Keeping fingers crossed

It’s about all one can do isn’t it: keep your fingers crossed and hope for the best. There certainly doesn’t seem to be much one can do individually. We (I mean me and my nearest and dearest, not everyone collectively) try to do our best for the planet but even driving an EV, buying local, recycling, only flying short-haul once a year and living in a relatively energy efficient home, we’re probably still stretching the world beyond its resources. Then there is the worry about the state of politics in the world, not to ignore the conflicts, Gaza, Ukraine, Sudan, etc, the rise of the right in Europe; what’s going on in France; can Biden see off Trump, again. All things to make one anxious.

And then there is the General Election. I can’t say one feels a great surge of hope. Yes, I dearly hope that Labour sees off the Tories, but a Starmer government does not really hold out the prospect of a bounteous future. Fourteen years of Tory incompetence have damaged the NHS, welfare and local services perhaps beyond repair, while leaving the economy holed in the water. It would take a generation to sort things out in an ideal environment. That we don’t have (see above) so we are left with the likelihood of continuing slow decay into penury and chaos. Optimistic eh?

Still, we have a choice of whom to vote for. I don’t understand how anyone can think Sunak is our saviour. A man so out of touch that he doesn’t even think of the value of standing alongside our allies (yes, USA, France, Canada etc are still our allies) even if it is just a photoshoot and not a business meeting, and so unfamiliar with the British psyche not to recognise the regard in which the veterans of D Day are held (notwithstanding that nostalgia for the war is perhaps our biggest weakness). So out of touch with almost every citizen as to even mention his lack of Sky TV as a child. How can anyone think that someone with that level of intelligence should be in government defeats me.

Starmer is so scared of losing voters that he proposes to do nothing except make up fanciful numbers of new doctors, nurses, teachers, police officers without any plan to change the foundations of the society that nurtures such people. Yes, I think a Labour government is more desirable than a continuing Tory rabble, but I am not holding my breath for a better Britain.

What about the others? I voted Liberal for decades, but with the exception of Vince Cable, the lot that entered the coalition in 2010 showed themselves to be inept. It wasn’t just the university fees debacle it was the way that they allowed the Tories to roll them over in the referendum on proportional voting and the 2015 election. The Green Party has dreams and may be effective in local government, but apart from some specific seats, a vote for them is a waste. I won’t mention the others.

The problem with people in politics is that they adore the campaigning and the electioneering. I have seen them get high on the leafleting, canvassing and especially, the count. The boring business of governing is another matter.

Where do trans and non-binary people figure in the election. Well, despite being just 0.4% of the electorate (perhaps), surprisingly large, since the Tory manifesto wants to change the Equality Act to exclude particularly transwomen. Labour has not responded to Badenoch’s wicked proposals so we will wait and see. One interesting bit of trans news occurred in the USA. Swimmer, Lia Thomas, a transwoman, has been refused permission to contest World Aquatics decision to ban women who have experienced any part of male puberty. I can accept an argument about “protecting” female sport but the legal case has been refused solely because Thomas is no longer a member of USA swimming. Why is she not a member? Because she was barred for being a transwoman. A classic Catch 22 situation.

I’ll be taking a break for the next couple of weeks. My next blog will be the day after the day after the election.

A new photo! More dazzled by the sun than I thought.

Writing group’s theme this week was “sea change” or possibly “see change” or even “C change”. The origin of the phrase (the first one) is of course, Shakespeare, in the well-known poem from The Tempest (see below). Of course its meaning has expanded to include any dramatic change (I don’t think a change of UK government will count). I stuck pretty close to Shakespeare’s useage in this piece, Whalefall.

Full fathom five thy father lies;

Of his bones are coral made;

Those are pearls that were his eyes:

Nothing of him that doth fade,

But doth suffer a sea-change

Into something rich and strange.

Sea-nymphs hourly ring his knell:

                                             Ding-dong.

Hark! now I hear them,—ding-dong, bell.

The Tempest, W Shakespeare

Whalefall

He is old and tired, and knows it. For decades he has made the annual migration from the winter breeding ground in tropical waters to spend the summer in the north where food is plentiful. The warming of the ocean means that the shoals are moving ever closer to the pole and the pod has to pursue the melting ice.

     He has sired dozens of offspring; some survived, and a few swim beside him. Now, he feels the need to be alone. He dives, swimming away from his family, making his final whistling calls. They let him go, knowing he has made his decision. He surfaces and blows air from his blow hole. Then he sinks beneath the surface, his massive heart still.

     Putrefaction begins immediately, filling his guts with gas. He rises to the surface one more time, lifeless. Gulls descend, pecking at the parasites on his skin. Sharks, sensing death, arrive and attack the corpse, tearing strips of skin and blubber. The spilling of blood attracts more carrion eaters. The ocean froths pink as thousands of frenzied animals feed.

     The foul gas released, the vast body begins to sink, pursued by the feeders. Down, down it goes, leaving the sunlight behind. The water turns blue, violet, ever darker, till no light penetrates at all. Still the carcase of the whale descends, slowing as the pressure increases, pursued by hagfish and sleeper sharks. Until, a mile beneath the surface, it comes to rest on the bed of the ocean.

     The seabed is devoid of plant life here in the pitch black, but not uninhabited. Patient creatures, animals, microscopic and large, that can wait for years between meals, taste the whale’s presence on the currents. They approach this bounty, a sea change in their environment.

     The huge body of the whale turns a barren wasteland into a land of plenty, becoming a metropolis for hungry creatures, crabs, starfish, sea urchins, worms. Some radiate light, illuminating the corpse like a grand ocean liner. The flesh feeds many for generations till just the skeleton remains. Yet that is not the end.

     New invaders take over. Bacteria infect the skeleton. They break down the fats and proteins in the bones using sulfur in place of oxygen to give them energy to grow and multiply. They release hydrogen sulfide (bad egg gas) that kills others that don’t share their metabolism.

     Decades pass, more perhaps than the whale lived, until just the inorganic wraith of its skeleton remains in the depths of the ocean, undisturbed by surface storms. At last, the whale is united with the structure of the Earth. Filter feeders, such as mussels, attach themselves to the slightly raised reef made of whale bone and catch their food drifting by on the deep ocean currents. The cycle of life goes on.

……………………….

Integrity

It’s a difficult job being Prime Minister, or First Minister or indeed any leading position. There are always different forces acting in different directions, often causing dilemmas of choice. It must be difficult to maintain integrity, to remain honest and uphold the ideals one professes. What a shame that our leaders seem to have given up on it.

Maybe PMs have always lied. When the only news was what was in the newspapers or on the very formal radio and TV bulletins perhaps it was difficult to tell. I am sure Churchill, Macmillan, Wilson, didn’t tell the whole truth, but obvious lies were rare. Tony Blair lied about Iraq’s weapons (unless he really was demented) but otherwise was pretty honest, I think. It is thus quite a change to have three successive PMs prepared to spout absolute nonsense and pretend it is the truth. Johnson lied because it was in his nature. I don’t think he could see a difference between lies and the truth because he could never be bothered to find out the facts. Truss was and remains barmy. Sunak has, I think, learned to lie and is terrible at it. Nevertheless he has found that if you repeat a lie often enough many people will come to accept it as the truth.

Integrity seems to be lacking in Tory politicians. The number of Tory MPs suspended or sacked in recent years for misbehaviour of one form or another is quite incredible and it continues with candidates for the general election removed almost as soon as they are chosen. The Labour Party on the other hand seems to ban its people from standing for Parliament if they have ever said or done something that doesn’t fit with the current policy. Nevertheless, integrity still seems to be a struggle for some in the party.

I would have thought that an aspiring Labour politician would be very wary of businessmen (or women) offering large sums of money to help you get elected. One would expect such a politician to carefully examine the motives and background of the donor to ensure that it fitted in with Labour Party morals. Hence I have to doubt the integrity of Vaughan Gething, recently appointed Prif Weinidog (1st Minister) of the Senedd Cymraeg. Surely, accepting £200,000 from the owner of a waste business already convicted of pollution irregularities was unwise. Hence whether he has broken rules or not I cannot think he is a suitable person to lead Cymru.

Maintaining integrity is difficult. I worked for 35 years as a teacher. For about 14 of those years my only responsibility as a class (laboratory) teacher was to my own wellbeing and that of my students. It was my job to encourage their development, to give them the knowledge and skills for life, perhaps start them on the road of a career, and, of course, help them get the best exam results they could. For another ten years or so I was head of department. Now I had responsibility for my staff (teachers and technicians) and the department budget, but still not many conflicts of interest. For the remaining 11 years or so I was on the Senior Management Team. There, my responsibilities included the whole school – students, parents, staff and governors. Now there were conflicts. What to do with a disturbed pupil – did the needs of the one outweigh the needs of the many. Balancing budgets, dealing with governors misconceptions of what a school was. For a short period I had aspirations to be a headteacher but I saw how those I worked with were conflicted. Their integrity was damaged as certain ideals were flung out in order to keep certain factions (particularly governors) content. Hence, I think I know a little of what it means to be a leader but still I can’t abide lies.

Foxton Locks, last summer, a hot day

The topic of writing group this week was “ageing”. Should one accept it or fight it? Unless we lose our life when young as many of the troops on the D-day beaches did, then we have to face getting older. What is old? There were obviously a lot of possibilities with this topic which were taken up in various ways by members of our group. I chose a SF satire approach. A lot of what follows is “true” even though the story is fiction. None of the characters is real (not quite). I changed the title. It was going to be called “In The Court of the King” and I was going to include a joke about being up a creek without a paddle but didn’t have space.

Three Score Years and Ten

“We are delighted to welcome you to Paddle Creek, Dr. Oldman, I’m Nathan.“ The young man with the exceptionally pale, smooth skin gave me a broad smile. He did not offer to shake my hand but signalled to me to sit on the vast, low sofa. I sat, tugging down the hem of my dress to cover my knees. I’d dressed for the Caribbean but the aircon was making me shiver.

                “I’m pleased to be here,” I replied, “Although I am not sure why you have a position for a gerontologist.”

                The young man grimaced. “We don’t use that word here, Doctor.”

                “What? Gerontology?”

                He winced again. “Yes. As you no doubt know, it’s derived from the Greek for old and man. Mr Mazon does not permit any reference to ageing, old, elderly or any other such term.”

                I was a little surprised. “But you offered me the post knowing my name.”

                There was a flash of that smile again. “That is why you will be addressed and referred to by your title or your first name.”

                “Ah, Persephone. My friends call me Percy.”

                “Very well, Doctor Percy it is.”

                “What is my role here if Mr Mazon isn’t interested in my work?”  In truth I did not want to question my appointment too closely. They were paying me very well indeed, as well as throwing in all expenses paid accommodation on the island, and I was glad to get away from the chaos that was my life back home.

                “Oh, he’s very interested in your subject area, Percy.”  There was that condescending smile again. “It’s just that Mr Mazon doesn’t intend getting old or ageing and does not want to hear any reference to those er, conditions.”

                “But he’s nearly seventy,” I blustered.

                “Sixty-nine,” Nathan nodded.

                “Then he’s bound to be experiencing some of the effects of, er, the passing years.”

                “Not if he can help it. Ever since he began to make a success of his business, Alec Mazon has put money and effort into preserving his youth. Your job is to supervise that process, ensure that the various regimes that he uses are working and that he remains in tip top health.”

                “I see.” It promised to be an interesting if hopeless task. Who can put off the ageing process for ever? “When can I examine him?” I said, looking forward to making a start.

                The young man shook his head. “Oh, you won’t be in his presence. Mr Mazon has no contact with anyone. He occupies his villa on the other side of the island alone.”  He pointed out of the vast picture window to the vista of the tropical island with the roof top of a huge mansion just visible on the horizon.

                “Not even his wife?” I said, thinking, surely, he has sex from time to time.

                “They are divorced.”

                “Ah. So how do I supervise his state of health?”

                “Mr Mazon has various sensors that he wears or are implanted which will give you a continuous readout online of all his life signs. Also, you will be supplied with blood and tissue samples at regular intervals. They are taken by a remote unit that one of his companies manufactures.”

                “That’s thoughtful of him,” I said, beginning to feel a little cheeky.

                “And of course you will supervise his medications and diet.”

                “Medication? I thought he was well.”

                “He is. These are preventative – drugs to remove senescent cells, vitamin and antioxidant supplements, telomere lengthening proteins, all that sort of thing.”

                “I see.” I was beginning to understand. Mr Alec Mazon, richest man in the world, was clutching at straws by utilising every method he could find to extend his life. “And his diet; I presume it is vegan, fresh, unprocessed.”

                Nathan smiled once more. “Of course. Not that he eats a lot.”

                “Oh, you mean he uses calorie restriction.” Another documented method of increasing lifespan even if it did mean you were forever hungry.

                “Of course, Doctor. And then there are the gene therapy procedures he undergoes from time to time to eliminate disease-causing genes from his genome. He is planning on mitochondrial replacement therapy soon to boost his energy.”

                “What will I have to do?” I said. Those treatments were outside my experience.

                “Oh, no need to worry. You will just have to schedule them in Mr Mazon’s diary and monitor the effects. They will also be conducted remotely.”

                I wondered how Alec Mazon had time for work or pleasure with all these activities related to keeping him alive for the longest possible period.

                Nathan rose from his chair. “I think that is all you need for now, Doctor. Time, I think, for you to settle into your accommodation. Here is Judah to show you the way.”

                The door had opened and a young man entered the room. Judah seemed almost a clone of Nathan. They were both extremely fit and handsome young men. They looked at each other adoringly. I couldn’t imagine them keeping their hands off each other.

                Judah smiled but didn’t approach me closer than two metres.

                “Oh, there is one other thing I haven’t mentioned,” Nathan said. “Once a month you will supervise the donation of blood my me, Judah and our fellow employees.”

                “That’s very generous of you,” I said, “Does it go to the local transfusion service?”

                “Oh, no, Percy,” Nathan chuckled as if I had made a joke. “We give our blood for Mr Mazon. He has regular transfusions. We have all been chosen as we are a perfect match for his blood.”

                While it was an ancient technique for restoring youthfulness borne out by modern research, it did suggest that Alec Mazon had vampiric tendencies.

                Judah guided me to the door. Nathan called out “We do hope you enjoy your work here Doctor Percy.”

After a month I had settled into the routine of life on Paddle Creek Island. I wasn’t overworked. As Nathan had outlined, all I had to do was keep an eye on the monitor showing all Alec Mazon’s life signs, make sure that he was provided with the narrow range of foods that he permitted himself to eat, and ensure that he took all his drugs and supplements on time. Although I never saw him in person, on screen he or his avatar looked to be fit and perhaps not his full three score years and ten, but wealth is a good medicine, isn’t it.

It was a week after his seventieth birthday. I was relaxing in a hammock with the tablet by my side. I was jolted from my doze by an alarm. I hadn’t heard the sound before and for a moment I wondered what the noise was. Then I realised it was coming from the tablet. I grabbed it and stared in horror at the traces on the screen. Mazon’s heart rate was shooting up while the percentage of oxygen in his blood was falling rapidly. He wasn’t breathing. All his life signs were decaying. Alarms were going off all over the complex now. People, mainly handsome, young men, were running this way and that. Of course, there was no one within a mile of Mazon’s residence to get in and find out what was wrong.

                By the time someone did get there it was too late. He was flatlining on every measure. When I arrived, all I could do as the resident medical expert, was pronounce him dead. Alec Mazon had choked on a Brazil nut. I hoped no one would blame me, after all my name does mean ‘bringer of death’.

………………..

A world in turmoil

There has been a lot of news this week, but I don’t want to devote too much time thinking about the convicted criminal, Trump. I am quite sure the jury’s decision will have no impact on the millions who, for some reason, believe he is an anti-establishment hero facing discrimination from the government. They seem to believe so many other lies. Neither do I want to discuss much of the nonsense spouted in the election campaign other than ask why the BBC gives so much time to Farage. He spouts nothing but lies and rubbish, has never won an election for a personal seat in parliament and never held a post with any responsibility.

So what else has happened this week. Well, last week we went to hear Caroline Lucas, retiring Green Party MP and former leader of the Green Party, speak about her latest book and obviously other aspects of her career. Her book is about finding what it means to be English in various parts of the country and trying to claim Englishness back from the right wing bigots who took us out of Europe. I’m not that interested in the English although I am sure her analysis and suggested responses make interesting reading. She did however come across as a very intelligent and knowledgeable person with endless patience for putting green ideas across. How she coped with fourteen years in Parliament as the sole representative of the Green party, dealing with every issue that came before MPs, I do not know. In a country where representation in parliament is a reflection of the views of the electorate we would have a sizeable number of Green Party MPs able to influence policies. That country is not the UK and never will be – no ruling party will ever support proportional representation. So, we are stuck with main parties which still think that climate change and environmental issues are topics that can be pushed to one side and are not going to be the major drivers of economic and social change/disaster in the future.

I feel rather despondent about the future of the human race and civilisation because of the worsening environmental and political situation. I don’t think it is a consequence of ageing and being in the final quarter or third of one’s life. I keep on asking myself – are things really getting worse or is it just my perception of world and local events. As my personal life is happy, settled and rewarding, I have to conclude that my anxieties are real and that everyone should be striving to put things right before we reach the apocalypse. Unfortunately, I think that, in general, people are just like those frogs in the saucepan – not noticing that the heat is increasing.

Another photo from last year but, not long now and we’ll be off again.

Despite various things happening this week I have got on with a bit of writing. Another area of despondency is the lack of sales of my books – The Jasmine Frame crime novels and my two anthologies through Amazon Kindle (paperbacks from me – contact paintedladiesnovel@btinternet.com) and my five fantasy novels published by Elsewhen. I know that a major part of the problem is my laziness and ineptitude in marketing and advertising but it is disappointing. The thing is that I enjoy the planning and the writing far more than the work needed on promotion, although standing up and talking about my books is fun.

This week I have made progress with my SF novel that has been three or four years in the writing. The end is almost in sight – well, the climax is. Then there is this week’s writers’ group effort, a bit of frivolity. The topic suggested was “hair”, but how was it spelt? My story covers all possibilities. but perhaps not as cleverly or humorously as I would have liked. It’s historical and I did do some googling and wikipediaring to check certain facts. So here it is.

The tale of the hare, the hair, the heir and Herr Herr

Harold acquired his nickname not because of the appeal of alliteration but because he was fleet of foot and sometimes seen running at twilight or dawn. Harold the Hare also had conspicuous ears with very fine hearing and a useful pair of fists. All of which attributes contributed to the success of his career as a thief.  In 1780s London, Harold’s reputation grew as more and more of the large houses of the lords and ladies at court had a nocturnal visitation from him.

                On a dim, misty morning, Harold was making his way across Green Park having spent an unproductive night in Mayfair, where many of the wealthy had taken up residence. As he crossed Constitution Hill he saw the Queen’s Palace looming ahead of him. A fancy that his luck may be in, took hold of him.  He ran silently through the grass to the grand building and noticed a sash window was open. He climbed inside and perused his surroundings in the semi-darkness. It appeared that he had entered the workshop of a master wigmaker because hanks of hair hung from the walls and a very fine specimen was draped over the head of a mannequin in the centre of the room.

                Just then, Harold’s keen ears picked up the faint footsteps of someone approaching along the corridor beyond the door to the room. He grabbed the wig off the stand and dived through the window. He lay in the grass, out of sight, until he was certain that no one in the Palace would see him. He stuffed the wig of soft, curly, brilliant white human hair in his jerkin so that it would not be seen and he scampered away, resuming his morning stroll back to his lodgings in Westminster.

It was considerably later that morning, when the heir to the throne arose from his bed. It had been another late night of carousing with his rich, young friends. After a substantial breakfast, his manservant helped him dress. Prince George had been called to an audience with his father, the King.

                “I suppose I will have to wear a wig,” the young heir muttered, “It is so out of fashion, but papa still expects one to be worn at court. Where is that nice white one that Here Herr has made for me? Summon the wigmaker. I must have it immediately.”

                The message was carried from the grand bedroom down to the ground floor. Herr Herr looked around his work room in vain. Where was his newest and finest creation? Reluctantly, he made his way to the prince’s bedroom empty handed.

                “Where is my wig,” Prince George demanded.

                Herr Herr bowed low and spoke in a thick Hanoverian accent. “Pardon me, your Royal Highness. It has gone. It has been stolen.”

                “Call the guards!” cried the heir. “The thief must be caught. Place a notice with a reward in the newssheets.”

                “What a calamity,” Herr Herr cried, “I do not have another wig completed for you to wear before the King.”

                “Oh, do not concern yourself,” Prince George said. “I didn’t want to wear one anyway. Who does these days? My father will have to become accustomed to seeing gentlemen with their own hair on view, or turn mad.”

A day later, a copy of the London Courant came into Harold’s hands. He read the comings and goings of the wealthy with interest and then noticed a report of the theft from the Queen’s Palace of a fine, white wig. There was a reward for the apprehension of the thief of the same. Harold the Hare snorted. No one would claim that sum. He had already discovered that the market for wigs had diminished considerably and that he would be unlikely to find a trustworthy buyer for such a distinctive example as he had in his possession. He tore the wig apart and used the very fine human hair to supplement the feathers in his favourite pillow. Harold the Hare resolved not to steal wigs again, but the newspaper gave him ideas for a substitute. Apparently, hats were now the rage for ladies and gentlemen. Harold saw opportunities, for, of course, hats were always being mislaid.

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