Back in the day, I had a girlfriend who was the daughter of an army veterinary officer and her name was Margo. More recently I had a client who worked for one of the big insurance companies who was also called Margo …. but when my daughter announced she was going to name her new American Labrador puppy Margo too, with a ‘T’ or not I wasn’t sure, I wondered whether she should have been called Mango because she was of that colour.  I thought, incidentally, that Margo was the surrogate child …. until Jade became pregnant and Theo arrived ….. and Margo stayed.

I lost the argument about her name and Margo she stayed. That was 24 months ago and she has grown into a handsome, well behaved dog, so congratulations are due to my daughter for her patient training that has paid off in spades. Mind you Margo lives in a house with three children under 7 and two cats, so she had to be adaptable and not a pain in the arse!

After Easter Margo stayed with us here in Hove for ten days and I was reminded of the two other dogs I’ve had. While I was at university I took the decision to have a dog; after all, a three year residential course represented unusual stability in an ubiquitous Army career and, with parental agreement to look after her if I was posted overseas, I got a Boxer.

At the beginning of 1967 the second BBC television channel showed a drama called The Forsyte Saga on Saturday evenings, with a wonderful cast that included Susan Hampshire, Nyree Dawn Porter, Kenneth More and Margaret Tyzack. At the time there were not many television sets capable of receiving BBC2, which used the latest 625–line broadcasting system (cf 405 lines), so it was repeated on Sunday evenings eighteen months later when coverage had improved significantly. It was the last major British serial made in black & white and was compulsory viewing! Hard to believe, but evening Church services were rescheduled and pubs emptied as everyone sat before their TV sets …. and became hooked on the storylines. Susan Hampshire played Fleur …….. and this is a long-winded explanation as to why I called my boxer Fleur when she came into my life in 1969. Coincidentally my ex-sister-in-law, who lives just north of Seattle, is also called Fleur. The Boxer breed is well known for being highly strung and Fleur, a lightweight, slim dog, was one such. Sadly she died aged 7 but I would like to think she had a fun life; she certainly gave a lot of love.

Wind the clock forward twenty five years and in 2002 I got Tom, my beautiful black Labrador, through Labrador Rescue. The decision to get another dog was prompted by the death of my nephew William at the age of 18 from cancer. That ‘Why put off something you want to do, especially as ‘life’ is full of uncertainties?’ question ……. and the answer was Tom. A gentle giant if ever there was one; what he lacked in brain power he made up for with love and affection in spades. His walks were either around the streets in Battersea or across Wandsworth Common, an area of 70 hectares/170 acres of grass, trees, lakes and wild life which lay at the top of the road some 200m away from home. Walking there daily kept me aware of nature’s death and decay, of new birth and new growth, the changing seasons and all that they bring. Tom of course loved the ‘death’ bit and was good at ferreting out a decaying fox’s carcass!! Yuk.

He moved with us to Hove in 2012. The apartment leasehold building has a ‘no pet’ clause so we had to get permission from the landlord to have him, on the basis that he would not be around too much longer. If you are a pet owner you will recognise that awful moment when you realise that their life has become one of discomfort and it’s their time to go. Unless of course it’s a goldfish! That was six years ago and so when Margo came all these memories came flooding back.

We are reminded of the routines involved with owning a pet with Margo and it’s amazing how quickly we get into the early morning walk, the lunchtime wee, the afternoon long walk and ball games and the evening last-thing-at-night wander around the streets. Our jacket pockets become full of plastic poo bags, antiseptic gel and treats. We buy a stuffed material duck that lasts about one day before its capok has been ripped out; we go to the charity shop for a cheaper replacement. Tom never got into ripping his toys; funny how dogs can be so different. Margo will not pee on the concrete pavements so the grass of Hove Lawns becomes her first stop. Then it’s onto the pebble beach to poo. Without going into too much description of similar colours etc, could you find a dog deposit on a beach such as this?

One morning I looked, and looked ….. and then prayed that the rising tide would come soon!! And I have noticed there seems to have been an increase in ‘negative’ council by-law signs: “Dogs on leads!!” “No Cycling!” “No dogs on beach 1^st May – 30 September” “No BBQs on this beach” “Respect the ‘shared space’” and all that inclusive politically correct wording. Sometimes I just want to see a sign which simply says “Enjoy Yourself”!!

Funny how walking a dog ensures strangers smile, pass the time of day, acknowledge you in a way that sans chien would never happen. And whilst Wandsworth was inland, here on the coast I’m very conscious of high and low water times and the consequent size of the beach. During Margo’s time with us we had the second blue moon in a month, with the tidal difference over 6 metres.

And then she went home to her owners, the two cats and three young boys, and all she left, apart from her memories, were tufts of ginger hair in odd places and that faint whiff of damp dog. Lovely having another living creature with one.

 

Richard 21^st April 2018

PS I am actually not sure whether Margo is a Labrador, American or not! Every Labrador I know will devour their food faster than you can say Jeremy Corbyn; Tom would take about 47 seconds to get through 300g of dried food. Margo, on the other hand, would always leave some in her bowl so she could snack throughout the day. Strange huh!

 

The other weekend I drove west to see my brother in Dorset. It was a cold spring day and snow was forecast but the roads were still dry. I pulled into a motorway service station in search of petrol and personal sustenance. I didn’t need a coffee but was gaging for some sort of fruit; funny how we get like that about some food …… just gaging for it!! The motorway service stations in the UK have recently been accused of hiking the price of petrol by 15% but overall the quality of the food & drink offing has improved immeasurably since the 1980s when they were graded abdominal!

Three shops comprised the retail section, the first two a burger joint and a coffee shop with its attendant biscuits, buns, wraps, doughnuts and sugary snacks; the other was a small supermarket offering newspapers, CDs, ready meals to put into the microwave when you reached your destination, crisps of every size shape and flavour, snack bars and chocolate made by the well-known manufacturers  ….. but the only fruit was an extremely small container of melon balls. Three scoops with the plastic spoon and that would have been it, except you would have been considerably poorer!! No apples, no bananas, no ……..  before my current exercise in eating more healthily I would have bought a Twix bar, a Cadburry’s chocolate whole nut, a tube of  Smarties or Trebor Extra Strong Mints but this time I had only set my sights on some fruit!! I drove away disgruntled and empty handed. Got me thinking about the health geeks’ exhortations to eat more fruit, eat at least five portions of vegetables and fruit a day etc etc.

In my mother’s day our fruit was mainly home grown, except for bananas. In 1956 my parents bought a house in the Sussex village of Balcombe called ‘Orchards’(see PC 58 Going Home). The name suggests more than one and there wasn’t, but the singular name doesn’t sound right does it?

Some previous owner had planted dozens of apple trees in the garden with the net result that every autumn we picked hundreds of apples, wrapped them in newspaper and put them in cardboard boxes in the cellar, ready to be enjoyed throughout the winter. Invariably about February one would unwrap one and find the whole box had become mouldy. Or you took a bite and found a maggot in the half-eaten apple …… and wondered whether this was a half or the whole maggot ….. and where might the other half be!! We picked apples from the trees without realising just how many varieties of this fruit there are. In another part of the garden were fruit cages full of raspberries, red currents, black currents, blackberries and strawberries. Strong netting was needed to keep hungry birds out.

In addition to the outside grown fruit there was a grape vine in the conservatory attached to the house. With a little bit of careful pruning and mould management it produced small bunches of white grapes. I ate them as if it was my duty, being home grown and all, but actually my memory is of a rather bitter small grape …… with a pip! In UK apples with names like Bramley, Cox, Granny Smith and Golden Delicious were well known and then along came the New Zealand Braeburn which was developed in 1952. Other varieties continue to be developed. English pears, plums, greengages and gooseberries seem to thrive well in our island climate but all the citrus fruits we tend to leave to those Mediterranean countries that have a more suitable one.

Today we have got used to the availability of most fruits month in, month out, although you need a mortgage to buy half a kilo of cherries imported from Chile or Peru out of season. Sadly imported strawberries bought in January suffer in the long flight in low temperatures; the result is a tasteless berry you bought for a premium! Buying ‘in season’ reminds us of the yearly rhythms.

 

Blueberries were almost unknown in Britain thirty years ago but growing awareness (no pun intended) of their benefits has caused a 500% increase in their production in the UK, rivalling the raspberry in popularity. Experts say that blueberries contain antioxidants that help blood circulation, keep the heart healthy and skin elastic – a classic modern ‘superfood’! In the three years 2005 to 2008 total sales went from £40m to £95m.

And I haven’t mention bananas yet!! Britain became conscious of the banana at the beginning of the C20th due to a marketing campaign by Elders & Fyffes, importers of the fruit from the Caribbean. Sales soared ….. and further increased in 1960 when Mather & Crowther launched a campaign on behalf of the major importers to ‘unzip a banana’. The sexual suggestiveness of the fruit was reinforced when ‘unzip your banana’ became a popular slogan!!

Today the banana is the favourite UK snack with imports from the Caribbean and Latin American countries reaching 5 billion a year. Sadly due to the fickle nature of the buying public, 160 million of these are thrown away each year, either because they were rejected by the supermarkets as too ripe or by the public who let them over-ripen and become black at home. Apart from unzipping and eating it straight, you can BBQ them, fry them, put them into a Banana Sundae or, and this is great, wrap them, without the skin on, in clingfilm and put them in the freezer. If you fancy a banana ‘ice-lolly’, just take it out, leave it to defrost for a few minutes and suck! Yum.

I couldn’t write a postcard without some nod to the use of fruit in our language and I hope you smile at a few that come to mind:

‘Going Bananas’ is used to describe someone becoming irrational or crazy.

‘Life is just a bowl of cherries’.

‘Don’t upset the applecart.’

‘I couldn’t give a fig’ means not to be worried about something, but why the use of the word ‘fig’ is uncertain.

Otherwise it would be sour grapes! The one that I really like is ‘The Apple of One’s Eye’, referring to someone who is irreplaceable and precious. Curiously over a thousand years ago the centre of one’s eye was called the ‘apple’ in English as the Latin word ‘pupil’ had not been introduced. So the association with something precious and the word apple became common.

And my mother would have been amazed at the lychees, star fruit, Kiwi fruit, mangos and papaya one can now buy in most regular supermarkets.

 

Richard 8^th April 2018

PS    Pineapples were grown in the UK by the Victorians but today they are virtually all imported. The name has specific connotations in Brazil where a pineapple, apart from their delicious home-grown ones, is a problem to be grappled with! Funny life inn’t?

‘Virgin’ – as a noun, a person who has never had sexual intercourse or a person who is naive, innocent or inexperienced in a particular context. Or, as an adjective, being related to a virgin or as in not yet used, exploited or processed.

Historically the Christian world started with a ‘virgin’ birth. You can imagine the scholars, mainly disciples of Jesus Christ, who got together to write about events in Bethlehem forty or so years before. Must have had good memories huh? Could I write about events that occurred in 1978 today with any degree of factual certainty? How much was ‘created’ I wonder? Unlike today, little was known of the reproductive process at the time; no one knew that male semen and female ovum were both needed to form a foetus. It was widely thought that Mary’s bodily fluids would provide all the matter needed for Jesus’ body, including his male sex. The idea of a ‘virgin birth’ was initially only mentioned by two of the gospel writers, Mark and Luke. There were plenty of precedents for the idea of a virgin birth, as it was common in their mythology that deities would impregnate mortal women. It occurs to me today that here was a wonderful opportunity for a promiscuous woman to explain a pregnancy to her husband in their sexless marriage – “Oh! Perseus visited me last month!” Anyway, despite lots of scepticism among scholars and other gospel writers, the view prevails and Mary Magdalene became known universally as the Virgin Mary.

But those who wrote the story of Christianity wanted it to be known that the son of God was a reproduction ‘in his own likeness’. So the word virgin became associated with purity, goodness, newness and so when marrying it was expected that the female would be a virgin. Note that there seemed to be no requirement for the man to be so, indeed it was expected he would gain sexual experience before getting married. This always seemed to me a little unfair but it was based, I suppose, on the belief that a virgin would bleed during her first sexual experience so you could check. No such check was possible on a man.

You might wonder why I am scribbling a PC on such a topic. Well, it seems that the whole world has developed falsehoods about virginity, based on a myth. The phrase “losing your virginity” as a female relies on the erroneous belief that the hymen breaks during the first penetrative sex ……. and that there will be blood.  Keeping your daughter a ‘virgin’ until she marries is regarded as a crucial cultural milestone in many many societies. Indeed there are some medical men, and I am refraining from using the word doctor here, who make a living reconstructing a hymen for those who need demonstrable proof.

The world seemed to go on as normal so I am not sure many people saw the fascinating article in The Times in January entitled; “The Virginity Myth and the G-Spot Shock.” If everyone reads it and accepts it is scientific fact, the culture of certain countries will have to be turned upside down. You missed it? Well, read on.

In their new book ‘The Wonder Down Under’ – and no, this is not a title of some advertisement for an Australian or New Zealand holiday – Norwegian medics Nina Brochmann and Ellen Stokken Dahl lay out the truth about female genitalia. Excuse me? A PC on female genitalia? Why not? It’s not as if they are a rarity; bit like male genitalia but then these appendages have been talked about, fascinated over, depicted in marble statues since a Greek stonemason first lifted a chisel towards the block of marble.

Female ones were covered up by a fig leaf (why fig?), hidden under some pubic hair, or even covered by a hand, to create a sort of mystic!

The curiosity starts in childhood ……… and for some goes on well into their dotage! On one British TV channel an adult programme called ‘Naked Attraction’ asks contestants to choose someone for a ‘blind’ date by looking at their genitalia, in most cases of the opposite sex. I say ‘most cases’ because in 2018 this seems a little too traditional and other choices are available! I can tell you, we are all different!

You can be hear the two Norwegians giving a TED talk ‘The Virginity Fraud’ and having read the article, that’s what I did, hearing the message that these two young doctors want to deliver. Shock horror; The Hymen myth! “The hymen” according to Brochmann and Dahl, “is a seal formed in female embryos, possibly a piece of redundant evolutionary tissue from our aquatic ancestors. The seal dissolves before birth, leaving a residual ring.” They illustrate their TED talk by covering a Hula hoop with cling film, popping it to illustrate that the hymen is simply the ring, rather like a stretchy scrunchie.

How can this physical aspect of the female gender have escaped the microscope for so long? Or is it in the interests of the male dominated societies to perpetuate the lies? For sure, fewer than half of women surveyed report bleeding when they first have sex, and no one really knows where this blood comes from, but the authors have had letters from women in the Middle East particularly who have been threatened with violence as their hymen didn’t behave as the textbooks had predicted – ie bleed!

Fortunately most people today believe that the ‘virgin birth’ is as likely to be true as those who believe the earth to be only 10,000 years old or that the moon is made of blue cheese. And when I think of the word virgin today, I think of Richard Branson and his various companies, Virgin Media or Virgin Airways!!

Funny world, inn’t?

Richard 24^th March 2018

PS Space precludes me from explaining in detail their take on the ‘G-Spot Myth’. Suffice to say that the clitoris is a huge organ, about 7-12cm long, under the skin and delightfully described by Helen Rumbelow of The Times (Ed: There’s an interesting surname for such an article!!) as ‘if I am allowed a poetic bit of symbolism, in the shape of a wishbone’. For a man, think ‘boner’ for an erection; and now think boner for women who can have the same erectile tissue, but hidden beneath the skin.

PPS Another myth demolished by these two doctors is that far from the idea that the male sperm is one of millions heading to fertilise the only egg, actually there are thousands of eggs from which to choose from. So it’s a miracle it happens at all!!

After two hugely satisfying careers I found myself, in 1991, a victim of the economic recession and was made ‘redundant’. Such a horrible word but you have to get your mind around the fact that it was the job that was no longer, that you were still ‘you’. Taking a personal stock check is a hugely cathartic process and so essential at certain times; this was one. Friends said: ‘Stay with what you know (the Defence Industry); now is not the time to change’. But my own stock-take had confirmed lots of transferable skills and I had always been attracted to some sort of PR role, maybe even advertising. So I networked and, although I wasn’t successful in finding something in those sectors, knew it was possible to do something different. A couple of months later I found myself poacher turned gamekeeper, as I got a job helping people who were unemployed!

When the recession finally ended, the stream of unemployed executives needing assistance dried up, but I had learned enough about the ‘unlocking your potential’ process to sell myself as an executive coach. Often people firstly think of the reasons why they can’t do something, whereas a change of thinking might unlock a new path, an alternative thought process which reinforces the reasons they can do something. It’s the challenge for those of us who work with others to assist in finding the key that unlocks that process.

Although I have hung up my toolbag, yesterday, exceptionally, I had a session with someone who needed help. I still get excited by starting with a new client, even after 22 years! From the many hundreds of clients, here’s one story that I remember vividly, as it demonstrates how simply talking to someone can be so beneficial. I have changed the names and situation a little.

A friend suggested that Sally came to see me as she was due to come to the end of her current contract in the Metropolitan Police and had admitted to being rather unsure of what she, unmarried and 29, wanted to do next. She sat down for our session, actually quite confident and self-assured. So I asked her what she wanted to talk about, did she know what she wanted to do next.

“Probably advertising!” she replied, although I detected the slightest suggestion of doubt in her voice.

“OK!” I said, “So why have you come to see me?”

“Well, you know, simply confirmation that this is the right thing to do.” I didn’t know Sally, and to make some judgements, I had to understand a little of her background.

So then we started the tale, from the beginning; how she had actually wanted to become an internet webpage designer, seemed to have a gift for it, but her father had other ideas, wanting to see his daughter ‘do something with your life’ – suggesting of course that webpage design wasn’t quite the right thing! Her elder brother was equally adamant. Funny, and sometimes tragic, how family pressure can seriously affect the decisions you make in your late teens, often only realising later in life with more maturity and experience that you should, perhaps, have stuck to your guns.

Sally asked her father whether he would loan her some money to pay for the web design course that would give her the skills she needed. He said: “Of course! But I have an inkling you could carve out a great career in the Metropolitan Police;” following his own illustrious one. “Would you please me and just see whether you could pass the selection tests? If you decide it’s not for you, then I’ll give you the cash you need.” Well, she did well, and he didn’t honour his side of the bargain; with no funding, she stayed, resentful and untrusting. Many years later we get to ‘today’ ……… and ‘advertising’.

As we talked about relationships and her experiences, she began to trust her own thoughts and ideas, secure in the unthreatening confidential coaching environment. Suddenly, and I can remember this moment as if it was yesterday, she leans forward and says: “Do you know what I really really want to do?” “It’s not in advertising then?” “No!” “Go on!” I say; and out it came, ideas unfettered by parental judgement and personal insecurities, a stream of excitement and enthusiasm. She outlined her ideas, her timescales and her business model. Eventually, breathless, she asked: “What do you think? Can I do it?”

“If you think this idea has merit, it’s worth pursuing. Only then will you know whether you can do it or not”

“Great” she said, and got up and left!

I sat there in the aftermath, reinforced in my personal belief that if you really want to do something, the best thing is to do it. In my hand I held her metaphorical brake!!

Richard 11^th March 2018

PS Sally emailed later to say that she had re-established contact with her brother after 6 years and had seen her father. The past was going to remain the past.

In the duty free area of London Heathrow Airport’s Terminal 5 in January, I spied a ‘buy one get one half price’ offer in a bookstore. In addition to a gritty novel about policing in Glasgow in 1973 by Alan Parks, I bought Dan Brown’s ‘Origin’. I guess like most people, well, most people who don’t consider themselves above such wild speculation, I had read his Da Vinci Code many years ago. I admit to being one of the most gullible people in the world and was drawn, hook, line and bloody sinker into his wonderful tale of codes, conspiracies and religion. I remember even making notes somewhere on my laptop for future reference! I never knew how much was from his creative mind, how much was simply regurgitating well-worn conspiracy theories or just ‘fake news’. Did it matter? Not in the slightest, such is the power of a good book, a story well told.

I ploughed my way through ‘Bloody January’, marvelling at the ability of the main character, a policeman, to continue to operate despite drinking copious quantities of alcohol and taking recreational drugs, read Paula Hawkins’ latest on my Kindle and started ‘Origin’. In my view the mark of a good writer is to engage you from the first page; you don’t want to be wondering, having read three chapters of a book, if you are going to enjoy it. ‘Origin’ is essentially a tale about a futurist announcing a breakthrough in establishing not only where we have come from but, maybe more importantly, where we are going. Sounds the basis for a typical Dan Brown novel, doesn’t it? Absolutely! Great, pacey, well-researched read with a little pinch of drama and a huge dose of make-believe.

And why have I mentioned this? Well, a day after finishing it I visited a new museum here in Rio de Janeiro, the Museum of Tomorrow (Museu do Amanhã) which opened a year ago down on the waterfront. On the little leaflet showing the layout of the museum, it headlines “Where do we come from? Who are we? Where are we? Where are we going?” Spooky huh!

My generation have seen a step-change in museums and galleries around the world, not only in how they display their treasures but also in their architecture. Take for example Bilbao, a dusty run-down port in Northern Spain!

The Guggenheim in Bilbao was built in 1997 and is a striking, modern museum by Canadian architect Frank Gehry. Next to the museum is a large Scotty-type dog; when I say large I’m talking 40 metres tall. I went in 2004 and frankly, apart from an exhibit of large steel plates at odd angles, I remember nothing ……. apart from the amazing building itself ….. and the dog! Dan Brown’s novel starts here.

So now we have buildings meant to house artifacts and exhibits which in themselves become the reason to visit. I remember the MOMA in New York, only for the spiralling ramp that takes you up to the different levels; maybe modern art is not my thing? Here in Rio the actual building that houses this Museu do Amanhã is in itself a striking piece of architecture.

From a distance, from up close, and from inside it continually surprises one with its space, its details, its light.

Inside I’m immediately brought back to Brown’s novel when we are given a smart card with which one can interact with IRIS, a computer-generated information system ……. just as guests to his futurist’s presentation in Bilbao were given.

Most people believe the scientific consensus that we evolved slowly from primates over millions of years. Except maybe the Americans surveyed in a Gallop poll, 42% of whom believe that God created humans in their present form 10,000 years ago. Maybe they are the ones who voted for the current president? Or the Ultra-Orthodox Jews in north London who want to teach children that the world is only 6000 years old, despite evidence to the fact that the Aboriginal people populated Australia 60,000 years ago.

Even Pope Francis tries to bring Catholic thinking into the C21st: “When we read about creation in Genesis, we run the risk of imagining God was a magician, with some magic wand. But that is not so. He created human beings and let them develop according to the internal laws that he gave to each one so they could reach their fulfillment. Evolution in nature is not inconsistent with the idea of creation, because evolution requires the creation of beings to evolve.”

One of the rooms in the museum, walled by mirrors, was full of 25cm square columns, covered with photographs of people, of cities, of nature, of agriculture, of religion, of riots, of warfare, of …… well, it went on and one, these closely packed columns about us …….. so much so that it became claustrophobic to be in this room …. and maybe that was the message ….. that the world will become too crowded, is over populated?

Looking ‘up’ the down-ramp

From the first floor level there is a beautiful downwards ramp, with lights, hidden in the underside of the handrail, reflected in the polished surface. Outside, the building’s soaring wings are reflected in shallow pools of water. I am sure they looked wonderful in the architect’s model but in reality, to look wonderful the pools need to be kept clean. An army of chaps spends all day scrubbing their bottoms!

And you know how in every museum, every gallery, every mansion or palace you visit, there’s always a shop you have to go through to get to the exit? Well, it wasn’t until we had left we realised we hadn’t been through the merchandising bit. It was back at the entrance!

I never really think about where I am going, in a futuristic sense. Who knows what’s in store ……. and I have certainly come to accept that having a fulfilling and interesting life relies more on your ability to be flexible to change than your ability to lay down great grandiose plans! And I have no better idea having read Dan Brown’s novel or having visited the Museum of Tomorrow!! Maybe I’ll know …… tomorrow? Providing of course I can get through today!

Of course as you reach middle age and beyond, there is an unspoken desire to believe in something other than nothing! More scribbles for the new year to come.

Richard 24^th February 2018 (Written in Rio, posted in the UK)

PS Mind you, if you’re Elon Musk, you might think a trip to Mars in your Telsa Roadster is the way to go?

 Musk’s Telstar leaving earth’s orbit in mid-February, on its way to Mars ….. or somewhere, complete with dummy driver!

Sometimes the drip, drip, drip of information, often in the background and not vitally important in itself, turns into a stream that deserves some attention and thought. Or you step into a puddle you hadn’t realised was there. So it is with slavery, across the centuries.

 One tribe fought another and won …. and enslaved those captured.

My own knowledge of slavery is very much informed from English history. In the Domesday Book, the Norman census of 1086 stated that 10% of the population were slaves. But 800 hundred year later, public pressure, particularly from the Clapham Sect, and through the skills and persistence of William Wilberforce, brought about The Abolition of Slavery Act in 1807; further acts ensured the British Empire free by 1834.

 ‘In Common Law no man can have property (own) in another.’ 1706

And I knew that many individuals had made a fortune in this trade of people, as the profits were huge. British merchant ships sailed with goods to West Africa, exchanged the goods for enslaved Africans from the interior, sailed to North America where the slaves were sold, and the ships returned laden with coffee, sugar and other commodities from the West Indies. The British ports of Bristol and Liverpool were the focus for such trade.

Can you imagine being a slave? Being owned as a human being by someone else? Can you feel the shackles, real or imaginary,  around your neck and ankles? The mere idea sends shivers down my spine.

So for me ‘slavery’ was identified in those poor unfortunates taken from Africa to North America; over the years about 500,000 individuals. And I should also include those ‘transported’ to the British Colonies, firstly to the Americas and then to Australia after the American Revolution in 1776, as ‘slave labour’, for their conditions of work were hardly any different. Europeans I sense always think of this Atlantic triangle of trade as the only one, as its long-lasting legacy on the development of the United States has been fundamental.

But I write this from Brazil where it is estimated that 40% of the population is descended from slaves from Africa. Starting in the 1500s, the trade reached its peak in the early 1800s as the answer to labour shortages for the sugar and coffee plantations. Most of these people came from the Portuguese colony of Angola and from The Congo. If they didn’t die in the inhuman conditions in which they were shipped, they arrived at the Valongo Wharf in the centre of Rio. Standing at this site today creates enormous emotions; none pleasant.

O Cais doValongo, the stones marked by slave shackles.

Here they were sold indirectly to the Slave Traders or directly to the plantation owners. It is estimated that between 1500 and 1870 some 5 million Africans arrived in Brazil and were sold. (That is ten times those shipped to the Americas.)

With the abolition of slavery complete in Britain in 1834, she put pressure on other countries to do the same, using her Royal Navy to intercept trading vessels and release the slaves. But the internal market in Brazil continued for another 54 years until the monarchy finally signed the law abolishing slavery. You may recall in PC 37 the fact that the bankrupt Baron San Clemente had to sell his large house in Friburgo to the Guinle Family in 1913 as, after the abolition of slavery, his plantations were unworkable, and unprofitable.

‘It is not something to be triumphant about, this ownership of another human being.’

Close by where Caio Valongo has been excavated, there is a large column bearing a statue of Visconde De Mauá, a hugely wealthy businessman, entrepreneur and politician who was a driving force for the abolition movement here. Further down the street, there’s an enormous mural by Eduardo Kobra celebrating the human race, with a representative from each of the five continents. Whilst it was painted for the Rio 2016 Olympics, its juxtaposition near Valongo can’t be ignored and I sense its powerful message reaches beyond this continent.

 The last face, that of an Aborigine. The colours have faded but the symbolism is clear.

 And did you really think that increasing civilisation over the centuries would have made the practice of slavery extinct? Sadly not!

In Britain in the last few years there have been a number of cases where a group of people have been subjugated and badly treated. These poor unfortunates are often badly educated, maybe immigrants who are not officially registered, falling prey to unscrupulous individuals, working at their beck and call for the roof over their head and some meagre food to keep them alive. Forced into labour, prostitution and domestic servitude, this is the face of modern slavery.

“Slavery is a weed that grows on every soil.” Edmund Burke

The ‘Modern Slavery Act 2015’ estimated that there were some 13,000 individuals living in ‘modern slavery’ in the UK. Section 71 of the Coroners and Justice Act 2009, which had come into force in 2010, created a new offence of holding another person in slavery or servitude or requiring them to perform forced or compulsory labour. In the first case brought under this act, former hospital director Saeeda Khan was convicted of trafficking a Tanzanian woman into the country to work as her domestic slave.

The Connors family made headlines in two county courts. In Luton two members were jailed for holding some 24 people against their will in filthy and cramped conditions. Some of the men, from Poland, Latvia and Lithuania had been held for up to 15 years, and others for just a few weeks. Some were British citizens. All were deemed “vulnerable” and had been recruited at soup kitchens and off the street with the promise of paid work, food and lodgings. A further five Connors were convicted of conspiracy to require a person to perform forced or compulsory labour between April 2010 and March 2011 following a three-month trial at Bristol Crown Court.

Also in October 2016, a couple who trafficked a 10-year-old girl to the UK, then repeatedly raped and kept her as a servant for nearly a decade, were jailed. Ilyas and Tallat Ashar brought the girl, who is deaf, from Pakistan and kept her at their home in Eccles, Salford, where she slept in the cellar. Judge Peter Lakin, sentencing, said the couple were “deeply unpleasant, highly manipulative and dishonest people”.

And I imagine this is simply the tip of the iceberg. The stream runs, the puddle gets deeper. When will we learn the difference between right and wrong?

 

Richard 10^th February 2018

Eduardo Kobra’s face of Africa

A part of me always wanted to know what happens inside a health spa – in the summer months you get glimpses of guests in white towelling robes drifting about inside or out, in some imagined state of euphoria ….. or that’s how it seems. Give it a go, huh!

So we looked at the website of a well-known UK brand, booked an overnight stay, essentially 26 hours …… and went earlier this month. As we neared our destination, the glare from the low, late afternoon sun meant that trying to find the right road at the crossroads in the nearest village, through the dirt smeared windscreen, was a bit of pot luck. We eventually got there, to find Car Park A full, as was B and C but eventually we found a space in D; a good thing, otherwise we would have had to park under the rhododendron bushes! “Must be popular” we thought as we made our way to reception.

There were so many staff of obvious Eastern European background we wondered whether the whole venture was really some guise for money laundering. You do think like this, particularly after reading Misha Glenny’s McMafia about international criminals in the C21st!

Having checked in, been given our ‘towelling robes and flipflops’, the former a loan, the latter a gift, and dumped our bags in our room, we got the Guided Tour. Subsequently we realized it hadn’t included the restaurant, maybe as it was fully booked, and the ice room, where you can stand and shiver – probably good for closing the skin’s pores.

We go to the activities station; it’s 4 o’clock.

“Can we book for the ‘Wake Up Workout’ tomorrow morning at 0830?’

“Oh! No! Sir that’s already full as are most of the sessions.”

“Well! How about the Da Vinci BodyBoard class?”

“You can have the last two places; I’ll put your names down.”

“So is there anything else on offer today?”

“There’s a talk this evening by Ms Cynthia Welbeloved on Emptiheadedness and the Spirit of Greed.”

I almost said ‘Perfect’ but thought better of it; we could probably turn up if so moved.

Around the large pool with its glass roof were special little places for people to relax and sleep/read/chat. There was a hydro pool that was so special you had to pay extra to use it! There were saunas for men, saunas for women, saunas for both sexes ….. if you have ever been to a mixed sauna, in Germany for instance, and found nudity the norm maybe you will reflect on the reserved nature of the Anglo Saxon?

There were hot Jacuzzi-type tubs inside and out. In fact everything you needed to relax and unwind; fortunately there was no background mood music from overhead speakers, just the low murmur of people talking quietly, reverentially, respecting the whole reason why people come. We tried the pool where the water was cool and the sauna which was crowded …… and then we thought about dinner.

Despite the fact that the dining area looked like a British Rail Cafeteria, with bright lights and hard furnishings, what was on offer was good. I often judge a restaurant by how many of the options I could eat. Here I could have easily have eaten the whole menu …… although at a health spa this might have been against the whole raison d’être, irrespective of how healthy each option was!

And what of the treatments on offer?  …..  ‘Elemis pro-collagen age defy’ facials …… ‘lava shell’ massages ……. ‘Dry Body’ flotation (?)  …… etc etc. Doing hot yoga daily ensures our skin is in great shape so the only thing that tempts us is a massage. But it’s £50 for 25 minutes! Twenty five minutes? You would hardly get relaxed before it would be over …… our local people charge £40 for an hour so we thought ‘no! no! no!’. Other treatments seemed equally pricey. Just wonder whether, if they reduced the prices, they would make more money. I came away questioning  how much they are used. Maybe if we were stressed out, lived chaotically busy lives, had serious health issues, then maybe ……

At breakfast we find a good range of healthy options laid out on the buffet table and, if you wanted to pay extra, you could have Eggs Benedict, Full English etc. I tried the kedgeree with some extra mackerel; the mackerel was warm but the kedgeree cold; disgusting! The delightful waiter from Hungary asked whether we wanted coffee or tea ….. coffee please! I was suspicious as soon as I saw that the coffee came in an old-fashioned Kona glass container that had probably been sitting on the ‘keep warm’ plate for ages. You could see through the brown liquid and it tasted of nothing. Fortunately we were able to get a decent Cappuccino and double Espresso from a different machine.

After breakfast it’s apparent that Day Guests and members arrive. I overheard a BA Stewardess loudly talking into her phone to Jermima; “’course, dahlin, anytime. Oh! And I’ve booked you the ‘Decléor Ultimate Wrinkle Eraser Facial’ as I think you need it. Must dash, I am seeing Matt for a personal session at 1000.” Some presumably come every week and why not if you live close enough and you have the money? Ah! Yes! If you have the money!

We vacate our room by 1030 but can stay until 1600. After a brief discussion about where to put our stuff, we eventually decided it was best in the car boot, decanting some ‘essentials’ into a changing room locker. We do one 55 minute exercise class on a ‘Da Vinci Board’. You can recall Da Vinci’s figure with spread arms and feet? Well, here you stand on a long board, with bungees running its length, and two at each end. Lifting one set exercises one bit and another another; lots of repetitions and encouragement from Vicki from Vladivostok – ‘very gooood, very gooood; that’s it’ repeated regularly throughout the whole class. Actually quite challenging and enjoyable!

Afterwards we shower and return to the sauna. By the time we think about lunch we could both be rung out. Having had a leisurely meal we decide that we should leave, after all, how many times do I want to swim in 24 hours, how many saunas do I want to endure?

Maybe this is just the place to come and write a postcard about those health spas  ………. but actually an expensive option; think my local café would be better, as would the coffee!

Richard 27^th January 2018

 

 

Around this time of year here in the northern hemisphere’s winter, most of us will suffer some of the normal round of colds and flu. Specifically, in the UK one reads that the hospital Accident & Emergency departments are overstretched and the wards often full of elderly patients who could go home but can’t because ‘home’ does not provide a good enough environment in which to recover. They have even developed a name – bed blockers; modern times, life in the C21st!

The health conscious (aka The Worried Well) accept the government advice and have a ‘flu jab’, an injection that should prevent the recipient from getting 99% of the viruses around; they are free to the oldies! I overheard someone the other day saying it seems this year that those who have had the flu jab have all got the irritating dry cough that lingers and lingers. Maybe this is just one of the 1% viruses? (See note below)

Some weeks ago I started coughing (predictable huh!!)…… and it just developed into a dry hacking cough that resisted all removal attempts ….. and in case you’re thinking I should have tried that remedy that your grandmother always swore by, I tried gargling with cider vinegar & water (and swallowing … a bit yuk!), I tried Vicks chest rub, I tried Strepsils, I tried using an inhaler – I remember as a young boy bending forward over a steaming bowl of Friar’s Balsam, my step-grandmother’s potion, my head wrapped in a tea towel – I tried ‘Chesty Cough’ syrup …… but nothing worked.

At some point I thought I should just check in with the Doctors’ Practice nurse; not wanting to trouble a doctor, not wanting the general antibiotics, simply to make sure nothing sinister was developing. In PC 95 I wrote about the difficulties of getting an appointment with a doctor in Britain …… but I just wanted to see a nurse!! Even she was booked up …… but then the receptionist said I could have an appointment with a doctor in another practice that evening. OK, I thought, why not!

So one Monday three weeks before Christmas I arrived at The Charter Practice 15 minutes before my 8:15 pm appointment, a little early as I hadn’t been there before and I anticipated some form filling. Implanted in the DNA of us ex-military types is a need to be somewhere in plenty of time. It probably stems from the ‘5 minutes before 5 minutes before 5 minutes before’ regime we observed during our training. For example, if the College had a parade of the Officer Cadets at 10.00, the College Sergeant Major wanted everyone there in perfect order at 0945; so the individual Company Sergeant Majors wanted their own company there in perfect order at 0930; so the individual Platoon Sergeants wanted everyone there in perfect order at 0915 …… you get the drift …….it became important ….. and remains so. (15 minutes got contracted to 5!)

Having settled into the empty waiting room, with its antiseptic coloured plastic chairs and posters advertising everything from ‘Have you booked your Flu Vaccination?’ to ‘Need to talk in confidence about domestic abuse? Call 01273 590276’, I checked my messages/emails on my iPhone. The alternative was to look at either an April 2009 copy of National Geographic or a more up-to-date Readers’ Digest circa 2015.

At 8:10 pm I switched my phone to ‘silent ring’, in anticipation of the doctor’s call; sure enough:

“Mr Yates?”

I walked into the doctor’s consulting room to find him standing expectantly in the centre of his room; we shook hands.

“Now, tell me about this cough.”

Two minutes into a little ‘question and answer’ session, he suddenly stopped talking and stared at me. I seriously didn’t know how to react (!) so did nothing, simply looked back.

“Aren’t you going to answer it?” he asked, a sense of irritation noticeable in his voice.

“Answer what?” I asked, hearing various background noises but none I recognised.

“Your phone. It’s ringing!”

“No it’s not!” I replied, trying not to cough, but knowing full well the ring tone of my own phone; I had assumed it must have been his.

“Yes it is!” he snorted; by this time steam was beginning to appear from his ears.

Sure enough, in my jean’s pocket my phone was ‘ringing’ but with a strange ring tone!! I switched it off and apologised:

“Not sure what happened here: sorry!”

By then he must have thought I was showing early signs of dementia rather than exhibiting a cough, wished me luck and ushered me out. I muttered my thanks. Back in the Waiting Room, before driving home, I pulled my iPhone out of my pocket and switched it on.

Then I realised what had happened ……. whilst I had switched it to ‘silent’, I hadn’t locked the screen and random pressure in my pocket had somehow, unbelievably, initiated a sequence of ‘settings’ …. ‘sounds’…… ‘ringtone’ …….. and was offering me ‘ripples’ as opposed to my normal ‘crickets’ ringing tone. No wonder I didn’t recognise it!!

We live in funny times huh!

Richard 13th January 2018

PS Just in case you’re wondering, the doctor reckoned the cough would clear itself in another 3 weeks, irrespective of what I did. And you know what? It’s gone. And to concur with the GP’s thoughts, yesterday’s Times agreed ….. “ ….. there is no treatment.”!!

PPS   Two types of vaccines are available to doctors this winter, Quadrivalent vaccines offer protection against two types of influenza A and two types of B. Trivalent vaccines, cheaper and more often used by GP surgeries, offer protection against only one type of A and two types of B. Of 25 cases of influenza in the south west, Public Health England say 21 are of the B/Yamagata type not covered by the Trivalent vaccines. Bit of a bummer!

The little wooden cigarette box is in front of me, seemingly begging for its history to be read. And that’s one of the real irritations of life, isn’t it? If only inanimate objects could talk, could tell you who made them, who touched them, who used them. This one is seven inches long and 4 wide (18cms by 10cms); inside there are two compartments each capable of taking 20 normal sized cigarettes. I say ‘normal’ because ‘King’ size only became fashionable in the 1980s. On the polished lid the crest of the Royal Artillery has been carefully carved by some skilled craftsman. You can even read the motto – “Ubique quo fas et gloria ducunt.” (‘Everywhere where faith and glory lead’); there is another extremely risqué interpretation which is only available on request!

Peggy gave me this box with The Gunner’s crest on the top when I became a Gunner officer. She’s long since departed after a full and rewarding life and only recently did I wonder who gave it to her. But then you imagine …..

It’s easy to forget, as time causes memories to fade, the heartaches that lives lost create. For this box probably belonged an officer killed in the Second World War, the boyfriend of Peggy. She never married and one can only assume that there was nowhere in her heart for anyone but her first love. I write ‘probably’ as I really don’t know for certain. It belonged to Peggy for sure, and it’s quite likely that any self-respecting officer at that time would have had a cigarette box. If it wasn’t silver, a beautifully carved wooden one would suffice and quite usual to have your Regimental crest carved into the lid. On his death I imagine his family gave her the box as a memento. But who was Peggy you might well ask?

Peggy was the P in C&P, Cynthia my aunt and Peggy, but she was equally the P in P&C to her family; it simply depended on your perspective!! They were Cambridge graduates but women were not officially admitted as members of the graduate body when they studied for their degree; this was rectified in 1998 when 900 of them assembled at Cambridge. They had met for the first time in 1939 and a year later they shared a flat in Walthamstow Hall School. That summer a bomb demolished most of the staff accommodation; no one had made it to the shelter and Peggy recalls seeing the tall Music mistress, the very short English mistress and Cynthia, blood pouring down her head, crawling towards safety through the dust – and thought they looked like three bears.

Having enlisted in the Women’s Royal Naval Service, both spent part of the Second World War at Bletchley Park, the secret establishment tasked with breaking enemies’ codes. Like many, they didn’t talk about their time there and it’s only by chance I found out that that was where they had worked. When the war ended Cynthia and Peggy embarked on highly successful educational careers (see note below) and lived together in Clapham, London. These days one might wonder whether there was anything other than companionship to their relationship but back then it was not something one could’ve raised.

Peggy and Cynthia on one of their European travels

Peggy and Cynthia ensured that their nieces, nephews and God children were introduced to London when old enough, with visits to the major sights, historic buildings, museums and pageantry; the Thames, the theatre and the zoo, the Monument (up to the top of course), St Paul’s (and again up to the Whispering Gallery – with Cynthia leading the way), travelling by double decker, escalator and tube. Then it was back to their flat to meet whichever cat was in residence, for supper and to play cards, playing pelmanism, a quiet intellectual game or more interestingly frenetic Racing Demon, when the sight of ‘Aunt’ Cynthia’s knees on the floor was quite a revelation to a young boy used to seeing the bun and rather long skirt.

I imagine this box sitting on Peggy’s dressing table in her single-bedded room, surrounded by hundreds of postcards that reflected the active travels that she and Cynthia had embarked on during their retirement. I don’t ever recall her smoking so it was probably full of ticket stubs from plays witnessed, for rail journeys made together, the menu from a favourite restaurant, little nick-nacks that mean so much to the owner but virtually nothing to anyone else; simply the flotsam of their short time together. Indeed currently it normally sits on my desk, full of odd keys from long lost padlocks, flints for old cigarette lighters, an odd shoe lace, three rubber bands and a piece of sealing wax – my flotsam you might decide!

Lives come and go …… but the little box on my desk continues to jog the memory.

Richard 31^st December 2017

PS     Happy New Year. May it bring you all you need and some of what you want.

PPS   Peggy was the author of the definitive work ‘The London Experience of Secondary Education’ – Margaret Bryant 1979. Cynthia was Head of Modern Languages at James Allen’s Girls’ School in London.

PPPS   Peggy died on 5^th May 2006 aged 90 ….. and 4 days. Cynthia had died on 27^th December 2004 aged 89.

 

 

 

I once went off to southern Turkey and round the corner from Fethiye was the birthplace and possibly burial site of St Nicholas of Myra, who was known for his generosity, particularly towards children. He morphed into Santa Claus through Dutch migrants to the United States calling him Sinterklaas …… and so Santa Claus. It’s quite a stretch to today’s Santa Claus and his sleigh covered with presents for the world’s children. Forget the fact that you’ve already seen Santa in his grotto in the shopping centre, ignore the fact you could have seen him, at the same time, appearing by an outside stall selling stuff for the local charity and offering selfies for children (and adults of course!). And you know he’s popular because all over the world people have dressed up to look like him and gone running in some local 10k race. But in this time of imagination and magic ….. let the mind run …..

Our Apartment Front Door Bow

Mrs Santa hears a crash and looks out across the sleigh park. Rudolph, a retired reindeer with an alcoholic red nose and used only once, in 1939, because it was foggy, stirs in his adapted St Bernard’s dog bed. “Wattts ttthhh ffuni” – sort of Reindeer speak for ‘What the fuck?’ Sure enough Mrs Santa’s husband has returned, the reindeer hooves and sleigh’s skids screeching on the ice and eventually the empty sleigh has skidded to a stop. The reindeers’ flanks are steaming from the exertion of galloping across the world and both they and Santa seem somewhat worse for wear.

“Christ! What the hell’s happened?” she calls across the frozen ‘sleigh park in the sky’.

The lead reindeer Dancer’s stomach and bladder are very extended and swollen as are the other reindeers’. He belches loudly and then, unable to contain himself any longer, urinates over the ground. This gives the other reindeers freedom to empty their bladders too, as they had all helped Santa drink his way through a million gallons of sherry as they dashed from one house to another across Europe. As the sky lightens in the early dawn, the hot liquid splashes onto the frozen park and a toxic smelly mist develops, encasing Santa and his sleigh in an ethereal glow. Sadly this year is the reindeers’ last flight as a team, for next year the sleigh will be pulled/powered by a hybrid, part reindeer and part electric. They don’t know it yet, but they will be asked to apply for one of only four places.

“And what’s that smile on your face for, Santa?” Mrs Santa yells.

Sure enough Santa is sitting rather quietly on the back of the sleigh, smiling as he thinks about No 26 Acacia Avenue in Berkhampstead. Traditionally Santa has been expected to climb down a chimney, deliver presents as per the wish list written by John or Jill and sent to Santa in Lapland, eat a mince pie, drink a glass of sherry and grab a carrot or two for the reindeer stacking overhead like some commercial jet over an airport. On arriving at the bottom of this particular chimney he had indeed been confronted by a glass of sherry and a couple of mince pies …… but also Sheila, dressed in a very revealing negligee, asking whether he wanted some extra cream with the mince pie. Hopefully Mrs Santa wouldn’t guess or she’d rake her claws across his back.

Mind you her voice barely registers in his befuddled brain, as he feels completely pissed from so much Amontillado Cream. Then he thinks about the letter from Sam in Vienna, who hadn’t been sure whether to ask for a train set or My Little Pony ……. and how he reckons he’d got it right by giving them an ambidextrous superperson outfit.

He muses that he spends 364 days a year sitting on his bum, putting up with Mrs Santa’s nagging, then in one 24 hour period visits 1000 million homes, each visit taking one trillionth of a second, when he tries to eat a mince pie and drink a glass of sherry, before flying off to the next house. And why does he do it? Well! It’s to celebrate of the birth of a boy whose father was so disorganised he couldn’t even book a room in a hotel for his pregnant wife, on the busiest weekend of the year.

“Jesus!” Cries Mrs Santa.

Amber House Christmas Tree Thingy

Have a great Christmas if this is a festival for you.

Richard 24^th December 2017

 

PS The title of this PC comes from the cry of the traditional newspaper sellers on the street corner, when an extra edition of a paper had been produced to cover some momentous event that had just happened.