From Pyrenees to Pennines

I like my diary a lot.  It’s big and bright and yellow and demands I remember to stuff it in my bag as I’m out and about and adding in appointments I shouldn’t forget.  I like to leaf through its pages in idle moments, because on nearly every page, there’s a poem: an old one; a recent one; a classic; or one that’s, to me at least, unknown.

Here’s my diary

Here’s ‘After Africa’

And on another page, here’s the cover of a book I used to love in childhood

Here’s the poem I found this week.  It speaks to me, though I’ve never been to Africa, and it’s very many years since I worked in Surbiton Library in Surrey.  It touches me with its imagery of rich and different landscapes lost, at the same time as rediscovering the softly-washed colours of once more familiar territory.  No-one would compare France with Africa.  But they might recognise the bittersweet feelings of regret yet acceptance that accompany those of us who come home after some years in a very different culture.

After Africa

After Africa, Surbiton:
An unheated house, and flagstone pavements;
No colobus monkeys, no cheetahs scouring the plains.
Verrucas and weeping blisters ravaged our feet.

An unheated house, and flagstone pavements,
And snow falling through the halos of street lamps;
Verrucas and weeping blisters ravaged our feet;
But the shavings made by our carpenter, Chippy, were as soft as bougainvillea
                     flowers

Or snow falling through the halos of street lamps.
Everyone was pale, pale or gray, as pale or gray
But the shavings made by our carpenter, Chippy, were as soft as bougainvillea
                     flowers …
Red, African dust spilled from the wheels of our toy trucks and cars.

Everyone was pale, pale or gray, as pale or gray
As the faded carpet on which
Red, African dust spilled from the wheels of our toy trucks and cars.
Real traffic roared outside.

A faded carpet on which
Everything seemed after Africa, Surbiton’s
Real traffic roared outside –
No colobus monkeys, no cheetahs scouring the plains.

Mark Ford.

You can listen to Mark Ford reading his poem by clicking here.

Mark Ford: Selected Poems was published by Coffee House Books in 2014: ISBN 978-1-56689-349-7

There’s nothing I can say to add anything to the general outpouring of grief and anger at the murders that took place within the Paris offices of Charlie Hebdo yesterday.  It’s frightening though.  Acts of violence beget acts of violence. Ordinary people of Muslim heritage, in France, England and elsewhere must find it hard to get on with normal everyday life, interacting unselfconsciously  with neighbours and colleagues.  Those who fight extremism with their computers, pens and pencils may now think twice about the consequences of words and images intended only to provoke thought and debate.

I liked very much an article by Owen Jones in today’s Guardian.  He reminded us of the Oslo bombings, and the murder of dozens of young Norwegians about three and a half years ago, and pointed out that in the main, Norway responded with calmness and humanity.  No bloodbath followed, with faction set against faction.  Somehow though, things seem different now, with arguments about religious extremism set centre-stage throughout Europe. Will France be able to manage the calm and dignified reaction the Norwegians achieved  a while back?

In the community where I lived in France, there was large Muslim population, largely from North Africa.  Many had decent jobs, friends from a range of backgrounds , and were fully integrated into local life.  But in an area of high unemployment, they were often among the most likely to be jobless.  Whole blocks of council housing had only Muslim tenants, and they stuck together, supported each other.  They seemed to me to be quite vulnerable.    I wonder how things will go for them if anti-Muslim feeling rises in the aftermath of this week’s events?

Today, in France, religious leaders from all faiths met and prayed together in solidarity.  Implacable political opponents Nicholas Sarkozy and François Hollande met at the Élysée Palace to share thoughts and ideas, where however,  they were not joined by the increasingly popular and outspoken Front National leader Marine le Pen.

It feels as if we’re at a crossroads.  Do we join with those who, despite their differences, come together to seek to unite communities? Or will the violence, quite simply, spread?

There are quite a lot of life-changing illnesses that I’m glad not to have personal experience of.  And in the great scheme of things, ‘flu isn’t a big deal.  But in our own little world, it has assumed a far too important place.

Here we are, more than one week on, and for both of us, day-to-day life is defined by what we can’t do, rather than by what we can.  No energy to eat, which is as well, as we have no energy to cook (‘cooking’ in this context, means boiling an egg).  No energy to get out and enjoy the frosty sunshine.  No energy to keep the house tidy.  Not even the energy to read anything but the most appreciated old favourites (thank you, Donna Leon, for reliably transporting me this week to the sights, sounds, smells and flavours of Commissario Brunetti’s beloved Venice).

We’ve both got what it takes to cough, loudly and constantly: we bark our way through morning, afternoon and evening, finally shutting up when sleep overtakes us.  Talking makes it worse: not that we have much to say after our long-enforced house arrest.  Maybe later I should find the energy to throw away all the uneaten Christmas treats that we didn’t have the foresight to freeze once the ‘flu took its stranglehold on everyday life.

Maybe later today I could resume my Spanish studies.  I’ve been learning on-line the last few weeks, though much good it did me when Miquel came to stay: well, how useful is this?  ‘Las tazas son feas’ (the cups are ugly):  ‘La niña duerme cerca del gato’ (the girl sleeps near the cat).  It wasn’t the stuff of fascinating conversational gambits.

Bits of gossip reach us from the world beyond our front door.  That other friends had equally ‘flu-blighted Christmasses.  That local seasonal gatherings saw the guest list diminish, thanks to ‘flu,  from 20 friends or so to merely 7.  That even households in far-flung Birmingham and Norfolk have not escaped.  That even America is in the grip of The Epidemic.

So we can continue to feel sorry for ourselves, secure in the knowledge that at least we’re not alone.

Oh, and by the way.  Happy New Year, dear readers.