Charlie, je suis - ou peut-être je ne suis pas

Our newspapers and the television news have given enormous coverage to recent events in Paris.  The BBC sent two of their top television news presenters in addition to three or four other correspondents, editors and reporters - plus (of course) all the sound and vision recorders etc etc.  I shudder to think what that cost.  The Parisian hoteliers must be rubbing their hands in glee!

I suppose that hysteria is not really surprising - and I think describing it as hysteria is no exaggeration.  I would apply the same word to the reaction of the French people, turning out in their millions on Sunday in mass demonstrations of solidarity with the magazine Charlie Hebdo and its staff.  It wouldn't have happened this side of the Channel - remember the London bombings of 7th July 2005 when as well as the four bombers, 52 civilians were killed and over 700 more were injured.  But the French have always been given to over-the-top displays of emotion; they don't have the stiff upper lip mentality.

Anyway, now that the hysteria has died down a tad, I will throw in my two-pennyworth.   I am a firm believer in the freedom of the press and the right of free speech for all, so to that extent, je suis Charlie.  I have never seen a copy of the magazine or reproductions of any of its cartoons so I cannot speak from personal experience, but from what I have read, some of the cartoons published in the magazine have been especially offensive to many Muslims.  I would not suggest that atrocities such as were seen in Paris can ever be excused by the publication of cartoons ridiculing religions or those who hold particular religious beliefs, so again, to that extent, je suis Charlie.  But I do believe that it is incumbent upon anybody and everybody - including newspapers and magazines - to exercise some self-discipline.  Public figures, such as politicians, put themselves forward and must be prepared to accept that they will be lampooned, but there is a line beyond which newspaper and magazine editors should not venture.  The question remains, however; just where should that line be drawn?  It seems to me that in France the line is drawn further to the side of libertarianism than it is in England and that is why peut-être je ne suis pas Charlie.  Indeed, I might even go so far as to say je ne suis pas Charlie, no peut-être about it.  It does seem, shall I say, a little hypocritical of all those senior politicians to say that it's perfectly in order to mock Muslims - but don't you dare say anything about blacks, gays or Jews as that would come under the category of hate crime.

Another point that concerns me about the reaction of the television and newspaper editors, as well as the world leaders and the millions who marched in Paris and elsewhere, is that other more bloody events are taking place in the world and they are attracting far less attention.  What about the activity of Boko Haram?  They slaughtered two thousand people in Nigeria a few days ago.  What are the national leaders who were in Paris saying about that?  More to the point, what are they doing about it?  And there has been, as far as I am aware, little or no international outrage at the murder of more than 150 people, most of them children, by the Taliban at a school in Pakistan.  It's almost as though we have one set of values for Europeans and another set for Africans and Asians.  But no, that would be racist.

I don't have the answers to the problems posed by Boko Haram, Al Quaeda, the Islamic State of wherever or any of the other extremist groups across the world; I only wish I did.  But I do hope that our elected leaders give urgent thought to how we can collectively thwart their threats.

Recipes

I will probably live to regret it, but I'm ashamed to say I have fallen for a chain email!  It read as follows:

We are participating in a collective, constructive, and hopefully tasty experiment - a recipe exchange. We hope you will participate. We have picked those we think would make this fun and easy.

Please send a recipe to the person whose name is in position 1 (even if you don't know her/him) and it should be something quick, easy and without rare ingredients. Actually, the best one is the one you know off the top of your head, and can type right now. Don't agonize over it, it should be a recipe that you make when you are short of time. You can even send a web link if easier.

After you've sent the recipe to the person in position 1 below (and only to that person), copy this letter into a new email, move my name to position 1 and put your name in position 2. Only my and your name should show when you send your email. Send to yourself and BCC 20 friends (blind copy).

Once complete, you should receive 36 recipes. It's fun to see where they come from! Seldom does anyone drop out because we all need new ideas, and the turnaround is fast as there are only 2 names on the list - and you only have to do it once.

There followed the email address of Madge, a lady in Scotland, and the sender.

Frankly, I think the sender must have been scraping the bottom of the barrel in inviting me to take part in this experiment.  Me - who has trouble boiling eggs!  Anyway, I sent off a recipe of sorts to Madge.  But my arithmetic is letting me down - or maybe it's the originator's arithmetic that's wonky.  How do I end up with 36 recipes?  I send the email to 20 people, each of whom moves my name to position 1 before sending on to 20 people each.  That's 400 people from whom I am to expect recipes!

Like I said, I think I might live to regret this.

Oh, if you would like to copy that email and add my address in position 1, well, don't bother, thank you very much.  I don't need any recipes - I married a cook!

Confession

I've heard it said - or maybe I simply read it somewhere.  One or the other, or maybe even both - that confession is good for the soul.  So, in the hope that if indeed I do have a soul and confession is, indeed, good for it, perhaps it is time for me to (as I believe my American friends might say) 'fess up.  I must say, that always sounds to me a most unsavoury thing to do, 'fess up.  I know that "'fess" is a contraction of "confess" - the leading ' gives the game away anyway - but "confess up"?  Oh, come now, please!

But my confession.

I don't understand American football.

I have studied a concise version of the rules, the idiot's guide, you might say.  I've read John Grisham's Playing for Pizza.  I even spent a few minutes watching a game the other weekend when one was in progress on the Waterhall playing fields as I took the dog for a walk.  To somebody brought up on (proper) football, the game seems to have no flow.  There are stoppages every few seconds, it seems.  And to have two entirely different sets of players to chop and change depending on whether the team is attacking or defending...  Well, it simply blows my mind.

I do at least have an inkling of what is happening on the baseball diamond.  And no, I don't consider it to be a slightly odd version of rounders.  As I say, I have an inkling, but that is all.  There are many terms that are quite beyond my comprehension.

But then, that is the case with cricket.  I don't know where to find the gully or the difference between a cover drive, a sweep and a square cut so explaining the niceties - or even the basics - of the sport to somebody without much knowledge of it would be quite beyond my ability.  But it doesn't spoil my enjoyment of the game.

There are, no doubt, plenty of other "sins" I should or could confess, but sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof.

Random Thoughts

I very nearly gave this post a different title - Odd Thoughts - but decided that might give readers the wrong impression, so Random Thoughts it is.

* * *

Why is it, I ask myself, that I can start to write about something knowing full well how the piece is going to end - and only realise the following day that it didn't end how it should have done?  Is it the mind - my mind - that wanders, or do the fingers on the keyboard exert some hidden pressure and take me to places I don't want to go?  It's rather like setting off to visit Blackpool, only to find oneself in Bradford!  Most unsettling.

* * * *

And how does the great Blugger decide which comments on my posts should be sent on to me as emails and which should remain in the nether land of obscurity?  In order to ensure that I see and read all comments, I have to go to the "comments" link on the dashboard!

* * * * *

Nature seems to be confused - again.  (I'm so glad it doesn't happen just to me!)  There is a Christmas rose in bloom in the garden; by that I mean a hellebore, not a summer rose blooming late, which is in bloom at the right time of the year.  Mind you, there is also a yellow Welsh poppy (a summer flower) and the passion flower has a solitary bloom (should have been over in October-ish).  Early daffodils are in bloom along the fence of our local primary school, and yesterday I saw my first primroses of the year in Hollingbury woods.  Just a few, but very early.  That must be a warm bank as I recall seeing the first primrose in the same spot last year.

* * * * * *

There seems to be a thing about schools and flag poles.  One school a couple of miles away has had a flag pole for some years now and has a great selection of flags to fly from it; the Union Jack, St George's flag, the Olympic flag and so on.  Then at Christmas they were flying a flag with the words "Merry Christmas".  And late last year our local primary sprouted a flag pole.  (I wonder if they thought to get planning permission?)  They had the "Merry Christmas" flag as well, and are now flying one wishing people a "Happy New Year".

There comes a time

Every so often we read reports in the papers of motorists driving the wrong way on dual carriageways or motorways, usually elderly drivers who had become confused or simply hadn't noticed what they were doing wrong.  These reports are frequently followed by letters to the editor suggesting all sorts of things: compulsory re-testing at various ages, a complete ban on driving over a given age, etc etc.  Two suggestions that stick in my mind especially are that anybody who tales longer than 30 seconds to get out of a car should no longer drive, and that family and friends should tell a person when they think the time has come for him (or her) to give up driving.

Driving licenses in this country expire automatically at the age of 70, at which point the driver has to complete a form - basically a self-assessment - to confirm that he is capable of driving safely.  The license is then re-issued for a period of three years, when the process is repeated.  People suffering from any of a list of complaints and health conditions are required to declare the same when re-applying for a license and, in some cases, the DVLA (licensing authority) will contact the driver's doctor to obtain confirmation that it is safe to re-issue the license.

The problem is that these things are never black or white; there are always shades of grey.  And the opinions expressed are always subjective; they can be nothing else.  Take the case of our household.

It is now about 18 months since we sold the Old Bat's car.  She hadn't driven it for at least six months because although she could control the car perfectly well, she was unable to get to or from the car without assistance; I always had to be with her.  Since her car was kept in the garage, with mine in front, we always used my car.  But, in any case, she didn't like to drive my car in traffic as it was considerably larger than hers.  She was quite happy to drive my car along the almost deserted French motorways, which did give me a break when going to our holiday cottage.  However, I was becoming more and more concerned that she was not noticing road signs.  On at least three occasions she drove past the turn-off we wanted and several times I had to point out reductions in speed limits an so on.

When the time came to renew her license, I fully anticipated problems.  I telephoned the DVLA as her condition is not one on the list that have to be declared.  They checked and confirmed that she would need to do so; they also wanted to contact her doctor.  It was quite a surprise to me that she received a new license.

But it is now getting on for a year since she last drove.  There has been no opportunity for her to drive my "new" car, something she would want to do before taking to the motorways so on our last few trips I have done all the driving.  I'm rather hoping that it will stay that way.  I dread having to tell her that I think she is no longer capable of driving safely.  As it is, there are many things I watch her struggle with around the home as a result of her slowly worsening condition, but I bite my tongue and only occasionally offer to do what for me would be simple.  The time will come when she decides for herself that she is not able to do things.

Happy - but fuming too

Yesterday was...  well, interesting would be one word.  There had been heavy rain overnight and as we went out to the car the Old Bat shrieked - the drain in the drive had been unable to cope and the water was an inch deep.  But we paddled on and drove away.  As we got down the hill, the water was fountaining from the drains and the local high school playing field was a lake - something neither of us had ever seen before.  Then I took one look at the flood water at the crossroads - and turned back to find another way!

We arrived at our friends' place a little later than expected having been held up by roadworks somewhere in south London.  A short but pleasant visit before we dropped them off for J's hospital appointment and headed further into darkest London to arrive in the Royal Borough of Kensington and Chelsea for the Old Bat's appointment.  The hospital has no parking facility and I dropped the OB off at the entrance, eventually finding a spot with a single yellow line where I was able to park with the blue (disabled) badge on display.  We sat in a very crowded waiting room with her clinic running an hour behind.

At last the OB was called.  When the doctor came in, she expressed surprise.  "Going by your notes and the last blood test results, I expected to see somebody looking very poorly, but you look very well!"  The OB replied that she felt very well.  It was mutually agreed that chemotherapy was probably not a good idea, especially in view of the probably side effects on a person of such limited mobility, but that if further treatment is needed, steroids might well be the answer.  Another scan is wanted, but this can probably be arranged nearer home in Brighton or Haywards Heath.  So that's the good bit.

When she was done, I left the OB just inside the door while I fetched the car.  Which had a parking ticket tucked under the windscreen wiper.  I pulled up at the hospital entrance only to be berated by an ambulance driver who claimed I had not signalled.  I assured him that I had, whereupon he became rather aggressive.  Ignoring his rant, I flapped my hand at him and walked away.  But he followed me and stood no more than two inches away from my face shouting at me.  I said nothing, until two nurses came rushing from the hospital, telling him to stop shouting, at which point I told him that if I had inadvertently done something to offend him, I apologised (or something like that).  One of the nurses was most solicitous, checking that I was OK.

On the drive home, my sat-nav seemed intent on sending me round in circles but I eventually ignored "her" and followed my nose - and the signs - until "she" finally caught up with me.  Like credit cards, sat-navs make good servants but bad masters (or mistresses).

On checking this morning, I find that the Royal Borough of Kensington and Chelsea, along with the cities of Westminster and London and part of the borough of Camden, have different parking rules to the rest of the country when it comes to blue badges.  This is explained in the notes that come with the blue badge - but I read those when the OB got her badge - and that was three years' ago!  So that's £65 I have to fork out.  If she needs to go there again, the OB will have to ask to be taken by ambulance (at enormous expense to the NHS!).

And this morning I have received a response from the ombudsman service to a complaint I made recently about a local firm with whom I have been having problems since last September.  The ombudsman asks me to send a copy of the firm's complaint handling procedures and evidence that I have exhausted these.  Part of my complaint to the ombudsman was that the firm refused to send me a copy of their complaints handling procedure!

Is it just me going mad - or have the inmates taken over the asylum?

Out of town

The Old Bat has a hospital appointment in London this afternoon so we are taking the opportunity to visit some friends who moved from Brighton to Wimbledon back in 2013 and who we have not seen since.  And no, we will not be wombling on Wimbledon Common - although I have very happy memories of...

Well, we won't go into that in mixed company.