Nathan to the rescue

I need to add an appendix to my last post, as I am now at home and ON LINE. You’d have thought frustration levels couldn’t have risen from Monday, but there were a number of developments in our Virgin Media saga. 

1. On returning from the internet café I saw some neighbours who also use Virgin Media and learned that they were having no problems. Conclusion it was not an area problem. We passed the information on to VM.

2. I began to receive text messages:

“Virgin Media Outage Update – ID F…..532. We’re pleased to tell you this issue is now fixed. Best wishes, the Virgin Media Team.” Great news – except it still wasn’t. So I wrote a message saying, “No, it’s not. Please come and sort it out.” Only it refused to be sent. Presumably Virgin have a one-way only text number. 

3. On Monday evening and again early on Tuesday, we had phone messages from Bangladesh saying a technician would come and sort things out for us. Yippee! But 30 minutes and 60 minutes later we received more phone messages telling us the issue was now fixed. It wasn’t. And so I rang VM and told them. As Jane was out I couldn’t go through their standardised rigmarole of checking the router lights etc which Jane had done twice before. 

Somehow the chap in Bangladesh understood me sufficiently and in the end said that indeed a technician would come and help that morning. Well, Nathan (for he was the longed-for technician) arrived. He ran checks and changed the router. Still it was not working…. So he went to the local junction box and found that our line hadn’t been labelled and had a “noise blocker” on it. When and why it was put there is a mystery, but now at last we’re on line again. Phew! Nathan said we might receive a customer satisfaction survey. That was to do with his performance – not Virgin Media’s. If it were the latter, it would be way into negative scores. Nathan’s would be highly positive. Thanks, Nathan.

Automated falsehoods?

On Friday our internet went down. We’re with Virgin Media, which has served us well thus far. After a time we rang the help number and heard a message apologising for the break in service to our road’s post code, and as it was more complex than usual it would take longer but their engineers were hard at work on it.

The next day it still wasn’t working and so we rang again. The same message. We gave a mobile number for text updates. This morning three days after the original fault and after no texts we decided we wanted to hear something more than an automated message, and so we navigated through to a voice (possibly in India). The nice lady told us there was a local outage and it should be sorted by Friday… A good thing I’m not employed from home. Then Jane pointed out there’d been no engineers in the area. The troubleshooter then ran some diagnostic tests on our system. “Make sure all the plugs are in the sockets. What are the lights doing? Push the switch on the bottom. Etc etc.” Naturally we wondered about the “area outage.” Don’t worry, we were told, we would now be “escalated.” Jane hoped there'd be some rebate on our bill. I think she was told that there was a standard OffCom compensation of £8 per 24 hours - maybe Virgin Media will be paying us next month....

So I have come to our local internet café to catch up with emails – and to vent my frustration with what are apparently automated obfuscations – or possible lies. Perhaps when I get back, our home internet will be restored – some hope!

In praise of physiotherapists

Dedicated to Emily

I'm fortunate to have had excellent physiotherapists, starting of course with my lovely wife (MCSP [distinction]). Then in addition for many years the specialist neuro physio, Lesley, who last year passed me on to Emily. When you've been used to someone, there's always uncertainty when you have to transfer to a new professional; but I needn't have worried. Emily is brilliant. How lucky am I!

To give you a small example: I have been finding walking round the house with my rollator (zimmer frame on wheels) increasingly difficult and slow. My legs have been tending to cross over and my feet land on each other. Every now and then I had to call Jane to untangle me. Emily suggested a free metronome app on my phone might help. She set it at 42/60 - not fast but my sort of average rate. It has transformed my walking. The reason is, I think, that walking is now no longer a reflex action but I have consciously to move each leg. ie I have to concentrate on each step. Before the metronome, my brain, willy-nilly, would wander down its own wayward neural pathways. Now the metronome calls my brain to attention every beat and doesn’t let it  wander.

I now have a heavy cold and am feeling unduly sorry for myself, but still the metronome dragooned me from the lift to the breakfast table. As Jane commented when I had sat down without much fuss, “You’d never have been able to do that before the metronome.”

Of course that’s not the only thing Emily sorted out. I have a whole sheet of exercises to stop me going utterly flabby, including boxing (!), stretching and pedalling. I’m having time off, pleading sick leave, at the moment, but the prospect of a phone-call when she’ll check up on me should be sufficient to keep me at it! I’m so grateful for the NHS through whom I receive such skilled treatment – as well as from my dentist, doctor, OTs and hospital clinic. May they never be privatised!

Fatal news fatigue

I have a confession to make. I’m ashamed of it. Really. I was once a news addict, but now I’m suffering from news fatigue – and I’m not sure which is worse.

Once when there was a big news story breaking I would follow it assiduously. And I’d regularly listen to Radio 4’s Today programme, hearing the news every thirty minutes. However, now I’m fed up with it, even though I much prefer the new guns presenting it (like the penetrating but polite Mishal Husain) to the old blunderbuses (like unsubtle and pompous John Humphrys). So my news-listening and watching tends to be restricted to local news and Channel 4 News (and occasionally for a different perspective foreign stations such as Al-Jazeera or Russia Today). Sometimes I’ll send myself to sleep the BBC’s World Tonight or its World Service. Mostly I tend to follow the news on-line on the Deutsche Welle and the Independent’s websites.

What is regrettable about news fatigue is that I am convinced of the importance of political understanding and engagement. Too often do I witness people airing half-baked sound-bite headlines and revealing their ignorance. What used to be pub prejudice is of course now largely replaced by social media reinforcement, as we, the gullible public, have no idea of the source or veracity of what appears to be news and informed opinion. I am sure the BBC have very authoritative people commenting on news stories including their own staff, but I doubt whether the people they use from various “think tanks” are at all objective. In my view their political backers ought to be declared. And as for their vox pop interviews they seem no better than the repeating of uninformed prejudice.

And that is the danger of news fatigue, that we get fed up with hearing the same things about issues which really matter. It’s of course largely a result of the 24-hour news cycle. I’m old enough to recall the days of a morning and evening news broadcast, which seemed to be sufficient. Do we really need to hear hour after hour, day after day, week after week, more about the latest sanctions and bellicose threats of Donald Trump's aims to make the rest of the world conform to his America-first agenda? Do we have to hear repeatedly all the twists and turns, and all the ifs and if-nots of Brexit? The requirement of “news” 24 hours a day means either you hear the same reports and opinions reinforced every hour or even half-hour, or you switch off literally or mentally. And such political disengagement is unhealthy for a society, because, when demagogues such as Trump or Orban, LePen or Farage seize on an issue like dogs with a bone, they are able to play on people’s ignorance and prejudices and create discontent until society itself is divided and eventually broken. In our western world’s case it is arguable that the 2008 financial crash provided the hammer for destroying society’s fabric. What is odd and disturbing is that the rich élite wolves who parade themselves as “ordinary” common-or-garden sheep, those most reponsible for causing our trouble, rather than choking, seem to float to the top.

And now here in the UK the spectre of the ultimate shape-shifting tousle-haired self-styled ram as our next unelected Prime Minister has been raised like a mad spirit of Britain Future. Preserve us! Begone, foul fiend!

Lessons from swapping schools

Jane and I have just finished catching up with Channel 4’s The Great British School Swap. If you’ve not seen it, the series is definitely worth a watch. You’ve just over a fortnight on catch-up. https://www.channel4.com/programmes/the-great-british-school-swap. Clearly there’s some artificiality about the whole project. You sense the film-makers wanting to find (or create) storylines. You realise that a fortnight’s schooling being condensed into three 45-minute programmes leaves a lot of room for creative editing. However one senses that two school headteachers involved are genuinely invested in the scheme.

Having acknowledged that, I still believe there are lessons to be learned from these stimulating programmes. I gather that the show was commissioned after a 2017 report revealed more than a quarter of primary and four in ten secondary schools are ethnically divided. The show was filmed in two Midlands schools which are just 15 miles apart: Tamworth Enterprise Academy in Staffordshire and Saltley Academy in Birmingham, the one almost exclusively white, the other equally Muslim. We saw 12 students from Tamworth being bused to spend a week in Saltley and the reverse happening a week later. It was clear that all the parents had agreed and all the students had volunteered to take part in the swap.

The programmes began with their preconceptions of the other community. For many of the Saltley Academy pupils, they view their white peers as "bacon-loving, lazy, fat poshos", who enjoyed nudist beaches. The Tamworth view was that their Muslim peers were burqa-wearing “Pakis” who were not nice, or even terrorists, and they’d be afraid to walk in an immigrant area for fear of being set upon.

Photo from Birmingham Mail

Many of the prejudices of course are inherited from parents. And the schools go out of their way to involve the parents in the process, and so we see four families exchanging meals – with touching results. The final programme sees the final celebration of the swap, a sort of graduation, and then a carefully planned party, negotiated between the liberal laissez-faire modern style and the stricter traditional Muslim code. The tensions have been honestly faced and a solution which satisfies all found. The final comments of both students and parents about the whole experiment are all positive. Some lasting friendships across the barriers seem to have been forged – in a fortnight!

As the head of Tamworth, Simon Turvey, says at the start, “Now is not the time to be building fences; now is the time for knocking them down.” In our country some popular politicians are the cheerleading fence-builders. They should be ashamed, and resisted. The Great British School Swap demonstrates that not only is this divisive, it is also counter-productive. One of the most telling incidents is when the students have a shared careers lesson. The aspirations of the conventionally poorly achieving white working-class boys are raised to a higher level by their immigrant counterparts. Not only is integration possible, it is enriching for all the community. It is a pernicious myth that immigration and integration harm a country; in fact they enhance it. One thing is needed: and that is inspiring leaders (or teachers in the programme) who believe in the benefits and will hold their nerve when things don’t go smoothly. Nothing worthwhile is achieved without difficulties. The series is, for once, aptly titled The Great British School Swap.

(By the way, a long time ago I taught in an ethnically mixed school, and I think nothing but good came from the mutual understanding which that brought.)

When technology fails

I guess everyone with a neurological condition such as MND is familiar with the frustration when one of the technology aids we depend on gives up on us. It happened for me on Good Friday, when I couldn’t get into my lift to take me upstairs as the door wouldn’t open. In fact that evening, for no obvious reason, it relented and so I got to bed. Just one of those glitches, we thought. But no, on Easter Day, when I’d parked my wheelchair in it after church, it wouldn’t open, and we were going out for what would be a special lunch. There I was trapped in it… In desperation I pushed it with my foot and escaped.

 

That evening, the lift would do nothing. Perhaps I’d kicked it to death. So began a series of visits from engineers and three nights in my riser-recliner, two in a hospital bed and three away for my son’s wedding. I have to say the week was redeemed by our local social services who grasped my predicament and, of course, the wedding. My son married a senior hospital doctor in Bristol. It was a fabulous couple of days. At the end of the reception I had completely lost what voice I have, but I could still smile.

On returning home our joy was completed by finding a message from the maintenance contractors saying their senior engineer had a slot that afternoon: would we like him? We did like him, and even more so when he had tracked down the fault to an erratic loose wire. That night I was able to sleep in our own bed. Bliss! How much trouble a small faulty connection can cause – like faulty neurones, I suppose!

Fire in sacred spaces

A good friend of mine from the other side of the world pointed out that on the same day as the cathedral of Notre Dame was almost destroyed by fire in Paris (which I've visited and worshipped in twice), a fire also broke out in Jerusalem’s Al-Aqsa mosque, the third most holy site in Islam (Gulf news report) (which I visited in my teens). My learned friend asked, “Is Somebody trying to tell us something?”

Ever cautious and innately sceptical, my reply was, “I don't know about that. I appreciate the comment of theologian at St Paul's Cathedral in London, Paula Gooder: ‘”Our holy and beautiful house, where our ancestors praised you, has been burned by fire and our pleasant places have become ruins” (Isaiah 64.11). In times like this, the only possible response is lament.’ Incidentally Christopher Wren found a stone from the old St Paul’s after the great fire in 1666 and the word ‘Resurgam’ (I shall rise again) appears in his cathedral along with carvings of the phoenix. Appropriately hopeful this week.”

I believe Resurgam came from an old tombstone and, of course, the phoenix is the mythical bird which emerges from the ashes. I must say when I first saw the Notre Dame fire raging on Channel 4’s news on Monday night I was appalled and later, after a meeting, watching the spire collapse and the flames’ seemingly unquenchable thirst, I wondered whether anything could survive the inferno. Well, it has. And some very brave firemen risked their skins to save most of the precious artefacts and relics. Yesterday it transpired that the three rose windows and the great organ had survived as well as the main structure. The full extent of the damage is yet to be assessed, but I suspect that President Macron’s ambition for its restoration by 2024 may just be realised.

Two things which stuck with me from the reports was an interview with computer engineer, Jean François, an atheist (“I hate anything with religion, but I love this church”), sitting looking at the cathedral with tears on his cheeks (Channel 4 interviews), and then the picture from the west door looking past the firemen and seeing a gold cross catching the light through the huge slender gothic columns.

Well, last night, I was annoyed to hear BBC analysts trying to extract some political story from the tragedy, such as Emmanuel Macron using it to relaunch his flagging popularity. So let me not use it to be overly pious either. However I did notice the irony that the fire took place on the Monday of Holy Week and I wondered where all those who were hoping to worship in Notre Dame this week would be over Easter. For thousands it is a "place where prayer has been valid".

In the meantime, I will recall again the ancient poet’s words, “Our holy and beautiful house, where our ancestors praised you, has been burned by fire and our pleasant places have become ruins,” and, while lamenting, take comfort in the hope of resurrection, however it comes.