The ability to take responsibility and to move on

My ambivalence towards the Russian establishment has often confounded my friend. Have I ever visited the country, he asked? No, I said. Do I ever intend to? No, again. So what’s the problem?
It’s simple. My mother lived in Berlin through World War 2 and was 10 years old when the conflict ended. I cannot begin to imagine the horrors she and other members of my extended family faced.
In her later years bits and pieces of information came out when we chatted about the wonderful city of her, and my, birth.
Most of it was heart-warming and inspiring – I was well into my 30s before I found out that one of my great-aunts had hidden her Jewish neighbours from the Nazis. In her hollowed out floor-to-ceiling tile-faced oven in the kitchen. Amazing.
And she never had a really bad word about the French, British or Americans, even going out with a Brit she met during his two years’ National Service in the city in the late 1950s and then moving to the UK to marry him.
But some of her stories left me speechless, particularly about the Russian troops who entered the city after the defeat of Germany. Mum mentioned this to me just the once, in the 1980s, and never spoke of it again.
I refer to all this now because of something military historian Sir Antony Beevor said when he appeared on Desert Island Discs earlier this week.
Apparently he faces prison if he goes to Russia because of his account of the mass rape of German women by Stalin’s armies at the end of the war in his 2002 bestseller Berlin: The Downfall 1945, which led to Moscow passing a law banning criticism of the Red Army.
Sir Antony said: “Technically I am liable to five years’ imprisonment if I go back. The ambassador explained that the [Russian] victory in the war was sacred and obviously the appalling accounts of the rapes undermined the sacred element of the victory.”
The ambassador accused him of “lies, slander and blasphemy”.
Now I have nothing whatsoever against the people of Russia, just as I am certain that the majority of Brits don’t really hate the Germans.
History is littered with examples of man’s inhumanity to man. But what makes us different to other animals is the ability to take responsibility and to move on.

When will our government and the BBC stop going on about the "ageing population" who are putting a "strain" on the NHS? It shouldn’t come as a surprise that people are living longer and therefore need more care.
We members of the “ageing population” are, after all, the people who worked all their lives to pay into the NHS so I think that makes us as entitled to use the service as anyone else. If there is a shortage of money in the NHS, the solution is straightforward – put more in.
And perhaps introduce a small charge for every non-emergency visit to a surgery or hospital. This could then be refunded via a tax rebate every April or May for people who have an NHS number or a tax reference. After all, we’ve already paid for the service via tax and NI.
It can’t be that difficult, in this technology-filled age, to keep a log of people’s payments. And anyone not entitled to use our NHS pay does not receive a refund. Simples?

Theatre director or homeless person?

I first noticed her as I was warming my hands on my coffee mug while waiting for my friend Sidney.

Those of you who have suffered through all 100 previous IDGOM missives will know that Sidney, which is not his real name, has a mental health issue and I have been “linked” with him for more than two years through a local befriending charity. We meet once a week for coffee and a chat.

I digress, though purely for reasons of providing some background.

Scene of my caffeine caper was a well-known high street chain of bakers in my local town. Having finished attempting, unsuccessfully I may add, to link my smart (?) phone to the Wi-Fi network of a neighbouring business I turned my attention to one of my favourite pastimes – people watching.

The establishment had the usual Wednesday afternoon crowd – mainly “older” people, a few younger couples and a sprinkling of mums and young children. And the woman.

She stood out initially because she had occupied a table for four. And I mean occupied. Two massive suitcases blocked off one way to the back of the table where the bench seat was and she was perched at the other end. There was no way through. A very effective method of marking one’s territory, I thought.

The table itself was covered in a mass of paperwork, catalogues and brochures. At first I figured she was some arty-farty type, perhaps a theatre director who had finished her run at the local theatre and was biding her time before catching her train/ taxi/ friend’s car home.

She had many bangles on her very slim wrists, had a hippy’ish look about her and seemed to be writing (a new script?) on an A4 pad.

Then it dawned on me. She was nothing of the sort – she was a homeless person. My initial reaction was to ask the staff what was going on. Once a hack, always a hack.

I was told she had been there since 10am (it was now 3pm) and had not bought a thing. She’d just sat there, looking busy.

Apparently two days earlier she had spent the whole day there and had to be asked to leave at 6pm when the establishment closed. I was also told she had previously frequented the local McDonalds, again without every buying a thing and it appeared she had been asked to leave and was now using “my” establishment.

I said I would pay for a tea or coffee if one of the staff asked her what she wanted but I was told that would not happen “as she’d never leave”.

Now I can understand that - it could be construed, by her, as meaning that if she stayed there long enough someone would buy her a drink. It could also be interpreted as condoning her non-purchase, stay-all-day actions.

But it looked to me as if she was going to stay there for as long as possible anyway, drink or no drink. Especially as the establishment’s policy (staff had checked with Head Office) was not to ask her to leave or to throw her out.

By the time Sidney and I left, the woman, who was probably in her 50s or 60s, had done her make-up at the table and changed her top.

I couldn’t help wondering whether she found somewhere to bed down for the night.

Or maybe she WAS waiting for a train/ taxi/ friend’s car. What do you think…?