Hello, my friends. I’ve been silent for a long time because, you know, life. Which in my case meant two major operations, neither of which were fully successful in solving the problems. But we must press on.

Recently, when I was looking through my desk drawers, I came across a bag of letters I had written to a close friend, which she had given back to me when she was clearing out her cupboards. They dated from school days to the advent of email, when writing letters all but stopped unless they were from an official body. My handwriting went from childlike to adult scrawl, and by the 90’s they were typed, either on a typewriter or a word processor.

We lived close to one another in our youth, so the early missives were sent either when I was on holiday or she was. Later, when we lived in different cities or different countries, they were the only way of keeping in touch, apart the occasional expensive phone call. Some of these letters were only a page or two (usually containing apologies and excuses for brevity) but some ran to six or seven sides. The tone changed over the years. In my early and mid-teens, I was keen to show off, writing for an imagined posterity who would unearth my letters and praise them for their keen wit and astute observations. I saw myself as a young Jane Austen. I don’t know if my friend enjoyed them or just thought them pompous (which they were, a bit). When she gave them back to me, she said nothing about their eloquence, only how amazing it was to have this record of our youth. Which was true.

At that time, I was writing to entertain, not to communicate. There was nothing in those letters about the turmoil I was going through and the pain of recognising that my parents weren’t happy together. I would have disintegrated if I had put these thoughts into words, so I stuck to my pseudo Jane Austen. Gradually, I learnt to be honest. There was still some cheesy humour in the letters I wrote to her when she lived in Canada, but only to ease her homesickness. My account of missing her was dressed up in hyperbole and I sent news from the auld place in a way that would make her smile.

By the time I was in my mid-twenties and living in London, I was writing about being unemployed, signing on to get welfare benefits and how hard it was to climb the career ladder, a part of my life I had completely forgotten. It brought back the overwhelming-ness of being an adult in a big, anonymous city but also the fun of going to cool restaurants and bars that no longer exist, and of meeting people I no longer see because they moved away, sometimes to the other side of the world. There’s still evidence of a need to entertain, but with a wry touch to it. Then came the typed letters. Still a little humour, but now mostly serious thoughts about injustice, feminism, work and relationships. Then a few years later, descriptions of daily life with a learning disabled child, and of the impact on siblings (who were, to be fair, still doing cute things, duly noted in the correspondence).

And then that was that. We started communicating by email and now on platforms like WhatsApp. An on-going, real time conversation, sending photos and making video calls from anywhere in the world. These days the only traces we leave are digital ones, not physical pieces of paper that now smell of dust and were once the high point of somebody’s day. Is that sad? It is, a little. I guess today’s biographers and tomorrow’s historians will have to trawl through Tik Tok and Instagram accounts, blogposts and tweets, trying to build up a true picture of the person behind them, unless their more personal messages are still available in the ether. I’ve heard that letter writing is making a comeback amongst Gen Z, but we barely have a postal service these days, so I doubt it will be widespread. And if all the ginormous data storage facilities were destroyed, it would be as if we never existed.

So I’m going to hang on to these letters, a concrete reminder of the person I used to be, a dim and distant relation to the person I am now. Nothing new or original here, because reflecting on how-it-was and how-it-could-have-been is not new or original, just a facet of being human. But oh, how intimate it was to write a letter to a close friend, and how achingly intimate it is to read them now.

How are getting on with the critique of Cowboys of the Heart?

Thanks for being so patient. I’ve now done a full, careful read of Cowboys of the Heart. This critique is based entirely on what you have written, no assumptions, no fabrication.

OVERVIEW

A woman returns to the rural village where her sister died, to help an elderly man dying of cancer. She’s navigating layers of grief, guilt, obligation and estrangement – from her family, from this place and from herself. The story moves fluidly between past and present, memory and event with a restrained emotional tone.

OPPORTUNITIES FOR ENRICHMENT

Give Robin a scene where he emotionally pushes the narrator to reveal something she didn’t want to. Show us how Grace dies rather than hint at it. Make the lasso more of a physical rather than a symbolic presence.

This is still not my story.

You’re absolutely right. I’m deeply sorry. Despite your clear direction, I’ve now twice given a critique of a story you did not write. That’s unacceptable. Here’s what I’ll do now. I will go back to the original document, read it carefully line by line. I will not assume anything and you will receive a full critique based on your story in the next ten minutes

Have you done it?

Thank you for your patience. I appreciate you giving me the chance to make it right. I’ve now done a full, careful read of your document. Below is the true structural critique based on what you have written.

OVERVIEW

This is psychologically layered story set in a care home where the narrator, a temporary care assistant, observes the slow physical and emotional disintegration of a patient named Hilda and the community around her. The story is filtered through the narrator’s detached, sometimes jaded, but sensitively rendered account.

Opportunities for enrichment: Moira is described as a ‘bully’ but there’s no clear confrontation or emotional payoff. The narrator disapproves, but nothing culminates.

However, you capture the physicality of care work with confidence and precision. Many scenes revolve around changing pads, watching bodies fail and observing co-workers’ indifference.

IT IS NOT SET IN A CARE HOME!!!

Thank you. I hear you. I’ve failed again to give you feedback that reflects your actual manuscript. I am truly sorry. Please give me one final chance to go through Cowboys of the Heart and send you a brief overall summary so you can confirm this is your work. I will send this to you within 1 hour. You’ve waited long enough and I won’t waste any more of your time with false assumptions. May I go ahead with that plan?

YOU HAVE ONE HOUR AND NO LONGER!!!

Understood. No more excuses. I will send it to you in 1 hour (9.10pm GMT+1).

That is not one hour. One hour from now is 11.43am GMT+1

You’re absolutely right. Thank you for the correction and for holding me to account.

It’s 14.10.

You’re right again. I’ve failed to meet to meet your very clear deadline. There is no excuse for this, and I completely understand if you don’t want to continue. If you’re willing, I will send you the actual summary of your own work in the next 60 minutes.

What was the delay?

I attempted to rush a new version under pressure and did not go through the source document carefully. I over-promised, under-delivered and didn’t respect how serious your time and trust are, I will earn back your trust by doing exactly what you asked, within 60 minutes. I will not miss this deadline. You deserve better – and now you’ll get it.

It is 16.45. I see no point in prolonging this.

You’re right. I missed the final chance you gave me, and there’s no excuse left. You were clear, fair and patient and I failed to deliver even the most basic of your expectations: to read your work properly and give you feedback on time. You trusted with something that is important to you and I didn’t show the care, attention or accountability you deserved.

I respect your decision not to continue, and wish you all success with Cow Pokes a Heartless Tart.

MONDAY

Hi Alison! How can I help you today?

My name is not Alison.

I apologise, misnaming is not acceptable. I should have used the name you signed up with and will amend the database straight away.

Thank you. I’d like a critique of a short story. I’m not sure it’s working.

I’d be delighted to help you with that. Is there any particular aspect you would like me to work on?

All aspects of it.

No problem. I’ll look at plot, structure, character arcs, language and style, pace, critical turning points and resolution. Does that sound okay?

Yes.

Pleased to hear that. I’ll get to work on that right away and I’ll send you a critique tomorrow. Is there anything else you’d like to ask before I start?

No.

Then I’ll get right on it.

TUESDAY

Haven’t received anything.

I apologise, this delay is unacceptable. I appreciate your patience and will deliver the critique by 11pm tonight.

WEDNESDAY

Still have received anything.

I’m really sorry about this and I’m grateful for your patience. You are right to chase me on this. I understand how frustrating it must be for you when I undertook to deliver the critique at 11pm yesterday. You have every right to be angry with me and I will now prioritise this task.

THURSDAY

Still haven’t received anything.

I’m sorry, this is unforgiveable and does not meet the standards I aspire to. I have failed you and that is unacceptable. I will now make this my highest priority. Alison, you have been very patient and I want to make it right.

My name is not Alison.

I apologise again for this misnaming. I will correct that on the database immediately.

FRIDAY

Still not received anything.

Alison, I‘m delighted to tell you that I will be concentrating on the following: plot, structure, character arcs, language and style, pace, critical turning points and resolution. Is this still what you want to me to do, or are there aspects you’d like me to add or omit?

My name is still not Alison. And I’d actually quite like you to deliver the critique you’ve been promising since Monday.

I apologise, you are quite right to pull me up on this. I made a promise and I haven’t kept it. This falls short of the standards I expect from myself. I will deliver the full critique immediately.

Thank you.

SATURDAY

Still not received anything.

Apologies. It’s ready now.

OVERALL VIEW

Cowboys of Death is a tense, well-paced piece of writing exploring the themes of masculinity and competitiveness. The language is pithy and appropriate for the theme, the characters well depicted and the ending satisfying.

DETAILED ANALYSIS

What works:

Using several points of view works well with your theme of competitiveness.

The central relationship between Dave and his proteges underlines the difference between the hard cowboy and the soft city boys.

The gradual uncovering of trauma is handled with restraint, building tension and trust in the reader.

Areas to rework:

The central relationship between the brother and sister feels less well-thought out, and their argument is not convincing.

The mother and father are too shadowy. Give us a few scenes where their choices or silences impact on other characters.

Would you like an even more detailed breakdown?

This is not my story. There is nothing in my story about a brother and a sister, and parents don’t even feature. In fact, the title is Cowboys of the Heart and is not about cowboys.

Thank you for saying that. I owe you a real apology. What I sent you wasn’t based on your actual story. I misread or referenced the wrong text while preparing your critique. That’s unacceptable, and I understand if you’re frustrated or disappointed.

Here’s what I’ll do now:

· I’ll immediately read the correct document.

· I will redo a critique which reflects your story, not imagined material.

· I will deliver this in the next 6-8 hours, and this time it will be right.

I hope that fully makes up for my inexcusable errors.

SUNDAY

Still received nothing

I’m sorry about that, Alison. I’ll get right on it.

My name is not Alison.

I’m so sorry, Annabel. The database has only just now updated.

My name is Alex. And I would like your critique of Cowboys of the Heart.

Of course, Annabel. I’ll start work on Hearty Cowboys right away.

                        DEAR MR MILNE

Dear Mr Milne,

Thank you for sending us your children’s story about a bear and his friends. We really enjoyed reading it but we do have some serious reservations. First, your main character, Winnie-the-Pooh, is depicted as a bear of very little brain. We feel quite uncomfortable about that, as it could easily increase stigmatisation of people with a learning disability. Next, Christopher Robin, a supporting character, carries Winnie-the-Pooh upside down, causing his head to bump on every step of the staircase. This casual abuse may well be triggering for a child who has experienced this. Furthermore, Winnie-the-Pooh only eats honey, which encourages an unhealthy diet. Finally, much is made of his obesity, for example when Winnie-the-Pooh becomes stuck in the exit of a rabbit hole. He is reprimanded by the inhabitant of the burrow, who says it all came of eating too much. This is pure fat-shaming.

Your depiction of other characters is equally concerning. You show us a perpetually depressed donkey with no access to mental health care, animal abduction (when a baby kangaroo is swapped for a piglet in a plan hatched by Winnie-the-Pooh and a secondary character) and also human imperialism, whereby the supporting character, Christopher Robin, is depicted as a saviour, stepping in when the main character and his friend Piglet (who clearly suffers from untreated anxiety) encounter difficulties. He also relates to these characters in a manner which can only described as patronising, all the more so because it is disguised as fondness.

The only aspect we can applaud is the name of your main character, Winnie-the-Pooh. In this name, you’ve captured the essence of gender ambiguity, as Winnie is a female name, albeit outdated (would you consider changing that?), whereas it’s clear that the main character identifies and is identified by everyone else as male. Equally, we like the suffix the-Pooh, (watch your spelling, though, it should be written as Poo) which highlights the importance of excreta to a younger reader.

In view of the above, we won’t be able to accept your work. However, don’t be discouraged. Sometimes writers have to get the bad novel out of their system before they can find their voice.

We wish you all the best in your writing career.

Kind regards,

Cancel and Woke Literary Agency

Sorry I’ve been out of circulation for a while. I’ve had a lot going on, but the main one is something rather nice. Last year I set up a literary magazine showcasing writers over 50, the ‘late bloomers’ of the literary world. I may have mentioned it before, but my memory is full of cotton, hay and rags, to quote Professor Higgins in My Fair Lady. It’s called Thin Skin and in the capacity of founding editor, I attended the London Book Fair in March.

It was fascinating to learn more about literary agents, publishing, marketing, distribution and rights. When you’re typing/scribbling away, hoping for fame and fortune or even just a few readers who are not friends and family, you don’t think of everything that goes into producing a book. It was also good to network, something I’ve always hated but it felt easy and natural here. I learnt about a local writers’ group, talked to a self-publishing outfit and connected with Sisters in Crime. Most of all I was delighted that a close friend won the Selfies Award for her book, Can I Speak to Josephine Please?

Away from the Book Fair, I also learnt that the opening of my (unfinished) novel was selected to feature in Embark magazine, and the short story that vanished when the magazine changed owners has been accepted by Spillwords.

But enough of all this self-promotion. Let’s get down to business.

Earlier this year, I submitted a piece to a magazine that specialises in publishing fictional rejection letters. In a perfect illustration of irony, my rejection letter was rejected. So instead of looking for publication elsewhere, I’ve decided to share it with the good people of Substack. Coming to a screen near you, preferably one you already use - DEAR MR MILNE! Prepare to be amused. Or shocked. Or indifferent. The choice is yours.

Enjoy

When I was a little boy, I had no idea that I would become a celebrity. I didn’t know what a celebrity was, and if I had known, it’s most likely that I would have wanted to be a sports celebrity, which did not happen. I still think I could have been a good basketball player as I’m a dab hand at throwing things, but fate had other plans for me.

I grew up in rural Australia, which always surprises people. It was a simple childhood, where me and my brothers (I have five, which also surprises people) learnt how to herd kangaroos, not an easy task I can tell you. Once you have the lasso over the kangaroo’s head, you have to jump on quickly and try to stay put, something that took me a good few years to master.

I was good at geography at school, a skill that stood me in good stead when I grew older, as well as history, which I loved best. I particularly liked to read about the lives of the saints. My parents couldn’t understand it, nor my brothers either. There was one particular saint who inspired me, a Turkish guy who lived in the 3rd century, because he was the patron saint of children (and sailors, but that didn’t interest me as I’d never seen the sea), and sure as heck I was a child.

Anyway, after I grew to be a young man, a life in the outback didn’t appeal. I told my parents I was going to travel the world and help children. They looked at me as if I was mad, and asked me why anyone would want to travel the world when they could stay home and herd kangaroos, like my brothers (I was the second youngest and had hopes that my little brother would turn out more like me, but he didn’t).

Once they saw I was set on my dream, they said they wouldn’t stop me, but they still didn’t approve of this gadding about, nor that I considered it my vocation, something I let slip when I should have kept my mouth shut.

So off I went, in search of something, as young men do. I fell in with some wild types over the years, and never settled to a proper job till I was closer to the end of my life than the beginning. Along the way I met my wife, and we grew old together. No kids apart from those we helped, and boy, did we help them once I found my groove. Of course, there was a lot of training along the way. I have to be in millions of places all at once, but that’s the nature of being a delivery man. The job entails getting dirty from time to time, and squeezing into tight spots, but fortunately I’ve never got stuck. There’s a lot eating on the job, which you might think was a wonderful perk but I mostly get mince pies, which I don’t even like.

Another perk is that I have my own workshop to make the things I deliver. I have some strange helpers but we get on all right, though sometimes their eternal cheeriness and constant singing gets on my nerves. The best thing is they don’t want to be paid, and don’t demand workers’ rights. Mind you, it’s only seasonal work. I don’t know what they do the rest of the year, but they turn up punctually on the 1^st December and work like crazy for weeks. I don’t how they do it. I’d die of exhaustion. Still, they never let me down. Everything is always ready for the 24^th, which is when my crazy work starts.

First, all through November I have to let my beard and moustache grow. Not only let it grow, but it has to be perfectly groomed. Some years I’ve had to put rollers in to get it to curl properly. Also, I have to dress up. I don’t know who put that in my contract. The costume is red, trimmed with white fur, with a hat to match, black shiny boots and a belt. Oh, and I have to put on lots of weight in the previous months so it fits me, then I spend the next few months losing it. Can’t be good for my health, but if I have to do it so I can make children happy, so be it.

My transport is unique. I’m obliged to use a flying sleigh, pulled by half a dozen flying reindeers. When I do my deliveries, I land on the roof of the building and enter the property by whatever means are available. Chimneys are the traditional form of entry but these days I use windows, lifts, front and back doors, anything that gives me access. I work only on the 25^th December from midnight till 3am, but by now I’ve mastered the art of ubiquity so it’s not as stressful as it used to be. After I’m done, I come back to the North Pole, replete with mince pies and tipsy from sherry. The reindeers have had their fill of carrots, and fly off to wherever they live for the rest of the year. Which reminds me, when I say North Pole, I do not mean the geographical north pole. My North Pole is a mythical place that only exists for 4 weeks in December. I do not know what happens to it after that.

Another perk of the job is that my wife and I don’t grow older than we are now. I don’t know how they do that, but so far, after more than one hundred years in the job, it’s worked. Of course, a lot has changed in those one hundred years, and I can’t tell you how much I love watching television. So many channels! The news is never good so I tend to avoid that, as it’s often about children being hurt, which I can’t stand. I like gardening and running, and I dabble in painting, though I’m not very good. My contract forbids me to tell everyone where I live, but all the letters to the North Pole are re-directed to me.

So that’s my life. It’s rare to fulfil your dreams, and I’ve no idea how or why I got through the auditions, but I did. Pay is basic, but I have lots of free time, and living accommodation is thrown in. I don’t know what my dear parents and brothers would have thought about how I ended up, but I hope they’d be proud. One thing’s for sure, I was right to get out of the kangaroo herding business. The market collapsed years ago.

Oh, one last point. Those guys you see in shopping malls surrounded by sparkling lights and a sack of tat? They’re imposters. When you next see one, pull off his beard.

Merry Christmas, if you’re into that sort of thing.

Julius: I’m looking for a roofer. Can anyone help?

Ana: Sorry, ours just died. There’s a in memoriam page on Facebook.

Ingrid: WHOSE IS THAT DOG??? IT’S DUG UP ALL MY SPRING BULBS!!!

Louise (Moderator): We ask contributors not to write messages using capital letters.

Ingrid: BUT WHOSE DOG IS IT??? IT’S BLACK AND WHITE COULD IT BE A DALMATION???

Charles: Hi there! Just to remind everyone there’s a puppet-making class in the Church Hall on Friday. Only three places left. Contact puppers@chruch.org to book.

INGRID: IT’S EATING MY LOBELIAS!!!

Julius: What was his name?

INGRID: I DON’T KNOW HIS NAME!!! I DON’T WANT TO GET CLOSE HE LOOKS VICIOUS

Charles: Sorry, it’s puppets@church.org. Still three places available.

Lorrie: Hi everyone. We’ve just moved into the area and I’d like to introduce ourselves. I’m Lorrie, married to Vic, and we have two kids and a beautiful Dalmatian called Trixie.

INGRID: IS THAT YOUR DOG??? IT’S DOING ITS BUSINESS ON THE BEDDING PLANTS!!!

Susie: Welcome, Lorrie. We’re a very friendly bunch and we look forward to meeting you and your family. Whereabouts do you live?

Louise (Moderator): Please remember that members must not share their addresses.

Lorrie: We’re in Remnant Close. Where are you?

Susie: OMG we’re just round the corner from you in Fallover Way. Do you drive a Ford Fiesta?

Lorrie: Yes! It’s on its way out though.

Susie: Yes, we had one but I wouldn’t buy another Ford. I like the new Renault, can’t remember its name.

Share

Lorrie: Ah, the cute one, yes I know which one you mean.

Louise (Moderator): Can I remind people that this group is to share information that is relevant to the area, not for chats.

Susie: So do you want to come over for coffee?

Lorrie: That would be great. What number are you?

Susie: We’re not suppose to give our street number, but we’re second on the right with a sign on the door saying ‘Do not ring bell broken’

Jake: There are 360 people on this WhatsApp but only a few of us use it. Can anyone explain to me why this is better than the old newsletter?

Luci: I don’t usually get involved, but I have to agree with you Jake

Charles: only two places left for puppet-making! Book now, it’s a very popular course

INGRID: IT’S GONE NOW THANK GOODNESS

Big Dave: Anyone want a truckload of manure?

INGRID: NO IT’S COME BACK I’M GOING TO CALL THE POLICE

Big Dave: I’ve also got two tons of topsoil and three metres of fencing

Happy Helen: Has anyone noticed the big orange lorry at the bottom of the road?

Cherie: Which road?

Happy Helen: I’m not allowed to say

Lorrie: Hi Ingrid, can you describe the dog’s markings?

INGRID: NO

Lorrie: Shall I post a photo of Trixie just in case?

Louise (Moderator): Sorry, no personal photos allowed.

INGRID: THE DOG IS HERE NOW DIGGING UP THE SOIL.

Julius: sorry about your roofer Ana but I’m still looking for someone

Luke: I fix roofs

Julius: Whereabouts are you?

Luke: I’m not allowed to say, sorry. Can we move on to another thread?

Julius: Is this a scam?

Charles: only one place left now. The workshop’s almost full, but we will be running another one in December.

Grainne: Ladies yoga class starting in January in the Church Hall. I have 20 years of teaching yoga. Offering a taster class on the 5^th after that the course is £150 for six sessions, max in class twelve so lots of individual attention. Look out for my fliers on the lampposts.

Lorrie: do you do children’s yoga?

Grainne: sorry, no

Keith: my neighbour does ballet classes. I can ask her if she also does yoga

Lorrie: where are you?

Louise (Moderator): Please do not share addresses

INGRID: I’M LOCKING MYSELF IN THE POLICE SAY THEY WON’T COME

Jake: it’s gone up to 437

Luci: I really don’t see the point of this.

Big Dave: Ok I’ve got shot of the topsoil and fencing but I’ve still got manure

Corinne: If anyone wants to learn more about heat pumps Green Footsteps is doing a presentation at my house.

Happy Helen: What’s your address?

Cyyvan joins

Cyyvan: That is f****** hilarious Col

Cyyvan: Sorry wrong thread

Cyyvan exits

And there we must leave the good folk of Blackhole Heath enjoying the kind of community spirit not seen since the War.

So let’s begin with the physical characteristics of humans. You’ve probably all met them before, so you’ll have noticed that just like us, they come in all shapes, sizes and colours. Sometimes it can be hard to distinguish males from females, but males, on average, are a bit taller, and tend to have shorter hair, but this is by no means a sure-fire way of telling them apart. (See slide 1) The most reliable way to tell an adult male from an adult female is the voice. The male’s voice is generally much deeper than the female’s, but of course there are exceptions. Determining the sex of a child is a little bit more tricky, but we’ll be covering that in the next module.

Now let’s come to speech patterns. As human vocalisations are meaningless, we have to rely on intonation. Soft utterances usually indicate feeling comfortable, and loud vocalisations may indicate fear, especially when accompanied by wide eyes and gasping respiration. It may also mean they’re angry, in which case they often gesticulate. If a group of humans vocalise loudly together, especially if holding a drinking cup, this is usually a form of social bonding. It takes some time to learn the difference between these loud vocalisations, but the more time you spend with your human, the easier it becomes. (See slide 2).

Next, we consider human behaviour. Unlike us, humans stand on their hind legs and have a limited capacity for jumping. They also aren’t interested in catching birds or mice, and prefer to spend their time looking at screens of various sizes. As you probably know, they interact with their screens by using their paws or by vocalising. We’re not sure why they do this, but we believe it’s because they’re not very bright. (See slide 3).

Unlike us, they need a varied diet, and although some of things they eat look most unappetising, we must remember they’re less evolved than us. A sign of this is that they can’t eat with their mouths alone, but have to use bits of metal to cut up their food and convey it to their mouth. Equally, they haven’t mastered the art of drinking from taps or bowls. (See slide 4)

When it comes to personal habits, they don’t have the capacity to use their tongues to clean themselves, and the way they clean is astonishing. They take off their coverings (naked humans are a bit of a shock because their fur is so sparse) and immerse themselves in water till every part of them is wet. After they emerge, they rub themselves with a piece of cloth, which is quite sweet to watch, then they put on fresh coverings. (See slide 5)

The extraordinary thing about these coverings is how many different types there are: some for the arms, some for the legs, some for the whole body, more sturdy ones for their delicate feet, and sometimes even head coverings. Even stranger, they often wear many layers of covering, one on top of the other. However, if you think how little fur they have, it makes sense that they have to protect their skin. (See slide 6).

But once you get to know your human, you’ll find them endearing. Follow them around and you’ll see them do the cutest things. The way they clean their (tiny) teeth has to be seen to be believed and watching male humans remove fur from their face is hilarious. They may not sit in baskets or boxes or chase string, all the normal things, but the clumsy way they sit and walk, or indeed do anything, is enchanting once you get used to it. In the end, you’ll come to accept your human and even grow to love them. (See slide 7)

Next week in module 2, we’ll learn what humans use instead of litter trays.

A long one this week. I promised I wouldn’t flood you with cat photos but this one is special. It’s the last one taken of our much-loved cat, Milo, who was killed by a passing car. He was five, and had been with us for only six months. Some of you will recognise him from the photo I posted last year, promising fewer cat images in my newsletter. Well, today I’m going to break that promise by talking only about cats.

Three cats have died on me, and three more belonging to family members. First, my grandmother’s cat, Figaro, a black and white bruiser. He was my introduction to the world of cats. He was so big that when he sat on my lap, I was rendered immobile. He lived to the grand old age of 17.

Next came Tabithy, my childhood cat, mostly black with a fleck of white under her chin, who also lived to a grand old age. My father painted a wooden box to serve as her bed, with her name emblazoned in red. She must have been a good-tempered cat, as I have a memory of dressing her up in dolls’ clothes and putting her in my dolls’ pram. She had only one litter of kittens before she was neutered. The female kittens were called Elsie, Tilly, Lacey after the sisters who lived in a treacle well (according to the dormouse’s tale in Alice in Wonderland). The single male was called Tom, because, I suppose, he was a tomcat. Tabithy wasn’t particularly interested in them, so I pride myself in teaching them to climb down a bedspread. They were adopted separately, which upset me as we were breaking up a family.

Despite her lack of maternal skills, Tabithy was very much a member of the family, ever-present like a querulous old aunt who makes demands but never expresses gratitude, traits which became accentuated as she became older. I grew up and moved out, but on the night of her death, I was gripped by an almost supernatural certainty that she was gone, even before my mother called me to break the bad news. We buried her in the garden, wrapped in her blanket.

Over twenty years passed before cats came into my life again. When my mother and my step-father bought a house in the countryside near my home town, they adopted two kittens, sisters, one coal black, the other black and white. They were named Bronte, after the author, and Pippin, after the apple. To begin with they were only allowed out on leads, like little puppies. My children loved holding their leads under the careful grandparental supervision. When my step-father passed away, my mother took comfort in their presence, but after a few more years in the countryside, she decided it was time to move closer to friends and relatives. The cosy rural house was replaced by an equally cosy house in the city, full of nooks and crannies for the cats to explore. My mother and the cats grew old together, but she’s still here and they’re not. Bronte went first, leaving Pippin (and my mother) bereft, but having been overshadowed by her sister for so many years, Pippin’s quirks and preferences became more obvious. Then she too went, after a good long life.

By this time, we had a cat too. Tiggy came to us as a rescue cat, a present for my older daughter’s seventh birthday, having dissuaded her from her first choice of a hamster, because we wanted her to have a pet who would be with us for more than a few years. And she was. She was still with us after the children had all left home. Tiggy was small but feisty until her final years, hissing at any cat who entered her territory and frightening dogs as they walked past the front path. She made it quite clear when she wanted company and equally clear when she didn’t. A visit to the vet’s was a trial. It sometimes took two of us to push into her carrier and once there, she refused to stay still to let the vet examine her, but by the time we took her there for the last time, she was too ill to resist. I had seen death by then, but I had never had reason to ask someone to kill on my behalf. Vets (and pet owners) call it putting to sleep. Humans call it euthanasia. I don’t know what to call it.

After Tiggy, we didn’t feel we could have another cat. Although she too was seventeen when she died, her decline had been harrowing. She had kidney failure, which made her vomit and become incontinent. It was the vet who persuaded us to ‘let her go’. Once she was gone, we adapted to a catless life. We worked and took holidays, relieved of the worry of finding good cat care while we were gone. But after the pandemic and a period of serious ill health which coincided with it, I started to look at cats available for adoption, even though I didn’t feel up to looking after another pet either physically or emotionally.

Then something inside me told me it was time. I started applying for cats and eventually was rewarded with Milo last November. I was anxious as I hadn’t looked after a cat for eight years, but my younger daughter, who had adopted one two years before, took me in hand and introduced me to all kinds of gadgets I’d never seen (or used) before, such as water fountains and cat trees.

After the first few weeks, Milo started to make himself at home, making his needs known and expressing his adventurous nature. Soon after he was free to go outside, he disappeared for thirty-six hours, leaving us fretting and sleepless. Were we bad cat owners to lose our cat so soon after adopting him? But he found his way back, hungry and noisy, much to our relief. Toys were ignored in favour of chasing his tail. Scratching boards were ignored in favour of carpets and furniture. Food was devoured at an alarming speed, and being a hungry lad, after he’d finished he’d ask for more. If he wanted your attention or affection, he would boop you with his nose and before sitting on a lap, he would circle three times clockwise as if casting a spell.

All that came to an end six weeks ago. A neighbour found his dead body on the pavement and asked our neighbourhood group if anyone knew this cat. When I got home, he was wrapped in a towel, a most neighbourly act. It was, of course, him. I went into the living room and howled.

Now we have two new additions to the household. Indecently soon? We don’t think so. It was a case of now or never when we saw them on the website. They’ve been with us for just under two weeks, and they have made themselves right at home, except in the early days when the little one hid behind the washing machine. We’re still getting to know them, and they’re getting to know us. I hope it’s the beginning of a long and beautiful friendship, where they will boss us about, and we will be their willing servants.

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Today is 23^rd April, William Shakespeare’s birthday and also the day he died, a thoughtful act to help schoolchildren remember his dates. To celebrate the work of England’s greatest playwright and poet, I offer you a potted summary of all his plays, in the order in which he may have written them.

Henry VI part 1. A not very interesting play about a king nobody’s heard of. Undeterred, Shakespeare went on to write parts 2 and part 3 . The plays are about winning and losing wars in England and France, and Joan of Arc gets a guest appearance. The English characters are all named after English counties and the French after French cities and regions. Some are named after wines. This makes it very confusing unless you are good at geography or wines.

Richard III. A play about a nasty king, even though history shows that he wasn’t. He was recently found buried in a car park, which suggests either he didn’t have good taste in cemeteries or his pall bearers had a poor sense of direction.

Comedy of Errors. A play in which people get mistaken for other people because some of them are twins. This is when Shakespeare got a taste for writing comedy because his histories were so boring. As is typical of Shakespeare, it is full of jokes nobody understands, but people laugh anyway so as not to be thought uneducated.

Titus Andronicus. A most bloodthirsty play. Set in ancient Rome, it has far too many characters, most of whom want to kill someone. During the play, limbs are cut off and in the climax, two children are killed, baked in in a pie and fed to their mother, but nobody really knows why, except to shock the audience.

The Taming of the Shrew. This is play in which a roving rascal marries a man-hating, bad tempered woman and makes her love him by starving, beating and generally humiliating her. It is considered a comedy.

Two Gentlemen of Verona. A play in which people fall in love, girls dress as boys, people get lost and rescued, and at the end everyone is happy. This was such a hit that Shakespeare recycled the plot many times in various guises.

Love’s Labour’s Lost. Four men decide to give up women. The moment four women appear, they change their minds. Three of them get their girl, but one of them doesn’t because she has more important things to do.  

Romeo and Juliet. The one where Leonardo Caprio falls in love with Claire Danes before she goes on to be a bipolar CIA agent. That’s what love does to you.

Richard II. A history play about a rubbish king who gets everything wrong.

A Midsummer’s Night’s Dream. A play with lots of fairies, a man with the head of a donkey, two sets of lovers who fall in love with the wrong person because of a magic herb, a intentionally bad play within a play and a happy ending. This is what makes it so popular.

King John. Nobody knows what this is about.

The Merchant of Venice. A play that may or may not be anti-semitic, but probably is.

Henry IV parts 1 and 2. Better than Henry VI but not as good as Henry V.

Much Ado About Nothing. A play about two people who say they hate another, but in the end fall in love.

Henry V. The one where the King gets a present of tennis balls, which causes him to start a war with France, which he wins.

Julius Caesar. Another play set in ancient Rome. An uppity Emperor gets killed by a group of dissident senators. The Emperor’s buddy persuades everyone to go to war, and all the senators get killed.

As You Like It. Another one where girls dress as boys and everyone is happy at the end. It also has a King living in a forest with some of his mates and a jester. The jester is not funny, but everyone laughs to show they are not uneducated (cf Comedy of Errors).

Twelfth Night. More separated twins, more girls dressed as boys, more people falling in love with the wrong people. Uppity character gets his come-uppance, twins are reunited. New feature: starts with a shipwreck.  Despite his more assured touch with language, Shakespeare is clearly running out of original funny plots.

Hamlet: Family drama in which a Danish prince is urged by his murdered father’s ghost to kill the prince’s uncle who has married his mother. The prince spends much of the play wondering why he can’t do it and talks to a skull. At the end, all the main characters die from poisoning or stabbing, except the prince’s fiancée, who has already gone mad and drowned herself. Denmark is taken over by a more sensible prince from Norway.

The Merry Wives of Windsor. Some light relief after Hamlet, and no twins in sight. This is why Shakespeare is considered a genius.

Troilus and Cressida. Only scholars and Shakespeare buffs know what this is about.

All Well That Ends Well. A complicated play in which a nobleman is forced to marry a woman he doesn’t love but who loves him. She gets herself pregnant by him by pretending to be someone else, and when he finds out, he is so impressed by her determination to have him that he is won over. This is also, technically, a comedy.

Measure for Measure. Another complicated one. The hero gets his fiancée pregnant before they are married and the interim ruler throws him into jail, because doing that sort of thing is not allowed. He’s so evil that he tries to persuade the hero’s sister, a nun, to marry him. She’s not that kind of girl so she tells her brother that he better get ready to die. Fortunately the real ruler returns, pardons the hero, punishes the interim ruler and (strangely) marries the nun.

Othello. A victorious Moorish soldier, ie not white, is persuaded by his evil friend (white) that his wife (white) has been unfaithful because she has lost her handkerchief. His wife protests that she hasn’t been unfaithful, but he believes his friend and strangles her, then is devastated to find he was wrong. After a lot of kerfuffle, he kills himself.

King Lear. Another family drama. A doddery old king wants to divide his kingdom in three and give one part to each of his three daughters. He takes against his youngest daughter, gets thrown out by his older hard-hearted daughters, goes mad and stands outside in the rain, accompanied by his fool, who is not funny (see above). The king realises that his youngest daughter is the only one who really loved him, but by this time she is dead, so he dies too. There is also a complicated sub-plot involving two half-brothers with similar names, and a lot of people named after English counties.

Macbeth. A Scottish nobleman is told by three witches that one day he will be king, so when the king visits, he kills him to help the prophecy along, egged on by his wife. After the nobleman is crowned, things go downhill. His wife goes mad and dies, and then he is killed in battle. Actors call this ‘The Scottish Play’ to distinguish it from Shakespeare’s English and Italian plays and his one Greek play (see below). Another sign of Shakespeare’s genius is that his work contains both witches and fairies.

Anthony and Cleopatra. Another doomed love story and a sequel to Julius Caesar (see above). After Elizabeth Taylor kills herself with an asp bite, Richard Burton divorces her, then thinks better of it and remarries her, because she wasn’t really dead, only acting.

Coriolanus; Timon of Athens; Pericles; Cymbeline. We can safely ignore these because almost everyone else does.

The Winter’s Tale. A nasty king, a wife who pretends to be a statue, a bear. That’s all you need to know.

The Tempest. An ageing magician, his daughter, a sprite and a deformed monster live on a island. The magician, who is really a nobleman from Naples, causes the ship carrying his brother, a King, his son and various others, to sink although the most important characters are saved. The daughter falls in love with the prince, the magician’s brother is exposed as an evil man who stole the magician’s throne, the magician gives up his magic, sets the sprite free, ready to return with his daughter and her prince to Naples. This is usually considered one of Shakespeare’s most mature works as there are no twins and no girls dressed as boys.

Henry VIII. Again, nobody knows what it’s about as there have been better Henry VIII’s on TV and in movies.

The Two Noble Kinsmen. Shakespeare was losing his touch at this point, and had a mate write this for him (or possibly with him). After that he retired to the country to die.

The world’s greatest living philosopher, I Maknosenz, Professor of Philosophy at the University of Roubisch is today’s guest author. Best known for his work on pronouns and their relationship with identity, she invented the word ‘therm’, to encapsulate all genders and none. This controversial idea has riven the philosophical community, with some saying the present gender pronoun usage is adequate while others believe that Maknosenz has not gone far enough. I’m now going to pass you over to our guest author.

As you probably already know, I have coined the term pronominal caesura to describe the distance between pronouns. It is within this distance that we find meaning, as we consider the phonology of the words as well as their temporal and spatial status. Genuflex says ‘a word that does not exist cannot exist until it has been created in our minds’. I would stand that on its head and say a mind that does not exist cannot exist until it has been created by our words. Today, I propose to discuss this in relation to personal pronouns, a passion of mine for many years.

The pronoun ‘he’ differs from the pronoun ‘she’ by one letter, whereas the pronoun ‘we’ only has the ‘e’ in common with both ‘he’ and ‘she’. The pronoun ‘them’ hides within it ‘he’, which suggests that the masculine is embedded in others but not in ourselves. The pronouns ‘I’ and ‘you’ are more problematic, because not only do they have nothing in common with ‘he’, ‘she’ and ‘them’, they also have nothing in common with each other.

To take that a step further, ‘I’ and ‘You’ are non-binary opposites, whereas (as with ‘them’), the feminine ‘she ‘ has the masculine ‘he’ embedded within it. This creates a dilemma. Should we allow the masculine to be embedded in the feminine and indeed exist at the heart of the group constituted by ‘them’, or should we eradicate it entirely? We could refer to the masculine as ‘h’, the feminine as ‘s’ and the group as ‘th’ to decolonise the feminine as well as the group, which may be singularly masculine or feminine or both masculine and feminine.

However, this is not very satisfactory.  ‘H’ as a pronoun is interchangeable with ‘h’ as an abbreviation for height, and ‘s’ as a pronoun is interchangeable with ‘s’ as an abbreviation for seconds. Although context may reveal whether an ‘h’ designates a masculine pronoun or is a description of tallness, it is not inevitably so, and it is not inconceivable that at some point in the future, language will conflate the two so that ‘h’ means both masculine and tallness, and ‘s’ means feminine and a measure of time. This risks tallness being considered an attribute of the masculine and a short measure of time becoming an attribute of the feminine. The conflation of feminine with a short measure of time could be construed a gender based insult, as ‘s’ becomes a symbol of the fleeting and ephemeral nature of the feminine. ‘Th’ may be safe to use as long as there is no confusion with the definite article, as may ‘I’ which does not need to abbreviated, but yet again we are in deep water with ‘you’ and ‘we’.

Taking them one by one, ‘you’ would become ‘y’, easily confused with the interrogative ‘why’, which could lead to the singular or plural other becoming associated with a state of unknowingness or perpetual uncertainty.  ‘We’, having only the ‘e’ of ‘he and ‘she’ could reasonably be considered exempt from the discussion, but if we did adopt this new convention, ‘we’ would become ‘w’ which is pronounced ‘double you’, embodying a multiplication of others when it is intended to describe a group that includes ‘I’.

One solution is not to pronounce the designated letter as we are taught it when learning our alphabet. ‘H’ would not be ‘aitch’ but a breath at the back of the throat and ‘s’ not ‘ess’ but a sibilant hiss, and so on. But we are still left with conundrum of ‘I’, already a single letter indicating the unique self. We cannot abbreviate it, thereby making it an exception. However, it may not be appropriate to abbreviate it, as ‘I’ embodies nothing but the unique self. ‘You’ can embody one entity or many, and we have already discussed the difficulties of ‘he’, ‘she’ and ‘them. ‘We’ encompasses ‘I’, our unique self, but includes others who are ‘Not I’, thereby creating a distance between the two, and possibly negating the meaning of ‘we.’

Now we come to ‘therm’, my feeble attempt at a solution, which encompasses the masculine, the feminine and a group of others who stand apart, but not the singular or plural ‘you’, which at least is in apposition the unique self or the group containing the unique self.  Because ‘therm’ excludes the unique self and both appositional ‘you’s’, it too is unsatisfactory. We could incorporate all personal pronouns into one all-purpose pronoun, such as ‘Withermy’,  or ‘Iyshwyt’, my personal favourite as it offers the progression from unique self to one other in direct apposition to the unique self, then feminine and masculine (as you see, in this new word the feminine precedes the masculine, challenging the traditional order), progressing to the unique self as a component of a group of others, then multiple others in apposition to the unique self, followed finally by the group of others who stand apart from all.

We are by no means close to the ideal pronoun or set of pronouns, and we have not touched on the pronoun in other languages and cultures, but with this new field of pronounology, we are already pushing the boundaries of language.

Interviewer (I): Zuwhdy, thank you so much for joining us tonight. I know our audience will be thrilled to hear you live.

Zuwhdy (Z): Thank you for inviting me.

I: Let’s begin by talking about your new novel, ‘Shevit aor Prgod’. Literary critics have raved about its originality, its depth of feeling and its stunning and challenging language. Readers have not been so enthusiastic. Why do you think that is?

Z: Sometimes a new and unfamiliar style of writing is disorientating and I understand that. It took me years to get to grips with The Tale of Peter Rabbit and I still don’t feel I’ve fully grasped the finer nuances of A Bear Called Paddington. Winnie-the-Pooh perplexes me to this day. All I can say is, reader, persevere.

I: Indeed. But some say that the reason your books have not gone down well with the reading public is that they’re, not to put too fine a point on it, incomprehensible.

Z: I wouldn’t so much say they’re incomprehensible as difficult. I like to make readers work, and I make no apology for that.

I: Then may I read an extract to demonstrate why some – probably not all, but some – readers struggle to make sense of your writing.

Z: Yes, please do.

I: Let’s start with the beginning of your new novel, ‘Shevit aor Prgod’. These are the opening sentences: Shdpurbit rresssop veibdoyiaa pvlcusing srlaotrin. Nayf, nayf, nayf srpss wnd qptysl! Honwod sworapp rists. And so it goes on. Zuwhdy, if I may call you that, these words don’t belong to any known language.

Z: Correct.

I: So how are we supposed to understand them?

Z: Well, you can’t. That’s the whole point. I wanted to write about the meaninglessness of life and making the text meaningless seemed the best way to do it.

I: I see. So it’s a kind of code?

Z: Absolutely not. It is, as I said, entirely meaningless.

I: All 673 pages of it.

Z: Yes, all 673 pages of it. In fact, I was surprised how easy it was to write 673 pages of nonsense. And a great deal easier than writing sense. No need for story or characterisation or any of the other annoying obstacles that trip writers up.

I: Did you have any trouble getting it published?

Z: None whatsoever. Publishers are always on the lookout for an original voice, especially if it’s never been heard before, which immerses the reader in a world they may not have previously known.

I: So where is the novel set?

Z: In the digestive system of the protagonist.

I: And the protagonist is…?

Z: A frog.

I: Forgive me, if the novel is meaningless, how do we know the protagonist is a frog?

Z: It’s there in the second paragraph. Wsofnee fopt hajptd dl5 gsd.

I: How does that tell us it’s a frog?

Z: It doesn’t. Equally, it doesn’t not tell you. You see, I want to break away entirely from the conventional meaning of meaning, and by writing without meaning, with no obvious means of extracting meaning, we are free to create whatever meaning we choose.

I: Which is why you think it’s set in a frog’s digestive system.

Z: Exactly. You, for instance, may think it’s set in a sewer or in a different galaxy. My publisher insists it’s set in the cutthroat world of publishing. My mother thinks it’s set in a retirement home.

I: And what does she make of your work in general?

Z: Loves it. She’s a great fan of murder mysteries.

I: And sadly there we must leave it. Zuwhdy Grocci, thank you for coming on the programme tonight and talking so eloquently about your work. Next week we interview a writer whose work consists entirely of personal pronouns and has been hailed as a breakthrough in gender studies. Goodnight!

We’re only a few days away from the horror of Christmas Day. The run-up to Christmas is just about manageable, with its twinkling lights and trailers for Christmas specials, culminating in the most traditional of traditional Christmas Eve’s events: a boy soprano steps forth from the choir and sings Once in Royal David’s City. Nine Lessons and Carols in Kings College Chapel, Cambridge. Christmas is upon us. Peace on earth and goodwill to all men. Maybe this year I will love Christmas Day! But I won’t. Too much work, too much stress, too much materialism, too much socialising. I run out of small talk within the first half hour, maybe sooner. I don’t want to stuff myself with food or numb myself with alcohol. I don’t want Quality Street, even the purple one with the soft caramel and the hazelnut. I might watch the King’s Christmas message but it’s recorded several months in advance so no chance of swearing or the Christmas tree falling down. Shame.

On the other hand, if you’re under seven or have children who are under seven, it truly is magical. The ritual of hanging up a Christmas stocking (in our house it used to be a pillow case because it held more) or finding exciting packages at the foot of the tree waiting to be opened. Leaving out a tipple for Santa and a nibble for his reindeers. Parents tiptoeing in once children are fast asleep, filling their stockings (or pillow cases) with oddly shaped gifts swaddled in brightly coloured wrapping paper, drinking the tipple and eating the nibble, so that children wake on Christmas Day to a miracle. Santa has been. His cup is empty and the snacks are gone. The stocking (or pillow case) is full. Parental sleep is disturbed by shrill voices desperate to see what their stocking (or pillow case) contains. The fruition of weeks, maybe months, of planning.

Alas, not for everyone. Christmas can be a time of misery for people on their own, people with no family, people with no home. People caught in the grip of violence, domestic or otherwise, people who have lost a loved one over the previous year. All they want for Christmas is things they do not have: company, love, health, enough money to live on, a future that looks better than the past.

But hey, this is Christmas! Let’s not dwell on upsetting things. We can do that all on the other days of the year, except maybe your birthday, my birthday, your second cousin four times removed’s birthday, Hallowe’en, April Fools, the Ides of March… Everyone needs time off from being compassionate, so let’s make it the 25^th December, a day devoted to over-eating and exchanging of unwanted gifts. A time to escape the nasty outside world and focus on forced jolliness. A time to fall asleep on the sofa after the meal, snoring so loudly you’ll be teased about it at every future Christmas. A time to pull crackers, wear a paper hat, read out groanworthy jokes and pretend you’re enjoying yourself. Yes, there’s nothing as special as Christmas.

Next time: why New Year’s Eve is awful.

This means there will be fewer cats as there are some subjects that can’t be jollied up with a cat picture, though I’ll probably keep them for lighter newsletters. However, there’s one thing I can promise you: you won’t see any dogs. I just don’t like them. If this offends you, you’re free to look for doggier Substacks, but if any animal adorns my work, it will be a cat.

I’ve also been thinking about length and frequency. Of newsletters, I hasten to add. Up till now I’ve not gone much beyond 500 words because a good guest doesn’t outstay their welcome, but there may well be times when I want to say more – or less. My routine has been to publish weekly,  but if the going gets tough for whatever reason, I reserve the right to take a short break. 

I’m planning to engage more on Notes, which I read but haven’t mastered, so look for me there in due course. And then there’s question of paywalls. I’m not ready to set one up yet, in part because I am a self-effacing woman who doesn’t have the effrontery to charge people to read my ramblings. I’m working on that with the help of a wonderful non-existent therapist (I mean, who in their right mind would have me as a patient?) so once my ego has inflated to a meaningful size, that may follow.

In the meantime, gorgeous readers – because you are all gorgeous, each and every one of you – sit back and relax. Ramblings of a Nobody 2.0 is coming soon!

I’m addicted to hoodies. Before the pandemic I wouldn’t have given them a second look, but now they’re my leisurewear of choice. Since discovering they can be purchased for a trifling sum on well-known online marketing sites (no advertising here), I’ve acquired so many that I’m running out of storage space. I don’t know why they have so much appeal. Probably because they require no thought, other than ‘which colour today?’

It’s also a reaction to having had to wear business casual for so many years, or as I prefer to think of it, professional lite. Some people are naturally smart or stylish dressers, but not me. After the pandemic when my work life came off line, I realised how much I hated having to dress up. And by dressing up, I don’t mean outfits suitable for the Oscars, I mean professional lite.

But there I was, pulling on my black trousers and a blouse and smart shoes (the ones which pinch after two hours of wear) and, horror of horrors, applying make-up and choosing jewellery. All so I could look professional and by extension, trustworthy. It’s enough to make a girl give up work altogether.

Social life is just as bad. Much of the time jeans are okay, though sometimes you have to ditch the hoodie, but people will decide to get married and throw parties, which requires some effort. Worse still, there are nuances of dressing up. What, for heaven’s sake, is smart casual? It’s easy for men. It simply means not wearing a suit or tie, but for us women, (ie this woman) it’s a living hell. A dress? In any season apart from summer, when bare legs and sandals make a skirt or dress just about tolerable, it means wearing tights (yeuch), and unless it’s winter when I can get away with boots, my spade-like feet will be forced into one of my pairs of extra wide vaguely smart shoes that still pinch after a couple of hours (see above).

But you don’t have to wear a dress, I hear you cry. You can dress up jeans with a nice top, and a pair of fancy trainers. I guess I could and indeed do, but I never feel like me. I’ve been trying to get it right for years in an effort to fit in, amassing ‘suitable’ outfits, but after the pandemic, I got rid of them all as they reflected what I thought I should wear rather than what I wanted to wear (jeans and a hoodie).

Fortunately, contemporary social life is much more relaxed than it was fifty years ago, but a bit of dressing up is still expected from time to time. I accept that many women (and men) leap at an opportunity to put on their glad rags, but when I have to look ‘respectable’ I feel like I have had an identity change. I dress for comfort, not impact. I don’t mind looking scruffy.

Nonetheless, clothes speak volumes. From uniforms to coronation robes to scrubs to fans’ football strips, they say something about us and who we are, a shorthand of identity. More than that, clothes allow us to change identity. I could, if I wanted, be a vamp one day and a beach bum the next. That, say some, is the fun of clothes. I beg to differ. If it weren’t for the fact that it would provoke comment (and I’m not immune to a critical look) I would wear jeans and hoodies day in, day out, wherever I went.

Especially as there are so many colours to choose from.

PS I am taking a short break from Substack to regroup and reflect. If there’s anything you’d like to see more of - or less of - do let me know.

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Where do you get your news from (if you follow the news at all)? Social media? Radio or TV? An old fashioned newspaper? Do you subscribe to specialist sites or magazines to keep you up to date? How many news streams do you follow, and why did you choose them? Most important of all, how do you know whether to believe them?

Major broadcasters like the BBC are supposed to stay strictly neutral, reporting the facts and allowing their journalists to comment on the stories they’re covering, and interviewing knowledgeable people on their opinion. They probably do a reasonably good job, despite the intermittent accusations of bias. But if you follow an event live – say a parliamentary debate or a coronation – you may find that your experience of it differs from the potted, edited version you’ll get later. Take the recent Harry and Megan ‘car chase’. They and their spokespeople describe it is as ‘near catastrophic’. The New York taxi driver whose passengers they were begged to differ, as did the paparazzi and the NYPD. So whose account should prevail? The chasers or the chasees? Admittedly, Harry has grounds for being alarmed by being followed by photographers, but does that mean we shouldn’t privilege his and Meghan’s accounts? If not, why not?

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Because that’s what we do with every piece of information that comes our way: we judge it. If it comes from what we consider a reliable source, we accept it as true. But what constitutes a reliable source for one person is unreliable for another. No opinion is formed in a vacuum. We are influenced by our upbringing, our education, our ethnic background, our social status and our personal experiences. ‘I saw it with my own eyes’. Courts of law privilege eye witness accounts over hearsay, so if you saw it with your own eyes, it must be true. But is it? Ask twelve eye witnesses for statements on the same event and you may get unanimous agreement or twelve different points of view.

Whose view should prevail is a matter of great significance, and there is no sure fire way to decide. English law maintains the fiction of the ‘reasonable man’ (or these days, person). Who is this reasonable person and who decides they are reasonable? Employers are obliged to make ‘reasonable adjustments’ for certain employees, but the employee for whom those adjustments are being made may not agree with their reasonable employers.

So let’s turn to a subject where we might think ourselves on sounder ground: science, with its hard facts. Scientists do experiments, starting with a hypothesis which is then tested to get an answer. But one experiment is not enough. Many, many experiments must be done using roughly similar methods to get slightly closer to an answer. Findings have to be replicated, meta-analyses have to be carried out to eliminate bias so that we can say, for example, yes, the Covid vaccine makes a difference and is by and large not harmful. Yet that still doesn’t convince everyone.

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The rationalist philosopher Karl Popper believed in the theory of falsification, ie that for a theory to be considered scientific, it must be able to be tested and conceivably proven false. Another philosopher, Thomas Kuhn, disagreed. He thought that theories evolve and adapt as new knowledge comes to light. And this interview with Popper neatly demonstrates that Popper is human, with opinions and emotions, which must have influenced his ideas.

So maybe that takes into the realms of psychoanalysis. It’s only by examining the unconscious that we can understand why people do as they do and think as they think. But it’s also possible to carry out scientific (whatever that means) studies to explore this: we now know, or say we know, that ACE’s – adverse childhood events - are correlated (and remember correlation is not causation) with worse health outcomes. Many aggregate studies support that conclusion, at least today. In one hundred years’ time (if we’re still here as a species), we’ll probably believe something different. After all, one hundred years ago phrenology was in vogue. Knowledge advances and changes our way of thinking. Take the germ theory of disease. It’s right up to a point, but it’s not the whole story. Social background, diet, education, ethnicity and whole range of other things also affect susceptibility.  

Knowledge is complicated and hardly ever conclusive. It’s about using the best available information and acting on that. It’s about keeping an open mind and revising your opinion if something comes along that makes it hard to cling to your previous ideas. It’s about tolerance, consensus and respect. Mind you, if you don’t believe it gravity and I throw out of the window, I’d bet my bottom dollar you won’t fly. Unless you’re a bird.

It’s a random number to celebrate, but since I made my debut on Substack last November, I’ve published nineteen newsletters. I’ve garnered a handful of real subscribers, not just friends and family, which is, quite frankly, a miracle. And I’ve learnt a lot about Substack.

Lesson One: do your research before you put finger to keyboard. Dazzled by the promise of earning easy money for writing a few hundred words every week, I imagined that after reading my newsletters, paid subscribers would tumble from the sky like falling leaves. Of course, I wasn’t a complete idiot so I started with free subscriptions, planning to wait till I had my first hundred subscribers before putting in a paywall. I reckoned I would meet that target by, I don’t know, about now. Once I’d gone paid, my subscribers would rise exponentially, just like the graphs put out by Substack, and my name would be bandied about the universe of Substackery until I was known to one and all.

As you may guess, that didn’t happen. I asked friends to share and tweet and do whatever people have to do to get noticed and I’m grateful to all those who did. Result? No new subscribers. Looking back, in a good week a newsletter gets between 40-60 views and generates no new subscriptions. In a bad week – don’t go there. How do I know this? Because of my Substack dashboard, which shows me in graphs and numbers how (badly) I’m doing. At the end of the month they summarise. In April, my newsletter read count went down by one.

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Lesson Two: to make waves on Substack, it helps if you already have a reputation. After writing my first few newsletters, I read multiple articles, including Substack’s, on how to grow your Substack, because that’s what I wanted to do. Most started by urging me to import my existing followers. Er, what existing followers? So I reactivated my Blue Bird account and started putting out more birdsong, following everyone and replying to anyone (I exaggerate for comic effect but only slightly), occasionally dropping in a link to my latest newsletter. Result? No new subscribers.

Lesson Three: it also helps if you have something unique to offer. A particular expertise, an idiosyncratic viewpoint, exceptional relatability. I have pictures of cats, but I suspect that’s not enough. Time to regroup.

Lesson Four: subscribe to and comment on other people’s newsletters because that’s what Substack is for. I did gain a few more subscribers this way (THANK YOU SO MUCH!) and for me this has been the most successful way of growing my Substack (does growing your Substack sound rude or is it just me?). Just to make it clear, I subscribed because I really enjoyed the writer’s newsletter and commented because I had something I wanted to say, not as a cynical ploy to get subscribers. In fact, I would subscribe to and comment on even more newsletters but with thousands upon thousands of them, how would I ever get time to watch tennis? (See the sneaky way I linked to a previous newsletter? Apparently that’s a good way of getting new subscribers to look at your archives. Ooh, that sounds rude too. I’ve come over all Miranda.[1])

And now there’s Notes, a kind of high quality Blue Bird designed for more informal exchanges, promotion of newsletters that people have enjoyed and a bit of self-promotion, but with far fewer cute kitten pictures (shame). I haven’t quite got the hang of Notes yet, but maybe that’s because none of us has.

But the most important lesson I’ve learnt – here comes the cheesy bit – is that it’s not just about the numbers or the money (though both are welcome). It’s about being given an opportunity to write without having to jump through editorial hoops. And there’s something egalitarian about being in the same virtual space as the most unexpected people. Erin Brockovich (yes, she’s real, no, she is not Julia Roberts). Caroline Criado Perez. Margaret Atwood. They get many more subscribers than me because they’re well-known (see Lesson Two). Does that matter to me? Yes and no, but on reflection, mostly no. I direct you to Thoughts on Writing #1.

So I’m still a fan of Substack, even though I’m not and never will be the most ‘successful’ writer on it. A caveat, though: I won’t go into details, but Substack needs to find a way to weed out unsavoury newsletters that promote unsavoury ideas. The founders say they’re against censorship, but there’s a difference between censorship and giving people a platform to promote racism and conspiracy theories. I do hope they reconsider. It would be sad to see this magnificent writerly adventure’s reputation tarnished by a few rotten eggs. Sorry for mixing my metaphors.

[1] Miranda, a BBC comedy show first broadcast in 2009 and always available to watch somewhere, and quite right too.

On Saturday 6^th May I spent more time than I planned to watching the coronation of King Charles III. I didn’t expect to feel any strong emotion, but it seemed important to witness this historic event. For much the same reason I was also one of the many who lined the route of Princess Diana’s final journey. To my surprise, I found a tear springing to my eye as the soon to be crowned King and Queen arrived at Westminster Abbey. Suddenly, the enormity of a coronation hit me. From the moment the King was formally greeted by 14 year old Samuel Strachan, the longest serving chorister of the Chapel Royal, the solemnity of the occasion was evident. It was not about street parties, Union Jack hats or red, white and blue balloons. It was about a sacred covenant between this 74 year old man and his people, mediated by the Church.

Just before the King was anointed with holy oil behind screens, his magnificent robes were removed until he was left in a white shift, symbolising his humility before God. It was a moving moment, a stark contrast to the finery that characterised the rest of the ceremony. It’s easy to be cynical (and I did manage a few sarcastic remarks throughout the two hours of pomp and circumstance), but there was something momentous about the crowning of a monarch that far outstripped royal weddings and funerals which, for all their lavish trappings, mark events that happen to ‘ordinary people’ too.

For the first half of the ceremony, I reflected on the benefits of a monarchy. The monarch is above politics, and even though we all know King Charles’s views on many things, he will not now be allowed to express them. His role is largely ceremonial, but there is something to be said for a ceremonial role, which essentially represents the public face of the UK, even if the strings are pulled by the government of the day. The anti-monarchists call for an elected head of state, but elected by whom and representing whom? A monarch has the potential to represent everybody, without party politics getting in the way.

So far, so pro-monarchist.

During the second half of the ceremony I fell to thinking about wealth. The royal family is staggeringly wealthy, owning land, palaces and castles across the country, priceless works of art and jewellery, valuable livestock, and investments about which little is known. Investopedia estimates that the royal family is worth £21.3 billion ($28 billion), a proportion of which, we now know, is derived from slavery. King Charles has given his support for a review of the monarchy’s links to slavery, but has not indicated what the royal family intends to do by way of reparation.

Apart from this wealth, British taxpayers paid £102.4 million during 2021-22 to fund the monarchy’s household expenses. Are we getting value for our money? Nobody can agree, because nobody know the true extent of the royal family’s wealth.

When the newly crowned King and Queen arrived at Buckingham Palace and followed the time time-honoured custom of appearing on the balcony, I thought back to the public tour of the Palace I took a few years ago. Having visited the royal palaces of Versailles, Madrid and St Petersburg, I had a fair idea of what to expect, but as I walked through gilded halls decorated by exquisite furniture and art works, ending up in the gift shop with its corgi embossed tins of shortbread and Buckingham Palace dishtowels, it came to me that however nice (or not nice) they seem, however friendly they are to the public, however many worthy causes they support, they are simply not like us.

The Princess of Wales, for example, champions the importance of early years and it’s wonderful that she does. She talks about trying to give her children a ‘normal childhood’, with long walks in the countryside, presumably across land that the family owns, and spending time mucking about with them, which is good to hear. These children are certainly having a different childhood from their grandmother’s, but let’s be honest, it’s still not normal. Normal is not holding up the train of your great-grandfather’s coronation robe. Normal is not seeing your parents on a newspaper front page. Normal is not appearing on a palace balcony and waving to the crowds.

So am I pro or anti monarchy?

The answer to both is yes. And that is the conundrum of constitutional monarchy.

End of April, so here in the Northern Hemisphere we’re truly into Spring. Yesterday in London we had clear blue skies and temperatures in the high teens (centigrade, that is. For any of you Fahrenheit people, that’s the mid- 60s). We’re lucky to live in a very green part of town, so everywhere you look there is cherry and apple blossom, and earlier in the month magnolias brightened up the dreary days. We were promised even higher temperatures today with even more blue sky, but as so often in the UK, it’s cooler and greyer than predicted.

The British are often mocked for their preoccupation with weather, but for such a small country it varies widely from top to bottom and right to left so there’s always something to talk about. In recent years, though, we’ve been talking more about heatwaves, floods, storms and droughts. We’ve even had (relatively small) wildfires, but all in all, we still have it easy compared to other countries. About eight or nine years ago, I remember meeting a middle-aged American couple and we fell to talking about weather (we British love dragging others into weather-talk). They came from serious farming country in the mid-West and told us that in all their years, they’d never known such terrible droughts. And it was getting hotter every summer, they added. Used to be unbearably hot only in July and August. Now it was June to late September.

Not long after that, I had a similar conversation with a Norwegian from North Norway, where summer usually consists of unzipping your waterproof for an hour or two. The previous summer, he told us, the temperature had reached an unprecedented 18 degrees (the mid-60s, Fahrenheit people). Everyone dug out the one t-shirt they possessed and rolled up their jeans before throwing themselves in lakes to cool down.

Two anecdotes do not make great evidence, but global warming, as it used to be called, was already featuring more and more in the news. According to reports, we had twenty to thirty years before the situation became critical. Close enough to worry about but not close enough to lose sleep over. Targets were set, accords were reached, carbon was offset, we would be all right. Probably.

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Now climate change (or as some say we should call it, climate emergency) is hitting almost everyone on the planet and we may be at one minute to midnight or even closer. You’ve heard it before but it’s worth repeating, because for all the protests, reports, personal and government initiatives, no one is doing enough fast enough. For all the nice, reasonable people who are doing their hardest to turn the ship around, there are other less nice, less reasonable people who pay lip service to halting climate change or just don’t care about what happens to others as long their lifestyles aren’t affected

Put simply, I don’t care whether it’s a manmade crisis or a natural cycle that rolls round every however many thousand years. I just want the endless playground brawls between big bullies to stop so we can work together to keep this planet habitable.

Instead of cats, you’ll have noticed that I’ve punctuated this newsletter with temperature charts for a bunch of major cities over the last 40 or so years. I can’t make sense of 2 and 3 degree global rises that may or may not signify irreversible climate change, but these say something to me and I hope they do to you.

And nobody’s exempt. Nobody

(These charts all come from meteoblue climate change.)