Time for a Collective Deep Breath

It wasn’t so long ago that we were all social-bubbled up together and longing to see our loved ones again. The fear of coronavirus left us restricted in a way that, pre-March 2020, we could never have imagined. 

After some false and unnerving starts, release slowly went ahead until now we are - almost - back to normal. Those most at risk are double-vaxxed and even boosters are on their way. 

We can mix and match pretty well as we like and it’s now up to us to work out sensibly how we can manage our own lives after this terrible and traumatic event. Isn’t that fantastic and exciting and cause for real celebration? You’d think so, wouldn’t you? At least I would. But that’s not what I’m observing.

I remember expecting there would be initial relief at the end of the fiercest restrictions and then I wondered if there might be a fair amount of anger because of the impositions. 

It’s rather like when you “mislay” a child in your care. First, there’s disbelief. This hasn’t happened, the child has not vanished. Then, there’s a growing sense of panic as you realise s/he is not there. There’s the search as you grow ever more frantic and then they are found - by you or someone else and you have this overwhelming sense of relief that they are safe.

If you’re the average parent/caretaker (or not, in this case) you are very likely to have a sense of fury against the little person who’s put you through all this. Fortunately, most of us react by a quick shout, possibly face up close (you shouldn’t but it happens) and then a tug on the arm as we ensure they remain firmly within our grasp.

The wisest among us remember that this a child; s/he did not do it on purpose and, in a perfect world, they would never have become separated from us. We draw a deep breath, reach down to reassure our little companion and suggest we need to look after each other better in future. Job done. Until the next time.

I’m hoping you’ll see where I’m heading. Of course, Covid’s not the child but the reaction to what’s happened is not dissimilar. Disbelief, fear, panic about the unknown and, later, fear about the known, followed by relief that all is going to be okay. And now I can get angry.

That seems to be where we are right now. Angry with everything and searching for somewhere to vent our fury. Last week, it was one thing (like many others, my memory and timeframe is not what it was before lockdown); this week it’s the HGV driver shortage and next week goodness knows what we’ll have found to worry us.

I was expecting anger but not at the rate it’s happened. It’s like a collective Mexican wave but not in a good way. Or maybe it’s as though all the trolls from social media have jumped out of their make-believe slots and into the real world. 

It is extraordinary. An oil company publicly reveals (why?) it’s restricting fuel supplies and suddenly everyone’s queuing for petrol at such a rate that the self-fulfilling prophecy comes true. Garages run out of petrol.

I watch this on the news and reflect on the strangeness of one group of people lying down on a motorway as they try to find ways of saving the planet while another - much larger - pushes out endless, unhealthy fumes as they queue to fill up their cars with petrol, just in case.

Just in case of what? I’m a little confused. Where is everyone going and whatever happened to the enthusiasm for working from home? I was under the impression that WFH was still the employment of choice, but I appear to be wrong. Now, we all want to be in our cars, dashing to and from work, meeting to meeting, school runs or gym appointments. Concerns about climate change are suddenly way down our radar.  

A Martian looking down on us might wonder at the madness of all of this. Eighteen months ago, we were talking about “being kind” to one another; clapping NHS workers and vowing that, if we got out of this, we’d be a much more caring and sharing society in the future. Now, we’re back to shouting at the authorities to do something and having punch ups in petrol queues. Doesn’t sound too kind to me.

I can certainly spot a fair few troubles on the horizon. It may be there will be fewer presents at Christmas (that’s also something to do with the huge container ship that was stuck in the Panama Canal for weeks, I believe) and turkeys which have not voted for Christmas may escape our dinner table because of the CO2 problem - ah yes, I remember now, that that was last week’s issue - but there we go. Maybe it’s a good time to consider whether less may be more after all. 

There are people who have suffered in this period and are suffering still. They deserve all the support we can give them and they have every right to be both angry and sad. 

But for those of us who are still healthy, still have their loved ones and have had a relatively easy ride during this very disturbing time, I’d suggest we take a moment to experience that relief at finding ourselves in a reasonably good place. Stay still, take a deep breath and, just for a second, be grateful.  

Photo 1: Timothy Elbery on Unsplash

Photo 2: Tai's Captures on Unsplash

Why Every Court Needs A Fool

Anyone who knows anything about Shakespeare’s plays will know one of the starring roles often belongs to the fool.

He is the person who tells it like it is. He’s the one who advises the monarch not to do what he’s about to and who foresees what might happen if he does. (His other role is to keep both the monarch and the audience amused in the more tedious parts of the play but that is for another time.)

Usually, the monarch ignores him and the result is a tragedy that we the audience can predict because it’s so clearly obvious to anyone and everyone. Except, of course, the king.

I give you King Lear and poor Tom (other fools are available). Lear, against advice, gives his kingdom away to his daughters and, after a very long and miserable tale, ends up being homeless, going mad and dying of grief. It would be an unwise fool to say: “I told you so” after that.

The fashion for jesters within the seats of power began in the Middle Ages but gradually died out. I’m wondering if it’s time we brought them back; not just for royals but for all those in positions of power and who have some control over our lives.

In the world of the ordinary person - us - we usually have at least one person who’s quick to tell us when we’re in danger of making a wrong decision. If we choose not to listen to them, we also have our inner voice which sometimes irritatingly questions whether we should really do what we’ve set our heart on.

But what about if you have no-one who feels about to say that to you. What if your future is in their all-powerful hands? In that case, I’m not sure I’d dare to make an observation. 

I’ve been thinking more about this after reading of some of the seemingly unfortunate errors of judgment made by our own monarch-in-waiting in his quest to raise money for his charities. 

It seems there are some ethical concerns about who has been giving to charity and what they may have been looking for in return. The idea, surely, is that you give money to charity so you feel like you’re doing something good for society. That in turn leaves you feeling happy inside - and that’s your reward.

Except it doesn’t seem to be. Such an idea seems a little naïve. These people who give substantial amounts of money to charity - particularly royal charities - seem to be expecting quite a bit more. A royal meeting perhaps, a public honour in reward or, in the case of contributions to political parties, access to the top people. Obvious really.

If it’s so obvious, I’m curious to understand why those in charge don’t understand what’s going on. 

The politicians do, of course. They fully comprehend it’s a trade-off and their task is to balance what they can actually offer with what the donor demands. Some politicians do it better than others. Ironically, our current politician-in-chief made quite a career out of being a public jester until he decided to go for the top job. Now some people say they expect him to get serious and find him less of a laugh than they once did.

Putting political machinations to one side, let’s return to our future head of state. Poor Prince Charles. It does seem to me as though he’s trying his best but unfortunately he doesn’t seem to employ anyone who will point out the pitfalls of some of his choices. 

If he had a court jester asking him to question why someone might want to contribute hundreds of thousands of pounds into a charity of which he is patron, he might maybe ask the question himself. It’s great to be given money with no strings attached but not so good when the ultimate cost may be your reputation.  

Similarly, a jester might ask why another member of your family felt it was okay to be given free lifts on private jets just because he happened to be a prince? He might ask how that fitted with your well-publicised views on saving the environment. Or it might be that he (jesters do not seem to have been female) might question whether the introduction to a particular young lady might not be appropriate and could land you with a heap more trouble than you’d bargained for?

If there is no-one within your court to challenge your behaviour, however are you going to know what’s good or bad, right or wrong? And, therefore, how are you going to manage to make the right ethical or moral decision when you need to? Such a process requires both practice and wisdom; how are you going to get that if no-one ever questions you? 

A royal biographer recently told of how surprised she was by ordinary people’s reaction to meeting royalty. They laughed loudly at their jokes, become speechless - even when captains of industry or in similarly successful positions - and seemed generally overawed. And that’s the problem, if we are in awe of a person, how can we possibly challenge their behaviour?

I read that the Queen Mother’s family, the Bowes-Lyons were among the last grand family to have a jester within their aristocratic circle. Prince Charles often sought advice from his grandma. Maybe it’s time to revisit that idea. He might find it a worthwhile investment in the long run.

Photo 1 by Deleece Cook on Unsplash

Photo 2 by Markus Winkler on Unsplash

Photo 3 by Colin Watts on Unsplash