I thought I should catch up with Josh while his experiences of his time in Israel are still fresh in his mind. Mind you, given the fact he was wounded, I suspect they will forever be just below the surface of his memory. He and Libby are behind the counter and Libby’s happy to let him come and chat so, grabbing a couple of coffees, we find a secluded corner table.

“It’s good to see you back, Josh, relatively in one piece! I hadn’t imagined you would have travelled to Israel in November until Duncan told me. Why did you go? You know we had a candle on the counter while you were away?”

“Yah! Luke told me. You know I’d never thought about my Ukrainian grandparents much, not interested in where they had come from – well, not until they had both died and then I rued the day I hadn’t spoken to them more. I had no idea about their lives in Lyviv and why they fled to Britain. You’re old enough to remember the 1988 hit The Living Years aren’t you?”

“Absolutely. No idea who sang it …..”

“Mike & the Mechanics ….”

“Ah! Yes! But you’re thinking about those poignant lines ‘it’s too late when we die’ to regret not asking the questions, although the song was more about a relationship with one’s father!”

“Exactly! Well, I felt I had to do something after the horrific Hamas assault on kibbutz in October, me and many other members of the Jewish diaspora. After some very difficult conversations with Luke, I reported to the London embassy in early November and before I knew it, I was in Israel, in uniform and in the midst of some extremely intensive training, mostly about weapon handling and survival. I don’t think they intended to use those of us who had absolutely no military experience anywhere but in static observation posts!!”

“You were up on the border with Lebanon?”

“Yes – not that the Lebanese have any say in what happens there; completed dominated by Iran’s proxy Hezbollah.”

“I was within a month of being commissioned at The Royal Military Academy when Israel launched its assault on Egypt, Jordan and Syria in what’s now called The Six Day War (5-10 June 1967). That’s when they annexed The Golan Heights in the north.” Note 1

“I never knew Richard you were in the Army. How long did you serve?”

“Almost twenty years! I left before you were born! Actually in my company at Sandhurst we had a chap called Tim Daghestani who was from Jordan. I remember how badly he took that conflict!”

“You would, wouldn’t you! They say, whoever ‘they’ are, that warfare used to be 90% boredom and 10% action but up there looking out over southern Lebanon it was full on. Drones have totally altered the battlefield and we had to be alert all day and all night; no respite!”

“So how long had you been up on the border before you got injured?”

“About six weeks. Fucking drone flew overhead and dropped some grenades. It was raining, dark and windy and no one saw it until it was too late. Israel has, for its entire existence, coped with minor conflicts so the process of recovery, rehabilitation and repatriation was a well-oiled machine.” 

“Now you’re back, do you think you made the right decision, to go?”

“Oh! God! It’s so complicated ….. this heart and head thing! Obviously Hamas decided that enough was enough, that their often reiterated raison d’être was the destruction of the Jewish State, and that the time was right. Did anyone in their leadership think what the response to their murder, rape, torture and kidnapping operation might be? (Ed It sounded as though Josh was talking ‘bold’.) I assume they couldn’t care; bit like Stalin, ‘one death is a tragedy, a million deaths a statistic.’ And no one can be anything but aghast at what is happening to the Palestinian people, with no end to their suffering.

So, yes! I am pleased I went, pleased I came back in one piece, pleased to identify as a Jew, but saddened how many innocent people die or are simply displaced in conflicts, whether it’s this one, or in Syria or Ukraine with whole cities flattened, with the Rohingya and Uyghur genocides, not to mention the Sudanese conflict. I came back on 1^st February and am having a few counselling sessions to make sure I put the experiences in context.”

“Well done you, Josh! I was going to say you can tell your children about it but I have no idea whether you and Luke want children?”

“A conversation for another time maybe?”

 “Before you go back to help Libby, you might like to hear this, extracted from the obituary of a civilian doctor who had gone to help out during our military operations in Afghanistan:  

“As someone who had gone on peace marches, I thought soldiers were stupid and unreasoning. After my ‘vicars and tarts course’, a six weeks’ intensive training at Sandhurst for professional recruits such as doctors, lawyers and dentists (Ed: Dr Chris Bulstrode was the oldest ever Officer Cadet at 56) I was posted to Afghanistan. After six months working as a front-line doctor in Camp Bastion, I changed my view. I liked and admired many of the men and women I met. They were a team of hugely loyal, talented, committed individuals who were passionate about their jobs. There are plenty of things I don’t like about the army, like the staggering weight of full-combat gear and the gut-challenging responsibility of going out on patrol, but I did savour the absolute simplicity of the life.” (Dr Chris Bulstrode CBE surgeon 1951 – 2023)

“That’s exactly it! Spot on! Hey! Must go! Thanks for listening.”

While Josh returned to his barista duties, I looked around this delightful café, so pleased to be part of its vibe. Must catch up with Mo on my next visit.

Richard 15^th March 2024

Hove

http://www.postcardscribbles.co.uk

Note 1 Possibly the shortest ‘war’ was the military conflict between the United Kingdom and the Sultanate of Zanzibar in August 1896. It lasted about 45 minutes and if you don’t know its details, it’s worth finding out.

I imagine sociologists are having a field day observing how we are developing, or not! That is, is society worse now than twenty years ago, one hundred and twenty years ago, before the pandemic? Both individuals and groups are interacting with each other in different ways. Rather than drift inexorably towards one another, with more shared than oppositional views, for the greater good of mankind, it seems we are moving apart in some form of macro polarisation.

Two observations illustrate this at the micro level.

Just before Christmas Celina and I, after our morning yoga session, were waiting for the No 6 bus in Churchill Square to take us home. The square is a magnet for shoppers, with M&S on one side and the huge shopping centre, recently bought by Ikea, on the other. Given the time of year, the bus was pretty full when we got on, trying not to let our wet yoga mats get in the way, but there were a few spaces. Normally I leave the seats reserved for the elderly or those unable to stand and we found a couple behind such a row, which was already occupied.

Then an oldish bald chap got on, wearing a gilet and shorts, as you do in winter, presumably wanting to make a statement, looked around for a seat and said to the two people in front of us “These are reserved for the old ….. move!” Quite shocked by the tone of his voice, the two women got up and started to move to the back, one of them telling the chap she was pregnant. No recognition, no empathy, no: “Oh! I’m so sorry! Please! Stay there.” The whole situation highlighted the difficulties we have in recognising invisible disabilities or early-stage pregnancy.

The bus moved off, everyone settled, until Mr ‘Couldn’t Give a Monkey about Others’ noticed a chap staring at him, presumably wondering why someone could be so rude. Well, that started 5 minutes of “What the f**k are you looking at?” “You got a problem?” ……. and without getting any response repeated himself, glaring at those around him, confronting their non-responsiveness. Other passengers were shocked but these days there’s a reluctance to challenge rudeness for fear of exacerbating the situation. Fortunately, he got off at the next stop and the bus’s passengers, heaving an audible collective sigh of relief, started chatting to those next to them. (Note 1)

Everyone accepts that for well-referenced reasons we are in a ‘cost of living’ crisis. You could blame Putin for his invasion of another sovereign country and its effect on energy costs, a general increase in labour and raw material prices globally or countries wanting to implement better environmental policies which are often more costly, but its effect, particularly for those struggling at the bottom of the societal heap, is profound. And when your back is against the wall, desperate times call for desperate measures. Not able to afford the basics, you might go to your local Food Bank whose number here has seen an exponential rise, or you might be tempted in the supermarket to pop some bacon or a loaf of bread into your bag with the intention of not paying at the checkout. I read somewhere that some people, presumably not shop owners, think it’s acceptable and that’s extremely worrying.

An individual on their own does not constitute a society; you need at least one other, with whom you agree certain acceptable behaviours. If you can’t agree it’s back to the law of the jungle. Over generations we like to think the basics are right but introduce new laws to cope with changing values; we think we become more civilised in the process. But I also understand that within a country’s borders there may be many different societies who don’t sign up to the majority view. A recent documentary focused on petty criminals and their love of Rolex watches – other people’s that is. Asked whether they thought it morally wrong to steal, often in a violent manner, the response was: “I don’t do morals.” (Note 2)

The other day I was in George Street, in Bert’s, a store that provides the solution to the question: “God! I have to buy something for my best friend/brother/work colleague/sister/friend’s baby/an anniversary/to take to a supper party etc.” The range runs from cuddly toys, greeting cards and mugs, through every conceivable cooking gadget known to women and men to plates, bowls and paper napkins looking like £20 notes. Lots of items, none of which cost a fortune, which could convey whatever message they need to: “Congratulations/thank you/you need this/love you/the mug caption made me smile and think of you etc.”

Clutching a couple of cards in one hand, I made my way around the central shelving unit to see whether anything else caught my eye, before arriving back near the cash desk, staffed by Bridget, just in time to hear someone kick off.

“Wot! You fink like I didn’t pay for this? How dare you!” shouted a woman wrapped fashionably in a parka with fake fur lining.

“Like you fink my money’s not as good as like these other customers ….

“Madam! I am sorry! I must have made a mistake (Ed: You could tell from her eyes she was thinking: ‘No! I haven’t’). I am sorry if I’ve offended you.”

“Trouble with you lot, with your toffee-nosed attitude, like you looks at me and fink I might put something in my pocket like without paying. Shame on you ….. and your grovelling attempts at an apology? F**k you!”

…… and, turning to the rest of us who, rather saddened at this display of ‘you said/she said/you said’ and feeling particularly sorry for the cashier, were looking on without making eye contact, shouted:

“And you lot! You’re like so judgemental! You go f**k yourselves too!” Off she strode, out into pedestrianised George Street, shouting to those who would listen ‘Don’t shop in Berts! Don’t want my money! Fuckers!’

Maybe she was a relative of Mr ‘Couldn’t Give a Monkey About Others’?

Richard 8^th March 2024

Hove

http://www.postcardscribbles.co.uk

Note 1 Of course I have no idea why this chap behaved the way he did; the imagination runs riot. Maybe it was as simple as getting out of bed the wrong side?

Note 2 It could be an examination question: “I don’t do morals. Discuss.”

If you read PC 366 ‘Medical Decluttering’ (December 2023) you will remember that, following enough time to describe a number of health issues with Celina’s private doctor, Simon Glew at The Hove Practice, I embarked on a few procedures to declutter and get a medical MOT for the year ahead. It started with the removal of a malignant melanoma before Christmas and then removal of big haemorrhoids in January. (See PC 373 Anally Focused February 2024)

In the UK there is an annual vehicle check by the Ministry of Transport (MOT) on its roadworthiness after the first three years. It looks at things like tyre tread, brake pads, steering etc and costs about £40. It seems appropriate to call this postcard a Medical MOT, as I have sold my six-year-old Audi Q3 to replenish the coffers. The car was due its MOT, insurance and Road Tax and was broadly costing me £3,000 per year – for 1350 miles!

I had a lipoma. “Lipomas are tumours which develop as well-circumscribed, encapsulated masses that have a doughy feel and are freely mobile beneath the skin. ….. Their slow, usually painless growth can lead to a large size. (Mine had grown over 7 years!) ….. Previous studies have defined a giant lipoma of the upper extremity as larger than 5cms; these are extremely rare and must be removed.” … say MDs Brian Allen, Christine Rader and Alan Babigian in a paper in the magazine Pulsus Plastic Surgery.

Most lipoma is unsightly although benign but mine was about 10cms long so I was referred to a consultant in the Montefiore Hospital here in Hove. I am no stranger to this private hospital as I had had a L4/L5 microdiscectomy on my back here in July 2017, (see PC 99 Montefiore June 2017) after my failure to get the NHS to do anything more than prescribe Gabapentin, a horrific painkiller!

Just to confirm my lump was a lipoma, Joideep Phadnis, the Orthopaedic Consultant who specialises in Shoulder and Elbow Surgery, whom I saw before Christmas, said I should have a MRI to ‘confirm the lesion is benign before removal’. Meanwhile, given his busy timetable, I was provisionally booked in for surgery on 21^st February 2024 – nine days ago.  

My MRI Scan. Not sure what the pike-looking shape is?

Gradually the day dawns and, following the appropriate pre-admission checks, I am into the hospital at 1230 for afternoon surgery. Sitting in my room, dressed for the occasion complete with DVT socks and backless gown, I begin to wonder whether ‘afternoon’ would become early evening! Fortunately I have brought my Kindle, so immerse myself in Chris Hammer’s latest Australian novel. Strangely, Ivan, the Homicide Detective Sergeant investigating a murder, is remembering his mentor – Morris Montifiore!

Eventually I am summoned, walked along the deserted hospital corridor and arrive at the theatre. Normal sort of chat …… ‘just feel a small prick and breathe the oxygen in ….. and out ……’ and then I am back in my room!

After the shift change at 2000, I get given some painkillers and told not to get the wound wet for a fortnight ….. and I can go. Celina arrives at the main entrance which is now closed but she spies the cleaners going in round the back and makes her way up to my room. There’s something weird about empty hospital corridors at night; I sense we are not alone!

Back home at 2130

The following morning I look at the Limbo, a ‘waterproof protection for casts and dressings’, that I was given to enable me to have a shower.

I stick my arm in but the Limbo’s too short, the elasticated ring below my wound. I cut off the bottom end so my hand can come out, but my wound is too high for the ring to get around it. Useless!! Nice idea but in this instance useless!

When I was involved in sales and giving presentations to prospective clients, one well-proven method of getting rid of nervous negative thoughts was to snap a rubber band against one’s wrist. It hurt; the ‘negative thought’ was no longer the focus! Walk to the bathroom in the night and bang your foot, the natural reaction is to bend down to rub it. As you bend, if you bang your head, your head hurts – toe? Nah! So it is with another operation within a month of the first, any residual pain from the first disappears. Which is a delight! But actually there is very little pain after the second so I haven’t taken any painkillers.

Our NHS struggles. It does brilliantly with emergencies but waiting lists for elective appointments and operations grow longer and longer. We are starting to hear of isolated trials in ways to improve the way the NHS serves the nation. Too many individuals who dial 999 are generally picked up by an ambulance and taken to a hugely overstretched A&E department. There was news the other evening of a trial in Kent where representatives from over six NHS specialities, A&E, Social Services, GP, Critical Specialist Nurses etc all sat in a Call Centre, discussed the 999 call details and offered alternatives to putting the individual in an ambulance. Thinking outside the box, at last!

I had my second cataract removed yesterday at the Optegra Eye Hospital in Brighton. Now I have 20/20 vision in both eyes and popped into Tesco’s to buy some reading glasses; in a few weeks I might select a ‘designer’ pair.

Healing nicely

MOT complete; all I have to do now is encourage my intestines, ravaged by two lots of heavy anaesthetics within a month, to return to some form of equilibrium. Maybe I should eat a raw leek as it’s St David’s Day?

Richard 1^st March 2024 – St David’s Day

Hove

www.postcardscribbles.co.uk

PS Two medical stories appeared in the news a few weeks ago. In the first, a biochemist who worked for the NHS won a discrimination claim after she was listed on a London hospital spread sheet under the name ‘Paininarse’. Funny to read but insensitive and traumatic if it described you.

I like Lisa, Sami’s partner, a lot and I have watched their relationship develop into something secure and exciting since they first met on a tour of the sites of the 1857 Indian Mutiny in November 2022 (see PC 309). Lisa herself suffered in a horrid coercive relationship and it’s worth reading PC 335 ‘Lisa Wallace – My Story’ (May 2022) if you haven’t (?), so I know she’s taking one day at a time. She’s alone in The Hope Café on Wednesday afternoon when I drop in and, seeing me, lifts an arm to suggest I should join her; so, coffee in hand, I do just that.

“Hi! Lisa. Good to see you! You on your own this afternoon? No Sami?”

“Sami had to go to the dental hygienist. He used to smoke and drinks too much coffee so it’s important he has regular check-ups; gum disease is preventable … so I am told.”

“Where does he go?”

“The Hove Dental Practice in Salisbury Road; we both go there. The hygienist Jenny is absolutely brilliant and you’d hardly know she’s inspected, checked, cleaned and polished. Has the touch of an angel!”

“Ah! Yes! Celina and I both started going there when the BUPA practice in New Church Road was slow in opening after Covid. It’s delightfully international, isn’t it, with Jenny who’s Scottish and Greek dentists Rachil and Dimitri! How’s life here in Hove?”

“Very different from The Peak District but the constant sea air is so invigorating. Listen, The Argos have asked me to write something about the current railway strikes, how bad they are for the local economy and how can we the public persuade the union to settle the dispute. Any ideas?”

“There are always two aspects; pay and conditions of employment. We know about pay because that affects us all, but if I understand some of the issues about their working conditions correctly, I want to either laugh or cry.”

“Not sure I understand.”

“Take technology. I assume a train driver has to have a good grasp of technology so you would think they would embrace anything that makes their job easier. The leaders of their union, in this case ASLEF (The Associated Society of Locomotive Engineers and Fireman) don’t, seeing it as a threat to their employment.”

“Well, if we have trains, we need drivers! I read that ASLEF has some 21,000 members earning approximately £65,000 per year, for a four-day week. Sounds good to me!”

“OK! So, laugh or cry? A rule introduced in 1980, 44 years ago, allows drivers to take paid time off work to have a six-monthly check up on the harmful effects from the microwave that they use to heat their meals. I have to assume they do not have a microwave in their domestic kitchen, like 99% of the population.”

Lisa is laughing!

“Your nieces and nephews have iPads or some other similar device?”

“Of course, although I think my sister has strict rules about their use.”

“Clearly ASLEF members’ families don’t and the union wants an extra technology allowance agreed before their employer can introduce some iPads, which would be used, for instance, to notify them of temporary speed limits. Would make their job easier. Actually no laughing matter; pathetic! Next I imagine they will want to bring back the chap with the red flag to walk the track in front of the train!”

“I read that one train had to terminate one station before its proper destination because the driver hadn’t had lunch.”

“Sorry?”

“Apparently, he forgot his tin opener so couldn’t open his can of soup! A manager offered him a sandwich but he wanted his soup; a train load of passengers had to disembark one station from where they had planned. Ridiculous – and probably badly handled by ‘management’?”

“God! Help Us! We’re extremely lucky that the Victorians developed a passion for building railways but sad that some of our unions’ attitude seems stuck in that Victorian era. You have enough to write your article now?”

“Yup! I have already researched union resistance to the use of drones for track inspections and restrictions on engineering teams and their composition. So yes, should be able to get it to the Features Editor by Monday.”   

“What do you think about Duncan’s idea of developing next door as a bookshop?”

“Sami mentioned it to me. Once up and running I am sure it would make money and increase turnover in here; personally I would be wary of having so much debt, but I am not Duncan! You read The Times, don’t you? Did you see Matt Rudd’s column about an experiment devised by two psychologists? Half the participants had to engage in lively conversation with the café barista from whom they had ordered their coffee, the other half had to simply get through the process. The chatty half reported a sense of belonging and an improved mood as a result of the interaction. The miserable monosyllabic half did not. No one asked how the barista felt!”

“Wouldn’t happen here! The flow of conversation across the counter’s wonderful and I watch our baristas Kate and Susie really engage, with enthusiasm and a smile. I must show Duncan my latest triptych, those beach huts over there painted from the sea side.”

“Have you got a photograph?”

“Yes” I said and opened my iPad and my ‘Art’ album in ‘photos’. Here”

“That’s great Richard; very gifted. Duncan will want another! I saw Luke and Josh the other day and Josh starts back here at the beginning of March.”

“Excellent! Before I go, I must tell you …… I was in Rahmi’s the other morning just before 8 o’clock buying a magazine and some milk. A chap came in, walked down the aisle to the alcohol section and, grasping a few bottles of beer as if they were nectar, joined me in the queue to pay. Somewhat ironic as next door the local Alcoholic Anonymous group had just finished their breakfast meeting. Maybe others would come in to buy some essentials?”

“Ha! Ha! That’s lovely. I’m off too, Richard; I’m meeting Sami in Semola for a spot of lunch. See you next time; take care!”

          Wishing each other a fun rest-of-the-day, we nodded to Susie and went out into a misty late morning Hove.

Richard 23^rd February 2024

Hove

http://www.postcardscribbles.co.uk

One afternoon over the Christmas/New Year period I watched the 1964 film Zulu starring inter alia Michael Caine and Stanley Baker. It wasn’t the first time I’ve watched it and it probably won’t be the last, but I was reminded how soldiers with the same surnames, like Williams or Jones, were referred to in the 24^th Regiment of Foot, a regiment recruited exclusively from Wales. (See my postscript below)

Got me thinking and, delving into my ‘Notes for future PCs’ folder, I pulled out some examples of serendipity. For instance, on the fifth of November, Guy Fawkes Night, we have expend an enormous amount of money igniting fireworks, to remember the ‘Gunpowder Plot’ of 1605. Guy Fawkes and fellow Catholic conspirators attempted to blow up Parliament and assassinate King James. They were betrayed and the barrels of gunpowder in the Parliamentary cellars made safe, presumably by an EXPO (Note 1). Sadly for Guy and the others, they were executed. That evening last year I was watching the early BBC News & Weather and the weather presenter was, appropriately enough, Chris Fawkes. My daughter says Chris lives in the same village and is really nice!

There are apparently some 45, 000 different English surnames (Note 2) and their origins can be grouped into seven subsets:

Firstly, patronymic names reflect the male line; names such as Davidson or Richardson, just like adding -sen in Scandinavia. The alternatives are matronymic ones following the female line, such as Madison, from Maud, and Marriott, from Mary. We are surrounded by occupational surnames such as Carpenter, Knight, Taylor and Fisher; others, such as Cartwright, someone who fashioned wooden wheels for carriages and carts, reach back in history.

One rather interesting set are those fashioned by the characteristics of the person, their appearance for instance giving us White, Black or Grey. If your family lived near some recognisable geographical feature, it might be you’re called Hill, Moor, Lake or Wood, or connecting you with a physical town or county like Essex or Hampshire. One small set’s surnames reflect the land they owned and another the fact that they worked for a certain family, for example ‘Kilpatrick’, someone who worked for the Patrick family.

Notorious errors were created when the person entering the details of a baptism was literate enough to write but when hearing a surname like Smith for example, didn’t know whether it was Smith, Smyth, Smithe or Smythe. They all vaguely sounded the same and, not wanting to show personal uncertainty, wrote it how they thought it should be spelt!

I worked with an Antony Cook, undertook my officer training with David Miller, known to everyone as Dusty, and my bestest friend is called Stewart Baker, who may or may not love bread? I saw an artisan baker’s van the other day; the company was called Coburn & Baker – seemed very appropriate.

Lovely to have our weather forecasters with names like Amy Freeze, the BBC’s Sara Blizzard and Greg Dewhurst; nothing like the dew of an early summer’s morning, glistening on the grass and inviting a bare-foot walk.

The medical professions have their share of appropriate-sounding surnames, such as a clinical neurologist Lord Brain or an ophthalmologist Ashley Seawright; Joshua Butt would have to work in gastroenterology wouldn’t he (?)  and a Trauma Team was led by Dr Michaela Blood. In ‘All The living and the Dead – a personal investigation into the Death Trade’ – Hayley Campbell recalls a master embalmer working in the mortuary in Margate, Kent called Dr Gore. A Professor of Viruses at the University of Kent is called David Strain and my dentist in Bath in the 1950/60s was a Mr Sharp; memories of needles and chain-driven drills!

The other day on Facebook a chap was looking for recommendations for a local electrician. His surname? ‘Cable.’; felt he could have done it himself! And some months ago on a news item, an investigative journalist was commenting on the country’s ‘Open Door Policy on Immigration’ – seems appropriate she was called Ms Knocker.

More research on Google finds a firefighter in the USA called Leo McBurney, a lawyer called Sue H Yoo, a cashier named Ka Ching, a music teacher called Ms C Sharp and a librarian whose name is perfect – Wilbur Bookendorf. One of Edinburgh’s top restaurants is run by chef Tom Kitchin and a lecturer in weight loss from University College London doesn’t need to say anything, as his name is Dr Mike Loosemore.  

Singer Olly Murs was the subject of “A Life in The Day” in The Sunday Times and told us readers his girlfriend Amelia is a competitive bodybuilder. Her surname? Tank. Sort of goes with her passion! Again in that paper, a letter  caught my eye; the writer commented that the title of the Style Section’s Barometer column, which identifies products or trends that are getting ‘hotter or colder’, was a misnomer. He asserted it should correctly be called Thermometer. His name? Roy Muddle!

Here in the United Kingdom the Member of Parliament for Tamworth was suspended after accusations of groping and bottom-pinching were found to be true. His name? Chris Pincher. A ‘Dementia Research & Support Centre’ is run by a Professor Crutch and why wouldn’t Wake & Paine and Grieve & Son be two companies of undertakers? My parents’ cleaner in Balcombe was a Dolly Bacon and judging by her size she enjoyed rashers enormously. And what about Katherine Gill, narrating a news story about the huge resurgence in the global number of Blue Whales, showing these huge creatures surfacing, blowing, and submerging. Finally I could mention an Andrew Drinkwater at our Water Research Centre, two winners in an international tree climbing championship Josephine Hedger and Scott Forrest, and from my service days, Major Major.

So did my wife’s surname, Burn, originate from a geographical location, a stream for instance or, was it something altogether more firey?

Richard 16^th February 2024

Hove

www.postcardscribbles.co.uk

PC Seemed appropriate to visit my local Audi garage yesterday and meet Jacob Gwilliam. I suspect in some long-ago baptism the Recorder asked for the surname and was given the ‘family name’ initial G and William as the surname, hence Gwilliam.

Note 1 Explosives Police Officer. In the British Army known as Felix

Note 2 This postcard is purely focused on English surnames, for I have no knowledge of other nations’ name characteristics, especially those of Arabic, Chinese etc origins!

If you were never really aware of the importance of your anus, you just had to be the object of a drill sergeant’s sense of humour for that to be rectified! Sorry, couldn’t resist the little play on words here! Staff Sergeant Cameron, Scots Guards, was an imposing Drill Instructor at The Royal Military Academy Sandhurst in 1965. You can see him with his Pace Stick under his left arm at the rear of Burma Company Intake 39 during a drill competition and, yes, that’s me in front of him!

Of the many phrases that were designed to shock and insult in equal measure, their object of course to improve our abilities on and off the Drill Square, was this:

“Mr Yates! Sir! You are IDLE Sir! (Ed One imagined every word was followed by an exclamation mark.) What are you, Sir? Idle Sir! So, if you don’t get a move on and b’have, I’ll shove my pace stick where the sun don’t shine (Ed A reference to one’s anus!) and open it 30 inches! Do I make myself clear? … Sir!” (Note1) (Ed. But then there’s that expression: “The sun shines out of their arse!” Where the sun don’t shine???)

Some of my postcards that have received the most comments are ones concerning our habits of getting rid of bodily waste (PCs 47 Loo Paper (Aug 2015) and 54 The Loo (Nov 2015)), which is quite surprising as it’s not a subject for dinner parties, just that for lavatorial humour and historically smutty postcards.

We joke about our bottom! We call someone who cares too much about small details, about how things are organised, anally retentive. It apparently starts with poor parenting, shaming the child who becomes frightened of making a mess when pooing, obviously conscious they shouldn’t and tries to hold their faeces in. In adulthood they become anally fixated, meticulous, orderly, rigid and frugal! There’s the slang expression “Get one’s arse in gear” which means to start to do something seriously and quickly, but arse can also be used to describe a stupid person.

I often wonder why our creator, so wise and omnipotent, placed the entrance for procreation in the female body within a centimetre of the exit for our waste. Maybe designed by a committee?

One of my favourite songs is Rod Stewart’s “I don’t want to talk about, how you broke my heart ….” but I need to talk about it, my recent operation at the Nuffield Hospital in Brighton.

It was ‘day surgery’ so I had to be there at 0700 and was hardly awake when registering, but aware that the receptionist was commenting to a nurse about my hair. “Men can let their hair go naturally grey, but we find that a problem!” she said. I sort-of sleepily agree. ‘What’s your date of birth and postcode?’ is a question asked by any one of the number of people who come into my room to explain this, tell me that, give me an enema, take my order for lunch and they included the surgeon who has Tigger characteristics …… bounces in, asks some questions and bounces out.

“Oh! By the way. This form sets out what we are doing today and you need to sign it here and here.” I might have commented that this is you and the hospital covering your arse, but it’s not an expression to use today.

“The enema record is 10 minutes!” exclaims a nurse. Well, I am not one for breaking records and certainly not of this sort!

Why can’t the fashion industry design a full-proof hospital gown? I get that they are back-to-front but the little ties that would have closed the back were 10 cms long and no matter how I tried, they would not tie together. I am always envious of women’s ability to tie stuff behind their back, muscles used every day to connect their bra-straps. Feel a bit foolish, completely unable to gather some dignity but hey! ho! My assigned nurse, Denice, originally from Paraná State in the south of Brazil, has seen it all before so for the journey down to the operating theatre she puts another gown over my naked back! 

That trip is so odd; a male nurse pulls my trolley/bed, presumably in case I need to rest (?), and Denice and I follow. It’s so slow I am thinking ‘funeral procession’ and say to Denice, out loud: “Feels like a death march”. This produces a selection of responses from the various people up and down the corridor, from laughter to grim looks. Gallows humour?

This is not the first time I have undergone surgery so am relaxed as the anaesthetist mentions something about a canula and there’s a small prick and …… I am back in my hospital room.

Denice checks up on me: “You’ll need to pee and eat something before you are discharged.” Before the operation, I had liked the sound of ‘cold chicken on roasted vegetables’. Presented with some cold ratatouille under some dried chicken, I make an effort, sufficient to get discharged by 1530. Another long form, ‘sign here and here; just covering our arses’!

That night the peppers come back to haunt me!  

Since my return to the land of the living I have been trying somewhat unsuccessfully to cope with a continuing sensation of wanting to poo – all day. Too much information maybe, but I do take my hat off to those women who have given birth, as I am sure what I am experiencing is deemed normal postnatal. Celina and I discover one friend and one relative who have both had this operation. The length of recovery seems to be anything from 6 to 8 weeks and here’s me thinking a couple of weeks at most. I thought about writing a book entitled ‘Things the Consultants Don’t Tell You’ then decided I couldn’t be arsed.

Richard 9^th February 2024

Hove

www.postcardscribbles.co.uk

Note 1 As an aspiring officer, an NCO was required to address me as ‘Sir’. They joked that when you called them ‘Staff’ you meant it, whereas when they called you ‘Sir’ they didn’t. Their pace stick was like a large pair of dividers; it could be opened so the ends were 30 inches apart, the regulation length of a marching pace.

It’s been a while since I have been able to visit the Hope Café for a good coffee and catch-up, but my recent surgery has prohibited my return to the hot yoga studio in Middle Street, so I popped in on Tuesday morning. Normally I only get to go early in the morning or after lunch so a different selection of individuals are enjoying coffees, cakes, delicious items from Teresa’s Brazilian counter and conversation. I notice Mo in a corner at about the same time as I see that Josh’s candle on the counter is no longer there.

Holding a double espresso in one hand and my iPad in the other, I make my way over to Mo, who fortunately indicates I should sit whilst she finishes off her conversation on her mobile.

“That’s my mother. I always try and talk to her every day, even if there’s not much to say! Our chats drift about this and that, about today’s issues and past memories but I sense it’s so important to her that I maintain that contact. Loneliness is one of the greatest causes of a decline in mental acuity which is why The Hope’s Table Thursdays, when single people come in here for a chat, are an absolutely vital service to the community. Haven’t seen you for a while; didn’t you have some nasty operation last week? How did that go?”

“I am thinking of writing one of my postcards about it, so simply say ‘as good as can be expected’, but I remain on painkillers!”

“Didn’t someone say it’s like having a pineapple up your backside? I remember in a postcard you mentioned Ridley Scott’s film Napoleon and how riding a horse with piles (note 1) is like having a migraine up your rectum!”

“I am thinking ‘knobbly cucumber’ but yes, same sensation!” as I sit gingerly at the table!

I am just to ask Mo about Josh and what news when Duncan comes into the café and comes over, after indicating to Libby he’s like a Latte.

“Two birds with one stone huh! How are you Richard? I gather you had some operation?”

Mo immediately butts (no pun intended!) in: “He’s going to write a PC about it …. but it was OK!” 

“I am fine thanks. What news of Josh? I gather from the WhatsApp group he’s back in the UK and I see the candle on the counter’s no longer there. Nice touch when it was.”

“Yes. He has been discharged from both the hospital in Haifa and from his time in the IDF. He got back to Hove a fortnight ago; his shrapnel wounds are healing well and he hopes to return to work. Meanwhile Kate’s still here and Libby is alternating with Susie.

Listen, you both read a lot. Did you see The Times’ list of the 12 Best Independent UK Bookshops that their readers chose (Note 2)? One of them was in Kemptown in Brighton ……”

“And another in Farnham close to where my daughter lives, The Blue Bear Bookshop.”

“I know the one in Kemptown” says Mo, “go there regularly. Think it’s just called Kemptown Bookshop.”

“But underneath the headline” interjects Duncan “it says ‘& Bookroom Café.’ Got me thinking. We almost doubled the floor space last year by incorporating Teresa’s Delicatessen and that’s proved remarkably successful. The lease is up next door …….”

“And you’re thinking” says Mo “of opening a bookshop? You obviously know how to run a successful café but a bookshop? Isn’t that a little specialised?”

“Well, you need to love books! Didn’t you stand in for the owner of a bookshop in Battersea in London Richard?” asks Duncan.

“Funny, Duncan; I’d almost forgotten about it but yes, in October 2010 I looked after The Bolingbroke Bookshop (Note 3) on Northcote Road owned by Michael, er, Gibbs I think. Michael’s normal weekend relief staff was sick, he had a wedding to go to and was completely stuck, so I volunteered. Couldn’t be that hard I thought! Somehow I muddled through the day, coping with the individuals’ requests for this type of book or that author. I even managed the cash reconciliation at the end of the day. But if you’re thinking I could run one next door, Duncan, count me out!!

“Richard, just an idea! But ideas gather legs ….. I already have a name for it: ‘Hope in Books’.”

“Actually!” says Mo “I think it’s a delightful idea. You can see how the Kemptown Bookshop has become so popular and there will be good synergy between the Café and the Bookshop customers. You know Robert who’s often at the counter tapping away on his laptop? He’s struggling to get find his niche, whether as a free-lance journalist or author so you could have a brain-storming session with him; I am sure Lisa would want to be part of that discussion. Mmmmm! Good luck!”

Duncan excuses himself, as does Mo, who’s off to have lunch with her mother in Shoreham, and this gives me an opportunity to take stock. Those of you who are regular readers will know that my scribbles about the UK Post Office scandal started in June 2021 (PC 235) and, through meeting and befriending Sami here in the Hope Café, that interest has continued. Today the saga is regularly headline news in the UK and hopefully by the end of the year those wrongly convicted will be exonerated; more importantly, those responsible will face criminal proceedings. I know Sami has accepted some compensation and is anxious to move on; I will too.  

Susie had popped in to see her aunt Libby and, seeing me, brings her iPad over. She’d promised to show me her Gap Year photos of her time in New Zealand, Tasmania and Melbourne. I know New Zealand particularly (Note 4) well but she’s bubbly and wants to show her favourites and her enthusiasm for her travels and adventures is evident. What a lovely way to spend 30 minutes – without thinking about your arse!

Richard 2^nd February 2024

Hove

www.postcardscribbles.co.uk

Note 1 Piles are also known as haemorrhoids but the spelling is challenging!

Note 2 https://www.thetimes.co.uk/article/87406bd4-aad1-4fb0-b3fe-02e1ccad1b71?shareToken=852a81f6c2b006460e05ee8e1cccb5bc

Note 3 It sadly closed in 2013 after 31 years

Note 4 See PC 88 Coromandel Jan 2017 and PCs 169 Shifting Sands and Feathers and 170 100% Pure New Zealand  

In December last year the exchange of family presents with my daughter Jade was planned for the Sunday eight days before Christmas itself.  I called to check that everyone was healthy, as I needed to be free of the then current lurgies before my first cataract operation. Towards the end of the Winter Term schools particularly are hotbeds of germs and viruses and sadly all the boys seemed to have various complaints, so the two of us agreed to meet at 0845 at the M25 service station at Cobham for breakfast. Sounds really glamourous, doesn’t it, but it was half-way between our homes and an easy drive on motorways.

Jade’s journey in red, mine in yellow

Motorway service stations in the UK have very varied reputations but they have gradually. The Tebay Service Station on the M6 Motorway between Kendal and Penrith in Cumbria is owned by a farming family and has even featured in its own television series. The restaurant uses lots of local produce and has developed a great reputation; obviously more than a tankful of unleaded, a pint of milk and a packet of crisps! (Note 1) Normally I use a motorway service station for a pee break, resist any confectionary goodies – well, apart from a Twix – grab a double espresso from Costa Coffee and leave. I often wonder who stays in the attached hotel.

Tebay Services in Cumbria

The Cobham Service Station sounds like a destination; mentioning what I had done to others immediately garnered comments like “Oh! That’s a great place: people gather there from all over.” And it probably has the largest number of options for stuffing your face; Café Nero, KFC, MacDonalds, M&S, WH Smiths and Leon. Jade chose the latter and ordered our breakfast from an electronic drop-down menu; very C21st!

Google maps had suggested it would take me 58 minutes although I left with plenty of spare time. Fed up with almost every radio station playing Christmas carols, as they had since the start of December, I tuned into Radio 4 and half-listened to their religious programme. I could see I was going to be early so kept my speed below the limit, staying in the slow lane except when the odd huge lorry was going slower. It occurred to me we normally just see the cars, vans and lorries without registering who is in them. I am sure you’ve been enchanted when coming into an airport at night, to see the streams of lights, white and red, ribboning out across the countryside, without thinking about their occupants?

We assume, we have to assume, that everyone behind the wheel of a vehicle can drive well, but watching some reels of the dashcam footage on Instagram of motorway collisions makes me wonder! I guess we all get distracted at some stage, either because our mind is too full of ‘stuff’ that there’s no computing space left for observing the road conditions and reacting accordingly or because we are just not a good driver. Some years ago Celina and I were just coming up to the junction of the M23 and the London orbital motorway M25; left taking us west towards Heathrow and beyond, right east towards the M2 to Dover. It’s got four clearly-marked lanes but Wayne and Sheila, driving their Toyota Corolla to see Sheila’s parents in Tunbridge Wells, obviously were confused; what’s that expression: “thumb up bum, mind in neutral”. At the last minute Wayne realised they were in wrong lane, way over to the left, swerved across to the right to make the turn and the car went up on two wheels. Those of us watching from the safety of our own vehicles could only wonder how the Toyota didn’t roll over but it bounced back onto four wheels, did a little shimmy, and went on its way! One could imagine the ‘words in car’ afterwards.

I saw Mariette with two young children strapped into seats behind her, continually turn around to see what they were doing; but she was travelling at 70 mph with a stopping distance of 100m and driving about twenty metres from the van in front. Eek!

In a rather clapped-out Volvo estate, probably with some huge mileage, a couple and three children are making their way to Granny’s for lunch. The elderly Labrador sits in the boot, its nose up against the back window causing the latter to mist up. In the old days the humans would probably be playing games like ‘I spy’/ colour of car/number plate/tree/road sign etc but today it looks as though the children are all engaged in individual electronic games on their iPads.

Jakub had left Gdańsk on the Baltic coast almost twenty hours ago, driving his lorry and trailer filled with kitchen units and hoping to get to Sheffield by the end of the day. Needing some fuel for himself and for his lorry, he indicated left and pulled off the motorway and into the Cobham Service Station. I followed.

Later, mission accomplished, Jade and I get back on the motorway. Seeing a Porsche with a distinctive number plate ……

…… reminded me of an observation from a few years ago, scribbled about in PC 48 Did You Notice That …. (August 2015). It seems appropriate to paraphrase it here:

“Driving up the M23 …. we were passed by a Range Rover with a distinctive number plate ‘1 BNT’. Normal number plates here currently have two letters denoting place of registration, two numbers denoting year of manufacture, and three arbitrary letters; ours are GU18GKO. … Some people, like this person, pay huge sums of money to purchase a particular combination that might mean something to them. What it stood for I am not sure, but ‘Number One Bint’ comes to mind. For those not familiar with the slang English vernacular ‘bint’ is a derogatory term for woman but could in this case be the exact proud opposite! Anyway ….. we journeyed onwards. Returning later …… to our complete amazement ….. we pass the same Range Rover traveling south. Here of course, in the same time and space, but recognising it purely because of its distinctive plate! What a coincidence! What a chance!”

Weird huh?

Richard 26^th January 2024

Hove

www.postcardscribbles.co.uk

Note 1 We have got used to buying fuel in litres and not gallons but a ‘pint of milk’ is a ‘pint of milk’ and not a ‘half-litre of milk’!

My regular readers will know I had my first cataract operation just before Christmas with, hopefully, the second in early February. Now I have 20/20 vision with my left eye and can read a car number plate at 1000m, well it feels like that, but the sight from my right eye is a bit of an uncorrected blur! For the last fifty years or more I have worn daily contact lenses and removed them before climbing into bed. The habit remains and every evening I instinctively want to remove my non-existent lenses!  

Funny things, habits! A long time ago I used to drink alcohol and smoke cigarettes. Too easy for one’s behaviour to become habitual, without challenging it. I gave up cigarettes at university and put the saved 50p, it was decades ago (!), into a piggy bank and paid for a holiday in Spain with the contents. But one evening many months later I fancied a late drink, popped down to the Hall of Residence’s bar and bought a pint and, oh! why not, let’s have a little Hamlet cigar. A week later I did the same, twice! Then I found myself buying a packet of 5 Hamlets and …….

There was no Government Health warning in those days!

Every so often well-meaning chums give me some non-alcoholic wine which are often sweet, but the ‘00’ beers have improved dramatically, driven by the demands of both Millennials and Generation Z. I have tried and not enjoyed wines which contain no alcohol but been pleasantly surprised by those that have a smidgen, say 0.5%. A red 0.5% was rather good, jangling those taste buds and bringing back faint memories of a good Barolo or Grenache.

In PC 368 I wrote that Duncan had brought a couple of bottles of Nozeco, a French 0.5% sparkling wine, to end the year and toast his new triptych. My newsagent Rahmi had also bought me a couple of bottles before Christmas so, with my turkey crown, pigs in blankets and cranberry sauce, I had a couple of glasses and jolly nice they were too! On New Year’s Eve I thought I would have the other half, kept fresh by a champagne stopper. And it was still good ….. and then in the second week of January I thought I would open the second bottle I had in the ‘fridge. …. and that’s when the brain kicked in! This is the way it is for those of us with slightly addictive characters. It sucks you in, the desire, the habit ……

Addiction is defined as not having control over doing, taking or using something to the point where it could be harmful to you. We probably use the term quite loosely to describe actions which, in themselves are not harmful, but their pursuit could eventually be. I have been accused of becoming addicted to the hot yoga series, I guess because at one point any social engagements had to fit around my daily practice! In the days before 00 beers were actually lovely, I got into drinking Red Bull, and enjoyed its lift. Like all addictions the more I had, the more I needed; it had to stop!

Any one for chocolate? Do you have any in your apartment or house? I certainly do and love having a little Cadbury’s Whole Nut with a coffee after lunch. It’s so, so good and in moderation, like most things, it’s OK.

I went to Google for a definition of ‘an alcoholic’ and found that it’s not a term used any more in ‘medical care’ but we all know that it means someone with a strong, often uncontrollable, desire to drink. The new term is ‘alcohol use disorder’, for women 8 or more drinks in a week, for men 15 or more a week. Fortunately apart from historic addictions to cigarettes and alcohol (Note 1) I have never got involved with any form of drugs, although recognise that their availability and acceptance today would be a big challenge.

Today’s the nineteenth of January, so if you started some New Year’s resolution, either giving up something or, on a more positive note, taking something up and are still focused on that, well done! Apparently it’s normal for most people to ditch the idea around the 12^th January. The Times’ columnist Janice Turner wrote this paragraph, cleverly entitled ‘Uncorked Whine’:

“I don’t usually do Dry January, but now I’ve started, I’ll try to finish. It feels right to be ascetic at this time of year. Yet — and I know it’s frivolous to say this — it’s given me renewed respect for friends with serious alcohol issues who’ve totally quit. Because even as a very moderate drinker I’m finding it hard. It’s the weekends that suck. I can easily forgo the odd midweek glass (or two). But no “wey-hey it’s Friday!” cocktail, no crisp white with Saturday’s  baked sea bass, no big red with Sunday’s apple and wild boar sausages in lentils? Just water for me, thanks. That won’t in any way diminish the meal …
Except it does: dinner without wine has no grandeur, no ceremony, no thrill of a popped cork, no pleasing glug, no first sip and satisfied “ahhhh!”
Three more weekends to go.”

I enjoy my no-alcohol decision, certainly don’t want to bang the drum for abstinence, but recognise that for instance some 17% of the issues that our wonderful paramedics are called out to deal with are alcohol-related and that’s not good!

Richard 19^th January 2024

Hove

www.postcardscribbles.co.uk

PS Luke’s WhatsApp group heard on Tuesday that Josh is alive. He’s suffering from concussion and has some very small pieces of shrapnel in his left leg. More news anon.

PPS See also PCs 15 ‘Alcohol and Other Drugs’ (June 2014) and 257 ‘Alcohol and The British Issue’ (November 2021)

Note 1 If you challenge yourself with the question: “Am I an alcoholic?” the inner voice replies “Oh! No! I’m just a social drinker, once or twice during the week and more at weekends, obviously. Good to unwind! That’s OK Isn’t it?”

(Continued from PC 368)

I can see everyone’s eyes are drawn unconsciously to the little candle on the counter, the artificial representation of someone dear; all of us lost in our thoughts about Josh. The clamour of concerned voices fills the café, everyone wanting to know what’s happened. Questions came thick and fast but Duncan, looking to Luke for his silent agreement, raises his hand:

“Look! From what Luke knows Josh is OK but was wounded when a drone, flown from Hezbollah-controlled southern Lebanon, released a small bomb. He’s been taken to hospital and Luke’s been promised an update this evening. Luke’s going to create a WhapsApp group so, if you want to, give him your details …….”

“Time for him to come home” mutters Susie under her breath as we all line up to give our details to Luke.

Without further information, speculation seems inappropriate and we will know soon enough how Josh is. Life moves on! Mo, Sami and I return to our table and discussion. In summary Mo had been saying that some people are put off reading because they don’t understand ‘long words’.

“Ah! The stratification in the way they’re presented” I said “the stories at the bottom in comic form, up through light weight chick-lit, trashy even (?), to the broad church of fictional novels and then to the higher callings of the intellectuals; same story! For me a good example of the latter would be Lawrence Durrell’s Alexandria Quartet, ranked by the Modern Library as among the greatest works of English literature in the C20th. Encouraged by Tim Tinnes in San Fransico, I tried it early last year. After a while I was skimming the pages, thought the writing tortured and overwrought: moved forward twenty pages and the story hadn’t, in my opinion, moved forward. I need the story to move!”

“So, what did you read last year Richard?”

“Well, of the 40 odd books, four were non-fiction: ‘What About Men?’ by Caitlin Moran (see PC 352 About Men September 2023), ‘SBS; Silent Warriors’ by Saul David, about the Special Boat Service, Tom Holland’s book on Klaus Barbie, ‘The Butcher of Lyon’ (See PC 324 Monsters March 2023) and Wendy Joseph QC’s description of ‘Unlawful Killing’ trials at The Old Bailey in London.

“Wow! Lots of fiction! Read mainly by the swimming pool in Estoril?”

“Privileged to have the time! Otherwise in bed before sleep, so I need a book to be a good story, with interesting characters and well-paced. I don’t think more than one could be described as trashy and I didn’t read more than 5% of that!”

The first few books extracted from my iphone ‘Notes’

Sami starts to tell us about his obsession with crime writers such as Lee Child, Agatha Christie, Ian Rankin, Stieg Larsen, Colin Dexter, Peter James, David Balducci, Michael Connelly, Martina Cole ……

“….. but now I wonder whether some pompous twat might call all their books ‘trashy’! Ha! Ha! We read what pleases us.”

“Indeed we do, indeed we should!”

Mo goes to get some more coffees and I can see she’s tempted by Teresa’s savouries, looking curiously into the display cabinet. Taking the opportunity, I quickly ask Sami whether he’s seen the ITV channel’s “Mr Bates v the Post Office”, with the actor Toby Jones, whom Celina and I met in the hot yoga studio in Balham in 2010, as Mr Bates.

“Ah! Yes! Making a drama about the UK’s biggest miscarriage of justice! Think it’s fairly accurate but what I hope it does is educate a wider audience as to what went on and how we suffered. I know that you wrote about it way before you and I met ……”

“Yes! In June 2021 I posted PC 235 Generosity in Government. Amazing to think it’s 18 months ago!”

Sami continues: “but I think most people just think it’s another government department FUBAR. I hope the Public Enquiry, apart from suggesting who should be prosecuted, addresses the issue of how the Post Office can act as their own police, judge and jury.”

“And, as I understand it, all the money the Post Office erroneously claimed their sub postmasters and mistresses had stolen ended up in Post Office profits. A wonderful corrupt scheme; the more you claim the individuals owe you due to our false accounting, the more you get back, the higher the organisation’s profits and the higher your bonus as a share of the profits.”

Mo returns with some coffees and, probably thinking we’d discussed trashy novels and the Post Office scandal to death, asks whether I had seen that the Australian journalist John Pilger had died aged 84?

“Actually I did! I confess to loving his books and still have ‘Hidden Agendas’ and ‘Distant Voices’. He was the hatpin to the status quo as portrayed by governments and political parties, exploding biased views and pomposity. But he was a marmite character; you either loved him or hated him. What I hadn’t realised was he almost became a word in the dictionary.”

“What do you mean?” ask Mo and Sami almost simultaneously!

“He obviously upset the English writer Auberon Waugh, who invented a new verb to describe Pilger’s actions. “To Pilger, Pilgerise or be Pilgered: to present information in a sensationalist manner to reach a foregone conclusion; using emotive language to make a false political point: treating a subject emotionally with generous disregard for inconvenient detail; or making a pompous judgement on wrong premises.” Pilger initiated legal action and it was removed from The Oxford English Dictionary of New Words. More’s the pity; think it would have been a useful addition!”

“Anyway” says Duncan, interrupting everyone, “Time to close the café. Let’s hope news from Israel is positive, thank you Richard for your triptych, and no doubt we’ll all see each other over the next few days.”

Out into the deep darkness of a January evening, the odd snow flurry catching the light from the streetlamps.

More anon ….

Richard 13^th January 2024

Hove

www.postcardscribbles.co.uk

PS Following the enormous expose created by the programme, Paula Vennells, CEO Post Office 2012 – 2019, is handing back her CBE and it sounds as though Parliament will introduce a law that will quash most of the criminal convictions; interesting parliamentary action overriding the ‘independent’ judiciary!

Note 1 FUBAR – F**ked Up Beyond All Recognition