There is much to contemplate on the horizon. Improving movement generally and exercising the little grey cells as well. (By the way, Agatha Christie was only 26 when she invented Poirot and his notion of little grey cells. It was in the middle of the First World War in 1916.)
In any event, if one is to sustain a level of freedom of movement and thought, one must make the effort to use every part of the body to ensure its continuing ability to function enough to remain independent. The required discipline to do this is unfortunately lacking in some of us. By some of us, I mean me, regrettably. Be that as it may, on my wanderings around Sainsbury’s, after a peruse of the opinion section of the Guardian, I had a moment.
I clearly do not read enough opposing views. The viewpoints expressed by the likes of Jonathan Freedland, Polly Toynbee, George Monbiot, Marina Hyde, Simon Jenkins, Andrew Rawnsley, John Crace, etc and Guardian Editorials are all, on the whole, expressing views I already hold. There is some amusement to be had to find one’s own thoughts being expressed by others. There have even been occasions when I have thought I could have expressed things better.
Unfortunately I have shied away from opposing views because I find it difficult to understand how anyone, with a rational mind and a basic education, can hold opinions that are narrow, bigoted, divisive and generally without any merit whatsoever. Not that I am prejudiced of course; but, as you can tell, I am, in my own way.
What with all these thoughts buzzing through my head as I strolled past meat and fish, I took in my fellow shoppers. At 11:30 am on a Saturday there are quite a number, of all sorts. I was struck by a comment sent to me by Clare Clifford from France:
“The French are calling the British navet congelé (frozen turnip) because they are frozen in their houses and have the brains of turnips for not revolting.”
Were all these shoppers frozen turnips? I admit to being a snob. The manner of dress of much of the local population around Vauxhall and Nine Elms is very mixed, but there are a number who reflect a particular class of people who, one wonders, give little thought to the politics or politicians of the nation save through what they might read in the Sun, Daily Mail, Daily Express and other such publications, if they read any newspaper at all. These are essentially conservative, right wing populist, Eurosceptic tabloids.
My reading of the Guardian is just as narrow, but in terms of readership, the above mentioned publications, all together, have a readership thirteen times greater than the Guardian. 13 to 1. Now, whilst that figure does not reflect the voting intentions of the electorate, (according to the current polls - Labour 47%, Con 25%) it might represent a general consensus of thought - conservative, populist and Eurosceptic. Those are characteristics of many labour as well as conservative voters. It might even apply to some liberal democrats and green party members. One can therefore assume that the overall mindset of the British public is not necessarily reflected in how they vote. Voting intention is something else entirely.
I have often joked about how it appears the Italians carry on with their lives as if their government was non-existent. It was just something that provided an administrative backup with no specific interference with life in general. Since the Brexit referendum it seemed as if the same thing applied to Britain. The public carried on regardless of the inanities of the Tory Government. It was treated like watching episodes of Eastenders or Coronation Street. But then the pandemic and a sort of old WW2 sense of togetherness took hold and we were all more than thankful for the existence of the NHS. The very fact that the United Kingdom had such an all encompassing National Health Service in place and able to deal with the emergency, even if with some difficulties, was the saving of the Nation. We took it for granted that it would do so - why not? - and we all clapped our brave, tireless and dedicated NHS staff.
Hardly any time has passed since, and that same staff is willing to come out on strike and even prepared to leave the service, because of their mistreatment by this conservative government. The populace is perhaps sympathetic to their complaints, but as I look around the aisles, I find I am the only one wearing a mask as it isn’t quite over. The ratio of people wearing a mask is probably 100 to 1. They are mainly old people and Asians who still make the effort. So it’s back to same old same old and the NHS is again being taken for granted, and people are complaining about waiting times and the difficulties in just making an appointment to see a doctor face to face.
These difficulties are not the fault of the NHS, but of our elected representatives who have allowed and supported a government that is breaking up the entire health service through wilful neglect and carelessness. Neglect and carelessness seem to resonate in this Parliament. Indeed the whole of the social contract to provide public services, from transport, to policing, to security, to culture is being eroded.
So I look around at my fellow shoppers and I see no evidence of outrage. No real evidence of discontent, save some annoyance with other shoppers getting in their way, or unruly demanding children. Thus the image of Clare’s WhatsApp message about navet congelé comes to mind.
The various opinions in the Guardian, full of insight and wit, make about as much impression as a flea on a mouldy old furry rug. The flea is probably dead anyway. The publication believes it has a voice and its columnists earn their paycheque, but let’s face it, most of the populace is deaf, dumb and blind and the minority that read it already agree with it and are just as powerless, and need no telling. They already know. Why are we not all out on the picket line with the ambulance drivers, nurses and railway workers? Why are we not all in revolt, out on the streets demanding a change of government? Where are the Gillet jaunes of the UK?
I have to admit to being a frozen turnip, and I move on down the aisles to fill my trolley with the makings of Sunday lunch.
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