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What Thatcher has done for me…

15 Apr

That the Iron Lady media frenzy has been unseemly is all too evident. What can we rescue from the tornado of hot, swirling vortex that has been whipped up before the wake of the worn out 87 year old, who happened to be our first female PM? Clarity, that’s what! Was she controversial? Yes. Did she win three elections? Yes. Should the tax payer pay millions for her funeral? No.

Let me move on (unlike the BBC and every other media organisation and vested interest) to other news. Is that bloke who runs North Korea a basket case? Yes. Did we like the Morse prequel, ‘Endeavour’? Yes. Is Sally Bercow a self-obsessed embarrassment for her speaker-hubby (himself a shade pompous)? Yes. Was the sexy song about a one-night-stand sung by the talented little 11 year-old on Britain’s Got Talent, inappropriate? Yes. Was Tony Blair to blame for the MMR scandal? No, but he didn’t help. Has Madonna done anything for Malawi? No. Has Nicholas Hytner done a great job for the National Theatre? Yes. Should Sir Robert Edwards’ (Nobel Prize IVF) death have had more column inches than Peaches Geldof? Yes. So it goes…but let’s not get into the bombing of Dresden.

On to sport. Where are rules not really to be followed? The Masters at Augusta, if the penalty concerns the world’s most famous player. Where should rules be slavishly adhered to? Augusta, if a 14year old Chinaman can be found and made an example of and lectured and penalised. Where could you see the very best exhibition of sportsmanship in the very heat of high-level competition? Augusta, when Angel Cabrera man-hugged Adam Scott after the Aussie had thrillingly snatched victory at the second play-off hole. Friendship through sport. Humility in winning, grace in losing. A lot of what went on at home this weekend fell so far short of the savoury. But when it happens we feel enriched; we are reminded that competition can be noble.

Grammar; to be precise Gwynne’s Grammar. The Sunday Times saw fit to sneak an article by Nevile Martin Gwynne on his new Ebury Press publication. For thinking and reasoning we need words. Just as words and their definitions are the science of vocabulary, grammar is simply arranging words in the best order to make the best and clearest sense for any purpose. Without words we cannot think, let alone communicate…learning grammar does not just happen.

If we all read NMG’s worthy tome we might use words more accurately, sparingly and wisely. The use and misuse of words and platforms this week has forced a valuable brevity upon me. In a funny way, the Lady turned it round.

Be nice…

15 Mar

When asked recntly why he did not ‘blog’ any more and contrbuted rarely to newspapers or magazines, Stephen Fry admitted that he was, ‘Tired of slagging people off.’ Tweeting allowed regular daily mini-comments of an uplifting, congratulatory nature and even the odd disapproving or  disappointed opinion didn’t need to extend to a vituperative, mean-spirited, extended essay. Journalism, he said, had become a profession where too many of its number made their livings from being nasty.

Most schoolchildren will (or should) have been chided by English teachers for using this bland adjective for a multitude of descriptions. It’s unspecific, vague, unimaginative, too easy….and yet the ubiquity of ‘nice’ remains: have a nice day; nice work if you can get it; nice one Cyril; naughty but nice; nice and warm in here; a nice distinction. Dictionaries emphasise the amiable and kind-heartedness implicit in the word. Nice once meant fastidious or scrupulous. I’m beginning to warm to this bland word and want to push it rather higher in our etymological estimation.

When we call someone a nice person we mean a good deal more than saying It’s a nice day, don’t we? We imply that we know the individual well-enough to make a judgement about how he/she treats others and his/her general disposition. Kindness is involved as well as demeanour. Well that’s quite subtle isn’t it? And we make these judgements dozens of times a day: in the workplace; with relatives and friends; in the home; at the corner shop; in pubs and clubs; travelling wherever and whenever. Our radar is ever up for mean-spiritedness or rudeness, irritability and intolerance; kindness and sensitivity; warmth and caring. Mothers berating children in high streets; husbands sniping at wives in Tesco; children texting or facebooking unpleasantnesses; colleagues demeaning others at work – power games being played everywhere. Many rise above the competitive nastiness which is brought out by bringing an unfeeling response or tetchy personality to the surface under stress. Empathy – or lack of it – is bandied about and the resultant need to train our youth in emotional intelligence. Well I’m sceptical about trying to drill feelings into children. The home atmosphere, learning from how you are treated, observing how your nearest and dearest treat others, must be the greatest factor in our ‘nice’ learning curve.

We can all call up scary relatives from our childhood whom we categorised as odd or nice. Thousands of school interactions educated us further – and often the hard way. And then the workplace where we thought that the adult world would put to one side the bitchiness of childish things – but no! It’s a shock to find that one-upmanship, prejudices, power struggles, bullying and the rest are alive and kicking in many workplaces up and down the land. Whatever has been said convincingly at interview can be replaced by bigotry. People can be snide, deceitful, conniving…just like at school really.

So when we encounter niceness, it’s so nice! I have been lucky to meet so many down the years who say positive things about colleagues, see the best in people, have a genuine diplomatic reserve, volunteer, are genuinely pleased with the success of others, readily get their wallets out when grumpy John retires after 40 years with the firm…and so the niceness goes on. I know what Stephen Fry meant when he talked of the default position of journalists, bloggers and media people being critical, sniping. I wouldn’t want to take all journos to task for it is in the workplace that we could make so much better progress. Economic pressures and performance obsessions mean that the modern office, factory, bank, school, hospital, restaurant etc are pressurised competitive environments like never before. Precisely the reason why niceness should be high on all of our agendas.

Nice can mean saying hello to your cleaner – knowing his/her name, even Christmas carding. Niceness can mean chivvying, supporting, listening to an underperformer who probably knows what he/she is lacking but is hard-pressed to turn things round. Difficult choices don’t mean that niceness has to go by the board. Nice can mean firm, straightforward, honest, consistent, untemperamental, just, fair..but to be all these things the nice person needs a broad perspective, a view that suggests we are all in this together and our lives should not be circumscribed by the pressure brought on by unthinking and cruel individuals.

I have been privileged to know and work with vast numbers who fit into this ‘broad perspective’ niceness category. Just a few – and some of them in undeserved high places – have needed a big Be Nice to Others Post-it slapped on their backs or, better, smuggled into their diaries. Unfortunately such people have built up a lifelong immunity to such advice; skins often get thicker.

Jiggery Popery

4 Mar

To hear Cardinal Cormac Murphy O’Connor defending Cardinal O’Brien and the Catholic Church this morning was to listen to an ageing Canute demanding that waves of detractors recede – the church needs no reform, just ‘better governance’. It was a chilling self-exposure and John Humphreys didn’t need to be at his sharp-shooting best – the Cardinal kept slamming the own-goals in himself.

There is a curious sense of denial that increasingly dogs the corridors of power – whether politcal, social, business or, as in this case, moral. Tony Blair can’t get close to any public admission that he might, just might, have been wrong about WMD and Iraq – even to hint at equivocation would be to admit that there was the human need to exercise power, to go hand in hand with George Bush and show Saddam – and the UN – who was boss. On a playground level he was siding with the bully – or at least getting behind him – and enjoying the preening flush of the limelight. Tony claimed a spurious moral authority to gain a political end. In an odd way Cardinal O’Brien is worse. He claimed a supposedly legitimate moral authority to gain an illegitimate and immoral result.

Cardinal O’Brien has not only stood out against gay marriage but labelled gays as paedophiles and repeatedly, this last year, called for the church which he represents to take a hard line on celibacy, women priests and homosexuality. That is until the last fortnight and, sinner that I am, I cannot help but think that his advisors were telling him to back-track a little before the Sword of Damocles landed heavily on his hypocrisy.

Don’t we all sit in some wonderment as we hear the moral preaching of kiddy-fiddlers (and their supporters), gay-deniers, predatory senior clergy (as in the case of Cardinal O’Brien in his former life) and ‘celibate’ heterosexuals who father children and have affairs with some abandon? Wonderment, I say because they are telling their congregations to confess their sins, to follow the strict code that their moral betters (the priests) set out for them. The arrogance is breathtaking, the corruption seemingly endemic. Of course the Catholic Church isn’t the only representative of faith that does the do as I say, not as I do thing. All Faiths seem to demand, to a lesser or greater extent, that in following the rules, however wacky and counter-intuitive they may be,  we will find strength and ultimately be delivered into the Kingdom of Heaven. Well, as Brucie might have said, it’s a ‘Good Game’ innit? Trouble is the power brokers get used to wielding power and forget why they turned up for the race in the first place.

One such was Cormac Murphy O’Connor this morning. He has spent too long sipping wine at the top table and, like so many politicians and bankers, has lost his own compass, that compass which points we mortal sinners in the right direction, just rather more of the time than our moral leaders. That moral compass, which we plebs have in some measure, is called commonsense.

Emperor’s new clothes or the ramblings of an ageing realist?

12 Feb

Tattoos, Jimmy Choo shoes, celebrity news…there’s nothing to choose between the extraordinary range of woolly things being pulled over our eyes and ears by various emperors parading naked along our high streets, invading our homes by TV and our minds by internet and blackberry.

When I stopped being passed my elder brother’s hand-me-downs and refused to wear his Dunlop green flash plimsolls, I became aware of a new and seductive devil in society – marketing. Dunlop and Fred Perry had competition from Adidas, Puma, Ralph Lauren, Slazenger…second hand became second rate overnight in the 1960s and the commercial gallop has continued unabated. Extraordinarily, though, prices have spiralled way beyond quality- the gap is extraordinary and we are all being happily duped. Chamapagne v Cava? Petrus premier cru at £600 per bottle v Tesco’s Malbec at £5.99? Chefs who pile tiny layers of food to make a mini-mound with upturned fish on the top and charge £40 for half a plateful. £400K for a bedsit in Clapham or Balham- what’s that about?

It’s a very sensitive subject but didn’t we all think that Jimmy Savile was a. Very odd, b. Very creepy, c. Very stupid and d. Completely incompetent? Rap music – particularly the stuff that issues invective and expletives in angry indecipherable volleys. What does David Beckham think he’s doing to his body? And why do so many men and women copy him, mutilating their bodies at huge expense? £60 to watch Fulham play for 90minutes? £200 to watch Mick Jagger strut his 70 year old stuff? John Terry earning £150,000 per week? Why are big schools, big hospitals, big police stations, big local authorities better than small ones? When I went to the private hospital for treatment on my verucca, I was surprised to find that the swish clinic/Holiday Inn lookalike was a fraction of the size of its gigantic NHS counterpart up the road. Private schools are 400 strong on average; the comp. near me me boasts 2,500. Hmm. Food for thought.

Well I suppose we have choice – don’t we? Trouble is our judgement has been blunted. We can no longer distinguish between reality and cloud cuckoo land. The booze-fuelled orgies in Faliraki are a common rite of passage for youngsters who have to be ‘up for anything’. Discretion and judgement are dirty spoilsport words. It’s all about empowerment and What the f**’s it got to do with you?

When we hold our children in our arms and watch them grow through early years and then arrive, rising 5, at their primary school – the first real ‘slap’ from the outside world – what do we wish for them? That they will become Jimmy Chooed, tattooed, drunken slappers or thugs with questionable moral compasses who will offshore bank account-it and tax avoid it if possible, lie barefacedly to get off speeding fines and have oral sex in the White House? Or would we rather that they kept on that path of love and wonderment which characterises so many of the pre-school cherubs. We humans are terribly flawed and we’ll never get away from our original sin. But hasn’t the gap between appearance and reality, order and chaos, perspective and madness widened just far enough to think that we are too often naked, dressed in those emperor’s new clothes racing towards some kind of armageddon – things fall apart the centre cannot hold and anarchy is loosed upon the world. If I believed in God I’d wonder what he’d make of the mess we’ve made of things. He’d take a quick shufty around and decide that his Second Coming wasn’t worth the bother.

Other dupe categories and characters include Bono, Fifty Shades of anything, Euro MPs and almost all that goes on in Brussels (at vast black-hole expense), Alex Salmond, the dog that won Britain’s got Talent, Tracy Emin’s bed, the BBC in Salford, man bags, shops that sell cheap booze but won’t open on Sundays, religion in general (but I do enjoy a good hymn), health and safety and CRB and compliance and regulation madness, speed bumps and cameras,….and I’ve barely started.

I’d advise that you settle down to watch the euphemistically named Pointless on BBC. You’ll feel better. It bucked me up after writing this yesterday.

Strangers on a train (2)

6 Feb

There are some trains for which a first class ticket costs barely a farthing more than cattle (or ‘standard’) so why not go for it? And so here I was again at Manchester Picadilly, a couple of weeks on from my last visit, enjoying the delights of the Virgin first class lounge which sits, like a mobile TV studio above platform 1, with a view to die for…or from. I positioned myself as Gabby Logan did when overlooking the Olympic Park.

As I was settling in to my machine cappucino, iced water chaser and Wolf Hall, I noted my fellow loungees. Asian – Indian husband, wife, daughter. Well-behaved, quiet. Two smart 30+ladies, all business suits and laptop bags. Two younger men, one power-overcoated, the other thin grey suit, thin grey tie. Top buttons undone – both.

Thomas Cromwell’s wife, Liz,  had just passed away when a thought occurred. None of the noises off in the room were being spoken in English. I thought that I recognised Malayalam – the Keralan dialect – from the stern Indian father;  the smartie ladies were definitely French; the boys were bantering in a growly eastern european way, between iPadding, iPodding and playing with their androids. I cast my eyes over the seething mass of rush-hour Manchester.

And on to coach H, seat 05. The 18.55 under way. I turned pages. Cardinal Wolsey’s position getting dodgy and Thomas More serving notice that he’s a smarty-pants. I was restless, however, since my evening tastebuds were telling me that it was past wine-o’clock. Ears wandered. More strange sounds. Russian? And Chinesey? Certainly more French. Then the train manager intercommed. I think I caught Stockport, and Crew but missed Wilmslow and Milton Keynes. He spoke with the fast asian certainty that his passengers could understand every word. His voice was light and comforting and impenetrable. I have a lovely friend in Cochin with whom I have spent many hours of delightful whisky-laced conversation: he in the certain knowledge that I understand all his rapid-fire RP English; me in that exhilarating state of second-guessing and linguistic ‘catch-up’ where the game of jigsawing sentences or knowing grunts and gestures becomes an art. I didn’t get to meet the train manager. Pity.

Shortly a drinks trolley rattled in, prodded onward by a tall blond hunk of a young waiter – all Third Reich and noble bearing. A step behind was a gorgeous dark-and-olive waitress looking as if she’d just shoe-horned herself into her unform after jetting in from Mauritius or Hawaii or wherever else these visions are created. I waited for the language hit. From the mouth of Adonis came the uplifting harshness of South London –Looks like you could do with a stiff one, Sir – no word of a lie. What do you suggest? said I. Nothing better than the Cab. Sav, if you like a bit-o-red…and why not have it in the tumbler, y’never know how long the food’ll take. Well the deal was done and I was showered with undersized packed of pretzels and Tyrrels’ crisps. Bloody silly these piddling little packs. Barely get a mouthful. I was all agreement and gratitude.

Then he rumbled off and Aphrodite appeared with menu and pencil and when she opened her mouth out came Joanna Lumley, Moira Stewart and Fiona Bruce all rolled into one. Too shy to ask her where she hailed from, I restricted myself to mumbling my preference for the chicken and stuffing sandwich, fresh fruit and coffee later. And so I sank back into the arms of Hilary Mantel and the crimson warmth of the Cab Sav.

While my ear struggled with the sounds around me I was buoyed by the crisp and surprising clarity of my attendants. On delivery the sandwich turned out to be a white-Sunblested nightmare. The packaging sported an image of Nelson. I wouldn’t have advertised the Englishness of this product; the great admiral would have spat the thing out. Aphrodite was all apology and offered me another banana. Adonis reappeared near Milton Keynes to announce that I needed a double top-up to see me through to Euston. You’re very chirpy at 9pm on a Friday, I offered. Easy job,  I like people, got the weekend off. Well it’s easy if you smile, I said. You make it look easy. Well, Sir, the way I look at it is that life’s too bloody short, innit?

Too right.

Strangers on a train

20 Jan

One of Richard Branson’s railway beasts pulled smoothly out of Manchester Picadilly. Last Thursday I was returning from a sad family visit and had pampered myself with a first class ticket. I was quietly happy that my little area was empty and I spread myself – room to set the papers down here, J.K.Rowling’s enormous A Casual Vacancy (why am I reading this?) there, phone, notebook and so on. Ah here comes the wine waiter with my large red. Food ordered (the slow-roast pork belly) and a couple of hours of bliss ahead.

The Stockport happened. At this improbably early port of call a woman (forty and careworn) and son (thirteen, I’d say) bustled and apologised their way up the carriage to their allotted resting place – just opposite me. She was all instruction to the calm, unspeaking young man: Put your bags over there; do you want to sit facing forward or not?; I’d prefer to have my back to the engine; these seats are tight for first class; that’s my phone going. And so she spoke at length into her device as she sank into the rear-facing seat above which a sign asked travellers not to speak into such devices.

Her son ( I assume he was the offspring, though the little that I learned about him in the following two hours suggested that he could not possibly have been a product of the nervy, control freak opposite) took to his iPad and, as the modern user can be, was all contentment. Not so his mother who was busy with conference calls which were vital – her words to explain to the polite boy why she couln’t lavish all attention on him. The calm waiter arrives – a lifesaver she called him before she quizzed him on the range and quality of wines. I can’t drink anything really dry so a Pinot is better than a Sauvignon but I’d like to taste it first. The brilliant rejoinder of ‘We’ve only one white on offer and it’s medium,’ stopped her only temporarily in her tracks. Next was the negotiation of food.

Why Virgin train managers don’t print a little card with the choices on baffles me. The new man, less taciturn than the wine guy, went through the six options. Too fast of course – and she told him so. Can you repeat more slowly? (no please). At this point the near-dumb youngster sprang into life and rattled off, verbatim, the entire menu. Wow! The lights are off  but there’s definitely someone at home. She drew breath to consider – What do you want darling? The pork. His reply was instant. Ah that sounds good but does it have any nuts or cream? I’m not good with either. Well no nuts but just a little cream. I can’t risk it; I can’t risk being up all night. I remember the last time I had a bad meal on a train. Perhaps one of the other options madam?

Meanwhile I had finished my first merlot and, as luck would have it, the wine man was passing and filled my glass with the chummy knowing smile that said ‘I know you’re listening to what’s going on and I know what you’re thinking’. He was right. A Casual Vacancy was open in front of me but not a word was being read for the time being.

Back to the menu-drama. Well she decided on a vegetarian salad sandwich. The wine waiter spun away from me to fill her glass with the medium. I’ll taste it first ( as if she had an option if she didn’t like it). It’s fine, she said curtly – and added, I do have to be careful actually. Not sure for whose benefit this was as the waiter had disappeared sharpish. More calls – by this time I was less interested and more irritated. The pork arrived for the two of us eating it. Her anaemic sandwich appeared at the same time attractively parcelled in plastic. Well I could predict the next exchange…that looks nice, your pork. Doesn’t look too creamy…oh excuse me, could I change my mind? I could manage the pork, I think and I’d like a glass of red now – a fresh glass of course. The waiter-grunt said more than most primaeval noises of their type.

Meanwhile the young lad had shown how good he was with his pleases and thank-yous. Must be paying for his education I thought, somewhat unworthily – he can’t have learnt too much at home anyway. Waiter  no. 2 returned with the pork and the merlot (presumably the wine waiter couldn’t face another exchange). You can take the sandwich away, she said gracelessly.

No madam, please have it on the house.

Time is on my side…

4 Dec

Anyone who has followed this blog will know that there has been a barren month or two. No reason beyond sloth…and just better things to do. Today, however, as I was driving, unhurriedly, along the M25, musing on what my release from full-time employment has done for me, I caught sight Clacket Lane services looming on the horizon.

A year ago I would have sped past. Now I rather revel in scoring service stations under a variety of headings: parking; toilets; range of food and drink outlets; number of cold air vents which chill the Costa coffee experience; ATMs that charge you for cash; poor internal layouts so you hit dead-ends when you want to exit and have to retrace steps. The categories are almost limitless and many too politically sensitive to mention. Clacket Lane is unsalubrious but familiarity has bred fondness. I like the coffee-plus-muffinfor-a-£1 deal from HotfoodCo, even if the service on the anti-clockwise side of the motorway is far superior to the clockwise.

Today I had time to buy the i (why spend more than 20p when this offshoot of the Indy does the job of The Week in a day?) and settle to Dominic Lawson’s mostly right of centre but very readable take on an issue of the day. Starbucks and Amazon would have enjoyed his support today as Cameron’s bonkers volte-face did last week. Owen Jones takes it in turns with Dom to provide thoughts on things that really matter to the rank and file – and he’s more likely to throw a leftie spanner in the works. All good stuff and, more importantly, I have time to breathe in the oxygen of the world near and far. Some of it’s polluted , of course such as the stories on Sir James Crosby who, as chief exec of HBOS offloaded his shares in the ship as it was sinking. ‘I was balancing my portfolio of assets,’ said the Knight of the Realm, who had already made £8million from the merger between Halifax and The Bank of Scotland. The ‘Green Debate’ continued my pollution theme – I hear so many horror tales about the huge cost of wind farms that my scepticism over this form of eco-benefit knows no bounds. There was a grim article about students turning to the sex industry to meet the costs of their education. Not very clever, really.

There was plenty of upbeat, though. Kate and Wills dominate the headlines and who would have thought that a story on puking would have been uplifting? Nice coverage of the Parafest – that jamboree yesterday for disabled wannabe athlets for 2016 to test whether they have what it takes. Finally I was particularly drawn to the research that claims to have identified the binge-drinking gene. I knew it wasn’t my fault.

The double-shot cappucino was working its way through my system, nicely. I was relaxed. Time was not of the essence and I reflected on what I read, who was around me, where I had come from and where I was heading. The more I find time to isolate myself at Clacket Lane (or, further on, the new and very sexy Cobham services) for a precious 40 minutes, the more I feel in touch with myself and the world about me. The anonymity is wonderful and everyone seems held in a few limbo minutes of  relaxation.

The best moment was yet to come, however. Ken Bruce played the Monkees’ Daydream Believer as I headed towards Reigate. Full volume. Happiness in a simple song. Cheer up sleepy Jean/Oh what can it mean?

Time can, occasionally, be on your side.

Lucky I didn’t read Sweeth Tooth reviews..

9 Oct

A number of novelists can count themselves lucky that I read their latest offerings within a heartbeat of release. I tend to the deferential, almost fawning – and possibly mistily uncritical – appreciation of whatever they produce. Ian McEwan is one such. Sweet Tooth, his latest, was Amazon pre-ordered and the anticipation was delicious. What improbable, extraordinary event would reshape the lives of ordinary people? On what moment would this new novel turn? And how would it open? What quixotic character (s) or events would make the bizarre seem normal, probable even.

Serena Frome (rhymes with Plume) is the ‘heroine’ of this love story, set in the turbulent austerity of the early 70s –  Miners’ Strike, 3 day week, the Troubles, continuing Cold War, battered Ted Heath giving way to burnt-out Harold Wilson…and so on. Serena is looking back some 40 years as she gives us her potted CV in the characteristically engaging opening salvo of Chapter 1. The bookish child of a bishop, she dispenses with her upbringing as uneventful, save for the obvious signposts which, we know, Mcwan will pick up and run with later. The real story starts at Cambridge; it is this and her Maths degree (3rd) which sets her up as a square peg, a woman destined be a pawn in the games of others – mostly men.

Serena is recruited by an ageing don, Tony Canning with whom she spends a summer being indoctrinated into his view of most things, not merely sex, politics and philosophy. We know where the action is heading when Tony has secret meetings. Serena is being groomed for espionage. When her lover suddenly dumps her she needs a job and MI5 are on hand.

Now at this point the narrative had already taken me in a direction that said ‘This isn’t really going to be a spy novel, so don’t get your hopes up.’ With characteristic meticulous interweaving of character, plot-thread and, we suspect, a large dose of autobiography, McEwan pulls us compellingly down his own road of literary indulgence. Serena is charged with signing up an author, Tom Haley, who will, unwittingly, produce pro-Capitalist and certainly anti-Communist tales to sooth (or Sweet Tooth) a nation under cultural siege. That TH is a lecturer at Sussex; that we are encouraged to read a series of his shorts stories and novella plot; that Serena falls for this younger version of Canning…all this and more seems like Ian is revisiting his own literary genesis and enjoying the digression from what might otherwise have been a failed Le Carre lookalike. It isn’t and I never remotely thought it would be.

Unlike James Lasdun whose Guardian review at the end of August smacked of a man not fed his spy-catcher sweeties. He thought that Sweet Tooth promised the proper tensions of espionage and just didn’t deliver. I’m glad I didn’t read his disappointed words before tackling the novel. It’s hard to block out such an informed deconstruction but he’s wrong! The ending of the novel, rather than the beginning is the real McEwan deal. Self-indulgent, possibly, but I revelled in the neatness of the sting which Haley reveals in the long letter that concludes the story. This was intelligence outwitting espionage. This was cocking a snook at the cloak and dagger sound and fury of so much that characterised the intelligence services of the time. This was McEwan saying, ‘I can’t do the espionage stuff as well as Le Carre, so I didn’t try…I wrote my own thing, so there!’

And his own thing is that research-steeped knowingness of time and place and cultural context which he seems to blend so expertly with characters which are delineated, honed, perfected so that their decisions, successes and disasters are plasible, natural…ours. Will you enjoy this latest McEwan? Its last line gives such good advice: ‘Dearest Serena, it’s up to you.’

What I see is often not what you get.

3 Sep

Having just fired off my ‘Education. education….’ post I found myself frustrated that the published version appeared truncated, left hanging in mid-sentence. Add in the typos and my own education appeared pretty inadequate. C’est la vie I suppose. I had completed my thoughts on Messrs Gove and Wilshaw with a nice little plea to Mike and Mike to pay heed to the quiet multitude who just want children and teachers to have good collaborative times in school without the agenda for change and the spurious drive for squeezing more out of the system to dominate the thinking of educational leaders.

Oscar Pistorius, caught in the headlights of disappointment showed how technicalities, focusing on the smaller picture, can distort the greater journey. He had a microphone shoved up his nose immediately after the 200metres but his cry of ‘it’s unfair’ was too hastily voiced.

We get similar responses when issues to do with schools are raised with the Mikes. Someone is to blame and reading above, below and between the lines, it’s usually teachers. Well Education ministers and Heads of Ofsted have far shorter shelf-lives than the average teacher. They stir the pot, change the goalposts and the bugger off. The average teacher sits in the pot, occasionally getting out to redraw the lines round the goals.

Education, education….

3 Sep

Education, education…..

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