Thirty minutes

It is hard to believe that this screen of ubiquitous buddleia, scenting the suburban air, hides a railway line that has triggered intense debate, caused thousands of people to protest, and made a minister of state into a figure of hate. It is often referred to as “the Chiltern Line” and if the government has its way it will be the route for HS2, a high speed rail link connecting London to Birmingham and reducing the time of the present journey by about thirty minutes. What could you do with thirty minutes? Start the clock.



Spend your thirty minutes trying to complete a public consultation document, bearing in mind that it has been drawn up by someone who wants you to fall into a trap, to make you say that you actually do want a train charging past your home at over 200 miles an hour, that you have no objection to years of construction work, that you believe every word they say about noise levels. You left school to get away from this kind of thing and here you are taking an exam to stop your home becoming worthless, to justify the years, decades of work you put into paying a mortgage. You take advice, watch videos, listen to the experts before you answer “no” to everything, in a desperate attempt to save all that effort and sacrifice.


Think of all those minutes and half hours spent in a job you hate, gritting your teeth to get through one more day, hour, minute without flinging your letter of resignation at the boss, all for nothing because you are a nimby, small fry, nothing to a man whose salary you pay but didn’t vote for. Another nameless face in the crowd at a demo, along with all the other unwanted little people who have cluttered up his day, getting in the way of “progress”.

You will never be one of those gaining that extra half hour on a train moving so fast that the rest of mankind becomes a blur. You will never afford those plush seats and wonderful service. You will wait with all the rest on a station platform waiting for a worn out train that has been held up, again. Because there is no money to improve what already exists, what you can afford. You will sit in your car, on a bus, in a jam caused by the years of construction work that you are paying for to build a railway line you don’t want, can’t afford, don’t need. You will grind your teeth and curse those who inflicted this upon you and your lowly kind and know that you are helpless. You don’t count, your kind never have.


Thirty minutes in a bluebell wood, deafened by birdsong yet wishing you could make less noise as you walk amongst trees that were old when you were a child. A thousand cobwebs and caterpillar threads cling to your arms as they must have done to those of your ancestors when places like this were vast and untouched. You are the first to walk here today, in a place that has never changed and you thought never would until the minister expressed his opinion. Knowing that you are barely a heart beat in the time it took to make this place that cannot be replaced, replicated, remade. Thirty minutes, a pin prick in time in this woodland set like sapphires and emeralds amongst the coral of suburban rooftops, one last place to remember what it must have been like in this land before “progress” came and ate away at your soul. Time counts for nothing here.


Half an hour at an estate agent’s office, listening to all the advice he can give you on how to sell a worthless house. Paint the walls a neutral colour, thank God you redecorated some of it last year, it will take less money, less time. You’ll get the downstairs lav done in thirty minutes. Put the “For Sale” sign up and hope to hell that the neighbours don’t put one of those bloody posters in the window, hope that whoever takes the bait doesn’t check up on what that means. Keep your fingers crossed for a lot longer than thirty minutes, through every rare viewing, trying not to wince when “it” gets mentioned until you realise that they were just curious, not serious, bad luck. Wish that the things that once made your home such a bargain (“Five minutes walk from the nearest station!”) weren’t the things that make it so undesirable now.

The worst half hour is the one spent listening to your tearful elderly neighbour, born in her house, the one she hoped to die in. Listening to the despair of a woman who cannot fill in a form at the best of times and is rendered incoherent at the thought that her childhood home might be demolished, just another of the worthless small fry who will be swept away for the greater good. She loves her garden but even that has made her a target for the mockery of businessmen. She doesn’t own a bowler hat and her lawn is tiny, a postage stamp of green, but she knows each lily and rose, remembers the ones her mother planted and loves them still. It has taken many a half hour to make this patch of heaven and it was worth every moment.


Wonder, sometimes, how long it would take, how many pills, how much booze, to take the problem away forever. How many of those affected regularly spend thirty minutes that close to edge, when the worry becomes too much - “Why are you crying Mummy?” - when there is no fight left and despair takes over. When you begin to think that all the effort is pointless, that all those half hours have been wasted and you are worn away to nothing, for nothing. Knowing that, when the dust that can never settle makes its way, every day, into your home, your precious half hour will be frittered away by a business man, distracted by the many pleasures in that brand new temple to retail - the station - rushing off half an hour late in a wasteful carbon heavy cab to the appointment he might have made, had he been more mindful of those thirty minutes.

Stop HS2 - advice on completing the consultation document
Stop HS2 natonal petition

Too much of a good thing

At last, the thaw. When, unusually, it began to snow before Christmas it added to the festive atmosphere. For once the weather outside matched the images on the cards indoors. It rapidly lost its appeal. London was bored of snow. Every local phone-in show made that very clear.

The problem is that the British don’t have to deal with it very often so we are left in total disorder on these rare occasions. There is a desperate rush to spread grit and salt on main roads (but not residential side roads, leading to many complaints) and panic when they start to run out. This year there was outrage when the snow turned to slush after it was rained on, creating a slippery treacherous mess on station platforms and pavements. It turned out that grit had been spread but the rain had washed it away. The slush then became icy and even more slippery. I saw one man slip over on the steps at North Acton Station before Christmas, hitting his head on the metal edged steps.

Judging by the state of the pavements in West Ealing this week I think I know where most of that grit ended up. A shame that some of it didn’t reach residential Greenford or the business district in central Ealing.

New snow is special. I love the way that it reflects the light and muffles every sound, especially at night. It’s easy to walk in (crunch crunch) and renders everything beautiful. It even managed to lend a quiet beauty to the place where a good man met a violent end a few months ago.

When the snow first hit the UK it was regarded as lovely, if a bit of a nuisance. I was obliged to head out in it and couldn’t help smiling at everyone I encountered. And everyone smiled back. It was a lot less fun hours later when there had been a slight thaw and even worse when it had refrozen. I watched a pensioner pass the house, holding my breath in case he slipped over.

I considered (along with many others according to the media) whether to sweep the pavement in front of the house for the benefit of those passing by. A good citizen would surely do it. My main concern was that I would not clear it well enough to prevent a thin layer of moisture refreezing and leading to the problem I wanted to avoid. In the end I left it as it was because I had found that it was easier to walk on the remaining snow and frozen slush, especially if it snowed again.

Extreme cold (by UK standards) leads to a rush on hats, scarves and gloves in the shops (I’ve made three hats since Christmas), an abandoning of New Year diets in favour of warm comfort food and a rediscovery of things like hot water bottles, and balaclavas. Personally I recommend lemon and ginger tea with honey. It has been difficult for birds, who can’t find food under the snow, and the local foxes were louder than usual and probably very hungry.

An unexpected fall of snow last February led to a small snowman in the front garden complete with carrot nose and apple eyes. This time around I find it hard enough to get to and from work on it to have the energy to play around in it which is a shame because it didn’t snow very often when I was a child and I could do some catching up. I spent many childhood Christmases in the countryside and one year (the forecast promising snow) I was given a plastic sled. The worst present ever as the snow failed to materialise.

Now that things are back to normal it is interesting to note what this episode has revealed about the UK. Many schools remained closed because even though the pupils live in the area, their teachers do not (house prices are often prohibitive). Pensioners will leave the house to go shopping but many of the younger generation will have a duvet day. A lot of people don’t own the right footwear for ice and snow. The news channels are more likely to interview the RSPB about the impact of cold weather on wildlife than Age Concern about its impact on the elderly.

In the meantime, while we’re bothered about snow, on other parts of the planet we call home extreme heat continues to take its toll and one of the terrible natural disasters that always seems to follow Christmas leaves its mark on Haiti. The fun’s over.


http://www.dec.org.uk/donate_now/

For Robert Godrey, in the hope that the sight of all that snow cools things down.

"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

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