Hungarian Crisis

Close the borders

Sink the ships

Close your eyes

Hear the lies

Wretched Syrian lives

Watch young children die

Read the papers

Step away from the Haters

Block out the whispers

Could be your sisters

Rock the boat

Young children float

Beach babe lies asleep for eternity.

Feel the pain

This crisis is insane

ISIS inhumane

Cameron to blame

Him and Tony are the same

Weapons of Mass Destruction

or oil finery construction

Whatever the story

It’s Middle East devastation

A migrant exodus

Refugee lives are precious

Compassion is what binds us

Love nurtures us

Young men are crying

Innocence is smiling

Through the rain

We can never understand,

It’s not so plain

In the UK hostility is just a game

Hosting is to blame

And the land is full of aliens

“Leave the education!

Tear down NHS!

Rip Off the Benefits Systems!”

Prejudice. Selfishness. Hate.

Train ride is serious

Walking on foot delirious

News reports people are generous

Hungarian Crisis

What becomes of Us?

Hungarian Crisis

What will become of Us?

Women lying in the lay-by

Police waiting to say Goodbye

waving batons to push aside

Syrian bombing

Nowhere to hide…

Watching The World

 

 

 

I am

watching the world screaming the headlines

masses tweeting tweets

chattering classes

nattering faces on books for fools

ogling not Googling on Youtube channels

dirty faces needing a towel

needles thrown dirty in The Channel

Syrian wars and Nairobi crimes

child pornography & criminal minds

pension prizes leaves no surprises

Council binmen could hire the Hitmen

drugs of white lines

MPs drawing time & expensive red wine

schools closing

children suffering

Fashion followers & football swallowing millions

to kick a ball

Doctors doctoring, nurses bellowing

stop the Aged taking falls

diet debating & pie stuffed faces

can’t bend down to tie our laces

energy supplies higher, internet usage slower

& still we are fixed to our screens.

Animals are dying, fish no longer diving &

still we think we are Green.

Big Brother watching,

Sat Navs are not matching routes and the

Rulers rule on.

People keep living

Miley Cyrus keeps twerking

& The World stops still for no-one.

Death is defying

Life is denying

& the Lives of Loved Ones have gone.

The Headlines are crying

The World is dying

& yet we fight to live on

With What?

The Learned Kat

Syria & The Playstation Generation

It’s snowing. It has been snowing everyday since last Friday and we are fed up and cold. Fed up with the fact that the cold penetrates through the walls and no matter what we do, no matter how high we set the temperature on the thermostat or combination boiler, the chill remains and we worry about the utility bills and how much it will cost to keep the heating on as the prices are spiralling out of control and the vulnerable and elderly are left to fend for themselves…The roads are icy and only the other day, my other half slipped and fell onto his side. There are people slipping and sliding everywhere and some are even literally snowed under or in their own houses. There have been reports of several deaths and some communities losing power supplies for several days…The Met Office reports that the cold snap and Siberian type weather maybe here until mid-April.

In Birmingham alone, 100 schools closed down due to the inclement weather and many stores have either closed due to lack of staff or slashing prices due to lack of sales. Many people have reported that they are not able to get into work due to their cars not being able to start, trains running late, flu or a number of other excuses or reasons. Valid or not, I’m not sure… I know I sympathise with those communities who are stranded up North or on several isles of the UK. The rest just seems petty. The snow in the City is not that deep. Maybe about 10cm or just above the ankle. But it seems as if life comes to a standstill…

Rock star and former hell raiser Rod Stewart (not that I’m a fan of his) was being interviewed last Friday on The Breakfast News by Charlie Stayt. Rod was asked about  a story in which it was reported that he had a swimming pool filled with blancmange and $100 bills thrown in so that his daughter and her friends could dive in to retrieve the money. Of course, Rod dismissed the story as newspaper fodder, stating that his children are brought up properly: ” to work hard and are allowed a small allowance”. He said children today “know the price of everything and value nothing!”

How right he is, I thought.

As it happens, the next day I spoke to  —–, a mother and business woman of two daughters.  She was attempting to scrub clean the stains off a pair of UGG boots, which cost £200. They belonged to her 16 year old daughter but unbeknownst to her, her 21 year old sister had borrowed them, walked in the snow, and had accidentally damaged the worth of the boots. There ensued a horrendous row and arguments apparently. So mum ended up cleaning the boots because if the perpetrator ( the older sibling) of the whole saga was to do it herself, “she would not do it properly”. “You’re spoiling the kids.” I said. “That’s what parents do” she replied. And carried on brushing and buffing the boots.

We are breeding a “I want” culture and there are many services and marketing brands out there that caters to these demands. LoveFilm , for example. caters for Games Consoles such as Wii, Playstation 3, Xbox 360, Smart Televisions, Blu-Ray Players, Tablets like Kindle and iPad and other devices such as PC, and set top box. When I was a child or even in my teen years, having one an item like the ZX Spectrum within the home, never mind the bedroom, was deemed to be a luxury. Today, children want them all. If not in the bedroom, in the lounge or kitchen or on their mobile.

The Playstation Generation would rather VIEW their lives away rather than DO.

In complete contrast, The Channel 4 News on Monday 25 March at 7pm ran a news story on Syria. I have to admit I am somewhat ignorant about Syria, its histories and conflicts, the current crisis. But I do know that the story which it covered had a deeply disturbing and profound effect on me. It formed part of a short series of films by German filmmaker Marcel Mettelzefan. The news reporter, Jon Snow, provided the introduction and  verbal warning to say that the item contained distressing images.

No matter what was going on around them, the young children and teenagers continued their lives as normal as possible. They didn’t whine, complain or show signs of fatigue. They didn’t WANT anything. Didn’t want anything but peace and the war to stop.

I saw children, young adults and older men pull dead, bloated bodies out of the river. Women crying and children playing in the debris and the remains of an exploded bomb…

I saw innocent young children talk as if they were mature beyond their years, boys as young as 11 wipe away the blood stains of a wounded adult. I heard a child say that when he first saw the blood running, he was scared and frightened but afterwards, he saw the blood “like running water”.

I saw a brave little boy lying dead on a table, his face contorted with shock and pain.

As I said before, The Playstation Generation would rather VIEW their lives away rather than DO.

The Learned Kat

View :  Aleppo: a city abandoned by the world? on link.brightcove.com

Oz The Great and Powerful

 

I’m a huge fan of The Wizard of Oz (1939). As a child, I read most of the Oz books, and over the years, have watched Judy Garlands’ Dorothy time and time again. 

From the technicolour  trailers, I thought and assumed this is one production I must watch. After the complete hash job of ‘Return To Oz’ in 1985, the “unofficial sequel” to the 1939 production, I thought they could not or would not attempt to make another attempt to return to Oz, so to speak.

However, this version was touted as a “prequel”. Naturally, being an avid fan, I expected great and powerful things. We arrived at the cinema and handed our tickets to the attendant. “Just follow the yellow brick road” he said. I thought he was being sarcastic until I looked down and saw a vinyl yellow road taped down onto the hardwearing industrial carpet. It led us to the IMAX screen. We’d never been in there before. We had to have a different type of 3D glasses to the ones I had brought in especially for the occasion. We settled down and watched the large images in front of us.

Sam Raimi, who brought us ‘Drag Me to Hell’ and the ‘Spiderman‘ trilogy , created his version of how a mere mortal, Oscar Diggs, played by James Franco, a small time Kansas con-man/magician with an eye for the ladies, came to be the wonderful wizard of Oz.

Taking inspiration from the original classic, this version also starts in black and white. The scene is set and we catch a glimpse into the world of late 19th century entertainment with a menagerie of circus acts which includes contortionists, strong men, hoopla and clowns. I couldn’t help but feel that it was “too staged” for my likings. In comparison to The Artist, which was shot completely in monochrome and silence which added to the feeling that one was watching a silent movie from that era or transported back in time , the use of black and white here was too clinical. It appeared to lack depth and had a touch of a modern day soap opera. A little bit hammy and lacking in chemistry between the character actors.

As Oscar is a bit of a “player”, he toys with the emotions of a naïve, attractive woman and as a token or gesture of their relationship, he hands her a wooden music box with a sad tale of how it belonged to his grandmother. The young woman is infatuated with him but her real boyfriend or husband finds out and threatens to kill Oscar, who in turn, attempts to escape in a hot air balloon.  He does this with glee, but once again, with reference to the original, is soon trapped in a tornado and is hurtled into the middle of the storm. He prays to be kept alive and promises that if he does survive, he will be a changed man.

Like Dorothy, who moved from the bleak black and white room and through the doors into the wonderful technicolour world of Oz, Oscar is also transported in similar fashion. He is shifted from a crouching position in the basket of the balloon and only when he puts his head above the parapet, does the colour glow into his cheeks and we are seduced by the colourful offerings in this new land of Oz.

Oscar, or Oz, as he refers to himself, is befriended by a young witch named Theodora. She initially believes him to be the saviour of Oz, but he informs her otherwise. They develop a close friendship and he seduces her with his charm. However, any romantic notions Theodora has towards Oscar are short lived when her sister Evanora, informs her that Oscar also attempted to seduce her and brings out a wooden music box.

Theodora becomes upset and cries.  As I watched this scene I thought “Tears that arise from a breaking heart burn and sear the pain”. The tears literally burn her face. As Theodora feels humiliated by the taunts and words of her sister, she becomes more enraged and embittered. Her sister then encourages her to eat an apple in order to seek revenge. This scene appeared to be a rehash of the scene in Disneys’ Snow White, when the evil witch, disguised as an old beggar woman beguiles and preys on the vulnerable and gullible young heroine. Once bitten, Theodora realises  the identity of the true evil witch and the one who wants to rule Oz. She begins to change and turns green with envy. The term “hell hath no fury…” came to mind and it was good to see the morphing of a “good girl gone bad”. Thanks, Rihanna!

It is then that the mood of the film begins to change from a fairly light story into a more darker and sinister tale which again is typical of Disney.

Relying more heavily on being action driven rather than plotlines, Oz The Great and Powerful is a visual feast of delights, an Avatar for the younger children.  There were times when I thought this production was typical of Disney studios. There were scenes when Oscar would walk down the yellow brick road and I almost imagined or expected him to burst into song like “Zip a dee doo dah” . Then, when Oscar is enraptured by the beauty of the land, there were scenes which reminded me of the talking flowers in Alice in Wonderland. Introducing new characters like China Girl and Finley the monkey, voiced by Joey King and Zach Braff respectively,  allowed the film to develop themes of family, friendship, companionship and a bit of humour.  Like the monkey in Aladdin and the Gingerbread Man in Shrek, they added the “Aaah!” factor.

James Franco shows what a versatile actor he is with the simultaneous release of this film and with the release of Spring Breakers in which he plays an off the wall drugs dealing character. Michelle Williams as Glinda the Good Witch was too mature and didn’t really bounce with goodness or charm. Rachel Weisz  looked as if she relished the role of playing the evil witch  Evanora and Mila Kunis as her sister Theodora made the role her own.  I could believe in her portrayal of the Wicked Witch as she demonstrated consistency and, I assume in her research, added cackles and mannerisms to her character which are definitely in line with the Wicked Witch in Oz that we know and love/hate over the decades.

The inclusion of black actors, especially a character named Knuck, played by Tony Cox, made this production and the dialogue feel “too modern”. It was good to see that it was trying to appeal to a wider audience but at times, it felt it lacked the sentiment, whimsical charms of the original but was a more superior and value for money production better than “Return to Oz”.

The Learned Kat

Mothering Sunday: Remembrance Day

With Mothers Day approaching on Sunday, I decided to visit my parents resting place this morning instead. From my local florist, I purchased several bunches of daffodils and remarked to the gentleman behind the counter how I admired his window display. I then waited longer than necessary for the usual Number 11 bus and was aware that time was ticking by. I was becoming impatient and irritated by the traffic congestion and all the buses which sped past except the one I needed. It was delayed and once it did arrive, the driver did not offer any explanation or apology. On boarding, I finally managed to find a seat upstairs. Having to alight and wait for another bus just added to my anxieties and dread.

At the approach of the cemetery, the sun was casting a warm light on me, I looked out of the window of my eyes and watched the world pass by. As I walked into the cemetery and walked up towards the plot of land in which my parents are buried, side by side, I looked at the surrounding headstones, marble gravestones and the amount of graves that covered the lush green area of peace and tranquillity. I walked and words wafted through my mind. I placed on the grave without a head stone, two cards which I thought were suitable for the occasion. One, a regular Mother’s Day card and the other, a printed “In Memoriam” verse written on a plastic card. I placed the daffodils in the urns which were now embedded in the earth. I stood still and the words grew stronger, repeating and repeating again. I shed a tear and the words would not leave me alone. I sat down on a wooden bench and started to write the words which haunted my thoughts. Bereft of pen and paper, as well as my very supportive parents, I entered words on my mobile as a text message in case I forgot and sent them to myself.  Here are those words:

So many lives loved

So many souls lost

And my heart leapt in expectation

my breath stopped in anticipation

and the daffodils wept for liberation

as the numbers marked on your grave lost momentum.

My mind went blank in desperation

Think I’m losing my faith or is it depression?

My life lingers on without your devotion

Children and parents

A bond never broken

Gravestones and Angels lie out in the open

Dreams and Wishes left unspoken…

Walking in the sunshine

words racing through my mind

A parents face keeps appearing all the time

A little boy lost in an adult vessel

A woman weeping at the graveside trestle

A Special Person knows no bounds

Whether love is lost or underground.

The Learned Kat

Mama: A Review

Two young sisters, a short sighted Victoria aged 3 and Lilly, aged 1 are taken from their home by their dad who is clearly distraught, upset and angry. He bundles them into a car and over the radio news, we learn that the dad, Jeffrey. has murdered his wife  and is trying to get away. We follow them as they drive through snow and icy roads. The car crashes in the woods and they find their way to what appears to be a a secluded cabin. However, there seems to be something evil lurking inside…

Five years later, the girls are discovered in a feral state, are medically assessed and with the aid of Dr Dreyfuss, who specialises in child psychology/psychiatry, are placed in the care of their painter/artist uncle Lucas and his rock chick girlfriend Annabel, much to the chagrin of the aunt, Jeanie, the sister of the childrens’ deceased mum. However, the prospect of looking after Lucas’ nieces proves to be challenging and brings its own sinister secrets and daunting experiences.

Victoria has progressed and can communicate quite well, whereas Lilly is still relatively insular, with an animalistic nature and is drawn to the as yet unseen character known as Mama. As time progresses, Victoria is quite happy to accept the blurred vision of Mama  but gradually begins to take comfort in the real love and affection which Annabel provides. One day,  Victoria decides to keep her spectacles on and face the being which has haunted their young lives. It is at that moment that we, as the audience also share the clarity of the vision and Mama is revealed in her true nature. It’s a screamer of a scene.

Haunted by nightmares, the two adult protagonists begin to unravel the story of Mama and it reveals a historical story of madness, mental asylums and death.

All the child actresses are absolutely adorable, endearing and carry the film effortlessly. As the story unfolds, one is drawn into their world as much as the adult one. Their dialogue is short, concise and conveys messages, feelings and emotions in a simplistic manner. An incredible achievement for such young talent. It remains to be seen if they transform into successful stars and establish themselves over the years, as we know from tabloid press and interviews, making that transition from child star to bona fide adult star is a struggle for many.

From the visionary director Guillermo del Toro who gave the world surreal fantasy/drama Pan’s Labryinth, comes another tale of love & death, courage, sacrifice, jealousy, motherhood,  the role of a mother, and touches of the age old nature/nurture debate.  ‘Mama’ is an engrossing piece of fiction that explores the duality of a parent’s role – to protect children from harm and the possible repercussions of what would be if a parent is to become so overtly protective that the parent becomes jealous, insecure and obsessive. Words that spring to mind are learning to let go; standing up for what you believe in, and what appears to be the ultimate sacrifice = to allow a loved one to go in order to survive.

Mama seems to  draw on the edge-of-the-seat psychology of ‘The Shining’, the fixation and obsession of ‘The Hand That Rocks The Cradle’, the spine-chilling tingles of ‘The Exorcist’ and shades of ‘The Poltergeist’. Yes, we may have seen it all before – the doctor finding and going into cabin in the  woods and Jeanie investigating forms of abuse in the family home provide predictable endings for these two characters – but Mama has re-packaged the thrills and shock surprises for a modern generation of cinema-goers.

As clichés go, it’s a nail biting, edge of the seat horror/thriller with a fantastical ending which would have you crying and calling out for Mama!

 

The Learned Kat

February is the month that can be Friend or Foe

Phew! A big sigh of relief…

I’m glad to see that February is now officially over. Not only is it a depressing month weather-wise, but it’s mentally draining for me too. I mean, it didn’t use to bother me, weather, but over the last 5 years, February has become a time to dwell on death, dying and remembrance.

As I said in a previous post, my father passed away in February 2008. He was 79.

But what I didn’t mention that my beloved mum passed away two years later on Friday 5 February at the age of 71.  I know the medical reasons for her passing but I like to think that she died of a broken heart. I know it’s difficult to imagine or live your life without your loved one. My parents were together for 54 years. Like most relationships, theirs was an emotional rollercoaster, with all of life’s ups and downs, highs and lows.

When dad passed away, I know my mum would pine for him in her own way and say that, however he appeared to others, good or bad, he was her life, husband and soulmate. She didn’t know any other. She had no wish or desire to. Mum was very young when they married. Dad was 10 years older…She didn’t want a life on her own. She didn’t want to be left alone. My Mum used to say that she dreamed about him every night, could hear his voice calling or could feel his presence in her room. When she didn’t receive any of those signs or feelings, she used to get upset or disheartened and ask why or what have I done to deserve this? Why had he deserted her? But there were other times when she would say that she spoke to dad in her thoughts at night, or pray to him and hope he would answer her prayers. She would pray that he would come and take her away. She would say that she was waiting for him or she would soon join him and looked forward to that day when they would be together again…

The days when my parents were alive spin around in my head, and it’s hard to shake off…I have my memories and they can either put me at ease or trigger off tears…

I dread the month of February now. Maybe ‘dread’ is too strong a word but I don’t feel so much ‘alive’ or ‘passionate’ about it as much as I used to. Maybe I’m just full of anxiety. I used to look forward to it because it used to mean Valentine’s Day was here (I know it’s overtly commercial and a monetary issue) and it was a month away from my birthday.

So, one of the days at the beginning of February is an anniversary, mid-February is a “pretend all is good and well in my life’ day, with me sharing cards and a meal with my partner and trying to make it a good a day as possible, and then I have noticed or become more aware that I tend to drop into a slight depression or develop morbid thoughts when considering that another anniversary is due at the end of the month. Not only that, but with my birthday approaching, another celebration that I used to enjoy very much, which I know is a sign that I am getting older although I still feel young, it makes me very much aware that I am spending more years away from my parents when they were alive and losing sight of how things used to be.

Every year, since my parents passed away, I say I will try and fix it, try and change or reimagine my life or daily ritual in a different way. But every year, without fail, no matter what I say or do, February remains  the month of strong emotions, significant life events or the month I lost my parents. Nothing will ever change that. Nothing will bring them back. All I know is that my life HAS to go on and I shall cherish and remember my parents forever.

Death comes to everyone. We know that. But the life we lead, the moments we share with loved ones, store them and hold them, make the most of the days you have with your parents. As they grow older, they might become sick, frail, infirm, argumentative, or if they are of another age or generation, you might clash over issues like teenage rebellion, parenting, diets, job or college choices…I’ve heard some people say  I wish my parents were dead or out of my life or my mum/dad is a bitch/bastard/ evil etc. I look at them and think, you wish them gone, and if you knew what destruction it brings, the dischord within siblings or family life, the major feelings of loss and disorientation, the constant “what if’s and If only…”, the scenes played over and over again over the years, images and flashbacks, triggers and stimuli that wash over you for no apparent reason, the yearning and comfort required, the “I wished I paid more attention to mum’s recipe or wish I’d written that recipe down or I should’ve gone with dad to New York or India or to that party…”. The regrets, the pain and the heartache is unbearable and sometimes without justification.

Grief and bereavement knows no bounds.

I would do anything to have my parents back. I would want them back, tell them that I loved them everyday and pay more attention to what they said  to me.

I miss my parents and even now, as I type, dislike/despise/hate the month of February  for being the month which took my parents away.

 

The Learned Kat

Tracksuit bottoms & Chicken Balls!

It’s good to see that fashion has changed and we have now moved on to a “new. seasonal look”. For men, it appears to be chinos worn in different styles and various colours. Tops are co-ordinated and there is an unusual welcome return of what we used to call !the Val Doonican” sweater, a throw back to the 70’s when an old crooner used to wear multi=coloured or patterned sweaters.
It’s strange at my age to see clothes items coming into stores and worn by young men in 2013. I’d seen them the first time around in the 70’s. There must be something in that adage of “fashion comes in a 20 year cycle”.

Anyway, the point I am trying to make is this: there are still some young men out there who insist on wearing tracksuit bottoms, sweatshirts and tops. There is nothing wrong in that. If it makes them feel comfortable and provides ease of movement and practicality in their everyday routines, then fair enough. I’ve never been one for trackies and sweatshirts myself. I’ve just never felt comfortable wearing them. I am not a prude or fashion snob although I do appreciate someone who dresses well. How one perceives someone who “dresses well” is a very personal matter of taste, flair, fashion, cultural and social background…

No, what I want to say is there are some lads who insist on wearing “trackie bottoms”, but why do they persist in putting their hands down the front of their pants? You know what I mean. When their hands are idle, they shove them down the front of their pants. I asked the 17 year old son of one of my friends, why he did that and he replied it was to keep his hands warm! These tracksuit bottoms have pockets I said, that’s where you can place your hands. No, he said, it’s warmer at the front!

I think it’s uncouth and makes me and others feel uncomfortable. This “so-called practice” amongst young boys and men maybe a form of social rebellion. But I am reminded of several things:

When we used to do that at school, as children or young teengers, our parents, adults, teachers and others, used to say “Stop doing that! or ” Now go and wash your hands!” as if it was unclean, unhygienic, rude and unacceptable social behaviour, especially amongst guests and in public. If we were to do that in our years of puberty, or teen years, it was a sure sign that sexual habits were occurring. We were not puritent in our attitudes but there may have been an old fashioned Victorian attitude in saying these things.

Then, there are the dress codes. Over the centuries, what constituted acceptable dress code and behaviour differed, from being constrained in certain types of costume or attire in the early part of the 20th Century to the days of liberal freedom, hippies and “flower power”, however fashion dictated, the male of the species did not push their hands into the front of their pants or the confines of their trackies to fondle their groin areas as it appeared to be deemed “obscene”.

Lastly, I will mention an incident that may put you off your tea:
Whilst on a night out about 10 years ago, my friends and I decided to visit an open buffet Chinese restaurant in Chinatown, Birmingham. As we apprached the door, we noticed a young adult male, aged between 15 and 19, who was wearing a grey tracksuit. He had his hands down the front of his pants “to keep his hands warm!”, I suppose. Idle hands need to be kept occupied is another way of putting it…But he was clearly “adjusting” himself in many ways. He appeared to be a tad nervous, anxious and twitchy. His eyes shifted left and right, up and down the street. I have to say he was quite a good looking young man but there was something about him that indicated he was a somewhat” disaffected youth”. His demeanour, body language, his apprehensions and overall disposition was suspicious. As we approached the restaurant doors, the lad sauntered in before us, grabbed a handful of chicken balls off the open display food counter and dashed out, biting on one of the balls as he ran off. I wanted to call out to him “Now go and wash your hands!” but human rights, freedoms and liberalisation of the society in which we live in today prevented me from doing so, although I did report his actions to the staff who were present at the time. Needless to say, we all avoided eating the chicken balls and observed other customers in case they had found a pubic hair!

There are parents or people out there who may say we can’t tell them what to do with their hands! I agree. But you can certainly enocurage them in other ways to keep their hands warm or occupied – wear gloves, keep hands at the side or in the trouser/trackie bottoms pocket or if they insist, simply tell them to go and wash their hands afterwards.

 

 

The Learned Kat

Lift up the T-shirt, what did you find?

Today, I bumped into a person whom I hadn’t seen for a number of months. He’s not exactly a great friend or a passing stranger. I met him over a year ago. Well, actually, he said he recognised me from somewhere and introduced himself. We started talking and from thereonin, every time we saw each other, we would exchange pleasantries and I would get to hear how life was treating him.

In December 2011, I heard that his young daughter had passed away. I don’t think anyone knew how James was coping. All I knew is that he wasn’t himself. As I was working as a volunteer in a charity shop, I observed his behaviour when he popped in and informally monitored his mental health state. After working for so many years in the care sector, I can’t help but assess people and would do anything to help someone in need if I could. I waited for James to approach me but he never did. All I heard through a colleague was that he was receiving Counselling and was on anti-depressants to cope with his grief.
For all his bravado and pleasant conversations, James is a relatively private person. So I owed it to him to respect his space.

As I said, I hadn’t seen him for some time, so when I saw him in the British Heart Foundation charity shop, we took the opportunity to catch up on our news. We spoke briefly about holiday destinations and work. Small talk. Then James said he had cancer. He pointed to his chin and neck and explained he had enlarged lymph nodes, although some people said he “looked like a hamster”. He pointed to his groin and indicated it was spreading. Then he said he had it on his back and promptly lifted his shirt to expose what looked like a large cancerous hole on his back, about the size of a cricket ball. James coolly explained how it first came to his attention. He had happened to be wearing a white T shirt and a friend pointed out that there was blood on the back of the T shirt. James touched the area in question “as you do”, he said and could feel what appeared to be a mole. He then went to the doctor who promptly investigated the mole. James was informed that the cancer may have been lying dormant for about 20 or 30 years and something like stress may have triggered it off. The immune system may begin to shut down and become more susceptible to infection or any other ailment, disease or medical condition, he said.

James said he could deal with it and is fortunate to have adult children who motivate and support him throughout his “ordeals”. He said he could cope with cancer and finds it easy to talk to people about what he is going through. But he said talking about the death of his daughter leaves no room for discussion.

For now, that is a closed door and he cannot bring himself to speak about it. Bereavement, loss and grief are strong emotions and it is shame we cannot speak more openly aboout death and dying as much as we can speak of the other ills of this world…

James said he remains optimistic, lives each day as it comes and is fortunate to have his family and loved ones around him, to support and re-assure him.  For all that he has gone through, I have to admire and respect his  determination and magnitude of inner strength.

Sporadic encounters with James made me feel that all I could offer him is a helping hand if he needed it, an ear if he wanted to speak and a cup of tea if he ever felt the need for informal respite or a break from the emotional and mental toils of the day.

I think that is all I can do.

 

The Learned Kat

 

Call The Midwife by Jennifer Worth

From the minute I saw the trailer of ‘Call The Midwife’, a new BBC drama, I was swayed to watch it as it appeared to be a sweet and sentimental journey down memory lane. It was only on seeing the credits, that I saw that it was based on the same titled book by Jennifer Worth  ( published by Orion House ISBN 978-1-4072-2804-4)

So, I managed to find a copy in my local charity shop and couldn’t wait to read it, expecting it to be as whimsical or nostalgic as it appeared on the screen. How wrong I was!

The paperback version of  ‘Call The Midwife’ states on the front cover that it is “A true story of the East End in the 1950’s”. I didn’t realise that although the television series comes across in a slight dewy-eyed , soft focussed light, the elements of certain scenes in the book are written with  much more explicit detail and real-life characters are depicted as being more practical, robust, naive, ignorant, cruel and needy in the cold harsh light of reality.

Jennifer starts by questionning her decisions or reasons as to why she chose to become a midwife, and immediately you can almost hear the warmth and good nature of her being in her voice. She then describes the landscape, her workshift with a soon-to-be mum and the eventual birth. This then leads to how she came to Nonnatus House,  a private hospital run by nuns, her introductions to the Sisters and other trainee midwives…

Most of the people Jennifer wrote about appeared to have have “heart and soul” and as a reader, you feel for their plight or situation. Each chapter introduces you to either the members of staff she worked and lived with, her patients and her working relationship with them. Jennifer writes with passion and sincerity. She has the ability to draw you in and then, just when you wonder what happened to the person, like a good medical practitioner, she fills in the outcome of each individual story with as much information she can provide before moving onto the next segue.

Each chapter gripped my imagination and fired my thirst to read more. The style of writing is not sentimental, and does not hold back on  describing birth scenes, the stench and decay of homes and the inhabitants, the sordidness of brothels, the exposure of one young girl named Mary to prostitution, the social stigma associated with unmarried or single mums and racial tensions of the time. Discrimination rears its ugly head in many guises and the author does not gloss over the issue. There is dry humour as well as drama and tragedy in some cases.

Her observations of life in the East End of London accurately described the poverty, the conditions of living in tenement blocks, the home and work life of individuals. As well as interspersing the story telling with timely, professional information and how midwifery has changed since then, Ms Worth also wryly observed how bureaucracy, medical advances, technology has either improved the way in which hospitals and medical staff relate to one another and their patients  or seemed to have reduced the kindly, friendly, compassionate caring nature of the medical profession.

What started off as reading a book about one womans’  journey into the realms of training to becoming a midwife, became a wonderfully engaging piece of social history.  An evocative, thought-provoking book which led me to re-assess my own professional aspirations and my place in the caring profession.

I can only hope that if I were to write about my own experiences, it would be as worthy as ‘Call the Midwife’ by Jennifer Worth.

 

The Learned Kat