Shall I Compare Thee to Theresa May?

Shall I compare thee to Theresa May?

She is a ship of self deception, littering

Her promises of wealth and health and no delay

With no more substance than a winter’s glitter.

As winds blow frozen thoughts from Arctic shores,

She’ll force her cheeks into a rictus grin

And wait, assume a pose for rapt applause

From party faithfuls. 

                                 She cannot win

While mothers have no money left for food,

Teachers work until they cannot think

Doctors give their final pints of blood,

Frail and disabled hide, all hope extinct.

You, in this filthy corner, wrapped in rags

With nothing in your life but plastic bags.

With apologies to Shakespeare

An apology to the young. We have let them down.

It is, surely, part of the human condition for each generation to aim to leave the world in a better shape than they were born into. We want peace, prosperity, and joy for our children and grandchildren.

I was born not long after the War. There was still rationing. Times were tight. But it was also just after the birth of the NHS and the Welfare State. No longer would the poor and the sick need to struggle by themselves. National insurance payments would provide a safety net for everyone.

It was an idealistic response to the deprivation of the 1930s and then the horrors of War. But it was also built on a belief that we can, and should, create a world in which peace, mutual respect and care for the frail and vulnerable is possible without judgement. 

The 1960s built on that. We were the generation who could, and would, make it all happen.

But now I am ashamed of us.

My education was subsidised until I was 24. I emerged without debts, and a qualification that led to a job. I could save for the deposit on a house. I was healthy, and I was educated. Of course, there was still a long way to go - there was still hardship and deprivation. Racism was rife. But we had made a start and pressed on optimistically.

Thatcher did her best to scupper our efforts. Her cult of individualism bred selfishness that hasn’t helped. Blair made a start on turning that tide, and then wrecked it by invading Iraq. 

And from then on ... we have seen all we believed in and fought for eroded. Education is precious - and yet now only the wealthy can take it for granted. Those working in the NHS find their efforts to keep us healthy and care for the sick undermined by a government who can offer nothing but glib, meaningless statements. We had forged peaceful links with Europe, found a way to end the fighting in Ireland - and that’s all being dismantled. We recognised the scourge that is racism and have challenged it in every corner - but only an outcry in the press has made the government pause in its efforts to deport brown people. There is more poverty, more homelessness ... I could go on.

How can we look at our children and grandchildren in the eye? I hope they rise up in a rage and protest. We have let them down.

Petition, Petitions, Petitions.

This blogpost isn’t about the bombing of Syria. Or maybe it is.

Petitions have been with us for decades. But they’ve taken on a life of their own in recent years. The internet has made it easy for anyone to set one up, and to reach thousands (if not millions) of people. The government has promised to discuss a matter in parliament if a petition attracts more than 100,000 signatures. (They haven’t, of course, promised that more than two people will be present in parliament for that discussion.)

At first glance, surely this is a wonderful thing? It means more people will think about and engage with matters that affect us all. It widens democracy, keeps people involved. Given past concerns that most people were disengaged we should, surely, be encouraged that so many are willing to express their opinions.

Or, we could argue, the sheer proliferation of petitions effectively weakens them all. I’ve lost count of the different petitions I’ve seen demanding parliament has a vote before Brexit terms are agreed - all phrased slightly differently. There are petitions to ban plastic straws, restore hunting (I’m trying to be balanced here - personally I’d keep the ban), provide sanitary products for girls in schools ... the list is endless. And yes, they all matter. But are all these petitions really an effective way of promoting change?

Speaking personally, I’ve stopped signing any. 

I have two reasons. For a start, I can’t sign a petition without giving my email address, and that results in a bombardment of spam. There is no way I can sign and insist that my contact details remain private. Who else are they selling my details too? And what use are they put to?

Secondly, I have yet to see one petition that actually made a difference. While I’m delighted to see so many people feel strongly about Brexit or badgers or milk bottles, there is no evidence that those in power give a monkey’s toss what we think. Which is deeply depressing, given the mess the world is in at the moment.

Life in the open air.

Hopefully, by the time you read this, it will be a bit warmer. But goodness, hasn’t it been cold! Like almost everyone else, I’ve stayed indoors. Not only because that is the official advice (I’m not one for official advice, but not putting my life and the lives of those who might have to rescue me at risk seems common sense to me.). There was an eerie hush outside. Even the birds stopped twittering. My lovely town seemed to be holding its breath waiting for warmer weather. 

We in the UK make a fuss about weather. I’ve just come back from Nepal (as many of you know) where people respond more pragmatically. It’s hot ... wear something light and flimsy that keeps your skin covered from the burning fire. It’s chilly ... wear more clothes (I learned to wear a blanket while I was there), and join your neighbours round a fire.

And maybe it’s the neighbours that make such a difference. For most of life in rural Nepal is lived outside. Rooms are for cooking or sleeping in. Everything else happens in the open air. Lives are lived in public. Women sit in their doorways to pick over the rice to find stones.  Children flit from family to family. Young people do their homework on the kerbside. 

Which means that if anyone has a problem the street or the village knows - not via any gossipy grapevine, but simply by concerned word of mouth. The ups and downs of family life spill out into the street and become everyone’s concern. And everyone chips in to help find a solution.

The Nepali don’t need official advice when the weather is challenging. They don’t need a government to remind them to look in on vulnerable neighbours to make sure they are warm enough and haven’t run out of bread. It is simply second nature to take care of each other.

I know our climate, in the UK, makes outdoor living impossible for much of the year. But, as we hide behind our locked doors, or even grow huge hedges to ensure the privacy of our gardens, we also shut ourselves off from the possibility of communal nurturing that keeps the show on the road in so many developing countries. It is, I think, our loss.

In praise of small charities.

There’s been a lot of less-than-charitable hoo-ha in the press recently, much of it justified. The behaviour of some aid workers and their managers is indefensible. It is hardly surprising that their donors are withdrawing support. It will raise huge questions next time there is a disaster - we need the organisational know-how of the big agencies to deal with floods and earthquakes.

But I’ve observed, in my travels in some of the world’s most impoverished countries, that many of the big changes in people’s lives are made by the tiny charities. 

For instance, the Chitepani Trust, begun about twenty years ago to help the residents of a small village in the Himalayas, has - in that time - given every home a toilet and biogas for cooking, made sure the small health centre is stocked with basic medications and provided additional support for villagers with special health needs, and supported students and teachers in the village school. It is a small project - and has changed lives.

The Mandala Trust, slightly bigger, seeks out small projects that have grown from local efforts to meet local needs: it helps with funds and occasionally with expertise, but its basic tenet is to enable people to manage their own project.

In Malawi I came across a school, reliant on tourist money, but it has grown from a ‘classroom’ under a tree to an institution with buildings and a uniform and children who can learn to read and count who might otherwise be illiterate.

But we don’t need to look to the developing world to find small projects that make a significant contribution to people’s lives. With councils unable to meet even their basic obligations it is now down to the likes of you and me to keep the social show on the road.

Is there a community centre near you? Who runs it? And how is it funded? My guess - it’s a small charity, and is run by a small group of overworked volunteers who manage to provide everything from yoga-for-young-mums to support groups for the elderly. 

What about an environmental group, cleaning up local waste ground or keeping the footpaths clear? 

Do your children play football? Go swimming? Go to Woodcraft? Attend a project for children with specific needs? None of them are free, but almost all are run by volunteers - and many of them are charities and rely on donations.

And so - while the behaviour is a few in the big charities is abhorrent (and I don’t suppose the small ones are all whiter than white) - it’s essential that we don’t let that colour our view of the charitable world in general. The vast majority are run by committed, hard-working people and they need our support. It’s the least we can do, given the lives that they change.

And if you help run a small charity, please feel free to put all possible links in a comment.

Prizes, and speeches, and huge mountain skies.

Last week (scroll down if you missed it) I wrote about our minute’s silent reflection for those who lost their lives in the earthquake. Now to tell you a bit more about where I was.

Thulaswara is a small village, close to Chitepani (where Tika grew up). Their main school building collapsed in the earthquake and the Chitepani Trust (a small charity - more of that another time) had made a huge contribution towards the rebuilding. We (Tika and Ann - a friend who is also here at the moment, and me) went to the village to join the celebrations for the anniversary of the rebuilding. (Please bear with the brackets!)

We took a jeep up to the village. (I wasn’t sorry - I’ve walked up here many times, and it’s a long, hot, dusty climb.) The villagers were assembling as we arrived. Benches were set out in the school yard - children at the front, men behind them, and the women on separate benches at the side. I settled at the back.

But not for long. Tika was called to the front - rightly, for the administrative work he does for the Chitepani Trust that made the rebuilding possible. Ann was called to the front - rightly, for her tireless fundraising that made the rebuilding possible. Then I was called to the front - why? Because I have a white skin? I have done nothing but cheer them on. But up I went, to be given a garland of marigolds and white scarf and a tika of red powder on my forehead, and take my place at the top table. 

Then all other visitors to the village were given a comparable welcome and seats at the front - so it felt a bit less uncomfortable. But I still think my precedence over local people whose ties to this village are much stronger than mine does not sit easily with me.

Nevertheless, there I was, as the speeches began. To be fair, there were occasional breaks for children to march by with flags, or dance, or come to the front to receive prizes (writing books), and for those of us at the top table to pay our respects the education goddess. But these interludes were breaks in the main performance - speeches. Children shuffled on their benches and pulled faces at each other. People got up and went to the loo and slipped back into their seats. 

I looked around. The sky was a deep blue, the buildings low and functional, the benches resting in the dust. Small birds twittered; kites took to the thermals. Prayer flags fluttered in the breeze. (This is the view from a nearby hilltop).

Yes, this went on longer than any prizegiving I had to sit through as a child. But when I was a child we had plenty to celebrate - school sports, school plays, school fetes. Here in the mountains people have barely enough to see them through the seasons. Every achievement is precious - and deserves its moment in the limelight. And if that means I have to sit through hours of speeches, and have no idea what on earth is going on, that is fine. It was an honour to share it with them.

Dear Homeowner ...

It’s that time of year again. Not just the whole Christmas thing, the tinsel and carols and mince pies, the presents that must be bought for those we love and those we ought to love ... it’s that time of year when we are bombarded by pleas from charities.

Here in the UK it is now illegal to send begging letters to named people - so I can no longer get the ‘Dear Jo, Here is a picture of a little deaf girl who will only ever be able to hear unless you send her £20 a month ...’ But they are allowed to send the same letter to ‘Dear Homeowner...’ and, since they have our names and addresses anyway, they can still target the same people year after year.

In times of austerity we depend on charities to fill the space that used to be filled by government or council grants. On top of that, organisations such as the lifeboats, the air ambulance, major medical research programmes, support for families where someone is dying from cancer, women’s refuges (the list is endless) have always relied on donations. The government’s contribution has always been a drop in the ocean of international need and so charities must pick up the slack there, too. (I’ve written about that, in ‘Everlasting’, by book about Malawi).

It seems that the charities have, collectively, decided that this season of goodwill and generosity is the time we are most likely to part with a little extra. If we can find £10 to buy socks for Great Aunt Nell then surely we can find a bit more to feed a starving child.

Many of us can - and do. We do our best, and wish we could do more. 

I am also sure there are some that have the money but who never give a penny to charities; they may have their reasons but I’m not going to guess. But there are also thousands, possibly millions, struggling to find enough to give Santa a hand this year and who simply cannot dip into their pockets to meet the needs of others. Smiles on the faces of their own children on Christmas morning must come first.

Which is why I struggle with this annual bombardment of Christmas appeals. I believe that most of us do the best we can on the charity front - and that means some can give more than others. That’s how it is. Nobody should be made to feel bad simply because they have fallen on hard times and don’t have enough to share at any time of year.

Deconstructing need.

I need a holiday. It’s been a long year, what with finding a new flat and trying to sell a house and then accepting that the whole Brexit shambles meant the house wasn’t going to sell but I was moving anyway so talking tenants and then moving to a new town ... it has been a bit stressful and I need to flop about somewhere warm for a week or few to recover. 

What is this ‘need’? I’m going to Nepal, where people ‘need’ to enough food to eat and homes to shelter them from monsoon rains. Last year I was in Malawi where ‘need’ drove men to fish in rivers full of hippos and crocodiles. Laotians ‘need’ decades of peace to recover from the trauma of years of unremitting bombing.

Here, in the relative affluence of the UK, there are thousands who rely on foodbanks because they don’t have enough money to pay for food. I know of one family caught in the delays to universal credit payments: illness has brought loss of employment and now lack of income has meant the mortgage isn’t paid and they may lose their house. (Where will they live then? Who knows ... they will need shelter from the winter cold as much as my Nepali friends need shelter from the monsoon rains.)

Yes, I have been hugely stressed this year and will no doubt be energised by some time away. But ‘need’? I must choose my words more carefully. For my misuse of the term is an insult to the millions across the world who struggle to meet their basic needs: enough to eat and a weather-proof roof over their heads.

Volunteers - and where would we be without them now.

Walk down any High Street and you can’t miss the charity shops - all staffed by volunteers.

Go to any surgery, and there are leaflets about this support group and that support group, and often a transport scheme for those needing help to get to hospitals - all run by volunteers.

Go to any community hall, and the likelihood is - it is run by volunteers.

Children’s sports clubs, youth groups - all rely on volunteers.

And where do they come from, these banks of volunteers? Some, of course, depend on the self-interest of the volunteer - support groups for people with a particular health condition are run by people needing connections with others who have the same problem. Cricket clubs are often run by people who want to play themselves.  Even so, if they want to encourage young people to join it means adults giving up their free time to teach them. 

But there are also armies of volunteers who simply give up their free time for no other reason than a general feeling of ‘needing to give something back’. I’m not at all sure what that means. But if it keeps the show on the road ...

For the show, given the lack of government investment or even interest in the way many people are struggling to get by, is a bit crumbly at the moment. Where once it was reasonable to assume that the council might invest in services for children or keeping the park clean or supporting the frail or keeping libraries open - but we’ve no hope of that now. 

I have a problem with these jobs being cut. Part of me would like to let the system collapse so that people could see the extent of the damage these years of austerity have done. But we can’t - because real people will suffer and resources such as libraries will be lost forever if we do.

So here I am, in a new town, trying to get to know people. And along came the opportunity to volunteer at the local Arts Centre, to support their work with children and young people. Ten years ago I suspect someone would have been paid, on a sessional basis, to do the ‘dogsbody’ tasks that underpin these projects. But the half-term painting project, completing wall after wall of pictures for the local pantomime, would have been almost impossible for one worker and one artist. 

It was knackering but I loved it. Three days with children, helping to mix paint, cleaning brushes, and somehow creating great pictures in spite of the chaos and the mess - it was wonderful. I know, in the current climate, I’ve not deprived anyone of paid work. But should things change then it’s essential that I withdraw ... or maybe apply for the job ...

Don’t they know it’s not Christmas?

It’s the middle of October. The trees are turning orange and gold; the squirrels are burying nuts; it’s time to get out the warmer woollies.

And the next festival (how we need them to brighten the shortening days) is Halloween. And so, yes, there are pumpkins in the markets and wizards in the toy shops. 

So why are there fireworks, already, sparkling and twinkling and crackling, filling the dark skies with  colours. Don’t get me wrong, I love fireworks - but we’ve another three weeks till bonfire night (here in the UK at least).

Even worse - there are Christmas decorations in the shops. Red and silver and winter green. Giant gift displays. And the background music in John Lewis last week … (brace yourself) … O Little Town of Bethlehem. Yes, with more than two months to go, the shops are already trying to tell us that our great aunt Nellie can’t live without a scented candle or several. You’d best try those fairy lights because you can’t possibly be the only home in the village without a flashing Santa by your front door. 

More than two months - that’s over a sixth of a year, and already we are bombarded with Christmas. 

I understand that shops are having a hard time at the moment as we tighten our post-referendum belts. I understand that many families need to spread the cost of Christmas. It is an expensive time of year and the prospect of debt can only make things harder. However, do these hard-up families need their children winding up to the big day, asking for this latest that gizmo or that whatnot - for weeks and weeks and weeks. It’s fine for Mum and Dad to hide whatever under the bed for a month or few, but how hard must it be to have little a Harry pleading each time they do the weekly shop.

There’s more. With the shops full of Christmas trinkets, Halloween and Bonfire night risk drowning in the tinsel. And where is the space for those who don’t recognise Christian festivals to have their moment in the spotlight? 

I’m privileged to have friends all over the world. I know it’s Diwali next week, and so shall light a candle or three to celebrate. And please, if I have Jewish or Muslim or Buddhist (or any other) visitors this week, please tell me if you have a festival before the end of the year, and I’ll light candles for you too. And if you have a birthday - let us all know. You, too, need your own celebrations. I might save you a firework.

What if ... malaria reaches America?

I wonder how many of you have caught the snippet of health news from Asia … the emergence of a lethal strain of malaria that is resistant to current treatments. 

I knew it was there in Cambodia, in a remote corner of the country on the border with Vietnam. Apparently it has now spread to Thailand and Vietnam - and so, potentially, into the ‘mainstream’ malarial areas. There has been a drive to eradicate malaria from the Mekong delta (using preventive measures such as bednets and sprays, plus experimenting with vaccines), but if this strain reaches the Mekong all those efforts will be undone.

The biggest worry is that it will spread to Africa - virulent strains already kill thousands every year, where treatment depends on proximity to a health centre and preventive measures are hit and miss.

I know that in Malawi everyone is given bednets in an effort to control the disease, but many find them unbearably hot to sleep under, and fishermen find the small mesh invaluable for trapping small fish. I visited a school and saw bednets full of holes. When I mentioned malaria people simply shrugged: it was just one more hazard of living in Africa.

But a lethal strain is more than one more hazard. It can easily spread far more widely than ebola or the Zika virus and kill more than thousands.

So, will there be panic in the western press? Not at the moment. After all, it is contained in areas that tourists and western businesspeople rarely visit. And our climate ensures that anyone returning from a malarial area cannot bring the virus home with them … so we've got nothing to worry about, have we?

But just suppose it reached, say, the industrialised parts of India which are building trade links with the west? What would we do then? How many businesspeople would happily wander around in an area knowing the local mosquitoes carried a strain of malaria that might kill them? What will happen to post- Brexit trade then? 

What if one stray mosquito found its way to the swamps of Florida? 

Oh the drug companies would swing into action then. Millions of dollars would be ploughed into research. More millions would be invested in education and preventive measures across the world.

Maybe malaria has to reach America before those deaths in Africa and Asia are taken seriously.

Anyone for hospital food?

One day, when I was in Malawi, we drove past a hospital. On the opposite side of the road, among the trees and mud banks, was a village of tents and shacks and makeshift food stalls.

‘For the relatives,’ Everlasting explained. (If you don't know who Everlasting is, click here!) ‘They know what people like to eat - so they can bring tasty food to the sick people in the hospital, good food that will help them get better.’

I don't know how many of you have sampled hospital food recently. But I've come across it twice in the past few months - and in two very different hospitals. Even so, the experience was similar.

Breakfast - cereal, and toast and tea - if you're lucky. You need to be awake when the nurse has five minutes to get it for you. Miss that window, and you have to wait till lunchtime. 

Most hospitals give you a lunch menu the day before. But there is no guarantee that they will have whatever is it you have asked for - or if it will be palatable. (Meals are cooked in a central factory, up to three months in advance.) Which is just tough for anyone with a special diet - or even a vegetarian (hardly a ‘special diet’ these days).

Tea - is a tired sandwich or soup that began life in a tin.

It's the cuts, of course - diets reduced to a bare minimum. No thought of offering something tasty and tempting to encourage sick people to eat. Which is why, if you should be visiting a hospital at lunchtime, you will see so many people arriving with plastic boxes full of something truly tasty. ‘They know what people like to eat - so they can bring tasty food to the sick people in the hospital, good food that will help them get better,’ as Everlasting said.

80% of the population of Malawi live in poverty. So it's not surprising that it's a challenge for hospitals to provide adequate nutrition to patients as well as treatments and medication. 

But in a wealthy economy like ours? There may be a conversation to be had about whether patients should make a contribution towards their food. But, as things are, patients with relatives nearby who have the time and energy to provide good nutrition will fare better than those with no one. Yet another division between those who have family to fight for them and those who are alone and abandoned.

Rationing the news.

I have to make myself watch the news at the moment. The political shenanigans in the UK and America are painful enough (the bungling might be comic if the potential consequences weren't so catastrophic) - but they pale into insignificance in the light of the recent onslaught of ‘natural disasters’. (The ‘..’ indicates a recognition that some of these may be the result of man-made climate change.) 

As one storm followed another - have we forgotten those who died in the mudslide in Sierra Leone? The floods in Asia that I wrote about last week, and those in China? Hot on their heels came the storms and hurricanes currently battering the Caribbean and America. A huge earthquake in Mexico has been relegated to the inside pages of the newspapers. 

Everywhere, or so it seems, people are homeless. Refugees from Africa and the Middle East brave the waves of the Mediterranean. Bangladesh - those areas not under water - are flooded with Rohingya Muslims from Myanmar.

It’s overwhelming - all this need and trauma. But we still have to deal with the realities of life. Domestic stuff has to go on - we need to decide what to have for supper and if we have enough milk. Lawns need mowing. Children need kisses before heading off to school.

I can only speak for myself here - I have to ration the news. If I catch every bulletin I risk being paralysed by the sheer extent of it all. But that way madness lies. And failure to look after the daily trivia helps no one. But there are times, when I musing over which book to choose in the library or picking over apples in the market, that I find myself reflecting on the insignificance of such choices. 

It's a dissonance that I find deeply uncomfortable. I don't have a solution - and maybe that's fine. We should not turn our backs - nor our feelings - on the millions of people in such terrible need. But there is no point on wallowing in their reflected misery - we have lives to lead. Few of us are able to  up sticks and do anything practical to help (though we can contribute to appeals). All we can do, it seems, is notice the enormity of it all and then keep the show on the road in our own small corners of the world.

Why I have no right to whinge.

Last week I had a bit of a whinge about the challenges of being the ‘new girl’.

Many years ago, I did a training placement in a refugee camp for Asian people expelled from Idi  Amin’s Uganda. For those too young to know what I'm talking about, Idi Amin - the then president - got it into his head that all Uganda’s problems could be sorted if the country were not home to so many Asian people. I know, yes, he was bonkers.

Many had British passports (a throw-back to the Empire) and arrived here in their thousands. Makeshift camps were set up, and bit by bit they were helped to find somewhere to live and many established their families here. But the initial phase was chaotic.

I worked in an old army camp, where families were housed in the barracks, divided from each other by flimsy walls or curtains. Most had left behind comfortable homes and flourishing businesses - and they arrived here with nothing. Adults seemed to spend a lot of time wandering around looking lost. The children - with their parents apparently so out of control - were all over the place. I spent a lot of time playing football, trying to run off a bit of the children's energy before they went back to the few square yards allotted to each family. 

But it soon became clear that many of our residents were mothers with children, their husbands apparently stateless and somewhere in Europe. And so the bulk of my work was in accumulating information about all these families - in order to show the government that it would be cheaper to allow the men in (as they would work and support their families) than to provide social assistance for the women and children. 

I spent hours and hours interviewing - often with an interpreter. These women, many of whom had never had to manage alone before, were frightened - and some were ashamed of the circumstances in which they were living. I discovered disabled children who had not been registered - their mothers had assumed having a disabled child meant they would be at the back of the housing queue. I found lone children, managing as best they could - not knowing even if their parents were still alive. 

I have never - before or since - worked as hard. But my efforts were a drop in the ocean, given the numbers and the need. These were families who had been forced to flee with almost nothing, arrive in a country with no idea what to expect and some with no English, and somehow they were expected to ‘make the best of it.’

And there must be thousands more refugees in similar circumstances today.

So when I complain about the challenge of walking into a new book group for the first time, you may - metaphorically of course - smack me.

Post for those who think Britain is the centre of the world.

I can’t bear to write about Grenfell Tower. Besides, I don't believe anything I wrote could approach the horror that so many families are living through. 

Behind that tragedy, the political shenanigans continue - both here in the U.K. and across the Atlantic in America. And there is a risk, with all the media attention on the comings and goings, that we believe we are the most important people in the world.

Meanwhile, riots continue in Venezuela. The country has one of the richest oil fields in the world, and still people are starving. The western press, at last, are following the riots - but will we ever really know how many people have died there?

Mugabe is still in power in Zimbabwe. It is a beautiful country with brave, resourceful people - who are still living from hand to mouth … if they are lucky. There is no freedom of speech - so can we ever really know how many people are dying of hunger?

Some years ago I went to Laos. It is the most bombed country in the world - there are more unexploded bombs there than people. They can be anywhere: beside the road, behind the villages, in school playgrounds. How do people carry on living with that?

Refugees still flee from Syria and conflicts in Africa. The lucky few are made welcome in new countries. Some find themselves in camps, waiting for some nameless authority to make decisions about them, as if they are no more significant than luggage. Many are wandering and frightened and alone. Nobody chooses to live like that.

As many of you know, I was in Malawi in the winter. It's the first country I've visited which left me pessimistic about the depth of the poverty and the lack of co-ordinated efforts to address it. Over eighty per cent of the population is deemed to be in need. My efforts to highlight the plight of Malawians will soon be published.

While we're busy (and we need to be busy making sure our politicians are accountable) people across the world are suffering. One of the things I've learned from my travels is that we all need the same things: enough to eat, somewhere safe to sleep, and to love and be loved. Surely those of us who can take that for granted can find the energy to think about men and women all over the world, from Grenfell Tower to Caracas to Lilongwe, who wake without knowing when they might eat again.

Grumbling

Goodness me, we've got a lot to grumble about at the moment. I almost can't bear to watch the news - what with Trump and his trumping, so say nothing of the lies and self-aggrandisement of our election. 

Here in the south of England we're worried about the lack of rain - the gardens are parched. Even closer to home, a recent gas leak brought the town to a complete halt; children were late for school. Closer than that, and I'm embroiled in a house-selling saga that ... I won't go on about that, it's too tedious.

Hang on a minute. I won't be homeless. What's more, my home has electricity and running water and the bricks won't be eaten by ants (not like this home in Malawi):

So, children were late for school. But their teachers waited for them. Their teachers are overworked and resources are limited. But they will be paid. And the libraries won't leak during the rains leaving books and equipment soggy and unusable (not like in Malawi)…

Our gardens are parched. And the farmers are warning of a poor harvest. But most of us will have enough to eat - I know there are hundreds of families who use food banks here (unforgivable in a country as rich as ours) but we aren't dependent on the World Food Programme to feed about eighty per cent of the population.

I can't even think about Trump. But our election: I know it's tedious, but it's important. And I know I've posted this picture before (in connection with our local elections) but it's a mantra (from Malawi) that needs to be sung from the rooftops: