Tim Atkinson's Blog, page 3

Diary: Welcome Back!

Everyone's making a big thing about the return of audiences, spectators, paying punters to concerts, matches, gigs and so on now that lockdown is finally easing. 

Personally, I've quite enjoyed hearing (and seeing) live music relayed via the internet or broadcast over the airwaves without the shuffling, coughing distraction of real people in the audience. I know, I know... they're needed, if only for their cash; they rarely bring caché. More often their behaviour ruins concerts with ill-timed sneezes and other outbursts, to say nothing of the competitive 'who can be first off the blocks' clapping, which means the applause shatters the magic silence at the end of the music when the performance casts its mystic spell. 

I know people want to show their appreciation. Orchestras have been doing it to each other (and to soloists) at the end of their behind-closed-doors live performances. Just not in the nanosecond of silence once the last note has been played. And I know people (sometimes) can't help coughing. But you never see (or hear) members of the orchestra (or choir) doing it, do you? Even when they've got several hundred bars rest in which to sit in silence (and sit still)... listening.

Because that's what they're doing. Listening. And it's not, on the whole, what the majority of audiences do. Of course, they hear the music. But they're flicking through their programmes or ferreting through their handbags, unwrapping sweets. And coughing. Personally, I'd make the whole bloody lot of them submit to a thorough medical before letting them through the door!

In other news, things just get odder and odder. We have a serial adulterer and liar at the ship of state's helm, a cabinet of (at best) curiosities and, at worst, inanities. And now we have an heir to throne thanking... tabloid newspapers?

Of course, the Bashir affair is a disgrace. Quite how the man was ever re-employed by the BBC is a mystery. And the cover-up and scapegoating of whistle-blowers is, rightly, being called a scandal. 

But... but... I'm at a loss to know what Alice-in-Wonderland rabbit-hole could possibly see the tabloids, which did nothing but hound Diana for years both before and after the Panorama interview, suddenly becoming the good guys in this sad, sad story.

What next? Dominic Cumming's coming back to tell us all he was the good guy all along?

Watch this space! That particular shit-show is on Wednesday. 

And talking of morals, my book on Moral Philosophy is free to download this coming week (Monday-Friday). So, if you know anyone doing, or thinking of doing, 'A' level RE, spread the word!

 

Mental Health Awareness Week 2021

It's been Mental Health Awareness Week this week. We're all now more aware of mental health, this week and every week, and certainly more respectful than when I was a boy and the name of the local lunatic asylum (as it was officially known) was banded about as a playground taunt. And that's undoubtedly a good thing.

What many people may be less aware of is the link between physical and mental health. I suffer from chronic secondary pain, thanks to early-onset arthritis among other things. In what Susan Sontag describes as the dual citizenship of health and illness, some of us have seem to have been deported: put on a plane and flown to a land of permanent pain. No wonder depression is four times more common in people with persistent pain; no wonder studies show that ‘individuals with chronic pain are at least twice as likely to report suicidal behaviours or to complete suicide.’

No wonder. And yet our piecemeal medical treatment still fails to recognise the impact that one thing (like inflamed and painful joints) has on another (like mental health). Chronic pain patients are passed from one specialist to another like broken down machines on a (re)assembly line where no-one standing on the factory floor knows (or cares) what the finished (or, if you're lucky, repaired) product looks like. Or should look like. As long as they've done their "bit" then it's on to the next stage and on to fiddling with another patient.

When I was at university, studying philosophy, the problem of personal identity never seemed as if it would ever have a satisfactory solution. "If the brain (or spirit) of a cobbler were transplanted to the body of a Prince" ran the question, "who wakes up?" At the time, many people suspected that the cobbler would be the one coming round from the anaesthetic, so sure were we that the brain was the big be-all and end-all of our personalities. 

The problem is almost as old as philosophy itself, and the brain-body dichotomy comes down to medicine through the works of Descartes, by way (perhaps) of John Locke's socks. But scientifically we now seem to know much more that makes such blithe assumptions insecure. The notion of neurons (basically, brain cells) in our guts, for instance, which certainly gives a whole new meaning to the phrase "gut instinct"! 

Whatever we are, it seems certain that we're not now centred in one bodily area; we aren't (just) our minds - in fact, what our minds are (whatever that may be) may be inextricably linked to our bodies. We're a unity, a whole. And yet most medics still want to take us to pieces and deal with their "bit" of the problem of our ill-health. No wonder some of us don't ever get better!

In other news this week I was again asked to sound off about something on local radio. They seem to ring me whenever they want to get a phone in going, as if an anecdote of mine will somehow kick things off for them. I've no idea if it does. But I'm usually happy to help. After all, they've been very helpful to me. If you want to know what it's all about it remains available on BBC Sounds for a few days, and if you'd rather not listen to the entire four hour programme, fast forward to about 1 hour 40 mins and you should here your truly after just a little bit of context.

And just watch out if you're wearing headphones!

https://www.bbc.co.uk/sounds/play/p09ftc46

Results are in!

I hadn't held my breath. I nearly didn't vote, for what would've been the first time in my life. There really didn't seem much point in turning out to vote against a sitting Tory councillor certain to be re-elected (so certain that -- in common with the Tory council leader -- he seems incapable of replying to emails). Of course the equally secure sitting MP had to crow about it all on Twitter: 

And I, somewhat to my regret, had to rise to the bait. It's all very sad.  

We don’t want to be governed by skilled, qualified, honest and capable politicians any more, do we? What we seem to want now is “personality” however shallow, fraudulent and incompetent. That's the real problem with Kier Starmer. For all his other attributes, he lack 'personality'. Why won't anyone admit it? The man is serious, qualified, committed, industrious... but lacks that magic sparkle that seems to attract the British electorate, as well as blinding them to any number of faults and failings. What a piece of work...

In other news the continuing struggle of an under-valued, under-funded (and overly politicised) NHS continues to amaze and inspire me. Last week, dose two of my Covid jab; this week, after a quick phone call, a steroid injection to alleviate some pretty nasty autoimmune disease complications. The nurse administering the latter had come out of retirement to cover for colleagues (a) taking a sabbatical to complete further training and (b) drafted into the NHS Covid vaccination programme. 

Unlike the so-called (and utterly flawed) NHS test-and-trace (which really ought to be re-named "Tory Test-and-Trace") the vaccination programme is testament to the success of grass-roots, NHS commitment and professionalism. The number of volunteers, the amount of goodwill, the lack of the "greed" so mendaciously credited by the PM, is what has seen this programme such a huge success. No-one is making obscene amounts of money from plum NHS procurement contracts; no-one is texting their friend the PM for tax breaks; no-one is dithering about what to do and worrying which of their private sector chums might benefit. People are volunteering, working long hours, and -- like the nurse who treated me on Thursday -- coming out of retirement to do so.

And yet it's the Conservative government taking all the credit. 

And reaping the electoral rewards. 

Diary: No Man is an Island

"Any man's death diminishes me," wrote John Donne. And while, as any other human, I mark the passing of anyone with anything but joy, I can hardly jump on the "deeply sorrowful" bandwagon of mourning that seems to have gripped the nation (well, those involved in broadcasting) since the announcement of the Duke of Edinburgh's death yesterday. 

The North Korean-style solemn music across BBC radio, the clearing of the schedules, cancelling of BBC Four and rolling news across all media seem to indicated more the desperation of journalists and broadcasters indulging their own passion than the properly respectful marking of the man's passing. 

It's not just the BBC, either. (Although quite why repeats channel Radio 4 Extra had to be given over to special news bulletins for nearly two days is another matter. What were they doing, repeating coverage of Queen Victoria's passing?) Cathedrals and churches up and down the country competing with each other to say how "deeply saddened" they are, and how quick they've been to open up for "private prayer" and provide books of condolences to sign. 

The man was 99. He'd led a good life. So have many, many others whose passing we either fail to notice or ignore. Ok, he was a public figure but the role wasn't exactly that of an NHS doctor on covid duty, and it came with considerable privilege. Surely the most appropriate response is to celebrate a life lived well (and at our expense) rather than pretend it's the death of Diana all over again. 

In other news, I’ve been trying to get Faber to give me permission (at a price; they’ll do nothing for nothing) to use a line of Larkin’s as an epigraph in my latest book. Things started well: the Society of Authors thought they could help, as his trustees. Then a nice lady at Faber said I needed to use their bot: I did. The book I need t quote from wasn’t there. I chose the nearest I could find, the bot duly spewed out a licence and demanded payment. But I wasn’t going to part with cash for something that some lawyer somewhere might want to challenge in the future. So I emailed again: and again; and again. But the nice lady isn’t answering. 

Perhaps the Faber offices are closed for mourning? 

I wonder what the man himself, who was nothing if not obsessed with death, would have made of that?

O to be in England?

 "April is the cruellest month," according to T.S.Eliot. It certainly seems to have played the fool today with the sudden (and precipitate) drop in temperature. But... but... it's still April. The birds are singing, the  blossom is budding, the grass is growing. I've heard three blackbirds, seen a house martin, and enjoyed some lovely spring walks in the sun until today.

Today, I've been looking at some of the photos that I've taken. And listening to the words of Robert Browning going round and round in my head as I do... 

Diary: No more heroes...

It’s been a week of concerts from Media City this week (for those of us perpetually tuned to Radio 3) and jolly good they’ve been. Chamber music at lunchtime, orchestral concerts in the afternoon and culminating on Friday evening with a fine live concert from the Bridgewater Hall in Manchester. All the concerts have been introduced by the ebullient Tom McKinney, complete with the emphatic local pronunciation of every ‘G’ in the script... choral evensonG, lots of sinGinG and so on. Someone on Twitter a few days ago asked where all Priti Patel’s absent ‘Gs’ have gone. 

Well, we now know the answer. 

When not listening to Tom using up Priti's scorned "g's" I've been tramping the pavements on my daily walk while listening to Stephen Fry narrate his re-telling of the Greek myths, Heroes. Not only is the prose masterful (I've got the book, too) but the reading (as you'd expect) is amazing. The range, the voices and the choices... for example, the pitch-perfect Norn Iron contortions of the language given to  king Eurystheus! You can almost see the wicked twinkle in Stephen's eye. It's not (just) a well-told tale of ancient deeds and derring-do, either. Fry isn't averse to adding the occasional observation of the universal truths the old tales sometimes tell. "[R]ebellions from the outside nearly always fail: familial quarrelling, dynastic feuding, party disunity, the palace coup and the stab in the back... these are what dislodge regimes and topple tyrants." 
And there's been proof of that a-plenty, this week!

Proud Songsters

National Poetry Day is in October, but that's too long to wait to share this wonderful poem of Spring. It's one of my favourites by one of my favourite poets, Thomas Hardy. (Such a favourite that I've edited my own anthology of his poetry, should you be interested). And I know this is technically a poem of April, and it's still March. But it is, at last, Spring. The birds have started singing. And it's #WorldPoetryDay today. And that's what matters...

Proud Songsters

The thrushes sing as the sun is going,

And the finches whistle in ones and pairs,

And as it gets dark loud nightingales

In bushes

Pipe, as they can when April wears,

As if all Time were theirs.

These are brand new birds of twelvemonths’ growing,

Which a year ago, or less than twain,

No finches were, nor nightingales,

Nor thrushes,

But only particles of grain,

And earth, and air, and rain.

Hardy's birthplace, Lower Bockhampton, Dorset

To read more by Thomas Hardy, I can't do better than recommend you start here: https://www.amazon.co.uk/If-Its-Ever-Spring-Again/dp/B0851KBXMG

And to hear this poem read, and read beautifully, click here: https://soundcloud.com/dotterel/proud-songters

Diary: A Farewell...

Open-air, woodland burial funeral for an old friend far too young to die, another of cancer’s many early victims. The ceremony is arranged so various people speak about his life from each of the spheres in which they knew him: work, music, village, volunteering and so on, the common thread being that there’s so much of the man that none of us alone can do him justice. 

Later it occurs to me that today was unique in another way in being all about him, because this polymath of a man was never known to put himself first. He was interested, curious, inquiring and inquisitive of everything and everyone around him. The only time, ironically, I ever knew him talk about himself first was at work (we were teachers) when his attitude to troublesome students, uniquely among staff at the time, was always a genuine “what more can I do? What else can I try?” 

If a student wasn’t engaged, didn’t produce work or was generally lacking in any way this man’s default position was always to look to himself, not the student, not the Year Head, not to parents or to God (in whom he had no faith anyway) but always to ask what else he could do or try. A remarkable man and a great loss.

In other news I caught a train. I know, I know... but it was the first time in over a year, and I realised that - apart from swift forays into supermarkets planned with all the precision and timing of a raid on a nuclear power station - I'd been nowhere 'public', apart from the pavement, in all that time. As the train pulled in to the station I almost began hyperventilating. My heart rate certainly started rising. All very worrying. And yet, mentally, I felt strangely disconnected from my own exaggerated physical responses. It was rather like observing someone else: look at him! Oh dear! Once aboard (thankfully the train was almost empty) and once I'd wiped the table with my antiseptic wipe I felt ok. I felt even better when someone with a "Covid Cleaning" tabard came and started wiping down the other tables. I'd wondered why they looked so clean. No crumbs, no coffee rings, no sticky patches of... god alone knows what. 

I used to catch the same train, early in the morning, to a school where I once worked. I'd always try and bag a table so I could spread out and do some last-minute marking. I know whereof I speak. So, Covid has this, at least, going for it. And not for the first time I find myself really hoping that things won't go back to "normal" once this awfulness is over. 
We need to do better than that, after all this horror. 

Diary: Testing times...

Well, that didn't last long. Just under a week since starting back at school and Charlie's home again, in isolation, one of his friends having tested positive in that morning's school administered lateral flow test. He seems genuinely upset; I can't help reflecting on how pleased I'd have been, at his age, to be sent home from school again. I think lockdown would have suited me perfectly. I always fantasised about living in Australia, in the outback, and attending school over the airwaves. I have a Ladybird book to thank for that. But I digress...

Charlie, like most people his age it seems, unlike his dad at a similar age, wants to be at school. His dad - at the age I am now - wants him to be at school, too. But he can't go. He can't return until March 29th, just in time to get a few days in before the Easter hols. By the end of this term, he'll have physcially attended a total of about eight days since mid-December 2020.

The odd thing, though, is that it shouldn't be this way. His friend duly went and got a (much more accurate) PCR test, which turned out to be negative. But none of the bubble is allowed to return until the isolation period triggered by the initial test has been completed, not even if they all do subsequent tests, all of which prove negative.

Am I the only one to detect the cack-hand of Gavin Williamson in all this?

To outline the situation in all its Kafka-esque absurdity, until tomorrow a lateral flow test done in school will trump a PCR even though the latter is acknowledged to be much better and even though the opposite rule applies for health workers.

But AFTER tomorrow a positive LFT will be bested by a negative PCR even though NEITHER will have been supervised in school!

Is it any wonder the DfE makes such a cock-up of every policy and contingency it cooks up to deal with those other tests, the ones taken by kids with a biro in their hand rather than a cotton bud up their nose? 

Perhaps the word "test" brings the entire department out in a blind panic, running around like headless chickens until they've settled on some solution Gavin can take back to the House of Commons, to be delivered at the dispatch box by a man with all the intellectual nouse of (together with an uncanny vocal likeness to) Frank Spencer. 

Ooh, Betty!

Back to school... but is 'school' holding kids back?

It's back to school again this week, and parents everywhere are breathing a huge sigh of relief. No more fronted adverbials; no more expanded noun phrases and other ridiculous strictures from the Gove/Cummings curriculum revolution (you know, the one that also replaced GCSE grades A-E with 9-1) designed to make simple things more complicated.

But although parents up and down the country will be cheering, almost 70% remain worried about the impact of lost learning. It's true that during lockdown countless lessons have been lost. But learning hasn't stopped. And although some of the life lessons of the last few months have been painful, generation lockdown may just turn out to be the most flexible, adaptable and resilient generation we've ever seen. 

No one can deny the past few months have been hard. Juggling jobs with home-schooling has been tricky for most and impossible for some. In terms of days lost almost half the school year has been spent at home across the two lockdowns. But learning hasn't been lost. Learning is never lost. Most children, especially those at primary school, are resilient and resourceful. After all, it's precisely those genetically-inherited qualities that have made us, as a species, so successful. And, as a species, we're going to have to be more resilient and resourceful than ever as we adapt to global warming and the inexorable pace of change in almost every sphere of life. 

Except schooling. Because schools are still based on a "factory" model that takes little account of the huge discoveries made in the psychology of learning. Add to that the Gradgrindian national curriculum and hopelessly outdated and inefficient exam system and you only need the swish of the cane to complete the Victorian picture. 

But if the pandemic has proved anything it's that we need to be flexible and resourceful. Scientists adapt to create new vaccines; teachers learn new ways of teaching; workers master unfamiliar technology to work from home. But for schools, from today, the clock goes back a century to a system long past its use-by date well before the pandemic struck. 

It's perhaps useful to consider what schools are for, and what kind of education they should provide. As Lucy Kellaway writes in the FT, much of what goes on in school is "boring, stupid and bears no relationship to the economy." Perhaps  nothing done in school should be "relevant" to the economy, or any other area, directly. Because above all, the one thing schools everywhere should have to do for everyone is instil a love of learning. Because that's the one big thing Generation Covid will be doing throughout their ever-changing, challenge-ridden adult lives. Learning, changing, adapting. It's already happening. And during Covid-lockdowns our children have got invaluable first hand experience of one of the best lessons anyone can ever learn. It is this. Just because things have always been done in a particular way, doesn't mean it's the best way. Things happen that mean we've got to change, adapt, think outside the box. Circumstances will dictate that we are forced to do things differently. And we can. And that's the best lesson anyone can learn.