Baby P, the Nation's Child.

Baby P has not been identified for "legal reasons" but Baby P's photograph has been splashed over every newspaper and been on every news programme for days. Baby P only lived seventeen months and died at the hands of his mother and her "friend". Baby P was a blond haired, blue-eyed cutie whose picture made me, the person on whom they based the child-catcher in chitty-chitty-bang-bang, want to reach out, pick him up and cuddle him. So I have to ask, what kind of person was Baby P's mother, that she could systematically subject her angelic looking baby to a reign of torture and terror until he died...? I'm sure he was difficult, I'm sure he cried and screamed and threw tantrums, but Baby P's mother did not lose her rag and shake him too hard one day. Baby P's mother did not ask anyone for help because she felt she could not cope with her unmanageable child. Baby P's mother did not snap one day and accidentally kill him. Baby P's mother thought it was fun to hurt her baby.
Baby P was on the child protection register, the house was visited 60 times by social services and the police were also involved but social services thought that Baby P did not need to be removed from his environment. Social services thought that Baby P was better off with his mother than in foster care. Child protection groups and journalists countrywide have all said their piece about the tragedy of Baby P. About how disgraceful it is that Haringey Council appear to have closed ranks and blamed "systemic failure" for Baby P's horrific death. No heads will roll. No one in social services will lose their job. Instead, "an inquiry" has been launched. A petition to stop the head of child services in Haringey losing her job has been signed by 60 headteachers in the area. Apparently, she is very good at her job and has fought for children and improved their lot. But where was she when the system of which she is in charge was failing? Lose her job? She should have resigned as soon as it became known that Baby P was dead.
Baby P's father has openly said that he is angry about his son's death and that Baby P should have been taken away from his mother. But where was Baby P's father during his seventeen pitiful months? Where were his grandparents? Where were his mother's friends? Where was anyone?
But the awful truth is that regardless of what social services did or didn't do, regardless of where his father, his grandparents, his mother's friends were, regardless of which heads should roll, or which department should take responsibilty for Baby P's death, we are all to blame. Every time one of closed our ears to Baby P's screams, or closed our eyes to his bruises. Every time one of us did not want to get involved. Every time one of us did not want to interfere. Every time no one asked a question, we failed Baby P. And unless something radical happens in this country and we begin respecting ourselves and other people, we will fail Baby P again and again.
Baby P, I know it's too late but I am sorry. We should all be most dreadfully sorry.

The Methodists: the mystery continues.

Sunday morning: 9.28

Having stayed awake until 2am watching Hercules, an animated film by a giant corporation I won't name, I am not terribly pleased to be awake at this hour. But I decide that faced with a choice of hanging round the house, or launching myself into the bathroom for the quickest wash in history and running to the next village for church, that I will choose church. So having dressed at lightning speed, I am preparing to leave when my Mum tells me that they intend to go for a walk so they will drop me off. I am pleased; it means I have time for a cup of tea. Because I am barely awake, I pick up the wrong cup and end up with my Mum's tea instead of mine. For some reason, my Mum does not see the funny side of this, but I am fairly amused, especially since I still get to drink my own tea. A bowl of cranberry wheats later and we are all ready to go. The parents want to know which church it is so they can take me to the door, I can't think of much else that would be more embarrassing so I tell insist on being dropped off at the bridge; partly as I say, to avoid the humiliation of being dropped off at the door by my parents because I think I am too old for this, but partly because this week, the weather is decent and I have remembered my phone and I want to take some pictures from the bridge.














I arrive at the blue church in time to hear the resident organist belting out Panis Angelicus which despite being cheesy, is one of my favourites. I am greeted by two old chaps who welcome me and then as I am casting my gaze about for a hymn book, I am grasped enthusiastically into a hug by another old chap who apologises for not doing his duty properly. When I have overcome the shock and found a seat in a corner, I nod inwardly, things could be looking up. I am slightly taken aback however, when an elderly lady, devoid of clerical vestments comes in and begins the service. We are joined in the front row by a couple of women with three children between them. One of the boys sits and behaves himself nicely but the other two for some reason, think this is an appropriate place to have a playfight and jump all over the pew. The elderly woman at the front who is reading the call to worship, clearly thinks this is cute, and makes a point of welcoming them and during the first hymn, which is kumbyah (spelling not withstanding, I've never liked it and thus don't care how it is spelled) to different words, she puts her hands together and moves them from side to side in a very bizarre manner which makes her look as though she is doing charades and trying to get us to guess "fish" and smiles in sickly way at the boys. Predictably, the boys don't take an awful lot of notice. After the hymn, the lady comes out from behind the pulpit type thing and asks the children what flowers they know. One of them was clearly paying attention to the news last week and comes out with Poppy. That's good and then we have a little thing about daisies and buttercups which are SHINY. I wonder where this is going. I am none the wiser when the lady pulls a GIANT hydrangea flower from her plastic shopper, the kind which usually have pictures of boats and lighthouses or cats on each side - hers seems to have leaves on it... After the boys on the front row have been forced to scrutinise it, we hear a little anecdote about how curious the lady was about how the flower was made. I feel my brow furrowing as she points out the stalks underneath the flower which in fact mean it is several flowers in one. My jaw fairly drops then, as I realise exactly where she is going. It's a whole new approach to the Trinity. God is a hydrangea. Not only can I not quite believe that she is actually going to do this, but I can't quite see how we have come to this conclusion though because the flower in fact has 5 stalks, one in the middle and four around the outside. I find myself tensing; this has the potential to be horrible. I am not really disappointed when it turns out that the hydrangea represents God the Father, God the Son and God the Holy Spirit, but God's reign over all Creation as well. Oh, and it represents Us, who are loved by God. Well it is a valid point, I have to give her that much but...
The children leave for Sunday School and we continue with a prayer which is quite nice and then a reading. Before the lector has a go at the Old Testament, she thanks everybody for their prayers and says that her husband has been given the "all clear" from the hospital. I find this oddly encouraging in a week where the news has just been completely depressing, Britain seems to be spiralling further into a chasm of darkness and evil with each passing minute, but at least something good has happened for someone. The reading is interesting, Old Testament, something to do with Josiah. The lady lector reads in a way which says that she is trying to be DRAMATIC. It's not bad, but really, this reading does not lend itself to DRAMA. The kind where the reader does their best to PROJECT their voice and EMPHASISE all the exciting/important bits. It's kind of endearing really but I could live without it. The lady at the front gives a short interpretation about the reading which is potentially interesting but my mind is elsewhere. We sing another hymn which happens to be a favourite of mine, Jesus shall reign where'er the sun, and I think I could get to like it here, even with the big wobbly soprano voice of which I can't find the source, who keeps doing little harmonies over the top of the tune. Before the New Testament readings, we enjoy the notices... Something about a roast dinner for which there are only 40 tickets because the coffee hall will only seat that many oh and... we do welcome any visitors this morning, in fact I DO see some new faces... at which point, the notice-giver, turns and nods at me. Rabbit and headlights; I am NOT amused. The reader of the New Testament is actually not that much older than I am, I don't think, but she is clearly nervous and she reads the parable of the talents at breakneck speed, also attempting the DRAMATIC thing, I feel sorry for her though because she consistently puts the emphasis in all the wrong places especially during the dialogue which makes the whole thing sound very strange. This is followed by something from Thessalonians but I am ashamed of myself for not listening because I am already thinking about something else. After this we have a little talk about the content of that and then the intercessions. Nice prayers, not as good as Mary-of-the-uncommonly-good-sense, but pretty good. Heartfelt. We sing the Lord's Prayer. I say we... the rest of the congregation does as I don't know this version. I don't plan on learning it either, it's fairly horrible; a 3 out of 5 on the Camembert cheese scale...
A final hymn which is a real belter and I have a quick prayer by myself before literally legging it out of the door and down the street in order to avoid having to have the old "Are you new to the Village chat". On reflection, I think that I quite like it here... not only that, but I think I could sing and the people here would most likely enjoy my choice of tune. Nice. Now that I have finally found the Methodists, I think I'll visit again.

It might be a rural backwater, but views from the lounge don't come much better than this...

I've been thinking about why Remembrance Day has me so upset this year and I've come to the conclusion that perhaps it's because I missed it for 6 years... I knew it was there, and I marked it in my head but TUC didn't commemorate it and it certainly wasn't on the news... or perhaps it's because I have been giving my cousin a lot of thought lately; he was in the army and one day on a routine training exercise, he collapsed and never got up... or perhaps it's because 90 years to the day, the end of the Great War... we still stand silent for two minutes as a mark of respect to those who have died for our freedom... a freedom which we squander... yet... 90 years on we have still learned nothing. Humanity is a parasite on the back of a rotting planet... why haven't we learned? And why are more of us not utterly shamed and disgusted...?

At the Going Down of the Sun and in the Morning.. We Will Remember Them.

Sunday 9.25am.

It is Remembrance Sunday. The day when across the United Kingdom, we gather at 11am and hold a two minute silence as a mark of respect for all of those who "gave up their today, so that we could have a tomorrow". I am determined to get myself to the Methodist church in the next village as I haven't managed to get myself to church for the past few weeks and I think Remembrance Sunday is important. It will take me 45 minutes to walk so I throw myself in the shower and drag some clothes on, say good morning to the parents briefly and start legging it down the road. It is rather cold although it isn't long before I am sweating profusely but I do my best to keep up this ridiculous pace because it has suddenly occurred to me that I only have the vaguest idea where the Methodist church is.
As I walk, I take several long looks at the views of the river and the hills and I remind myself that really, I am jolly lucky to have such lovely nature to look at every day, especially at this time of year when the hills are an absolute riot of colour. Unfortunately, it starts to rain as I near the bridge to get across the river and into the next Village and by the time I am at the other side of the bridge, the rain is almost horizontal and the wind is freezing. As I am staggering up the road, I pass the Anglican church and notice that they also have a service at 10.30 as well as evensong at 6pm, now that is my kind of service. You simply can't beat the evening service for pure staying in bed value. I file this information away for later and manage to find out from two older women, that the Methodist church is up to the end of the street and turn left but I should "ask at the cafe because we are not really sure". Predictably, I do not see a cafe but I do see lots of people wearing poppies coming in my direction... bit weird I think to myself... and have a quick look down the turning they have taken to see if the church is down there; it isn't. I continue down the street and after a short while I see it only to find when I get close enough that this morning's service was rescheduled for 10am in order to accommodate a remembrance service at the Village Green at 10.45. Given the weather, I am unimpressed and decide that I will run back to the Anglican church and see what it is like. When I get there, I cannot find the door (again) and when I do, I am greeted by a posh older woman, the type who says 'oh' and makes it sound like 'air', she wants to know if she can help me and I tell her that I was just looking for the door. She looks faintly baffled and tells me that the service has just finished because everyone is going to meet on the Green for the Remembrance Service as if I should know. I feel it is important that I pay my respects to soldiers, sailors and air service men and women so I decide quickly that despite my initial reaction, I will go to the green.
By the time I arrive it is a few minutes shy of 10.45 and the rain is absolutely hammering down my jeans and jacket are sticking to me, my socks are soaked, my feet are freezing and my expensive Birkenstock shoes are likely ruined. There are a number of people gathered hesitantly in the car park just in front of the cenotaph and in dribs and drabs others begin to join us. I stand by myself getting wetter by the second and soon I am surrounded by people who make 'oh' sound like 'air' and they all seem to be holding massive golf umbrellas, the kind that shelter a small family car, and stand around discussing in various groups some event last night. Possibly something involving fireworks and I'm sure that at least two old ladies mention quiche.
Not a soul even bothers to say good morning to me and I am shivering.
It gets to about ten to the hour and the vicar (you can tell who he is from the frock and surplice) still doesn't seem too keen to start and no amount of glaring at the clock on the cenotaph seems to send any vibes his way. Eventually, however, he does call order and an organ strikes up the National Anthem. It doesn't occur to me until after we have finished imploring God to save our Queen, to wonder why there is an organ outside in the pouring rain. A hymn later and I realise that of course, there is no organ, it is merely a tape. A tape with which almost everyone has trouble keeping time and soon there are about three groups of people all singing different lines of the verse. We battle on. It is gone 11 now though and elsewhere the nation is standing in silence, honouring the dead. We are still listening to a (possible) veteran recite the names of the local men and women who lost their lives. The person operating the cassette player finally plays "the Last Post" and we fall silent but somewhere by the river a gun goes off to mark the end of the silence. When the two minutes has ended, it is about 7 minutes past the hour and as we all have a go at another hymn I sing extra loud, making sure that I am in time with the tape; it doesn't work and I sigh in relief as the music comes to an end. After the blessing, I turn and walk through the little crowd in the direction of home and think that us having a silence at all is the important thing... but we do it at 11 for a reason; because that's the time the Great War finished. It just seems like a shoddy way to show respect. Under other circumstances, the Village idiocy might have been funny but as I continue 45 minute walk home in the rain, I can't remember the last time I felt this miserable.

More Soundbites

In a Yorkshire not-quite-Village, somewhere I overheard a snippet of a mobile phone conversation...

"And then... the lady int shop says... 'There's that sheep again...'!"