I overheard a rather disturbing conversation last night on the train coming home from class. It was late, after 9pm and after dark. The train was crowded as usual. I was sitting and the man was standing right over me, talking into his mobile phone. He looked about fortyish, dark haired, well dressed, obviously in some executive job. His voice, the expression on his face, even his body language, said ‘impatient’ and ‘exasperated’.

‘Just tell it to go away,’ he kept saying, ‘just walk away from it, just go home…’ and a few other phrases I can’t remember.

The voice on the other end sounded young, female and distraught. His tone suggested that he was talking to his child, rather than an adult. He seemed dismissive, unconcerned, as though the person on the other end was making an unnecessary fuss. Normally I hate mobile phone conversations on trains, especially pompous, self important businessmen who talk like they’re captains of industry, or young women loudly sharing their intimate private lives or social arrangements with their fellow passengers. But this time I was straining to listen and work out what was happening at the other end, building a picture in my mind. Not just out of nosiness, but concern. The person at the other end was obviously out and about, walking somewhere, because the man kept saying ‘just go home.’  It might be a predatory male perhaps, who was following them, making them feel threatened, but the man kept referring to an ‘it’. The picture in my mind was a stray dog. But ‘it’ could also have been a car. A kerb crawler? Following his daughter home?

Now it could have been an elderly mother, perhaps with dementia, but why would an old person be out walking the streets at night? His impatient dismissive attitude could indicate perhaps an elderly confused person who repeatedly did silly things and went wandering off, like that awful scene in Iris, where Judy Dench goes walkabout. But my guess was that it was his teenage daughter.

I will never know, because he got off at the next stop, but it has been bothering me ever since. What upset me most was his evident lack of concern. If that had been my daughter, or my gaga old mum, or my wife, (it was definitely a female voice and sounded like a family member), out and about somewhere, in distress, being followed, I would have been beside myself with worry. I would have been in frantic tears, telling who ever it was to call the police, knock on someone’s door, whatever. He just didn’t seem worried. I still am.

For mothers in particular, that umbilical cord is never quite severed. Your offspring, however old they are, never stop being your babies. You never stop worrying about them. I now know what I must have put my parents through. And no doubt the same experience awaits my daughter later on. It’s scant comfort, when I have those moments of ‘this is what I remember my mother used to say to me and now I understand’ and ‘she will understand this later on when she has her own child.’

Last Monday we had a family outing, a birthday treat for Izzy and Dan, whose birthdays are a week apart. In the old days, a family outing would be a trip to Thorpe Park or Legoland, a picnic by a lake or a day at the beach. This time is was Russell Brand. And he was beyond brilliant. It was a philosophical dissertation laced with hilarious filth and biting satire, with a brilliant punch line. He reeled off complex, highly sophisticated sentences and every word was heard and followed. He quoted Nietszche and Wittgenstein and no-one felt patronized. He had a right old go at David Cameron and the Daily Mail, slaughtered globalised capitalism and patriarchal monotheism, all the things I hate. He worships the feminine divine! Women are goddesses. I’ll buy that. Never mind that it’s so he can get laid after the show, I forgive him his concupiscence. I can’t imagine being able to stand on a stage and spout your mouth off for two hours and remember everything I was going to say, and keep an audience of 3000 completely enthralled. He got a standing ovation at the end. The best thing was, a lot of it related to what I’ve been reading in my Critical theory module at Kingston uni. Not the filthy bits obviously.

We’re having a joint birthday party for Izzy and Dan next Saturday. It had to be done - I had a great idea for the cake…….When Izzy was young I would do these big themed birthday party events, usually based on the latest Disney release, complete with makeshift costumes, fairy grottos, castles, gypsy treasure hunts, teepees and visiting storytellers. The party bags were meticulously themed too. The cakes were not just cakes, they were three act movies with subplots. I had Pocohontas rafting down a waterfall, witches storming castles, mermaids beckoning to hapless sailors, fairytale princesses and a gypsy encampment with a fizzling fire. I made them myself, all bodged together fairly crudely, using a lot of food dye and hundreds and thousands of hundreds of thousands, but it got the idea across.

Maybe one day I will grow up. And by that time, Izzy will be doing the worrying

I visited what was left of the ‘Jungle’ refugee camp in Calais on Tuesday Nov 1^st with friend Mitch, who has been making regular visits over the last year and a half with various volunteer groups. I accompanied him and others for a working weekend last May, when the camp was still in full swing. The difference was starkly depressing.

The entire site, once a huddled city of makeshift tens and shelters, a place of both hope and despair with a huge community spirit, was now an empty and desolate wasteland, dotted with piles of burnt wood and the remains of shelters, still blowing gusts of acrid smoke in the wintry air. Bulldozers rampaged over the area, clearing the rubble.

Calais town was eerily quiet, but we sensed unseen presences behind closed doors.  Although the camp has been evacuated and demolished, thousands of inhabitants bussed off to other parts of France, where they are probably not welcomed by right wing mayors, there are still refugees scattered all over the area. Many of them were unable to register because of the chaos and inefficiency of the registration system. Some have fled into the woods to set up makeshift camps and live rough. Some have gone into hiding with kind French people, (yes there are some in Calais) until they can sort themselves out. One Frenchwoman took in an Afghan family with young children. They were taken back to the camp and she was arrested and interrogated for four hours, and told she couldn’t offer shelter. Some are staying in the Salaam refuge, a Moslem centre which will take anyone from any religion. Some have been staying in a Catholic refuge centre. And many have gravitated to Paris, where they have been camping out in the open and treated brutally by French riot police.

All that was left of the camp itself was a collection of what I all the ‘Container Kids.’ 1500 unaccompanied minors who had been left behind after the main evacuation last week, to be temporarily sheltered in the containers at the edge of the camp. There was no running water or electricity and no provision to feed or care for them, so they have been relying on food brought to them by the charity organisations. During that last week, 200 of them were unable to get into the containers and were forced to sleep in the open, leaving them exposed and vulnerable to people traffickers.

Before going to the containers, we visited the Warehouse, the Auberge de Migrants, run by the main volunteer group Help Refugees. Despite the fact that the camp has been cleared, the warehouse is still alive with activity. Volunteers are working round the clock, sorting donations to be taken to refugee camps in Greece, Turkey and Syria, where they are now actively operating. At that point they were also busy preparing food for the container kids and taking it to them. We talked for awhile with some of the volunteers and heard some horrific stories about police brutality to the young refugees. We heard about arms being broken, police going into containers and pepper spraying young boys, a boy hit by a rubber bullet who has been in hospital and will probably never be the same again.  

The CRS, the French riot police, are pretty monstrous. As described in the previous blog entry, they look like the Storm troopers from Star Wars except in black, with big shoulder and knee pads. They frequently use water cannons, tear gas and rubber bullets during protests and riots. These people are being treated like animals, they are angry, confused and frightened, and I think that anyone would lose the plot in that situation. It has been exacerbated by fascist thugs going into the camp to attack refugees, and violent people traffickers attacking lorries. 

The riot police were already gathering in force when we arrived at what was left of the camp. At around 2.00 in the afternoon, a phalanx of about 20 riot police vehicles swooped down the side road leading to the containers, blue lights flashing, and parked up.
Smirking police officers stood around, flexing for a fight.


At that point the area around the container camp seemed relatively calm. They were just a bunch of teenagers, larking about, riding donated bikes, playing football in a nearby field, groups of giggling teenage girls exchanging catcalls with the boys. There was mix of all ages and both sexes, contrary to popular perceptions. Many were as young as 8, but most were aged between 15 and 17. (Think about it - 8 year old kids on their own, no parents, no support.) There were several groups of white European volunteers dishing out food from makeshift soup kitchens. The kids were cheerful and friendly and I was amazed at their resilience and courage. There are Afghans, Syrians, Eritreans, Somalis, many different national groups, but most of them orphans whose parents have been killed in the conflicts they have fled from. Fights do break out among them, because resources are scarce and they are all fighting for survival. They are lonely, frightened and confused.

Most of them want to come to the UK because they have family here and they speak English. They don’t want to stay in a country alone where they don’t speak the language. We forget that English is the main language of the world because we had a big empire spanning the globe. Talk about own goal.

Many people also don’t realize that there are 15 conflicts going on around Africa and the Middle East. It’s not just about Syria. Last May I talked to many young boys and men and heard their stories. All of them heartbreaking, about families torn apart, young people forced to flee to apparent safety from conflict and persecution.

And here’s another reminder – only 4% of ALL refugees are trying to get to Britain. The rest are heading elsewhere. Yet the tabloid press seem to create the impression that all of them want to come only here.

We left at around 5pm to catch the ferry home and later learnt that another riot had broken out after we left. Apparently the youngsters were protesting about their inhumane treatment and not knowing what was to happen to them. The French riot police responded with their usual brutality.

The next day at 8am, on Wednesday 2^nd November, coaches arrived to transport them to unknown destinations around France, where they await to hear about their fate, and whether they will be allowed to join their families here in the UK.

And that’s it – the end of the jungle. It’s gone. A sad end to a sad story, which will be continuing elsewhere. It’s not over yet.  

I can’t stop thinking about these kids. What will happen to them? Anyone who is a parent and knows the truth about what’s going on can’t fail to be concerned. No doubt the government will take a token few of them for appearances sake, to gain some bogus humanitarian credentials.

Most importantly, what has happened to our humanity? How can we turn our backs on people who are running away from terrible situations that our governments here in the West have helped create, with our arms dealing and foreign policy interference?

This is the biggest story of the century, the last test of humankind. As Angelina Jolie points out, this problem is not going to go away, and if we keep ignoring it and thinking it is not our problem, it is going to get worse and impact on us all.

Needless to say, the tabloid press have been doing their best to undermine public sympathy for these people. With de-humanising language like ‘hordes’ and ‘swathes’ and ‘migrants’ instead of refugees, which in my mind they all are. And of course, big emphasis on the fact that some of those newly arrived in the UK are older than 18, despite the fact that they have probably been refugees since before they were 18. Does being over 18 suddenly make people sub-human? This is typical tabloid sleight of hand, a distraction technique designed to brainwash the gullible public into dismissing these people as undeserving of compassion.

One paper has been giving balanced coverage of the refugee crisis and I attach the links below. Do please read if you have time. And spread the word if you feel inclined. The more people understand about this situation the better we can find a solution.

Wednesday 2^nd Nov

https://www.theguardian.com/world/2016/nov/02/calais-refugee-children-evacuated-as-camp-clearance-winds-up

Tuesday 1^st Nov

https://www.theguardian.com/world/2016/nov/01/calais-camp-hit-riots-refugees-teenagers

https://www.theguardian.com/world/2016/nov/01/calais-camps-child-refugees-leave-wednesday-plan-bus-childrens-homes-france-application-uk

https://www.theguardian.com/commentisfree/2016/nov/01/calais-camp-children-refugees

Sat 29^th October

https://www.theguardian.com/world/2016/oct/29/calais-camp-charities-attack-uk-and-france-over-unaccompanied-children

Friday 28^th October

https://www.theguardian.com/world/2016/oct/28/calais-french-british-officials-passing-buck-end

Thursday 27^th October

https://www.theguardian.com/world/2016/oct/27/theresa-may-policies-calais-rough-sleeping-children-camp-refugees-tories

https://www.theguardian.com/uk-news/2016/oct/29/kindertransport-heros-daughter-urges-uk-to-welcome-calais-refugees

PEACE TO ALL 

Positive thinking is the way forward!

Forward thinking is the way forward!

And Glucosamine Sulphate is the way backwards. I met a neighbour on the train the other day who told me that if you take it regularly for about two million years, it replaces knee cartilage, turns back the clock to when you were able to do girl power kicks, play badminton without looking like a demented ballet dancer, ride horses and ski down red and black runs. That was the sort of thing I used to do, when Izzy was young. When I was younger. Now a flight of stairs is a major challenge. Could glucosamine sulphate be the Knee Fairy in disguise? I am off to Holland and Barrett tomorrow.

The knees are getting better, thanks for asking, getting used to this new active student life. Sometimes I can hear them singing ‘I will Survive’ very faintly. 

 Last week we went to see Midsummer Night’s Dream at the Noel Coward, with David Walliams as Bottom and Sheridan Smith as Tit. Fab production, very pagan-hippie, (as if the play wasn’t pagan enough already), all the fairies styled as festival goers from the 70s, crustie dreads, the lot. In the last production I saw the fairies were punks with shaved heads and Doc Martens. How times change. And OMG, why did I not notice that whole bestiality thing before? I must be really thick. Oberon had a West country accent, which seemed to change to an Irish one when he doubled as the Duke of Athens. The sets were superb, a massive moon against which David Walliams’s ass ears were silhouetted to great effect. He camped it up to the hilt, played it bi-sexual. Towards the end he lapsed into the Scottish hotelier in Little Britain mode. David Walliams was being David Walliams.  

I love Shakespeare. Who doesn’t? If you want to see this production, hurry before it closes on October 16th

 I got to walk across the fields at the back of my house the other day, after a 15 year gap, or is it 13 years? It was a beautiful Sunday evening with the sunlight slanting in that Autumnal way across the empty fields and the ring of trees all around us.  The farmyard is deserted now, not a cattle grid in sight and looking very forlorn. Unless our farmer friends get the tenancy soon, these beautiful fields, that I look out at from my bathroom window, will go to pot, full of thistles and weeds. That scrubby ‘set-aside’ look. 

 Izzy obligingly accompanied me and all the old memories came back.

 So Izzy and I recalled silly antics we did when she was a child and she went along with it, indulging her Mum. But then she had to get back to drive back home to Twickenham. Home. Her new home.

 I was going through the shoe baskets the other day and realised it was much emptier than it used to be. She and Dan have left home properly now. The shoes have gone with them. I do miss them. Them, not the shoes. Offspring do have to fly the nest eventually. And the birds do keep coming home to roost. If you’ve got a good relationship with your kids you will never lose them.

And this MA course is keeping me busy. It's getting interestinger and interestinger. There’s been a lot in our recent Critical Challenges reading about declining literary standards. It’s true, there is a lot of crap out there, but still some good stuff. And I do think that commercial success and literary quality can co-exist.

Our neighbouring farmer, has just delivered a trailer load of manure. You wouldn’t give it to someone as a Christmas present. But it’ll help me grow some spectacular vegetables next year. Not all shit is bad.

Friday September 27^th 2013

 I hate my f***ing knees! Where is that bloody knee fairy when you need her? I need a new pair of knees, like, now, not in ten years’ time.  Preferably along Cara Delevigne lines, or perhaps Sophia Loren, more age appropriate.

The tooth fairy was pretty reliable I seem to remember. Bang on time, sixpence under the pillow the next morning, or if you were lucky, a shilling. Enough for a liquorice sherbet. (In those days sweets were like drugs and your local confectioner was your local dealer.) But the Knee Fairy is very flaky and I have decided to stop believing in her. So there. That’ll teach her.

By the way hello! I am a bad housewife for many reasons, which will become apparent. 

And here’s one of them. 

Yes, this week the knees have been giving me extra gyp. Just when you need them to function at max. I’ve just started this fantastic course in Creative Writing at Kingston University. After 30 years of making a living at it, I’ve decided to learn how to do it properly.  I’m really excited about it, it is simultaneously scaring me and thrilling me to death.  We’re going to be challenged, stretched, jerked out of our writing ruts and comfort zones and ingrained habits and (in my case), smug white middle class assumptions and preconceptions about what we should be doing. And we’re hitting the ground running! Which is not good with bad knees.

I’m going in three times a week. There’s a bit of travelling on trains, up and down stairs, rucksack on back. And there I am, yesterday morning, going down the stairs at Surbiton station and feeling the paaaain and there’s a woman in front of me, also with a heavy rucksack, and a stick. And there’s that nice Film Studies lecturer I met the other day, also walking to the university, with a limp. And later, I’m catching the bus back to Surbiton station with my lovely new bezzie fellow student Alison, discussing what we’re going to write for our first assignments. Suddenly the bus screeches to a stop, and there’s a girl on foot, and with her a girl in a motorised wheelchair, and the ramp is lowered for her, and she zooms onto the bus, and it looks like she hasn’t even got knees. She’s smiling, really brave, just getting on with her life. At least I have knees. And I can walk.

 SO STOP MOANING BITCH!

There’s always someone worse off than you and you have to be thankful for what you’ve got.

Talking of walking, I have a dog to walk. She can talk the talk. Did you know border collies have a massive vocabulary? They understand over 240 words of their native language, more than the ape. Hence they seem, spookily, to understand what you’re saying and when you’re talking about them.  They are very, very intelligent. And I am hoping she might help me with my assignments. She will no doubt start her own Dog Blog soon, working in Woof for Windows.

She can also walk the walk. She is now glaring at me balefully with that look of doggy reproach, so in a minute I will take her up to the post box. Not to post her in it you understand, to post An Important Letter about cashing in an ancient  savings account to help pay for my course.

I went to pilates this morning, a stroll of bucolic splendour up the footpath to my friend’s studio. Everyone in the class has some problem. Neck, knee (that’s me), shoulder, arm, hip, tendonitis, arthritis. But Chris has got cancer and she’s being really brave about it. Yet another reason to feel humbled.

Did I mention that I live in the country? 33 years ago we bought a derelict bungalow in the middle of 10 acres of wasteland, for like, NO MONEY, and we’ve transformed it into a paradise. I say ‘we’ advisedly, since my husband did most of the building work, I just do the housework, laundry, shopping, cooking – oh and gardening. I grow flowers, mostly Mediterranean style, in pots, on top of china elephants and in anything I can find, like old sewage pipes. The herbaceous thing is a bit difficult in heavy clay and everything except shrubby stuff just gives up and slinks away when you’re not looking. I have statues of Buddhas and Greek gods and goddesses all over the place. Why are you not surprised? I am an old hippie. I also grow vegetables now, not very successfully this year, as I forgot to mulch the garden. Loads of runner beans though, so if you’re interested, apply here.

Gardening is a great counterpoint to writing and terribly good for the soul apparently. We farmed sheep for a while, and my daughter watched me deliver twin lambs once from her pushchair. (The lambs came out of the sheep’s bum not the pushchair.) She is now nearly 25, graduated and living mostly near work in London, although she keeps coming home with her laundry. Her place is a bus ride from the university, so I plan to turn up on her doorstep demanding hot meals and sympathy. Payback time! And I do miss her. Anyway, hence the empty nester decision to do this course. She doesn’t remember the woolly nativity scene, but I christened the lambs after her. Annoyingly they were boys, so it had to be Isambard and Florian. Pretentious? Moi?

Do not ask me how we farmed the sheep. Especially if you’re a vegetarian. We did sell the wool however.

Now we have our local farmer friends put their cattle on the fields. They look dead picturesque against that lush green background and they moo a lot when they’re hungry and bash their hooves against the water troughs. At night we hear of lot of murders going on around us, of the wildlife variety. And you get attuned to things like astronomy and birdsong. It’s all very earthy and spiritual. And we’re only an hour or so from London and Brighton.

So yes, I like it here. A lot.  It’s the best of all worlds, everything on your doorstep. But a lot to look after.

I am now going to ewalk my dog. That was a spelling mistake but I’ve decided to keep it in. It would be nice to take my dog for e walks, rather than real ones.

So I’m signing off now to stride purposefully around the fields and up the footpath, being brave about my knees because I’m lucky to have them and there’s always someone worse off than you, and post that Important Letter.

This is my first writing assignment on this course. It’s good to be writing again after a self imposed summer Sabbatical and I hope I have hit the ground running, or at least stumbling, in the right direction. I hope I can talk the talk and walk the walk.