Tim Atkinson's Blog, page 5

Diary: A Plague on Both Your Houses

I'm not a bleating remoaner, honest. I get that we've left (but I'm not conceding that "will of the people" crap!) and that we're no longer a member of the EU but...

What about those promises, Boris, eh? What about defending our borders, preventing an invasion by all manner of illegals? Eh? Eh? 

Mind you, immigrants are getting ever-more inventive in the manner of their entry into the country. This monster was hiding in a head of brocolli, if you please, and emerged - rather quickly - as I was rinsing it prior to cooking...

I think I doused his wings, too, because after springing forth (and frightening the living daylights out of me) he crouched, inert in the bottom of the sink thus allowing me to trap him under a glass. As he dried out (and warmed up - the broccoli had been in the fridge since Saturday!) he began to get a little more frisky. I was all for releasing him into the garden either to find his own way home or (more likely) to provide some dietary variety for the local fauna, but wiser counsel (wife, son and daughters) prevailed. They were less concerned about the creature's welfare than their own, though - they were terrified it would simply find its way back into the house!

I'm not sure he'd have survived long in the frozen wastes outdoors, though. Because, at last, and much to the delight of at least one daughter, we've had a sprinkling of snow, not enough for a snowman but enough for what I'm reliably informed is a snow puffin:

I wonder if a puffin would eat a locust as a change to fish? 

Holocaust Memorial Day 2021

The Tattooist of Auschwitz by Heather MorrisMy rating: 5 of 5 stars

There is no poetry after Auschwitz, as Theodore Adorno almost said. There is nothing: no poetry; no music; no love, no joy, no life. Late to the party once again I’ve only recently got around to reading The Tattooist of Auschwitz. But I'm very glad I did. 
Everyone who has any curiosity about the world they inhabit and its history already knows about the horrors, the degradations, the sheer inhumanity of what happened in the Holocaust although it’s always a shock to be brought up against some sinister fact you hadn’t heard before, like the fact that there was a punishment block in Auschwitz - a deeper circle of the hell the prisoners were already in, being punished daily for being who they were. But... but... I don’t think that’s the takeaway of this book; not for me. 
Strangely, after the inevitable horrors, after the stomach-churning tension and the deep, aching, existential sadness, there’s the smallest glimmer of hope, a pinprick silver star of light in a cold, black sky. But that pinprick of light, of hope, is bigger than the earth, bigger than the sun, biggest than the biggest of our neighbour stars. And it hasn’t been extinguished; it hasn’t been destroyed. Because even in the depths of the worst despair, amid the depravity of the worst man-on-man evil ever, even in such a seemingly hopeless situation, there is kindness. There is the small act of anonymous kindness that saves the eponymous Tätowierer, Lale, from an early death; the kindness of a French prisoner who decides to enlist him as his assistant in the grim (but relatively safe) job of inking numbers on the new prisoners. The kindness of the local builders, smuggling small amounts of food in for him, even as they build the crematoria. 
Then there is the kindness shown in return: to those who need it, and to those he loves. These small, almost incidental acts of kindness and humanity build and grow like flakes of snow so that slowly, gradually and eventually, they beat the bullets and evade the gas chambers. Because above all, this is a story of hope in the midst of the utmost adversity, of a huge triumph against all the odds. It's difficult at times, in the middle of a global pandemic, amid such relentlessly depressing daily news, to see even a glimmer of hope for humanity. But there is poetry after Auschwitz after all, and this book proves it. That tiny, distant star in the coldest sky is still up there, shining brightly.



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Agent Running in the Field, by John le Carré

Agent Running in the Field by John le Carré

My rating: 5 of 5 stars


I've come late to le Carré, the late le Carré, prompted by the eulogies that accompanied his death to dig out some of the books I knew of but had never read (Tinker, Tailor; all the 'Smiley' novels) together with some of his more recent offerings about espionage in a post-cold war, privatised age. So far, the hype seems justified; the praise deserved. The craftsmanship of a plot that reveals just enough to set the mind (and, occasionally, pulse) racing is, of course, taken as read. And the prose is no more that its servant: the vehicle for the characters and the story, not a character, not a story in itself. In that, they're easy reading. But strangely compelling. And minutely observed. And although le Carré takes the literary high ground as omniscient narrator, showing just as much of his hand as he knows is necessary to keep the reader going, the voice - at least in this book - seems also to inhabit the characters in a manner that hides the former spy-cum-author perfectly, as he obviously intended. Agent Running in the Field is full of these acts of authorly ventriloquism: Nat, the urbane ex-field agent out to grass in an intelligence cul-de-sac back home, Ed the oddball whose path crosses Nat's on the badminton court and whose unpredictable, but ultimately honourable, activities almost bring about Nat's downfall. Each character speaks and the voice is perfect; we share each characters inner thoughts as if from their own point-of-view; and yet behind it all, le Carré the puppet-master pulls all the strings. And pulls them expertly.



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Blue Monday

It's either a load of old rubbish or a day to dread (more than any other day these last few months) but whatever you think, however you feel, it's cold and dark and this might, just make you feel a little bit better.

You're welcome!

Best Foot Forward!

If you're like me, you probably don't think much about it. Walking. Putting one foot in front of the other. Which is a pity, really, as there's so much more to it than that. 

Neuroscientist Shane O’Mara has called it "our hidden superpower" and a new book by Yamuna Zake (author of The Ultimate Body Rolling Workout) published this week and called The Foot Fix encourages us to give it the respect a superpower deserves.  

Healthy feet are fundamental to our health and wellbeing and The Foot Fix offers a simple 4 week program of quick and easy exercises to help get them back into shape. An initial walking test allows you to assess functionality in the four areas of your feet (heel, arch, ball and toes) and this is followed by exercises to help restore posture by aligning your feet correctly and strengthening your arches, all of which can help prevent problems later in life. Because Yamuna’s philosophy is "prevention". Most people wait until they’re in pain before they pay attention to their feet, but since you only get one pair and they’re meant to carry you through life, why not start taking care of them now? Just 15 minutes a day for four weeks can get your feet fully functional, says the author. And that means you're far less likely to develop foot or other associated problems such as back or hip pain and poor posture later on. 

School's Out! But learning isn't.

So, here we are again. School may be out (again). But learning isn't. 

Yes, it's daunting, challenging, and frightening; true, it's undoubtedly a disadvantage for some. But, as I said back in April when we did all this before, you're not alone. And it might be worth having a look at that post if you're in need of somewhere to start. Here's the link: Kids At Home? You're Not Alone!

Since then I've also come across a really free resource that's well worth a serious look: Oak Academy. Their online classroom contains nearly 10,000 free video lessons, resources and activities, covering most subjects, from Reception to Year 11. It really is an amazing resource and well worth spending some time familiarising yourself with, although extremely easy to use. Indeed, it seems to be intended for pupils to be able to work through themselves:

So, as before, it's unusual, undesirable of course, but ultimately, necessary. You are not alone. Schooling, while vitality important, isn't the same as learning. Kids will continue to learn (it's what they're genetically programmed to do) with support from you. It doesn't have to be like a classroom, or timetabled. You don't have to ring a bell. Just support them in their own curiosity, have some resources on hand to help them find the answers to their questions and have an oversight of what they're doing each day, and be gently encouraging. 

It's hard for them, too! 

Learning isn't (just) schooling

 Two blogs in (almost) as many days? Ambassador, you're spoiling us... 

Well, maybe not but I thought I'd check in briefly just to state the obvious, just to point out to someone who ought to know a lot better but who, of course, is paid to spout the government's line in clap-trap, that learning isn't synonymous with schooling, that children will continue to learn very well thank you without attending school and that schooling (which is not the same thing, though of course it achieves some of the same results) can continue perfectly well online, perfectly well given that the alternative (mass return to school) is an undoubted and dangerous risk, a price (I'd say) that is too high to pay for saving lives. 

If schools close, kids won't stop learning. And with remote lessons, most children can continue with their schooling. Yes, it's not the same as face-to-face, in-class lessons; no, it's not ideal; but it's just about the best we can manage given the circumstances. And the circumstances are a massively increased risk from a new variant of a virus that has already brought the NHS to its knees. 

What's happening in London and the south east will happen, and will happen sooner, and will happen more severely, across the country unless we stay at home and save lives. It's that simple. 

I know there are those for whom home will never be either a safe place or a place to learn: we must make provision for those children. But we shouldn't, mustn't, daren't risk the lives of teachers, parents, grandparents, carers and others by blindly insisting that learning = everyone in school. It doesn't. Schooling does. In the grand scheme of things, falling behind a little, maybe being unprepared to take exams at the time considered 'normal', perhaps having to defer a college/uni place for a year and delaying entry to the rat-race won't destroy pupils' life-chances.

And it won't stop children learning.   

Goodbye, 2020!

We'll not be sorry to see the back of it, even though (at one dark time) there was a moment when I thought I might not live to see the end of it, a time when I would lie awake in the small hours imagining a lonely death isolated from everyone in a sealed ward somewhere, a time when I started to write farewell letters to my wife and children, when I was terrified that the return to school in September would be a ticking time-bomb waiting to explode in a catastrophic and devastating infection. 

I'm in slightly better place now, partly having survived (thus far) and partly having realised, as more became known about the virus and its devastating effects, that the very anti-inflammatory substance I self-inject fortnightly and which suppresses my immune system (part of the reason I was sent a shielding letter last April) and which I stopped taking for a while with the crazy notion that a fully-functioning immune system might be more protection, might actually help in the event of contracting Covid. It emerged that the very drug I had temporarily stopped using was actually being given to some Covid patients in the hope it might help reduce the catastrophic inflammation that they were suffering. So much for shielding!

My (slightly) more upbeat mood is partly kismet, partly hope based on the vaccine and part admiration at serious measures schools (woefully under-supported) have been taking to reduce the spread of infection, in spite of being such "safe" places, according to a Prime Minister who went to a boarding school where the risk of inter-mingling households (let alone bus loads) was a termly, rather than a daily phenomenon. Of course schools are safe, when there's no-one in them. Of course it's the inevitable mixing of households when kids come together on the journey to school, in the classrooms, on the way home and then all over again the next day after rubbing shoulders and sharing towels with parents and siblings who have themselves been in contact with, well... suffice to say that the tendrils spreading the virus are as extensive as the underground mycelium of mushrooms, and as busy as a motorway.

Still, it's nice to know we're all in the safe hands of a serial adulterer and liar, a man whose father and brother clearly diverge considerably from his own views of Britain's place in Europe. Or do they? I wouldn't be surprised if, one day, a repentant Johnson admits what's been pretty obvious all along, and that the whole thing was just a crazy stunt to further his own interests and career. At the stroke of eleven tonight, when the rest of us are finally cut adrift from forty-plus years of economic and political security, Johnson senior's application for French citizenship will be well underway and of course Boris's green card-earning US birth will no doubt be an asset when the rats finally leave the ship as it sinks, slowly, into the inevitability of second-rate status.

Meanwhile, schools have now to add covid-testing (and, probably, vaccination) to an ever-growing list of responsibilities that includes childcare, social work, intervention in political and religious extremism, quasi-parenting, potty-training, social integration, ensuring adequate nutrition, even accommodation in some extreme cases, as well as, of course... teaching. But that's ok, because as we all know, teachers get long holidays. Which is why there's such a shortage of them. And why they're lumbered with such a lumbering lump as Gavin Williamson as their politico-in-chief.

So, as the clock ticks down the hours and minutes to the end of a year few people will want to remember, we can at least console ourselves with the thought that things can only get better. 

Can't we?

Christmas is coming...

 ... and the goose may or may not be getting fat, according to whatever Christmas dinner menu we're allowed to choose. But time and tide (and indeed, Covid-19 restrictions) wait for no man or woman;  gifts have to be chosen and - unlike the Three Wise Men who delivered their offerings in person in early January - we'll all have to get ours organised in time for the big day. Which is now only a month away!

All of which is why, thanks to a kind invitation to sample the site, we've just had a play with Asda's online photo printing service which, of course, prints a lot more than mere photos. Can't say much more at the moment as the order has been placed and we're now waiting to see what the goods are like (a desk calendar and a canvas print, in case you're wondering). Meanwhile, the eponymous hero of this blog (he's old enough now to do the reviews himself!) made this short film showing just how easy it is to do... 

 

They buried him among kings

Today marks the centenary of the burial of the Unknown Soldier. 100 years ago today, an idea that had first occurred to an army chaplain on the Western Front in 1916 finally came to fruition. An unidentified British soldier previously interred in one of the four main theatres of war was laid to rest in the Royal Chapel among Kings and Princes.

In my novel 'The Glorious Dead' the soldiers still serving on the old Western Front ('first with a rifle, then a shovel') become involved in the process of exhuming not only one of the four bodies from which the one 'unknown' warrior will be chosen, but also the barrel of Belgian soil that will eventually be used to fill in the Westminster Abbey grave: 

‘We have today received orders from Brigadier-General Wyatt,’ Ingham goes on. ‘As General Officer Commanding British Troops in France and Flanders he has a very special request to make.’

‘British Troops sir?’ Ocker says. Did you say British troops?’ 

Ingham laughs nervously. ‘And er, Empire troops too, of course.’

‘Well I’m glad you made that clear sir,’ he says. ‘Otherwise I might’ve had to have a word or two to say to General Wyatt.’

‘So, as I was saying,’ Ingham looks down at his clipboard. ‘We’ve been given something quite unusual to do. Unique, in fact.’

‘Don’t tell me sir,’ says Ocker. ‘We’re going to dig a grave so deep I get to go back home!’

‘Not quite,’ says Ingham.

‘Not quite? Not going to tunnel to bloody Kiwi are we?’

‘No, no, no. Now pay attention. This is a solemn and serious undertaking.’

‘We’ve been undertaking – solemnly and seriously – for the last two years,’ says Mac. ‘I reckon I know more about Funeral Directing –’

‘Hey, listen up lads,’ Jack says. 

‘On a promise are you, Jacko?’ Ocker laughs. The men shuffle feet as they settle to hear Ingham explain the details of their latest mission.

‘Our orders are to exhume an unknown British – that could, of course, be Empire too, Gilchrist, given that he will be an unknown –’

‘Might even be a Sheila too,’ says Ocker. ‘The other day them gardening fellas was showing me the grave of a young nurse buried at Lijssenthoek.’

‘Unlikely, Gilchrist. The few English girls buried here are, of course, in marked graves. And we are being specifically ordered to select an unmarked grave. Other parties will be performing a similar duty in each of the other three main theatres of war – The Somme, Aisne and Arras. We have been selected to locate and remove one brave soldier from our sector, one man who may be chosen to lie where the Kings and Queens of Empire lie. There – if chosen – he will be buried with full military honours and laid to rest in perpetuity in Westminster Abbey.’

‘So we’re digging him up and then shipping him home?’

‘Not quite,’ Ingham replies. ‘The body will be transferred to St Pol where it will lie along with three others draped in the Union Jack and from among which one of the bodies will be chosen at random to be given this symbolic honour.’

The men say nothing. Nothing the Army or the War Graves Commission asks of them comes as a surprise anymore.

‘Right-o then, chaps – here’s the plan.’ Ingham proceeds to issue careful orders about which of the recent graves they are to open, how the body is to be treated and what provision will be made for its onward journey. ‘We are to remove an early burial from Bleuet Farm Cemetery near Elverdinghe. The precise grave has already been selected and I will be accompanying the exhumation party to ensure that everything is carried out to the letter. But otherwise, you may consider it just like any normal exhumation.’

‘Except…’

‘Yes, Gilchrist?’

‘Except you don’t normally come along when we’re digging men up, do you sir?’

‘Maybe not. But as I have already said this is an especially important mission. This isn’t any old exhumation.’

‘Thought you said it was an especially old exhumation, sir?’

‘It is an old burial, yes.’

‘And we won’t be looking for signs, though, will we, sir?’

‘Signs?’

‘ID, effects, that sort of thing. Like we do with any ordinary exhumation.’

‘My goodness me, no – certainly not!’

‘It’s just that you said it was to be just like any normal exhumation but it seems to me –’

‘Dammit man, don’t take things so bloody literally! What I meant was that the body – the unidentified body – will be removed in the usual way and wrapped in a canvas sack. Except that this time the soldier will, I believe… just let me check, ah yes – this time the man will be given a box.’

‘A box, sir?’

‘A coffin, man, a bloody coffin! Good God, it’s like dealing with a group of school children.’

‘Enter clowns with spades and mattock,’ Blake smiles to himself.

‘So not a sack, then?’

‘No,’ Ingham sighs. ‘Not a sack. Any more questions?’ He narrows his eyes.

‘Yes, sir’ Jack says. ‘Just the one.’

‘Speak up, man,’ Ingham says. ‘What is it?’

‘Well sir, I was wondering… If the body we dig up isn’t the one that’s chosen, what happens to it afterwards? And what happens to the others from the Somme and Arras and so on if they don’t get the nod?’

‘Those not selected are to be interred at the military cemetery at St Pol. That will be their final resting place,’ says Ingham. ‘Well, in the case of the three not chosen, that is. The corpse selected by Brigadier-General Wyatt will be sealed in an oak coffin and transported by boat to England on its final glorious journey to the Abbey.’

‘Very good, sir. But sir?’

‘What is it this time, lance-corporal?’

‘Wouldn’t it ’ave been easier just to pick a grave at random, you know – rather than digging up all four of ’em first?’

‘Perhaps,’ Ingham says. ‘But these are our orders. Well, most of us, anyway.’

‘Sir?’

‘You, Patterson –’ Ingham smiles like a snake. ‘You have a very specific task.’

‘Oh, aye?’

‘Yes. Your job is to be slightly different from the rest of the men. You will be filling six barrels with clean soil from the Salient. I suppose you had better take somebody along with you to help with the lifting. MacIntyre, Skerritt and… maybe Gilchrist as well. But you are to do the digging. Is that understood?’

‘Yes, sir. Very good, sir.’

With that, the men are dismissed.

***

The exhumation party takes the old RAMC ambulance with Blake at the wheel; Jack and his men load six empty barrels into the back of the Albion then climb aboard the truck and squeeze together in the cab. The men head east towards Ypres, skirting north of the ruined city past the Minneplein. The old, open playing field and park is now covered from corner to corner with neat little temporary houses – Albert Houses, paid for by a special fund provided by the Belgian King.

‘A man could really grow to love a little house like that.’ Mac winks at Skerritt. ‘Especially if a man had a wee lassie there to share the bed with him of a night and to keep him warm.’

‘He’s working on it, aren’t you, Jacko?’ says Ocker.

‘Don’t you lot ever give up?’

‘I’m sure he is working on it. And why wouldn’t he be? She’s a grand lassie, man. Belgian, mind. But a grand wee lassie all the same.’ 

Skerritt mumbles something but the noise is drowned by the rumble of the truck as Jack changes gear and heads off along Weverustraat, then out of town along the Menin Road. Passing Hell Fire Corner then  turning left down the Cambridge Road, Jack decides to bring the truck to a halt next to the line of the old Ypres-Roulers railway.

‘This’ll do, I reckon.’ The men roll the barrels down the long path and up-end them at the chosen spot.

‘Right, Jacko,’ Ocker passes him a shovel.

‘Come on,’ Jack says. ‘You an’ all.’

‘No, mate! Ingham was most particular wasn’t he, fellas? Said it was you had to do the digging. Isn’t that right, Mac?’

‘Oh aye,’ Mac says, lighting up his pipe. ‘We’ll stand here and make sure no-one interferes, won’t we Skerritt?’

‘Like heck, you will,’ Jack throws them both a shovel. ‘Come on you lot - get bloody digging.’

With mock reluctance the others slowly pick up their tools and set to work. Before long they’ve dug a small trench, shallow so as to collect only the drier, cleaner top-soil near the surface. But so far they have filled only one of the barrels. The early November rain has made the rest of the ground sticky and wet. Eventually it becomes easier to slice out brick-sized chunks like peat and then bag each one before placing it in the remaining barrels – leaving it to the journey and the Abbey to dry the soil out.

Meanwhile, across the Western Front as far apart as the Somme, the Aisne and Arras and all the way back to Elverdinghe, four bodies are now en route to St Pol on board four old, ex-RAMC motor ambulances. Arriving at their destination each truck is met at the gates by the padre. The men unload the stretchers, draping a Union Jack over each of the bodies. And inside the small cemetery chapel, a single huge oak coffin waits. 

‘Our fella’ll rattle around a bit in that, won’t he, sir?’ asks Fuller. ‘If he’s chosen, that is.’ Ingham doesn’t answer. Townend is thinking they could probably get all four men in the enormous box. But at midnight tonight, November 9th, Brigadier-General Wyatt will enter the chapel by candle-light and place a hand on one of the stretchers, after which the load it bears will be placed in the coffin and the lid sealed and secured for its final journey.

Extract from The Glorious Dead, now just 99p to download https://www.amazon.co.uk/Glorious-Dead-Tim.../dp/1783525894/