"Made in China" - we helped to build this bloodstained brand

Akmal Shaikh was executed on Tuesday 29th December 2009. China defied international opinion by ordering the judicial murder of a man who was clearly mentally ill.

Despite twenty-seven separate approaches by the government of the United Kingdom China decided to pursue without exception its policy of executing those found smuggling drugs. While I condone most strong measures against those who deal, smuggle and use illegal substances (they are beneath my contempt) the case of Akmal Shaikh highlights the fact that a) the imposition of the death penalty does not put people off trying, and b) he was so obviously duped into carrying four kilos of heroin into China that the police would have been better served by getting as much information from him about those who shamelessly manipulated him in this way than by arresting him.

It would appear that mental illness is a foreign disease, the Chinese clearly aren’t afflicted by it because the fact of Akmal Shaikh’s condition played little if any part in his defence. The court officials found his behaviour quite funny. I’m not laughing. China has given no cause for humour for those who suffer at its hands and I believe the time has come to speak plainly about its impact on the world. The time for diplomacy is past.

What do you think of when you hear the term “bear farm”? Allow me to enlighten you. The Chinese have a medieval, no, let’s call it stone age, belief that there is something to be gained by keeping live bears in cages so that they can drain their bile ducts and use it for something allegedly medical (God knows what – keeping a hard on probably). Bears live and die in these disgusting conditions, suffering infections and endless pain and misery. Imagine living your entire life in a cage, unable to move, lying in your own faeces, surrounded by the heartless monsters who get paid for doing this to you. The Chinese fascination with bears leads them to engage in the hunting of the rare Asiatic variety in Russia because in the restaurants back home morons are prepared to flash their cash by paying a small fortune for bear paw soup.

All this is in addition to the suppression of the free press and the ill treatment of those who dissent. As for unwanted female children and those with mental illnesses or learning difficulties, Bryan Woods and Kate Blewett exposed what happens to them in their documentary “The Dying Rooms” (1995). There is a saying in China: “A family’s shame should be kept inside the house”, out of sight, out of mind. The bears should probably count themselves lucky. I have heard some environmentalists praise the efforts that the Chinese government have made to promote sustainable communities. I sometimes wonder if these people are living in an ivory towered development near Shanghai – what about the rest of that great big picture?

For years I have heard diplomats and businessmen describe how difficult it is to deal with China, how cultural differences and a need for extreme sensitivity governs every contact. The strange thing is that, while they have been walking on eggshells around these proud and supposedly dignified people, the Chinese have been filling the shelves of our shops with products made in their own country. Our schoolchildren have been learning Mandarin because China is going to dominate the world stage and we have to be ready. I hate to tell you this folks – I think we’re a bit late.

So far the murderous and arrogant regime in the People’s Republic of China has sucked up the Olympics because they were considered to have changed their ways in relation to human rights. They have attracted companies from around the world who want cheap labour so that they can keep their shareholders happy by increasing the profit margin through the exploitation of dirt cheap labour in China. And we have paid the price.

Across Europe and America workers now face the constant threat that the companies to which they have been loyal for years may decide that they are too expensive, that they would rather ship the whole operation to China. The consumer has been complicit in this process because for a long time we have been enthusiastically buying it cheap.

Can you remember the first time that you saw a t-shirt in a supermarket, price £1? And you thought “Great! I’ll buy one in each colour!” It didn’t matter that they shrank or faded after one wash – you could go back and buy another. The problem is that we have now been conditioned to buying cheap to the point where any similar items that cost what they really should are now considered to be ridiculously expensive. We used to give a damn whether these clothes were cheap because they were made by children – how many of us saw the words “Made in China” on the label and cared?



In the meantime the industries for which the UK was well known have been eroded, eaten away by our desire to pay less. We no longer save up for the good stuff. Instead we thank China for providing what we can afford. When I was a child you bought carefully and less often, you made things last. All those lessons have been forgotten because of an over developed sense of entitlement. We want to save money on the goods we need so that we can spend them on the things we want, things that are also made in China.

A few weeks ago I watched the news reports from Cumbria where floods had devastated lives and the local economy. I was reminded that areas such as this were once the source for some of the best quality wool in the world. I have noticed that many yarn brands that are regarded as British now make their products in China. Small wool producers in the UK barely survive because those who knit and crochet take the easy option and buy what they find on the shelf, wherever it is made (it is time that the Fairtrade logo appeared on British brands of yarn so that producers receive a fair price for what they make in their own country). No effort is made by the UK’s government to encourage the sale of British yarn and other products in its own country over those made in states with poor human rights records.

In the meantime I see no other course but to encourage retailers to stop stocking Chinese made goods. A determined, long term effort on the part of the British consumer would be more effective than the actions of diplomats and politicians. It will be difficult, especially for those on a limited budget because we are reduced to buying cheap Chinese tat. Cheap British tat has been eliminated. It will be even harder because life is about to become more expensive anyway.

I call on anyone who cares to think twice before buying goods made in China. Please go even further and contact large retailers such as Tesco, IKEA, WH Smiths, Next and Marks and Spencer. Tell them of your concerns about China’s record and ask them to stop stocking Chinese made goods. Copy your letters to your Member of Parliament and local councillors. Tell your local newspaper.

It is up to us to vote with our feet, we have left it to the politicians for too long and I believe that they have let us down. Now it’s our turn to let China know just what happens when they break the rules by unjustly punishing the vulnerable.

http://www.hsus.org/wildlife/issues_facing_wildlife/wildlife_trade/the_unbearable_trade_in_bear_parts_and_bile/
http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/world/europe/8429708.stm
http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/world/europe/8432212.stm

Be nice to your fireman this Christmas

For the last two years I’ve worked in the evening on Christmas Eve or New Year’s Eve and as a gesture of solidarity I’ve dropped off a bag of goodies at the fire station opposite.

The first time I did it I wasn’t prepared for the reaction I got. The man who answered my tap on the door seemed absolutely stunned that I had done this. He said “thank you” so often I started to get embarrassed and walked away feeling a bit tearful. The same thing happened the following year.

What amazes and saddens me about this is that the fire station in question is not stranded on a suburban roundabout. It is right next to homes and offices on a busy street. I can understand that those working in the office buildings aren’t around during the evenings and weekends but they must, as I do, see the engines rush off to a call. The flashing lights, sirens and bells are hard to miss. As for those who live right on the doorstep - if you’re reading this, I hope you’re ashamed of yourselves.

I know that when I spend an evening at work the worst thing that could probably happen to me is that I might trip over the vacuum cleaner cable or get splashed by something unspeakable. The chances of my dying from smoke inhalation are pretty slim (as long as certain people avoid using fire extinguishers as doorstops), as is that of being maimed for life in the course of my shift. However that could happen if it wasn’t for the speedy response of the folks across the road. They take that risk to stop it from happening to me.

Over recent years the emergency services have become the targets of, well, what do I call them? Thugs? Yobs? Uncontrolled, uncontrollable children and teenagers who take pleasure in assaulting the people who go the extra mile to keep us safe. There are places in the UK where starting a fire and calling the fire brigade so that they can lob things at them is entertainment. The same risks are faced by ambulance crews. While the police might to some extent regard this kind of behaviour as going with the territory it is almost beyond belief that anyone should want to target a fireman or a paramedic in this way.

That aside, I think the fact that we do not value those working for the emergency services speaks volumes about the sense of entitlement that has developed in our society. It has taken campaigns and images of amputees and coffins to awaken our respect for the armed services. Perhaps that’s the problem. If firemen, nurses and policemen were dropping like flies on a daily basis the majority might begin to notice their contribution.

Another obstacle to their being looked up to by the community that they serve is that, unless it is a very small one, they do not usually live where they work. In the case of the one that I am familiar with they probably can’t afford to live there. There is a sense of separation and the living breathing humans who do this work are just uniforms rather than recognisable members of the community. I don’t know that we can change that. The development of Safer Communities Teams have certainly helped to give our local police recognisable faces. This Christmas it even meant a home baked cake from me. When I was a child we knew our beat officer so well that when he retired he gave me the metal flower from the top of his helmet as a souvenir. I still have it somewhere. It’s interesting that in the idealised realms of childhood, for example Trumpton, it is taken for granted that there is a local fire brigade and we all know their names.

It isn’t about the food because, let’s be honest, many of us are already sick of mince pies by Christmas Day. It is the gesture that counts and the thought that someone, even if it’s just the eccentric cleaner from the building opposite, has noticed the effort you make when the rest of the world is tucked up safe in bed.

In praise of small dogs

Recently I was given the sad news that a four legged acquaintance of mine had lost an argument with a car. Walter the miniature dachsund was a charming little dog, the sort that actually makes you want to own one. Unfortunately he wasn’t built for speed. Slow forward movement seemed to involve a fluid wiggle, anything faster meant a jog trot that required more concentration. If I greeted him as he was on his way past in a hurry he wouldn’t look directly at me but his eye would swivel round with a look that said “Awright? See ya!” With a slightly German accent, obviously.

I like dogs in general but there is something special about the ones that don’t come up to my knee. It isn’t that they are more cute or cuddled more easily, in fact it would be a mistake to assume that they are all sweet natured. I have a childhood memory of the neighbour’s tiny Yorkshire terrier, Percy, chasing two terrified German Shepherds, mother and son, back to their home round the corner (“What the hell was that?” “Who cares, shut up and run!”).

When I deliver leaflets for the local allotment association I always exercise caution at a particular address. I’ve only ever seen this dog from a distance but I’ve felt its hot breath on my fingers as it drags the hapless piece of paper through the letterbox (placed conveniently at ground level) and shreds it for its owner. I persist as there have been a couple of occasions when this hasn’t happened but I‘m glad I‘m not their postman. I’d be surprised if they ever see their birthday cards.

Sometimes I wonder what it must be like to see life at their level, to get a crick in the neck looking up at the person their world revolves around. I once found myself behind a man on a mobile phone, oblivious to the fact that the small dog he was walking (not his I suspect) could not keep up with him. At times he was dragging it along. Hell was made for people like that.

I expect there is also room down there for the idiots who have followed the example of celebrities like Paris Hilton, owner of several “teacup” Chihuahuas. Unfortunately for these airheads the Chihuahua is one of the longest lived of all dog breeds (they last even longer than Louis Vuitton dog carriers) and can develop expensive heath problems. Consequently dog shelters in the USA are now receiving more of these little dogs than they can cope with as many owners discover that they are less disposable than clothes. At least Paris keeps her excess dogs, she has around seventeen.

She is just following in the footsteps of other rich and famous people. Marie Antoinette and Madame de Pompadour owned Papillons, and small dogs often peep out of portraits of royalty and the aristocracy. The tiny dog belonging to Mary Queen of Scots accompanied her to her death, emerging from beneath her skirts following her beheading. Some dogs were designed to be carried, such as the Goh-Khi of Tibet, a “sleeve dog”. For most of its history the Pekingese could only be owned by members of the Chinese Imperial court, the ultimate toy dog.

My personal experience of some of these breeds has not been a happy one, although I’m sure that not all are snappy and irritable. I suspect that, just like humans, they may get a little fed up as they get older. It's allowed. As a small child I played with my grandfather’s lovely Westie (highly appropriate for a Presbyterian minister) whose favourite game involved knocking down a set of plastic skittles. It was probably my grandfather who told me about Greyfriars Bobby, the most faithful of dogs, who stayed at or near, the grave of his master for fourteen years. He was a Skye terrier, a native breed now considered to be at risk.

If I was forced to choose a breed I would probably go for a Jack Russell. On the way home from work I have sometimes found myself behind one on his regular evening stroll and noticed that every few paces he would give a skip. I just had to ask his owner if he always does that and discovered that it is a characteristic of the breed. From behind it is a little like watching Morecambe and Wise dance off into the distance at the end of a show. I take these straightforward little dogs very seriously, having seen them at work killing off rats. It is easy to forget that many of these small breeds once played an important part in agricultural areas, hunting for vermin. So many residents of the White House have owned Scottish terriers (bred to fight badgers) that it is tempting to think of them as being good at herding US presidents. Alas, they cannot stop them from making stupid decisions.

For Raki, as a late birthday present.
My thanks to Alli and the waggylicious Hettie for posing and for not finding me at all weird for asking!

http://www.ericandern.co.uk/pages/songs.asp
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Greyfriars_Bobby
http://www.dogstrust.org.uk/
http://www.rspca.org.uk/home

Better than the real thing

A week or two ago there was a bit of a fuss over Cheryl Cole’s hair. Someone in the media felt it was time to notice the teeny-weeny disclaimer on the ad for the L’Oreal hair product she has been promoting. Those flowing locks in the photos? They aren’t all hers! Shock! Horror! She wears extensions!

This revelation has led to complaints to the Advertising Standards Agency by outraged viewers who believe that Cheryl’s hair only looks that good because of her natural hair extensions. Actually, they aren’t even natural ones. Her stylist says that the glue used on the natural ones was damaging her hair. The complainants include journalist and parent Daisy Goodwin who said that her nine year old daughter had asked her to buy the product because she wanted her hair to be just like Cheryl’s. I guess she wasn’t interested in any of the hundreds of other products pushed at us that have disclaimers for hair extensions or false eyelashes worn by celebrities in these ads.

The fact that Cheryl has managed to get nine year olds pestering their mums to buy a product is a testament to her power as a style icon, although I think much of her appeal lies in the fact that she is a gorgeous version of the girl next door. The girl next door would probably wear extensions if she could afford to maintain them but she has probably blown all her cash on one pair of Chanel earrings, or a high street version of a dress worn by Kate Moss.

Recently I was asked for directions by a young woman who was carrying a very smart Gucci bag. A smart Gucci carrier bag. They carry home evening gowns and handbags worth thousands of pounds and are then sold on by enterprising Ebayers. They are actually worth something in themselves. In Knightsbridge and Mayfair they end up amongst malodorous coffee grounds and vegetable peelings unless they are extracted in time by a maid or housekeeper with an entrepreneurial streak. I’m not proud, I’ve done it myself. They’re great for storing accessories. The best one I’ve bagged came from Miu Miu.

Naomi Klein's "No Logo" revealed the lengths that global brands will go to keep us interested. When I first read it I’m afraid that I was really impressed at how crafty they are. The hold of brands like Adidas is extraordinary, their products are as likely to be worn by those who have no intention of going near a track as those who do. I don’t know when they began designing items that fell entirely into the category of fashion but the dress I spotted in a catalogue shows that their place in the hearts of the fashion conscious is secure. If the girl next door wants to wear that dress (and she does) they’re doing fine.

Unfortunately the credit crunch has meant that funds are even more limited for those with expensive taste but it would appear that some aren’t letting a lack of cash get in their way. Shoplifting has become more common as those who really want something just steal it. The other option is of course the knock off. The local authorities do their best to clamp down on anyone selling this stuff in markets and at car boot sales but I suppose that as long as there is a demand there will be a supply. No thought given to those who make these clothes and accessories, working in sweatshops for little pay.

That also applies to some of the high street stores that produce fashionable but really cheap clothes. Primark seems to go out of its way to be seen as ethical after accusations of the use of child labour. If they are ever be able to control their supply chain to the extent that unacceptable practices of that kind are eradicated no one will be embarrassed to admit that they shop there. At this point I put my hand up and admit that I have come home with a brown paper biodegradable Primark bag full of cheap gloves or socks. And yes, I did feel guilty.

For some years The Attached One worked as a warehouse supervisor for a company that supplied leather clothing to a number of high street stores. This was at around the time when the demand for a constant supply of new designs developed, which meant short runs of a specific design that would hopefully sell out. If that happened the run would be repeated before the taste for it faded.

What amazed me was the disposability of these clothes. I keep clothes for years and make them last. I can’t imagine throwing anything away unless it is in shreds. It turned out that some don’t actually buy and then bin. They buy, wear, find a fault and return it to the shop for a refund. He and his colleagues would spend hours checking and processing returns.

One person at the company was developing the concept of selling designs that were near copies of clothes worn by celebrities or on screen. As Seen On Screen, ASOS, is doing rather well these days. As good as the real thing if not better.

All this makes me even more surprised that anyone was bothered that Cheryl’s hair has had some help. In an era when breast enlargements are something that a man might pay for as a gift for the woman in his life it seems a bit odd that anyone can get worked up over extensions.

Today's non-story

It seems that the Prime minister’s hand writing needs work. It would also appear that he sometimes writes letters in a hurry. We learn this courtesy of the Sun newspaper who have filmed the distressed mother of a soldier killed in Afghanistan who received one of his letters (“Exclusive to the Sun”) and plugged it on every news channel.

Jacquie Janes is in the process of grieving for her son, a 20 year old Grenadier Guardsman who died on the 5th of October this year. The Prime Minister sent her a handwritten letter offering his condolences. He spelt her surname incorrectly (“James” instead of “Janes") along with the words “greatest”, “condolences”, “yours” and “colleagues”.

Jacquie is very upset about this. In the Sun’s article she states that she is also upset about the fact that our armed forces are under equipped. This would suggest that she was predisposed to regard Mr. Brown’s condolences as offensive, whatever form they came in. So whether the letter was a calligraphic masterpiece or something cold and formulaic churned out by a flunky on a PC and signed in the PM’s absence by someone we’ve never heard of, the Sun would still have had a story.

In the last few days I have wondered whether it is wise for those bereaved by the present engagement in Afghanistan to allow the press into their lives beyond issuing the most basic statement. This week’s headline in my local paper was “Iceland bans poppy sellers” and the front page features the photograph taken some time ago of a local woman whose son was killed in Iraq. They obviously phoned her for a comment. The thing is, they will now always phone her for a comment. If they don’t she may wonder if they have stopped caring.

It is easy for someone made vulnerable through bereavement to find a journalist (and I use that word loosely where the Sun is concerned) a good listener who can feel their pain, especially if compassion fatigue has set in amongst others of their acquaintance. Journalists know this and use it. Even those we might regard as more reliable and sincere have an eye to their careers and what they will gain from their collaboration with someone like Jacquie Janes. They never forget that they are trying to get and hold an audience. Her sorrow is grist to someone’s mill. In this case it is the Sun who will sell many, many newspapers on the back of this ( yes, they have been fundraising for “our boys“ - it‘s great PR).

The Prime Minister is an extraordinarily busy man. He is blind in one eye and the sight in his other eye is deteriorating. He is running a country and engaging with other powerful people who make decisions that affect the lives of billions of people every day. He found time to write a letter to someone who does not fall into that category. Today, following the fuss over his letter, he telephoned Jacquie. That phone call won’t make any difference because the damage has been done. The story was not about Jacquie, her son or poorly equipped British forces. This was about the Sun’s owner and his politics. However you feel about Gordon Brown don’t lose sight of how the press manipulates the public mood. Don’t fall into the trap.

The PM can write a reasonably tidy letter. How do I know this? I attended an exhibition at the Pitshanger Manor Art Gallery called “Therefore I Am” organised by Breakaway, a charity that supports people with learning disabilities. It offers those visiting the exhibition the opportunity to complete a card that has the words “…therefore I am” in the bottom right hand corner. There are framed cards from Paul Daniels, Lynne Reid Banks and Lynda Bellingham amongst others.

In pride of place is one from Gordon Brown. His hand writing is as untidy as it is in Jacquie’s letter. I can’t remember anything about the standard of spelling. What I do remember is that he went into some detail to describe why he went into politics and his father’s influence on his life. Of course, you could argue that this is great PR, but there has been little publicity about the exhibition which is tucked into a side room at the gallery. I don’t think I would have been able to make that phone call after what has been said about that letter. Gordon Brown is not perfect but I would not be in his shoes for a £45million lottery win.

http://www.thesun.co.uk/sol/homepage/news/campaigns/our_boys/2720283/Prime-Minister-Gordon-Brown-couldnt-even-get-our-name-right.html

Red for a reason

We are a few days away from Remembrance Sunday and Armistice Day. On Saturday we got our poppies from a Royal British Legion collector in Ealing and slotted them in where we could. I have seen them on people I would not have expected to have been wearing them. I have worn one every year since childhood, my mother expected it of me and as I grew older if I hadn’t already bought one myself she would provide it. When the words “Haig Fund” disappeared from the centre I noticed it. If I ended up with one that had a leaf as well as a flower I felt a little smug. For years I’ve wondered why they didn’t make ones with pins.

Papaver rhoeas, the cornfield poppy, grows easily in the disturbed ground of battlefields and it was a common sight to those who took part in the First World War. A Canadian surgeon called John McRae immortalised the image of silky blood red flowers amongst the crosses that, in 1915, were already marking the first of millions of graves in his poem “In Flanders Fields“. Many still lie where they fell, waiting to be discovered by the turn of the plough.

Red poppies were eventually sold as fundraisers by the British Legion which was founded within three years of the end of the Great War to act as a voice for ex-servicemen (it became the Royal British Legion in 1971 following the granting of a Royal Charter). White poppies were first sold in 1933 by the Co-operative Women’s Guild who wanted to support the many disabled veterans and prevent further wars. They are now provided by the Peace Pledge Union.

Over the years I have seen a few white poppies worn by old soldiers in the parade past the Cenotaph in Whitehall but the vast majority wear red ones. I haven’t taken much notice of white poppies or those who wear them until now but they were brought to my attention by someone on Facebook who was encouraging members to join the White Poppy group that has been set up on the site. I followed the link to the official website and ended up feeling quite angry as a consequence. It wasn’t just that they had used the image and story of Harry Patch, the last remaining WW1 veteran, to promote their cause.

I object to the assumption that seems to have been made by some white poppy wearers that those who wear a red one are absolutely in favour of war. If a similar, negative generalisation was made about those who promote the white one there would be an outcry from the media savvy anti-war movement. Old soldiers are usually the first to tell you that war is a terrible thing. They don’t need lessons from a generation saved from conscription by a standing army made up of volunteers.

These volunteers sometimes do what they are ordered to even though they do not have much faith in the politicians who send them to war. They go back into the theatre of operations in spite of a lack of adequate equipment and their own fears. It is the efforts of people like this that has made it possible for others to talk about and live in peace. They don’t just go to kill - they build essential bridges, repair schools and hospitals, train police forces and armies. Sometimes they do it in their free time because they want to help, encouraging their friends and families back home to fundraise for that cause. The five British soldiers whose deaths were announced today died alongside two of the Afghan policemen they were mentoring. They were doing something positive.

On its Facebook page the White Poppy group states that “The White Poppy symbolises the belief that there are better ways to resolve conflicts than killing strangers.” The Peace Pledge Union believes that the solution to situations such as Afghanistan is a UN force. Try telling that to the British soldiers who, under the auspices of the UN, tried and failed to protect people on all sides of the conflict in the former Yugoslavia. Hamstrung by their mandate, they and forces from other countries were obliged to stand back and watch while men, women and children were herded away to their deaths in places whose names have become as familiar to us as the battlefields of the Somme and Ypres were to those fighting in World War One. I’d love to see how those who regard the UN as the cure for all ills would cope with the nightmares that these people still get because they were not allowed to use force.

To make those blue helmets as effective as they should be you first have to sort out the lumbering apparatus that is the UN and that will take some doing. In the meantime are we expected to stand back and watch as another Rwanda, another Bosnia, another Somalia starts up because conflict is a terrible thing? It makes me wonder if those who are against war at any cost have a genuine understanding of the sort of people our forces are up against. How do you reason with those prepared to cut off the purple stained fingers of voters in Afghanistan? How do you talk to men who behead foreign workers because they wanted to feed their families?

Apart from that, I don’t think the efforts of “peacemakers” are always welcomed by those they are trying to help. Live rolling news allowed millions of viewers to see a crude banner made from a painted sheet held up by Iraqis following the fall of Baghdad to US forces. The hotel they were standing in had been a temporary home to foreign peace activists who were hoping to put off air raids. Judging by what it said on the banner the Iraqis they were standing shoulder to shoulder with were pleased to see them go and the cavalry arrive. One of the words rhymed with “bankers”. In 2005 four men, including Norman Kember were kidnapped in Iraq. One of them was shot dead but the rest were eventually rescued by British special forces who had spent weeks looking for them. All those resources used up on peacemakers who should not have put themselves in danger.

I accept that in a democracy we have the right to express an opinion as long as it does not deliberately inspire hate and violence. If a veteran chooses to wear a white poppy I have even more respect for him because he has made his choice based on genuine experience. However those who wear red ones have the right to take pride in their achievements and if that means parading with brass bands then so be it. The guns carried in these parades are for the defence of our country as much as they are for war abroad and I take pride in the men and women who carry them. If it ever became necessary for me to pick up one of those guns myself I hope that I would be able acquit myself as well as they do.

What many of my contemporaries forget or have never learned, cushioned as they are from reality by the freedom made for them from war, is that the true soldier loves peace but it isn’t always an option.

http://www.poppy.org.uk
http://www.poppyscotland.org.uk/
http://www.whitepoppy.org.uk/
http://www.greatwar.co.uk/poems/john-mccrae-in-flanders-fields.htm/
http://blogs.telegraph.co.uk/news/ceriradford/3641401/Stop_the_crusades/
http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/uk/4844800.stm

A pumpkin free zone

I’ve just finished re-reading “The Green Man” by Kingsley Amis in time for Halloween, a total coincidence but a great antidote to the US style “trick or treating” that seems to have taken over the country, largely encouraged by retailers as a way of getting in some more customers in the run up to Christmas.

Published in 1969, “The Green Man” describes the encounter by Maurice Allington, proprietor of the inn of the same name, with the ghost of Dr. Thomas Underhill. Allington discovers that he has a few things in common with the wicked 17th century parson and this connection is manipulated by Underhill. A womanising, alcoholic rogue, Allington spends as much of his time having affairs as he does running his inn. At the beginning of the book he is trying to set up a threesome with his wife and latest girlfriend and his alcohol intake is such that he cannot tell at first whether the apparition is actually down to booze. By the end we learn whether Allington has redeemed himself and conquered his fear of death. Set in a sweaty English summer at the end of the 1960’s this book will keep the winter away for a while. It is worth reading just for the way it evokes that time. One of my favourite characters is the appalling Reverend Tom Rodney Sonnenschein.

I have wondered whether Halloween evolved as a way to deal with a fear of death, the dark, the unknown. In Mexico, they celebrate the memory of those family members who have died on El Dia de los Muertos (The Day of the Dead), on the 1st and 2nd of November. Although skulls and bones are very much in evidence it isn’t about fear. Halloween seems to have developed differently in Protestant countries. I was taught about it at primary school but don’t remember it having the same impact that it does now. The impression I get is that it was something that was marked in the north of England and Scotland. It only gained popularity throughout the UK as a result of US television programmes and films.

I almost gave in and bought one of the large skulls in the window of a shop around the corner but am now glad that I didn’t as they are probably available at half the price now and do I really want it anyway? Apart from that I am not sure whether I want to give in at all to the plastic Halloween that takes over at least one supermarket aisle in September (alongside Christmas). Our experience of Halloween at our current address means that we now turn off the lights and put up a sign asking trick or treaters to stay away.

Years ago we answered the door to a tiny little girl, whose mother was some way off, and wondered what she could be thinking of to let her fragile child do this. I knew that there were a number of loud (if not dangerous) dogs in the street at the time, owned by nervous pensioners. Just having them bark at you could be frightening for an adult so I can’t imagine how a small child could have coped with it. On another occasion the door was answered to loud and demanding knock. A masked child had the wheel of his bike up against the front door and expected to be welcomed with open arms and, presumably, a bucket full of sweets. I can understand that, in the America depicted in “Desperate Housewives”, children are recognised by neighbours who are prepared for this kind of visitor and meet them with all the confectionary their little teeth can cope with. The problem is that I don’t live in Wisteria Avenue, there are hardly any families with children in the street and I wouldn’t recognise them if I tried.

The local Safer Communities Team has recognised that this tradition is not welcomed by everyone. They have been distributing cards to place on front doors with a polite message to put off unwanted callers. It is sad that well behaved children suffer the same discrimination as the nasty ones but I suspect the fact that we did not get any visitors this year is as much about the credit crunch as it is about good manners. I think that parents have been forced to concentrate on Christmas this year. This time around the pumpkins are for eating.

A pot addict confesses and appeals for help

Well, it got your attention didn’t it? Actually, the type of pot I am obsessed with is the kind you look at, fill with pot pourri or soup. Not the kind you smoke.



I haven’t given in to my addiction to things ceramic for a few years but I have just parted with £25 to help out a talented potter called Kirsty Badham. Her kiln came over all chaotic recently and destroyed some pots-in-progress. In an effort to raise the funds to repair it, Kirsty has offered to make a bowl in return for each of the 100 pledges of £25 that she receives through this site:
http://www.pledgeforapot.co.uk/



Now, I am trying to be helpful by doing this but I also see this as an opportunity to buy a unique and lovely thing at a bargain price - I’m not stupid - at a time when things are rather tight (I have yet to break the news to The Attached One that I have taken this course). In fact, if money was no object I know that we would not be able to move for things ceramic. I’m not sure how or when this need to own pots developed, it may have started at the British Museum where I fell in love with ancient pieces such as those made by the Beaker People. I expect Freud and Jung would see connections with wombs or similar but that’s all too complicated for me. I just like pots.



The last investment of this kind was a week’s wages spent on a bowl by Julia Jefferson. I needed a salad bowl and it occurred to me that I could eat from something handmade and beautiful rather than mass produced. It means a lot of careful hand washing but I still love it. When we brought it home I couldn’t stop looking at it and it seems to have been made for blackberries.



When I actually got the chance to make pots myself things just got worse. I don’t want to mislead you, don’t imagine that I am capable of slapping a lump of clay onto a potter’s wheel and turning it into something resembling a bowl. My efforts were restricted to pieces built from slabs or formed in plaster moulds, incorporating leaves and fabric dipped into slip (liquid clay). As far as I was concerned it was choosing the glaze that was the fun part.



Once I left college (and free access to a kiln, clay, glazes and knowledge) I had to buy my pots from other people, often potters who had stalls at festivals and fairs. I went through an unfortunate phase when I bought every chipped and manky piece of 1930’s crockery that I could find for 50p at car boot sales. Most of these are now living in boxes under my work room table. No Clarice Cliff unfortunately.



Some unusual items have made it onto the walls and into a display cabinet. I dream of eating from plates made by Sean Miller, an urban potter based in my area and one day that will happen. Until then I drool as I sit in front of the screen, perusing craftsmen potter sites. It has been a while so I think I deserve one of Kirsty’s bowls. Can’t wait to see it…

A

The Griffin is given wings and claws

You are probably wondering what a couple of stone beads have to do with Nick Griffin, leader of the British National Party.

These beads may be thousands of years old. They turn up in the sands of the Sahara and are sold to foreign collectors by the hardy people who live there. A very long time ago someone used very primitive tools to drill holes through two attractive pieces of stone and polish their surfaces. One is probably a piece of agate with some tiny quartz crystals that, even now, sparkle in the light, the other may be a piece of petrified wood. I love them because they are tiny and affordable pieces of ancient history and because they are a connection with my most distant ancestors - Africans.

One of the few intelligent and serious comments made by a member of the studio audience on the BBC’s “Question Time” was in response to the BNP leader’s suggestion that white English people are now aborigines in their own country. She pointed out that, as we are all descended from the first humans who came from Africa, we are all members of minorities now.

I did not plan to watch it. I haven’t in years and I don’t need to see Nick Griffin in person to know that I don’t agree with his views. In the end I watched it online because I had heard so many comments about the programme that I felt I had to see it for myself. Unfortunately my love for the BBC has now cooled a little because what was considered a smart attempt to undermine the BNP‘s growing influence has probably backfired.

Those involved in the decision to invite Griffin to take part in a debate alongside other politicians are clearly out of touch with the sort of people inclined to vote for a party generally regarded as racist and beyond the pale. They made the mistake of treating him differently to any other politician. There was an obvious and open lack of respect from the very beginning. I understand that the audience was carefully selected - I am not sure what criteria were involved in this selection but the impression I was left with was that they chose anyone prepared to boo and shout. The atmosphere was such that I expected to see girls with trays of ice cream (or rotten eggs and tomatoes) wandering up and down the aisles.

Jack Straw has been criticised for his performance on the night. It is easy to forget that, while we often see images of politicians seconds apart on our TV screens, in reality they don’t always meet face to face. It may have been one of the few times that they had been in each other’s presence and Straw was clearly already very angry. Having Griffin raise the fact that his father was a conscientious objector imprisoned during WW2 couldn‘t have helped. It must have taken some guts to do what his father did but Griffin’s comment was a crafty and subliminal message to anyone watching who has sympathy with his views. They won’t remember the fact what his dad did had little or nothing to do with today‘s politics. All they will take in is that, in their opinion, Straw is not made of the right stuff unlike Griffin whose daddy was in the RAF during the war.

The fact is that Nick Griffin came across as a reasonable, well mannered, clearly spoken individual - if you ignore what he was actually saying - compared to the programme’s presenter, most of the panel and the studio audience. What I saw was a gathering of arrogant liberals (with the exception of Bonnie Greer, who I felt was respectful to him) having a night out at the circus, the sort of circus where lions eat people. Griffin has had a lot of practice saying all the things he said on the night. He has said them a hundred times before to television cameras. He would have had a much harder time if he had been asked for his policies on the environment, Afghanistan, Iraq, the postal strike.

More importantly, the people who have some sympathy for his views on immigration and its impact on the availability of resources (as pointed out by Baroness Warsi this, not race, is the issue) will have seen someone they feel represents their views being howled down. It would be an enormous mistake to assume that the average BNP type is still a skin head with a swastika tattooed onto his forehead. It is unlikely that those who make “Question Time” have experienced life in a tower block, waiting years for a transfer to more suitable housing, or been in the queue at the post office watching someone who can’t speak English collect substantial benefits as they wait to get their own meagre pension. I suspect they pay occasional visits to this alternative reality. They don’t have to live there. They can afford to be open minded.

To me the worst thing of all about that broadcast was the complaint made by a woman in the audience at Jack Straw’s repeated use of the term “Afro-Caribbean”. It seems that he should have said “African-Caribbean”. Surely that night of all nights was an occasion for what is a very tiny failure in protocol to be overlooked. A group of people who should have been united against racists have shown themselves to be divided by semantics. I suspect that this woman, who struck me as someone I would like to know in spite of what she said, would regard me with some suspicion for stating my love of things African. Perhaps she would find me patronising. Sometimes you just can’t win but the taste in my mouth is all the more unpleasant for a realisation that the BNP have gained more than they have lost because of the BBC’s lack of judgement.

This Griffin now has wings and claws. The dangerous fantasy of a country run by racists may now become reality. Thanks Auntie Beeb…

http://www.bbc.co.uk/programmes/b00nft24#synopsis

Not "The X Factor" - an urgent appeal for Akmal Shaikh

The popularity of talent shows such as “The X Factor” has shown just how many people have the urge to strut their stuff in public and believe that they have what it takes to get to the top. A very small handful of those who expose themselves to potential ridicule in this way actually do make it. As for the rest, their friends and family may regard their desire to become celebrities as a touch of madness.

Akmal Shaikh is not the obvious candidate for a career in the pop industry. Fifty-three years old and father to five children he comes from north London and is a British national. He has shown the signs of serious mental illness for years and it is likely that he is suffering from Bipolar Disorder which used to be known as Manic Depression. This condition can lead the sufferer to behave in ways that the average person would regard as risky or unacceptable. They can run up large credit card debts, shoplift and display all kinds of antisocial behaviour. They often end up in the criminal justice system before their condition is identified. In Akmal’s case it meant that he was living in Poland at the mercy of friends who were in fact members of a criminal gang. They persuaded him that they had contacts in the music industry and that he had a real chance of making it. It would involve his travelling to Kyrgyzstan and then China. Considering his state of mind it is not surprising that he accepted this as the truth and also agreed to take some luggage with him. He trusted them.

Upon the discovery of four kilos of heroin in this luggage Akmal was charged with drug smuggling. He was found guilty and sentenced to death. Now that he has lost all his appeals there is no hope for him other than the pressure that can be placed on the Chinese authorities by people like you and me.

Even if you have never done anything like this before please think about doing it now. All you have to do is add your name and email address to the form but it would be more effective if you thought up your own polite message (even if you don’t feel like being polite - don‘t make things worse by expressing too frank an opinion).

Akmal Shaikh has probably been quite a challenging dad to love but that is because he is a very sick man who needs help. He is not a criminal. His case has the support of Stephen Fry, Amnesty International and Reprieve. Please help Akmal’s family bring him back home to north London.

http://www.amnesty.org.uk/actions_details.asp?ActionID=638%20 http://www.amnesty.org.uk/news_details.asp?NewsID=18460
http://www.reprieve.org.uk/helpakmal
http://www.reprieve.org.uk/stephenfryappeal

Sweet charity

Last week I dropped off a fat brown envelope at a discreet industrial unit in west London. On the way in I passed a woman who gave me a conspiratorial smile. We had a common cause. We were delivering our little woolly hats.

Since 2003 Innocent, the company that creates fruit and vegetable products, has encouraged those in the UK who knit and crochet to make the small hats that are put on to their smoothie bottles throughout November. Every bottle with a hat that is sold generates a donation for Age Concern/Help the Aged. In 2008, £253,384 was raised as a result of the 506,738 hats that were sent in. Some of those little hats are works of art (subscribers to the Innocent online newsletter get to vote on the “Hat of the Week”) and showcase the creativity and skill of contributors to this cause. And it is addictive. Some have made hundreds and even thousands. Last year I made 40 but this year, in spite of my best intentions, I only managed 27.

I delivered them in person as the possibility of a postal strike meant that they might not have reached Innocent before the 2009 deadline and knew that I was in the right place when I saw the delivery vans covered in plastic turf and purple daisies. I walked out in a bit of a daze as the lovely people at the reception desk, having startled me by offering me a smoothie, filled a little paper bag with five of them and gave them to me. No wonder that woman had been smiling. I was smiling to myself on the way home. And trying to lick strawberry smoothie off the corners of my mouth. If only there were more companies like Innocent, with their unorthodox but effective approach to fundraising.

Crafters are a generous lot. They use up their stashes of yarn, fabric and beads to make the lives of others a little easier and give up hours of their time to do it. For some it is a chance to show off their skills but I cannot be too cynical about this. They don’t have to do it but they still do. Search the internet for knitting and crochet patterns and the word “charity” comes up fairly quickly. Ravelry, the yarn crafts community website, hosts a number of groups that create items for donation. One member is collecting easily laundered scarves to pass on as Christmas presents to homeless women. Others are asking for contributions of yarn to make blankets for animal shelters or offering their free patterns as ways of raising money. Feed the Children has withdrawn their free knitting pattern as they have been sent so many sweaters that they can’t cope with any more for the moment.

Many of us are moved by the loss of a loved one to a preventable illness or risk to raise money for the charity that will stop it happening to anyone else. Sometimes we just want to be kind. Some of the most popular “makes” are chemo caps, made for those who have lost their hair as a result of chemotherapy. Another, sadder cause is the provision of tiny clothes in which to bury the stillborn. There was a time when these babies were not spoken of and an effort made to forget that they had ever existed. Today we know that it is better to acknowledge these events and the crafters who make these clothes help the bereaved in the most practical way.

Dog blankets, prayer shawls, scarves for women in refuges. There is a knitting need out there to suit everyone. At some point I hope to make some teddy bears for children in eastern Europe, Africa and Asia as well as fundraisers for SSAFA and Combat Stress. And little woolly hats of course.

http://www.innocentdrinks.co.uk/thebigknit/

http://www.ravelry.com/

http://www.teddiesfortragedies.org.uk/

http://www.christianhope.org.uk/stitches/index.html

http://www.headhuggers.org/

http://www.cuddles-uk.org/

http://www.bonniebabies.co.uk/

http://www.knitting4charity.org/

http://www.missionstoseafarers.org/

http://www.missionstoseafarers.org/pdfs/knitting%20patterns.pdf

Somewhere else

When I was a small girl I used to spend Saturdays wandering around London with my father. One of our regular haunts was the Arts Council shop which I seem to remember was in Saville Row. The counter near the front of the shop had a display of postcards in front of it which was at my eyelevel and I remember being entranced by a picture that seemed as real as a photograph. I realised that it couldn’t be a photograph as the people in it were wearing strange old fashioned clothes but even at that age (about five) I knew that my drawings would never be that good. The postcard that I went home with showed William Holman Hunt‘s “The Finding of the Saviour in the Temple” and I still have it, along with many more showing the work of the Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood.

I suspect it was the fact that there were grown up ladies dressed as princesses in their paintings without anyone finding it silly that made them interesting as well but even at that age it was impossible to ignore the skill of these artists. The sunlight of Victorian England was trapped in their canvases and the extraordinary jewel like detail of every flower and strand of hair was a shock to my senses. For a child I had spent an unusually large amount of time in front of well known canvases and although I liked some of them I can’t remember feeling the same way about what I had seen before then.

Whatever the reason for my interest the Pre-Raphaelites still have a hold on me and when I saw that Birmingham Art Gallery and Museum were displaying the Burne Jones “Perseus” series (which belongs to Stuttgart’s art gallery) I suggested (without any hope of his agreeing) that Birmingham might be an interesting place to visit. Bearing in mind that he was facing four hours of driving I was a bit surprised when he said “yes”. The car doesn’t get used for much more than the commute to work a few miles away and shopping so this was a real expedition. We checked out parking in Birmingham’s city centre and he set up the sat nav.

I had intended to get up early but managed to oversleep so we set off later than planned. We live in an area where the suburbs start to break up into industrial sites and scrub so it wasn’t long before we were into open farmland. I don’t think the landscape could be described as particularly dramatic but on the way there and back I couldn’t help thinking how lucky I am to live here. Rolling hills, hedgerows and huge old trees. Cows, sheep and the occasional bird of prey, chilling out on a fence post and watching the traffic.

A visit to Birmingham was an opportunity to see my favourite source of quilt making supplies “in the flesh”. The Cotton Patch even provides a few parking spaces. Crammed very neatly into this small shop are fabrics from all over the world, magazines and books, and everything you could possibly need to make the perfect quilt. I have always wanted to buy one of the many Japanese magazines they have available so, head still buzzing from the motorway, I tried to look through them but then just caved in and bought the first one I had seen. I could have bankrupted myself in minutes there so I stuck to the plan and one magazine was my limit.

The sat nav decided to take us through Moseley via Shirley Green which has a lovely red brick Baptist church. We decided that Hall Green was a lot like Edgware and Moseley was definitely like Southall, even down to the traffic. The architecture is largely Victorian red brick and it occurred to me, as it has in the past, that this sort of thing survives when no one can afford to pull it down and rebuild. Lovely small intimate buildings from the late 19th and early 20th century with the occasional 1930’s bit of Art Deco, battered but still in use.

At last we managed to get into the city centre and after a couple of wrong turns we found the chosen car park. It was a short walk to the gallery past some really beautiful and recently cleaned buildings. That part of the city is pedestrianised and we walked through a mall into a large piazza like area with curved steps where people were sitting in the sunshine. Within minutes we were in front of the strange dramatic grey green canvases and drawings produced by Burne Jones in the 1880’s and 1890’s, displayed against rich teal walls. We are so familiar with Pre-Raphaelite art from reproductions in books but there is nothing quite like the real thing. For one thing the images in glossy coffee table books are sometimes larger than the actual painting. Like the teeny weeny “Death of Chatterton” by Henry Wallis. We mused about “Beata Beatrix” and “Proserpine”, made knowing “we used to be art students” type comments about their techniques and then wandered off to see some of the rest of this surprising gallery. There followed the obligatory visit to the shop to buy some postcards and then it was back into the sunshine for something to drink and, alas, back into the car for the long drive.

Home, backs aching and heads spinning, it was hard to get used to the fact that we had been a long way off and back again in the same day. We ought to do it more often, other people would, but I wonder how many would travel that far because of a few old paintings. Still mad for the Pre-Raphaelites after all these years. And still buying postcards.
http://www.bmag.org.uk/

http://www.cottonpatch.co.uk/

http://www.preraphaelites.org

　
　

An allotment show in suburbia

On Saturday I went along to the local allotments and gardens association autumn show and dropped off the albums of photographs that I had taken of earlier events. I felt that these should be archived as the membership of the association gets smaller and gardens in the area disappear under concrete. There were many of the same old faces, the same reliable people who have kept things going through good times and bad. A stall selling local honey, another selling bulbs and plants, and work by a local artist.


There is something about the very ordinary surroundings of the church hall that makes the flowers and vegetables on display look even more extraordinary. Spiky orbs of orange and red chrysanthemums against the long maroon curtains, pale wavy discs of squash against the green baize of the exhibition tables. I expect someone does tidy up before it all gets going but no one seems to mind the stacks of plastic chairs and the odd mix of screens. The produce is what counts.

Admission is free to these shows that take place in the spring, summer and autumn but it is taken as read that you buy a raffle ticket when you go in. Prizes include the usual bottles but we won a walnut tree last time. It will be a decade before we get any walnuts out of it but we were delighted.


Some might feel that our association is in something of a time warp but I find the sameness and regularity of these events reassuring. It is low tech and quiet, relying on face to face, human contact and legwork. There is no website or email address. I suspect that these modern facilities would increase the membership but it would trade a special, indefinable quality for convenience. When I walk into that church hall I know that it probably looked very much the same in 1956, and in 1978. All that has changed is the fashion and hair that has either fallen out or turned grey.

When the association was founded almost eighty years ago the area that I live in was a shiny new suburb, built alongside main roads, a few Victorian buildings and a railway line. Property speculators encouraged the founding of garden associations and front garden competitions because the bare patches in front of the new houses did nothing to enhance the look of the place. By encouraging householders to turn the muddy plots of land around their homes into gardens they knew that they would add value to their development without having to spend any more on it themselves.



Within twenty years of its being founded the gaps had been filled in by Tudorbethan and Art Deco semis and the gardens were being pressed into service to help those on the Home Front. They became a vital resource and garden associations came into their own. Once the Anderson shelter had been built the space around it was used to fill the gaps that rationing had left. Suburbanites who would never have been interested in growing potatoes suddenly wanted the advice of those who had been growing them for years. The allotment society was the best place to ask and many more clubs of this kind were founded.



I find it sad that, at a time when the UK is undergoing such a positive change in attitudes to the environment, these associations are disappearing because no one is prepared to run them. Most of those running the one we belong to are retired or very elderly and are actively seeking new organisers. I play a small part by pushing leaflets through doors three times a year and putting a poster in the window but I can’t help thinking that many people pay lip service to the environmental movement but can’t be bothered to part with the £2 annual membership fee or walk two streets to a church hall where these events take place. These associations usually offer a discount to their members which can mean quite a saving to someone on a tight budget. They are a great example of a local, green, community resource and in spite of a renewed interest in growing vegetables they are literally dying off.

There will be a time, not that far away in the future, when we will have to start growing our own food just as they do in Cuba, where every spare foot of land is being put to use. When that time comes we will need all the good advice of the members of such associations to make every seed and drop of water count. Let’s hope that they are still there to help us out.

http://www.britishpathe.com/record.php?id=82416

　

Forbidden fruit

The fig tree that belongs to my neighbour is heavy with fruit. I have a fool with a fondness for bonfires to thank for this. Two years ago, whilst in the process of taking in hand the neighbouring rundown property, he began burning bits and pieces one morning and kept this up for five hours. I was a bit concerned that he might set fire to our shed and then, quite possibly, our home. Before I went out I spoke to him just to make sure that he was aware of my concerns, just in time as it turned out. He was about to pull apart the fence panel that we had propped up to cover the gap in the fence (that our neighbour was in fact responsible for) and burn that too.

Most of the stuff on the pyre came from the garden that he had been “tidying up” and I mentioned that as much as I loved their cherry tree I was certain that it was responsible for the cracks in our walls as it was so close to our house. Half of it was leaning over the fence and some of the branches almost touched the walls. He claimed that the roots of a cherry tree never spread that far but the cracks in the concrete on our side of the fence told another story. When I pointed out the sticky cankers all over its trunk he said that it would need some looking after but I was glad to see that within a few days that he had looked after it to the point of cutting it down.

I do miss the cherry blossom and the sherbet scent in the spring. The cherries were nothing special but still edible. Some years ago I got annoyed that the starlings were the only ones getting the benefit of them and actually asked if I could have them. I had found a recipe for pickled cherries and was determined to use them for it. For several weeks I kept running outside to scare off the birds and finally picked as many as I could reach. Then I spent a sticky, juicy hour removing the stones. I didn’t have the right kind of pan for the purpose and used a Le Creuset casserole pan but I did have the right kind of preserving jars.

By the time I got around to cooking them up it was around 11.30 at night. I heated up the vinegar with the brown sugar and brought it to the boil. Unfortunately cast iron retains heat too well to allow it to cool down quickly when needed so the bloody thing boiled over and the boiling hot sugary mess ran all over the hob top. My eyes watered as the kitchen was suddenly filled with acrid fumes. There was just enough left to put the cherries into and I spent some moments holding my breath while handling a very hot glass jar into which I was pouring an equally hot cherry/vinegar/sugar mixture. It didn’t explode so I got something right. The lid went on easily and tightened perfectly as the vacuum was formed. By now it was 1am, the back door was open and the kitchen looked like the site of a dangerous experiment.

The next morning I proudly pointed to my jar full of pickled cherries. “They look like sheep’s eyes” he said and went to work. That jar went onto a high shelf and was eventually binned after living there for quite a few years.

I did make blackberry jam on one occasion and we were both surprised at how purple it was, I’ve always meant to make more. The strange thing is that there don’t seem to have been that many this year in our garden. I try to pick as many as I can because if I don’t the rats and the birds will get them and spread them around the place. As a consequence there are brambles and cherry trees everywhere.


I don’t know if the rest of the country has been affected in the same way but in west London we have been blessed with an abundance of free fruit. There has been enough of the right weather at the right time to leave the trees along the A40 quite literally dripping with fruit in shades of gold and red. I’m not sure what these trees are, damsons probably, but unfortunately their proximity to a road with high pollution levels means that I can never take advantage of that harvest (this doesn’t stop one woman I’ve seen picking and eating berries as she walks along even though I’ve mentioned the risks to her). The pavements alongside it are sticky with rotting pulp and I have to watch my step because their slippery skins and small hard stones can send you skidding, especially after it rains.

One morning I found myself peering out of the window at one of the self sown trees at the wilder (OK, scruffier) end of the garden. At first I wondered why its leaves were turning so early in the year. Then I realised that these autumnal dabs of gold were in fact the same kind of fruit that I had seen at the roadside. I had never seen fruit on it before. Even the ornamental plum, Prunus cerasifera nigra, is strutting its stuff in the fruit department.

Unfortunately there is only one fig tree but as I said I have bonfire man to thank for the abundance of them that now hang on my side of the fence. Once he had hacked down the cherry tree he managed to prune the fig in such way as to leave all the fruit on my side. Thanks to the way the shed and the fence are arranged I can pick all those figs the moment they have ripened. I consider it payment for five smoky hours and summers spent with the windows closed because my neighbour liked his Beethoven loud.

　
　
　

Gone

Recently I listened to a BBC Radio 4 feature about the increasing number of people in the UK who are found to have died without it being noticed. Their bodies have lain for years in council flats with post, including demands for payment of bills for utilities and letters announcing the termination of their supply, building up against their doors. The pension or benefit that is automatically transferred into their bank accounts pays for the rent that is automatically drawn by direct debit. The silent financial machinery that we have come to take for granted keeps their demise a secret.

The neighbours who said little more than “Hello” in all the time they lived next to them assume that they have moved away or are reclusive and don’t want to be bothered. As this feeling is often mutual the situation continues until a gas meter has to be replaced or essential maintenance has to take place. Someone breaks in and discovers the skeletal remains of someone who once had children, siblings and friends. No one has noticed the space in their midst.

At that point the good people who carried on with their lives unaware of the corpse next door develop a conscience and wonder if they should have been better neighbours. They may even take measures to make sure that the same thing doesn’t happen to them by seeing their family members more often.

Around the world others are disappearing for different and more sinister reasons. In the UK we would expect our police force to investigate a disappearance not instigate it. I can’t imagine what it must be like to live in a place where I had to fear them. The term "to be disappeared" came to be used in relation to those who were taken into custody by security forces in countries such as Argentina where it is thought that between 1976 and 1983 as many as 30,000 people “disappeared”. Although this type of activity is usually associated with dictators and countries with a poor democratic record “the war against terror“ has led to some strange alliances between the UK, the US and countries such as Pakistan, where democracy is in a fragile state.

Masood Janjura and Faisal Faraz were taken into custody on a bus there on the 30th July 2005. They were seen in detention but the authorities deny that they have them in custody. Masood’s wife, Amina, is leading protests in Pakistan demanding that the authorities release such detainees or at least confirm that they are alive. Please watch the “Dateline” video on this link. It is very moving and reminds me how difficult it would be for me to cope if my other half didn’t come home one day. My thoughts are with Amina and her husband who looks the sort of man I would be proud to know. If you feel the same way please take a look at the suggested action on the link.
http://www.amnesty.org.uk/actions_details.asp?ActionID=524

“When people lose their sons and daughter they do everything in their power to find their children.” These are the words of a refugee from Grozny whose son, 29 year old Ibragim Gazdiev, was kidnapped in broad daylight by armed men of Russian appearance in the republic of Ingushetia. Ibragim’s dad probably thought they would be safer there but he is now awaiting news of his son who he is well aware may be enduring torture or who may even be dead. Gazdiev Muhmed Yaponzovich wants to send a wave across the world to let the authorities know that what they are doing is being scrutinised and that light is being cast on their dark activities. He hopes that this will bring his son back to him. Be part of that wave and take a look at the link.
http://www.amnesty.org.uk/actions_details.asp?ActionID=522

Sanjiv Kumar Karna was on a picnic with ten friends in southern Nepal when they were arrested on the 10th October 2003. They were beaten and interrogated and, although six of the group were released, it is not known what happened to Sanjiv and four others. In the past Sanjiv had an opinion and expressed it, he became involved in politics as a student just as many young people do when they attend university or college in the UK. Then, just as many of us do, he stepped away from all that and got on with his life. Unfortunately as far as the Nepalese security forces are concerned once an activist, always an activist. His family have been told that he was killed during “police action” but this has been denied by the police. There is a chance that his body lies with those of his missing friends in Janakpur but even though funds to pay for the cost of exhumation are available and the police have a duty to investigate the claims nothing has been done. Another father, Jai Kishor Labh, waits for news of a son.
http://www.amnesty.org.uk/actions_details.asp?ActionID=349

The thing that strikes me about these missing people is that they are just like us and would not look out of place in my neighbourhood. They are the people we live next to and rarely speak to. They support Fulham and scratch their bums, they don’t like cheese and they will miss “Big Brother”. They are ordinary. They are us. That is why it matters that they have “disappeared”. It is important to notice and speak out for them because things have happened recently in the name of the UK that suggest that next time it really could be you.
　
　
This is dedicated to Patrick, a fellow member of an Amnesty International local group, who died at home following an epileptic fit. He was not found for several days but at his funeral it was clear that he had many friends who loved him and that he had been an active campaigner for human rights and those with disabilities in spite of being disabled himself. I am certain that Patrick would have had a blog if the internet had been available to him at the time. It would have been a more interesting blog than mine.