Two minute heroes

I turned up at the war memorial rather too early for the event, in company with a few others. Everyone else around us, apart from a handful who cast a curious glance in our direction, carried on doing all the things they usually do on a Saturday morning. The UK’s second annual Armed Forces Day had not been promoted particularly well in our area.

As someone waiting with me pointed out, it wasn’t for a lack of patriotism. The cross of St. George fluttered past us on cars and vans in the hot June sunshine. The World Cup had the lion’s share of the publicity and it was the three lions on football shirts that preoccupied most people rather than the young ones thousands of miles away under a different, hotter sun.

Perhaps things were not so different in 1921 when the memorial was completed, the money for it raised slowly almost reluctantly by a village that had lost nineteen men to the Great War. Perhaps it was too soon, too painful for some to cope with then, and again in 1945. Following both world wars there could have been very few people who did not know someone who had been in uniform, or recognise a name on a local memorial. These days it is uncommon to have a family member or friend in the armed forces so perhaps it is not surprising that there is a lack of awareness of such events. Most of us are left out of the loop.

Waiting for the parade I wondered how much the area had changed since veterans had first stood there one Sunday in June, 1921, before the plane trees had grown to such a height that they shaded us as we waited. They would have been a small group of local men, perhaps wearing suits made by the local tailor. A generation later that suit would have come from Burton’s, across the road, and after that it may have been a demob effort. The butcher, the baker and, in our case, the farm labourer took off aprons, put down tools and, during that two minutes of silence, became once more the young men that they had been, bound by shared experience, surrounded by the friends who hadn‘t come back. Then back to the Legion for a pint, memories carefully recalled and stored away again between Novembers.

“Ye who live on mid English pastures green,
Remember us, and think what might have been.”
War memorial inscription

Maybe it is because of them that we are so complacent and detached from current events. A lack of desire to brag, a need to return to “normality” as soon as possible in spite of the nightmares, a decision to take advantage of the prosperity that was coming their way and forget what had gone before. The Second World War largely disappeared with the tape that had been on the windows, but lingered on in army surplus and Utility goods which would do until you could afford something better. Perhaps it was both their gift and their fault that in the sixty-five years since the end of World War Two we have lost that everyday connection with the military.

Because when it did arrive that parade was such a grand and alien thing, pounding past the supermarket, the take away, the estate agents. We heard it before we saw it, loud and martial, and by the time it reached us, the glitter and snap of banners dismissing the mediocrity of everything about it, our hearts were probably beating in time with those drums. What a contrast with the slouchers in their football shirts, the girls in their summer clothes. It silenced the drivers stopped by the police and the teenagers on their mobile phones. In a world where we rarely stand up straight these people might have come from another age.

Yet however separate and different they may seem from the rest of us they still attract our support when we are afforded the opportunity to give it. The turnout for the main Armed Forces Day event in Cardiff was impressive and the words “Help for Heroes” are now seen and heard everywhere. A recent link up between a national radio station and the British Forces Broadcasting Service led to the posting of thousands of goodwill messages on their website, more than they could cope with. It isn’t the average person’s fault that this year Armed Forces Day had to compete with the National Squad for the average person’s attention.

Since then En-ger-land have lost a match and are out of the World Cup. Most of the flags will come down, although some will be left to the mercy of the elements. The team will fly back to a less than joyous welcome and scrutiny that will last considerably longer than two minutes. In the meantime, far away and out of sight their less well paid contemporaries will continue to watch dusty children score goals with bundles of carrier bags or plastic containers, as they have on many other postings, and dream of coming home.

http://www.armedforcesday.org.uk/
http://www.warmemorials.org/

The last bad smell

I’ve been trying to remember when transparent rubbish bags were introduced on London’s transport network. Definitely before the most recent terrorist incidents and therefore a consequence of Irish nationalist activity.

Strange that they were the first things that came to mind at the news that the Saville Inquiry had released its report on the Bloody Sunday incident in 1972 when members of the 1st Battalion The Parachute Regiment opened fire on a civil rights march in Londonderry, in Northern Ireland. They are one of the small things in daily life changed forever by those seeking to unite Ireland through violence. In theory they make it more difficult to hide an explosive device amongst rubbish.

Thirteen people were killed and another thirteen wounded, one of whom died later. The Widgery Report, released eleven weeks after the incident, concluded that the soldiers involved had fired first, believing that they were targeting people who were shooting back at them or handling explosives, and that their orders justified this. The report was regarded as a whitewash by many. Bloody Sunday was rather like a festering bag of rubbish that no one wanted to tackle, a persistent odour clinging to the Parachute Regiment. Thirty-eight years later, and at a cost of over £190 million pounds, those killed and injured have been declared entirely innocent.

It occurred to me that this incident took place when I was six years old and that it has taken most of my life for the arguments over Bloody Sunday to be resolved to the extent that it has. It isn’t over yet. Those who were serving with 1 Para and fired those shots on Sunday 30th January 1972 may be prosecuted over the deaths and injuries. It will come as a surprise to some if the families affected don’t pursue prosecutions and a disappointment to others if they do. The phrase “water under the bridge” has been used more than once which suggests to me that some people have no sense of smell.

The release of the Inquiry’s findings have meant that much of the footage that was recorded by news crews at the time has been replayed over and over again. The same images of a man waving a bloodstained handkerchief as one of the victims is carried past soldiers have been shown on TV every time that the events of that day turn up in the headlines. It takes me all the way back to childhood and the blurry memory of fear that I have, of being dragged out of Marks and Spencer by my mother because of a bomb scare and a cold ride home on a bus afterwards. A fragment of childhood frozen in black and white at a time when everyone seemed to wear roll neck sweaters and needed a haircut.

Over the next decade I became a little more blasé about these things, IRA activities went with the territory if you lived in the capital, at least that was what we told nervous visitors. But there is a limit to just how relaxed you can be when faceless people are trying to kill you. On the 20th July 1982 I was at home, near Hyde Park, when a bomb went off killing two members of the Household Cavalry and injuring twenty-three other people. Which of the seven horses killed or injured beyond recovery had woken us on early mornings with the sound of their hooves in our mews? The house shook just as the ground did when one of the big piebald drum horses stamped past me as I walked to school. You always know when it’s a bomb.

It’s called terrorism for a good reason and fear was certainly in the air following these events but anger came straight in after it. No one was happier than this nine year old when the Birmingham Six and the Guildford Four were locked away. As far as I was concerned the police had done their job and they could be relied upon to get it right.

Imagine my anger when some protested that these convictions were unjust, that those accused were innocent. On an anniversary of the Birmingham pub bombings the sister of one of the victims described the impact the event had on her mother, driving her to mental illness, and the anger she felt towards campaigners for the Birmingham Six. Seeing a classmate pale with shock and bearing marks on her face from splinters of glass after the Harrods bombing didn’t help. Another lost a brother to a bomb and the school held a service for him. The irony was, of course, that he had been of Irish descent, as were many of those affected by these incidents.

I didn’t realise, until I discovered the extent of my own Irish ancestry, just how my opinion of Ireland had been skewed by all this. I felt uncomfortable about being that Irish. It came as a shock to realise the impact on me of the years of fear and bitterness worked up by people who had denied me the right to walk freely and without fear in the place I called home. It hasn’t made me a nicer person so it doesn‘t surprise me that some who grew up surrounded by checkpoints and guns in Northern Ireland feel the way they do about the British army and the police.

Over the years I have heard lies told by a number of British policemen being unravelled and shown for what they really were, in relation to a number of miscarriages of justice. To me the greatest betrayals were the wrongful convictions of the Birmingham Six and the Guildford Four. One lie after another exposed, undermining the certainty I felt about the justice system -and it hasn‘t made me any less angry about the impact of terrorist activities on my life.

I am lucky not to have lost a relative to a bomb and I cannot imagine what it was like not only to have loved ones killed but to have seen them branded as terrorists when they were entirely innocent. There are those who wince at the cost of the Saville Inquiry and dread the prospect of more time and money spent on prosecutions. It is too much to hope that those involved in the shootings will come forward now and ask a court to decide the truth on way or another but that is what I would like to see. It isn‘t just about the relatives, who have waited such a long time for this outcome and have done so with more grace than the judges, politicians and military in whom I had such trust. I would like to see this last scandal cleared up. If the people of Northern Ireland had allowed the setting up of a truth and reconciliation commission of the kind that helped the people of South Africa comes to terms with their past we might have been spared this lingering embarrassment.

The Parachute Regiment has proved itself since those dark days and continues to do. It was 1 Para that spearheaded a peacekeeping force in Kosovo in 1999. It was 1 Para that took part in a hostage rescue in Sierra Leone in 2000. Those who wear that badge today are very different from the soldiers who shot at those civilians in 1972.

The situation must be resolved in a court of law rather than being left to fester like a rubbish bag on a hot day, surrounded by persistent wasps, with no one prepared to risk the sting of costs and the stink of embarrassment to get rid of it for good. In my experience, rubbish bags leak if they are left too long. It is almost inevitable that those involved will eventually speak about Bloody Sunday and death bed confessions will bring no peace to those whose relatives were frozen in time.

http://www.bloody-sunday-inquiry.org/index.html

http://www.thisislondon.co.uk/standard/article-23845703-a-low-point-for-the-paras-but-their-vital-work-must-continue.do

Fallen from grace

A few nights ago we were woken by the pained screeches and howls of two foxes getting it on somewhere very close to the house, until recently one of the less notable sounds of suburban life. On this occasion I would not be surprised if a few of our neighbours had got up and checked that they had locked the back door and shut all the downstairs windows.

The fox has is no longer seen as the charming redhead that you help out over the winter with the odd bowl of cat food. Tabloid headlines have put Mr. Fox into the same category as the paedophile. He is no longer fantastic. A mother found a fox mauling her twin baby girls in their nursery after it entered her north London home through patio doors left open on a hot night. Since then the local council has set traps in the garden of the house and destroyed three foxes caught there subsequently.

A number of Londoners, among them the mayor, Boris Johnson, have come forward to declare that foxes are vermin, a nuisance and now, a potential danger. The surprising thing is that just as many have stood up for the fox, pointing out that London and its suburbs have become a free food fest for vermin of every kind. It is not just the kind hearted residents of the city who are to blame. Patrons of take away food establishments do not feel the need to dispose of whatever they have left over responsibly, dumping it anywhere; proprietors leave bags of rubbish in the street long before collections are due because the fines are never big enough to put them off. Add to that the introduction of fortnightly rubbish collections for reasons of economy and it is hardly surprising that the fox and the rat have flourished.

In spite of what has happened I am quite happy to see foxes in our garden. If we keep the doors closed on hot evenings it is because we are worried about the two-legged variety of visitor, the burgling kind. I heard the eerie shriek of a fox for the first time in the suburbs, believing at first that it was a woman’s screams. Then it almost sent me into orbit but I now know that one of nature’s charmers is about. And I have been charmed by the fox. The sight of cubs tumbling over each other on the lawn, of an adult sunbathing on the compost bin, of another loping purposefully along the street ahead of me, I still regard these moments as special, magical. If those strange and dangerous eyes have once looked back into yours from a safe distance they are hard to resist. For those as divorced from wild nature as some town dwellers are it must be hard to resist trying to turn such a creature into a friend with the help of frozen chicken.

My perspective had to change once we became cat owners, not actively discouraging them but the occasional bowls of cat food stopped (I once economised by providing cheap dog food and was treated to the sight of a fox having a sniff and then walking away from it. Everything in its demeanour said “You expect me to eat this?”). We do leave out bowls of water, shallow enough to prevent a hedgehog drowning or tilted to allow an easy escape, that double as a lido for young starlings. I began to do this after seeing a desperately hot and exhausted fox take a rest on the patio. It was too frightened to let me put water out for it and ran off.

There was one hairy moment when I glanced out of the kitchen and saw a large fox standing stock still on the lawn with our beloved moggie right next to it. To my amazement the fox ignored Jones as he began to lie down next to it in a submissive gesture, the one that told us that he was due for a tummy rub. By this time my hand had rattled the doorknob and the fox departed in a hurry. Jones didn’t look too unhappy to see me but he didn’t seem frightened either and it has led me to wonder what sort of relationship he had with foxes in his early life as a stray. Most cats don’t win the argument. Nevertheless, when I found three young ones gazing at me expectantly through the French windows one Sunday morning I thought of Jones, at that moment snoring under the duvet, and resisted the temptation to slip them a dish of Felix.

I don’t blame foxes in any way for the problems they cause. They are fulfilling their role in the ecology, scavenging and cleaning up after everyone else and it is not their fault that we provide them with so much work. However I believe that for some the feeding of foxes has more to do with a need to be loved by an outlaw than a genuine desire to help wildlife. We have forgotten that this adaptable survivor has been charming humans for centuries. Very few animals have engaged the attentions of artists, writers and poets in the way that the fox has. Brer Fox, bold Reynard, Disney’s Robin Hood, Beatrix Potter‘s “foxy-whiskered gentleman“ and The Tod in “The Plague Dogs” by Richard Adams, from Aesop’s Fables to Roald Dahl it has been recognised as cunning, sly, deceitful - the Loki of British wildlife. Most recently the fox has been equated with the scheming young women drawn to celebrities in the video for Wiley’s “Wearing my Rolex”.

Perhaps those living within the town walls would be slower to defend the fox if their livelihoods depended on it. The playfulness that leaves our back garden strewn with shoes, rubber ducks and sparkly Christmas baubles is the same as that which leaves a hen coop in a bloody and distressing state. There are those, parents in particular, who have come to understand that a patio covered in faeces is a high price to pay for a glimpse of something wild.

It is time for the authorities, in consultation with local wildlife trusts, to take a rational and sensitive approach to the urban fox, educating the public in the best way to interact with it and acting in all our best interests. A blanket approach which treats all foxes in the same way would be inappropriate, what we need is a fox czar.

The recent incident really worries me. I fear that it will be used by politicians to gain votes by hitting an easy target rather than tackling obvious litter problems and dangerous dogs that Londoners fall victim to every day. Another concern is that the tabloid reaction to it will give permission to thugs to torture and kill foxes. They will use the same dogs that I worry about to carry out this task and then celebrate with a take away. One of the saddest interviews I heard following the attack was with a teenager who described the foxes in her area as scruffy, clearly unaware that sarcoptic mange causes these animals real misery - it isn’t because they are too lazy to groom themselves. Ignorance of this sort leaves the door open to cruelty.

Unfortunately, thugs on the other side of the argument have also made their feelings known online and the family in question have been given police protection. I have no doubts about the truth of what happened and wonder how those who care so passionately about animals in general can be this unfeeling towards the human kind.

I wonder if, by treating the urban fox in this way, we have worn away some of the mystery that drew us to it in the first place. As a result of our affection it has become commonplace and ordinary. We have lost our innocence having denied it the dignity due to it and our fall from grace is all the harder for it.



http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Reynard_cycle

http://www.thefoxwebsite.org/index.html

http://www.save-me.org.uk/

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

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