A letter to my MP

I admit that my political posts appear rather less popular than most other things I write about, but I thought I'd share this one anyway. My MP is Conservative. Her voting record suggests she is a staunch follower of the party line, with her only rebellions being on the subject of abortion in Northern Ireland (which she voted not to criminalise) and Assisted Dying (which she voted to permit). The general feeling amongst those I've spoken to is that she was parachuted into our constituency from CCHQ and shows little interest in her constituents. But my sample-set is rather biased.

I've written to her a few times in the past, and always been graced with a cut-and-paste answer that parrots whatever it is the government are claiming. This time, three weeks have passed and she hasn't even favoured me with that paltry offering.  

Dear Ms Local MP,

It has been clear for some time that the Prime Minister is a man with only a passing acquaintanceship with truth, integrity or honour. What is becoming more clear is that he has fostered and led an atmosphere in 10 Downing St in his own image, with a contempt for rules, and for the people of this country.  

The behaviour of those elected to lead this country is a disgrace and an affront to all the people who have suffered and sacrificed so much throughout the pandemic. Every Conservative MP who fails to speak out, and who fails to condemn the actions of Boris Johnson and his office, aligns themselves with this arrogance and contempt. Every day you are silent is another day in which you condone a grotesque parody of leadership.

“Let not any one pacify his conscience by the delusion that he can do no harm if he takes no part, and forms no opinion. Bad men need nothing more to compass their ends, than that good men should look on and do nothing. He is not a good man who, without a protest, allows wrong to be committed in his name, and with the means which he helps to supply, because he will not trouble himself to use his mind on the subject.”

John Stuart Mill, 1867 inaugural address, University of St Andrews.

Of the seven Nolan Principles, perhaps now is the time to remind you specifically of the final two:

Honesty – Holders of public office should be truthful

Leadership – Holders of public office should exhibit these principles in their own behaviour and treat others with respect. They should actively promote and robustly support the principles and challenge poor behaviour wherever it occurs.

Boris Johnson manifestly fails in both these respects. Do not pacify your conscience by thinking that forming no opinion, looking on, and doing nothing you are doing no harm. You are not a good woman if, without protest, you allow wrong to be committed in your name.

Yours sincerely

PhysicsBear, with a collection of impressive sounding letters after her name.

Micro-blogging: a simple observation

Therapist: So people do say good things about you?

Me <small voice>: Yes

Therapist: And do you remember them?

Me: <sounding like Boris Johnson>: ah, um, well, yes, I mean, I do remember but I don't, well, I suppose, I kind of find ways to dismiss them....

Identifying my dysfunctional thinking is going to be a bit like shooting fish in a barrel.

But I liked her, and I think I'll be able to work with her. Though she did warn me that if I revealed anything to her about terrorist activity or laundering drug money, she wouldn't be allowed to respect client confidentiality. So there's that.

Micro-blogging: mental collapse and the art of football management

 As is so often the way in life... I spoke too soon...

Having had a warm and positive start to the footballing new year, things have now spiralled downwards.

I have lost any zen-like equilibrium I once possessed. I have, in fact, more than lost my equilibrium, I have tumbled, swirling and spinning, into the abyss. Any confidence I had that I knew what I was doing is shattered and if I feel anything about football it is that I am a failure. A charlatan who has no place coaching or managing a team. 

For the past ten days, there hasn't been a single day when tears of despair and hopelessness haven't poured unbidden down my face. 

I've thought, several times, about trying to put my feelings into words here, but I can't. I can't bring myself to write them down, to confront them, to open the floodgates to the tears that I may not be able to stop. 

I've thought, several times, about walking away from coaching football, but I can't. I can't bring myself to abandon my boys and give up on something I want to achieve. 

Is it really football, or have I simply burnt out at last?

Maybe it's football. Maybe it's life. Maybe it's me. 

I want to be perfect, and I'm not.

I want to be proud of myself and I'm not.

I want to believe, deep inside myself, that I'm doing a good job, but I don't.

I want to stop constantly needing someone else to reassure me that I am good enough, and I don't know how.

Tomorrow I have an initial consultation with a therapist. There's no magic wand that will change how I feel about myself, but I have to start somewhere.

I feel faintly absurd to be seeking professional counselling to learn to cope with volunteering with an under-10 football team, but in truth, it goes far deeper than that. I suspect that football has simply ripped off the sticking plaster I'd slapped over the open wound of anxiety, depression and low self-esteem that has been festering for many years. 

I might write about some of it here, I might stick to politics and cats. Who knows?

Micro-blogging: telephones

When we were at secondary school, BrotherBear and I both went to school by train. To different towns. In opposite directions. GrannyBear dealt with this in the mornings by simply dropping us both at the station in time for the earliest journey. In the afternoon/evening, we might miss the train, or there'd be a delay, or one of us had an afterschool activity, so the exact time at which we'd reappear at the station was unknown. The station was well-equipped with telephone boxes (invariably reeking of stale urine), but every phone call, no matter the duration, cost the princely sum of ten pence. But, if one inserted one's coin, rang a number, and it wasn't answered, one's ten pence piece was returned. So, we used to do that, and hang up after exactly three rings. GrannyBear would hear the phone ring three times, and come to the station to collect an unspecified member of the family. Strangely, this system worked remarkably well.

This week, I collected LittleBear from afterschool football. My mobile rang, but I didn't hear it. My friend's mobile rang, and she answered. Another mum was running late, and needed someone to prevent her 9-year old escaping unaccompanied. I scampered down the school drive to retrieve the already-escaped 9-year old, and friend retrieved her own boy and LittleBear. We all convened at the end of the school drive and waited until late-mum arrived, and all was well.

The world has changed a great deal, and while it's possible to bemoan the degree to which we're all tethered to our mobiles, the ability to retrieve small people from school is definitely a lot easier than it used to be.

Micro-blogging: age-appropriate reading matter

For his ninth birthday we gave LittleBear a book that had been recommended by one of my colleagues. Said colleague also had an only boy-child, about 15 years older than LittleBear, but one who'd been very similar to him in his younger years. So, I took the recommendation. It was a mighty tome of mythology - Arthurian legends, Ancient Greek, Norse, Roman, the Mabinogeon and the legends of Charlemagne. And, being written in the mid-nineteenth century, it didn't really pull any punches in its language or contents. And LittleBear hoovered it up, and continues to return to it. 

We have many family jokes from it now - such as on the frequent appearance of fountains in forests in romantic legend, or the use of the old "bag of wind" ruse in Greek and Roman myths. (Our personal favourite, however, is Rogero being "distracted by an adventure" on his way to the cathedral to marry the long-suffering Bradamante. That's quite some distraction.)

Today, LittleBear was required to dress up as an Ancient Greek for a history day at school, so I made some casual throwaway remark about being wary of Greeks bearing gifts...

LittleBear: Actually Mummy, the quote is that, "I fear the Greeks, even when they are bearing gifts." Laocoon said it.

Me: Was that in Homer? <desperately trying to salvage something from the conversation>

LittleBear: No, it was in the Aeneid. By Virgil.

And now I wish I'd never given him the damn book. Being corrected on a quote from Virgil when I studied the Aeneid at school is pretty bad. Having LittleBear assume that he needed to tell me that it was Virgil who wrote the Aeneid was just a step too far.

Micro-blogging: arguing with my diary

Since getting involved with LittleBear's football team, I have used a week-per-view diary for all football matters. I keep a list of the boys' contact numbers in the back, I note down meetings and matches. And, most importantly, I always have a diary with the days on one page, and a empty page for "notes" on the facing page. And this is where the starting line-up is jotted down, the subs, the scorers, the assists, the injuries, the times. Enough to scrape together some kind of match report after the fact.

Being a creature of habit, I now must have a week-per-view, with notes, diary each year. For some reason, it was difficult to find one this year. Not Smiths, not Rymans, not Waterstones, not Letts. In the end, I bought a random one from Amazon. It's not plain black, which irks me a bit, but not half as much as the insides irk me...

Useful to whom?

Seriously? What is this diary? The paper format of a phishing scam? My First Identity Theft?

Don't mock me

I do not buy diaries as an exercise in personal growth. The only correct entries in these fields are, "I'm still alive, what more do you want from me?" Not to mention - what the hell is the difference between "Triumphs and Successes" and "Major Achievements"? Even if I were inclined to write down how awesome I was last year, I'm not sure I could summon up two different types of awesomeness.

 Now you've gone too far

I don't think I can stretch beyond, "fuck off with your personal goals shit, I hate you, you unnecessarily upbeat, perky, bastarding book". And literally the only reason I am not writing that on these pages is because there's a fair chance that one of my small boys will read it.

Micro-blogging: the power of great actors

This morning* I listened to Mark Rylance being interviewed on the radio. And I was reminded that I have seen him live on stage. It was 1997, and the first full season of the newly built (re-built? re-created?) Globe Theatre on the banks of the Thames. The production was Henry V, and Mark Rylance had the title role. I was there with GrannyBear and my aunt and uncle. We had tickets as "groundlings", standing in the pit of the theatre. We stood, if not at the front, within a few rows of the front, and gazed upwards onto the stage.

It was one of the most powerful, and immersive, pieces of theatre I have ever been part of. When Rylance stood on the front of the stage before the battle of Harfleur, to rouse his men "once more unto the breach", I swear I would have followed him anywhere. Unlike the hushed reverence of many theatres, the Globe unleashed a rawness and immediacy that allowed the crowd to shout and cheer and be the soldiers ready to Cry 'God for Harry! England! and Saint George!' It was an inspiring moment in which the power of a genuinely great actor was revealed to me for the first time.

* "This morning" is now two days ago, because it turns out I'm pretty crap at even finishing a short blog post.

Micro-blogging: zen and the art of football management

Whether I've just been writing this blog for too long and run out of things to say, or I've been stuck in the house for two years and run out of things to say, or I've taken on too many other responsibilities and have run out of time to say whatever it is I might have to say, I couldn't tell you.

So, in another attempt to re-ignite my blogging mojo, I'm going to have a go at "micro-blogging", try to overcome my natural verbosity, and write short posts about random things on a much more frequent timescale. Maybe even daily.

And I'll be avoiding politics (sometimes). There's a definite downturn in my readership when I write about politics. When I say "downturn", I mean tumbleweed blows across the barren wastelands of my stats page.

So...

Last night I slept well. I didn't wake up at 5:30 and lie awake for two hours. This is notable because this is the very first time that I've been in charge of my football team, and not woken early fretting about it on match day. 

Every other match I have lain awake in the wee small hours, going over and over and over who is playing where, for how long, who's subbing on, when, into which positions. What warm up to do. What to say in a team talk. When to set off. Where to park. Whether the parents actually all hate me. Whether I will have to Have A Word with my co-coach about his habit of running up and down the touchline shouting at the boys.

I'm not sure that this is a sign of huge personal growth and a new-found zen-like approach, but it was a nice change. It was definitely helped by some really positive exchanges with most of the parents in the few days beforehand. And a good training session on Monday. And knowing co-coach wouldn't be there, shouting. Which is a less good sign.