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Duty and Shame

Barack Obama's Inauguration speech really affected me on a personal level yesterday. I listened alone in a Boardroom, in the gathering dark above Hanover Square as he spoke of the duty of individuals to contribute to a globally networked community. He said "our patchwork heritage is a strength" and "let's not compromise our ideals in our need for safety".

It felt like he was speaking to me personally. I'm always most deeply affected by the idea that individual efforts can combine to affect the world and the community at large. I was reminded of Nelson Mandela's Inauguration day, and how much has passed since then. I realise that I've never seen myself as a citizen of any one nation, but rather a citizen of the world first, and then as a child of Africa, and now as a part of a European community.

"This too shall pass"*, and even this -

- that my parents are suffering so much and no matter what I do, I have no power to help them,

- that my relationship with my partner is a difficult one, and I don't know how and when and if we will survive as a couple,

- that my university studies have become more of a chore than a challenge, as I'm forced to study history from a post-imperialist apologist perspective that I despise,

- that the way I speak to people continues to excoriate and come back to haunt me,

- that I've only been given two days to reconnect with my sister and her sons; not enough, never enough, and I just have to accept it.

But then sometimes at my lowest ebb, I can laugh - at myself, as I weaved my way home last night, tipsy after 3 glasses of wine and a merry old time with Rosemarie, calling Gerald to have a good old sob on the phone - and thank heavens for my friends. My friends who are, after all, the family of my choice. I may not be there for them all, all of the time, but they're with me always and that's the one good thing that I needed to remember.

Good luck, President Barack Hossain Obama; hang on to your friends because I think you're going to need them! :)


* Abraham Lincoln, from a old Hebrew saying

Don't Panic*

I stripped rather nervously.

As instructed, I crawled naked into the machine. Eye patches stuck over my eyelids, I reached out blindly for the button and pressed "Start".

For a moment, everything was still. I held my breath and waited. And then, like a space age rocket machine, a loud and pleasant "Bing Bong" rang out around me, and all the lights in the machine came on. Through my blindfold, I could faintly make out bright purples and reds; a loud humming noise and faint, ominous cracking noises in the background. I couldn't help a nervous giggle. God help me, I thought, they must all think I'm nuts.

I waited. I began to feel a heavy warmth spreading over my body, over my skin, creeping into every nook, every curve of my limbs. A glowing heat tickled between my toes, lit up my face, gleamed on my shoulders. Slowly, slowly I began to relax and allow the heat to seep through all my aching muscles, still plagued with vague doubts and wondering if anyone had ever been caught in an explosion and killed in one of these infernal machines.

"What happens if I fall asleep? What do I do if I overheat and shrivel? What if someone .... "

"Bing Bong" said the machine pleasantly and shut down.

I sat up, peeled off my eye stickers and stared in the mirror. Yes, definitely more tanned.

Funny thing, though. I feel like I've just taken a trip in Zaphod Beeblebrox's Free Lunch Drive*, and returned as a piece of roast pork crackling.

* with thanks to Douglas Adams

Cool Yule!

Non, je ne regrette rien

I get awfully tired of hearing about the looming recession on the radio, watching tv news and reading the papers. So many words! Yet, with all the commentary on the credit crunch, the recession, a depression and economic mayhem, everyone is so busy attributing blame, finding reasons and excuses with the perfect vision of 20/20 hindsight, you have to wonder about our vision of the future. Is anybody looking forward and planning how to avoid this in the future? Doubtful!

Who cares whose fault it all is? Why do we have to spend so much time finger-pointing, blaming and picking history to pieces? None of it will teach us anything to prepare us for the next time round. It's so easy to destroy politicians after the fact (makes you worry for Barack in times to come). Lest we forget, we are the ones who had them elected, after all.

And we can bitch and moan about bankers, greedy capitalists and corrupt fraudsters like Madoff, but it was our own self-interest; our own consumerist hunger for more of everything material that made them, wasn't it?

We need to get over our little selves; our ego-driven arrogance, and celebrate the tightening of the belt.

It can only do us good to lose a little of the fat ...

... in every sense of the word.

The 8.02 via Charing Cross

For nearly 4 years now, each morning I have come this way. I walk to Finchley Central, and I wait – if I am lucky – for the 8.02 to come down from Mill Hill East. It is a shorter route, so it’s the only train which arrives still empty. All the other trains come down all the way from High Barnet and they are full, so there are no seats. The 8.02 is the one train I can still find a seat to sit and sleep in, and to dream, on my way to work.

Most mornings I sleep. I start off by reading the free daily tabloid, the London Metro. But after so many years I am sick of the British media. There’s nothing of substance to it but the comics and the horoscope. Then I drift off to sleep and wake, every time, two stops before the one where I alight. It used to be Charing Cross – every day, for two years. But because I work in temporary contracts nowadays, sometimes it’s Leicester Square, sometimes – as now – it’s Tottenham Court Road and on to the Central Line.

Sometimes I study. We are back with poetry on my Open University course and I’m reading The Faber Book of Beasts. My thoughts drift off and I remember my dogs. Perhaps in March next year Guy will have the chance to meet Scooter and Zeus. I remember Scooter and how she loved to curl up against me and close her eyes in bliss, inside my arms, my smell, my love. I remember her first time at the lake; small abandoned doggy, so scared, hopping on three legs. She was such a girly-girl. She used to get stressed in the heat, stressed in crowds, stressed by Zeus, jealous. Feminine to the core. And Zeus, so much like Guy, big and bold and golden and beautiful – a force of nature; patient, joy-filled adventurer. I see them often in my dreams. Sometimes when I meditate they’re also there with me; they swim in the dark pools with me in the silence of the wooded forests where I walk. I think they’ll be with me till the day I die.

Today my sister Jane called me. This is the first phone call in four years; and it was a bit of a tragi-comedy. There she is, at work on a public holiday. She started talking and it became harder and harder to get a word in edgeways, until I had to cut her off to deal with an electrician waiting patiently to talk to me in my office, a broad grin on his cheerful face. I cut her off and called her back a bit later, and we spoke of my parents; frail, ageing, nostalgic.

She tells me Julian is heading on to Design College next year, and I’m filled with fierce joy for him. Vincent continues with gym every day, which also buoys me up with pleasure. But it’s possible they may be on holiday at the coast when Guy and I come to visit next year, so – once again – my family manages to plunge me into despair and irritation. Really, you’d think they were crossing continents to try and avoid me! But I shake it off; as I always do. This is my family and we are what we are and I am where I belong, for all the right reasons.

On Sunday morning, just after midnight, Guy and I will travel down to Stonehenge to take part in the Winter Solstice ritual at sunrise. He helps me realise all my dreams. There is no more powerful sense of belonging than to be drawn into someone’s arms at night and hear the words “my woman” whispered in the dark. Glimpses of other peoples’ intimacies over the years – love letters on a kitchen fridge - come back to remind me that 20 years of freedom was a great adventure for a loner like me, but that all the frustration and heartbreak of partnership are wrapped up in new worlds, new families and new adventures.

The 8.02 comes into Tottenham Court Road, where I change for Oxford Circus and the high street lights of Christmas. I put on my scarf and trudge the 97 steps (I’ve counted them) up to street level.

The lights are fragile and beautiful against the still-dark morning sky.

Our First Christmas

The littlest Christmas tree



















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