Bryan Islip's Blog, page 41
August 23, 2011
Market days no more
No more markets for me! I have to confess that most of my personal workstyle / lifestyle decisions have been made on the spur of the moment - although often after long periods of discussion / debate / argument with self and she! This was no different.
After 7 years of selling my pastels and verse in the form of greetings cards, prints, calendars etc, the Tuesday before last I left Poolewe Hall vowing 'this is it - no more.' I had not had a bad day takings wise. I've had better and I've had worse. But I realised that I was not getting anything except money (and of course 'good companionship') from these Tuesday jaunts. Money is never enough. Time for pastures new. Time to lend more a of a hand to De, whose B&B business has been thriving - and satisfying - way beyond anything we had expected when she began it a year since
Many years ago I walked out on a 'point of priciple or several' from a very senior management job. My problem was my boss - the marketing director. I had the big mortgage, hungry family, angry wife. My managing director called me back and, having established that my mind was made up, left me with a comment so resented that I remember it to this day. 'Bryan', he said, 'Sometimes it takes more courage, faced with adversity or sheer restlessness, to stay and fight on than to run off into the unknown. But I'm afraid you will always choose the latter.' So true, I will now admit.
At any rate I wrote this poem for all my fellow stallholders at Poolewe market and an advert is to appear on Friday in our local newspaper. "Rumours of my early retirement have been greatly axaggerated" it says. Future? Exciting. Watch these spaces ....
On A Poolewe Tuesday
Tuesday again! Is it rainingor is Loch Ewe a mirror, shining bright;a quillion sparks sent back towards the sunwhilst folk from far and widecrowd Poolewe village hallto look and buy and sit and chat before this lochside day is done?
Tuesday again! the stalls laid neatly outand those with crafts and cakes and things to sellall ready for the coming fray; yes, Angie's team will soon be waiting for incomers' eyes to light upon their careful waresOn this, the Poolewe Market day.
And Seth the tortoise,safe inside his homeis happy not to roam no matter all the Tuesday noise.
Bryan Islip(with thanks to all our Poolewe Market friends)
August 15, 2011
Another word for cancer
Growth is just another word for cancer, folks.
Growth in debt, growth in GDP, growth in income/wealth (fair or unfair): most cancerous of all, the twin growths of humankind (populations) and of human expectation (greed). Just like a cancer, in order to be to be 'cured', if indeed it is curable, recent levels of growth must be reversed and must attain a sustainable level. Hard? Cruel? Tough? Painful? YES.
Just learn to live through the pain by doing something useful with your life - and that doesn't include selling the results of other people's work and it surely does not include playing games with other folks' money.
The only thing that counts, after all, is the way you live and the sense of wellbeing garnered from the way you live it - and the possibility - or otherwise - of this planet to support you and all others. Not too many others.
Growth in debt, growth in GDP, growth in income/wealth (fair or unfair): most cancerous of all, the twin growths of humankind (populations) and of human expectation (greed). Just like a cancer, in order to be to be 'cured', if indeed it is curable, recent levels of growth must be reversed and must attain a sustainable level. Hard? Cruel? Tough? Painful? YES.
Just learn to live through the pain by doing something useful with your life - and that doesn't include selling the results of other people's work and it surely does not include playing games with other folks' money.
The only thing that counts, after all, is the way you live and the sense of wellbeing garnered from the way you live it - and the possibility - or otherwise - of this planet to support you and all others. Not too many others.
August 11, 2011
That's life: that's the story
People often ask me from whence comes the concept of a short story or of a novel. I answer, 'Give me a character with a problem and I'll give you a story that will mean something to you and to all of us, whether over four pages of fiction or four hundred'. For instance...
My January story of the month was about a postman whose wife had left him, February's was about a middle aged dog-loving lady oppressed by loneliness; for March the story was about a crippled soldier confronting a Scottish hill he had climbed easily in his youth and April's featured a husband-deserted TV weather lady about to lose her job. June's story featured a middle aged, middle of the road solicitor secretly in love with his secretary, now charged with the reading of a very unusual Will. July's story was about a boxer who is running away with his dog from his life in the the ring, having disabled an opponent, August's is about a Brit business couple who have relocated to France and now find they cannot sell up and come back because of the collapsed property market - and September's will be about a penniless artist planning an audacous crime, but I can't say more because I haven't finished it yet and I honestly don't know at this point how it will end up!
Someone responded to this by saying that life isn't all about problems; not everybody has a problem. 'Wrong', I responded. 'If you're human and alive you always have a problem, in fact more or many of them and often overlapping, hopelessly intertwined. As the situations above should illustrate it isn't often the extreme kind of problem, thank goodness - like you ran down a pedestrian in your car and didn't stop and are waiting for the knock on the door. More likely to be you're a five years old for the first time left by mummy in infant school or the guy on the next desk at work is outperforming you or you have been invited out and your only best dress has a moth hole in it or you are a billionaire being blackmailed by ... You get the picture.
It's about how you deal with your problem. That's life. That's the story. That's the easy part. The hard part is writing and resolving it - hard or soft.
My January story of the month was about a postman whose wife had left him, February's was about a middle aged dog-loving lady oppressed by loneliness; for March the story was about a crippled soldier confronting a Scottish hill he had climbed easily in his youth and April's featured a husband-deserted TV weather lady about to lose her job. June's story featured a middle aged, middle of the road solicitor secretly in love with his secretary, now charged with the reading of a very unusual Will. July's story was about a boxer who is running away with his dog from his life in the the ring, having disabled an opponent, August's is about a Brit business couple who have relocated to France and now find they cannot sell up and come back because of the collapsed property market - and September's will be about a penniless artist planning an audacous crime, but I can't say more because I haven't finished it yet and I honestly don't know at this point how it will end up!
Someone responded to this by saying that life isn't all about problems; not everybody has a problem. 'Wrong', I responded. 'If you're human and alive you always have a problem, in fact more or many of them and often overlapping, hopelessly intertwined. As the situations above should illustrate it isn't often the extreme kind of problem, thank goodness - like you ran down a pedestrian in your car and didn't stop and are waiting for the knock on the door. More likely to be you're a five years old for the first time left by mummy in infant school or the guy on the next desk at work is outperforming you or you have been invited out and your only best dress has a moth hole in it or you are a billionaire being blackmailed by ... You get the picture.
It's about how you deal with your problem. That's life. That's the story. That's the easy part. The hard part is writing and resolving it - hard or soft.
August 8, 2011
What lies beyond.
If you believe in capitalism - the world according to Keynes - you will believe that all debt is bad and that the less the chance of you being able and/or willing ever to pay it back (sustainability) the worse it is. Unsustainable debt is a cancer , not just to the body capitalist but to the lives of all borrowers, whether such be the State, the banks, businesses, or you and me as individuals.
When such a cancer reaches its critical mass capitalism is dying. There is no reversal and no cure known to man or to logic.
Critical mass was reached in 2008.
If Keynes was right, and I for one believe he most certainly was, our leaders have been leading us into financial perdition for some long time - and still are, for their only 'cure' for the over borrowing cancer appears to be 'borrow more' and when necessary print more money for governments, banks, businesses, you and me to borrow. Sounds ridiculous? It is.
Fortunately, although capitalism is doomed, we are not. We just have to figure out what comes next, and don't mention that other moribund system called communism. Some social re-engineering is needed. Read Going with Gabriel ISBN 978-0-9555193-1-4. Think of something.
When such a cancer reaches its critical mass capitalism is dying. There is no reversal and no cure known to man or to logic.
Critical mass was reached in 2008.
If Keynes was right, and I for one believe he most certainly was, our leaders have been leading us into financial perdition for some long time - and still are, for their only 'cure' for the over borrowing cancer appears to be 'borrow more' and when necessary print more money for governments, banks, businesses, you and me to borrow. Sounds ridiculous? It is.
Fortunately, although capitalism is doomed, we are not. We just have to figure out what comes next, and don't mention that other moribund system called communism. Some social re-engineering is needed. Read Going with Gabriel ISBN 978-0-9555193-1-4. Think of something.
August 1, 2011
The comfort of the crowd
I call it the empty restaurant syndrome. You're in a town new to you, looking around for somewhere 'nice' to dine. There's lots of choice but you don't want the one that's almost empty. You head for the one that's almost full. Success/popularity is comfortable, failure/unpopularity markedly uncomfortable in spite of the fact that you're going to get better service in the almost empty restaurant and the food is likely to be better because they're having to try harder and have more time and more of the tender loving care for the cooking of each dish.
It's the same with a pop concert or a football ground. So much better to see the 'sold out' sign. There's always great comfort in a crowd, isn't there?
And it is exactly that when it comes to another form of personal entertainment - the reading of fiction. If it says 'Bestseller' on its cover you feel more inclined to pick up the book, buy it and read it. If you've seen in a newspaper a good review, how much easier the buy and read decision. And if your friend has told you to read this - well, it's a done deal.
So read Going with Gabriel and/or More Deaths Than One and/or Twenty Bites! The more the merrier. I want folk to feel they're happy in my restaurant where there's a great big welcome and the service and the food is of the very best!
It's the same with a pop concert or a football ground. So much better to see the 'sold out' sign. There's always great comfort in a crowd, isn't there?
And it is exactly that when it comes to another form of personal entertainment - the reading of fiction. If it says 'Bestseller' on its cover you feel more inclined to pick up the book, buy it and read it. If you've seen in a newspaper a good review, how much easier the buy and read decision. And if your friend has told you to read this - well, it's a done deal.
So read Going with Gabriel and/or More Deaths Than One and/or Twenty Bites! The more the merrier. I want folk to feel they're happy in my restaurant where there's a great big welcome and the service and the food is of the very best!
July 30, 2011
Goodbye to the capital of capital?
So, the home of capital is big time broke. Not exactly what the founding fathers had in mind for Old Glory, is it?
But, as those who have read this blog for long enough will know, the parlous state of American finances and American politics comes as no surprise to me. And in truth it is nothing new. For the past twenty years the USA has simply not been paying her way. Quite the reverse - indeed she has long been in the hopeless habit of borrowing more money to pay the interest on a Mount Everest of previous borrowings. If you like capitalism you will hate this -and by the way you're probably (if you are American) a Republican. On the other hand, should you perchance be an American Democrat you won't care about from where next month's State outgoings originate: mainly your 'friends' in China by the way, should you not already know it.
(There are more ways to wage and to win a modern world war than with rifles and missiles.)
Surprise, surprise, the exact same situation applies, if only in microcosm, to Great Britain. Our beloved Keynsian theory has been buried in all but name as the borrowing goes on. Not just 'goes on' but is being actively encouraged by a government that clearly believes in bits of sticking plaster to heal the great gaping wounds in its public purse.
Greed really is good? Borrowing to finance over-consumption really is a good idea?
Mister Micawber wouldn't think so. Nor do I. And nor will any of us, on either side of the Atlantic, when the first government pension fails to pay us out our so-called 'dues'.
But, as those who have read this blog for long enough will know, the parlous state of American finances and American politics comes as no surprise to me. And in truth it is nothing new. For the past twenty years the USA has simply not been paying her way. Quite the reverse - indeed she has long been in the hopeless habit of borrowing more money to pay the interest on a Mount Everest of previous borrowings. If you like capitalism you will hate this -and by the way you're probably (if you are American) a Republican. On the other hand, should you perchance be an American Democrat you won't care about from where next month's State outgoings originate: mainly your 'friends' in China by the way, should you not already know it.
(There are more ways to wage and to win a modern world war than with rifles and missiles.)
Surprise, surprise, the exact same situation applies, if only in microcosm, to Great Britain. Our beloved Keynsian theory has been buried in all but name as the borrowing goes on. Not just 'goes on' but is being actively encouraged by a government that clearly believes in bits of sticking plaster to heal the great gaping wounds in its public purse.
Greed really is good? Borrowing to finance over-consumption really is a good idea?
Mister Micawber wouldn't think so. Nor do I. And nor will any of us, on either side of the Atlantic, when the first government pension fails to pay us out our so-called 'dues'.
Another in the Robert Burns Country
Half a year or so back I posted my tongue in cheek 'Play for the Wester-Ross Robert Burns Club.' To my surprise it is still being accessed some one hundred times a week, which makes it by a long way my most 'popular' blog posting. So I thought this little piece of my fiction might do something for the same audience ...
For All That
The Globe Inn proved to be a most popular venue this market day. My travelling companion told me what he would like to drink. I eased myself through the crowd and up to the bar amidst raised Scots voices and shouts of laughter overlapping and over-riding each other. In competition a part-shaven, apparently early day victim of the demon drink up at the corner of the bar was singing about his luve being like a red red rose. Seemingly he missed this lassie pf his very much. This was a fair looking man in well-worn clothing and a good enough voice on him but at mid-day?
'Wha's for thee?'
'Two of your best drams, innkeeper,' I replied, revelling in my own use of the vernacular; 'If it should please you.' The drunken singer had hauled himself upright, gesticulating extravagantly. He sang on: 'And fare thee weel, my only luve / and fare thee weel a while! / And I will come again my Luve / Tho' it were ten thousand mile.' He stopped at that and, as some applause broke out, looked all around, nodding, smiling a trifle crookedly. He bowed low in acknowledgment. In spite of the drink and the well worn state of his clothing the fellow was most surely possessed of a certain dignity. 'Innkeeper,' I added, 'And give that man whatever he may be drinking. It was a fine song.'
'Aye, we know it and we know him weel enough here,' was the response.
The singer must have overheard the exchange. 'Fee, fie, foe, fum,' he proferred, looking along the bar top directly at me, 'For I smell the bluid of an Englishman. A rich Englishman.'
'Come come, my good man,' I said. 'But one who wishes you no ill'.
'Aye?' He accepted the glass of whisky seemingly with good grace, still on his feet, staggering a little. 'As no more do I, you, my lord,' he says although as you know I am no lord, simply an ordinary citizen of the realm with my friend on tour around these northern parts. He raised his glass; 'But in compensation I have some words for thee, my lord,' says he, striking a heroic pose, supported in part now by a passing serving girl, a comely lass. The babble had stopped. In a new and clearly expectant silence the man drew himself to his full height, threw wide his arms, recited … (and I shall try the dialect here, for better or worse) …
Ye see yon birkie, ca'd a lord,
Wha struts, an' stares, an' a' that;
Tho' hundreds worship at his word,
He's but a coof for a' that:
For a' that, an' a' that,
His ribband, star, an' a' that:
The man o' independent mind
He looks an' laughs at a' that.
He drained his drink in one, shrugged off the girl, took to the centre of the floor, went on …
A prince can mak a belted knight,
A marquis, duke, an' a' that;
But an honest man's abon his might,
Gude faith, he maunna fa' that!
For a' that, an' a' that,
Their dignities an' a' that;
The pith o' sense, an' pride o' worth,
Are higher rank than a' that.
I felt I should protest; aver that events overseas had no place in these bejewelled and peace-filled islands of ours, but I had become as if entranced by both the man and the words, revolutionary or no … He continued, looking now more to my companion that to myself …
Then let us pray that come it may,
(As come it will for a' that,)
That Sense and Worth, o'er a' the earth,
Shall bear the gree, an' a' that.
For a' that, an' a' that,
It's coming yet for a' that,
That Man to Man, the world o'er,
Shall brothers be for a' that.
With a final flourish he weaved his way in an extended silence back to his seat at the corner of the bar. Then all the clapping and the cheering, and I have to say endorsed by myself and most emphatically by my companion, whether the verse be politically dangerous or no. As if deaf to all was the reciter and how soon was he already re-engaged with his serving girl!
When I could finally make myself heard I caught the innkeeper's attention. 'A fine poem,' says I, 'And one we have not heard before. 'It is by the speaker?'
'No,' says the man. 'That man is Rabbie Carsin. But he is the son of the poet in all but name, or so it is said, and he doesn'a mind being known as such. Rabbie Burns is the poet, or was. And well known in the Globe. They called Rabbie the ploughman poet and he died here in Dumphries twenty and four years since. You have no word of Burns in England?
I shook my head. 'I have not, sir.' I addressed my companion; 'You have heard tell of Rabbie Burns?'
'I have and we will all come to hear much more,' said Lord Byron. 'Shall we not, Shelley?'
The end
For All That
The Globe Inn proved to be a most popular venue this market day. My travelling companion told me what he would like to drink. I eased myself through the crowd and up to the bar amidst raised Scots voices and shouts of laughter overlapping and over-riding each other. In competition a part-shaven, apparently early day victim of the demon drink up at the corner of the bar was singing about his luve being like a red red rose. Seemingly he missed this lassie pf his very much. This was a fair looking man in well-worn clothing and a good enough voice on him but at mid-day?
'Wha's for thee?'
'Two of your best drams, innkeeper,' I replied, revelling in my own use of the vernacular; 'If it should please you.' The drunken singer had hauled himself upright, gesticulating extravagantly. He sang on: 'And fare thee weel, my only luve / and fare thee weel a while! / And I will come again my Luve / Tho' it were ten thousand mile.' He stopped at that and, as some applause broke out, looked all around, nodding, smiling a trifle crookedly. He bowed low in acknowledgment. In spite of the drink and the well worn state of his clothing the fellow was most surely possessed of a certain dignity. 'Innkeeper,' I added, 'And give that man whatever he may be drinking. It was a fine song.'
'Aye, we know it and we know him weel enough here,' was the response.
The singer must have overheard the exchange. 'Fee, fie, foe, fum,' he proferred, looking along the bar top directly at me, 'For I smell the bluid of an Englishman. A rich Englishman.'
'Come come, my good man,' I said. 'But one who wishes you no ill'.
'Aye?' He accepted the glass of whisky seemingly with good grace, still on his feet, staggering a little. 'As no more do I, you, my lord,' he says although as you know I am no lord, simply an ordinary citizen of the realm with my friend on tour around these northern parts. He raised his glass; 'But in compensation I have some words for thee, my lord,' says he, striking a heroic pose, supported in part now by a passing serving girl, a comely lass. The babble had stopped. In a new and clearly expectant silence the man drew himself to his full height, threw wide his arms, recited … (and I shall try the dialect here, for better or worse) …
Ye see yon birkie, ca'd a lord,
Wha struts, an' stares, an' a' that;
Tho' hundreds worship at his word,
He's but a coof for a' that:
For a' that, an' a' that,
His ribband, star, an' a' that:
The man o' independent mind
He looks an' laughs at a' that.
He drained his drink in one, shrugged off the girl, took to the centre of the floor, went on …
A prince can mak a belted knight,
A marquis, duke, an' a' that;
But an honest man's abon his might,
Gude faith, he maunna fa' that!
For a' that, an' a' that,
Their dignities an' a' that;
The pith o' sense, an' pride o' worth,
Are higher rank than a' that.
I felt I should protest; aver that events overseas had no place in these bejewelled and peace-filled islands of ours, but I had become as if entranced by both the man and the words, revolutionary or no … He continued, looking now more to my companion that to myself …
Then let us pray that come it may,
(As come it will for a' that,)
That Sense and Worth, o'er a' the earth,
Shall bear the gree, an' a' that.
For a' that, an' a' that,
It's coming yet for a' that,
That Man to Man, the world o'er,
Shall brothers be for a' that.
With a final flourish he weaved his way in an extended silence back to his seat at the corner of the bar. Then all the clapping and the cheering, and I have to say endorsed by myself and most emphatically by my companion, whether the verse be politically dangerous or no. As if deaf to all was the reciter and how soon was he already re-engaged with his serving girl!
When I could finally make myself heard I caught the innkeeper's attention. 'A fine poem,' says I, 'And one we have not heard before. 'It is by the speaker?'
'No,' says the man. 'That man is Rabbie Carsin. But he is the son of the poet in all but name, or so it is said, and he doesn'a mind being known as such. Rabbie Burns is the poet, or was. And well known in the Globe. They called Rabbie the ploughman poet and he died here in Dumphries twenty and four years since. You have no word of Burns in England?
I shook my head. 'I have not, sir.' I addressed my companion; 'You have heard tell of Rabbie Burns?'
'I have and we will all come to hear much more,' said Lord Byron. 'Shall we not, Shelley?'
The end
July 27, 2011
Different strokes...
Some may remember my post descibing how a distant commission resulted in this pastel painting, title: 'Seabank Cottage - Midsummer Midnight.
Much to my surprise a (distant?) relative of this lady telephoned with a further commission. She wanted Seabank Cottage for her husband, she said. I said certainly I would send her a print of Seabank Cottage but she said, no, I want him to have an original. I had to explain that I don't do copies even of my own work, but I would be happy to create an different picture featuring the same subject, if that would suit? Yes, that would suit.
After much circumnavigation of said Seabank Cottage at various stages of the tide and in different weather conditions this is what I came up with ....
I reckon I know this little house and its history nearly as well as its (absentee) owners - although I've never set foot in the place!
Much to my surprise a (distant?) relative of this lady telephoned with a further commission. She wanted Seabank Cottage for her husband, she said. I said certainly I would send her a print of Seabank Cottage but she said, no, I want him to have an original. I had to explain that I don't do copies even of my own work, but I would be happy to create an different picture featuring the same subject, if that would suit? Yes, that would suit.
After much circumnavigation of said Seabank Cottage at various stages of the tide and in different weather conditions this is what I came up with ....I reckon I know this little house and its history nearly as well as its (absentee) owners - although I've never set foot in the place!
July 25, 2011
Questions beyond answers
We are all born with the power to reason: A + B must equal C; I think therefore I am (Descartes); I die therefore I cannot think therefore I am not.
But we are all born also with the power of imagination: if A + B must equal C what happens if somehow it is X? Or what if the power of being or of thought actually transcends death, (the basis of all religion) in which case I think therefore I am not? So 'I' cannot actually die other than in the physical sense?
Such questions can only be answered through the exercise of imagination way beyond any human reason.We ask ourselves and our parents all kinds of such dead end questions when we are very little but generally stop asking them as we grow up. At some point we substitute belief for imagination because imagination has simply become too difficult for most of us. We sense that it can lead us into danger, indeed into a state of madness. Belief on the other hand is safe. Belief, however shallow, is a base for our culture, our religion. Above all, belief is comfortable.
However, belief in the rightness of a culture or a religion is also what allows us to kill without conscience, even when our victims happen to be a cellar full of schoolchildren in East London in 1942 or the occupants of an Austrian concentration camp or a Vietnamese village or a pair of New York towers or, on Saturday, an island in a Norwegian lake.
Whatever happened to that first (Christian) commandment? Thou shalt not kill?
Questions without answers.
But we are all born also with the power of imagination: if A + B must equal C what happens if somehow it is X? Or what if the power of being or of thought actually transcends death, (the basis of all religion) in which case I think therefore I am not? So 'I' cannot actually die other than in the physical sense?
Such questions can only be answered through the exercise of imagination way beyond any human reason.We ask ourselves and our parents all kinds of such dead end questions when we are very little but generally stop asking them as we grow up. At some point we substitute belief for imagination because imagination has simply become too difficult for most of us. We sense that it can lead us into danger, indeed into a state of madness. Belief on the other hand is safe. Belief, however shallow, is a base for our culture, our religion. Above all, belief is comfortable.
However, belief in the rightness of a culture or a religion is also what allows us to kill without conscience, even when our victims happen to be a cellar full of schoolchildren in East London in 1942 or the occupants of an Austrian concentration camp or a Vietnamese village or a pair of New York towers or, on Saturday, an island in a Norwegian lake.
Whatever happened to that first (Christian) commandment? Thou shalt not kill?
Questions without answers.
July 24, 2011
The way we are and are not
Why, these days, does our society seem to attach such low importance to good manners? We were taught and I still believe that good manners and its executive branch called common courtesy simply represent a code of conduct that enables each of us to live side by side with respect, in tolerance and in best harmony with our neighbour. This may not be the Hollywood / LA / Las Vegas way but what's wrong with that?
An important part of the code is designed to prohibit elitism of the kind that resulted in the death of so many Norwegians yesterday. The nice looking young man with all the explosives and all the guns is an extreme example if what occurs when good manners break down completely. Obviously the same is true in regards to any form of unlawful one on one violence. There are no good manners in evidence when one pilots a fast moving airplane into a tall and densely populated building.
A lady who had competed and I think had won a medal in an Olympic Games long gone by was being interviewed on a BBC current affairs program this morning . 'Will you be going to watch London 2012?' she was asked. 'I don't think so,' came her gentle reply, 'Although they have sent me a ticket.' 'We simply can't stand the triumphalism,' quietly explained her equally aged husband; 'All that fist shaking and so on. There is no grace any more.'
Last evening I inadvertently turned on to a snatch of the BBC's Lee Mack Show. It was, (sorry Mr Everett), an exercise in the worst possible taste and the least possible good manners and in zero 'grace'. Hilarious! Daily examples of similar (if decidedly non-hilarious) conduct from our Westminster parliament, the White House, the financial centres of the world, the spurious halls of celebrity and the fields of sport echo in macrocosm that which Mr Mack's program delivered last night in microcosm.
We choose to live in a remote villageof the north-west Highlands of Scotland. Almost literally, 'everybody knows everybody' here. It would not be possible to behave without natural good manners and its bedfellow common courtesy. Your life would be unbearable, your death probably imminent! Of course not all is always sweetness and light because such as that is never in the human genome. But in general people wave and smile and chat to each other in passing and offer to help each other in adversity. It's called good manners and it doesn't hurt a bit and that's the way we want to live.
An important part of the code is designed to prohibit elitism of the kind that resulted in the death of so many Norwegians yesterday. The nice looking young man with all the explosives and all the guns is an extreme example if what occurs when good manners break down completely. Obviously the same is true in regards to any form of unlawful one on one violence. There are no good manners in evidence when one pilots a fast moving airplane into a tall and densely populated building.
A lady who had competed and I think had won a medal in an Olympic Games long gone by was being interviewed on a BBC current affairs program this morning . 'Will you be going to watch London 2012?' she was asked. 'I don't think so,' came her gentle reply, 'Although they have sent me a ticket.' 'We simply can't stand the triumphalism,' quietly explained her equally aged husband; 'All that fist shaking and so on. There is no grace any more.'
Last evening I inadvertently turned on to a snatch of the BBC's Lee Mack Show. It was, (sorry Mr Everett), an exercise in the worst possible taste and the least possible good manners and in zero 'grace'. Hilarious! Daily examples of similar (if decidedly non-hilarious) conduct from our Westminster parliament, the White House, the financial centres of the world, the spurious halls of celebrity and the fields of sport echo in macrocosm that which Mr Mack's program delivered last night in microcosm.
We choose to live in a remote villageof the north-west Highlands of Scotland. Almost literally, 'everybody knows everybody' here. It would not be possible to behave without natural good manners and its bedfellow common courtesy. Your life would be unbearable, your death probably imminent! Of course not all is always sweetness and light because such as that is never in the human genome. But in general people wave and smile and chat to each other in passing and offer to help each other in adversity. It's called good manners and it doesn't hurt a bit and that's the way we want to live.
