Feeling a bit under the leather?

 

A little while back, while volunteering at our small local museum, a young family from abroad were intrigued by an exhibit, the likes of which they had never seen before.

It was a strip of leather, with a shaped grip at one end and two prongs at the other.  We know it as the ‘tawse’.

I’d also not long finished Nanzie McLeod’s book, ‘Tales from the East Neuk’, where, in one chapter, she describes the over-use of the ‘tawse’ and one teacher’s over-enthusiastic application of it. It was actually a disturbing passage from a time where if a child asked to go to the toilet, he or she would be permitted, but would be ‘belted’ on return. The option was to wet yourself and be spared the leather but then endure the humiliation of your classmates watching you mop up your own puddle.

So a few days later there I was explaining to visitors, from a different country and generation, how this ‘tawse’ was used to punish children and was a common teaching accessory across Scotland, only finally being banned in 1987.

Like most boys, and some girls, I was belted at school. I wasn’t a frequent victim of the punishment and, in my era, there were some who competed for the highest tally as a masochistic badge of honour.

My mother had been belted at school for ‘talking’ when it actually had not been her. The pupil code of honour meant you could not incriminate a classmate, not that it probably would have done any good, so she took her punishment and, while the pain would have quickly subsided, the injustice endured for the rest of her days.

I could sympathise with that. Even though I could accept that most of the times I was belted I had, according to the rules of the day, deserved it, my lingering personal memory is the one unjust belting I received

Sitting quietly in class, the lad behind me, who I believe had watched an episode of the Man from UNCLE the evening before, decided to practise a Napoleon Solo karate chop on me. My bare, unprepared neck suddenly took the full force of the side of my classmate’s hand. I still remember the pins and needles that went through my head and spine, all the way down to my toes, and the black mist that blurred my eyes. The unexpected blow pushed me forward and I squealed in pain.

What was equally unexpected was the lesson that came with this unprovoked attack. Apparently uttering any sound when subjected to a full-force martial arts blow qualifies as academic insolence. So with shaky knees, blurred vision, and tingling from teeth to toe, I was yanked out in front of the class, the tawse was removed from its tin box home, and I was given ‘two of the best’, screamed at, and shoved back into my seat.

It was an unfair punishment, but I saw many of these. Some linger as disturbing memories and while many of my age will have similar tales to tell, even as a young child there seemed something seriously wrong with a grown adult attacking as child with a strip of thick leather.

At my primary school you were spared the tawse until primary three, after that you were fair game for a good leathering. So, by my reckoning, that would have been ages seven and upwards.  Without judging the overall rights and wrongs of corporal punishment, in that era there was a case to be made for the belt being used to curb bad or dangerous behaviour, but then there were areas where you just have to ask, “What sort of adult could justify inflicting pain on a child for THAT?”

Needing to go to the toilet as described in Nanzie McLeod’s book, certainly falls into that category, as does, ‘in my book’ failing to salute your teacher if you saw them outwith school.

These two example are just bizarre acts of cruelty and self-importance, but there was one more instance, commonly accepted, where the belt was widely wielded and seen as completely justified, and that was in academic performance.

In my school days, it was humiliating enough for children to be seated according to their abilities, there was the zone of terror associated with being ‘bottom of the class’ and the teacher’s pets who occupied the lofty heights of being ‘top of the class’.

I endured neither of these pressures, being safely ensconced in the middle rankings, but even as children we all felt there was something just not right about that ‘bottom of the class’ ranking. It wasn’t a revolving role, those that occupied those handful of seats rarely moved, and the tenant of that lowliest of desks was usually a permanent resident.

As we moved into primary seven, around 40 of us, our teacher saw the belt not just as a means of punishment but as a vital teaching aid, one that could improve every aspect of your academic ability. It was a cure for dyslexia; it improved your understanding of arithmetic; it could help you spell; it could help you write quickly in dictation tests... 

Where teaching failed and ability was restricted, the solution was to inflict as much physical pain as you legally could on a child, then it would all be good.

To this day, I firmly believe that ‘Miss’ who stood in front of us should have been thrown out the profession, charged with assault, and a restraining order imposed so she was never allowed near a child again.

Harsh?  I don’t think so. And I rest my case on the Friday when all but one of us sat in silence and realised that what was unfolding in front of our impressionable eyes was not just wrong, but cruel and demented.

Friday mornings became our academic judgement day. We had a string of tests that began with mental arithmetic, followed by spelling, then dictation (rapid long hand with correct punctuation and spelling), then ‘problems’.

A certain number of mistakes saw you being given extra class work as punishment. More sums to do, correcting each spelling mistake by writing it correctly ten times, being given extra dictation and extra homework etc.

Somewhere in her warped perception of the world, Miss decided it would be an inspiring spectacle for the rest of us if the worst performer in the class in each of these subjects was belted – given a damn good thrashing.

Now, let’s call him ‘Mossy’. He was a gentle wee soul, polite, always spotlessly turned out, friendly, and a hard worker who always did as he was told. But try as he might, and he did try, academically he needed help and support. He needed one-to-one teaching, an adult whipping him with leather was not going to help. We all knew that, except Miss.

So this one Friday, Mossy flunked his metal arithmetic test badly, as he always did but instead of being given extra sums, he was pulled out from behind his bottom-of-the-class desk, and with his wee hand outstretched received four, or possibly six, of the best, along with a good screaming from Miss about how stupid he was.

Sobbing, he was shoved back into his seat, told to stop his snivelling, and the rest of us were given a lecture on what would happen to us if we performed as badly as Mossy.

It was a horrible sight to witness and created an atmosphere, not of fear because those at the top end of the classroom knew they were never going to face that level of punishment, ever. I remember it more of an unsettling mood; without speaking we had witnessed something that was very wrong.

Then we moved on to the spelling test.

I remember I got a few wrong but Mossy failed miserably. And with tear stains on his face and his hand bright red from the last belting, he was again positioned in front of us and, crying with so much pain, he took another thrashing as the tawse repeatedly came thundering down on him.

This just didn’t make sense, and I don’t know if Miss, having made her threats at the start of this Friday morning felt she had no option but to continue this bizarre academic lesson.

Dictation was up next, and that was a subject us middle-rankers had previously been screamed at over our performance. I still don’t really understand its merit in a primary curriculum. In a shorthand course, yes, but to have a teacher read out a passage and you try and take it down in long hand, with no spelling or punctuation mistakes is a challenge. If you struggled with a word, you would drop behind and forget what had been said. There was always a chance you could submit a nearly blank page for marking. That had happened in the past to Mossy, and it happened again.

So for a third time, this wee lad, shouted at, insulted  and pulled in front of the class, was expected to take another belting.

By now he was sobbing uncontrollably and, refusing to hold out his hand, he stuttered, “No Miss, no, I’m no’ taking the belt again. I’m going home and tellin’ my mum and dad...”

At that he made for the classroom door and had just got his hand on the handle when Miss grabbed him. She started slapping him around the head so hard that he ended up on the floor. By now she was apoplectic and dragged him out the classroom. In the corridor outside we could hear her screeches and his sobs while the whacks continued. Then he was apparently hauled up to the headmaster and, I believe on account of his insolence, he was sent home.

Miss returned to an unusually silent class. I have no recollection of anyone speaking at all, certainly an unusual phenomenon when a teacher wasn’t present. It was as if we all knew we had been witness to something unnatural.

I’m not sure but I think because of the beltings and Mossy’s departure from school, we weren’t given our problems’ test that Friday. That was a relief to all of us.

Did that mark the end of the beltings, or the Friday nightmares? No, of course not, though I don’t recall them ever being so uncontrolled again. Mossy was back at school that Monday and life went on much as before with Miss sitting at her desk sucking on a boiling while her belt lay coiled in that tin before her.

I don’t know the long-term effect all these thrashings had on Mossy but they had a profound effect on me.

When the next visitor to the museum asks about the ‘tawse’ I won’t share this tale, but it shouldn’t be forgotten. Lessons were certainly learned with all those beltings from the tawse but the most important ones concern those hands that gripped it, not those who waited to feel it.

Picture: Examples of the tawse, made in Lochgelly. An exhibit in the Abbot House, Dunfermline. The painting is 'The Dominie Functions' (1826) by George Harvey (1806-1876). The image was composed by Kim Traynor.

Bills and wills at journey’s end

 

There is a weariness to my moods these days. It weighs most heavily when I take a backward glance at my past and it sits in my mind’s eye just for a few seconds alongside the present, like one of those ‘then and now’ photo features.

Like many folk, when I stopped earning, your state pension becomes a sharp reminder that life has changed and unexpected expenses you used to wince at before can now force a dramatic rethink on so many different aspects of your life.

When you are confronted with an unavoidable bill, you take the matter very seriously, weighing up what steps you will need to take before you start finding that all important tradesman. But that financial worry and anxiety is added to by the process of trying to find someone willing to take your money.

I’m sure it wasn’t always like this. We are facing a roof repair and I’m expecting this is not going to be a small change job. Over the past fortnight we have contacted a good number of firms, some more than once. Out of that total, only one has replied, and that was to say the job was of no interest.

My money is as good as the next person’s, so is business booming to such an extent that we have now gone from the capitalist dream of cost-effective competition to over-priced monopolies? Keeping the customer satisfied seems to be in the past, as does respecting those who trust you enough to hand over their hard-earned, or rationed, cash.

How, and when, did the world I once know change so much?

And that brings me to the real downer.

I’m not organised enough to plan decades ahead, and neither is my wife, so when the decision came to draw up our will and testament, it was one made in the shadow of human frailty and finality. Obviously, you hope this document will stay safely sealed for a long time to come but, realistically, we know it is something that needs doing… now.

On a personal level, a lawyer’s office is not a place I have frequented. I’ve had numerous professional engagements with the legal world but, on a personal face-to-face level, they have been very rare occasions.

The last time I visited our family’s legal firm, which seems to have been in operation since the days of quills and candles, had to be more than 20 years ago. Then it was with my mother and, if I remember correctly, something to do with deeds and, as was her wont, ensuring all her official paperwork was in order. A trait I never inherited.

I remember the visit clearly. The sparkling woodwork and fragrance of furniture polish. The clicking of keyboards, the atmosphere of quiet efficiency, the ambiance of a learned profession, aloof from the mundane modern world outside.

I didn’t find it intimidating, but reassuring. A world of knowledge, dignity and timeless decorum.

And decades later I was back, standing outside the door. All the shops in the street were locked up on this weekday afternoon, the brass name plaques needed polished, the door needed varnished, and it was locked. When we made the appointment we were warned we might have to knock.

The office seemed silent as the knock echoed through the building. There were no keyboards clicking, no telephones ringing, just silence.

It took a while but the solicitor duly unlocked the door and we stepped inside. It was empty; not just empty, it felt abandoned.

“Ah, Mr and Mrs Morkis,” said the solicitor. “I’ll be with you in a minute, please take a seat.”

He gestured to a small place under the staircase while he went of to fetch the necessary papers.

So this was it? Our will and testament, our final legal act while of sound mind. Signing off from our lives, and signing away all we had at the end of a journey we had made together.

This was the solemnity of the occasion. A small table covered by a plastic 'cloth', opposite a broken office chair, a rust-stained, leak-damaged radiator, under a flight of stairs, in an empty office.

When he returned with those all-important and pricey documents, word for word the same as my late mother’s but with my name instead of hers, I wasn’t expecting parchment but I have a heavier stock of copy paper from Home Bargains for my desktop printer.

We duly signed the pages and were ushered back out on to an empty street, and the door closed behind us, and on our lives, at least legally.

That was it.

I am made to feel of more value at a supermarket checkout. I don’t know what I expected, but it wasn’t that. Did I really expect to be treated differently from someone looking for legal representation for a forthcoming breach of the peace case? Yes, I did.

This was a solemn moment of finalising the paperwork that would act as the bridge between our deaths and those left behind. At least that how we both saw it. It was a jolt to realise we were just an irrelevant broken-down couple in a broken Britain.

It would have been more satisfying to scrawl my last wishes on the back of an abandoned cigarette packet while having a tea and a Kit Kat in a transport cafe.

As you get older, there are so many areas where you feel, or are made to feel, worthless and insignificant.

This was certainly one of them.

An unfortunate case of indecent exposure

 

There are some people in life who make a lasting impression on you, no matter how briefly you are acquainted with them.

One of my earliest such encounters occurred when I was four years old and had just started primary. At that age, enduring impact usually would come from an adult rather than a fellow child, but not in this case. Even more unusual is that this particular character wasn’t part of my childhood very long, leaving, I presume, to continue his education somewhere further afield from Leven, a place fortunate, or unfortunate, enough – depending on your stance – to have a spare desk.

To share space with him, either alongside in class, or as a teacher in front of him, was to suddenly discover an entirely new colour in your paintbox.

I have no recollection of us sharing Primary Two together and, apart from the following incident, few enduring, detailed memories of him, other than him being perpetually in the centre of chaos.

Let me introduce ‘Tattie Traynor’. This was not his real surname and I have no idea what his Christian name was. It may well have been Tattie, but I consider than unlikely, but I wouldn’t completely rule it out.

Given he would have been four or just turned five, there was nothing remarkable about his height. He was average. His clothes were worn, with a couple of holes in his bright blue jersey. I recall he always wore grey shorts. Again, he was average. Facially though, he was different. He had blonde tousled hair, a mop that would make Boris Johnson look carefully groomed. There was a permanent stream from his nose channelling on to his top lip from a mysterious nasal reservoir. And he had the brightest, sparkling blue eyes, you can imagine.

There’s that old saying about “the eyes being a window to the soul”. Tattie was probably living proof of that. He was a fully-charged Triple A battery of mischief. It would seem when it came to fellow lifeforms on the planet Tattie could happily co-exist with one and all. There was no apparent meanness, cruelty or ill-will.

Permanent fixtures in life were not so secure. Anything that could crash, break, collapse, ignite, explode, implode, crumble, tumble, disintegrate or disappear would. And after all the dust settled there, standing among the debris, would be Tattie. His eyes twinkling at his mastery in restructuring the universe around him.

More enticing for him though, seemed to be rules. He was anarchy personified, a cheeky, funny, force of nature, and it was his ability to inspire others to follow that ideology that seemed to bring him the greatest pleasure.

And that was never more evident than in the mass indecent exposure incident of 1960.

Coming from a family of teachers, unless there is a secret code of silence, I have no other knowledge of any spontaneous flashing frenzy overcoming a class. Of course, officially, this particular incident never happened. I don’t believe any of those involved ever confessed to being party to this behavioural aberration. Its place in history can only be attributed, if deemed credible, to a single testimony. That delivered by an admitted plea-bargaining, cowardly informant.

Me.

We couldn’t have been in Primary One at Parkhill Primary in Leven, for more than a few days. There were still red eyes from the weeping caused by being abandoned by our parents. There was confusion at our new ‘carer’, the incredibly patient, wonderful teacher Miss Horne who would find herself quickly addressed by some as ‘Mummy’ in their bewilderment on the starting line of the supposed “best years of their lives”.

This was in the time before nursery classes were attached to the school, so we were in the main complete strangers to one another. As time passed we would learn more, much more, about each other, sharing tears, tantrums, and laughter. But, on this day, we were just a flock of unhappy, isolated children. Our shepherd, Miss Horne, said she had to leave the class for a little while and we had to sit quietly, probably being instructed to unleash our creativity with some crayons; the silence broken only by the occasional sob of abandonment.

A couple of rows to my right, Tattie was surveying the scene. Here we were, 40 or so sorry-looking children, obediently following the rules of authority. What was needed was some bonding, something to lighten the mood; some laughter, some outrage. He knew exactly what that moment needed…

He dropped his trousers.

Now, if Tattie had simply stood up at his desk and done this it would have been act of almost covert weirdness. An exhibitionist’s cry for attention from his peers. The reaction would have been uncertain, possibly disturbing.

But Tattie wanted, and saw, a bigger canvas for his tableau of P1 unification.

He calmly walked to the front of the class and took the place of Miss Horne until all eyes were fixed on him. Then he dropped his trousers to his knees, then raced around the classroom before settling back behind his desk.

Now, at that age, for most of us the difference between a boy and girl was as simple as one species had short hair and wore trousers, the other had long hair and wore a frock. That was it. Life is much more complicated now, and that perception much more dangerous. But for a child in 1960, that pretty much summed it up. However, baring all was nevertheless regarded as inappropriate, though in our innocence we were too young to really know why.

So when Tattie tore down his trousers and that taboo, I knew what was coming. It would be a row. A big row. It would come from mummy and daddy. It would come from teacher. It would come from the headmaster. It could come from Jesus. It could come from Jesus’ dad, God. It could maybe come from all of them.

The few seconds’ silence that immediately followed Tattie’s surprise display did not result in retribution of any kind, divine or otherwise. But it did evoke a response, spontaneous howls of laughter. Now that might well have been the act itself but probably more likely the ridiculous waddle-sprint, caused by his grey shorts binding his knees and limiting his bare-bottomed athleticism as he weaved around the classroom.

Spurred on and inspired by the hilarity he had caused, Tattie then began to conduct the class, encouraging, urging the lad in front of him to follow suit, and to demi de-suit. The anatomical baton was duly passed, the lad obliged and the laughter intensified.

And so it continued like some sort of surreal relay with boy after boy taking to the front of the class, dropping his trousers then waddling as fast as he could around the room and back to his seat. Tattie, now appropriately attired with everything tucked back into place, looked on, not just at the continuing participants but at the scene of merriment and mayhem he had caused. The class was in an uproar, everyone was in hysterics. The girls were crying tears of laughter, there was clapping… and now it was my turn.

All thoughts, nay, beliefs, that this was somehow ‘wrong’ had been dispelled as I proudly took my place at the front of my class and pulled down my Marks and Spencer stretch trousers with the elastic stirrups.

The clapping stopped, as did the laughter, and everyone except me turned their heads towards the door. I followed their gaze and before I could even haul my trousers back up I was lifted by Miss Horne and whisked out into the gym hall, past the disbelieving headmaster who was standing in the doorway.

Intrigued by the new Primary One seemingly bursting into unrestrained hilarity, teacher and headmaster had raced to the classroom only to find one lone pupil standing in front of the blackboard exposing himself.

It was not a good look, nor a good impression to make.

At that age, being a ‘grass’ or a ‘squealer’ doesn’t really carry the same social weight as it does in later life. So I sang like a canary, through the tears, willingly and rapidly incriminating all my male classmates, especially singling out Tattie as the ring leader in this mass indecent exposure incident.

I don’t remember if there was a class-wide inquiry and while I was more than willing to inform on my co-participants in this flashing fiasco, there was certainly no “I am Spartacus” moment from my fellow pupils, now sitting smugly with well-fastened flies looking like butter wouldn’t melt in their mouths.

More than 60 years on, I still recall that incident with a degree of horror and have often wondered if the first ever entry on my educational record has me marked down as a suspect deviant. Did every teacher from Primary One right through secondary, and even lecturers at university, always wonder what might happen if he or she left the room?

But I suppose the strongest image that has remained with me is from the height of the hilarity during that incident when I looked at Tattie. He was scanning the entire room, taking in all the faces and soaking up all that laughter, and I swear he was glowing with pride.

Illustration: Timisu (Pixabay)

My uncomfortable relationship with the alphabet

There’s an adage that I don’t agree with about not being able to teach an old dog new tricks.

Physical challenges may be too much, and while I would certainly admit that it may take that bit longer to flip a grumpy, set-in-its-ways mind through an unexpected intellectual hoop, it can be done, eventually. Usually.

In this case my personal hurdle has been mastering what is sometimes called the NATO Phonetic Alphabet. That ‘Alpha’, ‘Bravo’, ‘Charlie’ list, probably created to make sure bombs were not dropped at wrong co-ordinates and aeroplanes landed on tarmac and not an open expanse of water.

There was a reason for learning this, and the bonus was creating another memory test, one my wife and I can bounce off each other. Suddenly being asked to NATO-ise the word ‘sycamore’ on a woodland walk can be educational, and entertaining. The latter moreso if you happen to pass folk out for a stroll who tend to accelerate away from you in suspicion that you are in contact with a secret military bunker concealed somewhere in the undergrowth.

Before embarking on our phonetic mission, I had to confess that I have always had an uncomfortable relationship with the alphabet, not learning it until my first year at university. My wife, who once worked as a library assistant, was astonished at this and wondered how I had managed to journey through my school years without having a grasp of this most basic tool in the English language.

Basically, it was fairly easy, thanks to three classmates at secondary Brian Melville, John Moncrieff and Vic Pilka.

Before recounting how this trio unwittingly aided my linguistic labours, I should make clear that I was well acquainted with the alphabet and all its component parts, just not in the accepted order. Of course I was familiar with A, B, C, maybe even D, and could rattle off W, X, Y, Z, the issue was the bunch of letters in the middle that existed between those bookends in their own world of alphabetical anarchy. I knew there were 26 letters and could recite them as fast as anyone else, just in a different and, usually, varying order. Mistakes would be made. Sometimes, owing to omissions, my alphabet might be shy of a letter or two; then the occasional repeat might mean my alphabet stood at 28 or so letters strong. Given most words use a letter more than once and I cannot think of one that uses all 26, this was never really a problem. And, to be honest, I can’t recall ever being asked to stand up and recite the alphabet, ever.

It is possible that my class at primary did have to do this when I was absent for six weeks through illness. The arithmetical tables are forged in my mind with photographic clarity from those early primary classes, but I have no recollection of ever having an alphabetic rote drummed into me.

Able to read, write and spell, this gap in my educational grounding was never apparent to others, or to myself, until high school.

As an aside here, I’d like to mention my sister here – Marysia, Maria, Mary – only sibling of Jurek, Jerzy, George. We went to the same primary and secondary school but, in fact, I only every shared one year with her. I started in P1 as she entered P7. I entered the gates of secondary the term after she exited them. So instead of having a big sis’ to look out for me as I started the big school, all I got was a big shadow.

Alphabetically, Marysia was an ‘A’ student, ‘Acceptably Able’. You could find me a wee bit further along at ‘D’. I would claim ‘Decidedly Disinterested’, teachers tended more towards ‘Definitely Dim’.

As you moved through departments my response to, “Are you Marysia’s brother?” would change from “Yes sir/miss”, to “Yes sir/miss, but I’m not as clever as her.”

As clever? No, but there was a resourcefulness.

The alphabet issue really surfaced when we were streamed and I found myself in a registration class made up of a particular chunk of the alphabet. Now, given my shortcomings in the recognised order of this, I couldn’t tell you what precise chunk this was, but ‘M’ was there.

Then one morning the order was issued for us all to report to the assembly hall. Our registration teacher, the rather intimidating Dr ‘Doc Leaf’ Leckie, had us line up in the science corridor in alphabetical order. This proved to be an important lesson. If you don’t know that order, the only safe place to be is first in line, then everyone else has to form the acceptable chain around you. If you’re not first then you are just a lost and aimless letter.

I wasn’t first.

‘Doc Leaf’ seemed irritated at my bewilderment.

“Morkis,” came the exasperated and high pitched summons. “You’re Marysia’s brother aren’t you? She obviously got all the brains. Now get in place!”

I just stood there looking sheepish and as superfluous as the 27th letter in the English language.

“Don’t you know the alphabet boy? he shouted.

“No sir.”

“Oh, come here,” he demanded and, at that, grabbed me by the shoulders and pointed and yelled “Melville, Moncrieff, YOU, and Pilka behind you.”

And so that threesome of Brian, John and Vic became my markers for key moments in my school life, like taking the SCE exams. I’d wait to see where that trio would sit and then assuredly accommodate the vacant space. Of course, that only worked for the subjects we shared but the advent of names on desks helped and other occasions could be dismissed as exam nerves or an apparently rebel belief in free-for-all seating.

So, really, it wasn’t a problem. Libraries, record shops and reference books presented minor obstacles, so minor in fact that it wasn’t ever an issue until the days of research and essay writing at university. As usual, leaving everything to the last minute led to reference frustrations, easily solved by simply accepting society’s order for the alphabet.

So, I wrote down the 26 letters, learned them, and wondered why I hadn’t bothered before.

Fast forward 50 years, and the alphabet issue surfaces again, this time in the form of five letters and two numbers. Together this combination made up my car registration number and I ended up feeling as inadequate as I did in that science corridor, but this time without Melville, Moncrieff and Pilka to help me.

The problem, as it often is, tends to be exacerbated by accents - those from within the call centre and, of course, my own. Neither end of the line is willing to share that this will inevitably lead to some confusion. I enjoy that international flavour to my communication but still find it surprising that I apparently come across as a kilted clansman stumbling off a blood-drenched Culloden.

And so it came to pass…

“Can I just check that registration again with you Mr Morkis? FM55 XVD?”

“No, no,” I corrected him. “SN65 XPE”.

“Yes,” he replied, “That’s what I said, FM55 XVD.”

Let the game begin…

Now, while not being familiar with the aforementioned NATO Phonetic Alphabet, I am only too aware of the aim; that being to have words that unmistakably begin with the letter you are defining. Having a few words at my disposal, albeit not the ones relayed to and by military commanders in the field, the emergency services, air traffic controls across the globe and everyone else, I have my own alphabet.

“Okay, let’s start again,” I say, trying not to sound like Murdo McMorkis fae the clan McMorkis. “That’s ‘S’ for Sapphire, Sugar, Serendipity, Sprititus Sanctus. ‘N’ for, for, for… Neighbour, Naughty, Neolithic. Then sixty five.”

“Is that five, five?” he asks.

“No, no, sixty five, six, five.”

“Ah, six five,” he repeats.

I continue: “Then ‘X’ for... Xenophobia, Xanadu… X-Ray. ‘P’ for...” At this point I’m hit with the brilliant idea of showing off my geographic knowledge and rattling off, “P for… Peru, Paraguay, Poland, Palastine, Pakistan. Then E...”

“Echo?” he helpfully interupts.

“Echo! I repeat gratefully and relieved this is finally over, I exclaim, mentally shelving my Elegant Existential Elephants, “Echo! Aye!”

“Then he says, “India”.

“What?  India? No, no I’m in Scotland.”

“Yes, I know Mr Morkis, Let me read that back. SN65 XPEI. Sierra, November, Six, Five, X-Ray, Papa, Echo, India. Is that correct?”

Bewildered, I reply, “No, no. What’s with the India? There’s no India. Well there is an India but not in the registration. It’s it’s… Sugar, Nationalism, six, five, X-Rated, Pussycat… Echo. That’s it. That’s all there is. No India.

“No India?”

“No, definitely no India. What's with all this India?”

“Okay, so that’s Sierra, November, Six, Five, X-Ray, Papa, Echo?”

“Correct”

“Now, can I have your policy number Mr Morkis?”

At 12 characters long and a combination of numbers and letters, it proved to be a long afternoon, after which the NATO Phonetic Alphabet became a priority.

But, the Scot in me resents Whiskey having that ‘e’ and why do most versions give ‘Juliett’ an extra ‘t’? Bravo, uniform, golf, golf, echo, romeo, echo, delta, if I know.

Illustration: Gerd Altmann

International Holocaust Day: Would you be wearing a badge?

International Holocaust Day (January 27) has an even deeper and personal meaning for me this year.

Of course, it is a date that should make everyone pause, think and vow that the horrors of the 1930s and 1940s will never be repeated, but, of course, they have been. The roots of that ideology remain strong and the resulting atrocities, albeit in a different form, are being repeated somewhere in the world right now.

Nourishment for those roots comes from every little incitement for intolerance, where  displacement through scapegoating pedals a promise of purity and a promised land. Targets can be wide and varied - nationality, skin colour, religion, language, physical appearance, sexual orientation... Then there are targets who hold beliefs, values and attitudes that challenge the direction taken by their government -  political rivals, trade unionists, strikers, campaigners...

It was the  Jewish population of Europe that was the most systematically persecuted by the Nazi regime and its allies. More than six million Jews perished in a genocide programme that will stain humanity for all time, but the Holocaust saw many millions more consumed because of who, what or where they were.

That programme of extermination casts a shadow over all of us, proving that unimaginable cruelty can dwell in ordinary people, not monsters, and International Holocaust Day is a time to remember not six million, but 17 million.

That is the conservative total of all the victims in the death camps and concentration camps and other sites of horror. We remember the names of just a handful of these places - Auschwitz-Birkenau, Treblinka, Dachau, Mauthausen-Gusen - but there were many more, hundreds and hundreds more.

While we may have forgotten about, or never even knew, the extent of that nightmarish network of man-made hell, we should not forget that along with the yellow Star of David there was a colour spectrum of triangles, all badges worn by those 17 million victims in what the Romani people term the Porajmos, the ‘Devouring’.

The reason I was prompted to write this was that just a few weeks ago I received an update from Holocaust archivists regarding my Polish grandfather. Nearly a century on there is still documentation surfacing, details emerging, and families seeking answers. These dedicated teams continue to expand 17 million stories and give so many tormented souls the remembrance they deserve, and bring them back into the light.

As a political prisoner, the badge worn by my grandfather, Josef Kaspar Morkis, was a red triangle.

He was persecuted as a Schutzhaft case. This was basically a Nazi ruling that dispensed with any legal hearing as immediate custody was decreed as appropriate as the offender was a threat to the state, or whose life was deemed at immediate risk within the Reich from those outraged by those opposing the Nazi regime. Whatever para-legal excuse was used, it was, invariably, a death sentence.

Josef was stripped naked and, with others, marched through town before being forced into a cattle cart bound for Dachau, Germany, in May 1940. This was the Nazi’s first concentration camp, opened in 1933 to house political opponents. In June, my grandfather, now prisoner 7478, was transported to Mauthausen, Austria, where on October 16, at 1pm, he was murdered. Josef was 59 years of age.

His story, tragic though it might be, is not exceptional. If he was classed as an “undesirable” his death was one of 70,000; if he was viewed simply as an unnecessary Pole, then he was one of 1,800,000.

In either case, these are horrific numbers. Where just one brutal, cold-blooded murder, committed for faith, or race, or nationality, or politics, or sexuality, or disability is repugnant, it is hard to comprehend the extermination of 17 million human beings.

The information I received about Josef from the authorities didn’t add anything to the story I already knew. It was entries in ledgers and transfer documents, but these were the first tangible pieces of evidence in his final weeks.

Perhaps, he was standing in a line in front of that administrative clerk who took his name, or called him out. Or his details were in a pile being processed by a camp secretary before her lunch. But to see that tidy handwriting, detailing a man’s life and determining his death, isn’t just an emotional experience, it is also a chilling one.

Those ledgers of names were books of lives, each precious, each cut short, and each with a story to tell.

So on International Holocaust Day, I won’t just be remembering the grandfather I wish I could have hugged just once, or even the 17 million ‘devoured’ by fascist ideology, but I will also remember those with pens and stamps who sanctioned prejudice, silenced protest, stopped strikes, suffocated opposition, and sanitised hatred.

While we should never forget the victims, we should also never forget those who willingly catalogued and created them, or those who quietly stood by and let it happen.

Nearly a century on, the question remains the same. Are you a badge giver, or a badge wearer?

 

‘Morning’... has broken

There is a Scottish saying, “We’re a’ Jock Thamson’s bairns”. Depending on your outlook on life that’s a very socialist, Christian, Buddhist, humanist, or just downright decent viewpoint. I’ve heard cynical Scots add, “… and there’s nae doobt he had a bike,” but it is, nevertheless, a good sentiment. 

I’m not sure if there is a Polish equivalent but I was certainly raised with that ethos. Politeness and respect should be shown to one and all, be they wealthier or poorer, older or younger. My father would extend a greeting to anyone he would pass, be it adult or child. I don’t recall him ever stopping to blether, he was never that kind of man, but just a simple “Good morning” would usually suffice, and I was expected to do the same, which I did. 

This was taken to a new level on my first day at secondary. As I walked up to the bus stop, I passed a girl on her way to work at the bank. This was probably her first job, maybe even her first day. As she approached, I nodded and said “Good morning”. She ignored me. 

I’ll admit, as a 12-year-old she was undoubtedly the fairest damsel I had ever seen, and would, inevitably, grow into an adolescent crush. She was a daily and unavoidable encounter at the start of every single one of my schooldays and for the best part of over 1000-plus of them I never let her pass without a “Good morning”, but never once received a response. 

When I left school at 17, with awkwardness now wedded to cynicism and sarcasm, I suppose I should have presented her with a bouquet of flowers and a card that read, “Thanks for not acknowledging my existence, 1968-74”. 

Now, where most folk would say it was daft to persist when she obviously didn’t feel any requirement for the briefest of polite daily exchanges, her obvious disdain for me just made me all the more determined to ensure I never missed a single greeting. Plus, it just felt rude to pass someone on a daily basis in total silence.

That may seem like a pointless exercise but, a few decades on, she became a neighbour of my mother’s and, to this day, we exchange pleasantries when we occasionally meet, though I have never mentioned she is approximately 1000 ‘good mornings’ behind on my scorecard, and probably has no recollection of the awkward teenager she passed every day all those years ago. 

Perhaps it was the ‘training’ all those years ago but, more than half a century on and with times having dramatically changed, I still persist. 

When I’m out and about, usually in the morning, and suddenly find myself approaching a stranger I continue to say “Morning...” though, usually I still don’t get a response and that does irk me, bringing back what my mother and father  instilled in me, “Politeness costs nothing”. 

I’ll make an exception for the local youngsters I pass on their way to school, primary and secondary, albeit with some reluctance. As a grandfather I appreciate the “Don’t talk to strangers” message, though the “Cross over the road when you see a man approaching” is a bit disconcerting but, in this day and age, understandable. However, having four wee grandkids, I’m not too comfortable with the lesson that it is  better to risk road and traffic than pass a male adult on the pavement in daylight.

Then again, we may all be ‘Jock Thamson’s bairns’ but our parenting preferences vary. 

If there is an accompanying adult, there might be a response, and that endorses my childhood indoctrination but now tenuous belief in common courtesy. 

Since we are all on the same journey, though on different paths towards the  same guaranteed destination, I am less forgiving towards my fellow pedestrians, especially 'visitors' holidaying in the village.

One of my early morning routes takes me past a local landmark, ‘The Blocks’, known by many photographers as the ‘Zigzag Pier’, and it is an attraction that sees camera-carrying visitors on an almost daily basis. 

Not long before Christmas there were three snappers at various points along the harbour wall, capturing the sunrise. 

“Good morning,” I said to the first. There was no response. 

So I upped the ante and vocabulary for the second with, “Hi there, lovely morning isn’t it?” 

Again this was met with silence. 

So, third time lucky huh? That meant expanding the communication. 

I hailed the chap with, “Good morning! What a beautiful sunrise; looks like we’re going to have a lovely day,” stopping short from suddenly breaking into the Bill Withers’ hit. 

Result? A hat-trick of silences! 

By the time I got home I’d mentally written a rather scathing, ‘sweary’ limerick about ‘Three photographers on a harbour wall...’. 

But even with such rejections, old habits die hard and I persist with my “Morning” acknowledgement to those strangers I pass. 

My wife tells me that I proffer those greetings where she would never consider it and, as a child, it wasn’t something she was ever encouraged to do. 

My insistence on some form of minimal verbal interaction surprises her as she doesn’t view me in other ways as presenting an affable or approachable front, or someone who is ever inclined to ‘small talk’. 

This may well have been a lifetime flaw, an innate idiosyncrasy. While that is probably a valid viewpoint that’s not the issue, it is back to that ‘Politeness’ belief. 

To me, now, it is probably the last remnant of my childhood world where a “Good morning” to all and sundry was as normal as being chased for trying to retrieve a football from a neighbour’s garden, saluting your teacher in the street (well, one particular teacher or else you got belted the next school day), good table manners, closing doors, sitting silent through ‘Sing Something Simple’ on the wireless, and always remembering to say “Please” and “Thank you”. 

I appreciate that less and less people now choose to help someone in distress or difficulty, preferring to reach for their smartphone rather than reaching out with a helping hand. 

I had an embarrassing situation a couple of years ago when I went for a walk on New Year’s morning. I have a suspect left leg and as I stepped off a high kerb on a brae in the village, my knee gave way and I went crashing down, just as a group of visitors who were enjoying a festive break, approached. 

They walked around me as I struggled to get up, with comments like “Look at the state of him”, and “What a disgrace”. Maybe if it had not been January 1 the reaction might have been different, but it was a humiliating and embarrassing experience, leaving me bitter and more than a little angry. 

However, I have still clung on to my “Morning” ritual though, after the habit of a lifetime, the time has come where I believe I should now ignore my fellow early wayfarers, accepting that the vast majority, even enjoying a break in a small community, wish to be isolated in their personal bubble, resistant to such annoying intrusions as a greeting from a 'local'. 

That’s been reinforced on two near-sacred dates. 

Early on Christmas morning, two out of three folk, ignored my ‘Merry Christmas’, and two out of two ignored my “A guid new year to you.” 

I’ve never been one for resolutions but as we progress into 2023, I reckon “Speak when spoken to, but not before,” might well be mine. 

We’ll see.

Picture: Jaesub Kim (Pixabay)

Why 'Partygate' matters to me, and should matter to us all

 

February 22, 2022

'To believe in something, and not to live it, is dishonest'

 - Mahatma Gandhi

Emotions can wash over you in unexpected waves. To keep the nautical theme, one moment you can be on an even keel, looking at a calm horizon then, suddenly out of the blue, you’re knocked off balance and you struggle to hold your footing.

So it was when I received a brief email with a recommendation from an online trader, “because you bought 6x pairs ladies’ cotton panties ...”

That may seem like an introduction to some light-hearted tale, but it’s not, far from it.

That pitch for me to purchase brought back some very painful memories, and coincided with the breaking national news that would soon become ‘Partygate’ - the revelations and investigations for apparent breaches in the rules set by Government within the walls, and garden walls, of Downing Street at the height of the Covid pandemic.

The scandal has dragged on and on, probably to a degree where most are now fed up of it. The dust is settling and even when the now-famous Sue Gray and now-infamous Metropolitan Police present their findings, it is unlikely much will change after another brief political storm. Just as the weather works its way through the alphabet – Arwen, Barra, Corrie, Dudley, Eunice, Franklin etc – ‘Storm Partygate’ will be overshadowed by more crises and more dead cats tossed around for distraction

But what makes ‘Partygate’ matter to me it that it is personal, and it should be for every single person who believes in common decency, never mind accountability by our elected, chosen representatives.

My tale and my guilt are insignificant compared to tens of thousands of others. The audience I can share it with is tiny but, if we all shouted out and challenged; if we all found ourselves supported by those who were fortunate to escape any major trauma during the pandemic and find within themselves some empathy, then maybe all those whispers could rise to a roar. It is a forlorn hope, but, really, that wishful balm is all I have left to ease my own hoarseness.

It begins literally days before the United Kingdom went into lockdown at the end of March 2020. My mum was in supported accommodation and her health was failing. Hearing loss was now joined by macular degeneration, an irreversible eye condition that would lead to blindness, bringing with it on the journey into darkness a kaleidoscope of colourful hallucinations. At first these manifested themselves in strange, but harmless, displays of flora, but these would slowly be replaced by visions much darker.

A few of her friends had gone into residential care and after each time she visited them, she became more resolute that this was what she wanted ... and needed. We worked with doctors, specialists and social workers on a variety of assessments. As the hallucinations worsened so, it seemed, her memories also began to fade and the greater her confusion.

A psychiatric evaluation recommended greater social interaction to ease her growing feelings of isolation. Social services increased her care provision. As a family we tried to balance what the experts recommended against what mum herself believed was best.

Whatever was happening to her faculties there were, of course, times of great clarity. The last time we laughed together was when I left a psychiatric consultation with her and, sitting in the car, we both agreed we had barely understood a word that was said. She talked freely and easily, but I could sense her fear and weariness.

Meanwhile the care package was being restructured as the hallucinations became worse. She saw people now who sought her out wherever she went; there were children, sometimes noisy, sometimes standing silent just staring at her. Then came the notes they left, which she saw as proof of their existence, though they were written in her own shaky handwriting. Then there were the snakes, the vermin and, finally, the dead bodies.

Throughout her life, probably because of a damaged childhood, mum desperately needed company and in her failing health she relied on it increasingly, and at all times of day and night.

The social workers we dealt with were kind and understanding. A respite break was to be arranged in a care home of mum’s choosing to see if she would be happy and in the meantime efforts were made to encourage her to socialise more. There were activities in her supported accommodation complex; she enjoyed a day out every week to a group for the visually impaired, and it was recommended she spend every Friday at a nearby day centre.

I took her there to meet the members and while I saw to the paperwork she joined the others in the common room. It is probably my last treasured memory of my mum.

After I had spoken to the management and explained my mother’s health issues, she was all set to join them the next week, if she felt it was for her. I walked back into the common room to find her sitting at a table with a group of members. She was smiling and seemed happy, and I heard her tell them that her son had brought her and, as I approached the table she saw me, smiled and exclaimed, “Oh, here he is,” and reached out to take my hand.

That was her only visit, and the last moment of physical affection I remember.

We went into official lockdown the next week. Mum could receive no visitors other than accredited carers. All activities in the complex were halted with meals left outside the door. Everyone in the complex, though living together under the same roof, had to be isolated; there was no mixing and no socialising.

These were the rules.

While all professional services stressed the need for social interaction, my 95-year-old mother, virtually deaf and blind, suffering increasingly horrible hallucinations, was basically confined alone to her room with only the visits from approved carers to break her day.

These were the rules.

We were banned from visiting. The police were checking where you were going, doctors were almost impossible to see, never mind to make a house call, and mum was deteriorating. Even when the key safe broke to allow carers access, we couldn’t buy a replacement and fit it, so mum sat up through the night to make sure she didn't miss the carer.

These were the rules.

An episode where she believed her flat was littered with the bodies of dead children proved too much for her fragile state of mind and she broke down. Her screams of desperation weren’t enough to ease the restrictions but enough to make the housing provider decree she needed greater care.

Emergency respite was quickly arranged in a Fife care home and, distraught and bewildered, she was transported there by ambulance and then, again found herself isolated by being quarantined. She was alone with strangers, with no support and no reassurance.

These were the rules.

As a family we felt totally helpless and I cannot imagine what mum must have gone through. The hallucinations were still there but she had no idea where she was, or who it was bringing her food and seeing to her care needs. Her only lifeline was a mobile phone, a very basic model so she could operate it, and during her quarantine that was really her only contact with anyone.

These were the rules.

We got through that, with a few traumas, and mum was able to eventually mix with the other residents but, of course, we were still forbidden from any personal contact.

Eventually it seemed there was some light at the end of the tunnel. I spoke to mum every day on the phone. The staff told me she would sit there holding it waiting for me to call.

We would plan outings after the lockdown ended, we would drop off little treats at the care home door and, online, I could buy the little things she desperately needed, like that new underwear.

Mum, while still having episodes of confusion, seemed to be enjoying more clarity and desperately wanted to see her great-grandchildren. Setting up an i-Pad connection was tricky as the care home had to share its single tablet around all the residents, so we relied on calls.

On one I noticed she seemed to be becoming hoarse. That prompted the care home to contact its GP and mum was put into quarantine and isolated again. The doctors, remotely, decided it was nothing to be too concerned about, but her condition worsened.

After one call, which proved be the last time we would speak, mum was struggling for breath and said inhaling was causing her a lot of pain. She broke down and begged me to help her, to do something. She was so frightened.

We immediately phoned the GP with our concerns for her health and state of mind but were told if she didn’t improve they would prescribe steroids and it was really nothing to be worried about.

So mum, in pain, frightened, near blind and deaf, isolated in quarantine, was left alone with her terrifying hallucinations. The lockdown was ending in a couple of days but my wife and I wept at the horror and helplessness of it all just 48 hours from being able to see her.

These were the rules.

Mum died that night.

That’s the raw part of my experience. Of course there is much more. Mum was an organiser and, unbeknownst to all of us, had meticulously pre-arranged her funeral. Who would deliver the eulogy, the readings, the hymns – all of that had been decided. As a much-loved school teacher many were anticipated to attend the funeral, and even the cars for the family members to the service had been organised. The scattering of her ashes were amongst her last wishes. None of these arrangements happened they way she wanted.

These were the rules.

It seemed as if the conclusion of my mother’s life had helped erase who she had been to herself and to others. The rules and regulations surrounding Covid had almost reduced her from an individual to just a statistic.

When you look at her final weeks then add that to other personal family stories of lonely diagnoses and delayed treatments, battles against the virus, home-working, unemployment, financial hardship, mental health issues, schooling difficulties, childcare problems, and every combination of these as well as so much more, the pandemic has left a wound that is still open … and very painful.

Across the UK there have been more than 160,000 Covid-related deaths, that is well over double the British civilian deaths in World War Two, or, to look at it in another disturbing way, 42 per cent of the total British soldiers killed in WW2. It is a shocking number and as to whether it is a statistic aggravated by governmental indecisiveness, incompetence and complacency will, no doubt, be another political storm in months, if not years to come.

The point is when you look at that 160,000 and add the numbers of those who died isolated and alone from non-Covid causes, the volume of harrowing tales is simply mind-boggling. Every single one though has something in common, they are all tightly parcelled up in the rules set by Downing Street.

There were no exceptions for the families who suffered loss. We were told this was a national crisis and something we were all sharing together.

I remember banging my saucepan and joining the clamour of my neighbours in praising the National Health Service. Everyone was making sacrifices and the NHS was our frontline saviour.

That did not last long. The NHS would be the first to be wounded as the conspiracy theories emerged that every battle-weary, emotionally worn-out nurse and doctor was part of a big Covid lie and the praise for their efforts from the doorstep of Downing Street was simply a soundbite while the real bite ahead was what was essentially a pay cut.

And then came the insult to the sacrifice made by millions to keep each other safe. As I stood wearing a mask in an empty car park and picked up the few bags of my mother’s final belongings, including 6x pairs ladies’ cotton panties, it appears they were partying at the heart of Government.

At first there were no such gatherings; then, if there were, all rules were followed; the Prime Minister had not attended if there had been parties; then he had actually attended a party but thought it was a work meeting; then there were more parties ... It became a drip-feed farce.

As one of the 160,000 families outraged by this shocking development, I had to make my feelings known. After all, everyone with that sense of decency would surely be raising their voice in protest and, morally, I had to add mine.

So, like so many up and down the country, I wrote to my Member of Parliament,. North East Fife’s Wendy Chamberlain was sympathetic and even before I received a response she had already expressed her concerns over the continuing revelations, and responses, from the Prime Minister at the Despatch Box.

Though I applaud Ms Chamberlain’s stance, as a Lib Dem she is a minority voice in an Opposition party and in our first-past-the-post system she has no clout where a hefty majority for the winner gives the nation a democratically-elected dictatorship.

Then as the number of Downing Street parties reached double figures, the Scottish National Party leader in the House of Commons, Ian Blackford, called the Prime Minister a liar. This breach of House etiquette led to his ejection from the Chamber at the command of the Speaker, Sir Lindsay Hoyle.

Mr Blackford would, in due course, apologise and return to his place on the Opposition benches. Personally, I would have dearly liked to see every one of the 290 Opposition MPs follow Blackford out, hopefully with a few of the remaining 360 Tories joining them.

If each had yelled ‘Liar’ as they left the Chamber then, perhaps, we may well have seen change at the heart of this Government with a leader, at the centre of a horrendous death toll and two years of public sacrifice, reportedly able to turn on a 'Fred Scuttle' impersonation while singing the Gloria Gaynor anthem ‘I will survive’. Depending on your point of view this is either embarrassing or endearing.

However, my ideal mass walk-out was not to be. Instead, we were again reminded of the rules and calling out a fellow Member as a ‘liar’ was simply not acceptable. While I understand this constitutional decree on politeness, I have a major problem with it because if there is, in my book, one thing worse than calling someone a liar, it is the actual liar.

It was a point I thought, at least in my mum’s memory and my own anger, that I should personally make to Sir Lindsay.

Those who know me probably have me labelled as a crank who simply tilts at windmills for the sake of it. This I do not do. I firmly believe in the raising of voices and can only hope others join with me. Few do.

I haven't won many battles, looking back, probably none, but I hope I have always made my point and perhaps, at least, caused a moment’s consideration or reconsideration by the powers-that-be whose inbox I have gatecrashed.

Given my track record, I did not expect a fulsome response from the Speaker so was surprised at a lengthy reply received from Josh Ryder, assistant to the his secretary.

It pointed out: “The Speaker has noted your comments and asked me to explain that it is not for the Chair to adjudicate on the accuracy, veracity or suitability of Members’ contributions, so long as the contents of their words remain “orderly” in Parliamentary terms. Mr Speaker can only operate within the powers afforded to him by the House and it would not be appropriate for him to play the role of fact checker during, or subsequent to, debates.”

After explaining all the options an MP has before him or her to challenge a contribution, the reply concluded: “The Speaker takes all comments from members of the public very seriously and would like to reassure you that one of his principal concerns is to ensure that the highest standards of debate are maintained in the House of Commons.”

Fair enough.

The reply didn’t really answer my concern though.

And that is … while understanding the need to ensure the highest standards of orderly debate, the House of Commons has evolved somewhat from exchanges across the floor against a background noise of a Hansard quill and ink whizzing across a piece of parchment in the finest shorthand.

The exchanges, especially at Prime Minister’s Questions, do not bounce around the 650 MPs. Radio and television have increased that audience to a potential 60 million, not one of whom has the power to jump to his or her feet and, avoiding the word ‘liar’, yell across the Floor “fabricator” or “fabulist” or “calumniator” or “distorter” or “falsifier” or whatever term is acceptable to describe our national leader’s relationship with the truth and realpolitik.

And Alexander Boris de Pfeffel Johnson knows it. From Downing Street parties to crime figures to accusations of protecting paedophile monsters, the lies ooze into homes via radio, TV and newspapers and idiotic online reader comments, to become truths for enough people to prop up and reinforce the dictatorship.

The ‘lies’ issue is no longer about protecting standards and ensuring orderly behaviour, it simply protects liars and lying to the general public. Challenges and retraction, if they occur, rarely receive the publicity the first flurry of falsehood commands. The first verbal strike is the most effective whatever the veracity - the Jimmy Savile incident is a perfect example.

But at least my protest was read.

Or was it?

Ten days after the response from Josh Ryder, in the the Speaker’s office, I received another reply, this time from another assistant, Kate Winterflood.

This contained nothing new, literally nothing, other than the signature, being a word-for-word copy of the missive I had received from her colleague over a week before.

It is likely my initial communication was simply filed in the folder for responses that merited the stock response and an administrative blunder earned me a second letter.

The notion of any personal interaction is, in reality, probably no more than another falsehood within a system that has nothing to do with representation of the people but is purely lip-service and marketing.

The illusion of that system is that it is working for the benefit of the nation; the reality is that it is working to retain a comfortable, self-perpetuating establishment.

Now when I see a picture of the Downing Street garden party during lockdown, I see my mother’s few belongings outside the door of a care home in an empty car park.

Boris Johnson made rules for my mum, and while they were harsh I'm not saying they were wrong and weren't for the common weal, but he made different ones for himself.

He made himself special and, by doing so, my mother's life meaningless and insignificant. He has sullied her memory and I just don't think that's right.