life

Husband in Denial

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We have been married for a very long time, it has been mostly good, but undoubtedly I have changed during this time. If you are a long-term reader of my blog, you will notice that I have changed since I first began writing—for a start my hair is a different colour. I am aware that I have changed because when I meet people who I haven’t seen for a while, they do not recognise me, and I have to tell them to imagine I have black hair and am thinner—then they usually remember me. However, I am not sure that Husband always notices or remembers that I have changed. Often this is good. But when we go for walks, especially long walks in Italy, this can cause challenges. I don’t find adventures as relaxing as I once did.

Yesterday we went for a walk around a mountain lake. It was beautiful, not too far to walk, no danger of getting lost because we could see the whole perimeter. Lovely—but not without challenges. The first challenge was the lack of facilities—older bodies mean weaker bladders, and whilst this is not a problem for men, it makes for a slightly uncomfortable walk for women. 

Then there was the ground, which was boggy in places where the snow was melting on the slopes. It was very pretty, with steams of water flowing into the lake, but not so easy to navigate in my not-waterproof trainers. There was quite a bit of leaping over stepping-stones, which with my lack of co-ordination and balance is a challenge. (I blame this lack of co-ordination/balance on the brain surgery, but if I am honest, I was never exactly athletic. I did read somewhere that people should practise standing on one leg while cleaning their teeth, to improve their balance. This means I fall over a lot when cleaning my teeth). But it was fine, the stepping stones were not too far apart, they didn’t wobble, my feet stayed dry and I was quite impressed with how far I can still jump.

But then we encountered an area that was basically swamp, with no dry ground at all. It was caused by a large area of snow halfway up the scree slope which was melting fast. The ground above the snow was dry, and Husband suggested we should walk up the slope, along the line where the top of the snow met the scree, then down the other side. It was bound to be a disaster, but I decided it didn’t look too difficult, off I set.

I walked up the scree, next to the heap of snow. As we approached, marmots (groundhogs if you’re American) scampered off and dived into their burrows. How cute. The terrain grew steeper, and less easy to walk, but we were nearing the top of the snow. Husband is very good at offering his hand for the more difficult parts, and he usually goes first and suggests the best footing. But somehow I managed to be slightly higher than him, and I started to slip, and needed to use my hands to avoid falling. I just needed to climb slightly further. My face was now right next to a marmot burrow, and I felt I could hear them watching, just out of sight, gnashing their teeth inches from my cheek. Not so cute. I climbed higher, level with the top of the snow now, maybe we could walk along it? Husband tested the footing and slipped—no, snow is too slippery to walk on in trainers. I searched for hand/footholds in the scree. There was nowhere to secure myself, I started to slip whenever I paused, I needed to keep moving sideways. Husband told me to wait while he found a route. I told him (very calmly, no panic at all) that I could not. If I kept still I slipped. I started to make my way back to where we had started. Sharp thorns were sticking into my fingers, my feet were skidding, there was an Italian man below shouting ‘Allez!’ which might have been nothing to do with us, but it added to the stress of the situation. I crawled/slipped//skidded back down to the swampy land. Avoided being attacked by marmots (they were probably laughing). Found a big rock and sat on it, waiting for Rambo Husband to join me. He went off in search of an easier route. There wasn’t one. We were halfway round the lake, and decided that perhaps this was as far as we could get. Walked back to the car. More of an adventure than hoped, but it was very beautiful.

We drove up to the San Bernado Pass, into France. Stopped for coffee and crepe (and washroom—yaay!). This bit I enjoyed.

Today Husband suggested another walk in another valley. I said I did not want any scrabbling, off we went. We drove into the mountains, and walked into the valley. Gushing rivers with little bridges, meadows full of flowers, very beautiful. The path wound upwards. Not so good, but okay so far. Then the ground got boggy, more melting snow, more jumping across stepping stones. Then, while perched on stepping stones, we noticed cows—frisky ones—walking up the hillside towards us. Worried we might get trampled. Noticed a thin blue line of electric fence and felt safer. Under the fence dashed two large dogs, barking loudly, hackles raised—felt less safe. I kept my arms tucked in, and spoke sternly, telling them to stay down (hoped they understood English). They circled us, but didn’t approach. A farmer further up the hill heard the noise, called the dogs. Husband asked if we were okay to walk, he replied with a thumbs-up, we continued. The electric fence crossed the path. It was nearly too high, but managed to step over it (held onto Husband for support). Then a little further on there was another wire—this one was too high for stepping over, so we crawled under it, hands and knees on the gravel. Old back protested, took some nurofen. 

The rest of the walk was very beautiful, with stone bridges over bubbling water, and flowers and mountains, and all boisterous cows secured behind wires. But I felt a bit worn out. I do like walks in beautiful places, but I prefer less adventure. And definitely less scrabbling up scree or under fences. Being upright is very nice at my age. I don’t mind being older—I actually do not want to do the things that I did in my forties, I don’t want more children or to be worried about a career or to be planning to move house. Mostly I like being older. But as I cover my cuts with savlon and top up my nurofen for my aching back, I realise that I do not quite keep up with Husband anymore. I now prefer my adventures in books. I think I will take charge of planning the walks in future. They will involve only walking.

I hope you survive your day. Thanks for reading. Take care.

Love, Anne x

Good Advice 

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As I am writing this in Italy, and as the rest of the world appears to be in rather a mess, I thought I would pass on some excellent advice that first appeared in a letter to some Italians. The translation is my own (from the Koine Greek) so apologies for any mistakes. Here is a code to live by, illustrated below with some photos of modern Italy (to add to the wonder). 

How to Live in a Crazy World

Let love be genuine. Abhor what is evil, hold fast to what is good. Love each other with sibling affection. Outdo each other in showing respect.

Do not be lazy with enthusiasm, be fervent in spirit, serve God.

Be delighted in hope, be patient under pressure, continuing in prayer.

Give towards the needs of good people and strive to be kind to strangers.

Speak well of people who harass you—speak well of them and don’t wish them bad luck. Be joyful with those who are happy, cry with those who are sad. Live in harmony with each other. Do not be arrogant/smug, instead associate with poor/timid people. Never be wise in your own eyes.

Do not repay wrong for wrong, but think about what is good in everyone’s eyes. If possible, as much as you able, live in peace with everyone.

My friends, never look for revenge but leave it to God. It was written: ‘“Vengeance is mine, I will repay,” says God.’ Instead, if your enemy is hungry, feed him; if he is thirsty give him something to drink (for doing this is like heaping coals on his head). 

Do not be overcome with evil, but overcome evil with good…

I was tempted to paraphrase some of it, to change the ‘burning coals’ bit to ‘this will make him ashamed’ but I decided to leave it as a translation and let you decide for yourself what it means in the context of the whole.

Thanks for reading.

Take care.

Love, Anne x

Happy Thoughts

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Today I was cheered by something I read in the news. In Devon, two young bears had escaped. The zoo quickly phoned the police (standard procedure) and ensured all the staff and visitors were safely secured into buildings. When everyone was safe, they set about capturing the bears. This sounds fairly easy. Apparently, the escaped bears went straight to the food storage area, ate a week’s worth of honey in two hours, then went back to the cage to sleep it off. I love stories like this. Who doesn’t love a good bear story?

Image from BBC website.

I feel we need some cheering news at the moment—the rest of the world seems very insecure. I understand that Europe has become very popular for holidays this year, because no one wants to visit America due to Trump’s stringent  border controls, and the Middle East is not looking safe right now.

Europe is nice though, and currently safe and welcoming (with variable food and weather, depending on which country you visit). We followed the trend and visited Italy. So far (two days in) it has been pretty perfect—though we did have bit of a worry the day before we travelled.

We had booked an Airbnb, which we have used several times, and they have always worked out well for us. This one was in La Thuile, which is our favourite place in Italy, and you will remember we have visited a few times in the past. However, the day before we were due to travel, the owner of the apartment contacted us, saying that the cooker was broken, so we were being offered a different apartment, further up the road. This was a worry, because La Thuile is in the Italian Alps, and a ‘bit further up the road’ might turn out to be up a long track, up a mountain, a long drive from anywhere. We asked for more details, and said that as we did not plan to cook, we didn’t really mind if the cooker didn’t work. Not much in the way of reply. Then some videos arrived, showing the new apartment, and directions so we could check the map. It looked fine. When we arrived it was fine, and the previous apartment was covered in scaffolding and had workmen renovating it. It looked to be rather more major than a faulty cooker! 

Another unexpected thing was our favourite restaurant, where we usually eat every night, was shut. No info on the website, no response to phone calls. We tried our second-choice. They replied saying the season has a break in June, they reopen at the end of the week. Unexpected. We walked down the hill into town. This was the day we had arrived, after a 4am start, and a long drive from Turin airport. I was tired and hungry (but still pleasant, good company, completely reasonable, as you can imagine.) We found a restaurant that looked nice, booked a table for 7pm, when it opened, walked up the very long hill to our apartment. I napped.

At 7pm we went back down the hill to the restaurant. We were seated in a sort of cavern, with an arched ceiling, and given good red wine, and tasty food, and all was very good with the world, Well, with our little bit of it. Felt very happy as we made our way back up the hill/mountain (felt steeper than before) to our apartment.

I woke this morning to a view of the mountain, white with snow, and the blue blue sky. I notice how beautiful the world is. We went for a walk, along Rte 12, which is, without doubt, the most beautiful valley in the world. The sun was shining. There were butterflies and spring flowers, and cows with bells clonking on the mountainside. The air was clear, We walked for a couple of hours, This is why we came. At one point there was snow, which had slipped down the hill, covered in mud but still white underneath. It was icy, hard to scoop into a snowball. The path was wet with snow melting further up the mountain, and the waterfalls, which will be tiny springs in August, were racing foamy white torrents that rushed down to the valley.

At one point there was a rumble, distant, a deep shudder. Was it a plane flying high? Thunder? An earthquake? Noticed there was ‘smoke’ from the mountain on the other side of the valley and at first I thought they must be mining. Then I realised it was a rock fall, stones rolling down the mountain (probably due to melting snow), I was more watchful after than—didn’t fancy a rock on the head!

A lovely day, in a beautiful place. It’s good to remember that beautiful places, and good food, and cute animals, exist even when it seems like the world is going bonkers. Humans have not managed to ruin everything, there is still some wonder in the world.

I hope you find something to cheer your week too. Thanks for reading. Take care.

Love, Anne x

Highs and Lows with Meg

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Meg’s Diary 6/3/2025

We returned from a 2 week holiday and collected a happy Meg from the kennels. She is always happy. The kennel staff obviously know her well, and talked about how she insists on carrying the biggest log whenever she’s out, and that she’s very bouncy so they don’t allow the pregnant kennel worker anywhere near her! They told us she is still aggressive towards other dogs when walking on the lead (though not when in the kennel). I haven’t seen this, so not sure what to do. They said it happens when other dogs approach her and aren’t recalled by their owners. I guess as she is on the lead, it’s the responsibility of the other dog owners to recall their dogs. But it’s a shame. I have noticed that when we’re in the car, Meg no longer barks at every dog we pass. I hope this continues. She must have got used to seeing other dogs when in her kennel, so hopefully they have become ‘normal’ in her world.

Before we collected Meg, I felt a bit depressed—I wasn’t sure that I wanted her back, life is so much easier without her. I never felt like this with our other dogs. When she first came home, Meg pretty much ignored me, and was much more excited about going into the garden to greet the gardener than greeting me. This was a low point in our relationship. Later, we had a lovely walk together and I realised that actually, I am very fond of her, but it’s easy to forget that. I hand-fed her for a couple of days to encourage her to bond with me again. But if I am honest, unlike Kia (my ‘velcro-GSD’) Meg would be completely happy whoever she lived with. If I was ill and needed to rehome her, I would have no worries about her settling in, she would forget me as soon as she left the driveway! Perhaps this is what makes working GSD so suitable for police and army work—they focus on the task and are less attached to a single owner. Meg does follow me round the house, but only because there is not a better option. She is good company unless someone/thing is more exciting, and then she leaves me without a backward glance. I find this difficult. Though it does mean I don’t feel guilty putting her into kennels. (I also wouldn’t worry if she was stolen.)

We collected cat-with-snapped-tendon from Son. She was happy there, and did not want to come home. She now has the utility room, so no longer caged, and Meg is not supposed to go in there. Of course, Meg is not keen on this rule. She came in with me today, when I used the washing machine. The cat was on top of her cage, Meg put up her nose, Milly slapped her, repeatedly. I stroked Meg, praised her for being calm, moved her away before she lost all control and bounced on the cat. It’s such a shame they aren’t friends. They would both enjoy the company.

The weather is sunny. This makes life easier as there are less muddy footprints on my kitchen floor. But it means I worry about leaving Meg in the car for too long, so when I go out she needs to be in her cage at home. Although she seems very happy in her cage, I don’t like putting her in there. When I’m home, she is free in the house all the time now, unless her feet are muddy. So far she hasn’t destroyed anything. Mostly she sleeps in whichever room I am working in.

We were having some shrubs planted, and Husband needed to put sticks in the ground so the gardeners knew where to plant them. There was no way we could let Meg witness this—she would have gone back and collected the sticks, and then when the shrubs were planted she would associate them with sticks and go and collect them too. We put her in the hall, where she couldn’t see what was happening. So far, the shrubs have survived.

I like throwing sticks for Meg, but there’s always a danger that she’ll try to grab them when I pick them up (and would break my fingers, she is so strong). Therefore, she is meant to ‘wait’ when I stoop to pick up a stick. Sometimes she grabs them anyway, and then I stand, and wait for her to drop it before I will throw it. Meg understands this, and stands close, looking at me, determined to not release the stick, waiting for me to continue the game with a different stick. I always refuse, it feels important to never let Meg win when we have a stand-off. (This is probably why she prefers everyone else in the world to me—I am the only one who insists she obeys!) This week Meg kept grabbing at sticks (I’m guessing because no one stops her when she’s in kennels) and our walk was very slow—lots of standing, not looking at her, waiting for her to release the stick. She is very determined, and will stand for long minutes, refusing to obey. But I am more determined. One day, I hope she will simply obey—it will make life easier.

One afternoon was perfect. We walked in the woods, I threw sticks, Meg charged backwards and forwards chasing sticks (picture a torpedo, taking down anything that stands in the way). She came when I called and walked next to me on the lead, along the edge of the road but ignoring the cars. We drove into town, and I walked to pay the friend who feeds the poultry when I’m away. Meg carried a stick, and walked next to me, through the station car park, up some steps, along the main road (for 1 minute) and although she was on full-alert she did not chase the cars that passed us. Then we went to Mum’s, and she slept in the back of the car. Then played with a ball while I cooked dinner. In the evening she lay watching telly with us, chewing her chew. Such a lovely dog. Perfectly behaved.

I hope you have something perfect this week too. Thanks for reading.
Take care.
Love, Anne x

anneethompson.com
*****

What is Moral?

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‘Humans are different to animals because we have morals.’ But is this true? Is it true that animals do not have moral capacity? Do they act purely on instinct? This is a question I continue to wrestle with, but as ever with academic research, the journey itself has been fascinating.

This week, I decided to read what Kant wrote. Immanuel Kant was a philosopher who lived in Prussia in the 1700s. People still quote him today, which is a sign that someone’s work was significant (even at my most optimistic, I do not dream that anyone will be reading my work in 2325). He wrote a couple of books about the metaphysics of morals. I decided that before I could answer my questions about animals, I needed to define what I meant by ‘moral’ and ‘moral behaviour’. As this is not something I have considered before, I hoped Kant would help.

The problem was, I did not understand what I was reading — even his titles needed deciphering. I was reading a translation, with a commentary, but even the commentary was impossible! Now, this is not a rare occurrence when I read academic books. Some academics, especially those who are not also teachers, tend to use language that usually only appears in a dictionary. Kant has the added bonus of writing sentences that never seem to end. Reading very long sentences, full of unfamiliar words, makes for difficult reading. But never fear, I have a tactic.

Reading something difficult can be stressful, because we feel stupid. My tactic is to read it aloud, in my ‘telling a story to 5-year-olds’ voice, while recording it on my phone. I do not attempt to understand it (you don’t need to understand something to read it aloud, it’s like handwriting practise). I use accents for the quotes, different voices for certain phrases, lots of expression and a generally calm slow voice.

Then, when I am relaxed, perhaps on a train or baking a cake, I listen to the recording. The words are now in my own speech pattern, nothing is scary, I can listen properly, concentrating on the meaning. Now, Kant is still complicated, I still needed to pause the recording to check words in dictionaries or make notes. But by removing the stress, I can tackle the content. The recording isn’t perfect. I attempted a Prussian accent when reading direct quotes, and then giggled because it was so bad. Meg was with me, and did not appreciate Kant, so there are long groans from the dog, and at one point she came and panted into the mic and then licked the book, which sounds very weird. But I still found it helpful, and understood enough to give you a summary:

Kant was considering what makes good actions good. He described someone risking his life to save another person. He noted that even if they didn’t succeed in the rescue, or even if the person died in the attempt, we would still say their action was good. However, this is only good if their motive is good. If they were offered lots of money for the rescue, and especially if they believed there was no risk to themselves, then we would be less sure that their action was good. The motive matters. Kant decided that only motives of pure duty, with no other motives, means an action is moral. He said this motive (which he calls a maxim) should be as strong as a law. Other motives, like a reward, or because we like/want to do something, should not be a factor in how we decide to behave, as only an action based purely on duty an be called moral.

Now, I am not sure that I agree with him. I understand that reward muddles our motive (though I am not convinced it makes an action less moral) but I think that acting due to gratitude can also be moral. The idea of ‘not repaying good with evil’ is also, I think, a sign of morality. If someone helps me, and I therefore want to help them in response, I think this can still be moral. This is sort of the ethic of Christianity: God has loved me and that makes me want to be good— not because of what I will receive, but because of what I have already received. I think this is different to what Kant says — but I will continue listen to my Prussian accent while the dog groans a few more times, just in case I have misunderstood. I also need to decide how this applies to animals (the morality, not the groaning). Do animals behave in response to gratitude, and can this be called moral? More thought needed before I answer that one.

I hope you find ways to overcome difficulties this week. Thanks for reading.

Take care.

Love, Anne x

anneethompson.com

No Smiley Faces for PhD Students

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As you will know if you are a regular reader of my blog, in June I was in Edinburgh for my annual assessment. This was rather scary. In the weeks beforehand, I completed an online form, and submitted a writing sample. I also sent an updated proposal. (A proposal is a document that describes what you want to research, and your method, and what literature already exists and how your work will be different.) In return, I was told where and when I would be assessed. As I said, all very scary.

On the day of my assessment I visited the washroom 376 times, and arrived at the room much too early. I was told to wait outside, while the panel of academics discussed their strategy. I worried I might need the washroom again. Or faint. Managed to not do either.

I was called into the room, introduced to the person on the panel who I didn’t know, and offered a choice of seats. I chose a low sofa, then instantly regretted it—it felt like the ‘naughty seat’ at school.

The panel consisted of three lecturers at the university, one of whom was my primary supervisor. They explained that my supervisor would say very little, as she already knew about my research, the questions all came from the other two. I was expecting questions about the writing that I had submitted, and I was ready to discuss what I had learnt, and the shape of my project to date, and some of the views of other scholars. I was wrong. They asked nothing about this.

Instead, they asked about where my research fitted into the academic world—which area did I feel it was addressing? Was it philosophy, theology, biblical studies, psychology? They noted that I had quoted scholars from all those fields, and appeared to be addressing many different disciplines. They asked which scholar, of the many I have read, did I most want to be like?—They then argued with my choice (which felt a little unfair). It was a very intense interview, and I felt very unprepared. Gradually, I worked out what they were saying—they felt my work was too broad, it covers too many disciplines, and will not go ‘deep enough’ if I continue on this trajectory. I need to narrow my research, focus on a single discipline and do it well.

I did not cry (though it was close). I tried to listen. I realised that what they were saying was correct, and they were trying to help me succeed. But to be honest, I have worked very hard this year, and what I really wanted was a sticker with a smiley face on it. I think perhaps universities don’t have those.

In some ways, the outcome of the review is a relief. I have been aware that I have been dipping into various disciplines (and it has been tremendous fun!) I have known, in the back of my mind, that trying to pull all my research into a single thesis would be a challenge, but I had decided I would worry about that nearer the time, assuming that it would become clear which areas I should ignore and which ones I should focus on. It will be easier to only focus on one area (biblical studies—because I really enjoy the Hebrew, and how it communicates meaning).

As I am a part-time student, I didn’t have to ‘pass’ this review (probably just as well!) That delight happens next summer. I spent time with my supervisor, and we planned a strategy for the next year, ways to improve my proposal and focus my research.

The rest of the week was spent attending seminars, and chatting to other students. Everyone who I spoke to had a similar experience in the review—no one received a smiley face. My supervisor explained that the first year of a PhD is all about exploring the field, deciding which area to concentrate on—and I hadn’t done anything ‘wrong’ but now it was time to focus.  Several students had decided to change direction completely, and were now doing research in a different field. Mine has stayed basically the same—but with fewer dips into other interesting areas.

I was thinking about all this on the train ride home. It was not a fun activity, but perhaps honestly reviewing our performance, reassessing where we are heading, is often uncomfortable. It’s something we often ignore in ‘real life’ but I wonder if perhaps we ought to do it more often. What exactly do we want to be, and are we achieving it? I thought about some of the people who I had met—the extremely intelligent ones, the high-achievers, the academically gifted, the leaders. I don’t think I fit into any of those categories. I think I want to be the ‘safe’ one, the person who people feel comfortable with, the welcoming one. If I also end up with a PhD at the end of it all, that will be excellent.

I hope you achieve your aims this week. Thanks for reading.
Take care.
Love, Anne x

I will leave you with some photos of beautiful Edinburgh.

Exhausted Anne!

Assisted Dying Debate

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When I started my PhD research, I contacted my MP, asking whether I would be able to attend any Parliamentary debates on assisted dying. I heard nothing for months, and assumed my email was lost. However, earlier this week I received a reply, inviting me to the debate on Friday in the House of Commons. This was very exciting! I took Husband (I was allowed a guest) and we caught an early train to London.

At the House of Commons, we waited at the Cromwell Green entrance, as instructed and waited to pass through security. There was woman with placards on the green opposite, and as I watched she was joined by several other people, some carrying signs with Bible verses written on them. Later, there were also people in pink tee-shirts, asking for the right to have dignity. I am guessing they were on opposite sides of the debate (though actually, each slogan could have been used in both support or opposition to the Bill). The issues are complex. I wondered if their being there could achieve anything.

After passing through security (like at an airport, but more thorough as they individually checked each person) we walked through the cathedral-like Westminster Hall, along St. Stephens Hall, to the central lobby. The admissions office is behind a statue of Gladstone. I gave our names, and we were asked a couple of questions and then issued with our tickets and told where to wait. Our tickets gave us access to to the Speaker’s Gallery, which guaranteed seats (I think anyone can turn up to watch a debate, but will be in the pubic gallery, and may not get a seat). We had to wait in the central lobby until the Speaker arrived, and luckily there were comfy seats for older ladies (but no coffee, for older men, which was bit of an issue as I had been anxious to arrive on time and therefore we had not gone to a Pret on the way).

There was shout in a corridor, answered by a shout from one of the policemen who had also entered the lobby. Then he shouted ‘Hats off!’ and everyone wearing a hat/helmet tucked them under their arms, and round the corner came a little procession, of police and the Serjeant-of-Arms carrying the mace (a long silver club that dates back to the time of Charles II) and the Speaker. They strode round the lobby, passed the line of waiting people and police, and swept into the House of Commons. We followed them, and were directed up steps, to a small room where we had to leave all our bags and phones and coats (though I was allowed to keep my notebook and pen) and then we were ushered to seats, in a gallery, right opposite the Speaker’s chair.

The Speaker was talking about the India airplane crash that had happened overnight (but not the Israel attack on Iran, which also happened overnight–maybe we missed that) and then he turned to the business of the day: the Public Health Bill on assisted dying. MPs had submitted questions in advance, and the Speaker said there were too many, and had therefore chosen in advance who would speak, and he suggested a time-limit of 6 minutes. I was interested by the amount of power the Speaker had here–obviously the people chosen to speak would potentially influence the outcome of the debate, and it would be easy to be biased. (He would, I assume, choose from both sides of the debate, but he could pick those Mps who speak well or those MPs who did not. Definitely some of the MPs we heard spoke better than others.)

Image taken from learning.parliament.uk
It does not show the mics hanging from the ceiling, nor the screens. I was not allowed to take photographs.

The debate was about amendments to the Bill (which was read a few months ago). Kim Leadbeater spoke first, reading out the amendment, giving way to certain questions with a, ‘I give way to…’ (I’m not sure whether these were agreed in advance) and ignoring others with a ‘No, I will progress…’ The main thing I noticed was that to be an MP you need to speak very fast. There were screens, showing what was being debated, the name of the person speaking, and the time. The Speaker kept order, telling people if they spoke too long, or if their speech was irrelevant to the debate on the amendment (some seemed to be giving their view on the Bill, which has already been debated). Some MPs were clearly intelligent, thoughtful people who spoke well. Others less so.

The issues are too complex to include in a single blog post. The debate covered things like whether advertisers would be allowed to influence which medication was used, whether ethnicity should be considered in the debate, whether vulnerable people are protected by the law, whether it would be considered a ‘natural death’ or should an autopsy follow an assisted death, how to prevent permissive legislation in the future, what ‘error rate’ is acceptable?

The overall impression was of a well-ordered discussion, but with not enough time for everyone to be heard. It was also fast, moving from one speaker to the next, no time to pause, to consider the points raised, to ask supplementary questions. My understanding is that everything is written down, and I assume that afterwards, MPs can ask to see the transcript, and can consider the points carefully, deciding what they think. I wonder how many do; I wonder whether they have the time or if they then rush off to deal with other issues, no time to reflect. Which means that we, as normal people, have a responsibility to make our own views known, so our MP can represent us—or at least be aware that our viewpoint exists. Maybe those people waiting outside with placards were not futile, perhaps simply seeing them would ensure the Ministers were aware of their opinions.

My own opinion about assisted dying changes as I consider different issues. The one thing I am sure of, is that it is a very complex issue. It is not as simple as saying: ‘I would not allow my beloved pet to suffer in death, so we should not refuse to euthanise people.’ Nor as simple as: ‘We are created in the image of God, only God can decide life and death of a human.’ It is a big issue, and one which I think should be clarified in law—but also one which we all, as individuals in society, need to consider.

I hope you have an interesting day. Thanks for reading.
Take care.
Love, Anne x

Nearly Naked

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Quick Trip to Cambridge

The wedding banns of our son were being read in Cambridge, which is very exciting! As a sort-of-Baptist (I attend an Anglican church but was raised a Baptist) I am a little fuzzy on some of the rituals/laws surrounding the Anglican Church. Apparently, if you marry in one of their churches, it is a legal requirement for banns to be read in advance (just in case someone wants to object to the marriage). They are read in the Parish of the ceremony, and in a church where you live (if that is different). Son lives in Cambridge. Lovely Daughter and SiL agreed to take mad dog for the weekend, so off we went.

Cambridge is always lovely (other than Fresher’s Week, when there is a lot of vomit). I love the history of the buildings, the river full of people having fun, the cows loose on the common. (Honestly, who couldn’t love a city that has cows wandering around?)

We had drinks on Saturday at The Pickering Inn. This was one of those ancient buildings blended with contemporary life that is commonplace in Cambridge. We sat under a ceiling built in the 1600’s, reading about ghosts, while the huge television showed the FA Cup Final. They had used old books to show reservations, and I started to read mine (because I don’t much enjoy football). A lovely way to spend an afternoon. Then we wandered back out into the sunshine, walked round the corner to an Italian restaurant, and I decided to forget about my low-cholesterol diet for an evening, so had a wonderful meal.

The following morning was church. We found the right church, and lots of friendly people came to ask who we were and welcomed us to the service. The church was quite full, and had a mix of ages, and the vicar had the same name as Husband. All was going well. There was a band, and the singing was good, and then they read the banns. I hadn’t realised that they would read out the full names, and they asked if anyone had a reason to object to the wedding (no one did) and then they prayed for the couple, and I felt unexpectedly emotional because it all felt very significant. Very serious. Very right.

The service continued to the usual formula of songs and readings and notices, and then there was a sermon. The sermon was about the woman who washed Jesus’ feet with her hair, which was a pretty outrageous thing to do in those days, and not at all what people were expecting. Then, from the back of the church, there came a loud: ‘Can we have a round of applause?’ and down the aisle marched a large man wearing a towel. I think just a towel, knotted at the waist. I sat up, this was interesting, was there going to be a short sketch? A bit of drama to explain the text?

The man strode to the front, went to the lectern and started to speak into the microphone. The vicar moved quietly to his side, and pushed the mic away, explaining that it was time for the sermon, it wasn’t the right time for the man to speak. Was this a sketch? Two other leaders appeared at the man’s side, and suggested he might like to join them somewhere quiet, where they could listen to him.

‘Is this a sketch?’ I whispered to Son.

‘I don’t think so,’ he answered, staring at the scene, ‘I think this is real.’

My first instinct was that maybe I should help—which I dismissed pretty quickly because I have absolutely no experience with either mental health or spiritual oppression, and I would just get in the way. The men were moving to the side door now, very calmly, leading the man out of the church. My second thought was whether that towel would stay in place, and whether I would resist laughing loudly if it fell off—but fortunately it didn’t fall. The man left, the sermon continued.

At the end of the service, the senior vicar returned, and explained that the man was being helped by counsellors, and please could the congregation leave by the side door, so we didn’t disturb them. He prayed for the man, and the service ended. It was certainly not boring.

As we left, I noticed the man (still wearing his towel) talking with two men in the glass-fronted foyer. Sensible to remain in a public place, I thought, sort of private but not hidden. I was impressed with how the whole thing was handled actually. The man was treated with dignity, but also moved away from where he could potentially harm people. The church clearly has some good policies in place.

We had coffee and homemade cookies, and then went to the pub for lunch. We drove back, collected mad dog (tempting to leave her for a few more days) and went home. A lovely trip.

I hope you had a good weekend too. Thanks for reading.
Take care,
Love, Anne x

Splash!

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Hello, how was your week? I have just had a lovely morning, so I shall share it with you. It started earlier than expected (I sometimes accept invitations from my husband without checking the fine details first). We were standing on the station at 7am, which was bit of a rush as I had to sort out Goose, and the randy cockerel (who now has to sleep in a prison because he hurts my other birds) and the 7 ducklings (who make a muddy soup of wherever they are living). But after a quick shower, I was in the car at 6:55 as directed, and at the station in time for the train. (Also discovered I cannot use my railcard until 9:30, so more expensive as well as much earlier, than expected.)

As we waited, the power at the station gradually stopped working: first the automatic ticket machine died, then the credit card machine at the hatch, then the information boards. A little weird that it didn’t happen all at once. We decided to opt for the first train—a diesel—in case the electric train also died. So we ended up on a train to London Bridge, when we were heading to Kensington High Street. It all added to the excitement.

After squeezing into over-crowded tube trains (don’t think about the germs) we escaped into fresh air at Kensington. Kensington is very posh—even the tube station has artificial flowers and fake-Italian coffee shops. We turned right, walked past a few posh shops and cafes, then left into the modern forecourt of the Design Museum.

Husband had been invited to a ‘Breakfast and Preview of Splash.’ Splash is the new exhibit (about swimming), and I wasn’t sure how keen Husband was when the invite first arrived, so I told him I thought Pamela Anderson was there because I’d seen her photo online. Though I’m sure that didn’t influence him at all.

We arrived and had our names checked at the door, then were offered coffee (in proper cups and saucers) and pastries. We didn’t know anyone, and it wasn’t a ‘work-do’ so Husband chatted to me (rather than networking) and it was rather nice.

We went to see the Splash exhibit. It was mainly a display showing various styles of swimwear—some of which would be rather draughty! Pamela Anderson obviously decided not to attend in person after all, but her swimwear was there, so I didn’t feel I had been dishonest. (I have similar measurements to Pamela Anderson, just arranged in a different order.)

There was also a display about mermaids, and one stating that very few black people in England can swim, though I don’t know why this would be a thing. (The black people not-swimming, not the mermaids—mermaids are definitely a thing.) I grew up on a council estate, and we all learnt to swim, and beaches in England are free—so it’s not a financial thing. Maybe their parents didn’t think it was important—most black people I know can drive, and learning to drive is much more hassle than learning to swim, so it must be a lower priority. I shall have to ask them.

I do love a pretty hat!
Such great movement in this painting.
Mermaids are definitely a thing.

The exhibit was not extensive, but it was bright and fairly interesting, and made a good excuse to go into London.

Before we came home we went to a cafe for brunch, and that was the best thing of all. We sat at a little wooden table, perched on slightly wobbly chairs, and watched the world go past. Most of the world (in South Kensington High Street) wear expensive shoes, and have manicured hair, and walk with purpose. I wondered who they were, and where they had come from, while sipping coffee and eating a huge almond croissant which fell into crumbs that scattered across my clothes—so I fear I did not look especially manicured myself. But I felt very contented. We talked about nothing, and I tasted Husband’s salmon on avocado toast, and it was all rather lovely, and one of those mornings that remind you of why you got married all those years ago. Sometimes, just being, is rather lovely.

We got home at midday, released mad dog, and started work for the rest of the day. A fun little interlude.

I hope you have something fun this week too. Thanks for reading.
Take care.
Love, Anne x

Not a Great Week Here, How About You?

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This too shall pass. . .

Hello and how was your week? Mine was pretty rubbish to be honest, but I survived and by the time you read this (as I write blogs several weeks before I post them) I am sure all will be well again. But this week has been disappointing.

One disappointment is my cockerel, who is super-randy and sees everything else as a competitor to fight. Which means when anyone is in the garden, he starts to dance around them, ready to attack. It also means he attempts to copulate with anything he considers appropriate. He hurt Goose, so I moved him in with the chickens. He is so big and strong, he was damaging their heads (he holds onto the back of their head to keep them still while he ‘covers’ them) and one of my lovely white hens was so badly hurt she died. I now don’t know what to do. He was raised to be company for Goose, and they have been good friends—I love seeing them walking round the garden together, and at night they snuggle in the hay box. But he is currently too dangerous to be free. I have run out of safe places, because I have a mother duck and her ducklings in the spare cage. I am fond of him, so unwilling to eat him or leave him for the fox, but he is a problem.

When I first decided to move him, I shoved him into the duck house, just to keep him safe from the fox and the chickens safe from him. The duck house opens onto the pond. In the morning, I was extremely surprised to find him in the second duck house. This means he must have attempted to escape in the night, and tried to cross the pond—which involves swimming. Chickens cannot swim. He must have had a near-death experience! Silly thing. At least he will have learnt that he can’t swim. (He can fly, but he doesn’t seem to know that yet, and stays inside the fence.) My only solution is to leave him in the pond area during the day (because the ducks can swim away from him) and lock him into the nesting box at night (when the hens are roosting). But moving him is a lot of effort, and it won’t work when I go away, so it’s not a long-term solution.

Another major disappointment was receiving a form from university. It is an assessment form, and has 9 sections, each section is 4,000 words. I did not expect this until next summer, as I am part time, and I have not allowed time to complete it this month. This makes me very stressed. I am hoping it was sent in error, and I need to complete it in 2026, but I haven’t yet heard back from my supervisor. I am trying to be philosophical about this, and I am telling myself that if God wants me to complete the PhD, then as long as I work hard (which I am) all will be fine. But I am still stressed out!

One reason I have so little time is my venesections have started. I have to have a blood test 7 days beforehand (which wastes most of a morning due to delays in waiting rooms). The actual venesections are awful, mainly because they are in the oncology department, and it is very sad being with lots of brave people who are struggling with cancer. The staff are lovely, but the logistics of getting to hospital, and trying to park, and waiting until I can be seen (because health stuff always involves waiting) and then having blood removed for an hour is not my idea of fun. I am tired afterwards—I think mainly due to the stress of it all. And I know I am very fortunate that my condition is treatable, and I am grateful it was discovered in time, but it is still awful.

Not enjoying being a patient.

My last worry is the local election, when the Reform party won in my area. I find this extremely worrying. I am not political, but the only broadcast I have heard by Reform stated that: ‘we have too many immigrants. Most of them are young men. The majority are criminals.’ In my mind, this is hate-speech. This is the sort of rubbish Hitler was spouting in the 1930’s. It ignores the difference between immigrants and asylum-seekers. It ignores the fact that many immigrants are hard-working and our country needs them. It ignores the fact that if people are asking for asylum, and if they genuinely need it, we should be prepared to help them. In my opinion, the ‘criminals’ are the traffickers who bring them on unsafe transport, and the politicians who spread lies and fear. The Reform party have now said they will use their status (and the money that comes with it) to challenge the government so they are side-tracked from governing. This is not what I want my local councillor to do. It saddens me that this is happening. I also feel guilty, because I didn’t make the effort to vote in the local election. We need to start speaking against the mis-information and hate-speech, and we need to be sure to do our duty and vote.

As I said, by the time you read this, I expect my stress levels will have reduced and life will be calm again. Sometimes life is difficult, and we keep going until it’s better again. This too shall pass. Though I have no idea what to do with my randy cockerel.

Thanks for reading, I hope your week is better than mine.
Take care.
Love, Anne x

I will try to focus on the lovely ducklings instead. Their world is full of danger, but they simply get on with living with enthusiasm. They are my happy zone.
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