Twitter Feed: The Cancelling of Jeremy Corbyn

I don't mind being called a Corbynista. Only recently becoming politically active, it did come as a bit of a surprise that playground tactics were part of the mix, but I've been called worse. 

 I became politically active because of Jeremy Corbyn. Before, I was merely a retired headteacher with a conscience, a state of beng which I now understand to be "woke", and I have no problem with THAT either.

I respect Corbyn enormously, and see him out and about tirelessly campaigning for peace and justice, and ask myself why every elected politician doesn't feel compelled to do the same, when 1/3 of the children in the U.K. are growing up in poverty: maybe because they're not woke?

I not going to hanker after a comeback for him though. Who'd want to drag anyone back to the abuse, antagonism, and vilification he had to put up with, simply by personifying what the Labour Party claimed to be. 

I'm getting to the point, bear with me.

Setting aside the trauma many obviously suffered at the prospect of Britain being hauled into the 21st Century as a modern social democracy - and we're all now feeling your pain - am I the only one who sees the bigger picture?

The entire establishment conspired against the one

politician in my lifetime who offered the prospect of a decent standard of living for all. I watched with detached amazement as a general, an Archbishop, the US Secretary of State, and HIS OWN PARTY united to bring him down.

Doesn't anyone else get how fucked-up this was?

Still is.

Jeremy Corbyn has become the bogey-man of the establishment. The gentle jam-maker from Islington has to be continually presented as a threat of unimaginable proportions to... what, exactly?

A political class content with 1/3 of British children growing up in poverty, and an economy looted on behalf of the obscenely rich by the obscenely rich.

So, go ahead, call me a "Corbynista," and I'll come right back at you with, "Sucker", and we'll see who blinks first. 

Bugsy and Malone: A Near-Death Experience

This is a piece of “Life-Writing” from eight years ago. Abigail recently celebrated her twelfth birthday, and is into maths, not bugs,  these days …

The curious case of the dead caterpillars.

 

I have been picking the larvae of the, as yet unidentified, butterthing off my buddliah and putting them in a bowl to watch 'em go through their life-cycle. More for the benefit of the grandchildren you understand. Though the inner child here IS sighing over the demise of the Nature Table, which must have seen off more frogs and toads than global warming and fungal infections combined, and I exaggerate only slightly. 

Remembering Miss Cornish's instructions to give fresh leaves every day, I have been replenishing the food supply accordingly. I had the bright, but as it turns out, disasterous, idea of putting bunches of foodstuffs in water, thereby drowning two of the inmates of my little prison. 

They were pale, inert and unresponsive. Very much all three. I was not so much troubled for them, as they had lived blameless lives and were certain to go straight to heaven, but I was a bit concerned for Abigail who was becoming attached. And it didn't make me look good. Though of course, in life we are in the midst of death , for preference, I'd rather teach Abi this lesson with a couple of caterpillars than with, say, myself.  

I laid them out on the grass leaving nature to take its brutal course via the ant population, when I was struck with a thought. I'm thinking warm blooded and mammalian here. These are cold blooded and etc. What if Bugsy and Mallone were not passed, but just comatose? So I started to massage them, very gently, looking furtively around to check no-one was watching. Nada. 

Having started the incredibly stupid 'save the 'pillars ' campaign, I decided to put them in intensive care and check regularly for vital signs. 

75 minutes passes, and given slight encouragement with the end of my finger, Bugsy twitched. Aware that this could be some larval death throw, I refused to get too excited. I just watched. I actually took them to bed with me and subjected them both to pretty much non-stop scrutiny. At 11am the following morning, Bugsy raises his head. Within an hour, colour fully restored, looking in fine fettle, he wandered off out of sight. An hour later, Mallone followed. 

I am thinking that invertebrates are far more interesting than I ever thought they were. I like to think the mullein moths in my garden owe their existence  to me.

The Earth Beneath My Feet

I remember when writing a blog post was a relatively simple affair. Inspiration came easily. There were stories from my past, funny anecdotes about my family, reminiscences from my school days, college years, teaching career, spiritual progression, and so on and so on. The list of possibilities seemed endless. There were even poems sometimes,some of which, I considered to be, “quite good.”

So what's the problem? Today I planned to write. Shouldn't be too difficult,  I thought. Yesterday  Ray got scammed out of a considerable amount of money, and I scraped the car against the wall in Gloucester Road (An event which I have yet to speak of to Ray, thinking, not without justification, that yesterday would not have been the best day to casually drop it into the conversation.)

But I don't want to write about scams and scrapes, I'd rather write about something uplifting, positive, cheerful, and if possible, noteworthy on a grander scale.

So I went for a walk in my garden. I took my shoes off and stepped, gingerly on the  the daisy carpet, enjoying the sensation of having the earth beneath my feet. 

I wish I could convey the wonder of the next few moments. I guess they ARE only ever moments, when suddenly everything makes sense. If you were to ask me to describe it, I would make you laugh, I think.

I felt like Eve, before Adam turned up. 

See Paris and …

Ray and I are celebrating our fiftieth wedding anniversary -two years late thanks to Covid.

We stayed in a bijou hotel “Little Regina,” near the Gare L’Este, which we could see from our fourth storey window. 

Despite an elementary proficiency in, for example, ordering from a menu in French, I was struck dumb when confronted with having to do it for real. Except, as I explained to the gentleman at the next table, “Apres du vin, je parle le Francais tres bien.” 

Eating out in this district is very reasonable, €30 for three courses with a carafe of wine and an aparatif. The rum baba came in at €4.30 which seemed extravagant, but it was enough for two and swimming  in actual rum..

Lunch at the Eiffel Tower, with wine, champagne and three courses was €90 each, but that was to be expected. If you fancy it, be prepared to queue and go through security checkpoints twice. I spotted a heron in the mini-lake in the gardens below the tower which was exciting. 

Asparagus with white hazelnuts, Steak Tartare and Lemon meringue pie. The waiter asked if I wanted the ST cooked. No, I said, because then it’s just a hamburger! It was delicious. I detected capers. 

We checked out Notre Dame, took a boat trip, navigated the Metro and visited the Jardin Des Plantes, of course. Made a note to tell Darlene that the Rhodies are in bloom, or anyway, one was. 

We brought my father here the year before his death, “ I want to see Paris and die,” he quipped, and he succeeded. 

I’ve no intention of dying imminently, but it occurs to me that I am 72 years old, and young Parisiennes  are giving up their seats for me on the Metro, and that I may not come here again. But who knows? Ray was very taken with three courses, an aparatif and a carafe of wine for €30!