We took the day off which us just as well as it has deluged! This was the day we were reliably informed would be the warmest ever, so it sounds as if the forecasters are the same folk who forecast the Brexit result!

We went in search of an iPad charger, having left the last one like spoor in the drawing room of the last host’s house. A highlight of the day was a joyous lunch with Liz Landale, a lovely person we have known for many years. She lives in elegant style in a beautiful house she and her husband Sandy developed over half a century. Sandy was a gentleman, a lay reader and an accomplished poet. He died not long ago. He had one of those faces I can picture still and if I don’t want to believe he is dead I don’t have to.

Piggy Wig

When I was a little boy, I was often persuaded to recite the Lear nonsense poem “The Owl and the Pussy Cat” to an assortment of doting aunts. It has a couple of lines that have always intrigued me:

“And there in a wood, a Piggy-Wig stood
With a ring at the end of his nose,
His nose,
His nose,
With a ring at the end of his nose.”

Then we come to the complicated bit (when you are aged five lots of things are complicated).

“Dear Pig, are you willing to sell for one shilling,
Your ring?” Said the Piggy, “I will.” (See what I mean!)

I knew about the pigs on the local farm close to where we lived, but none of them had any rings. So why on earth did this pig have a ring in its nose? When I asked the question, my aunts were undoubtedly impressed with my precocity but none of them had a clue.

I have now learned that a nose ring makes leading a pig rather easier than it would be otherwise: the pig can’t escape – its will is dominated and it follows obediently.

I never thought until recently that Lear’s innocent little poem had any serious meaning until I saw a crack den (and don’t ask me why I was in one, for it’s a long – and innocent! – story and nothing to do with this tale). As soon as I saw it, I was reminded of Lear’s pig and its ring.

Drug addiction means being led by the nose with one’s will suspended, in this case towards chemical substances. In their ghastly way, drugs command the purest form of “worship” ever invented by Old Nick. The hellish room I saw, with its smeared windows, discoloured wallpaper, dirty bed, and floor littered with discarded needles, was a shrine. A strange, sweet smell hung everywhere, the sort of odour that marinates your clothes and makes you feel tainted.

Addicts will sacrifice anything to get their next “fix” – their money, their bodies, literally anything. Their ring has led them to an altar that is destroying all who worship there with cruel efficiency.

So my dear readers, we may not be crack addicts but like the piggy wig we all have a nose ring. Where is it leading us? A quote that bothers me more than any other is from US bestselling author David Foster Wallace. He wasn’t a Christian but he wrote:

“Everybody worships. The only choice we get is what to worship. And the compelling reasons for choosing some sort of God… to worship… is pretty much everything else will eat you alive. If you worship money and things… then you will never have enough, never feel you have enough. It’s the truth. Worship your own body and beauty and sexual allure, and you will always feel ugly. And when time and age start showing, you will die a million deaths before your loved ones bury you. …Worship power, and you will end up feeling weak and afraid, and you will need ever more power over others to numb you to your owns fear. Worship your intellect… and you will end up feeling stupid, a fraud, always on the verge of being found out. Look, the insidious thing about these forms of worship is not that they are evil or sinful, it is that they are unconscious. They are our default settings.”

Wallace committed suicide in 2008.

The Roaring Lion
Wallace’s words tie in with the Bible (1 Peter 5:8) where we are told, “Your enemy the Devil prowls around like a roaring lion looking for someone to snare.” I heard somewhere that you rarely get bitten when you pick up a snake: you only get bitten when you try to put it down.

I read that former Lib Dem leader Charles Kennedy drifted into alcoholism. There was no great white blinding moment when he crossed a line from moderation into addiction. Indeed, addictions are all around us. And as Wallace says, it ain’t just about booze and heroin. At the last Olympics, a friend’s daughter was living with an athlete who had previously won an Olympic bronze. What a great achievement, but his passion was to win gold to the degree that it became an obsession – which is I suppose another word for addiction. When he finally won another bronze – missing out on silver or gold by a milo-second – he was consumed by a profound anger that finally destroyed the relationship. Poor man and poor couple. It would seem there is a high chance that unless you become obsessed by your sport, you are unlikely to succeed.

Addictions come in all shapes and sizes. Addicts worship but they are bowing down before the wrong thing. G.K. Chesterton wrote somewhere that when a man visited a brothel he was in fact calling out to God. That idea takes a bit of thinking about, but when you understand the pull of raw addiction then you can more readily understand why the likes of Sir John Gielgud have felt driven to solicit sex in public places in order to satisfy their needs. Twenty years ago, the then Director of Public Prosecutions, Sir Allan Green, ruined his career after he was caught soliciting sex in King’s Cross. His wife, the poor woman, later killed herself. Forty years ago, Lord Lambton wrecked his ministerial career for consorting with prostitutes, and broadcaster Frank Bough suffered a similar fate when he was caught out in the same way. So it has always been. The exposers used to be the Church; today it is the tabloids. I wonder if those who were caught were in fact relieved. Perhaps they found the mask of respectability too heavy to carry?

Best stick to God. On we trudge tomorrow…

Worcester Sores

A miserable morning when everything seemed to go wrong: the fields were wired up, the gateways blocked with nettles, the paths in the Suckley wood eight miles from Worcester appeared to be circular and we were both convinced we were going in ever decreasing circles and would end up our backsides. Then after we had staggered out and lunched in the “Bank Hotel” we found it as boring as a dentist’s waiting room with nasty food: a hamburger with at least three inches of substitute meat packets of tomato sauce and a rather elderly pickle is not enough for a growing boy.

After lunch tore the three miles into Worcester and calmed down in the eleventh century cathedral for that, in part, is what cathedrals are for.

All’s Well That Ends Well

Jane and I recently enjoyed a dramatic production of Hamlet at Stratford played by an all-black cast. I studied the play at school and so I know it well enough, but great slabs of the prose still wafted over my head. However, I nodded wisely and pretended that I understood exactly what was going on.

I’ll bet I am not alone in this incomprehension. Years ago, a friend went to see a provincial production where the spoken words were indistinct.

“Not that it really mattered,” he later proclaimed, “because I know the play so well.”

What a pseud! He lieth.

Forsooth!

In his biography, Lawrence Oliver said that he was once in a production of Richard III where an actor called Dan Cunningham was playing a messenger. One matinee, Cunningham was having a fag in the wings and Olivier was on stage.

Cunningham suddenly realised that things had gone very quiet. Believing he’d missed his cue, he stubbed out his fag, rushed on stage and flung himself at Larry’s feet: “My liege, the Duke of Buckingham is slain this hour.”

Now this presented problems because the Duke of Buckingham hadn’t even been on stage yet. So Larry gripped him very firmly by the arm and hissed, “Thou liest Sirrah!”

“Oh sod, Larry’s dried!” Cunningham thought to himself. He quickly came up with some Shakespearean doggerel: “Nay, my liege, I swear, by yonder thicket he lies all covered in gore!”

So Larry applied a real tourniquet to his arm and snarled, “Is’t positive Sirrah?”

Quick as a flash, back came Cunningham: “Yea my liege, I swear by all that is holy, the Duke of Buckingham is slain this hour.”

Larry gripped him by the throat, turned him upstage and cried:

“Then by my troth, thou hast fucketh the entire play!”

Suffice to say that nobody in the audience even seemed to notice…

Drem Station

Jane wasn’t always the confident Christian lady she is today. When she was a little girl she used to live in East Lothian near North Berwick, and the local train to Edinburgh started in the local “Drem” Station.

One day her parents overheard her saying her prayers as follows: “And lead me not into Drem Station…”

Summer Nights

The British appear to be immune to cold. I suppose this is just as well, as most of the time living in the UK is a bit like inhabiting the bottom of a well…

Sixty years ago, Noel Coward memorably sang to his fellow colonials, “Mad dogs and Englishmen go out in the midday sun.” But he failed to comment on the fact that Englishmen at home are also mad about throwing outdoor parties when the weather is wet, freezing and foul.

Cold Comfort Farm
On a number of occasions, I have been invited to parties by kindly yet insanely optimistic hosts who seem to forget that the British weather is rarely conducive to outdoor merrymaking.

A few months ago, we celebrated a friend’s wedding in Scotland. The party was held in a farmyard with icy rain trickling down our necks. To get a drink, we were forced to wade through mud while the meal was eaten in an open barn, which doubled as a wind tunnel. There weren’t enough chairs, either, come to think about it.

Out of politeness and affection, around seventy of Scotland’s finest chose not to say to our hosts, “It’s good to see you out on day release, when are you being taken back in?” Instead we shivered in our huskies and greatcoats, eating rubbery chicken off plastic plates while pretending we were in the Bahamas – or anywhere else. By the end of the celebration, I was close to hypothermia and it was at least two hours before I could feel my feet again.

Last week, we were guests at an evening birthday party in Reading. We knew were in for it when the host announced: “What a glorious day it’s been, and what a lovely evening too!”. Although the day had been fairly warm, any fool knows that in the UK, the temperature automatically drops at least six degrees and goes on diving. By eight, guests were shivering trying to keep warm, and I saw one poor soul who had stopped moving altogether.

Of course, the last word must go to Winston Churchill. When he was prime minister, his chief whip brought him the ghastly news that one of his ministers had been caught on a bench in St James’ Park in flagrante delicto with a guardsman.

Noting that this particular February night had been the coldest of the winter, Churchill jovially announced: “And below freezing too! Makes you proud to be British.”

Master of My Destiny?
Nelson Mandela claimed that the short poem “Invictus” by the Victorian poet William Ernest Henley encouraged him to go on fighting for his life. The poem ends:

“I am the master of my fate,
I am the captain of my soul.”

Churchill quoted the poem in the Commons in September 1941, as did “Captain Renault” in the totemic film Casablanca, and Barack Obama at Mandela’s memorial service in 2013. Nobel Peace Prize laureate Aung San Suu Kyi has spoken of the poem’s influence on her late father, Aung Sang, and then there is the film Invictus too.

The worry I have is that the sentiments don’t quite ring true. Okay, it’s good never to surrender or give up, but we have all been around a bit and we know that what makes God laugh is “people making plans”.

Try quoting this poem to someone who’s just been diagnosed with pancreatic cancer and hear what they have to say about being master of their destiny. Or what about someone caught up in a messy divorce – not of their own making – or someone involved in a company bankruptcy, when their involvement is limited to being an employee? Or someone who’s lost a child in, say, a hit-and-run accident?

We are all too often leaves blowing in the wind. Of course, as our secular society has removed God from the equation, vanity – or desperation – tries to persuade us that we are in charge.

Death in Teheran
Perhaps this story best makes my point:

A rich and mighty Persian prince once walked in his garden with one of his servants. The servant cried that he had just encountered Death who had threatened him. The servant begged his master to give him his fastest horse to enable him to flee to Teheran, which he could reach that same evening. The Prince graciously consented and the servant galloped off on the horse. On returning to his house the Prince himself met Death in the garden and questioned him.

“Why did you threaten and terrify my servant?” the Prince asked.

“I did not threaten him,” answered Death. “I only showed surprise in still finding him there when I planned to meet him tonight in Teheran.”

Disaster fell! I awoke with the impression that my left knee cap had been kicked by a horse and when I arose I was hobbling and unable to bend it and I was no use to anyone.

Suddenly it occurred to me that I was suffering an acute attack of gout. If any of my blog readers have ever suffered gout they will know how disabling and painful it can be. And it was my fault! Simply, I hadn’t drunk enough water. Gout happens when crystals form around a joint and they have to be washed away; so I drank copious pints of water and took some simple painkillers and the pain receded as fast as it had occurred. What a relief.

So up and down the hills we we tottered, clambering over tiny styles apparently built for athletic pygmies. We walked all day in a drizzle so I spent the time dreaming up a list of the best movies I have ever seen: “Blow up” (David Hemmings), “A Man for all Seasons” ( Paul Scofield), “The Third Man” ( Orson Welles), “Cinema Paradiso”, “Manon De Source and Jean De Fleurette”, “Il Postino” “Leaving Las Vegas”, ” Apocalypto”, “Lawrence of Arabia”, “The Night Porter” (Dirk Bogarde), “Gladiator”, “The Graduate”, “Schindler’s List”, “Casino”, “The Scent of a Woman” (Al Pacino), “Marathon Man”, “The Pianist”, “Fargo” and “Ladies in Lavender” for starters.

Class Wars

A rather dingy pub and I have never seen the man with the sad, porpoise face lounging at the bar before. I can tell he’s straining to listen as my friend – whom I admit has a rather braying voice – and I discuss the futility of the hunting ban and how the hunts are thriving anyway.

Suddenly the porpoise leans towards us and through a whiff of tobacco and stale beer, hisses, “F*** off the pair of you, you pigs are a total disgrace.”

Just like that. Then he gives us the finger and shuffles off. We had done nothing to provoke him, and were just sitting there talking.

Toffs and Tattoos
What’s this all about? I suppose he thinks we’re Tory bastards – you know, Bullingdon boys and all that rubbish. There seems no point in trying to change his tiny mind that he’s just plumb wrong.

What’s his problem? Let me guess. Oh yes, we are middle-class, Tory-voting scum. He thinks to himself, “I just don’t want to have to look at you bastards anymore, but I know what you are. You’re filth and I hate the very idea of you!

Each time I look at you I am reminded of my limitations. Your friend looks like a rich toff and you’re clearly a fit old sod! You’re probably doing useful things – a member of that tribe of productive people who make me feel wholly inadequate. I just hate looking at your smooth, polished faces because you remind me of my failures and shortcomings.

You’re raising money for a charity walking round bloody Britain. Why don’t you sit on your sodding backside, smoking, drinking and watching daytime porn like me, eh? Why don’t you join Labour and do away with wealth creation, good management and hard-won profit?

Why don’t you devote your time to what you can screw out of the system, join a few “Stop the War” rallies, litter the streets with McDonald’s cartons, get drunk on Saturdays and snarl at everyone like a joyless left-wing, tattooed piss artist like me? I hate you! Do you get it?

Havana Blues
Years ago, I went to Cuba on a charitable mission. I arrived in Havana on a Sunday and as I am a churchy sort of person, I went to a service in a jumbo church in the middle of the city.

I am sure that many of my blog readers are churchgoers, and I’ll bet that many of you find it hard going following the order of service. Usually there are at least four pieces of paper to navigate! But the really important question is when to stand up and sit down? How can you get through any Anglican service without making a pluperfect fool of yourself?

Imagine then trying to do all this when the proceedings are conducted in Spanish! The Havana church was crammed with about 800 worshippers and I was jammed smack in the middle. I decided just to follow what the man sitting in front of me was doing: when he got up, so would I, and if he sat down, I would follow suit.

All went smoothly enough until around halfway through the service: I stood up when he did before realising that we were the only two people on our feet. What had gone wrong? The entire congregation began to laugh: they didn’t just snigger, the laughter rolled round the church and gathered momentum until the tears were literally pouring down people’s faces.

I had no idea what they all found so funny, and so I stood like a fool until thankfully my man sat down and so did I.

When at the end of the service I shuffled out, people were still grinning and pointing at me. I asked the pastor, “Please tell me why they were all laughing?”

“My poor man, he said, “I put in a baptism notice halfway through the service and I asked the father of the child to stand up – and you both did!”

Random Question
Why is it that I spy Jeremy Corbyn look-alikes everywhere, all beetling along on bikes, all sporting straggly, little white beards?

Another lovely day’s walking, on our own this time. We passed a vast fruit farm and a small army of Bulgarian fruit pickers, all scurrying along and gesturing that they don’t speak English.

Marcus, our Zimbabwean driver was surprised that whenever he stops in a village and parks by a verge, a spry pensioner often dashes out of a cottage and demands – often aggressively – that he moves at once and what did he think he’s doing parking there anyway!

Marcus is one if the most well mannered and gentle people I have ever met (that’s why he is our driver) and he always tries to disarm them with an apology and a smile and then off he drives. I wonder whether these folk spend their day just building aggression and waiting for the opportunity to have a go at someone. They say that in an uneventful life there is no such thing an an unimportant event and maybe Marcus and his parking is making their day! They are able to say to their friends – if they have any – “Disgraceful behaviour so told him, good and proper.”

Out of Sight, Out of Mind…

Some time ago a Zimbabwean friend of mine died suddenly. I knew him and his wife well and noted that they were the proud parents of two sons: one a lecturer at Durham university, and the other a professor at Exeter. Within six months, my friend’s widow mas making applications to ZANE for financial assistance.

I was astounded and rang both of the sons (readers, you can be proud of me: I was the epitome of discretion itself). It soon became clear that neither had any idea that their mother was facing acute hardship. They both expressed genteel surprise and told me that they would attend to her financial needs.

Go figure as they say. How rubbish is that? But ZANE is not in the business of assisting families who cannot communicate properly, and we often have to ring relatives to explain the harsh facts of life to them so that we do not waste donor money.

Time and again, our staff have to remind relatives who have left Zimbabwe to forge new lives – be it in Edinburgh, London, Toronto or Hobart – that the people they have left behind are having a hard time and need assistance. Experience shows me that the speed at which people forget their friends and relatives as they forge a new furrow someplace else is truly astonishing.

Longing for the Limelight
There is a poem by W.H. Auden called “Musée des Beaux Arts” that deals with this theme. Based on the famous painting Landscape with the Fall of Icarus, it describes how Icarus plummets from the sky while a ploughman carries on with his work and a ship sails calmly by. Wholly unconcerned by his plight, they presumably have more important things to do and worry about.

We are all guilty of being self-focused. I suppose growing up means trying to hide this iron fact as far as we are able.

There is a story about how an actress playing the nurse in Romeo and Juliet was asked what the play was all about? You will recall that the nurse is a great part for an older woman. She’s been around for a while, she says things that the audience wants to hear, and she raises a few laughs. But the fact remains that she is not Juliet, and she only is in a very few scenes. She probably appears in just one costume like a green bin bag, and she has a rather insane sort of headdress, a vast construction with horns and a veil.

Anyway the actress thinks very carefully about how best to summarise the plot of Romeo and Juliet: “Well, it’s about this nurse…”

So on we go. We are the stars of our own stories and sometimes we forget we are not at the centre of other people’s as well… and that other people can forget about us altogether.

One of my vital roles is to ensure that the forgotten people of Zimbabwe are remembered against the background of the many other worthy causes that battle to gain our attention. It isn’t easy.

—

As we go round the subject of “Brexit” arises. Interestingly, Theresa May is a popular choice as Prime Minister in both camps. Apparently she voted a reluctant “remain” and makes encouraging noises about “Brexit”. She is firm, honest, hard working, tough, competent with no small talk. Many people try to compare her with Margaret Thatcher, which I think is a touch silly as Mrs T was a Titan whose talents were suited for her time, whilst Prime Minister May is her own woman. And able women who play their cards right have an advantage in a man’s world, particularly if Chancellor Merkel’s career ends later this year in the aftermath of foolishly allowing one million refugees into her country against the heartfelt wishes of so many of her people.

But I think May has an advantage over Thatcher in that she has no children to distract her, no son Mark to be helplessly stranded in a desert somewhere. No teenage son to be found helplessly drunk in Trafalgar Square (Tony Blair’s lot). No worries as to which school to send them to. She can just get on with the job without distraction.

We can’t complain about the start of the walk.

We were welcomed in Hay on Wye by the newly elected Chris Davies, MP for Brecon and Radnorshire and a leading Conservative luminary, Roger White.

The loon who devised out first day walking is clearly out on day release and the sooner he is incarcerated again the better. Just looking at the hills he made us climb made me feel sea sick. We wheezed up and down with some difficulty but I managed partly because I was stung into overdrive by Roger who to my astonishment told me that he is eight years older than I am and he shot up the highest gradient as if he was jet propelled. So I gloomily plodded on in his wake. It was a glorious day and we agreed that there is nowhere on earth so beautiful than good old England from Easter to late September.

Can anyone tell me why there are 10,000 people waiting in this nasty camp in Calais trying to get to England? Why don’t they learn French and settle down in France? What’s wrong with France? What a dilemma:  if the UK authorities were to we accept the present campers, another 10,000 would appear trying to climb into lorries and so on. If we gave way to the Greens all we would be doing is to encourage the people smugglers.

A Tale of Two Dogs

So we are out of the EU.

I know that ZANE members will be on different sides of this argument, and I am heedful that the topic is toxic. I had not realised until recently how emotive this issue has become. Just like our seventeenth-century civil war between Cavaliers and Roundheads, the issue appears to have divided marriages, families and communities. In a family I know well, a son is refusing to speak to his mother because she voted “out”. He has told her seriously that their hitherto loving relationship is over for good.

But there are two sides to every issue. Jeffrey Archer once told me that he asked the Israeli ambassador to lunch along with that of the Palestinians.

He asked them both, “Are you 100 per cent sure you are right, or only 98 per cent?”

They agreed with the lower percentage.

“Okay”, he said, “then we have 4 per cent wiggle room.”

The Brexit issue has generated so much rage. My daughter Clare – a ZANE trustee and the chaplain of Christ Church in Oxford – recently gave a talk on anger. One of her stories was as follows:

A grandfather was taking his grandson for a walk, but as they walked the old man fell silent. After some time the little boy asked him why he was not talking.

“I have two dogs fighting savagely in my mind,” replied the old man.

“Gosh,” said the boy, “please tell me about them?”

“One is named peace, love, tranquillity, gentleness, kindness and obedience.”

“That’s nice,” said the boy. “What about the other?”

“The other is called anger, rage, violence, jealousy, retribution and pride.”

“And which one will win?” asked the child.

“It all depends on which one I am feeding.”

Happy Holidays

You will have seen the adverts proclaiming how wonderful Scotland is as a holiday destination. And so it is – but if you’re going there, do take care!

Friends of mine Michael and Ann went to Edinburgh for the weekend with their eight-year-old son, Henry. On arriving, they stopped off at a cafe in Castle Street. For those of you who don’t know the area, Castle Street is smack in the city centre, connecting George Street and Princes Street.

My friends were enjoying their coffee, when Henry decided to play up – you know how ghastly eight-year-old boys can be when tired. He screamed and shouted, then spattered his ice cream on the table, just for the hell of it.

With no more ado, Michael turned him over, spanked him and then plonked him back in his seat. End of row.

After ten minutes, a police car pulled up outside the cafe. Two policemen and a policewoman appeared, briefly talked to the owner, and then promptly arrested Michael. Despite vigorous protests from Ann, little Henry was taken into care.

Michael was taken to the police station and charged with assault. Purple with rage and protesting furiously, he was banged up for the weekend, and there he stayed until Monday morning when he was released on bail.

The family then flew back to London, vowing never to visit Scotland ever again. But some time later, Michael was obliged to fly back to Edinburgh to stand trial for assaulting a minor. He was fined and bound over.

Happy holidays in Scotland, but don’t belt your kids – well, not in public anyway.

—

We are spending the night with an old friend in a delightful house in Kinnersley near Kington.

Cathy is a long-standing friend of ZANE

Dear Tom and Jane,

As you set out on your latest walk for ZANE I thought this story might be of interest to you and the people you meet along the way who may want to know what life’s like in Zimbabwe in 2016.

On a recent weekend away we went to a spot along the banks of a river in the hot, dry lowveld of Zimbabwe. We had a rare and unexpected treat and sat in the shade to be entertained by a group of traditional musicians from a nearby village.

There were ten members of the mbira band sitting along the narrow wooden bench: six men and four boys. The band leader, the oldest in the group, addressed the small audience on a sweltering afternoon under a dazzling blue sky. The sun was slowly heading towards the horizon when the band leader stood up to speak. First the older members of the band would play, followed by the youngsters he said.
The young ones were still learning, but they were already very good, he said. As the old get older and prepare to move on, so the young ones move in to take over; that is the way it should be, the band leader said, a huge smile across his face. You couldn’t help but look for double meaning in his words. And then they began: clear tones of the mbira’s, rhythmic clapping, shaking rattles and hypnotic, repetitive song, taking you instantly to another place and time. Then the young ones came on.

On his head the youngster wore a green cardboard biscuit box; once containing lemon creams now the box made perfect headgear, decorated with feathers stuck into the corrugations. For six minutes the youngster danced to the accompaniment of the mbira band; half way through another youngster joined him, rattles in his hands, he too danced and stomped. A third youngster came to the centre to dance, strings of large,round wooden beads around his neck and waist, a stout stick in his hand. On and on the mbira band played and later, as the sun touched the horizon, the hippo in the muddy brown river beyond grunted and snorted before disappearing beneath the surface, waiting for their time to emerge. Men playing mbira’s, youngsters dancing, everyone tapping, clapping and smiling: aaah this is the Zimbabwe we love and yearn for: filled with richness, diversity and happiness.

This is one face of Zimbabwe but look the other way and the image is completely different. Our leaders seem to have forgotten about these good, rich, beautiful aspects of our country and forgotten about us, the ordinary people.

We see hunger, drought, poverty and water shortages while our leaders argue about diamonds, gold and mines.

We see companies going bankrupt and people losing their jobs while our leaders post bullets to each other, make threats, shout insults and scramble for positions.

We see thousands heading for the border in search of jobs in other countries while our leaders say they want pay rises and new cars.

We see clinics without drugs, hospitals without equipment and doctors on strike while our leaders jet off to Singapore for medical treatment.

We see unemployment of over 90% and pavements filled with unemployed people selling their wares while our leaders say they will close all companies who haven’t ceded 51% of their shareholdings to indigenous Zimbabweans.

We see thousands living in hovels and plastic shacks on the outskirts of all our towns while our Vice President continues to live in a 5 star hotel where he’s been since December 2014, at tax payers’ expense.

While monkeys play in our trees, hippos grunt in our rivers and mbira bands play in the sunset, our leaders are in a dark and dangerous political frenzy that is threatening the very fabric of our country. There is a growing fear of what lies ahead for Zimbabwe and so we watch and wait: longing for the day when Zimbabwe will be great again and where we are all welcome, regardless of our differences.

I wish you and Jane warm and dry days on your walk and hope that Moses can keep up with your pace and indefatigable spirit.

With love,

Cathy

Gate Expectations

I notice that the closer we get to London the larger (and dare I say it, the more vulgar) the houses and of course the higher the “sod you” gates: you know, the ones with push button entry bells designed to keep scruffy folk like us out. I always imagine that behind these walls a series of “Mr Bigs” live with bottle blond wives with vermillion toe nails. Mr Big is always an even uglier version of Alan Sugar; he will be sitting in his vast office which will be dominated by a model of his huge yacht. He will of course be devising ways to screw the public.

Sit on my Memory

We have now done our final stretch from Kingston to Westminster – and a good job too because for heaven’s sake we have walked quite far enough – as we crawled down the Thames tow path, we passed literally hundreds of benches all carrying memorial plaques. A nice way to be remembered methinks.

Another Lovely Tom

I ring Tom, one of the traders in my financial services providers “Spreadex”. They are always and consistently efficient and pleasant.

Talking of pleasant young men…

The Last Word

One of my godsons – a staunch Christian – is to join the services and he has been accepted by RMA Sandhurst to train as an officer. Apparently his parents were not particularly keen on the idea and some of his friends mocked him for “wanting to kill people”. How daft is that?

A Noble Profession

My godson asked for my advice and this is what I told him:

I was flattered you asked me about my military experience. However, I should add a government health warning about my experiences because “the past is a foreign country and they do things differently there”…!

You are entering a noble profession. I hear that you are being mocked by a good many of your friends who do not understand what military life is really about. They think that because you are to be a soldier you are a “war lover” when in fact, of course, the reverse is the case – you are there to stop war. Any country that fails to properly defend itself loses its identity, it’s as simple as that. It’s the first obligation of government to defend the realm and the job of the services is therefore of crucial importance. I understand that we spend about 35 per cent of our GNP on social services and under seven per cent on our national defences. Only the future will demonstrate whether these prove to be the right expenditure priorities for our nation.

Churchill once wrote that “the history of man is the history of war” and that’s a sad fact that any casual student of ancient – and modern – history will know. The idea, therefore, that laying down arms somehow deters the wicked from hostilities indicates that the person who holds such a view knows no history. The Russian communist and violent psychopath Lenin who led the ghastly Russian revolution said that those who were members of the UK peace movements were “useful fools”; more recently, when the Berlin Wall came down and reporters gained access to East German archives, they discovered that the CND was partly funded by the Russians. Oh yes, we need to defend ourselves as a nation, so please join up. Our country needs fine young people such as you obviously are.

I hope you will read all Max Hastings’s books on war, plus Quartered Safe Out Here by George MacDonald Fraser and First Light by Geoffrey Wellum. You will much enjoy them.

There are those who proclaim that followers of Christ have to embrace pacifism, wrenching the comments about peacemakers in Jesus’s Sermon on the Mount completely out of context. Jesus drew a careful distinction between defending the realm and our private conduct towards our neighbour. Note that Jesus never told the centurion he should change his profession!

In an attempt to help you understand the emotions of war, here are a few thoughts, which I culled from talking to and reading about the experiences of veterans from the Second World War. But I reckon that anyone who experienced any of the many wars since 1945 would agree with them.

War is the peak of human contradiction. It contains every paradox and hardly any answers: it raises hope in hearts, excites dreams that we can solve problems, and usually leaves its victors as well as its victims disappointed, dismayed and disillusioned. But war offers its survivors in battle one supreme emotion – the feeling of having been through the turmoil of fire and having lived to mourn one’s comrades in arms. It binds friendships tempered in the forge of white-hot experience in a way unmatched in other relationships in our peaceful society. This perhaps explains its attractions and intoxicating lure to the warrior instinct in us all, buried away as it is with our feelings of insecurity and fears that are stored in our subconscious.

This is not an argument to justify war by any means but an attempt to try to place the whole process in context. I am sure that when you have left the army you will see the rest of your life through the prism of your service experiences: you will never again know such fear, friendships and contrasting emotions. It will be your university of life.

In 1974, Erich Fromm offered this observation in his book The Anatomy of Human Destructiveness:

“War to some extent reverses all values. War encourages deep-seated human impulses, such as altruism and solidarity to be expressed – impulses that are stunted by the principles of egotism and competition that peacetime life engenders in modern man. Class differences disappear to a marked extent. In war, a man is man again, and he has a chance to distinguish himself, regardless of privilege that social status confers upon him as a citizen. War is an indirect rebellion against the injustice, inequality and boredom governing social life in peacetime… the fact that war has these positive features is a sad comment on our civilization.”

Please let me know your progress.

Aunt Agatha

Economist Maynard Keynes once said, “When someone persuades me that I am wrong, I change my mind.” What do you do?

One of the joys of life is to be able to discuss things with the young; then, when your learn something new, to adjust your viewpoint. Clearly Maynard Keynes understood why some people – particularly the elderly – can be so tiresome to talk to. All too many of us are firmly set in our ways and patterns of thinking, and simply refuse to budge.

Take Aunt Agatha, for example, a teacher in her day, and a good one too. However, as she grew older, she became increasingly irritating because she simply stopped thinking. This had nothing to do with dementia since other factors were clearly at work.

Closing the Door

Towards the end of her life, my aunt upset me so much that I chose to say little else to her apart from passing the time of day and being as kind as I could be without losing my temper. It’s upsetting when you seeing someone you once respected and still love behaving like a loon. So from time to time, I couldn’t help myself from trying to correct her. However, Aunt Agatha had ceased to hold opinions: instead she paraded prejudices. She simply ignored any information that might persuade her to change her mind, and instead would cling to her old views rather like a swimmer terrified of letting go of her water wings in case she sank.

US psychiatrist Scott Peck’s theory is that Agatha had allowed herself to succumb to a lethal combination of fear and laziness: fear that if she allowed herself to absorb new information, she risked having to change her mind. She realised instinctively that if she allowed that to happen, her fixed map of the world, carefully constructed over considerable time to protect her from the cave where dragons might lurk, would have to be redrawn. So she allowed her natural laziness to engulf her like a shroud so that in time she grew incapable of the necessary effort and courage needed to face reassessing her views on life.

One of Agatha’s least attractive features was her default position, which inclined her to look down on various groups of people so she could feel better about herself. So her opinions about Jews, blacks and Johnny Foreigner were culled straight from The National Front. Once, I sought to challenge her view that the Paralympic Games were a disgrace (because it’s cruel to allow cripples to make spectacles of themselves as a public entertainment.) When I showed Agatha pictures of cheering crowds and happy competitors, all she could say was: “You do go on… you can’t bully me!” Then when I told her she was being absurd, she replied: “You’re always so argumentative and silly!”

She simply closed the conversation down. She thought her dogmatism indicated strength. Discussion with her was the dialogue of the deaf.

Sad that. I saw a car sticker once that read: “Get even: grow really old and become a problem to your children.” I know exactly what the author meant.

And Finally…

Apparently, once when Billy Graham’s wife Ruth was driving along a Californian turnpike, there was a mile-long tailback caused by extensive road works. After an hour’s wait, she saw a sign that read: “End of Construction. Thank you for your patience.”

Ruth died in 2007. She asked to have her gravestone inscribed thus:

“End of Construction: Thank you for your patience.”

I rather like that.

Rug, Rats!

We stay in a beautiful house and I baptise it by casting a glass of claret on a cream rug! They were very kind about it (what else could they do?) and produced a marvellous machine which managed to obliterate most of it.

Lost for Words

When we are asked to sign visitors books ( we usually are) there is often a column to facilitate “comments”. The trouble with this is that I am always lost for superlatives. Previous writers have already combed the dictionary for adulatory adjectives. And I suppose we are being asked to outdo the compliments of previous guests. I refuse to play this game and so copy King Lear’s daughter, Cordelia, simply thank our hosts politely and merely add my name and address.
Small Stones

I saw a sign recently that proclaimed, “The person who wants to move mountains, starts off by carrying small stones.” I rather liked this as it sums up the need to delay gratification. It ties into the aim that I have adopted for ZANE, and that is that we should be trying to save the people of Zimbabwe one paper clip at a time. It takes hard work and an enormous amount of time. And it’s only after much effort that we see – just occasionally – that something substantial has been achieved.

Job Satisfaction
I read recently comments made by Nathalie Harrison, a leading dancer with The Royal Ballet. I cannot think of a more demanding job. It’s not particularly well paid, and the work is mentally and physically painful. And because the demands of the dancing profession are all consuming, she claims it’s “a complete lifestyle” – unless you are wholly dedicated, you won’t make the standard.

“Of course it’s cruel,” she says. “What goes on the stage is what the director wants at that time, and he’s not going to do something out of obligation or sympathy to me because I have an off day or feel sick. No one understands the demands of the life. It’s all about striving to achieve perfection. We’re way over the line of obsession but we’re all the same, so we think it’s okay.”

Nathalie reckons she can be proud of about one in 20 of her performances. She deplores the fact that so few young people today take their jobs sufficiently seriously. “I deplore,” she says, “the present generation who thinks that success should come easily. A lesson that my profession taught me early on is that the most rewarding moments that feel spectacular are those we have worked incredibly hard for. The harder you work, the greater the reward, and that is something I am not sure that younger people grasp. This fuels my loathing of current fashionable TV shows; young people who have done no training or hard work wanting to be famous, and crying and demanding it. There is a sense of people thinking they are owed something, but we have to earn success. Anything simply handed to someone doesn’t produce the satisfaction that hard graft delivers.”

Brand Power
I counted an average of four full pages describing the birth of William and Kate’s princess in each of the readable newspapers. Perhaps the attention given was somewhat overdone? I am delighted for the royal couple, but for goodness sake – surely there are other things in the world to focus upon for page after page besides a royal birth!

Then I heard that a group of people had camped outside the hospital for two solid weeks waiting to learn the news of the royal birth. How oddball is that?!

I have always been a staunch royalist: I am a supporter because I am a hard-headed traditionalist and pragmatist, and I realise that it is always easier to criticise institutions rather than devise a workable alternative. Imagine, if you will, a head of state called Bercow or Prescott or Heseltine, and you can understand what I mean. Prime ministers can be removed and replaced relatively easily while the ship Britannia steams inexorably on. You will recall that Prime Minister Thatcher was, for example, unceremoniously dumped in the middle of the Gulf War and the UK got on with things remarkably well. Those who remember the ghastliness of the impeachment of the late president Richard Nixon in the US will understand why the overarching institution of monarchy has advantages.

On top of constitutional advantages, the “brand” value of the monarchy to UK Ltd is overwhelming. It beats the brand name of Coca Cola and Apple into a cocked hat. I watched the French presidential ceremony of Francoise Holland: there stood a fat, little man in a brown raincoat standing disconsolately in the drizzle. This gloomy inauguration was watched by a small crowd of people including his assorted discarded mistresses, his present one(s), and a scattering of illegitimate children. The French soldiers were the cast from The Student Prince. It’s sad for the France of today that in 1789, the revolutionaries cut off the heads of the French aristocracy and monarchy, and all those with a little glamour. The “terror” thus released comprehensively destroyed “Brand France” in terms of pageantry and viewing potential. Did you watch the Hollande inauguration ceremony dear reader? I rest my case.

What do I mean by the vulgar term “brand value”? When the next UK royal ceremony takes place – perhaps the funeral of the Duke of Edinburgh – it will be watched by billions stretched around the globe: viewers from Tasmania to Hawaii, and from Wellington to Nairobi. And our ceremony will be immaculate in every respect because in the UK we do this sort of thing really well, in fact better than anyone else in the world. What better publicity can our tourist industry and exporting businesses reasonably want?

So monarchy wins in respect of stability and tradition, and pays for itself many times over. But along with the NHS, monarchy is the nearest thing we have to God in the UK and I find that embarrassing and a tad distasteful. As I’ve said before, the never-ending media whirligig and the public’s devouring fascination must be a terrible burden for those centred remorselessly in the spotlight. The quasi-religious adulation is over the top – there is something creepy going on here and it worries me. And beware: adulation can morph into an obsession, thence into savage destruction in a media nanosecond. Anyone who disputes this has only to recall the life and times of Princess Diana to see what I mean. So for goodness sake, can we please show some moderation?

I recall some time ago there was a wry letter in the Telegraph’s letter column that rang true:

“Sir

I see that Princess Kate has not appeared in your front page for some two days now.

Is she ill?”

Friends and Relation

This has been an especially great day because our eldest daughter Clare walked with us all morning. Made up for the incessant rain.

We lunched with Colonel Paul Davis who used to be the Secretary General of the services charity Royal Commonwealth Ex-Services League and a great friend of ZANE and ours. Also, Richard Warren who loyally drove for the last two of our walks. Despite getting to know us really well he has become a great friend.

My thoughts turned to Commonwealth, Empire and war…

The History of Man

I read in Rob Still’s Global Private Equity Fund report that the statue of Cecil Rhodes at the University of Cape Town was torn down because it represented “racial supremacy” and was a symbol of “colonialism”.

How ridiculous is that? Why do we continually apologise whenever the subject of the British Empire is raised? Why are we so slow to defend our past, especially when people are just parading their prejudices and talking nonsense? All too often, critics judge events that occurred 150 years ago in the context of the hugely changed world of today. They simply don’t understand that the past is a foreign country and “they do things differently there” – and not always badly either.

Facing the Facts

Will southern Africa degenerate to the level of Zimbabwe? On present showing, the answer, sadly, has to be yes. Of course, anyone who declaims the harsh truth loudly enough will inevitably be accused of “raaaaacism,” a routine knee-jerk reaction – but I think we should fearlessly state the facts.

Mankind probably emerged from Africa, likely emigrating from and then returning in multiple waves. Mankind shares the same DNA; we are of one species and created equally in the sight of God. In other words, it is racist to deem people as sub-human in the way that – for example – the Germans condemned the Jews in the middle of the last century. But it is not racist to point out essential historical facts, as stated below.

For all sorts of reasons, the various branches of man developed unevenly and great empires have risen and fallen with metronomic regularity. At some point, the Assyrians, Egyptians, Chinese, Greeks, Romans, Huns and Mongols all dominated world society. Attempts have been made to explain the factors that dictated the unevenness of the development of human societies. Ian Morris’s excellent book Why the West Rules… for Now attempts to measure this development over the millennia.

Survival of the Fittest

The simple fact is that, as Churchill argued, “The history of man is the history of war.” Throughout history, life was tough, brutish and short…especially for the losers. Vanquished and weaker societies were conquered, absorbed, enslaved or simply obliterated.

Ian Morris’s latest book, War! What is it Good For?, illustrates how inter-societal war over the millennia facilitated the advance of mankind by liquidating the weak and unsuccessful, and by creating the “rule of might” under whose protection mankind carried out trade and innovation to progress the species. The worst position to be in was to belong to a weaker society or tribe in any such clash or conflict. As history illustrates, such societies were always virtually annihilated.

Relatively speaking, when the southern African people clashed with the arriving European settlers, as a society of Iron Age pastoralists they were vulnerable. History shows that the indigenous southern Africans were in fact generously and – relatively speaking – fairly treated. And they have much to be grateful for to the early Dutch/Afrikaner settlers and later on to the “British Empire.”

The Fruits of Colonialism

For the last 600 years, there has been a vigorous development and expansion of the European peoples. There are all sorts of reasons: the growth of venture capital, competitive structures of society, shared information, printing, the Industrial Revolution and the harnessing of fossil energy. European society blossomed and exploded in an orgy of discovery, technical advancement and progress. The continent of Europe brought project power across the globe. The Spanish Empire in South America, and the rise of the United States, Canada, Australasia, the steppes of Russia and Siberia all bear testament to the rise of the European nations. But please note this: whenever there was a clash between the vibrant new European peoples and less advanced societies, the results have always been ugly for the latter.

Note that the native North Americans, the Aboriginal people in Australia, and the Aztecs and the Incas were all effectively obliterated. There are many reasons why the southern African indigenous people were spared this carnage. First, the early Dutch/Huguenot “settlers” became assimilated into Africa as an “African tribe”. Next, the Afrikaners failed to attract follow-up mass immigration as happened across the new world; and last, southern Africa came latterly under the relatively benign and progressive flag of the British Empire.

The fact is that the indigenous Africans who found themselves at the bottom on the development heap were in deep trouble. They needed to catch up fast – without being swamped and obliterated by clashes with more advanced societies; and the fact is they were deeply fortunate to be colonised by the Afrikaners and the British Empire.

Why were they fortunate? Well, take for example the fact that when Gandhi was openly defying the British Raj in India, Hitler advised Chamberlain thus: “Shoot him… people will soon forget!” But of course the Raj couldn’t do that, for they knew such an action would breach the law of the land. What other dominant power would have been so tolerant and decent, or wedded to the rule of law?

In the brilliant book Empire: How Britain Made the Modern World, economic historian Neil Fergusson illustrates the many positive contributions of British colonialism. He makes the vital point that under the British flag, more capital was transferred from the developed to the undeveloped world than at any time before or since in history, and that the risk premium for such transfers was artificially and derisorily low. Thus Anglo-American risk transfers and skills helped build southern Africa into the economic powerhouse of Africa with associated institutions, infrastructure and technology.

Southern Africa has much to thank Cecil Rhodes and the British Empire for. Of course, there were gross excesses and no one can be proud of the miseries and injustices of Apartheid. However, when you take into account the building of cities and their vast necessary infrastructure, the rule of law, and democratic and civic institutions, it’s quite an inheritance. In the round, all you have to do is look around and see – with unprejudiced eyes – what has been achieved and passed on to future generations.

Beloved Country

The good news is that, as a whole, today’s world society has become wealthier, healthier, happier, kinder, cleaner and better educated. People live more peaceful, more equal and longer lives that at any time since Adam. The bad news is that weak-strong societal conflicts are now much subtler than in the past: the battleground is about surviving in the global world economy. There is no escaping the iron rule that to survive you must innovate, but not all boats will rise in the rising tide of global progress and prosperity.

On present showing, I suspect that as indigenous southern Africans fall back in the economic race, they – as has been the case in Zimbabwe – will react increasingly aggressively towards the heritage and history of the white minority. As the aggression rises in tempo, decision boundaries by multi-national companies will be wound back to the shorter term, capital will be invested elsewhere, and emigration forms will be filled in by the most talented. The universities will start to lose gifted teachers as well as the hugely beneficial annual influx of US students, and the alumni will file their long-term endowment plans in the bin. All this will be to the great cost of the departments of engineering, science, mathematics, commerce and law: all vital disciplines if southern Africa is to compete in world markets.

The real problems that face southern Africa have nothing to do with old colonial history; rather they are that: (1) Education performance is now amongst the lowest in the world and as a result, the “born free” of the “Beloved Country” generation are being condemned to servitude and unemployment; (2) Pervasive corruption is smeared across all aspects of southern African life; and (3) There is chronic mismanagement by crucial state-owned enterprises.

The House of Tomorrow

Our children are all doing – well to us, anyway! – interesting things. Milly is a training consultant, a role she has created with her own effort, flair and energy. Thomas is starting his curacy outside Bath, Oliver starts his curacy in the centre of Cambridge, and Clare has just been appointed chaplain of Christ Church Oxford. Our children – and our 10 grandchildren – are our pride and joy, as children usually are to parents the world over and have been since time began.

It’s satisfying to watch our children’s careers and families unfold. They are pleased to be involved in jobs that are love affairs, and for our part, we are as proud as punch. But it’s dangerous for us to try and get too close. We should try and perfect the art of selfless love. Good old St Paul claimed selfless love was like a “drink offering”: a good metaphor, because liquid poured from a glass is a one-way trip. In my view, this is as good a description of selfless love as you can get. Of course, parental love can be a volatile force. It can overwhelm us like a tsunami, but we all have to be careful of living vicariously through children because a parent’s love is like a ball: it gets passed onto each generation. But the ball only goes one way, that is from parent to child and onto that child’s children in turn – and you cannot expect the ball to be passed back to you from your own children. Yes, of course, we love our parents, however old we get – we always need them, and when they die, it’s a loss to be mourned. But it’s a different kind of a love from that which you give a child. And, as parents, our job is to pass the ball forwards and not back. We are our children’s custodians: they are not our possessions.

As the poet Khalil Gibran wrote:

“You may house their bodies but not their souls,

For their souls live in the house of tomorrow, which you cannot visit.”

Nor can we expect any/much thanks from our children for what we may have done for them – any more than we thanked our parents for what they did for us (which in my case, was not a lot.)

What goes round comes round in the perfect symmetry of life.