Monthly Archives: August 2016

A somewhat reluctant political post

Oh how the arguments have raged within the Labour Party for over a year now.

Last summer I vocalised my support for Jeremy Corbyn round an enormous dinner table, with rather high stools, in the middle of Wallonia, Belgium.  I had been drawn on the topic, evidently, as I do not discuss politics at the dinner table, if I can help it.

The argument raged across the empty plates and dirty cutlery and quietly people slipped away from the table.  I don’t blame them; my support for Corbyn has always come with caveats, the primary one being until there is someone better.  Better how, I could not quite articulate last summer, other than to say that I had worked in his constituency in the 1990s and I recall some of his positions in those days made me uneasy.

Now, after nearly a full year, I do have a clearer picture of what better might entail.  The ability to get the PLP functioning might be a place to start.  Another might be to get off the back foot with the media all the damn time.  Or to find more than the inner circle (McDonnell & Abbott) to get on message in the media – this last point leads me to the first and second points again which rather go to somewhat illustrate the problem of the last year.

However all this does not automatically translate into a vote for Mr Owen Smith.  In fact, I look at those good people, who probably know far more than I, who support him and urge others to do the same, and wonder why they think we can turn the clock back a year and pick up where we left off, which was basically a thumping by UKIP  that let the Tories in.

Labour is, to my mind, too far down the road now in terms of the division over a shift to the left.  The cracks cannot be papered over with Owen Smith, or indeed anyone better than Corbyn.  We are on the road we are on, and, rather like Brexit, we must make the best of it. As things stand, no-one who knows anything thinks that Labour are likely to win a general election in 2020 or anytime before that point with Corbyn in charge.  Funnily enough, I never thought that he would last summer either – what I thought back then was that something interesting was going on: a recalibration of the party, something I wanted to see.

So those who know more than me, gnash their teeth about getting into power to turn back the Tory tide, and I look at that argument and think it’s a right one.  Then I look at the Party I am a member of and think – really?  If Labour cannot move left a little without eating itself from the tail up, it does not bode well for being a party of government any time soon.  Britain, England particularly, is a conservative country with a small c.  Socialism is a risky business as far as the electorate are concerned.

The best hope for Labour is that the Lib Dems resurge somewhat and that a left of centre alliance can be formed with the Greens and the SNP, but I don’t even see that, not really.  It’s almost like the country like to be purged on a regular and prolonged basis by the Tories.  Perhaps it’s ingrained in the class system, perhaps it’s an epigenetic inheritance from Puritan times.  Who knows.

I haven’t voted in the Labour leadership election yet.  Maybe I won’t. I can’t vote for Smith because he wants to openly learn on the job and I may not be able to vote for Corbyn because he is somewhat worse than I thought.  Maybe next summer (when the leadership election has become the annual summer event) someone who really is a bit better than Corbyn will come along.

Maybe.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Walking woman: 98

Turns out the woman on the walk in my last post is 98.

The deliberate walking is just that, although I am told that her hearing and sight are failing.

On a good day she can get not just to the top of the track, but to the top of the hill where the road runs out.

As it will for us all one day.

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When I grow up I want to be…

In my head, this is going to be an excellent blog post in the style of the excellent BBC programme What Do Artists Do All Day, or somesuch title that I have misremembered.

In reality, and because I have become blog rusty of late, it will probably turn into a mish of this and a mash of that sprinkled with the other, following no cohesive train of thought and (like a bad poem) there will be no change by the end in you, the reader.  This post will likely be littered with long, poorly formed sentences and stuttering syntax and it will be a labour of love if you get to the end of it.  Having said that, I will try to avoid such style screamers as my father sent me yesterday (bracketed content my own): Jenny (the dog) got a stick stuck in her throat and Annie (the granddaughter) started studying her driving theory…

What I wanted to say when I began writing this blog in my head about 10 minutes ago was that I spend so much of my life on the edge of panic that I am now officially fed up with it.  By the time I had fired up the old blog on the laptop, I had forgotten that thought about having courage in the face of fear and remembered another thought I had today – when, at 46 years and 10 months old, I realised I knew what I wanted to be when I grow up. (I suppose it will have to be at 47 now).

I think the two thoughts are linked.  And I think that they are linked a bit like this.

I am in Wales.  I am in Wales with two children (my own) and the dog (who does not exactly belong to anyone but himself, but still).  This, you understand, is tantamount to me being Wales on my own.  The reason is that although I am with others, I am on my own with the responsibility of the others.  Now, why this responsibility should rest on my shoulders more heavily when I am in Wales than it seems to when I am at home in Essex, I don’t know.  But, it does.  Perhaps because at home there is at least one other adult around some of the time.  Now I may know that the bulk of what I do at home for the dog and the children is identical to what I am doing in Wales for them, but at least in Essex there is the promise of back-up, should it be needed.

Here there is no back-up.  And that is why I think I am nearly always on the edge of panic, and not just as a parent.  In work, there is support, and a listening ear, but at the end of the day the buck stops with me.  In my writing: the same.  I have a special academic project I am doing this summer too: once again there is no back-up.  I am panicked by the life I have got, even though I get up and do the damn thing every damn day.

This damn day (otherwise known as today : Wednesday) I was driving  back from market day in a town in Mid-Wales.  The children had not enjoyed it (although they had insisted on going).  The dog had not much enjoyed it either.  During the expedition, deep into shuffling summer crowds, I had felt the responsibility for everyone’s general wellbeing and demeanour weighing heavily on my shoulders.  Vegan child refused food and drink at the appointed times, wore her scowl like a tattoo, and refused to remove her duffel coat and scarf. The younger one who is more sensitive to other people’s moods took her sister’s temper too much into account for her own good and went without small pleasures along the way herself to keep the peace.  For my part, I bit my tongue, a lot.

On the way back the children fell asleep in the car and I took an unscheduled turn left, off the main road.  The road was narrow, steep and winding.  Before long I was almost in the clouds.  This made me feel panicky too.  One part of my mind throws out various disaster scenarios: breakdowns, crashes and getting lost.  The other part says, ‘bad things happen and you cope.’  It’s true, I do.  Only yesterday I melted the washing up bowl of the holiday let, and today I confessed my sins and said I would replace it.  Bad things happen; I deal with them.  The dog gets a stick stuck in her throat and a granddaughter studies for her driving test.  Life goes on, and so do we.  It’s what we do.  It’s what I do.

I have therefore decided that doing does not need to cause me all the angst it does.  I do it, it’s fine.  Sometimes I do it: it’s not fine, I fix it.  Doing should not worry me.  I’ve been doing doing for nearly 47 years and it’s time to trust myself a little and say: you have this.

  • Writing: I do it
  • Parenting: I do that too
  • Teaching: tick
  • Managing people: doing that as well
  • Dog-owning: it’s not pretty sometimes but I’ve been doing that for 21 years and 3 dogs’ lifetimes
  • Travelling: yes I’ve done that and bad things have happened on occasion but what the heck

I do these things, they don’t do me.  I choose to do them.  Why worry then?

The thing that should worry me, and does, is the thing I want to be.  As it turns out, it’s a poet.  I want to be a poet, and that is the truth of the matter.  Yes I’ve had a few poems find some good homes in the past, but I couldn’t describe myself as a poet.

Time to ditch the panic and be a poet, for reals perhaps.

Or maybe you can’t be a poet without the panic?

Fuck.

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The Manhattans

I stayed in Manhattan once.
I should have ordered a Manhattan and listened to this track.
Instead I had a Vodka Martini and went to a jazz club in Bleecker Street, probably in that order.

Many, many months have passed by since then.  Now, I would never be so conceptually unintact.