Where was the fear?

 I’ve read the whole of the Sue Gray report now and I can thoroughly recommend it. It’s well written, clear and easy to read. I didn’t have to look up any words or refer to Ancient Greek myths. Considering that this report is written by a government civil servant it is as impartial as possible. Depending on your original viewpoint, you could get to the end, completely horrified or thinking, ‘What’s all the fuss about. None of this was the Prime Minister’s fault. They were right, he was only ambushed by cake.”

I fell somewhere between the two camps, which is the story of my life. I was expecting to be more cross. I’d seen the salacious highlights of vomiting and karaoke that the press had already drawn out and I had heard people say that there is nothing new here, move on, Boris is vindicated, so maybe the punchline had been spoiled. 

As I started to read, I was furious. If there had only been one event it might have had more impact but with each new gathering (I’m not sure it’s fair to call them parties) you get numbed to it. The report clearly states what rules were in place for each event and you are left in no doubt that Sue Gray believes that the people there (especially Martin) flouted every single one of them but she didn’t go as far as to say that this ‘wine time Friday’ culture was anything to do with the Prime Minister. 

What struck me, though, was that none of these people had any fear. 

We were terrified for two years.

Frightened of catching the illness, spreading the virus, accidentally killing our granny, using public transport, causing whole class self isolation, closing a shop you’d been in, being stopped by the police, being fined for sitting on a park bench, wrecking the economy if we didn’t eat out to help out, loosing jobs, working from home, zoom, leaving the house, having the neighbours report you if you interpreted the rules differently. 

I doubt that’s an exhaustive list but my point is we were petrified and they weren’t.

Maybe they had all had Covid and thought they couldn’t get it again or transfer it to anyone else. Maybe they didn’t love anyone they wouldn’t want to kill. Maybe they didn’t care if the whole of the government machinery that couldn’t do its job via Zoom was forced to self isolate. Maybe there was nothing to fear and they were just keeping us in our place. Or maybe they just didn’t understand the threat they were in charge of and that is the most worrying thing.

Isn’t there anyone else who would like to have a crack at Prime Minister? 

Anyone? 

Time bender

 Shush. Don’t tell anyone. It’s a secret. I don’t really want anyone to know but I’ll tell you if you promise to keep it to yourself.

*whispers* I have a sneaking admiration for Boris Johnson.

You see, most of us, mere mortals find that time works against us. There’s never enough of it, or it’s in the wrong place. I seem to have hours and hours of unproductive time when normal people are asleep and I’m not Margret Thatcher so I just lie there, staring at the ceiling pondering life’s unanswerable questions like, ‘if space is a vacuum, what holds it in?’ Most of us find that time is unpredictable but always against us. 

Boris Johnson, however, has that unnatural ability of being able to make time work in his favour, so that when we see a picture of him at one of the ‘wine-time-Friday’ events that the blurred faces were fined for, we’ve forgotten exactly what life was like then. Journalists are left shouting outside Downing Street like deranged banshees. Boris smiles and tells us to move on and because time has worked in his favour and against the rest of us, that’s what we really want to do. There’s nothing to see here. Move on. 

We know it was wrong, that he set the laws and didn’t follow them himself but, well, time.

There was a conspiracy theory on 2016 Twitter that Boris was actually a time travelling transvestite. I suppose that would explain everything.

I’m feeling particularly end of termish today. It’s our wedding anniversary and I would quite like time to stop for a bit. Do you think the Prime Minister would lend me his superpower, just for one day? It would be the perfect anniversary gift. The Long Suffering Husband and I could use the ability to shape time, although I expect we would just waste it, staring at the telly.

Brims with language

 I finally finished reading the Manningtree Witches. It’s a book that I have picked up and put down too many times. I couldn’t work it out. It had fantastic reviews, everyone I knew loved it but I just couldn’t stick with it. I reasoned that knowing the history, having read Matthew Hopkins (pure evil) book ‘The Discovery of Witches’ and Nehemiah Wellington’s diary (available online), made me less interested.

Last week I picked it up again and mentioned it to a friend who also said they found it too easy to put down again. She thought it was because of the sheer number of wordy sentences.

“Do you know what this means?” she asked, reading from her phone.

His mother is secretly pleased by the incipient masculinity evinced by his intransigence in the face of ablution.

I had a stab but I added in something about moustaches. 

Suddenly, though, I knew the problem. 

I blame the Reader’s Digest and my third year Junior school teacher.

My parents subscribed to the Reader’s Digest and kept the little books in the loo. They were perfect for when you were sitting for a while. My favourite was the page called ‘It pays to enrich your wordpower’, which was Susie Dent in book form.

My 3rd year Junior school teacher was terrifying and she once hit me in front of the class for ‘copying out of a book’  As it turned out I had used more complicated words than were in the book she thought I had plagiarised. This is harsh treatment of a 9 year old but it has always left me a bit twitchy about long words. I just have to look them up. 

That was the problem. Looking up all those words slowed me down, so I walked and read with a pencil, underlining and moving on, like normal people would do (except they wouldn’t walk or underline).

In the end I enjoyed the book and I finished it as a walked down Cross Road. 

Shoes have a symbolism of their own. In the film Big Fish people arriving in the town of Spector ties their shoes together and threw them over the telegraph line to symbolise leaving behind their old life and finding a new freedom. It was a clear sign that I was free from the tyranny of underlining words.

When I was telling another friend about it (mainly because I wanted to show her that I had underlined cunt-struck) she said, “Why do you look them up? Do you remember them? I never do.”

“I do though,” I said, “Because I write them down in a notebook.”

She snorted.

“What? Like a dictionary? I think that’s already been invented.”

She is, of course, right but just in case you are interested in reading The Manningtree Witches then I’m happy to share my dictionary with you.

Cabochon - gem cut in convex form

Scrimshaw - carved or engraved

Envinced - displayed

Intransigence- refusal to compromise

Ablution - washing

Viscera - internal organs

Fulmination - utterance

Lucre - money

Popish Lexemes - Roman Catholic words/phrases

Connivances - knowledge of wrong doings

Pullulate - germinate or breed freely

Midden heap - dung pile

Awl - pointed tool for marking surfaces

Execrable - wretched

Abjection - degradation

Adrumbral ensign - ?foreshaddowing duty officer

Chivs- ?chases

Sowgelders - people who spay sows

Mennonites - Protestant

Shakerags - unkempt or disreputable persons

Termagants - nagging women

‘Agtail (no idea . Wagtail?)

Hoy - boat

Sloop - boat

Shrive - administer the sacrament

Tendentious - disapproving

Between Scylla and Charybdis - 2 equally hazardous alternatives (Greek monsters)

Inundation of remonstrance - overwhelming presentation of reason

Roods - large crucifixes

Bone grubblers - not in dictionary

Dirks - a type of dagger

Piss- prophet empirics - ? Charlatons 

Vexatious accretion - distressing buildup

Anchorite - religiously excluded person

Peremptorily - putting an end to debate

Flensed - stripped of blubber or skin

Cinerous - light bluish grey that is redder than skimmed milk and very slightly redder than glaucous grey (oddly specific)

Blebs - small blisters

Ichor- thin watery blood tinged discharge

Ascetic - strict self denial

Plangent - having a loud reverberating sound

Caravels - sailing ships

Ceremental horizon - horizon that looks like a shroud for the dead

Ostentatious sobriquet - over the top nickname

Bedizened - gaudily dressed

Inspissiates - makes thicker

Mottlegill - mowers mushrooms

Loosestrife - primrose like flower

Impecunious - penniless

Ensorcelled - enchanted bewitched

And now I’m free

MP

 As if we haven’t had enough.

A post-pandemic period is always a twitchy time. Will it lead to a boom or bust? Will there be war? We are all on hyper-alert for the next disaster. Measures to curb the Coronavirus have changed society forever. 

Now there’s a new threat: MP

During the pandemic you might have started to follow members of the government or epidemiologists in attempt to get clarity. Whichever you followed, you are now aware of the new MP threat.

There’s the member of parliament who has been arrested for rape and been asked not to go into Westminster but is still free to mingle, unchecked with his vulnerable constituents.

There’s partygate and the furious people who have been fined for attending the party that the Prime Minister went to without incurring a fine.

There’s also a member of parliament responsible for culture who is so stupid that she boasted about doing what Netflix have been trying (unsuccessfully) to tell us is illegal. 

All those MPs are bad enough but when you follow epidemiologists then the MP they are talking about is monkey pox, which sounds both terrifying and bizarre. It’s like a curse from the 1600s. A malfeasance sent by witches (I’m reading The Manningtree Witches which is good if you don’t mind looking up lots of words).

I’m concerned that this is my fault. I’m sure during the pandemic I cursed Boris Johnson during one of his TV appearances. I shouted at the telly, “You bumbling idiot. Be clearer. A pox on all your monkeys!”

Oh dear, I shouldn’t say that. Monkey pox would be bad enough but being burnt at the stake sounds worse.

Nature

 Take life one day at a time, they say but sometimes several days sneak up on you at once and you are left rocking in a corner, asking if someone could just stop spinning the world for a moment, so you can get off. Life can just be overwhelming.

Recently, whenever I’ve thought about writing a blog too much was happening, so I’ve written nothing and now my head is full of thoughts buzzing around my hornets nest of a head. 

Today I could write about the following topics:

1. How funny it is that the right wing press have got themselves into such a spin over Beergate.

2. Puppies (I am obsessed and worry too much - neurotic dog mum alert)

3. Amber Heard/Johnny Depp

4. Wagatha Christie

5. Borders or boarders in the Island of Ireland

6. The need to ‘register online’ for everything

7. Buying boots

8. CleanTok (I’ve watched hours and although it’s very calming and satisfying my house is still dirty)

9. Eurovision conspiracy theories (It’s just a singing contest!)

10. Sleep (who needs sleep? There’s a guy been awake since the Second World War)

11. Jack Monroe (brilliant person)

12. Champagne Socialists (I’m pro)

When you are overwhelmed then you should switch everything off and get back to nature. That’s the theory. Make your garden a wildlife sanctuary. Go out and get dirt under your paws. 

This is all very well but nature is chaotic. Life is precarious and anxiety levels can easily rise. 

Yesterday, I was a mess. Nature properly pushed all my buttons. Even tidying my sock drawer didn’t help.

The day started, as usual with taking the puppy in the garden. He likes to poo in the patch of long grass I’ve left under the tall beech hedge. He prefers the privacy. He goes back inside to get his donut while I pick up the poo. It’s not a very exciting routine but it’s one that works for us. 

“My goodness, that’s a huge poo,” I thought, getting the bag positioned properly on my hand. 

It wasn’t a poo. It was a blackbird. Just sitting there looking at me.

Now, the thing is, I don’t like birds. That’s not true. I do like birds. I like them from a distance. I like them when they are healthy and happy and twittering around at a distance. But if they flap at me or die then the bird that has lived in my chest since I was a child panics. It flutters and whips it’s wings, unable to free itself from the confines of my upper thoracic cavity. Why it chose to live there in the first place, I’ll never know but there it is. 

From the kitchen window I could see the bird had a broken wing.

“What do we do?” I asked the Long Suffering Husband, hoping that he would know.

“What do you want me to do?” he replied, helpfully.

“We can’t just leave it, can we? The dog…”

“No, I don’t suppose we can. Google it.”

‘Google it’ has become the solution to all life’s problems. Maybe there’s a YouTube video, a TikTok or a Pinterest Page of suggestions. 

The RSPB page said that you couldn’t just leave it. Moral duty. Contact the RSPCA. The RSPCA website said something similar but gave the instruction to take it to a wildlife rescue centre, with no further information on how to find one. Just as I was about to give up, a Facebook friend commented on a local wildlife rescuer’s page. I love coincidences like that.

“You can bring it to me,” she said on the phone.

“But how do I catch it?” I asked, hoping she wouldn’t hear the terror in my voice. 

She gave me some tips like looking for the worst place for it to run to, cornering it, maybe throwing a towel over it but in the end you just had to pick it up with gloved hands. 

Oh no. 

The LSH took charge, barking instructions at me as the bird in my chest proved it had two properly working wings.

A bird with a broken wing might not be able to fly but it can hop and it’s very fast.  After an hour of chasing it round the garden the puppy was watching from the patio door, overly excited and ready for his next toilet break. It was a nightmare.

  My son spotted my distress and calmly stepped in. The LSH had a bracket to fix on my daughter’s car, so we were on our own.

“Let’s try luring it.”

We tried seed and bread and cake.

It liked my cake but it was still too fast.

The problem with making a garden that is wildlife friendly is that there are too many places for a frightened damaged blackbird to hide. 

Over the next six hours he got it into the box 4 times but it hopped out before he could get the lid on and I couldn’t take it anymore. The bird had buried itself in a little hole in the fence, next to a rose bush behind the apple tree.

I took myself and the puppy to the woods where we saw a deer (much less scary) and two old people with umbrellas (terrifying). 

When we got back my chest bird was still flapping and tidying the sock draw wasn’t working.

“It’s all fine, though,” the LSH tried to reassure, looking out of the bedroom window, to avoid eye contact with a woman who couldn’t get her socks straight in the drawer. “We haven’t seen it for hours. It’s probably……..bugger. Little bastard!”

“We can get it if we work together,” he said, but I couldn’t.

Luckily, my son had friends round playing D&D in the dining room. I directed from the bedroom window as it took 3 young men and one old one to wrangle the bird into a box.

“We’ve got it!”

The wildlife lady took a look.

“Oh no,” she said, “it’s an adult female. Keep a lookout. There will be babies.”

Nature: It could help your mental health or completely destroy it.

Eurovision

 I have cheese. The Long Suffering Husband has wine and the dog has chewed up my sunglasses. It’s going to be a fun evening.

The Youth Orchestra had their annual Eurovision competition last night and although France had the popular vote, the expert judges had watched the private rehearsal and came to a completely different conclusion, making Spain the winner. That’s just the way it goes.

We have high hopes for our Maldon man this year with his long flowing hair and TikTok following but it’s unlikely isn’t it. Spacemen don’t really come from Maldon.

The official scorecard has been printed and I will be updating the blog throughout the evening with my own categories. 

Here comes Graeme. 

All we are sailing is give peas a chance with a we will rock you foot and clap routine.

The host is singing and is dressed as an orange Pom Pom. Now she’s changed into a doctor, maybe she was the Coronavirus, being topical. I hope they haven’t used up all their fireworks and fart flames. How does she change so quickly? Blue sparkles and now a yellow Mac. If she was a contestant then I’d give her extra points for the costume changes. Always good to end on a wipe down bondage outfit.

Flag waving. We love flag waving. The lady from Greece has travelled from the 1970s.

Are you excited?

 You cannot vote for your own country. I wonder how many people try?

I like Italy.

Czech Rebublic - lights out. 

She’s been swimming. Changing her furniture. Gets extra points for real instruments. That’s quite a bank of keyboards. Dave in chains. It’s depressing and forgettable. Lots of lights. Where are you now.

Romania - llamame 

Graeme mentions the great Italian shirt shortage but they seem to have made his ruffles from the hips of the girls trousers. They all look a bit slippery, grease or cling film? You decide. Look at that belt. Extra points for ripping shirts off. I have no idea about the song. 

Portugal - Saudade, saudade. Nice intro, calming. Enya meets The Six. I like it but you won’t. I’m not sure about the performance aspect of standing in a circle and singing to each other and clapping. Has she been rubbing herself against the Romanian bloke? Covered in glitter.

Finland- Jezebel 

Oh no. He’s let go of his balloon. He’ll never get that back. Have you seen the height of the ceiling. This is the LSH’s kind of music: Eighties rock where it’s all the woman’s fault.Extra points for feathers and instruments. favourite so far.

Switzerland - Boys do cry. It’s a nice song, although a bit slow. It’s familiar.

France - fulenn Drum. Flames. We predict an accelerando. This is weird. The youth orchestra’s French entry was much better. I quite like the uke stand - they are very heavy instruments. 

Norway - Give that Wolf a banana. We’ve been looking forward to this. I like it . 90s club vibe. Big box, little box. I could do this in a class assembly. The dance is amazing. A proper song for the TikTok generation. I will call you Keith - yum. The shorter one is called Ben. That explains why he knows all the word.

Armenia Snap  - Pyjamas and a white guitar. There’s a lot of instruments this year. She’s having fun ripping the walls apart. It’s a bit Mumford and Sons and probably will be forgotten quickly. 

The staging this year is brilliant. 

The race is on fire? What does that mean? has Mika just taught us Italian swearing?

Toast to Terry. We love Terry. Singing the floral dance.

Italy - the audience are singing. Sparkly suit. That’s an odd piano sparkly man raps. I expect it was good live.

Spain- Oh my. I think I’ve just seen her ovaries. They are good dancers but are they actually singing?

Netherlands- de diepte- oooh aaah. Another familiar song. A dignified level of partial nakedness.

Ukraine - the LSH just said, “ooh we’ve been there.”  But it was a picture of Florence, which is good because I don’t remember going to Ukraine. Pink bucket hat. Double bass and a recorder thing with rapping. Slobadobbadobba. I’m in. I’m doing the cross legged dance if I get stuck send an ambulance. I loved that. So much fun.

Germany - the LSH is telling us about the test track on top of the Fiat building. I might not be able to concentrate on this rockstars song.I like it when they don’t have to dress up and play all their instruments from their front room. I really like this. No gimmicks. It’s a good song. It would be a good year six leavers song.

Lithuania - It’s Shirley Bassey. And she keeps singing about having a bassoon. The question in our house: is it a wig or a helmet? 

Azerbaijan - Fade to black. Brave to so such a quiet vocal led song. He has a shadow and nice Clark’s shoes. His shadow is dancing. No instruments and the staging is boring. Not for me. Graeme likes him.

Belgium - Miss You - James Bond theme. I like the song. His vocal was amazing. I’m not sure what the dancers are doing. They could have dressed up a bit. . It’s the side step, step, grab your hip that people my age do at a family wedding.

Mika - got to be white got to be blue got to be fuchsia pink

Greece - Die together Speak up. Stop mumbling. I hate that dress and you can see through it. Graeme and I are not agreeing today. She will get at least 12 points though. Cyprus will love it.

Iceland - stystur Iceland should have won in 2020. They seem a bit lost in this huge stadium. Could the Seventies come and get its fashion back? It was terrible the first time. White boots and mini skirts didn’t do Karen Carpenter any favours

Maldova - hey ho let’s go. This is proper Eurovision. This is what we are here for. Fiddles. Accordions, drummers just playing the cymbals, silly suits and hats. A dance we could all do. Hey ho. Let’s go. PERFECT!

Sweden - Nothing wrong with this but no one will remember it. The main judging isn’t done on this performance so at least they don’t really have to compete with hey ho off we go. Can someone lob her a strepsil, though?

Australia - No one knows why! Not the same. Do his hips look big in this? He’s not the same. It could be another year six leavers song. Oh. He’s crying. Pull yourself together. 

VOLARE

UK - Sam Rider. A nice man from Maldon. Spaceman. Next John Lewis Advert? He has an incredible voice. Doesn’t he have nice teeth? Not too shabby.

Poland - River - It’s raining. Weird harmony. Migraine inducing staging.

Serbia - Handwashing song. We can’t pretend we haven’t all had one of those. The political message. Washa washa washa.

Estonia - hope - shades of Morricone. Spaghetti western. Go go mi go. Tumbleweed, whip cracking. Nice smile. If the crowd like it it might just be because it’s nearly over. Elvis impersonator.

She’s gone deaf. Why do they always do that? I can’t hear you. 

You can’t vote for Sam unless you do it on the app and do something clever with the vpn. I didn’t say that, my son did.

Mika to win!

Voting

Netherlands 12 points Greece

San Marino  12 points Spain

North Macedonia 12 points Spain

Malta 12 points Spain

Ukraine 12 points to UK 

Albania 12 points Italy 

Uk is top of the leaderboard!

Estonia 12 points Sweden 

Azerbaijan 12 points uk

A proper lead

Portugal 12 points to Spain

Germany 12 points to UK

Belgium 12 points uk

Norway 12 points Greece

Israel 12 points Sweden

Poland 12 points to Ukraine

Greece 12 points to Azerbaijan 

Maldova 12 points to Ukraine

Bulgaria 12 points to Greece

Serbia 12 points to Azerbaijan 

Iceland 12 points to Sweden

Cyprus 12 points to Greece of  ourse

Latvia (what a hat) 12 points to Ukraine

Spain 12 points to Azerbaijan 

Switzerland 12 points to Geeece

Denmark 12 points to Greece

No keep going - Graeme squeaks

France 12 points to UK

TWELVE POINTS FROM FRANCE THEY HATE US BREXIT ARGHHHH

Armenia 12 points Spain

Montenegro 12 points to Serbia 

Romania 12 points to Ukraine 

Ireland 12 points to Spain

Slovenia 12 points to Italy

Georgia  12 points to UK

Croatia 12 points to Serbia

Lithuania 12 points to Ukraine

Austria 12 points to  UK

Finland 12 points to Sweden

Uk 12 points to Sweden

Sweden 12 points to Spain

Australia 12 points to Spain

Czech Republic 12 points to uk

Italy 12 points to Netherlands

25 point lead but it can still all change. It’s the public vote!

Mika is excited.

I don’t think Germany deserves no points. 6 points phew

Public likes Maldova. And we are not over handwashing

Ukraine go to the top of the leaderboard 439 points. I think that means they have won.

Gosh this is tense.

We need 349

183

2nd to Ukraine. Well done Sam brilliant!

Hands Up

 I’ve been quiet for a while because I’ve been on jury service and the first rule of jury service is that you can’t talk about jury service and now that I’ve started to write about jury service I can see why: there are just too many jury services in one sentence.

However, now it’s over I’m allowed to talk.

Right, you say. Here we go, settle in, get the popcorn. There’s bound to be some juicy gossip, a weird criminal, a judge with a wonky wig or even a fainting witness. If there were any of these things then I can’t tell you about them because I wasn’t chosen for anything and have been dismissed early.

“Ooh, what did you do?” my colleague asked when I excitedly told her I could come back to work (I know. I’m sad but I like my job).

“Nothing!” I insisted, “There probably aren’t any more cases that need a jury.”

Every time a jury was chosen the officer took great pains to point out that it was purely random and not to take it personally, to those of us left behind.

I’m sure that’s true.

But…

I did make a bit of a fool of myself on the first day and you can’t help wonder.

When you arrive at the court you show your summons to security, who do airport type screening. Empty your pockets, bags searched, walk through the scanner, take a sip from your water to prove it isn’t bomb making juice. Then they wave the wand thing around you.

“Turn around. Hands up.”

I did as I was told.

“Errm. Not that high,” he said, chuckling.

I put them down a bit but probably not enough.

“I don’t think anyone has done that before,” he said, laughter playing at the corners of his eyes and mouth.

“I’m sorry, I don’t get out much,” I said.

He couldn’t hold back any longer as tears of mirth wet his face.

“I’ve made your day, haven’t I? Is this the story you’ll tell over dinner tonight?”

I clearly wasn’t a security risk and so up to jury room A I went. All the way to the top. Do not stop. Do not look in the waiting room and definitely don’t use the toilets that are for the public.

Jury room A was a hot canteen without catering facilities. The vending machines had been turned off due to Covid and they sat along one edge, tempting our boredom with out of date chocolate bars.

After the initial flight safety video we were allowed a break, to get fresh air, stretch our legs, or in the case of one juror get yourself a Happy Meal for elevensies.

As I walked down the stairs the security guard nudged his mate and they both shot their hands straight into the air, as though I was going to shoot them.

The shame.

On my way back in he explained more carefully.

“Lift your arms..just a bit….so I can get the wand underneath.”

Maybe the selection of juries isn’t entirely random. Making a security guard laugh might be enough to get you de-selected.