station hopper or even some heritage rolling stock. I decided to look for a guard or ticket inspector to question. I headed to the back of the carriage. I pushed on the door. It wouldn’t open. I didn’t think I had boarded the rear carriage, but it seemed I could go no further. Had the train been in two parts? I was becoming confused. What had I seen when I ran for the train? I couldn’t remember. I turned and walked forwards. Just as I reached the other end of the carriage, the door opened.

                It was an unusual uniform for a railway employee. Instead of the black, dark blue or deep green livery, the jacket, trousers and shoes were a brilliant white. Hardly practical on a dusty train, I thought. The wearer also had a very pale, almost translucent complexion. The hair too, was white and short but curly. I was uncertain whether the figure was masculine or feminine.

                “Who are you?” I asked.

                “I am your train manager,” they replied brightly, in a voice which also was of indeterminate gender. “Can I help you?”

                “I think I’m on the wrong train,” I said, “You, this carriage, isn’t what I expected.”

                He, or she, smiled at me. It was a very kind smile, sincere. I felt that they really wanted to help me. The anxiety that had been bubbling up inside me was soothed. “I can assure you that this is the train you are booked on, Mr Lewis.”

                How did they know my name? I had booked on-line, so of course, my name would be on the passenger list, but how did they know I was me? Was I the only passenger? That would explain it, though it must be highly unusual for a train to run with just one person on board.

                “Where does the train stop?” I asked unsure where it was destined for.

                The train manager shrugged. “There is only one stop, the terminus. That is where your journey ends.”

                That didn’t seem to make sense. Surely there was somewhere I was travelling to. What journey did they mean?

                “I’m not sure why I’m here,” I said.

                “Don’t worry,” said the cheery train manager. They seemed to glow with an inner light. “Everyone is a bit mixed up when they reach the end of their travels. I should warn you that there is a tunnel just before we reach the terminus. I suggest you sit down and enjoy the rest of the trip.”

                I did as they suggested, sitting down in the seat closest to the end of the carriage. The train manager smiled at me then turned and went through the door. I lost sight of them immediately.

                I sat quietly for a few minutes listening to the rhythmic and melodic rattle of the wheels over the rails. There was nothing to see outside in the night. My eyes began to close. We entered the tunnel. The train noise reflecting off the tunnel walls battered my ears, waking me. The train began to slow. Then the carriage lights went out. All was darkness. Then there was silence.

………………………..

Pipedreams?

I am writing on Friday morning having just read the news of the huge victories in the byelections by Labour in Yorkshire and Lib Dems in Somerset. The Tories managed to hold on to Uxbridge by under 500 votes. The reason why they achieved that small success? Apparently the Tory candidate fought his campaign solely against the extension of the Ultra-Low Emission Zone (ULEZ) planned by the London Mayor, Labour’s Sadiq Khan. I have a number of thoughts about these results. First is the wish that similar results will occur in next year’s general election. The thought that the vicious, selfish, bigoted nutcases that make up today’s Conservative Party, might just survive in government for another five years is too much to bear. Not that I trust Labour that much and even the Lib Dems can be fickle. I want to see Labour with a smallish majority, Lib Dems with a sizeable contingent and the Tories reduced to a rump. A number of Green MPs would nice too. (What happens in Scotland is another matter and too complicated to discuss here).

The other thought is about the reaction to Sadiq Khan’s plans, not just in Uxbridge but in other London boroughs. I am all in favour of measures to improve air quality and fight the climate emergency. We must reduce the burning of fossil fuels, not just in big cities but everywhere. The problem is how to do it. and I am not sure that imposing swingeing charges on people using their ICE cars is the way to do it. It is all about the people.

I don’t understand why anyone in Greater London keeps a car. Public Transport is cheaper and much more frequent and convenient than where I live. Why spend most of your time in traffic jams travelling at less than 10mph to say nothing of the difficulty of finding somewhere to park? The truth is that many people are bonded with their vehicles. They consider walking to a bus stop or tube station, waiting for a few minutes and mixing with other people a timewasting and distasteful inconvenience. I don’t think the way to overcome that attitude is to impose a £12.50 a day charge for using polluting vehicles, especially not at the moment when people are coping (or not) with high inflation and vastly increased mortgage costs. All very middle-class, I know, but it’s the middle-class who drive the cars and it’s the middle-class that vote in these places.

Khan’s dilemma is that air quality and climate must be tackled in cities the size of London but he is facing a national government that pays lip service to reducing carbon emissions and will do nothing to annoy the oil companies. Ideally it is the oil companies who should pay for clearing up the disaster they have created with fines for the damage they have caused to health, the environment and the climate. I know, that’s a pipedream. Let’s hope a Labour government that actively tackles poverty, waste and the climate emergency is not another.

At the time when this blog goes live I will be preparing to deliver my first session launching my two new books, An Extraordinary Tale and Prompted Visions. Let’s hope an audience turns up which is entertained by my readings from and commentary on the two books and that they buy lots of copies. I am doing another session next Saturday 29th (11am Ross-on-Wye Library).

The theme suggested by last week’s writing group was “fluffy bunnies”. It was almost said to provoke me into a writing a hard SF “alien bunnies in space” or comic horror “zombie bunnies on the prowl” sort of piece. I resisted (Jasper fforde has done that much better than I could). I decided to write a cuddly, sentimental sort of story, not too anthropomorphic but indulging one of my delights – alliterative names. Hence the tale of “The ffluffy-Bunnies”.

The ffluffy-Bunnies

Her nose twitched, vibrating her long whiskers. Someone was prowling nearby and fflorence needed to investigate. She crawled along the tunnel to the entrance and pushed her nose out into the evening air. There was a familiar odour, but not threateningly close, not yet. Fflorence raised her head and lifted her fluffy ears, listening to the sounds of the country. It was safe for now, so she hopped out and looked around. Her eyes took in the full panorama from her position at the top of the low hill.  There was a flash of brown as Harvey Hare raced across the meadow. Down in the valley at the entrance to the wood, Barnaby Badger, was snuffling about. There was the almost silent rustling of the Voles amongst the long grass and wildflowers. None of that bothered fflorence, but one sighting did.

Socks the Fox, known because of the white fur on his paws, prowled beneath the hedge. He was becoming stiff of leg and loose of tooth but he was still fast and had wicked claws. Socks would fancy a juicy ffluffy-Bunnie for supper.  Fflorence worried about her mate, ffilip, who had set off for the wood a while ago to collect berries for tea. She didn’t want him running into Socks on his way back. It was time to set up a diversion.

Fflorence retreated into the warren, calling out for her children to meet her in the parlour.  When she got to the large, cosy space it was already packed with grey, furry bodies. Fflorence quickly described the situation and gave her instructions.

“Ffred and ffilippa, take the south exit; ffrank and ffreda, the west; Ffynn and ffenella the east; ffloyd and ffilomena go to the main door. I’ll join you there. Take it in turns to show yourselves and catch Socks attention, but don’t let him get too close to any entrance.”

The ffluffy-Bunnies scampered along the corridors doing Fflorence’s bidding. Just one was left. Ffleming was a small, white ffluffy-Bunnie, fflorence’s youngest. The colour of his fur meant he had little camouflage in the meadow, and he was too slow to risk exposing to Sock’s predatory nature.

Nevertheless, ffleming was sad not to be involved in the excitement. “What can I do, Ma,” he said.

“You stay here, ffleming,” fflorence replied, “You must guard the warren and tell us when your father arrives home. Now I must keep an eye and ear on that fox.”  She left the little ffluffy-Bunnie, quivering in the parlour.

Ffleming was not afraid of being left on his own but annoyed not to be outside with his siblings. It was such a nuisance being white and small and the youngest. For a while he sat on the floor, straining to hear what was happening at the entrances, but all was quiet. Then he heard a noise above him. It was a scraping, scrabbling noise. A few motes of soil floated down from the ceiling and landed on ffleming’s nose. He sneezed.

What was happening? The parlour was where all the family met. Fflorence and ffilip had expanded it as the brood grew in size, scraping away at the walls and the ceiling with their front paws and shovelling the soil away with their hind feet.

The sound of scraping grew louder.  More bits of the ceiling fell on ffleming, sticking to his soft, white fur. He thought he could actually hear heavy panting and snorting from above him. He moved to the edge of the room, crouching at the opening of the southern tunnel.

A rumble and crash, and suddenly, there was sunlight in the warren. Amongst the falling soil ffleming saw a flash of red and flailing white feet. It was Socks the Fox.

Ffleming scrambled along the tunnel, crying out wildly. He met Ffred scurrying towards him.

“What’s up, ffleming,” ffred said.

“Socks is in the warren,” ffleming replied, “He fell through the roof of the parlour. He must have been digging.”

“We’ve got him now then,” ffred said. “He’s too big to get along the tunnels. Let’s round up the others outside.”

Ffred turned and ffleming followed him out onto the meadow. Their cries soon brought the rest of the family along with ffilip with his arms full of blackberries.

“I told you to stay in the warren,” fflorence said.  Ffred told her what had happened. They crossed the field to where there was now a hole in the ground and Socks lay in a pile of loose earth.

“There.” fflorence said to ffilip. “I told you we’d made the parlour too big. It weakened the roof.”

The ffluffy-Bunnies were joined by Harvey Hare and Barnaby Badger. Overhead, Larry Lark circled singing out the news. Vernon and Vera Vole and their large family crept out from the grass and peered into the hole.

“Get me out!” screamed Socks.

Barnaby replied, “If it wasn’t that you’re in the ffluffy-Bunnie’s home, we’d leave you there, but we’ll get you out and then see you off the meadow.”  He started scuffing at the edge of the hole sending more soil on top of the fox. Fflorence and the other ffluffy-Bunnies joined in.  Soon, there was a ramp of soil that Socks could scramble up out of the hole. Without saying a word, he slunk off and quickly disappeared through the hedge.

“We won’t see him for a while,” Barnaby said.

“But what of your home?” asked Harvey.

Fflorence put on a determined face. “We’ll just have to dig a new part of the warren. I was getting rather tired of the old parlour anyway. Come on, ffluffy-Bunnies, let’s get started.”  Fflorence set off followed by ffilip, ffred, ffreda, ffrank, ffilippa, ffyn, ffenella, ffloyd, and ffilomena with ffleming hopping along behind.

……………………………

Scammed!

I fell for a scam this week. I’m embarrassed and annoyed and feel like an idiot. I thought I was clever and knowledgeable about scams. Apparently there are some wrinkles I didn’t know. I thought I was cynical and suspicious and wouldn’t get sucked in, but I was.

Most of the scam calls we get come to our line phone and get cut off pretty smartly. This one came to my mobile purporting to be from my provider, O2. Because it came direct to my hearing aids I didn’t look at the phone to see if the number looked genuine. There wasn’t the tell-tale delay at the start and the caller greeted me straight away. She seemed to have all my details in front of her including my email address and the security question – my mother’s maiden name. I was suspicious but I was hoodwinked. O2 have recently increased mid-contract charges by 17% that is 3% on top of the inflation rate they were using. They have received some pretty bad publicity for this. The caller said O2 had decided to give a discount and just needed my confirmation. No, I didn’t give my password or bank details. They said a text message from O2 would give a code to confirm it. Sure enough, a text arrived from O2 which looked genuine. I’ve got used to using passcodes from my credit card provider and bank to confirm online purchases. I thought this was the same and not a danger. The caller thanked me and said a confirmatory email would appear in a few minutes. The call ended.

A few minutes later the emails from O2 did arrive, not confirming a discount but noting a change in the password for my account and with a receipt for a brand new i-phone and contract and a new credit agreement for payment. I was horrified.

I immediately rang the O2 fraud line and explained what had happened. That passcode had enabled the scammers to change the password on my account and get into it so they could order the new phone and number. O2 put a block on charges to my account, and said they would initiate an investigation which they said could take 10 days. The most scary thing, though, was that the O2 fraud investigator’s accent was exactly the same as the scammer’s. I wondered whether somehow the number for the fraud line I’d got from the O2 website was actually the scammers and I was going in circles.

Anyway, next day, an email from O2 said they had completed the investigation and cancelled the fraudulent activity. I was able to re-set my password and regain control of my account. There was no sign of the fraud. I kept checking my bank account and cancelled a new direct debit that appeared. Surprisingly, I had received a text from DHL saying they were delivering the new i-phone to myaddress. O2 cancelled that too. That appears to be the end of the affair.

What were the scammers after? They hadn’t changed the address on my account so had not got hold of a new i-phone nor taken money from my bank account. The O2 fraud guy says that sometimes the scammers just do it to cause a fuss.

I think I’ve learnt a lesson. Do not trust anyone who initiates a call. I am also even more disgusted that modern technology has become a mire of crime. We experience more threats to our personal security every day than we ever did in our young lives

…………………..

I was anxious and fed up after that shenanigans so the news about Huw Edwards made me feel really sad. He was one I thought we could rely on – the voice of the news and of state occasions, a proud Welshman. I was sad for him and sad for what it does to our confidence in people. I don’t know the cause of his depression (I wondered if it was having to spout the lies the government has been putting out for the last 7 years or so) and I ‘m not sure what it is he really has done. But it looks as though he has been an idiot. We can all be that (see above). I do not imagine he will be fronting the news any more or being the voice of the nation at the next state funeral, wedding, coronation or whatever. I hope he finds peace in retirement.

Descending Foxton staircase locks

The events of this week contributed to a lack of time and concentration on this week’s writing exercise. I thought the topic was “narrow escape” which would have inspired a tale about our trips on narrowboats. Instead it was “lucky escape”. That set me thinking about how we are beset by bad news from around the world but somehow it can get overwhelmed by the senseless search for the nameless presenter. The following piece is short but I hope makes a point (the group thought so).

Lucky Escape

We felt we had had a lucky escape when the pandemic passed us by. A few million people died worldwide so I suppose it wasn’t lucky for them but the majority of us lived on, returning to our normal lives. Then the asteroid came.

                It wasn’t noticed until it was almost on us. It came from a direction astronomers weren’t expecting, descending on Earth from above the plane in which all the planets and normal asteroids orbit the Sun. It must have come from interstellar space, they said, a visitor from elsewhere in the galaxy. Of course, it was pure chance that the asteroid’s path coincided with the Earth’s. It wasn’t huge, just a dozen miles across, but it was moving fast, around 20 miles a second. Impact would probably have eliminated all complex life on Earth. The warning came just days before the possible impact and almost to the end no one could be certain it would miss.

                It did of course. Miss that is; by just a couple of hundred miles. That was enough for it to pass through the thin wisps of the upper atmosphere which changed its trajectory slightly.  It took out a few low orbit satellites and its gravitational field disturbed the orbits of others. But it missed. The tides were erratic for a day or so, but the worst effects were caused by the disturbance to the Van Allen belts which knocked out communications and power grids for weeks in some places. Another few million died in the resulting chaos. Most of us survived and thought that we had had a lucky escape and could carry on as usual.

                The famine was unfortunate. Maybe it was a coincidence or perhaps the asteroid had a bigger effect on climate patterns than expected. Anyway, the rice harvest in Asia was wiped out and many millions starved. Luckily, the grain harvest in the north and west was better than usual, so we survived.  Another lucky escape.

                The earthquake in the south Atlantic and tsunami that followed came completely out of the blue. It devastated the coasts of south America and Africa and inundated many vast cities like Lagos and Rio. But here in the north it barely caused a ripple. One more lucky escape.

                So, life goes on although the cost of living has risen dreadfully and many people have lost jobs, so they have nothing. We manage and feel we’re lucky.  Talk of global warming and environmental degradation goes on.

…………………………

Ignoring the signs

Monday recorded the highest ever average temperature worldwide. Tuesday it was higher still. Reports say that this week and 2023 may be the hottest on record. Yet, still the population, the media and the government imagine climate change/global warming to be a minor irritation for the distant future (i.e. the 2030s). A number of instances brought home to me how little notice we are taking of the warnings. The first is the report that Sunak government is thinking of a reneging on an £11 billion pledge to tackle climate change. £11 billion! The effects of global warming will cost us trillions.

What made me stop and think most though was the BBC 6 o’clock news on Monday. It must have been a quiet day for the usual horror stories because they lead with the news (?) that supermarkets have apparently been charging motorists 6p/litre of petrol more than they need to have done. This is despite supermarket fuel usually being cheaper than at service stations run by fuel companies themselves. It was seen as an affront to motorists right to cheap fuel. There was no mention of the need to dispense with fossil fuels altogether. The second item concerned reports of abnormally high water temperatures in the seas around the UK and in rivers and canals. This was being exacerbated by sewage leaks and resulting in low oxygen content of the water which was killing fish on a very large scale. The juxtaposition of the two reports with no connection made between them highlighted for me the lack of understanding or sense of urgency of anyone.

I say anyone. Perhaps the activists working for Just Stop Oil, Extinction Rebellion or any other anti-fossil fuel group are ones who are aware of where we are heading and trying to do something about it. Recently they have shifted from gluing themselves to roads and bridges to making a scene at events such as the Chelsea Flower Show, the Lords test match and Wimbledon. I don’t know whether it gets the message across or just angers spectators who have their pleasure disturbed for a few minutes. What I find disappointing is that no-one representing the disturbed parties stands up and says they agree with the protesters’ message. Bairstow carrying an activist off the pitch does not make him a hero. It shows him to be a fool in risking his health and on the side of the fossil fuel companies and climate change deniers who don’t want any attention brought to our future demise. I gather that Lewis Hamilton says he supports climate change activists if they take part in “peaceful protest.” Isn’t walking onto a pitch and sprinkling coloured petals peaceful enough? What does he mean by peaceful – standing in a small group at the edge of the track and not making a noise or drawing any attention to themselves? Don’t be an idiot, Lewis. People have to be told of the danger the fossil fuels companies are drawing us into, with most of the governments of the world standing by and letting it happen.

A day trip to Weston-super-Mare included a visit to the Hall of Mirrors in the fair on the Grand Pier. Here we have 5 images of me at once. We also went on the dodgems, had a paddle, greeted the donkeys and had fish and chips.

Back to writing group this week and the theme “sign of the times”. For various reasons I didn’t have much time this week but a few things came into my head. First was the literal signpost. Secondly was the Robert Frost poem The Road Not Taken which while it does not refer to a signpost does imply a choice of route. Thirdly was a walk we did many years ago to the source of the River Severn marked by a leaning post in a peat bog. A few other thoughts arose as I wrote the piece below. However I did not have time to turn it into a coherent story so it is left somewhat enigmatic and allegorical. What do you make of it?

Sign of the Times

I had been following the path for quite a while. Sometimes it was rough, sometimes steep but usually I strode along it with few cares or worries despite it climbing steadily towards a point I couldn’t see. The path followed a stream. Previously it had been a broad slow-moving river but now it was a narrow brook, flowing noisily over smooth stones. Lower down there were companions and we chatted while we walked, helping each other over difficult patches. They had either gone off in different direction or decided to stop while I continued. Now I was alone. I still met other walkers, some crossing my path others trudging more slowly than me.

                The path grew steeper, but the sky opened above me as I rose above the surrounding countryside. The brook was now a mere trickle, its source nearby. I continued, raising one foot and placing it down in front of the other, weariness growing. I looked up and there, a short distance in front of me was a signpost. I reached it and noticed that water trickled from its base becoming the stream that turned into a river lower down.

                The signpost had three arms pointing in different directions.  One was directed to the path I had been following.  It read “Then”.   The two other arms pointed left and right and read “Sooner” and “Later”.

                I stood staring at the signs and the water that oozed from the bottom of the post. Had I reached the end of my journey or not?

                “Are you lost?”

                The high-pitched voice came from behind me. I turned and there stood what appeared to be a small girl in a short dress of cream satin. She had long, dark hair in which were tied bows of pale blue silk.

                “Erm,” I replied, uncertain what my answer was. “I didn’t think so. I’ve been following the path to here, but I am unsure where to go now. Do I go back the way I came or follow one of these other signs.”

                The little girl looked up at me with large, blue eyes. “I don’t think you should return to Then. What has been has gone. Sooner or Later, either could be your destination.”

                “I don’t know?” I said, shaking my head slowly. “Do you know what’s there?”

                The young woman in the dress that fitted snugly to her shapely figure shrugged and said flirtatiously. “It rather depends on what you bring with you. You’ll get to Sooner quicker. It’s rather further to Later.”

                “But why should I go to either?” I said. “I was following the river, the stream, that brought me here. Isn’t this the end? Is there a reason to go to either Sooner or Later?”

                “Everyone has a reason to visit Sooner or Later,” the lady said in a motherly tone.  There were streaks of grey in her hair. “Water always finds a route to the ocean. You don’t have to.”

                “No, I suppose I don’t,” I said not certain what I was agreeing with, “Following the river to its source gave me a purpose to my journey.”

                “A river flows,” the elderly woman said. Her cream dress was smudged and had a tattered hem. “And you must move as well. You must choose.”

                I spoke with a feeling of tiredness. “You said Sooner is close. Well, I’ve come on a long journey. It would be nice to stop somewhere for a while.”

                The bent old crone, dressed in filthy rags, smiled and showed her toothless gums. “It won’t be far. Go now.”

                I turned to follow the sign and took my first steps. I glanced back to see whether the woman was following, but she had gone. There was no path, no stream to follow, I just walked in the direction indicated by the arrow choosing my own steps.  I’d be there soon.

………………………………

What do you identify as?

While we were away on holiday one of the media stories that caught my eye was the “fake news” tale of the girl who identified as a cat. A discussion in a school, recorded and uploaded to social media, picked up by every group that wants to stir up antagonism about people declaring what they identify as, culminating with Badenoch demanding an instant Ofsted inspection of the school implicated in the story. I’ve haven’t heard the original recording but apparently the teacher involved did somewhat over-react but no-one said they identified as a cat.

What on earth is wrong with children, anyone, discussing identity, theirs and other peoples? It is a starting point in philosophy. Descartes declared he was a thinker and therefore he was. Children often claim to be things they are not, cats, dogs, elephants, fairies. For a time they adopt some of the stereotypical characteristics of the thing they identify as. Parents indulge it until the child forgets and adopts a new enthusiasm. Nothing bad has happened. The child has been experimenting with the boundaries of being human.

People, adults as well as children, identify as all sorts of things.  Johnson identifies as a heroic leader with Churchillian qualities, Truss as a maverick economic genius, Sunak as a competent leader with integrity. None of these bear any relationship to reality.  Similarly, people identify with the characteristics of their star sign; I’m Virgo, you’re a Scorpio, etc. Some identify with their heroes, wearing clothes which display their character. Many people claim to have characteristics of animals – cats, tigers, eagles, sloths.

None of this causes outcries like in the story I referred to at the start. Rightly so, because exploring one’s identity is an important part of growing up. Finding  analogies with animals, pop and sports stars, media heroes, etc are stages in that process. People adopt some of the appearance and idiosyncrasies of that which they identify with. Sometimes it marks them as an individualist, at other times it signifies they are a member of a group or community. I consider it perfectly correct that a teacher should chair a discussion about identity and consider all the influences that make us what we are.

Most of these identities are in the form of a simile rather than a metaphor. One is like a cat, Elvis Presley, a bulldozer, not that one is that thing or person (not in all cases, Johnson fancies himself as Churchill reborn and Sunak really does believe he is a capable PM). All these likenesses build into an individual.

Some aspects of identity are more real and significant than others. Ethnicity, nationality, religion, can each form the core of a person’s self-belief and influence their relations with others. Gender, of course, plays a large role.  Most people (99.5% according to the recent census) accept the stereotypes they experience as babies, children and adolescents along with the modes of behaviour that (western) society has associated with the sex they were assigned at birth. That other 0.5%, grow up feeling that those expectations don’t fit with their identity. For transgender folks that core of their identity is far more powerful than a temporary alignment with some non-human creature or inanimate object. It affects their relationship with their own bodies as well as with other people. Gender identity is fundamental but there is no reason why it should match the perceptions of the sections of society who think it is determined by genitalia or should conform to styles of dress that they consider appropriate.

                I don’t think I am a cat, but neither do I accept that my gender  identity has to be determined by bits of my body nor does it need be 100% masculine (or 100% female). I am who I am.

On sale now as e-book and paperback

I haven’t been to writing group for the last two weeks as we were on holiday. Nevertheless I kept in touch by WhatsApp and learned that the theme set was “Mum”. Now apart from the obvious meaning there are a couple of others. With some time to relax and let the imagination float free I thought of a scenario where all three meanings could be covered. So here is Mum. I could have made it more of a complete story but it would have gone on a bit more and become too long for a writing group exercise. Perhaps I’ll pursue the idea further…

Mum

Nici wearily scrapes the algal gloop from her arms. Not even the end of her shift can lift her feeling of forboding. She staggers to her sleep-pod but before she can collapse into slumber a voice hails her. It is Nora. Of course it is. Who else would be waiting for her other than another enn, her birthmate.

                “Nici, you’re back at last. We haven’t got long before Birthing starts. Come on.”

                Nici sighs. “I’m not coming. I’m too tired. You know what it’s like.” Nora has a shift on the surface cleaning the photo panels when the festival ends but no-one looks that far ahead. Mum doesn’t encourage forward thinking.

                “But you can’t sleep now, Nici. Mum expects everyone to be at Birthing. You can’t upset Mum.”

                “Why can’t I?” Nici says and regrets it immediately.

                Nora looks shocked, horrified even. “What are you saying. We all obey Mum. Come on, Birthing is happy-time.”

                Nici snorts and blurts. “That’s right, everyone be happy, keep silent about what’s happening to us.  Do you know, we lost another tank today. The mutations are spreading. If it wasn’t for the falling population we’d be starving. But talk about it? Of course we don’t because that would annoy Mum.”

                Nora was stares with eyes wide. “Stop it Nici. Don’t say any more. Come with me now and put everything out of your mind. You know you’ll feel better.”

                Despite the muscle-sapping fatigue and the despondency, Nici lets Nora tug her through the dim corridors of the Bunker to the Square. Why is it called that? Nici always wonders. The central communal area is a circular area carved from the rock, with six corridors off it. This evening it is crowded. Probably the whole complement of the Family is milling around, most looking for somewhere to sit to be able to watch the show. Some, the effs hand out cups of happywater and portions of sweetmeat.  The surviving bees and cees are already seated on the raised dais, next to the slumped figure of Mum. These days she is almost unrecognisable as a woman. Her scarred, bloated body is supported by a plasteel frame and surrounded by tubes and bags which provide the medications required to keep her alive and semi-alert.

Along with others of the adult, labouring generations, Nici and Nora find themselves pressed against the curved wall of the Square. There is room to sit on the floor, more perhaps than the last festival. In front of them are rows of excited youngsters, children, toddlers.

Alice steps onto the stage and the whole company falls silent. She spreads her arms and smiles. “Welcome, Family to Birthing. Once again we are assembled to celebrate our success.”

                Our survival, Nici murmurs, that’s about all there is to celebrate, those that have, that is.

                Alice continues, “And now, as is our tradition, the Mummers will perform for us. Let us welcome them.”

A cheer from the not quite a multitude greets the group emerging from one of the corridors. It is a short procession consisting of the 3 characters of the play and four musicians, blowing pipes and banging drums, improvised from scraps of plasteel sheet and tube.

                The actors say their lines as they perform but they are almost redundant. The audience know all the words and recite them in unison. They all know the story.

                The hero, a woman, Mum, the only survivor of the colonists arrived from distant Earth, fights the deadly flying serpents, well, one of them, that called the planet home. Mum is struck down but the medibot rushes to revive her with its special potions. Mum arises again, defeats the attacker, and establishes the colony. Lacking her fellow crew members she gives birth, metaphorically, to generation after generation of her daughters.

Mum is played by Alice’s sister Annie, the only other of Mum’s first born to still live. The serpent costume is worn by a pair of young arrs enjoying the baring of fangs and flapping of wings that the role demands. A gee performs the part of the medibot hidden in a suitably machine-like grey box.  At the end, Mum/Annie is handed a baby by a midwife, a jay. The baby is the first of the new batch to emerge from the parthenogenesis machine after a two year gestation.

                As Annie holds up the squalling baby to be observed by the crowd, Alice rises from her seat and hails, “Let us welcome, Vera, our newest sister.”

                The crowd raises their female voices to cheer the announcement and thank Mum for her continued vitality. Nici finds it impossible to join in the excitement. She squeezes through the crowd until she reaches the corridor to her sleep-pod.

                Her arm is grabbed and tugged. “Hey, Nici, where are you going? The party is just beginning.”

                Nici turns to see Nora’s worried face. “I told you. I’m tired and not in the mood for a party. Not this party.”

                “But, you can’t miss it. Everyone celebrates Birthing, Vera, the new generation, the vees.”

                “And you know as well as I do, Nora, that Vera could be the last of them. The embryos are not developing to term; too many mutations. Mum’s eggs are too old, like the machines themselves. How many gestation pods are still working, three is it or four? In our time there were a dozen, and when Mum began it all she had twenty or more.”

                “We can build more.”

                “Really, Nora. Now you’re being stupid as well as over-optimistic. You know we don’t have the capability to replace the complex machinery. If only Mum’s ship had survived the landing intact, if only the serpents hadn’t attacked her and the crew.”

                “Too many if onlys, Nici. We’re here and thanks to Mum we’ve survived. The colony has grown and prospered.”

                “It was growing but now the births can’t keep up with the deaths in the ays and bees and cees. That and the algae tanks turning bad and the machines failing. The colony is dying, Nora. I know it, you know it, everyone knows it. But Mum won’t allow us to face reality.”

Nora persists, “Mum survived, dug the Bunker, found solutions to every problem. There will be answers. Come. Put aside your worries like the rest of us. Celebrate Vera’s birth. Give thanks to Mum.”

                Nici allows herself to be dragged back into the Square. A cup of happywater is thrust into her hand and she is surrounded by merry-making women of all ages, but strikingly similar appearances. Nici looks at the stage. Mum hasn’t moved but the bees and cees fuss around her. Alice and Annie, still in her mummers costume, sit in the grandest chairs, smiling benignly at the carousing crowd.

                How much longer can this go on, Nici mutters, and she doesn’t mean the party.

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Our responsibility

Lots to say and little time to say it. First of all, back to my piece last week about electric vehicles. This week BBC’s Panorama aired a “weighty” review of the subject. Actually it was a poorly researched, narrow, a botch up. Range anxiety was mentioned frequently without the range of any EV on sale today stated at all. No one with experience of running an EV for an extended period was interviewed other than a woman who charged her EV, parked on the pavement, via a 13amp cable through her lounge window. There was little emphasis on why replacing fossil-fuel-powered vehicles is imperative. The only good point made was the utter incompetence of the government in controlling the public charger system. The BBC has again dropped in my estimation of its fairness and competence. Someone has to take responsibility for putting the correct message across but I don’t know who it will be.

Secondly, the report of the House of Commons Privileges Committee on Johnson’s actions while PM. Hooray! At last an accurate account of his lies and reckless behaviour. It seems that almost all his buddies in Parliament have deserted him. Nevertheless, I expect he still has support amongst the public like another mad, dangerous megalomaniac I could name. Why billionaires like Bamford continue to prop up his finances I don’t know. What has he done for them (other than manage a cocked up Brexit)? Johnson still doesn’t accept any responsibility for his actions.

And thirdly, it hasn’t been reported in the media as far as I can see but apparently Parliament has this week been debating changing the definition of the term “sex” in the 2010 Equality Act. This is as a result of a petition incited by the “gender critics” who want to stop transwomen being accepted as women. As might be expected, there was at least one disgusting and scurrilous contribution by a female MP making unsupported accusations about transwomen, drag queens and the like. On the other hand, I believe there were some sensible contributions in support of trans rights which do not impinge on the rights of anyone else at all.

Proud to be non-binary

To my knowledge the Equality Act, like many official documents, confuses sex and gender and does not have a clear definition of either. It does state the rights of those with the protected characteristic of “gender reassignment.” This term relates to the terms of the 2004 Gender Recognition Act. This stated that in law a person who has jumped through the hoops to obtain a Gender Recognition Certificate can change their birth certificate and will henceforth be considered to be the “sex” on the new birth certificate. This means that transwomen and transmen who hold a GRC are legally women and men respectively. The gender-critics are against this, as basically they want anyone who looks at all masculine (and even some who don’t) to be barred from “women-only” spaces such as loos and refuges. They have no evidence to support their “fears” and are merely stirring up groundless anxiety in women (transmen don’t seem to figure). Other than increasing the number of hate crimes against trans people there is no purpose to their campaign and, by the law of unintended consequences, could be detrimental to cis-women. I imagine that there are more masculine-looking women (not necessarily lesbian) in the UK than the transwomen who make up less than 0.3% of the population. Even Kathleen Stock, one of the spokespersons of the gender-critical, looks more male than most transwomen. There is also the case in Canada of a young girl being hounded by parents of other children at a school event who suspected she was trans. The girl was taking part in girl’s sports events but was thought to look boyish – she had short hair. Do these gender-critical people want all women to look and dress the same to ensure that their gender is apparent? We’re getting in to Handsmaid’s Tale territory. The majority of people who accept trans and non-binary people for who they are need to take some responsibility in opposing the gender-critical activists before they find their own freedoms questioned.

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Prompted Visions is now available in paperback from Amazon at £5.99 which I think is good value for 42 short stories covering wide areas of sciencefiction and fantasy. I have seen a proof copy and I am pleased with how it looks. No doubt there are errors because it hasn’t been independently edited, formatted or proofread, but frankly I don’t think it could be any worse than some of the products of the big publishers. PV is all SF & F. Now I am working on Other Prompted Visions which will contain the best of the rest of my output – historical, crime, spy, romance, humorous, general fiction and all the mixtures possible.

The topic for this week was “on this day”. The day I chose was 14th June, and the event the story below is based on happened on that date. What do you think?

Albert 

They call me Albert, the tailless ones do. It’s not my name, but then they wouldn’t understand what my fellows call me. I’m not even the only Albert. I knew the other one, Albert 1, for a while.  Our cages were side by side. Occasionally we’d pass pieces of fruit through the bars to each other, and we chattered.

                Albert 1 went a while ago and I’ve been all on my own. Not alone, there’s always the tailless ones, putting their big hairless hands all over me, poking me with sharp, shiny sticks.  One, a female, has visited a few times. They call her King. She held my head and put tape across my face and murmured this and that. Later she brought a thing of leather and metal that she put over my head. It pressed against the fur on my cheeks and covered my mouth and nose. I thought I would suffocate but then cool air blew into my nostrils and I could breathe again.

                The tailless ones have been agitated for a day or two. They’ve given me extra fruit to eat and patted and prodded me more than ever. They talk excitedly as if something is going to happen.

Something is happening! Today, they took me from the cage and put me in a hard and rigid frame that held me tight. I could not move a limb, not even my tail. They put the mask that King brought over my head.

                Now I am enclosed. A dark, container that moves this way and that but I cannot see, or smell or hear where I am going.

                There is silence for a time, and I start to wonder if I am to be left in this darkness.

                But no! There is a great noise, a roaring beneath me and a great shaking. I can feel myself rising, pushed up and up. My bones turn to jelly as the shaking worsens, my heart beats faster than ever. Yet I can breathe, air blows into my face through the mask.

                Up and up we go to I do not where, as I can see nothing. And then… the roaring ceases, the noise and shaking fades away. I feel that I am floating, though it is not like being in a pool of water as the straps still hold me in place. My insides want to come out of my mouth, but the mask covers my face.

                Now, I am falling.  I know that feeling from when I leapt from tree to tree, the air ruffling my fur.  I hear the air now, rushing past the vessel that holds me. It is getting hotter, but still cool air enters my lungs.

                I have gone up and now I am returning. How far did I rise. I do not know. What will happen when I return to the ground? That also, I do not…

Albert II, a rhesus monkey, was the first mammal and primate to reach space on top of a V2 rocket launched from the White Sands Missile Range in New Mexico on 14^th June 1949. The launch was successful, but the capsule’s parachutes failed to open and Albert was killed by the impact with the ground. The mask and harness was designed by Alice King Chatham, a sculptor who also designed the helmets for the Mercury astronauts in the 1960s.  Albert I died on the launchpad.

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PS I will be taking a break from blogging for the next two weeks.

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An Extraordinary Tale

An Extraordinary Tale: A Gnome’s Odyssey has been published and is now available on Kindle and other sites as an e-book. The paperback version will be available soon. It can be ordered from Elsewhen here bit.ly/AnExtraordinaryTale or from

https://books2read.com/AnExtraordinaryTale

It is a wild adventure in which a gnome and his companions pursue a sorceress across worlds, realities and times to recover the magical metal, electrum, stolen from the Fairy Queen and on the way solve a mystery of their universe. On the way it explores identity and memory and inter-racial relations – but is really a bit of fun. It is indeed an extraordinary tale because it arose from an opening sentence prompt from my writing group. One brief episode become more and soon there was a novel.

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The news this week has been sobering and frightening. I refer to the destruction of the dam in Ukraine and the resulting floods covering a huge swathe of the country. It really is an example of the use of a Weapon of Mass Destruction. Not nuclear or chemical or bio but environmental. As well as the huge number of deaths caused by the initial blast and torrent, the long lasting effects of the floodwater on the trapped and displaced population, the environmental damage to a huge area of land and the loss of the hydroelectric power and clean water is as big as if a small nuclear device had been detonated. Like, presumably, most people I cannot see how this has benefited anyone but Russia. The flood has made any offensive by the Ukrainians much more difficult and has rendered a large area that they wished to recapture uninhabitable as well as killing and displacing a large number of their own people. What else is there to say that has not already been said.

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Turning to a matter somewhat closer to home, I have been thinking over the article written Rowan Atkinson in last weekend’s Guardian (or was it the Observer) and probably copied elsewhere. Atkinson describes how he thinks he’s been “duped” by the promise of electric vehicles. I suppose this should, be in my other occasional blog Driving Eve, but it has wider implications so it is here. Atkinson is a well-known petrolhead, using a lot of his wealth to buy rare and expensive supercars. He says he was seduced into purchasing an EV by the promise that they were good for climate change and the environment but now thinks that was a mistake. He cites his early life as a student of electrical engineering (I think) as proof that his current views are correct. I think his comments are more Mr Bean than Edmund Blackadder. Anyone who buys a brand new EV thinking they are saving the planet is fooling themselves. The only way to stop climate change and prevent environmental disaster is to eliminate the human race from the Earth. Nine billion of us use just too much of the Earth’s resources to be sustainable. However cutting out fossil fuels is a start and driving battery electric vehicles is one small step. At the moment I accept that buying a new battery electric vehicle (BEV) only saves a small proportion of the carbon dioxide generated by a similar sized fossil fuel powered internal combustion engine (ICE) vehicle. That is because in the UK nearly half of our electricity is still generated by burning natural gas, although this produces less CO2 than burning coal or fuel oil or petrol or diesel. Similarly, producing the steel that makes up most of the vehicle still involves the use of a lot of coke. Mining, extracting and processing all the other materials (yes, including the lithium and heavy metals used in the batteries) also uses a lot of fossil fuels – at the moment. That is the key. All these steps can become carbon neutral: generating electricity from renewable sources; electrolytic methods of making steel and other metals; powering the factories that make the batteries and all the other bits using renewable sources of energy. It can all be done. Sticking with ICE vehicles means we will never move away from fossil fuels.

The longer I drive our EV the more I see the ICE as representative of C20th technology as the steam engine was of the C19th. There is no difference in the principle of the present day petrol or diesel engine and that invented by Nicolaus Otto and Rudolf Diesel in the late C19th. All those moving parts, the need for lubricating oils and air or water cooling, the poor efficiency, the need for gear boxes and clutches, the complexity of servicing, in addition to the slopping around of several gallons of highly inflammable liquid all seem so primitive and out of date. That and the environmental disasters caused by drilling and extracting oil on land and sea, of transporting it in ships and pipelines, the waste and energy used in refining the crude oil, including burning off a lot of the unwanted gas. Do I need to go on?

Electric motors are much better – smaller, more efficient, simpler, quieter, faster to respond, etc. Lithium batteries are not the final answer but are the best we have at the moment. Perhaps hydrogen fuel cells are an answer for large vehicles but companies like BMW have spent decades developing hydrogen cars and have yet to produce a mass market version. Hydrogen powered ICE vehicles have all the faults of petrol cars but for the production of CO2 and have the added problem caused by carrying and moving hydrogen, which has to be cooled and compressed to make it manageable. As with the story of video recorders, personal computers and smart phones, the products on the market are expensive at first but with further development become cheaper and more user friendly.

Giving up private cars and only using public transport is the most eco way of living. That is why we decided to live in a small town. Nearly everything we need is within walking distance. The EV is used mainly for longer journeys to visit family and friends and to go on holidays and the one or two local journeys we do each week. We are not eco angels by any means but I would not return to an ICE vehicle now even though petrol is artificially cheaper than commercial electric chargers at the moment.

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The theme set at last week’s writing group meeting was “what a pretty dress”. I don’t know why. Anyway, I decided to subvert it somewhat with an SF story. The group liked it this week and noted some of the connections I made in it even though it is really just a bit of fun. Here it is.

High Fashion

“What a pretty dress!” my companion said. They were words I never expected to hear from a Menkalinian as they don’t wear clothes or indulge in any body ornamentation. They look like bumble bees except they are about the size of a large cat.  They have four spindly, jointed legs, two manipulator limbs and two pairs of gossamer-like wings so small that you wouldn’t expect the creature to be able to fly, at least, not in Earth-normal gravity. But then we weren’t on Earth. We were visiting the Galactic Museum of Sentient Civilisation, where gravity varies from one gallery to another.  Anyway, Menkalinians float in dense atmospheres because of the hydrogen sacs in their abdomen. Their gastric system generates the gas as they digest their food, and they expel it when they want to descend. The wings are merely for propulsion.

                That reference to a pretty dress was probably just the Museum’s universal translator being a little lazy with its interpretation of my companion’s leg-scraping exclamation. I was looking at the same display in the Hall of Ceremonies.  All I could see was a mannequin representing the form of a Diphdane covered by a drab brown sack. It covered a barrel-shaped body with three sturdy mollusc-like feet protruding from the bottom. A dozen tentacles with eyes at the tips of all but two emerged from the top through gaps in the sack or “dress”. There was a circular hole in the garment about halfway down the body revealing the Diphdane’s face, well, it’s feeding orifice.

                “It just looks the colour of mud,” I muttered.

                “Ah, I forget,” the Menkalinian said, “You humans cannot see the rich hues of infra-red or the vibrant shades of ultra-violet used in the cloth. It really does have a delightful and fascinating pattern.”

                “No, I can’t,” I said grumpily. In fact, I was missing a lot of the finer points of the displays, thanks to my species’ restricted sensation of the electromagnetic spectrum.  Some of the objects on show were apparently very dramatic when viewed in the microwave or X-ray regions.

                “Is this the exhibit we’ve come to see?” I asked.

                “I believe it is,” the huge bumble bee said and flew right up to the force field enclosing the statue of the Diphdane in the dress. “This was the gown worn by the Grand High Vizier of Diphda when they were inaugurated. It is a tradition that the costume should list all their clan’s possessions in a graphic design.”

The Menkalinian extended its eyestalks to examine the pattern which I could not see. It made a variety of buzzing and scraping sounds as it surveyed the whole surface of the dress.

“Is it there?” I said, beginning to get anxious.

“Hmm. The pattern is extremely complex, sometimes subtle, sometimes bold. The clan is clearly extremely wealthy. Ah, here it is. From the description given and the associated location coordinates, your star system is included in the Grand High Vizier’s holdings.”

“Yes!” I cried and punched the air.  Luckily there were no other visitors to the gallery to tell me to shush. Then I had a thought. “How do we get proof?”

“I am storing the memory of what I have seen with my own eyes,” my companion said. “That can be used as evidence in the Galactic Court of Sentient Beings Rights.”

“Good,” I said feeling relief. “let’s get out of here and get to the court. There’s not much time left.”

The Menkalinian turned from the display and flew to me at head height. “Do not worry human. With this proof of Diphda’s claim on your home system, the Kochabians will be deterred from invading your home.”

“Are you sure about that?” I asked. We had put my trust in the bees. This looked like being humans’ last chance of survival.

“Of course,” it buzzed, “No one wants to upset the Diphdanes even if they are rather careless about their property. The Kochabians will leave you alone and perhaps the Galactic Court will even admit humans as associate members of the union, if you can prove your sentience. After all, you poor, backward beings need all the help you can get.”  

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Prompted Visions

My new anthology of science fiction and fantasy short stories, Prompted Visions, is now available on Amazon as a Kindle e-book, price £1.99 to buy (see below). A paperback version will be available on Amazon soon.

A man finds his comfortable and colourful hometown becomes un familiar.

A group of spaceship captains meet for a bit of a do.

An aurora follower watches a spectacle that changes his life.

These are themes of three of the 42 short stories. That number is a complete accident (like the universe, perhaps). The title means what it says in that each story was written to a prompt provided by my writing group at the time. These can be words, phrases, even whole sentences or objects. The resulting piece is then read out and the other members make comments (positive, of course). That is why these are short, short stories varying from under 500 words to just over a thousand, as any longer would take up to much time. The stories cover all sorts of genres of SF & F and various styles. Each story has a short introduction. The book is ideal for dipping into when you have a few minutes to spare. If you buy and read a copy please write a review.

There will be more news soon and special offers!

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This week there is only one thing you can reasonably expect me to comment on. Yes, it’s that Channel 4 programme, Gender Wars. The title itself is contentious. People get hurt in wars. The last thing anybody who is trans or non-binary or gender questioning wants is for people to be hurt. It is the minorities that get hurt and at 0.5% of the population (according to the 2021 census) trans people are a pretty tiny minority. Nevertheless there are people who seek to deny transmen and transwomen their right to a normal life because they insist that transwomen cannot be women and must be treated as men. The programme set up Kathleen Stock as the proponent of this anti-trans viewpoint with backing from Julie Bindel and a few other unnamed women. A variety of transmen, including Stephen Whittle, transwomen and non-binary persons gave their view. A debate at the Cambridge University Union was central where Prof Stock was invited to propose the motion that there is a right to cause offence.

I thought Stock was a very weak spokesperson. She lost her job at Sussex University for repeatedly saying transwomen were not women and caused a danger to women in women-only spaces such as loos because they were really men. However, she had no evidence to back up her assertion other than falling back on genetics. Women have an XX chromosome, transwomen have XY and that is the end of it. She repeated a statement she put in a blog saying something like “it is as certain that transwomen are men as that grass is green and water is wet”. For a philosopher I thought that was a decidedly weak argument. Philosophers can debate forever what is meant by “green” and “wet”. What kind of green? Yellowy-green or bluey-green? Is everyone’s perception of green the same? What about those with red-green colour-blindness? What does green mean to them? As for wet – is it only water that wets? Not all surfaces can be wetted. Addition of a detergent makes water wetter, and so on.

Stock’s argument became even more suspect when she revealed that when she came out as a lesbian she started to wear more masculine clothes and cut her hair in a masculine style. In fact a glimpse of her in a ladies loo might make you wonder if she indeed was a man. She said that coming out was a great relief but she still feels wholly a woman. She seemed to have no concept of what it meant to come out as trans or non-binary. I am sure there are some men and women who would doubt that lesbians are complete women if they refuse the attentions of a man and do not make babies in the traditional way.

The reason why Stock and Bindel do not want transwomen in women-only areas such as loos and refuges is because they maybe are violent male sex-offenders. They did not provide any evidence suggesting that a transwoman has ever attacked a woman in a loo or a refuge. Here the programme diverted into irrelevance by focussing on the Sarah Everard murder. There is undoubtedly far too much male violence but it is not transwomen or non-binary people who are the perpetrators. Indeed transwomen themselves experience a disproportionate amount of male violence. Tackling the minority of men who are mysogynists and violent to women is one of the great problems of today.

Stock insisted she meant transwomen no harm but gave no suggestions of what the consequences of the law following her wishes would be. Transwomen denied refuge and unable to access female loos would themselves be more likely targets for abuse.

In answer, the various trans and non-binary people mostly said they understood that some people did not understand what being trans or non-binary meant or the long and difficult journey people took to come out and live their lives. They emphasised that even if the Scottish model of self-identification was passed it would not mean men turning into women over night on a whim. They said they just wanted to live their own lives and support women and gay and lesbian people in achieving full equality.

The programme left most if not all the questions unanswered but gave a worryingly large amount of time to someone who has no argument, no understanding and no concept of the discomfort she is causing.

To answer the genetic argument. The presence of a Y chromosome in an embryo does (usually) trigger the formation of penis and testicles, and the baby (usually) grows up to be a man. There are intersex conditions (about 1 in 500 births) with either genetic or congenital hormone causes where the sex of a newborn is indeterminate. I don’t know what condition Caster Semenya was born with but she was brought up as a girl and considers herself a woman. Her condition gave her a masculine skeletal structure and muscle distribution, so she can run fast. The point is that every individual has 23 pairs of chromosomes. Only a few genes on the X and Y chromosomes trigger the development of sexual characteristics. The vast majority of genes are responsible for making us individuals and in particular are responsible for the development of the brain, the most complex organ in the known universe, apparently. Development of the connectome in the brain (the connections between all the neurones) also depends on experience and even the microbiome of our guts. With all that going on do we really want to be defined solely by whether we have testicles or ovaries, a penis or a vagina?

…………………………..

This week’s topic for writing group was “canary”. It could mean the little yellow bird, the islands or even Norwich City FC. I went for the cliché, the canary in the coal mine. I was surprised to learn that it was only in 1896 that J S Haldane suggested the use of birds to warn of carbon monoxide build-up after a disaster in a Welsh coal mine killed dozens of miners. It was 1911 before their presence in coal mines became compulsory. They were used (along with pit ponies) in mines until the 1980s. Anyway, here is my somewhat sentimental take on the subject, Whitedamp!

Whitedamp!

Only the small yellow light of the safety lamp illuminated the darkness.  Since he had first come down the mine, months ago, Owen had been scared of his lamp going out. It hadn’t happened yet. He was alone. He only met the grown men in the team at the beginning and end of shift when they travelled in the cage up and down the shaft. Owen’s job was to open and close the ventilation doors when the ponies came hauling the coal-loaded tubs along the rails. He longed to grow up, to become big and strong and join the men at the coal face. Perhaps in a year he would be strong enough to start loading the tubs.

                Alone. Well, not quite. He had one companion, one he kept close and one he was more attached to than he could have thought possible. A canary. The little yellow bird occupied a small cage during the shift. During the quiet times, when no tubs were approaching, Owen talked to the small bird and received answering cheeps and chirps that hinted at a conversation. They meant nothing but Owen felt reassured.

It was getting towards the end of the shift. Owen was looking forward to getting back to ground level though night would have already fallen. He would release the canary into its larger cage where it could exercise its wings and he could have a bath and eat and sleep.

                He was thinking of the bowl of cawl Mam would set in front of him when there came a low rumble. It was not the rattle of a tub approaching.  This was deeper, longer-lasting, ominous.

                Owen froze, listening. The mine was silent. Gone was the incessant, habitual grumble of fans and the distant crash of pickaxes on the coal face. Something else was missing, the song of the canary.  Owen raised the little cage and held the safety lamp close to it. The lamp seemed brighter, whiter than usual.

                Owen’s mouth dropped open. The canary was not on its little perch. It was lying prone at the bottom of the cage. He had been told what to do if this happened.

                “Whitedamp!” he cried and ran along the level, repeating his call. He’d run a hundred yards before he met the miners emerging from their coalfaces.

                “What is it, boy?” Mr Howell, the foreman said.

                “My canary. It’s fallen off its perch, and I heard a noise.”

                “Which direction?”

                “The downcast. The flow of air has stopped.”

                Mr Howell turned to face the growing crowd of miners pressed together in the narrow tunnel.

                “What Owen tells us suggests we cannot evacuate by our normal route. The canary has given us a warning of increased carbon monoxide in the air. We need to move now, and head for the upcast. Move men.”

                The miners turned and walked at a fast pace along the tunnel. Owen with them. He knew each man was as worried as he was about the effects of the gas. Tasteless, odourless and invisible, the whitedamp was deadly. Men would fall unconscious, unaware that they were being poisoned. Canaries though were many times more sensitive to the gas than men. Owen’s comatose bird had given them warning. Now as he marched, Owen hoped they could get out before the bird died.

It was a walk of a mile before they reached the ventilation shaft and the emergency ladder to the surface. The men started to climb, one after another, hands to the rungs beneath the feet of the man above.

                “Go on lad, you next,” Mr Howell said.

                Owen hooked the canary cage and his lamp to his belt and started to climb. It was long and hard, his arms aching, and his heart pounding. The cage swung and bashed against his thigh, but there was no frightened tweet from the canary.

                At last, twilight appeared above his head and he emerged from the shaft. A man reached down and hauled him on to level ground.

                Owen took no notice of what was happening around him, he didn’t even thank the man. Instead, he lifted the cage up and peered in. The canary was still on the floor of the cage. Owen opened the door and lifted out the little bird. It felt warm but perhaps that was just the feathers. With the bird lying on his hand, he fanned air over it with the other.

                “Come on. Don’t die. Please,” Owen whispered.

                A wing tip twitched. A leg jerked. The beak opened. A feeble chirp emerged.

                “Yes!” Owen cried and held the bird up. It extended its wings and flew from his hand, circled and landed on his shoulder, tweeting and cheeping merrily.

                “Here, lad, I think your bird deserves this.” A man held out a slice of apple.  Owen took it and held it to the canary which pecked at it between chirps.

…………………………………………

Look at the numbers

Percentages have been on my mind a bit this week. I had a statement for a savings account we hold. The interest was at a fixed rate for two years, which is almost up. You can probably guess the interest rate. 0.55%. That was the standard two years ago (OK, we probably could have got more if we’d locked the money away). For the last year though, inflation has been over 10% so our savings are worth a tenth less now then they were when we last had a statement.

There has been a lot of “joy” that inflation has fallen to just under 9%. Of course that is still higher than it has been for most of the last 40 years. Food inflation is running at 20%. I know, because a packet of crumpets has gone up from £1 to £1.25. This time last year was when the energy price rise was really hitting and the cost of living crisis was affecting most people. A lot of fuss was made of the rise in petrol price which almost hit £2 /litre. It has since dropped back to about £1.45 /litre which is the main reason the inflation figure has dropped a bit. That means that over the year petrol prices have gone up around 15%. That is a big jump but nothing like what has happened to the price of electricity at public chargers. Our local chargers went from 25p/kWh in Feb 2022 to 65p/kWh in May 2022, a rise of 260%, and have not shifted since. Everyone’s household energy bills have at least doubled and business has seen even bigger changes.

Meanwhile the Bank of England has been determined to control inflation by increasing the bank rate to almost 5%. Variable mortgage rates have followed this rise. Someone with a £200,000 mortgage or a variable rate will have seen their annual interest payments rise from around £4,000 a year in 2022 to £10,000 a year now, a 250% increase. The BofE has not been very effective, has it.

The government is continuing to try to hold public sector pay increases to around 5%. So everyone in medicine, education, civil and public services is losing more and more every month. Retired people are better off in that we got the 10% “triple lock” rise as that was the inflation rate last September. Of course, because the Chancellor has refused to increase tax allowances for the last couple of years most people have paid tax at 20% on the increase so, in actual fact, we only saw an 8% rise in our net pensions.

Despite the rise in food prices we hear frequent stories of producers going out of business and empty shelves in supermarkets. That means more imports at inflated prices as more go after less.

What is the Tory government response to all this? Fighting amongst themselves over immigration figures (last year the UK population rose by just under 1%) and proposing ever more cruel and expensive ways of stopping migration. Oh, and complaining about being held to account for bullying behaviour, breaking lockdown rules and trying to cheat the speeding fines system, (that is apart from the 10% of MPs who are under investigation for various misdemeanours). But, joy of joys, the IMF says that the UK will probably not be in recession this year but will have growth of about 0.4%. That will have to be our consolation as we find ourselves getting poorer.

This week I sent out a press release announcing the forthcoming publication of An Extraordinary Tale and Prompted Visions and the two library sessions I am doing in July to promote the books (you can see it on my Peter R Ellis: Science Fiction & Fantasy page). Meanwhile, the prompt for this week at writing group, was “brooch”. Conversation had been about how few women wore brooches these days and what a shame it was. I had a thoughts about a particular badge rather than a brooch and the following story ensued. It is a bit of a homage to a certain TV series of the 80s and 90s (not the original in the 60s) so will mean nothing to a some people.

A Symbolic Ornament

The many-tentacled monster loomed over Philip, impervious to the phaser fire from his team.

                He slapped the communicator on his left breast. “Four to beam up. Now!”

                The great open, saliva-dripping maw of the creature was about to engulf him. The surroundings blurred.

                He crouched and staggered but felt the firm level floor of the transport platform beneath his feet. Vision cleared and he saw his three companions at his side, holstering their pistols.

                A voice in his ear said, “The captain will see you on the bridge, Lieutenant.”

“Are you paying attention, Stewart?”

                Philip started at the sound of his name. “Uh, yes, Sir.”  Mr Jones was glaring at him from the front of the class.

                “Well then, look at the board, not out of the window.”

                “Yes, sir.”

                “And remove that pin from your jumper. It’s not school uniform.”

                Philip unclipped the shield-shaped badge from his left breast and put it in his pencil case. It was his most treasured possession. The editor of the fanzine had sent it to him when he had accepted his story for publication. Philip peered at the blackboard trying to make sense of Mr Jones’ spidery chalk marks.

“The Bird of Prey has opened fire, Lieutenant. Shield holding for now.”

                “Return fire with the aft phasers. Taking evasive action.”  Philip’s fingers danced over the control board. The shuttle bucked and rocked, then veered towards the gas giant.

                There was a crash at the rear of the small craft.

“Shields down to twenty percent, sir.” The co-pilot called.

Philip slapped his chest. “We’re under attack from the Romulans. Assistance required.”

The shuttle was surrounded by the opaque air of the planet. The incoming fire ceased but in moments they were rising skipping across the edge of the atmosphere like a spinning stone on a pond. The stars reappeared along with the attacking Romulan warbird. Philip was rocked in his seat by another impact.

“We’ve lost impulse power,” his companion said. The screen showed another craft appearing around the curve of the planet. It launched two photon torpedoes that zipped past the shuttle. The flash of their impact with the bird of prey illuminated the screen. The Romulans turned away and disappeared at warp speed.

Philip touched his chest. “Thank you, captain. I’m afraid you’ll have to come and pick us up.” A tractor beam reached out from the starship and locked onto the shuttle.

“Watch where you’re walking, you little turd.”

                Three boys blocked the path in front of Philip. He hadn’t noticed them in his daydream, but he knew them. He gripped the shoulder straps of his school bag and stood, thinking whether he should turn and run back into school or try to walk around the trio. Neither seemed a clever idea.

                “You’re Stewart, aren’t you?” the boy in the middle said, “You think you can write don’t you.” Philip knew that news of his publication had circulated. He didn’t respond. “Your story was rubbish.”

                “You read it?” It came out before he had a chance to think.

                The middle boy’s cheeks grew redder. “No, of course not. I don’t read stuff by little shits like you.” Philip knew he was lying. Of course, he had read it. Copies of the fanzine had been circulating around the school. The boy took a step closer. “We’re going to show you what we do to pricks like you.”

                A palm thrust against Philip’s shoulder. He staggered backwards, lost his balance, fell. His bag cushioned his landing.

                “What’s going on here.” Mr Jones’ voice was an unexpected relief. “You three, get lost.”

Mr Jones stretched out a hand and hauled Philip to his feet. “I suggest you keep your eyes open, Stewart and keep out of the way of that bunch of louts.”

                “Thank you, sir.” Philip was truly grateful for the rescue.

                “Oh, and by the way.” What was Mr jones going to say next? “Well done with that story. I suppose it’s a shame that a Starfleet communicator brooch doesn’t work in the here and now.”

………………………

Age of Anxiety

In most respects I am enjoying life. I live in a delightful place with the love of my life. We have enough to live on comfortably if not extravagantly despite the high inflation that we see at the moment. I am healthy and enjoy my frequent games of tennis and walks with Lou. Family and friends are generally well and doing OK. Meeting up with them is a pleasure. Most significantly perhaps, I can be my non-binary gender-fluid self and be true to my feelings. That is because I have the support, not just of Lou, but of the friends who live nearby and, more generally, acceptance by members of the public I meet out and about.

Despite all this “comfort” I feel a degree of anxiety. Firstly, it concerns the future, short and long term, of climate change and all its associated issues – extreme weather, biodiversity loss, pollution, food and fresh water shortages, wars and refugee numbers, etc, etc. Secondly (but perhaps related to the first), the political situation in the UK and worldwide. This started to become an issue after 2015 and through all the nonsense of our incompetent, rabid and right wing government my anxiety has increased. The rise of fascist dictatorships and authoritarian governments elsewhere (Russia, eastern Europe, Italy, Turkey, China, perhaps USA after 2024, et al) makes the world situation even more shaky. I worry for our grandchildren’s future and perhaps imminent hardships and discrimination aimed at me and my close family.

After a period lasting decades when minorities became more accepted and discrimination was outlawed it seems that things are changing for the worse. Racism never went away but now it seems acceptable to denigrate and mistreat people of colour if they are refugees or asylum seekers or poor. Even those who assisted us in the past, such as Afghans, are now seen as undesirables. Members of the Windrush generation and their descendants are apparently viewed as second class citizens by the Home Office. It amazes me that some of the most anti-immigrant cabinet members arethose who are second generation British citizens – Braverman, Patel, Badenoch, Sunak, et al.

Perhaps members of ethnic minorities have not seen a change in the tide of racism. Certainly those in the LGBTQ+ community, especially in the USA, must have, and are experiencing increased, government sponsored discrimination. Trans people are feeling the greatest wave of resentment from republican idealogues in the USA.

It is four years since I was asked whether I thought we had reached peak acceptance of trans people. Then, there seemed to be a general feeling that trans people were becoming accepted as a normal part of society alongside gays and lesbians. However, I replied that I thought we may have passed the peak as there were worrying signs. Already, there were multiple cases of “gender critical” spokespersons targeting trans people. The situation has got much worse.

In the USA certain states have moved on from banning drag acts, to preventing treatment for trans minors, to starting to legislate against established adult transwomen and transmen as well as legalising bigotry. In the UK, the culture wars, the war against “woke”, and the gender critics are all targeting transpeople. It is strange that the people who claim they have been “cancelled” are the ones making all the noise and have plenty of opportunities to spread their lies. They attempt to associate abhorrent behaviours (such as paedophilia, sexual predation, et al) with transpeople when they exist predominantly and in far greater numbers in the male community. They deny that sixteen year olds can think for themselves and they want to reel back the rights of people to live legally in the gender they identify as.

These attacks on trans and non-binary people haven’t touched me and perhaps are restricted to the media and traditional sites of political unrest such as universities, but they worry me. I fear that I will be jolted out of my comfortable existence and have to join my fellows in declaring our right to be ourselves – that is all we want.

The launch of An Extraordinary Tale is coming along. The e-book will be published by Elsewhen in June with the paperback available from 10th July. I have organised two promotional sessions – more on those soon. However there is more. I will also be launching my anthology of SF&F stories on Kindle and as an Amazon paperback in July. It’s called Prompted Visions, because each story has been written to a prompt provided by the writing groups I have belonged to in the last decade or so.

The theme this week at writing group was “power”. That would seem to present lots of opportunities for an SF&F writer. Perhaps I was overwhelmed by a surfeit of possible settings but I found it difficult to develop a single idea. It may have been because there were other things happening. What stuck in my mind was the ad slogan and jingle “I’ve got the power” although I could not recall what it was promoting. Anyway I finally came up with the story below, which I don’t think is at all original.

I’ve got the Power

I’ve got a super-power. I didn’t know I had it for a long time, but I’ve had it all my life – no bite from radioactive spiders or a bath in a mutagenic liquid required. I’m invisible. I don’t mean that light actually passes straight through me. It’s just that people don’t see me. I suppose perceptive invisibility is a better name for it.

                Now I look back, I can see that it started when I was little. I experienced it first in school. It didn’t matter who the teacher was but no matter how many times I put my hand up I was never asked for my answer or my contribution. It was annoying when I had something original to say. Someone else said it instead. It was just as if I wasn’t there. Invisible.

                Later, I noticed the same effect when I was in a restaurant or at a bar, or queuing for a coffee or a ticket. Everyone around me was asked for their order before I got a chance. Even if I were at the front of the queue, the person behind me would be asked before I was. I really had to make a song and dance to get noticed and it’s not because I’m small. I’m not.

                Of course, it made life difficult. I never had a boyfriend. The men looked through me seeking out the girls that impacted on their senses and their pricks. Even when I went speed dating, the guy sitting in front of me was gazing around examining all the other talent instead of focussing on me.

                The same thing happened when I went for job interviews. The interviewer forgot he’d ever met me. I ended up working from home doing online work. People couldn’t ignore my emails.

                As I got older, all these instances of seeming to be invisible began to have an effect on me. Whereas, I had just shrugged them off in my younger days, now they rankled, and I started to wonder what was happening. I experimented by joining groups of people at a bar or in a queue, watching what was going on in the people around me. I noticed their eyes seemed to unfocus when they fell on me. I varied my appearance, choosing clothes of distinctive styles and colours, changing my hair style and make-up. Nothing had any effect. It was me that was ignored, not my clothes.

                I began to take advantage of my “gift”. I became a pickpocket and shoplifter. People took no notice when I brushed passed them and lifted their wallet or purse from a pocket or handbag. Shop assistants looked away as I pocketed their wares from shelves. I didn’t keep the stuff I stole. I usually secreted them back onto the owner’s person and dropped stuff into shopping trolleys. Nevertheless, I was honing my skill of being unseen.

Without a partner to share the rent or purchase of a place to live I still lived with my mother. She was widowed and ignored me too. She was quite well off and as she grew older, I became her carer, but she would not allow me to look after her money. She acquired a financial advisor, a man called Clive. He was soon visiting frequently, suggesting all sorts of ways she could invest her savings. I could see that my mother was going to be cheated but nothing I said to her made her change her mind. I decided I had to act.

                Clive paid me no attention of course. He barely saw me even when I answered the door to him. But I knew what he was up to, and I knew what I had to do.

                He worked out of an office in the centre of the city. One day I hung around the building until he emerged. I followed him as he headed to the subway to the metro. I was just a couple of paces behind him but there were other people all around, ignoring me. I waited till Clive was at the top step. At just the right moment I gave him a shove. He tumbled down the long flight. The crowd of people seemed to part as he fell.  I saw his head bash on the steps and blood spurt. I withdrew into the crowd and gazed down the stairwell.

                No-one took the slightest notice of me as the cry went up at the “accident.” I went home and made tea for my mother. A few days later she told me she’d heard from the finance company that Clive was dead and that they had discovered that he had been defrauding her. No one ever contacted me about Clive’s fate. I am wondering what else I can do with my super-power.                     

…………………………..

Who’s a republican now?

One effect of last week’s coronation seems to have been to publicise the republican or anti-monarchy movement. That cause has been helped by the moronic actions of the Tory government and of their puppets the Met police.

The government rushed through the new public order laws in the days before the coronation and then pushed (although they say they didn’t) the police to apply them to campaigners at the coronation parade and make arrests even before the protest began. The effect was to turn a small, peaceful and inconsequential protest (previously discussed with and approved by the police) into a main news item for days and call into question the responsibilities and actions of the police. I am sure everyone knows now that if you carry a luggage strap or a bicycle lock or a tube of glue (Pritt is probably allowed) you can be arrested for planning to lock or stick yourself somewhere. The purpose of the legislation is to get people off the streets before they even commence a protest. They will probably be released later in the day with no charges because of course there is no evidence that such a person intended to cause a disturbance. Nevertheless the government intends to wipe out all actions showing dissent whether it is anti-monarchist, for action on climate change, against government foreign policy or whatever. We are in the time of Minority Report and pre-crime. The government want the police to arrest you even if you think of causing a disturbance.

The police always say they are independent of the government. When I did voluntary advice work with the police I was told that the principle of policing is to prevent harm to people and property. That sounds all nice and cuddly doesn’t it – the police are our friends and will help us out and stop the nasty people from hurting us or stealing our stuff. Perhaps most of the time that is what police officers see as their job. However, there is a question – what is “harm”. It is defined by the laws that the government passes and increasingly the laws are intended to prevent that harm taking place and not to provide a deterrent to those that may cause it. Thus we have the new public order laws which define harm as being inconvenience such as loud noise (chanting and loud hailers) or slowing down traffic (blocking particular roads). Other human rights such as the right to show dissent are downgraded or even dismissed completely.

The police are caught between their duty to the public and their duty to enforce the laws the government passes. There have been numerous occasions when the police have sided with the latter resulting in harm being done to members of the public such as during the miner’s strike of 1984-85, the poll tax riots of 1990 (?), the infiltration of left wing groups, and now the imprisonment of people with legitimate grievances.

I stand by my piece of last week and do not support the out and out republicans, nevertheless I support their right to state their case in public. I am anti-government. This bunch of Tories are wicked, haters of everyone not in their small closed circle. I cannot understand why ordinary people i.e. non-millionaires, continue to give them any support at all. However the failure of the Labour party to raise the farce of Brexit, to really push the government on climate change, or shout out their disapproval of the new crime and public order laws is a huge disappointment.

…………………………

The publication of An Extraordinary Tale is getting close. The book is now formatted and ready for uploading to e-book platforms and to go to the printer. Here is the blurb which will go on the back cover.

A gnome, a mouse and a skeleton meet on a train

The Fairy Queen’s electrum, the most valuable material in the world, has been stolen. By chance, Philbrach Hohenheim, a gnome, finds himself on the trail of the thief. A motley fellowship is formed between the gnome and other creatures. The pursuit crosses lands, times and realities until finally a major puzzle at the borders of the world is solved. On the way, the gnome encounters, giant pigeons, a sentient fungus, a seafaring merman, the Sun’s chariot driver and other helps and hindrances.

What with doing the final read through of An Extraordinary Tale, and editing and formatting my anthology of SF&F (more on that soon) there wasn’t much time for new writing this week. The theme was, of course, “coronation”. Here is my very short response that is based on my thoughts while watching the ceremony.

The head which bears the crown

The King sits on his throne, clothed in rich and weighty fabrics of silk and gold thread. The bejewelled, gold crown pressing heavily on his head. The orb rests in his right hand while he grips the sceptre in his left.  He dare not move his head and cannot even scratch his nose. Is this what he has been waiting for? Is this the fulfilment of his destiny?

            Destiny. That for which he has been born and educated.  You can breed racehorses to run fast and train them to relish the race. You can breed collies to round up sheep and they will run all day for a stroke and a pat on the head. Is it all about the DNA? Can a man, or woman, result from generations of breeding to sit on a throne but make no proclamations of any significance? Can they be coached for a lifetime to wear the crown yet wield no power? What kind of king is such a person as this?

            For a few moments, as the music plays, the King is lost in thought. He would so much like to be in a meadow filled with wildflowers and bees and butterflies, or wandering in a wood with trees draped with moss and ferns, or striding across a fell with grouse and deer amongst the heather and grasses.

            Oh, to be there now, he thinks, transported to the place of his dreams by some instrument of powerful magic. Surely amongst all this regalia there is something – the crown of his illustrious forebears, an orb of this, a sceptre or stick of that, a sword endowed with a magnificent name, a ring, a bracelet or maybe, spurs, could spirit him away. But no, despite their grand names and ancient craftsmanship, their noble metals and precious stones, they resolutely refuse to respond to his command, their symbolism as useless as the blades are dull.

            That is indeed the truth of this whole farrago; a jumble of symbols and oaths that once held relevance and meaning but now just provide a show.

            He allows himself a brief sigh, signifying acceptance. Soon it will be over, the crown removed, the regalia returned to the display cabinets, and disrobed, he can rub his neck and have a pee.

…………………….

Swear allegiance? No way.

During my life, royal occasions have largely been weddings plus the jubilees, Charles’ investiture as Prince of Wales and a few funerals including of course, last September’s sending off of QE2. I was alive for the last coronation but as I was just three months old have no memory of it. Today’s coronation of King Charles III is thus a unique experience. The UK, or perhaps one should say, England, has a reputation for putting on some good ceremonials. Whether the cost of the coronation will be recovered by increased tourism or other businesses, I don’t know, but there will certainly be a lot of interest at home and abroad. I will no doubt watch some and will enjoy the spectacle, particularly the music in the Abbey (Handel’s Coronation anthem(s), Parry’s I Was Glad, et al). But what do I think of the significance of the whole affair?

I find very few issues are black and white/right and wrong. There’s always a greyness that causes me to totter on both sides of the scales. The monarchy is a classic case. In a democracy there is no case for a monarch and royalty. There. Full Stop. But history has placed this family at the top of the class pyramid in the UK (as is the case in many countries around the world). The King and his family have great wealth and are fawned over by many. Yet they perform a huge number of ceremonial duties to which diplomatic and trade negotiations are attached which presumably would occur even if the royal family ceased to exist. I have no idea whether the country gets its money’s worth from the royals but would concede that they seem to work pretty hard – at least the senior ones do.

What is the life of a royal, particularly the King, really like? I wonder how many people would really be content for their lives to be organised day after day, hour by hour, with body guards, servants and secretaries always within hailing distance. In fact I can see a case for child abuse at the way the young princes and princesses are brought up and pressed into the family business.

The one thing that stops me becoming a republican and ditching the King and his brood is what would replace them. It seems we would have to have an elected head of state who performs all the ceremonial functions of the King. That would either be a non-entity such as they have in Eire, or Israel, with little or no power or charisma, or a President who is head of the government. As time has passed, the UK Prime Minister has become more presidential and parliament reduced to a pack of baying hounds or snorting swine but the thought of a figure like George W Bush or Trump living it up in Buck House having been voted in by the British public is just one nightmare too many. Better to have a PM with somewhat limited powers and a ceremonial monarch than an elected megalomaniac.

So, I wish King Charles III well and hope for a peaceful and popular reign and perhaps in my lifetime I’ll see the crowning of King William V. But swear allegiance? No way.

I give my loyalty to organisations that I feel part of and that I think are doing good. I do not give my allegiance unquestionably or in perpetuity. For most of my life I have felt British. I felt that I shared the British values held by the majority of the population of these isles. However, since 2016, that belief has been shattered. I now know that a majority of the adults who can be bothered to vote did not share my views on Europe, on helping refugees, or respecting every person’s right to a life. For the last seven years I have seen the UK government lurch ever further to the right, destroying the economy in the process, besmirching respected establishments such as the NHS, education, and the civil service, and attacking vulnerable minorities such as refugees and transpeople. In as much as the UK government in Westminster supposedly represents British people then I will no longer claim to be British.

I do feel Welsh although I do not support nationalism when it becomes exclusive and extreme. Therefore I cannot and will not swear allegiance to a figurehead that represents a government and a nation that I do not feel part of .

Nevertheless, let’s enjoy the pomp and pageantry, the company of friends, and hope for a better future.

At the Abergavenny Writing Festival a few weeks ago.

This week was spent doing the final (I hope) edits and proofs of An Extraordinary Tale. Things are moving on swiftly. I did find a little time for original writing. The theme for writing group this week was “purpose”. I couldn’t resist a couple of cheesy puns so here is “A Mission with Intent”.

A Mission with Intent

I hitched my knapsack over my shoulder and took up my stick. I whistled and the cat came running from the bushes. It curled around my legs, its throaty rattle expressing its pleasure, or so I presumed. I stretched my arm down so my fingers could caress her soft fur.

“Well, Purrpuss,” I said. “It’s time to set off on the last stage of our mission, the end of our quest and hopefully the solution to the problem we were set.”

The sun was shining as we set off, and we walked through the warm spring day.  Purrpuss largely walked at my side, occasionally dashing off to investigate some interesting scent. We saw few people as we walked the paths and trails to the coast. Those that we did meet expressed surprise that I should be accompanied by my feline friend.

I replied. “I always have Purrpuss. My life would be very different without such a companion.”

We reached our destination before the sun set. It was a deep natural harbour surrounded by tall cliffs. There was just one narrow path down which I took with care, watching my every step. Purrpuss, of course, scampered ahead.  I paused as we descended to gaze into the deep blue waters. Could I see the reason for our journey. Was it really there in the water? I fancied there were ripples in addition to the waves, hinting at a presence beneath the surface.

            We reached the shore as the sun began to kiss the horizon. Without hesitation, I dropped my bag and stick and pulled off my boots and socks. I advanced to the lapping waters while Purrpuss remained resolutely out of the waves’ reach.

            I waded in up to my knees and called out. “We are here. We have questions that require answers, a problem that needs a solution.”

            My voice echoed off the cliffs, but the water remained calm. Even the ripples of the waves seemed to halt. For a heartbeat there was silence.

            The surface of the water was broken by a leaping creature. The surge of water  soaked me to the waist. The creature soared into the air, rotated, and dived back into the depths. A moment later a fin broke the surface approaching me at speed. A shark? A dolphin? Neither.

            The creature stopped a few feet from me and its beak like face appeared.

            I took in a breath and hailed it.  “Good day, we have travelled far to seek you, Porpoise, to request your help.”

            A grin creased the creature’s face. “What assistance do you require?” The porpoise said.

            “You have great wisdom and are renowned for the advice that you provide,” I said.

            “That is indeed why I am here,” the porpoise replied. “State your enquiry.”

            I paused, composing the words in my head. “We come, I and my Purrpuss, I find the answer to the question, what is the meaning of life? Why are we here?”

            The porpoise dived under the water and circled for a few seconds. Then its head reappeared.

            “That is not a question that I or any single being can answer,” it said. “To give meaning to your existence you must find your own goal, your own destination on your road of life.”

            I was confused because I had expected some certainty from the porpoise.

            “What is your goal, Porpoise?” I said.

            “To catch tasty, succulent fish, and master my somersault in the air,” the porpoise replied and then it was gone, beneath the surface of the sea.

            I turned to my cat sitting at the waters’ edge and called, “Well, Purrpuss, seeking the porpoise has been our purpose but what we do now I do not know.”

…………………..

The Big Reveal

It is time to reveal the cover of my new fantasy novel. An Extraordinary Tale: A Gnome’s Odyssey will not be unfamiliar to regular readers of this blog as I have posted excerpts of draft versions. The book is being published by Elsewhen Press who also published my September Weekes fantasy novels Evil Above the Stars (trilogy) and Cold Fire.

I am delighted with the cover, designed by Alison Buck at Elsewhen. It captures a moment in the frenetic quest of the gnome, Philobrach Hohenheim and his companions as they try to recover the Fairy Queen’s electrum stolen by the powerful sorceress. It is intended as an exciting, fun story, full of wacky ideas and madcap adventures featuring a non-human cast. It is not based on any myths or legends but the characters travel across worlds, through different realities and times and experience different lives.

The e-book should be available on Kindle and other platforms in June with the paperback available in July available from Elsewhen or from me. Prices have not been confirmed yet.

There will be more information soon and news of launch events.

Now I must get on with the sequel, The Mage Returns...

What else has been rattling around inside my brain this week? Nothing in particular really. Last week’s despondency about the state of the planet has continued. I had to go out a couple of times this week during the morning rush hour (one of the rewards of retirement is to avoid that). I was horrified by the queues of cars, most with one occupant, engines running, spewing out fumes as they made their slow progress through our small town. It just confirmed to me that we have little or no chance of saving the planet or indeed ourselves.

That last sentiment was reinforced by what is going on in Sudan. It may seem like an unimportant country a long way away, but someone or something is urging on the rivalry and deathwish of the two warring armies. It is already causing a mass emigration, initially by foreign nationals from the capital, but Sudanese will also be trying to get to places they consider safer. As Sudan is in an area which will become progressivly less inhabitable as temperatures rise, this is just another foretaste of what is to come.

Of course, another crisis, another opportunity for the Tory government to display its incompetence. It was noted that there are (or were) more British subjects in Sudan than those of other countries such as France, Germany and Italy. One would have thought that that meant that the UK had more resources available to assist its citizens (it was stated that Sudan was a former British colony). That doesn’t seem to have been the case going by the scenes of chaos at the airport, the port and the borders. Also, despite it being said that there were 4,000 British national in Sudan apparently only a proportion of them have passports and families and children will be left behind. So much for the UK’s influence in world affairs.

Meanwhile PM Sunak, can only go on muttering about maths for all and making provocative comments about trans people (I didn’t read what he actually said at Wednesday’s PMQs, but I think I can guess). No matter, we have the Bank of England’s confirmation that we are all poorer than we were. Well, probably not all; there will always be a few who make a profit out of other people’s hardships.

I almost can’t bear to follow what is going on in the USA and elsewhere. The last hope for democracy in the states seems to be a doddery 81 year old, while his chief rival remains a vicious, if bonkers, megalomaniac facing multiple court cases. While we look forward to the next presidential election (?!), Republican states are enacting ever more fascist laws while denying their opponents access to the state legislatures.

One bit of good news – it looks as though Cardiff City have saved their place in the Championship.

………………..

This week, I have had little time to write as I have been occupied with the second (final) edit of An Extraordinary Tale. Here therefore is another piece from a few years ago. It was inspired by an article describing the abandoned fishing boats on the Aral Sea. This inland sea has shrunk disastrously due to changes to the river flows and of course climate change.

There was a boat

There was a boat that rested, listing, on a shore that had not experienced the kiss of waves for a generation. Yuri entered through the jagged hole made to remove the diesel engine and all the metal fittings. He stretched his young legs to clamber up the lopsided wooden ladder. Sunlight made jagged stripes on his face and body as it streamed through the gaps in the wind-shrunken timbers. The boat would no longer float if the sea returned, not that that was likely to occur. Yuri reached the narrow bridge, held himself upright by hanging on to the wheel and looked out of the dirt-covered, cracked window. The barren sea-bed stretched to meet the brown sky at the distant horizon. Yuri was alone with his boat.  Alone with his thoughts and memories.

Yuri’s father had seen the approaching vehicles shrouded in their clouds of dust and exhaust fumes. He had sent Yuri to his hiding place above the ceiling of their shack. There Yuri peered through the gaps in the boards. He saw the battered four-by-four pickups draw up around their little house and the bearded men with the guns and blades get out. They crowded into the one room and demanded things of his father. Things he did not have. Yuri didn’t recognise the men but they had been before. Last time they had taken his mother in exchange for his father’s life, taken her Yuri did not know where. Now he lay on the boards listening to his father argue and plead. The men shouted and then his father had made one last sound; a brief shriek that cut off abruptly.

There was more noise as the men smashed up the hut with the butts of their guns, then they left, laughing and hailing a god Yuri did not know. Their vehicle engines spluttered into life and they were gone.  Yuri waited just in case the men returned but after many minutes of silence except for the whispering wind, he crept from his hiding place.

Yuri’s father was sprawled on the floor, the blood from his almost severed neck soaking into the earth. His guts spread across floor, stinking, already attracting buzzing flies. Yuri took a single glance and left the home he had shared with his father, mother, baby sister and grandfather. They were all gone now. He was alone. He went to the only other place he knew – the boat.

The sun turned red and bloated and sank below the featureless horizon. Yuri remained standing watching. The sky darkened and the stars came out, so many stars that Yuri couldn’t comprehend their number. Though the long-dried out, wind-scoured bed of the former sea was as dark as dark could be, the sky was bright with the stars.

Yuri gripped the wheel and turned it to port and starboard. He was sailing, not the fish-filled waters that the boat had navigated with his grandfather at the wheel, but the heavens, like the cosmonaut who he was named for who had died decades before he was born. In his boat of dreams Yuri soared among the stars and planets, visiting places where there were foods and drinks he had heard about but never tasted, seeing animals and plants that he was told existed away from the poisoned shores of the dried-up sea, and meeting his father and mother and sister and relatives and friends that once had inhabited the shore which was home. Upon the starry main, he found peace and happiness.

The boat remained at its mooring. Its keel broken as it slumped into the dust. Its timbers crumbled and the atoms of the wood and of Yuri mingled and were sucked into the air. At last, Yuri sailed away on the wind that blew across the waterless sea.

…………………………………

Apocalypse soon?

This week we watched the “banned” episode 6 of the BBC series “Wild Isles” narrated by David Attenborough. It is available on i-player but wasn’t broadcast alongside the other five episodes. The story was that the episode was too controversial and with the BBC so scared of being accused of bias by the Tory government they felt it would cause too much bother. The episode does indeed look at the major problems that the UK has with biodiversity loss on land and in the seas. Like the other episodes it has superb photography but actually includes people talking about the problems and, crucially, measures that have been taken that if adopted more widely would alleviate the disaster that faces us. There is no direct criticism of the government and places no blame on any business in particular. So, the question remains – why wasn’t it broadcast?

Wild Isles did illustrate the huge variety of habitats and organisms that inhabit these islands and the seas around them and Attenborough did not hold back from stating that they are all under threat from climate change, pollution, habitat loss et al. We are indeed facing an apocalypse.

I have also been reading Sarn Helen, a book by Tom Bullough (pub. Granta). It has three interwoven strands. The first is the journey the author has taken walking Sarn Helen in stages. It is a Roman road or trail from Neath in South Wales to Conway in the north. During his travels, Bullough discusses the origins of the Welsh and their future as a distinct nationality. The future itself is the third strand, particularly how climate change and everything associated with it will affect the land and the people he meets. Bullough is a climate change activist, a member of Extinction Rebellion who has been convicted by the current government’s anti-protest laws for disrupting traffic. He makes it quite clear where we are headed as a result of climate change and the Tory government’s steadfast resolve to do nothing despite their talk of a climate emergency, net zero and so on. His conclusions – 2 degrees rise in temperature by 2050, perhaps 4 by 2100, causing 1.5 billion people to be displaced from tropical areas which have become unliveable in; food shortages due to the collapse of agriculture caused by changing weather patterns, crop diseases, soil loss, etc; increased storm damage and coastal flooding; droughts; and so on.

I read New Scientist every week and in every issue there is something or other about the impending apocalypse. In the latest edition (15 April) it is the extinction of microorganisms (bacteria, fungi, protista) which are vital to plant health and food chains.

To put it bluntly we, or rather our grandchildren, are screwed. The current cost of living crisis (food inflation at 19%) is just one more step along the way, whatever the announced reasons for it (Faisal Islam gave a very confused and incomprehensible explanation on the BBC news on Wednesday evening). Yet, people (us included) go blithely on, living our lives, looking for pleasure and peace of mind. Most people, I am sure, think that things will ultimately just turn out for the best, that life will go on. After all, history suggests that things can only get better. The problem is that history is blinkered. We look at the peaks of success of civilisations and not their collapse (whatever happened to the Hittites?). We read about how dreadful the Black Death must have been but we descended from the survivors. How many survivors will there be from the Climate Change/Extinction/Pollution Apocalypse?

The things is that there are things we could do, even now, to mitigate the worst effects of global warming, as Attenborough describes in Wild Isles #6. Unfortunately, it requires an understanding and a determination to act by most, if not all, governments and a large proportion of the population, particularly of the prosperous countries. I don’t see that happening. Accidental changes such as the adoption of renewal energy sources (wind and solar), and a move to regenerative farming (less use of fertiliser), as is happening, may decrease the rate of rise of carbon dioxide and slow down climate change, but I cannot see the lives of our grandchildren being more comfortable than ours have been.

I can’t decide what the end of our civilisation will be. I don’t think it will be a slow but peaceful slide into decay. Unrest is bound to increase as food prices continue to rise, shortages occur, yet more refugees seek somewhere better than they have left behind. More wars will be fought on the flimsiest of excuses but driven by climate change. We may yet be wiped out by a nuclear holocaust. COVID gave us a taste of a pandemic; there will be others, perhaps more lethal or just as debilitating.

Let’s just rearrange the deckchairs one more time.

Having carried over last week’s writing group task (“don’t touch my cones”) to this week, I don’t have a new piece of writing. In fact I have written nothing new. However, I have been editing the many short stories that I have written over the years for writing groups into a second (nonSF) anthology which may or may not get published. So here as a taster, is a story I wrote quite a long time ago and which I don’t think I have put on the blog before.

(Symonds) Yat Rock from the river Wye

Job Swap

I was perfectly happy in my little office, typing letters, filing records and working with the other girls. There was always so many important things to discuss – men, men, cosmetics, and men. We wore the company uniform as stipulated by the, male, bosses of high heels, sheer tights, short skirts and thin blouses – the heat in the offices meant that even wearing a cardigan was enough to make one perspire. There were frequent toilet breaks to repair the lipstick washed off by the tea and to continue the gossip with Marjorie or Caroline. Oh, yes, I liked that job.

                And then the company went broke. I can’t imagine why, but I was out of a job and signing on and making daily visits to the job centre to see what was available. The answer was nothing, until that day.

I sat down to speak to the employment advisor. I expected the usual, “Sorry, there’s nothing for you, today, Fiona,” but instead he looked over his glasses perched on the end of his nose and said, “Ah, Fiona, something has just come in which might suit you.” I expected him to say that he’d matched my experience and skills with typewriter and filing cabinet to a vacancy at one of the many companies or public service offices in the town.  Instead he said “The Fire Brigade are recruiting.”

                My first thought was that his glasses had steamed up and he had confused my blurred outline with some muscly young man, or perhaps he was just plain mad. Being polite I replied “That’s nice for them, now what have you go for me?”  He looked straight at me. His glasses appeared crystal clear and there was no sign of foam emerging from his mouth.

“It is for you,” he said, “they’re recruiting women now. You know all part of the equality thing. They really do want a woman to apply.” He went on, “You’re tall enough and um, you look strong enough…” Well, I nearly leapt across the desk and thumped him at that point. In fact a look of fear did momentarily pass across his face. He flustered and said something about me appearing to be fit and added that there would be a test and trial training period and so on during which I would be paid.

I refrained from running screaming and laughing from the office and gave his suggestion some thought. The first thing was that I really needed a job. The redundancy payment hadn’t gone far and the unemployment benefit was not going allow me to live the life to which I had become accustomed. The Fire Brigade salary, on the other hand, was quite generous.  Then pictures of fit young men grasping their hoses came into my mind.  Perhaps it could be quite fun being one of a few women amongst a crowd of fit blokes. Perhaps I could hold their hose for them. I said yes.

The Fire Officer was obviously quite a bit older than me and had grey flecks in his short dark hair. His stomach showed no hint of a paunch but there were definitely bulges in his arms where most people don’t have bulges. Rather different to the specimens that claimed to be men that I was used to in the office. He looked me up and down from my stilettoes to my permed waves and opened his mouth to say something before thinking better of it.

                “Right!” he said as if steeling himself for a challenge. “Let’s get you kitted out.”  I followed him into a room filled with items of firemen’s kit. Very soon I was laden with boots and trousers and jackets and helmet. Then he led me to a door marked Women’s Changing Room. The sign looked new and when he pushed the door open I realised why. I presumed it had formally done satisfactory service as a broom cupboard. There was one hook on the wall and room for one plastic chair, and me. At least I wasn’t expected to change my clothing in the company of the men.

                When I had put the clothes on I wasn’t me. I wouldn’t have recognised myself in a mirror and my mother certainly wouldn’t have done. I had on thick-soled steel-capped boots, heavy-duty waterproof trousers, a padded anorak over a T-shirt and a helmet which seemed to press my head down into my shoulders. I waddled from my cubby-hole dragging one foot in front of the other. The uniform felt like one of those gorilla outfits that had to be commanded to bend and move unlike normal clothes which didn’t need telling.

                The officer had obviously been waiting for my appearance. His face showed no expression as he told me to follow him to the empty hanger-like space where the fire engines were normally parked.

                “OK, let’s make a start. Take that sack to the other side.” He said pointing to a small hessian bag leaning against the wall. I wondered why he couldn’t do it himself but decided that at this stage in my fire service career I should probably do as I was told. I bent over to pick the bag up.

                “Not like that,” he shouted. I froze, “bend your legs unless you want to spend the next few weeks flat on your back in bed.” Actually that wasn’t an unattractive thought and I had a brief image of a fit fireman by my side, but I gathered he meant that lying flat would be all I could do if my back was crocked. I placed my feet apart and squatted as if about to take a pee, which I hoped wouldn’t happen. I took a grip on the top of the bag with both hands and pulled. Nothing happened. Was it stuck to the floor? No, it was full of sand. Now, I had spent happy hours on a beach in my childhood filling buckets with sand but this bag was filled to bursting with the heaviest sand I’d come across. I tried again, tensing muscles in my arms and shoulders that I never knew I had. The bag lifted an inch or two.

                “Come on, get on with it!” he encouraged, “think of it as a baby you have to get out of a burning room.” If any baby weighed as much as this sack of sand I’d have a lot of sympathy for the poor wretch who had carried it for nine months. I thought of commenting but changed my mind and had another go. The bag slowly rose and I straightened my legs.

                “That’s it. Now get it to the other side as quickly as you can.”  He said. Did I run? No. Did I march? No. I staggered the fifty feet or so to the other side of the station with my arms getting longer and longer with each faltering step; at least they felt as if they were. The opposite wall seemed to recede as I moved towards it but finally I reached it and dropped the sack with my heart thumping and air wheezing in and out of my lungs.

                “Good,” he said, “Come outside.” He led me into the yard behind the station where the engines were being washed. There was a brick tower with window holes but no windows and a long ladder leaning against it.

                “Up you go,” he said, nodding his head at the ladder.

                “Don’t I get a safety harness,” I said innocently.

                “Nope,” he replied. I looked up the ladder which seemed to go on and on up into the sky. Well, of course, firemen climb ladders to rescue damsels in distress. I just didn’t think it would be me doing the rescuing.  I gripped the two sides of the ladder with my hands and placed a foot on the bottom rung. Vibrations passed up and down. Was it me shaking or was it the ladder itself that had been set in motion. I started to climb with my grip firm and a foot placed securely on each step before I moved the other. I glanced at the receding ground.

                “Don’t look down,” he called out, “Just look for your next step.” I did as I was told, placing one foot after the other, the brick wall in front of my eyes. Suddenly my hands reached the top of the ladder and I looked into the dusty, concrete floor of the tower. I’d made it.

                The fire officer’s voce came up to me from the distant ground. “Get off and come down the stairs inside the tower.”  My hands froze. How could I release the comforting rigidity of the ladder and grope across the gap into the tower? Well, friends, I did it and hurried down the stairs to the safety of the solid ground. The Officer was waiting at the entrance.

                “Well done. You can start your training.”  I barely understood what he was saying. I was going to be a firewoman.

……………………………..

An honourable trade?

Ever since the Black Lives Matter protests and the dumping in Bristol dock of the statue of Colston, the subject of the slave trade has had greater attention. I have read that one or two families who have or did own plantations in the Caribbean have made token gestures of reparations. For the last month The Guardian has published a lot of material on its connection with the slave trade. To provide a little bit of context, The Guardian newspaper was founded in Manchester shortly after the Peterloo riot and massacre. It was meant to provide a mouthpiece for the opponents of the government (it, of course, had The Times). The Guardian founders were wealthy Manchester businessmen. Manchester was the cotton capital, Cottonopolis. Cotton came from the Caribbean and the mainland of north and south America where, no surprise, it was grown on estates which used slaves. At least one of the founders actually owned a plantation with slaves, but all traded with the owners of slaves. The Guardian makes out that people have forgotten this connection between Manchester and the slave trade or have the quaint idea that when the UK banned the trade in slaves themselves in 1807, it stopped importing the products of slave labour.

In fact, throughout the period when the British Empire was the dominant force across the world and British industry was making vast sums of money for owners and shareholders, much of the raw materials – cotton, sugar, tobacco, rubber, was being purchased from producers that used slaves. Manchester businessmen even supported the Confederates in the American Civil War so that they could keep trading in the slave cotton.

Thus, my favourite newspaper is printed with the blood of slaves.

King Charles has also authorised an investigation of the royal family’s involvement in the slave trade. How much investigation is needed! If the crown represents the country then it is steeped in the proceeds of the slave business.

The more you look at the rise of Britain (OK, England) as a trading nation, a superpower and as an empire from the C17th to the early C20th you realise that it is built on the trade in slaves or the exploitation of poor native populations. In the C18th many grew rich on the slave triangle: cheap goods and weapons to West Africa; slaves to the Caribbean and America; sugar, cotton, etc back home to Britain. It’s not just the ones active in the slave trade that prospered. The shipbuilders, the iron founders (cannon, muskets, manacles, steam engines, looms, etc.), soap makers, gunpowder manufacturers, anyone who supplied any of the industries involved; all grew rich. Then there were those who catered for the rich – the architects of the stately homes and gardens, the builders, decorators, artists, and so on. When you visit those National Trust properties constructed in the C18th and C19th do you wonder where all the money came from. I have asked on a number of occasions and received mumbled responses which provide no answer. The true answer must be the slave trade, either directly or indirectly.

It’s not just the rich landowners (who invested in the businesses) or the company owners who were involved. The lowly workers in the mills and factories, the seamen (not just those on the slave ships but those on the ships carrying the goods and in the navy providing security) soldiers defending the colonies, agricultural workers providing food for the workers in the mills weaving slave cotton. I think it can be said that anyone whose ancestors lived and worked in the UK or its colonies before, say the First World War, earned a living partly on the backs of slaves or post-slavery bonded workers.

Thus, while some are more responsible than others, our whole western civilisation is mired in the slave trade. What should we do about it? Well, a recognition that it happened would be a start including that it did not finish as far as the UK is concerned with the ending of the British-run slave trade. Saying sorry is not the answer. Sorry is never enough on its own. An apology is only worthwhile if it is accompanied by a change of behaviour. Yes, I know, the use of slaves is officially disapproved of these days. What hasn’t changed is the attitude to non-white races which developed during the slave trade years. To make the human trafficking acceptable the idea spread that the slaves came from an inferior species, not quite human, uncivilised, dim, less-feeling. All complete nonsense, of course. But the idea persists, not least in the health service which I was amazed to discover has different measures for treatments of people of different races aside from the fact that many drugs and therapies have not been tested on people from different ethnic backgrounds.

While handing over relatively small amounts of cash may salve some peoples conscience, money is not enough either. The former colonisers, including the USA, must continue to accept responsibility for their actions over the last 2 or 3 centuries and that includes responsibility for climate change. What people in the former colonies need now is help with coming to terms with global warming, ocean acidification, extinctions, pollution. Working together we may just be able to stave off the worst of our past stupidity and exploitation.

On the commemorative Eisteddfod throne in Cardigan Castle

This week’s theme for writing group was “don’t touch my cones” (long story). In fact, being a holiday week, we didn’t really have a meeting so the theme is held over to next week. Nevertheless here is my effort.

Cold War

When the days lengthen, the sunshine becomes warmer and the children come out to play on the swings and the slides, Mr Creamy’s ice cream van parks on the road at the entrance to the park.  He’ll be there every day throughout the summer as he has been for many years, decades even, taking coins from generations of children or their mothers or fathers.  He has Zooms and strawberry ripples and Mivvis in his rattling freezers but of course his speciality is his soft ice-cream. Mr Creamy has become expert at twirling an Everest-sized spiral of the brilliant white goo onto a cone; sometimes adding a sprinkle of hundreds and thousands or poking a flake into the mass. It may look a lot but it’s mainly air and water plus a little ice-cream powder. Not a gram of cream of course.

                The pink and white van has become flecked with rust over the years and the diesel engine growl has become louder and more ragged. Sometimes blue smoke emerges from the exhaust pipe. Nevertheless, Mr Creamy is always there and there are always children wanting his ice cream.

                That was until one morning in the early summer.  Mr Creamy approached but was surprised to see his usual spot was occupied by another van. This one was bigger than his own, was new and shiny and painted in bright colours. It was covered in pictures of fruits and nuts. Over the windscreen was a big sign saying  “Ice C’s famous gelato”.

                Mr Creamy drew up so that his front bumper was almost touching the intruder. He slipped from his seat and strode to the van that occupied his space. There was a young woman with spiky, purple hair leaning on the counter, her side window already open. Inside Mr Creamy could see a vast freezer cabinet filled with large trays of ice cream in every colour of the rainbow plus a few more besides. On the counter was a display of cones in various sizes and colours.

                “Who are you?” Mr Creamy said in an annoyed voice.

                “I’m Ice C,” the young woman said. grinning. “I guess you’re Mr Creamy.”

                “Yes, of course I am,” Mr Creamy said, blustering, “What are you doing here?”

                “What does it look like? I’m selling ice cream, or I will be when the kids arrive. Would you like one?”

                “But, but, but, I’m the ice cream seller here. This is my space.”

                The woman looked out of her window and gazed up and down the road. “Really? It looks like an ordinary stretch of public road to me. Anyone can park here.”

                “This has been my patch since … I can’t remember, when,” Mr Creamy roared.

                Ice C shrugged. “Time for a change then.  You sell that old soft white stuff don’t you which doesn’t deserve the name ice-cream.”

                Mr Creamy’s face went the colour of the sides of his van. “Mr Creamy’s ice-cream is famous,” he declared.

                The woman chuckled. “Famous for being tasteless. Kids want flavour, they want real fruit. My gelato is not just a treat it’s a meal. And my cones are made from wholewheat flour and not packed with preservatives and stuff.

                “Your cones! Ugly things that taste like cardboard.” Mr Creamy stretched a hand across the counter towards Ice C’s array of cones.

                “Don’t touch my cones!” Ice C cried. “Those are for display only. Leave me alone. Go back to your old wreck.”

                Mr Creamy was about to reply but he noticed a trio of toddlers accompanied by a woman approaching – potential customers. He hurried back to his ice-cream van and quickly opened the side hatch.

                “What a lovely morning,” Mr Creamy called out, “How about a lovely Mr Creamy soft ice-cream.”

                The children paused, looked from one van to the other, then sidled up to Ice C’s counter. Before Mr Creamy could say anything, the children were being handed waffle cones topped with mango, blackcurrant, honeycomb and other flavours of gelato.

Mr Creamy fumed. He had to make his presence felt. He reached across to his dashboard and flicked a switch. The scratchy, thin tones of Greensleeves emerged from the horn shaped speakers on the roof. Moments later it was drowned out by booming bass and a jolly treble melody, coming from the other van. Mr Creamy put his hands to he ears. He leapt out again and advanced once more on Ice C’s van. He couldn’t get close for the press of children and of parents holding up cards to be flashed against the little box that the woman held.

                “Sorry, it’s a bit loud,” Ice C called out. “Alexa, reduce volume by half.”  The bouncing music softened to a tolerable level.

                Mr Creamy was confused. There only seemed to be one person in the gelato van. “Alexa? Who is that?”

                Ice C put a double scoop cones of chocolate and orange ice-cream into eagerly awaiting hands. “You know, a virtual assistant. It streams the music for me.”

                “Oh,” Mr Creamy said. “Mine plays Colonel Bogey too. Are you giving away ice-cream? The kids aren’t handing over coins.”

                “Who carries cash these days. You don’t still have to touch all those filthy coins do you. My card reader can complete a transaction in moments – no touching required.”

                Some more children and parents were approaching. Mr Creamy dashed back to his van. His haste was in vain because the party went to Ice C for their treat.

                Mr Creamy sat in his driving seat, arms folded, frowning. If Ice C wanted to muscle in on his patch with all her new ideas, he would have to do something about it. This meant war, a cold war.

……………….

Following Anaximander

I have been reading Anaximander and the Nature of Science by Carlo Rovelli. Rovelli is an eminent physicist who has written a number of well-regarded, popular science books. Anaximander was his first but it has only just been translated into English. It is not really a biography of Anaximander as almost nothing is known about his life. He lived in the C6th BCE in Miletus, a Greek trading port on the west coast of what is now Turkey. Almost nothing that he wrote has survived and all we know of his life and work is what is described by later writers. Nevertheless from those writings it is evident that he was very significant.

Anaximander lived two centuries before Athens became prominent and the lives of the well-known Greek philosophers, Socrates, Plato, Aristotle, Pythagoras, Archimedes etc. Anaximander followed, and may have been mentored by, Thales the first Greek philosopher known to us.

Anaximander is the first person we know of to say that the Earth is a body floating freely in space and not resting on the backs of elephants, a turtle, the shoulders of Atlas or floating on an infinite ocean as Thales imagined. He thought the Sun, Moon, planets and stars must travel around the Earth. He said there was no need for the Earth to rest on anything as there was no “cause” or natural reason for it to move in space. He was also the first to explain that rain resulted from water vapour evaporating from seas and lakes and he also suggested that species of animals and plants could change (evolve?) into other forms.

This is all very interesting and may have been the starting point for the eruption of Greek philosophy which lead onto the work by Arabian philosophers in the so-called “dark” ages and ultimately western science. What Rovelli is interested in is how Anaximander worked and the influence he had on scientific thought right up to the present day. Rovelli notes two special features of Anaximander’s work which set him apart from other writers of his day.

First of all, though he respected his predecessors, particularly Thales, he was prepared to criticise them, point out their errors and suggest improvements or alternatives to their ideas. This was a big step. Then and even up to the present day, questioning an earlier authority was rare and often proscribed. As Rovelli points out, the Chinese had a well-organised but hierarchical civil service which kept impeccable astronomical data for 2,000 years but they thought the Earth was flat until visiting Europeans in C15th pointed out the evidence for the Earth being a globe. Questioning predecessors’ views was how Copernicus, Galileo, Newton, Einstein et al altered the world of science.

Secondly, Rovelli notes that reports of Anaximander’s writings make no mention of a deity. It is not the gods that hold the Earth in position or make the rain or create animals and plants in all their forms. For Anaximander there are natural forces or processes that see to all that. Anaximander was living at a time when there was a whole pantheon of gods in every civilisation that managed everything but he swept that away. That has been the feature of philosophers who have progressed scientific thought. Copernicus was a priest but he does not have God moving the planets on their orbits. Newton may have been a (unorthodox) Christian but he doesn’t ascribe the force of gravity to God or his angels. Einstein may have quipped that God doesn’t play dice, but He doesn’t feature in the equations of relativity.

Rovelli contends that it is Anaximander’s example that spurred the Greeks, the Arabs and European scientists to advance science to the state it is in today. However, he also has a fear. That is that the scientific mind required for such progress is not common. Most people, even to day, see the hand of God, Yahweh, Allah and the host of gods and goddesses in Hinduism and other religions, in the forces that act on humans and their surroundings. We still talk of Acts of God when assessing insurance claims, people still think of species being guided through evolution, and we still think of nature as having a design. Rovelli seems to feel, and I agree with him, that someone who has faith in the existence of, and the active involvement in human affairs, by one of the gods of human religions, will not have the flexibility of thought of an Anaximander.

Religion and religious fervour still has a huge role in world affairs, indeed it could be argued that it is increasing, the drop in adherents of the Anglican Church in the 2021 census notwithstanding. More and more people seem beguiled by conspiracy theories and religious fundamentalists are becoming increasingly bold in former strongholds of the scientific method.

In some respects I understand religious faith. It is an easy way to overcome the fears of one’s mortality and the worries associated with modern life. If you feel you are chosen by your god then your behaviour can be justified however much it may cause harm to nonbelievers. As I grow older and closer to the end of my natural lifespan, it becomes harder to accept that my consciousness, my character, my individuality will one day cease to exist. It gives me night terrors and yet… I know life is finite, that we are merely creatures with a limited period of conscious life, that sometime in the not too distant future my life will end and my atoms will start to disperse. Who could survive eternal life? Whatever my fears about the coming end, I do not see that faith in a god as an answer. Faith is wishful thinking and a desire to be set on a pedestal separate from the rest of life on this planet, a way to avoid responsibility for what is happening to our planet and all our fellow lifeforms.

Visiting Beeston Castle, Cheshire

The last week has been rather busy so I had very little time to think or write about the week’s topic “working holiday”. I just managed to scribble (not literally, all my writing is done on screen) a brief scenario – Admiring the View.

Admiring the View

I paused in my walk across the ice to admire the view. After all, it’s what people come here for; the finest view in the Solar System, some say. It was magnificent, I have to admit. The rings were almost edge on but still formed arcs across the sky with the bright huge ball of Saturn at the centre, looming, as if about to fall and crush me and the moon I stood on. That perception was false of course. Enceladus orbited the gas giant just like all the bits of ice and rock that made up the rings.

            As everyone who had seen them had commented, the rings were like multiple rainbows, each ring a different colour resulting from the varied mixture of water ice and other materials and the different sizes of particles. The planet too was a layer cake of different colours.

            I sipped on my drinking water tube and simply stood, no doubt as enraptured as all the holiday visitors. Of course, most of them were in the resort domes where they could take in the view without the inconvenience of an excursion suit, or on one of the tour craft that journeyed above, below and through the rings.

            Those trips weren’t for me and I was reminded that this was a working holiday when my alarm gave a soft but insistent beeping. I resumed my lope across the ice. My objective was the site of one of Enceladus’ geysers, another attraction for the visitors.  Who could resist the sight of a fountain of liquid methane spewing out of the ice and up into space, catching the sunlight and the reflected light from the rings and the planet.

            The geysers were not totally predictable. The sensors were scattered across the kilometres thick ice sheet that covered the planetary ocean. They monitored the movements of the ice and the ocean below, warning when and where an eruption would occur. They were the reason for my visit; a biennial check that each autonomic sensor was working. They had to be correct so that the visitors would have enough time to board the tour buses to take them to watch the geyser bursting through the surface. There was another reason for the alerts that the tourists weren’t made fully aware of. A geyser bursting out under a resort would be an embarrassment. The sensors gave enough warning so that the resort could be moved, if they were fully functional.

            Now I could see the dark hemisphere of the head of the sensor column that stretched from the surface down through the ice to the ocean below. It wouldn’t take long to carry out the diagnostics and then I could get back to the resort and continue the recreational element of this trip – a hot massage followed by a cool beer. That’s if the sensor proved to be functioning satisfactorily.

…………………………..

The will of the people

I am writing this a few days earlier than normal. That means there is plenty of time for events to occur of great import or stupidity by the time this goes live. I will have to comment on things that have happened already as I am not a time traveller.

What has caught my attention? Well, there was the small matter of the election of the leader of the SNP who became the First Minister of the Scottish Parliament. I can’t say that I follow Scottish politics closely although I support Scottish independence (up to a point) like I wish for greater independence for Wales from the baleful effects of the Westminster government. Nicola Sturgeon always seemed to be a superb politician and honest. Those two qualities don’t seem to go together in today’s politics and perhaps it was all smoke and mirrors anyway (the news about her husband and the row over the actual number of members raises eyebrows). Sturgeon’s SNP did achieve some remarkable election victories. Have they done a good job in governing Scotland? I don ‘t know. Scotland has problems, as does Wales and the regions of England; have they been caused by Brexit, COVID, the Ukraine war, the incompetence of the Tory government in Westminster or by the failings of the SNP administration? I don’t know. What is apparent is that the leadership election has blown apart all semblance of SNP unity and integrity. Personally I am suspicious of any candidate with strong religious leanings as that makes me suspect that their intentions are governed by a narrow theology not a wider appreciation of the requirements of the planet and all of humanity. It remains to be seen if the words of the winner, Humza Yousaf (an SNP leader not named after a fish) about diversity turn out to be true and whether he can regain the SNP’s spirit of speaking for all of Scotland.

There were riots and protests on the streets of two countries with democratically elected governments in the last week (probably more than two but these stand out). Both were policed pretty violently and both opposed a recently elected leader. One was in France where people do not want to see their retirement age rise from 62 to 64 and the other in Israel where people opposed the extreme right wing government that wants to take control of the judiciary to bring it into line with other non-democratic almost dictatorships. I don’t fully understand the French. Their final choice in last year’s Presidential election was the centre-right Macron or the far-right le Pen. They kept out the right-wing populist fascist but don’t seem to understand the effect of increasing life expectancy on the costs of pensions. French pensions are far more generous than UK state pensions but the arguments are the same for both. Retirement now lasts two, three or four times longer than when state pensions were introduced and the costs are mounting.

As far as Israel is concerned, I don’t understand why, if opposition is so strong to Netanyahu’s proposals, how his coalition came to power. Why couldn’t the left (and centre) parties unite (or at at least agree) to prevent the right from gaining a majority. I don’t know if Netanyahu signposted his proposals when he was fighting the recent election but unfortunately in established democracies where most people don’t care about politics or voting, you get government by the parties who can motivate their followers. That is why I fear for the UK. The right wing press are making it look as though Sunak is getting a grip on government, making him out to be the hero and saviour of the Tories. Meanwhile Labour are rubbing their hands with glee at the situation in Scotland, refusing to discuss local agreements with smaller parties, while making headlines about banning Corbyn from standing as a Labour candidate in the next election. I believe there are Labour supporters who will be happy to see the party lose again because Starmer is not leftie enough for them. The Conservatives are greedy incompetents yet they could still win in eighteen months time.

It is 10 years since I published Painted Ladies, my first novel featuring transwoman detective, Jasmine Frame. To mark the occasion Painted Ladies will be available FREE on Kindle for five days from 31st March. The four novels that follow Jasmine’s transition and the three prequel novellas and anthology are available at their normal (very cheap) price. Of course, the paperback versions of the novels can be purchased from me. Contact me for order details.

Last week’s writing club prompt was “the bag”. There were a few pieces which had bags as incidental items which was fine. I thought of making the bag the focus. How about the story of a bag, I thought, but I couldn’t get it to work until I decided to make the bag the hero (or heroine) or to be more accurate the principal character. It’s short as I had little time last week, but here it is:

The Bag

She loved me, I know she did. I was always by her side. She hugged me to her. I was strong and secure. She entrusted me with her money, her valuables, even her memories. I kept the things she needed – tissues, lipstick, her favourite perfume. I was always there when she needed me, until that day.

            She could be careless, I knew that. She was always leaving her phone or her glasses in places, but I never thought we would be separated. They met in the coffee shop, she and her friend. They were so deep in conversation that she forgot all about me sitting at her side. Then he came along and it was all over in a moment.

            He dragged me from the cafe and then he started to run. People moved out of our way but no one tried to stop him or give chase. Then he nipped up an alley to a patch of waste ground. There he tore me open, emptied me out. He took her wallet and tossed me aside. He was gone before I was aware what had happened.

            There I sat for a long time, days I think. I got soaked in the rain and scorched in the sunshine.  I thought I would be there, alone for ever, mouldering away, until the child came along and picked me up. She looked me over, shook the dust off me and wiped the grime away, then examined every part of me and took me home.

            We were happy for a time though I never got to go out with her. She gave me a few odds and ends to look after – a diary and some pens, an old lipstick – but that was all. It was quite boring spending every day in her room, most of it alone.

            Months later, I heard her mother telling her to clear out the room and get rid of stuff. Surely, she didn’t mean me, but it seems she did.

            So here I am, on the shelf in the charity shop. From time to time, people take a look at me, feel me over, but they put me back and move on. I suppose, I’m rather passed my best, a little worn around the edges, a little stained, not the looker I once was. An unwanted old bag.

………………………..

Budget woes

Once upon a time the Budget used to be exciting (mildly). The contents of the red box were secret until the Chancellor of the Exchequer stood up in the House of Commons and read his statement. Now it is not so much leaked as slopped out like a shower tray overflowing because the plughole is blocked with a wodge of hair. All the most important changes in this week’s budget were revealed days before, such as the 2% drop in NI deductions.

At first glance that seemed a good idea as it benefits everyone in work. However, because it is a rate change it gives more to those with larger salaries. Someone on £25,000 a year will have £500 more while someone on £40,000 will have £800 more. Another point is that this is added to the taxable income so everyone in work earning more than the personal allowance will lose one-fifth of that gain. Personal allowances have been frozen since well before the cost of living crisis began. Many people, pensioners included, have had substantial rises in the last and current year that, while not matching the inflation rate, will have taken many into the taxable bands.

That person on £25,000 a year will only see an extra £400 in their bank account. Of that about a third will go in increased council tax. Councils are having to put up their tax on homes by 8-12%. People complain that they are not getting a good service from their council. They’re right, but its not due to Council waste or inefficiency. They are bound by law to cover social and child care. There is an increasing number of elderly in need of care, there are more younger people out of work and requiring care as a result of Covid and, with families struggling, there is more demand for child care. Since 2010, the Conservative governments’ austerity policy has drastically reduced the amount of government money transferred to councils, so covering all that cost of care falls on the council tax payers. There is less and less left over to fill potholes, empty bins, keep libraries, leisure centres and swimming pools open and support the arts. More and more councils are approaching bankruptcy.

Away from national and local government, the telecom companies (O2, BT etc) are putting up their fees by 3% above inflation. That will take another chunk of that NI windfall. And inflation is still 4% pa.

So will anyone be better off from the budget? I doubt it. Meanwhile the personal tax burden is as high as it has ever been while multinational companies, few based in the UK, find ways of not paying tax on profits earned here. Is it any wonder that finance for the NHS, schools and universities, is simply not available. then there is the cost of war (Ukraine, Yemen, Middle East) and the threat of war (Russia). Who would want to form a new government?

………………………

Recently I saw a comparison between the former coal mining towns of Maerdy in the Rhondda Valley and Grimethorpe in Yorkshire. The mines closed in both after the miners’ strike in the 80s. The report looked at the difference in fortune between the two towns which were presented as being similar. Grimethorpe attracted investment and the building of factories and distribution centres and while having problems has survived. Maerdy is depressed. The reason for the differences wasn’t given. A look at a map showed me some possible answers. Grimethorpe lies between the MI and A1(M) with Sheffield to the south and Leeds to the north. Manchester is not far away over the Pennines and a little further south you have Birmingham, Coventry, Derby, Nottingham and Leicester. Maerdy is up the top of the Rhondda valley connected to the M4 by narrow valley roads. The only urban centres within an hour of travel are Swansea and Cardiff. Why would you pick Grimethorpe over Maerdy for your distribution centre?

Authors Merriet Duncan, Cath Barton, me and Margaret Igguldon after reading our works at Monmouth Library

This week I had two writers’ group meetings so I decided to write one piece to cover both prompts. One was the date 6th March and the other was “I haven’t a clue.” I have written a piece which is a scene more than a story and experimented a little by making it historical fiction told solely by dialogue. I hope it gives an impression of the period while being an interesting conversation. Here is The Ingenious Mr Hooke.

The Ingenious Mr Hooke

“What, pray, are you reading, husband? Not one of those scurrilous pamphlets distributed about the Palace of Westminster to your fellow parliamentarians.”

                “No, wife, it is not. I received this directly from Mr Oldenburg.”

                “Ah, the Secretary of your Society.”

                “The Royal Society, Jane. Do not forget that we have the patronage of the King to whom in fact this publication is dedicated.”

                “What then is its purpose?”

                “Its purpose wife, as Mr Oldenburg states, is to delight those who engage in the study of philosophy.”

                “And what delights may they be?”

                “Why, knowledge of discoveries, of course, my dear Jane.”

                “Discoveries? What have your illustrious fellows discovered that is worthy the effort of printing words on paper.”

                “Well, my dear, a great deal as it happens. This edition fills sixteen whole pages. Mr Oldenburg promises it is but the first of a regular series of publications.”

                “Describe to me then, William, one of these momentous discoveries.”

                “Er, well, here is one from Mr Hooke. The ingenious Mr Hooke as described by Mr Oldenburg.”

                “Is Mr Hooke not the gentleman who builds contrivances for the purpose of discovery.”

                “Indeed, he is my dear. He has built a machine for Mr Boyle to evacuate the air from a glass vessel and many more. He has a twelve foot telescope with which he examines the heavens. Mr Oldenburg reports that Mr Hooke has observed a spot on the face of the planet Jupiter.”

                “A spot on the face of a heavenly body! How can that be? Does the Bible not say that the heavens are the province of God and that all must hence be perfect.”

                “My dear wife, the evidence provided by observations of heavenly bodies have demonstrated that there are indeed imperfections in God’s handiwork.”

                “I do not have a clew about these observations you refer to, husband. No thread of knowledge do I possess to question God. Yet it appears to me that Mr Hooke is putting God’s creation to the test.”

                “Maybe he is, Jane, but he is preceded by Galileo. Over fifty years ago he observed mountains on the Moon which showed that that body is not a smooth and perfect sphere.”

                “Hmm, it seems to me, William, that your Royal Society is questioning the infallibility of God.”

                “No, my dear, we do no such thing. King Charles, as head of God’s church, would not provide his support if it was suspected that the Society disputed God’s authority. Mr Oldenburg is merely reporting on observations made by fellows and other correspondents. That is what natural philosophy is, dear Jane – the recording and reporting of observations of the world.”

                “Mark my words, husband. Today it is a spot on the face of Jupiter, tomorrow it may be other parts of God’s creation that are called to question. Who knows what Mr Hooke or other of your philosophical fellows may discover when they look through a glass.”

Notes.

• The first edition of Philosophical Transactions of the Royal Society was published on 6^th March 1665.
• Robert Hooke’s report of a spot on Jupiter may have been the first observation of the famous Red Spot but is more likely to have been a transit by the moon Callisto. Next month he published his Micrographia – observations seen through a microscope.
• The phrase “I haven’t a clue” has been used since classical times and refers to the ball of thread (a clew) that Perseus used to find a way out of the Labyrinth of the Minotaur.  

The madness of crowds

I used to have a reprint of the book Extraordinary Popular Delusions and the Madness of Crowds, published in 1841 by Charles Mackay. It covered such events as the The South Sea Bubble and Tulip Fever that financially ruined lots of people and the Crusades and witch hunts that killed a large number. I think the current world situation is throwing up a wide variety of similar follies.

It may be apocryphal but I recall an experiment carried out a few decades ago. Lab rats were placed in a cage with adequate food. The number of rats was increased and the amount of food was increased in proportion. At some population density the rats started fighting despite having sufficient food. They fought to get more food, to have space and just because everyone else was fighting. I think the human population is in a similar position today. There is sufficient food to feed everyone, just; enough fresh water, for now, but while there are still uninhabited spaces – the poles, the oceans, Alaska (according to Sue Perkins Channel 5 programme) in most places we are crammed together with many in inadequate housing.

What we see is an increase in the ferocity of factions so that democratic argument is failing, wild rumours are seized on, conspiracy theories gain adherents and people become greedier and less willing to share whatever they have. Religion is part of this. In places we see fundamental Christians pushing their anti-gay, anti-trans, anti-women policies on their neighbours. Elsewhere fundamental islamists, jews, hindus, etc try to exclude and eliminate their opponents. Wannabe messiahs peddle their lies and gather followers, supposed patriots appeal to blinkered nationalists and megalomaniac autocrats tighten their grip on fearful citizens. All encouraged by the tech giants with their (un)social media, algorithms and AIs.

All of this while we stumble into a climate and environmental disaster. It is a bleak view of the future and I struggle to feel optimistic that the good guys will win. Is it any wonder that dystopias are the fashion in fiction and one struggles to find an account of a realistic utopian society. In the story that ends my piece this week I was intending to write a happy story set in the future. To get somewhere even slightly cheerful I had to evoke a worldwide change I called the “Re-set”. This would be something like a switch which when flicked would make the whole human population kinder, knowledgeable of the truth and amenable to making sensible decisions that benefit the vast majority and the planet. It is fantasy.

I rejected religion long ago when I tired of the hypocrisy. Nevertheless, I felt that it was possible to live a life of purpose and achievement. Back when I was a teenager I formulated three principles – Moderation, Tolerance and Peace.

Moderation meant taking as much as one needed but not excess. Avoid greed and gluttony and overindulgence. That could apply to work as much as play. Focussing on one’s job to the detriment of one’s family did not meet my principle of moderation.

Toleration means accepting that everyone is different and has different motivations. Following one’s own desires is fine so long as no-one else is harmed. Toleration doesn’t require active encouragement but a live and let live demeanour. I tolerate religion but do not want it in my life.

Peace means living together in harmony, but it does not mean being passive. Living in fear or dread of authority or invasion is not being at peace. Fighting for one’s existence may be necessary.

Perhaps you can find things wrong with these principles but for over fifty years they have been at the back of my mind.

And so to this week’s writing task. This week included the 29th February, the extra day in the Leap Year so this was our theme. I looked for a different slant on a subject covered once or twice before. Actually my idea was shared, to some extent, by a fellow writer. My story also includes a hint of the law of unintended consequences. Some thought I should knock off the last sentence. What do you think? Here is Leap.

Leap

Not long now, thought Rain. It was the 29^th February, a leap year, and it was her lucky day. She stood in the middle of her small but neat bedsit, caressing the white bracelet clamped snugly around her left wrist. There was a small display showing a count down. Ten minutes to go. Rain felt her heart beating quicker than usual. Her implants told her not to worry, it was excitement causing it. Excitement and pride were just two of the emotions she felt. She was one of only ten thousand people across the entire world who had a similar bracelet, one of ten thousand who were the first to use Leap.

                “Are you ready?” She heard her Mum’s voice, in her head.

                “I think so,” she mouthed the reply.

                “Do you know where you are going?”

                “Oh yes, but I’m not saying just yet.”

                “Enjoy it. Thinking of you.”

                Rain felt the contact to her implant end. She rejected calls from other friends and family, wanting to concentrate on her Leap.

The seconds ticked away on the bracelet and her implant clock, until the zero appeared. A message from the bracelet to her implant arrived.

                “Welcome to Leap. You may now choose your destination. Please state clearly where you wish to go, wait for confirmation, put your feet together and then make a small jump.”

                Rain had considered a lot of places as her first destination, so many places she had never had the opportunity to travel to. It had come down to one place.

                “Serengeti Visitor Centre,” she said.

                Just a moment later she heard, “Destination accepted. You may Leap.”

                Rain put her feet together and jumped. Her feet barely left the floor but everything changed, the floor for a start. From soft, brightly coloured and patterned it became plain sanded wood. The walls receded and became largely glass looking out on a flat, dusty plain dotted with shrubs and grazing animals. There was a moment’s disorientation as Rain took in her new view. She felt people around her but the people didn’t interest her, it was the animals.

                She ran, shoving passed other Leapers, until she reached the windows and stared out, enraptured. This was why she had applied to be one of the Leap triallists, why she was overjoyed to be chosen. She watched the herd of elephants grazing, the wildebeest, giraffe, lions and rhino, all visible at once, happily living in the restored park.

                An alert sounded in her head and she heard a voice speaking in her own language.

                “Welcome leapers to your first Leap destination. The first Leap on this Leap Year Day. This is just one of the many destinations Leap bring to you and future users of Leap. After you Leap home, we hope you will tell your friends about your experience. Leap bracelets will be on sale from 1^st March and soon second-generation Leap implants will be available to order. You may stay at your destination as long as you wish, or you may choose to Leap to another of our destinations. Soon the entire world will be yours to Leap to. Once again, Earth is open to visitors. The world is just a small Leap away.”

                Rain continued to watch the animals, especially the rhino calves suckling their mother.

                “Marvelous isn’t it.”

                Rain turned her head, surprised to hear actual spoken words. There was a dark-skinned young man beside her.

                “Yes,” she said, “I’ve walked the park virtually, but to be here seeing it with my own eyes is… well, I’m not sure I can describe it.”

                “I think I know what you mean. I’m Alize.” He greeted her with the accepted open palm sign.

                “You’re a leaper?” Rain asked.

                “No, I’m a park ranger. I was asked to meet you people. You are the first in-person visitors since the Re-set. It’s nice to see people enjoying the animals again.”

“You don’t sound overjoyed, though,” Rain said.

Alize shrugged. “I know I should be pleased. Leap have paid a lot for the Serengeti to be one of the first leap destinations, but I have misgivings.”

“Why?”

                Alize took a moment to compose a reply. “Since the end of long-distance travel and the re-organisation that took place across the world because of the climate crisis, the natural world has recovered. The animals no longer recognise humans. I wonder how they will react to the thousands of visitors Leap expect to come. The freedom to move anywhere just by wishing it may not be the good thing Leap advertises. Making tourism available to everyone is a leap of faith.”

stuffed down the back of the sofa

I forgot that I was a day short this week so don’t have much time for writing the blog this week. There is a lot to rant about that I won’t waste time on. However one thing I did see in the news concerned the Chancellor of the Exchequer (that’s James Hunt if you’d forgotten – he rarely raises his head above the parapet these days unlike when he was Health Sec when he was hardly out of the headlines). Anyway it seems that the Chancellor has found 20 billion pounds down the back of the sofa or something.  Of course the talk is of cutting taxes just in time for the election. Is that enough to convince the populace that another 5 years of the Tories is a safe bet? I doubt it.  Tax cuts will not help the people who need it, so what should be done with the unexpected windfall?

First I’d give a couple of billion to maintain an iron & steel industry in the country. Tata don’t seem to consider it important but they are, after all, an Indian multinational. We have to replace the coke burning blast furnaces with a carbon free method of iron extraction but if the UK is to keep any sort of manufacturing then it needs its own source of iron. Yes, we do have to import iron ore but we don’t want to be beholden to the current iron-making nations – China, India, S.Korea, et al

Next, I’d get our schools repaired so that children can learn without fear of the roof falling in on them. It would be nice to afford enough teachers for them too. Then I’d support the NHS, get doctors and nurses properly rewarded and look closely at preventative medicine. Finally, for now, we have to help out local councils who are now spending almost all their resources on social care.

I realise that all that is going to cost a lot more than twenty billion but at least we should show that we recognise where the cash should be going.

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One reason that I forgot to write this blog this week is that I’ve had a good week of fiction writing. Last week procrastination won but this week the ideas and the words have flowed.

I read the review of a book on sleeplessness which revealed that the brain really is more imaginative during those dark hours of night-time insomnia. Apparently, the hormones and changes in brain chemicals at night allow the association of ideas that doesn’t happen in the daytime. So those fresh plot points and story lines can be more original.  You just have to recall them in the morning or do what many writers do and keep a notebook and pen beside the bed. Personally I rely on memory – it works most of the time.

Anyway, I wrote a short story for the writers group on the subject of super heroes. It went down so well that I think I may submit it to a competition so won’t put it up here just yet.  Next, I got over a blockage in The Mage Returns, the sequel  to An Extraordinary Tale. It meant deleting a couple of hundred words but it is moving again.

Lastly I have written considerably more of Peace & Harmony, coincidentally another super-heroes story. It is developing in areas I had not previously thought of. Can I write two novels simultaneously? It may not be advised but I have never ever been able to devote myself to just one project at a time. We will see.

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