Sweetness

One of the great things about living up our lane is that when there's a fabulous dawn and you want to take a picture of it, it's just fine to slip on your long winter coat over your pyjamas and put on your wellies and stride down the lane to capture a moment that won't be there in five minutes time.

Yesterday I did just that and met my next door neighbour walking the dog and no explanation was necessary. 

Here is the result, which I love:

It makes me feel so happy.

Someone else's photographs make thousands of people happy on Twitter everyday - Mick Oxley  aka @SeaSkyCraster, who treats the world to a daily photograph of the sea and sky at dawn, that he takes from his window in Craster. Last week the photos were all so stunning and so different, and he kindly gave me permission to share a few of them here:

Photo by Mick Oxley, 5th February 2020

Photo by Mick Oxley, 6th February 2020

Photo by Mick Oxley, 7th February 2020

Photo by Mick Oxley, 8th February 2020

After feeling so desperate a couple of weeks ago I've been holding the news at arm's length and trying to build up my resilience by focusing on the good and the beautiful in everyday life.

Yesterday I went to an art workshop with a friend, plus lunch afterwards, and I came back so uplifted that when I played my current practise pieces on the sax, that have lately been feeling stale, the improvisation went so well I wished my teacher had been there to hear.   (I was going to say 'I played my current pieces and totally smashed them' and then I looked up 'smashed' in the urban dictionary and decided perhaps I'd better not. It would been far more pithy, however.)

I read of some research recently that happiness rubs off on other people. So being happy and sharing happiness is another arrow in the quiver of people who want to make the world a better place.

Lastly, I want to share this poem with you which fits into the theme of this post...

COLD SOLACE

When my mother died,
one of her honey cakes remained in the freezer.
I couldn’t bear to see it vanish,
so it waited, pardoned,
in its ice cave behind the metal trays
for two more years.

On my forty-first birthday
I chipped it out,
a rectangular resurrection,
hefted the dead weight in my palm.

Before it thawed,
I sawed, with serrated knife,
the thinnest of slices —
Jewish Eucharist.

The amber squares
with their translucent panes of walnuts
tasted — even toasted — of freezer,
of frost,
a raisined delicacy delivered up
from a deli in the underworld.

I yearned to recall life, not death —
the still body in her pink nightgown on the bed,
how I lay in the shallow cradle of the scattered sheets
after they took it away,
inhaling her scent one last time.

I close my eyes, savor a wafer of
sacred cake on my tongue and
try to taste my mother, to discern
the message she baked in these loaves
when she was too ill to eat them:

I love you.
It will end.
Leave something of sweetness
and substance
in the mouth of the world.

Anna Belle Kaufman

(I have been unable to contact the poet for permission, but the search for her contact details continues.)

Image

I went to my first ever fashion show on Friday evening. How glam is that? No, I wasn't wearing sunglasses and legs and sitting on the front row.  

The show was put on by the Bakewell Oxfam group as a fund raiser, and the clothes were new and all from high street shops. 

It's a great way to raise money for a charity. All you do is hire a hall and sell tickets and do all the usual stuff like have a raffle and sell drinks, and a clothing company swoops in with a thousand new but cut-price items of clothing they want to sell. 

The clothes were modelled by local women while a compere told us what they were wearing and how much it cost. It was huge fun. The models were not stick thin and looking mardy, but had ordinary figures and big smiles. And the audience were there to have a good time. 

After the show, we were invited to check out the rails and buy some clothes. The fact that 95% of the clothes were ones I would never think of buying didn't spoil my enjoyment. It was such a fun way to spend a wet Friday evening in February with friends when you live out in the sticks. 

There was one item I liked but someone else had nabbed it. And there was something else I'd have bought if I'd been 17 and not 70:

But you know me, I can never resist a pair of dungarees.

This is me with Isaac 40 years ago:

And this is me last year.

Dungarees rock. The last time I wore legs was when I looked like this:

You think I should be a bit more dressy? Look. I live with a man who has five pairs of smart dungarees, and who's just been standing in the bedroom door interrupting my writing this by telling me about some woman he's been watching doing carpentry on Youtube.

'What does she look like?' I said.

'She's got very small hands.'

'What does she look like, Dave? Is she blonde?'

'She's got a massive table saw.'

A modest pleasure (updated)

Yesterday we woke to gales of 37 kmh and rain and the bad weather was set to continue all day so I decided I'd write all morning and then go on the train to Sheffield to see A Beautiful Day in the Neighbourhood, the new Tom Hanks film. The film has got good reviews and it sounded as if it was just up my street, as it's based on a true story of kindness overcoming cynicism.

The problem was that when it was time to set off, the wind had dropped and the sun was out. Shouldn't I grab the fine weather and go outside instead of sitting in the cinema? If this was the last day of my life, which would I choose? The fresh air of course. I only ever go to the cinema in the daytime in winter, when the weather is bad.

Dither, dither, I had to decide or I'd miss the train. So I checked the weather forecast for today, Wednesday: it was good, so I could get a bike ride in. I was still undecided, and Dave wasn't there to offer his two pennyworth so I grabbed the Magic 8 ball. 

I've never done this before to make a decision. I bought it for research purposes when Jane and I decided that Iain, a character in Plotting for Beginners and Plotting for Grown-ups, should be in the habit of consulting a Magic 8 ball when he couldn't decide about something. 

'Shall I go to see the film?' I asked.

'Yes, definitely' was the answer.  

The film was OK. Yes, it was good, I suppose, but it did not move me, and I did not emerge from the cinema enthused. Mr Rogers was obviously doing valuable work with children via his TV show, in teaching them how to manage their feelings, and with his message that everyone is valuable and special. 

However, at times I found the character slightly creepy, and there was one scene where he was so annoying I actually wanted to punch him in the face. The journalist is asking him questions and Mr R doesn't answer. Instead, he takes out his glove puppets and gets them to ask personal questions of the journalist. The journalist walks out, and good for him. Was this what really happened? I'll have to ask the Aging Hippie if the real Mr Rogers of American TV was really like the character in the film.

I actually enjoyed my evening at home by the fire much more, fielding a new set of questions about the cat's cognition that Dave comes out with every night and which drive me demented. 

'I suppose cats are completely unaware of death?'

and 

'Do you think she plans her week at all?'

I've just drawn the blinds and it looks like this:

Not exactly promising. If the sun doesn't come out I shall feel even more like punching Mr Rogers in the face. 

   

How to feel better

There is plenty to feel bad about quite apart from B***** and the heartlessness of this government. There's  the "Peace plan" for Israel and Palestine cooked up by Trump's son-in-law and Nethanyahu. As if it's possible to have a peace plan when only one side of the conflict has been consulted. 🙄. In any case it isn't a peace plan, it's merely a legitimisation of the theft of Palestinian land. 

But it wasn't this that caused me to sink into a very dark place last weekend. Before I go on, I want to say that I am nervous about this post. So be nice to me. You know that quote I often have on here from Barry Magid?

"We don’t have to hate ourselves for our own vulnerability. We don’t have to hate ourselves for what life has done to us. We don’t have to hate ourselves because hurt or loss or longing has gotten to us. Our desires will always be with us in some form, keeping us firmly attached to a world that will hurt us. We must come to love ourselves, love our life, in its vulnerability, in its impermanence, not in spite of all its flaws, but because of them. Because the vulnerability, the changes, the flaws make us who we are."               

I am trying to bear this in mind as I write.

So what was upsetting me?

I was devastated when the government voted against including in the EU withdrawal agreement the right of refugee children abroad to be reunited here with family members who were not their parents. I wasn't just upset that the amendment failed, I was upset at the thought that all those MPs could be so downright mean.

And there was another thing: the case of a teenage boy called Samet. When Samet was 11, his drunken father forced him to beg on the streets of Tirana in Albania to support his family. At 15 he was taken to Brussels and what happened to him there traumatised Samet so much that he still can’t talk about it.

Samet was then trafficked into England where he was given asylum and fostered by a kind man called John Stokes. Samet settled well, and learned English fast and is now training at college to become a carpenter. But as soon as he turned 18 the Home Office wanted to deport him.  His foster father launched a campaign to overturn this decision. He took a petition signed by 400,000 people to the Home Office last week. The Home Office refused to change the decision. The fight for Samet's future continues, but there are many many young people in a similar situation who are living underground and have no-one to fight their corner.

It's hard to explain how very desperate I felt about all this last weekend, and always in the background for me these days are the dire results of the UK governments's austerity policies.  

This quote is relevant...

“Compassion hurts. When you feel connected to everything, you also feel responsible for everything. And you cannot turn away. Your destiny is bound with the destinies of others. You must either learn to carry the Universe or be crushed by it. You must grow strong enough to love the world, yet empty enough to sit down at the same table with its worst horrors.”

Andrew Boyd from Daily Afflictions

But on Sunday after Quaker Meeting, I had a chat with an 80-something friend, who listened to why I was upset and said three helpful things:

1/ I need to protect myself from other people's sadnesses while still trying to help, otherwise I'll sink and be no help at all.

2/ There are many, many good people in the world who are doing wonderful things to help others. He gave me specifics.

3/ I too am contributing in the things that I do.

I think that as well as his unquestioning acceptance of my feelings, it was the second point that was the clincher. Somehow, and I know it's unreasonable, I was irrationally feeling it was my job to fix everything that is wrong with the world.

Of course, I just need to do my bit. I just need to be kind, and that includes being kind to myself. And I need to remember this quote I got from some ancient bint who has a blog called Fragments of a Writer's Life.

We never know what effect we have on other people and thus on the wider world. That's why we need to keep going, following our path, being ourselves, doing our best, even if our efforts seem small and insignificant.

And you really won't believe what has just happened! Just this minute! The post arrived and with it, this postcard from my dear friend Het, who told me this week she'd been to hear Richard Layard (86) the Happiness guru, talking about how to be happy. I leave it with you.

Farewell from the Monsal Trail

An oldie but a goodie

WEDNESDAY, AUGUST 27, 2008

Dreaming

Last night I dreamed I was in the kitchen with Dave, and he was prodding my stomach with a fork. I said "Don't! That's not nice!" and he stopped, and went out of the room. Then he came back and did it again. Then I woke up with a horrendous stomach ache.

I could hear from Dave's breathing that he wasn't asleep, so I said "I have this awful pain," and he was full of sympathy, as he always is, and we discussed what might be the cause of the pain, and then I told him my dream.
"Was it a big fork?" he said.

I pictured a devil's fork and couldn't speak for the giggles. Then, when I calmed down, I said "It was a kitchen fork, fool. But you had a look of malice on your face when you were poking me."

"It's so unfair to hold me responsible for my behaviour in your dreams. And you know I'm not a malicious person. Scientific exploration is different. I could hold up my hand to prodding you with a fork to find out your core temperature."

Scrabble progress report

Last night we played Scrabble and only scored for me, to see if I could reach my target of 600 for the double board. I got 582. Not bad. It certainly took the sting out of it not having to see what Dave's score would have been, especially as he had all the 10 letter tiles and managed a 7 letter word on his second go.

At the end of the game I slumped back against the sofa, exhausted. It was 8 o'clock.

Me: 'Can you believe I'm 70?'

Dave: 'Yes.'

Gales of laughter - from me.  

Dave: 'What was I supposed to say?'

Sue: 'No, of course!'

Dave: 'Oh.'

Sue: 'Just think. There are 80 year-olds wandering around looking happy. How do they manage it?' 

Dave: 'They're probably doing drugs.'

Handicaps

I'm still reeling this morning from this dizzy virus, but I did manage to cycle up the Trail yesterday. I knew I was under par and going slowly, but even given the virus, to be overtaken by a runner was beyond demeaning  

Do you think it makes you more competitive if you come from a big family? And do you think that only children tend to be uncompetitive? I am the former case and Dave is the latter. Although it could be more complicated than family size, because he himself would say his family didn't know the meaning of the word ambition, and my mother had plans for us all.

As kids, the sibs and I played hard core Monopoly; and we'd time each other to see who could do a jigsaw fastest. Then when we were bored with that, we'd turn the jigsaw over and do it without a picture. Pete always won Monopoly but I can't recall who was best at speed jigsaw. I like to think it was me...

I am pondering this because of the nightly game of Scrabble at Hepworth Towers, which for me is becoming very trying. I've complained on the blog before about Dave beating me at every single game - crokinole, table tennis, darts and Scrabble - and how dispiriting this is. 

Several years ago he stopped playing Scrabble with me because he hated my competitiveness, and I only managed to persuade him to start again by pretending that I didn't care who won, that I just wanted to reach the score of 300.

Lately I have not been able to pretend, and I know why that is. He's made some new boards which are twice and three times the size of a normal game, and bought extra letters. This means that when he beats me it can be by hundreds of points.

He always says things like 'But it's not about the score, it's about the pleasure of making words!' and 'I never crow!' and 'I really don't care who wins.' 
and I say 'If you were the one who always loses you might begin to care.'
'But you win sometimes.'
'Yes, one time in ten.'

Last night in a game with a normal sized board - admittedly a game in which I was drowning in vowels from beginning to end, and apart from the Z, the only letter I had in the whole damn game with more than one point was a G - he beat me by 200 points.

Sue: 'I am so fed up!'
Dave: 'The scores are not so far apart.'
Me:  'Don't give me that rubbish! It's bloody double!'
Dave: 'Well, would you like me to start you off with a hundred points next time?'
Sue: 'I don't want a handicap! I want to nail you on my own terms!'

The ugly beast of competition was out in the open.

Not very Quakerly, is it? 

Below par

You can tell you've not shaken off last week's virus when you wake up with a headache and tinnitus (which you usually only get when you're tired or stressed) and then your brother rings for his weekly chat before Quaker Meeting, and whereas you usually chat for an hour or more, this time you run out of things to say, and then after you've said goodbye, although it's the most beautiful sunny morning, cold and clear, you not only can't face cycling to Meeting, you can't face Meeting itself. 

So you get back into bed and sit propped up in the sunshine and try to work on your current writing project, but find that you can't even do that.

However, I want to share with you two things... one a comparative analysis on Youtube of the four major screen adaptations of Little Women. It's fascinating, and also sheds new light on why the Prof Bhaer ending in the 2019 film is not altogether convincing. It's not meant to be!

Secondly, I have two new fab reviews of my novel, EVEN WHEN THEY KNOW YOU.

The stonking new adaptation of Little Women

When I first heard that there was a new film adaptation of Little Women, I thought 'Why do we need another adaptation? Haven't we got enough? The 1990s one with Winona Ryder was super, and that unusual one the BBC had on a couple of Christmases ago, that was good too. And different. Why on earth has someone decided to bring out another?'

But seeing all the plaudits for the Greta Gerwig adaptation, and loving Little Women as I do, I went to see what all the fuss was about. And I told you briefly on here, didn't I? Go! It's fabulous!

Now I've been again and love it just as much the second time around, and I could easily go and see it again next week if the circs were right.

So what's all the fuss about?

Greta G, who directed it as well as writing the screenplay has mined the writing of Louisa May Alcott and used her views to inform the script, which makes the film richer and deeper and more adult (No, no, I don't mean sexy. It's still a U.) 

It also means Jo's writing is central. The film begins with her selling her first story to a New York publisher, and running down the street in abandoned happiness afterwards. How well I remember that feeling. And the film ends with her cherishing her newly published first novel. I remember how that felt as well.

There are some new themes raised - the position of women in the 19th century, the economics of marriage, the sidelining of the work of women artists and writers. Don't reel back in horror. It's not preachy, and it fits completely. And there is all the original material in there as well: 'Christmas won't be Christmas without any presents' and the comment Amy makes when Jo cuts her hair off: 'Jo! Your one beauty!' 

One of the new bits that sticks in my mind is this speech from Jo near the end of the film:

"Women, they have minds, and they have souls, as well as just hearts. And they’ve got ambition, and they’ve got talent, as well as just beauty. I’m so sick of people saying that love is just all a woman is fit for. I’m so sick of it! But I'm so lonely."

And I cried three times in the film (always a good thing for me) and not just when Beth dies.

The film is long - two and a quarter hours - and yet it is very pacy and never drags. My only tiny misgiving is this: the film switches back and forth between different times in the story, so often and so rapidly, that I wonder if people who have never read the book or seen a film adaptation before will be able to follow the narrative arc.   What about all those men who have never read the book or seen a film of it? But then, will they even go and see it? A lot of them will dismiss it just because of the title. Poor saps.

My son-in-law, who goes to the cinema every week, and keeps up with the new releases, said he didn't fancy it. When I said how sad it is for all those men and boys who would never dream of going to see the film, he said wryly he felt sad for all the women (meaning me) who would never dream of going to see Joker. Touché.

Sally commented on the blog last week that she loved the new film. I'd love to hear what the rest of you think if it.

Oooh, ooh, nearly forgot. The clothes are fabulous! I hope they rock the fashion world and boho stuff becomes more widely available. 

Something that amuses me

I'm not too well today, with a head too thick to blog, but this old post came to mind because we've recently been embroiled in a pants crisis. Thankfully, Dave has now resolved it - until the ones he has ordered arrive on Thursday and he finds they're no good...

Crisis on the Home Front

All of Dave’s jeans (four pairs) -  which I bought in a January sale 5 years ago - have worn out at the same time. This is an emergency. He wears jeans 99.9% of the time, and owns just one pair of smart trousers (Hugo Boss, no less) that were hand-me-downs from Isaac when he moved to the USA in 2003. As a stop gap I have given him my over-sized dungarees that I bought in Colorado last autumn.



You know I hate shopping, don’t you? It isn’t that Dave hates shopping, it’s that he doesn’t know how it works. He thinks that if he sits on the sofa by the fire in the evening and says his clothing is at crisis point, and he really has to get some new jeans organised, they will materialise in the chest of drawers upstairs.

He has the same problem with his underpants. I used to shop for Dave’s clothes, but it is a dispiriting sport. Where do you think all the jokes about jeans and pants spring from in Plotting for Grown-ups?

exhibit 1: the problem with jeans

Richard called at lunchtime and I showed him a pair of jeans I’d bought in the Scouts jumble sale. They are just Richard’s size, and they look quite hip to me.

He tried them on and said precisely what I expected: “The waist is far too low.”

Richard spends the entire day hitching whatever pair of trousers he is wearing up round his waist, and these wouldn't go high enough for his liking. They weren't the kind that exposes your pants, they were merely an inch lower than the M&S seconds he bought off Bakewell market five years ago. “I want something more robust,” he said.

“They are robust!”

“I'm looking for something more workaday. I need something that genuflects less to fashion and more to safety and comfort.”

“But you’re trying to look attractive to women, aren’t you?” I said.

He pulled up his sweatshirt and exposed the flesh above the waistband. “This low waistband is an outrageous ploy to dupe the consumer. Dickies don't skimp on material like this.” (Richard worships Dickies work clothes because “they are commodious, they shrug off stains, and they have wonderful pocketry.”)

“These jeans make you look ten years younger, Richard.”

“I don't think I'll be wearing them,” he said, vainly trying to hitch them up high again. 

“They look like a high risk trouser. Edgy.”


exhibit 2: the problem with pants

He got up from his chair (we were sitting in the kitchen) and tugged at the seat of his trousers. Then he sat down again and said, “Some of my underpants are terrible. It’s as if they’re alive – I can feel them creeping down my thighs. I need to cull them.”

“What you need to do when you get home is get them all out of your drawer, and lay them all out on the bed and go through them, one by–”

“I am going through them! That’s the trouble! But where can I get some decent ones? I have had it up to here with M&S Y-fronts. They’re hopeless!”

What is it about men and their underpants?

“You need to get something that isn’t a standard Y-front, something a bit more 2011-ish. Especially now you’re on the pull. I mean – what would Ms Fuchsia Pink think of them?”

“This is where Dickies could pounce,” he said. “They ought to be calling in their top designers, even as we speak.”

“So what do you think the perfect underpant needs?”

“Security, material that shrugs off stains, adequate ventilation – possibly assisted – and a reliable fastening. It’s about time persons of quality gave their attention to the comfort and protection of the nation’s manhood. Paxman tried a few years ago – do you remember all that kerfuffle on the Today programme? Nothing happened. Next thing you know, Prince Charles will be muscling in with the Poundbury Pant and the Prince’s Truss.”

There are several problems – as you can see - but the main one is that he thinks good quality jeans and woollen jumpers cost under £10. You, dear readers, may be able to source such prizes, but out in the sticks the discount stores are few. I have brought home too many items in the past that have been rejected on grounds of cost.
I’m waiting to see who will crack first – him or me.

Compliments

Have I ever shown you this piece I had in the Times some years ago?

I hope not...

He loves me! He thinks I’m an old Land Rover

            Valentine’s Day will be upon us within a few weeks. How many of you with long-term partners are expecting to receive a card oozing with loving feelings and brimming with compliments?

            When Ronald Reagan’s letters to Nancy were published a few years ago, it prompted a Times reader to write to the paper quoting some of her husband’s offerings in contrast. “You may be an old goat,” he had written, “but you’re my old goat.” Women all over the country must have laughed grimly in recognition. I did.

            Can you top this gem that my husband delivered as we sat in the late summer sunshine? "You know, sitting there with the light behind you, you look quite attractive. For your age. From this angle." Or this one, said as I was trying on a new jumper:“You look quite slim in that garb – it must be an optical illusion.”

            What is it with long term partners? Do they have an automatic complimentectomy after two years of cohabitation? Being more charitable, maybe they think it undermines the integrity of the relationship to be anything but completely honest at all times. And if they do find themselves slipping into rave revue mode they feel they have to tone down the comment by qualifying it. Yesterday, I found a note my husband had sent with some flowers when I was in hospital after a mastectomy, and I quote:

These look terrific, but not as terrific as you.

And underneath this he’d written:

This may be overstating the case.    

He’s not insensitive though. He does realise that ageing is difficult to come to terms with, and that couples should give each other kindly, supportive boosts form time to time. One day, as we sat doing the crossword, he said, "The inside of your eyebrow looks youthful."

"What?" I spluttered. 
"If I squint, the inside of your left eyebrow looks quite youthful. It's wrinkle free." Then he smiled, and his imaginary tact lights started flashing. He thought he’d done so well.

His latest attempt was - “Your back is one of your best remaining bits”- but it just made me feel like an ancient ruin

Working from home, I rarely have to brave the world of power dressing. Unfortunately, living in an empty nest, I have to depend on my husband’s feeble efforts if I need reassurance about my appearance. On going to a festival where I was due to give a presentation, I asked if I looked OK to stand up in front of a lot of people. He replied rather anxiously: "How far away are they going to be?"

         Last week, when I was going to an important meeting he asked me what I had on my eyes.    "Eye make-up" I explained.

"Why?" he said.

"So that I don't feel like such an old hag," I said.

"Why aren't you covered in it?"         

            I used to feel sorry for my teenage children when they had unsightly pimples in very obvious places. On coming down to breakfast, mortified at the new blemish, and desperately wondering how to disguise it for a day at school, my daughter would be greeted with: "Zoe, did you know you had a huge, nasty spot right on the end of your nose?"

            Living with an incorrigibly candid man can be psychologically bracing, but at least when he says something complimentary you know he means it. In our house we have a game where we go through each member of the family and say, if they were an animal, what animal would they be? Or alternatively, what piece of furniture, or what type of house ?

One day we used cars as our reference point, and I was delighted to be described, not as a Morgan, or a Mercedes, but a Land Rover. The pile of magazines my husband keeps under the bed to leaf through last thing at night are well-thumbed back copies of Land Rover International. In his eyes a Land Rover is reliable, versatile, unbeatable, fun and, above all, an object of desire.

P.S.

Me: "What did you think of my article in the Times about your compliments?"

Him: "Well, it wasn't nearly as boring as I was expecting."

This weekend my latest book EVEN WHEN THEY KNOW YOU is free as an ebook on Amazon.

Follow this link. And tell your friends about it too. And Facebook, and Instagram and...anywhere else you can think of!

Hey ho

You know that petition I asked you to sign the other day?

Yesterday, the House of Commons rejected proposals to keep protections for child refugees in the redrafted EU withdrawal agreement bill. Oh my God, would it have hurt them to keep it in? The bill goes to the House of Lords next, so we're not yet entirely done.

When my blog posts are scanty, there are a number of possible reasons:

1. I am ill
2. I am tired
3. I am fed up
4. I am busy writing 
5. I am busy doing something else
6. I have nothing to say that I think will interest you
7. I am away

In the present case it is 4 and 6. It was 3 as well, but I am keeping away from the news so 3 is waning. 

Please be patient. I’ll be back.  

And in the meantime, here are the girls in Colorado, for those of you who follow their progress...

photo by Isaac

photo by Isaac

The new Little Women

I haven't got the time to write a decent blog post, but I do want to tell you that I went to see the new Little Women adaptation yesterday and it was fabulous. 

For once the hype is justified. I have liked the last two adaptations, but I LOVED this one, and I'm going to see it again as soon as possible. 

Go!

Something postive to do

At the end of previous years on the blog I have given a New Year round-up, sometimes with highlights of the year, or highs and lows, or bests and worsts. This year I couldn't face it. I had looked back on the 2019 posts and been shocked as to how much wailing I'd done about the Tories and the results of their cruel and unnecessary austerity policies and their hostile attitude to refugees and asylum seekers.

I clearly stated 10 years ago that this wasn't a political blog - and I meant it, too, with the exception of posts about Palestine - but I just couldn't keep my feelings about politics off the blog last year. So the troll who surfaced in the comments section in December, could, I suppose, be forgiven for thinking this was the place for political debate. Long-time readers know it's more a place of the day-to-day at Hepworth Towers, the ups and downs in my writing, musings about this and that and not very much, and photographs of the Monsal Trail, my garden and my grandchildren. And let's not forget the annual jam-fest.

There's been a lot of despondency at Hepworth Towers since December 13th, and yesterday evening Dave said 'Do you think we'll ever be able to watch the news again?'

But I want to draw your attention to this bit of news in the hope you will help: it's concerning child refugees.

Right now, the Government is preparing to scrap a scheme which gives child refugees the right to be reunited with family members in the UK. The new Brexit withdrawal legislation has dropped the UK's agreement to honour the arrangements about this that already exist.

But there is an amendment to this legislation coming up in Parliament in the next couple of weeks to ensure that child refugees with family members in the UK can still have the right to be reunited with them. 

Please will you sign the petition here, and also write to your MP to ask them to support the amendment. The petition website gives you a specimen email that you can use. 

Please help.