Fran Macilvey

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September 24, 2019

Parliamentary Sovereignty

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Parliamentary Sovereignty

So the UK supreme court by the unanimous decision of eleven judges has decided that the current attempted prorogation of Parliament is null and void, and in fact, therefore, never happened. That the justices in the Supreme Court are prepared to be so entirely categorical in their conclusions is surprising, perhaps unique in legal history. Legal judgements are often hedged about with caveats and provisos so that appellants might feel a crumb of comfort, but, if the summary of the findings by Lady Hale is indicative, there is precious room for manoeuvre here. Parliament is in session.

I feel comforted that the Scottish Judges in the Inner House of the Court of Session have been supported and endorsed in their findings. And now, perhaps, we can get back to the business of government.

Personally, I feel that our Queen, when asked to prorogue Parliament, would have been within her rights to tell our current PM to go back to his cronies and do his job within the constraints of Parliamentary procedure, fight his corner as he was paid to do, and not to lean on her to further his agendas. That our sovereign may be called upon to exercise her prerogative only once in a lifetime, and the fact that she almost invariably acts on the advice of her ministers, does not mean that, in such rare instances as this, her hands are tied. Prorogation is part of the Royal Prerogative, issuing from the Crown, and to whom we all look to keep a watchful eye on the relationships among the Houses of Commons and Lords, the Executive and the Judiciary. The Queen is not simply in place to follow orders or the expectations of her politicians. Without the Queen’s prerogative, what is her role in a constitutional monarchy?

It will be interesting to see what, if any, constitutional changes arise from this judgement. That the judges have acted quickly, carefully and in the interests of our democratic processes is most heartening. And we should all be mightily relieved that, at the last resort, a respect for law has prevailed. Even those who have sought to undermine Parliamentary sovereignty will have occasion to be grateful with this judgement.

Thanks for reading.

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September 20, 2019

In their own words

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In their own words

Yesterday a funny thing happened. For the first time, as I was writing more of book 3 in my fiction series, I felt as if I was a privileged insider, given unparalleled access to write my characters’ lives in their own words, and, with my trusty pen and paper to hand, allowed to explain their motivations and hopes to readers.

Perhaps that sounds obvious, but in the past, I’ve never felt quite that level of inside awareness, as if I was writing a fly-on-the-wall documentary… and the words kept coming, only to be interrupted by the realisation that it was well after six in the evening and hubby had arrived home from work.

Of course, my characters remind me, I know them as no-one else does, so naturally it is my job to explain, and to highlight and help them resolve their dilemmas. I can show too, how often ordinary people are uplifted by humour and love, even in the midst of heartache.

When I resume writing a piece, I very rarely pick up where I left off. I like to go back a couple of pages, a chapter or two, and begin with a bit of rereading and editing, to check for tone and consistency. While I’m doing that, other ideas crystallise and I can more smoothly move forward. And usually, these days, that process is fairly easy, not least because, on my perambulations through Facebook, I collected a piece of very useful advice – it works for me, at any rate, though it may not work for everyone – to leave writing a story, if you have to leave it, while it is still interesting. To leave when you would rather not, rather than at the end of a good chapter, say.

Yesterday, in my reportage frame of mind, I felt as if I could simply keep writing until the story was finished. I have not far to go, and I did contemplate an all-nighter – briefly, it rarely works – but today, instead, I shall resume and simply hope that my journalistic bent returns. It is lovely being beside my characters, listening and watching as their stories unfold and trying faithfully to record what happens to them, in their own words.

Thanks for listening.

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September 18, 2019

Young people are taking action

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There is so much going on, it’s amazing that the world keeps turning. Boris is doing his kamikaze best, I suppose, though I’m not convinced of either his methods or his mandate and he seems in his short time in office to have alienated more people than I’ve had hot dinners. The world needs to take action on climate change, environmental degradation, overfishing, the nuclear debate, the manufacture and supply of weaponry… And throughout a three-year fracas about our membership of the European block, many opportunities for action on our future priorities have passed us by.

Yet it becomes increasingly apparent to me that young adults, school leavers and college students are being looked to, to speak for the imperatives of future generations. Last night on the news, a piece about reconciliation in which young people from across an old, bitter divide were invited to meet. Looking exactly like my daughter having a conversation with one of her school buddies: young, hopeful, accepting. And baffled by the old, insisted-upon enmities maintained by their elders. In the same bulletin, mentions of climate change, marches, and Greta Thunberg are fairly routine.

Are young people increasingly seen as the moral voice of our nations? Of course, they are “the future” but as things stand, they currently have little investment in “the system”. Perhaps that’s the whole point: young people are freer, less hidebound by expectations that the “rest of us” take for granted. And “the system” currently appears to pay their views scant regard. A school teacher, when asked if her YA pupils may join a march for climate change says, “What’s more important? The environment, or your exams?” Greta has been mocked in mainstream media for having the courage of her convictions; 16 and 17 year olds don’t have the vote, nor do they have automatic rights to state support. Young people are often characterised as a nuisance, difficult, unfathomable. But do we listen to them?

I’m honoured that young people are taking action. For the rest of us, it seems to be largely a case of “business as usual”. Exploration for oil and gas – so essential for jobs and industry – continues, as does the sale of weaponry, for much the same reasons. I’ve yet to see a convincing argument that selling weaponry – in other words, facilitating the death of persons unknown – is good for any of us.

If we wish young people to advocate for us, we need to allow them full participation rights in our society. Not demonising their curiosity and energy, but allowing it expression, and learning – for the love of God – to listen. It is because young people have different perspectives that their views are so valuable. They need to be heard, accorded a full place in our democratic processes, and given the financial support to allow them some choices and active participation.

Those youngsters whom we designate our hope for the future are growing louder and more insistent. If the threats of climate change are real – and it seems wiser to assume they are than to pretend it’s all fiction – the momentum for change will continue to grow. While the old guard, so accustomed to rehearsing their entitlements and not listening to other points of view, will find itself increasingly isolated.

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September 16, 2019

Back to riding

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Back to Riding

I’ve had time off from riding, cutting short last term and starting late this term because my previous horse at The Drum – which hosts an RDA stables – told me he was simply too tired to carry on. I’ve been tired too, lately, so I sympathise, but because of a series of sad losses at the stables – horses working for the RDA tend to be older than average, they have to sedate and require a lot of careful training – there has until now been no suitable replacement horse available. But I have wanted to get back to riding.

So I was delighted to receive a phone-call to let me know that we were hopeful of finding me a new horse. Mr Bob is currently the front-runner, the lucky winner of my seat, and actually, he is such a cute boy, with big eyes, long lashes, a dark, soft coat, and ears that whisk around like radar at the least murmur of approval. I imagine him picking up a signal from the worldwide web…. One of the helpers said, he is a sway back, and from certain angles he looks pregnant, but he has narrow enough shoulders for me to hitch a lift, and frankly, his perceived imperfections simply make him more loveable. None of us is perfect, and if he is happy to carry me then I shall be content. Tomorrow will be only my second ride on Mr Bob, so it’s early days.

The care that is taken to place horses with suitable riders was borne in on me two weeks ago, when I was riding another horse. The coaxing noises that I used to deploy for an old, patient soldier were distracting to a new, keen recruit, and it took real concentration for me to stop that automatic murmur. My leader carefully pointed out that my ride would be only ten minutes, because it is so important not to teach new horses bad habits.

I’m always asking, “Why?” and wanting reasons, but as soon as I understood the care that goes into training each horse with the RDA, I was more than willing to do as instructed. And I shall be biddable and content with whatever happens next.

Thanks for reading.

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September 13, 2019

From this side of the fence

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From this side of the fence

Annoyed with her own, stupid, endless cycles of thoughtless defeat, Susie stood, gazed out of the window and thought, “I must look like one of these mad women who stare out at the world…” Abruptly she turned aside, stalked into the high hallway and pulled her thin gaberdine from its peg, slipping the sleeves along her arms, buttoning, then unbuttoning across her middle, “Fiddle! Get a move on!” Such hostility in her own voice – to herself! – filled her with exasperated sorrow, then betrayed itself as reluctance to move.

            “Well, I’m going out, and I’ll be fine, so there!”

She was fine, see? It was lovely to be outside, watching from this side of the fence, instead of up there. It was great to look at boys playing football, and to cheerfully fend off the affection of puppies out for their walks. Somehow, everything felt easier at ground level, and it all made more sense when she was walking about in the midst of it.

Her eye was drawn to a mother, bending down to wipe tears from the face of a little girl, no scolding, just a lift and a hug, while the girl nodded and then smiled. “I don’t know why we complain, these days,” she thought, “People seem much nicer to each other than… than in my day.” Memories of cold meals, chilly dining rooms and enforced politeness with the warmth of an arctic summer… The proper cutlery, table manners, but no warmth to speak of, no unguarded comments.

Susie wandered to the nearest shop and bought herself – an ice-cream! It seemed so decadent, almost indecent to eat it outside, in the eye of the public gaze where everyone could see, but then, who was watching? Susie tore at the clinging, sticky paper wrap, lifted off the top of her cornetto and sipped at the pink goo. She carefully, almost tenderly, licked the ice-cream cone until it had shrunk into a soggy paper mess, then tiptoed over to the nearest bin and gingerly tipped in the waste. No-one watched her or had a view about that. And she thought, “Why would they?” saddened by the countless occasions her own judgements had kept her indoors.

So she was wobbly on her feet, she might fall and she might make a nuisance of herself. But anyone might. She glanced up at a youngish man who’d taken a seat beside her on the bench. “Nice day, isn’t it?” he murmured, and smiled.

            “Yes, a lovely day.”

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September 11, 2019

Susie glanced at her lap

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Susie glanced at her lap

Susie glanced at her lap, then up at her computer screen. While others were tapping away at laptops and i-pads, Susie stuck with her hard-drive, monitor and keyboard. All together in one place, large, reliable and comforting. She could listen to music, answer emails from a dozen different accounts and she didn’t need to learn how to thumb text or swipe. It was a comfort, knowing that traditional typing, while no longer that hard-edged tapping, was still required on the traditional keyboard.

And yet…

She looked out of the window to the gardens below where kids were playing and screaming happily, and dog walkers, taking advantage of a shaft of hot, bright summer between the showers, were idling at the river banks, conferring about best walks or whistling to their muddy, joyous charges, “Come on, Becka…! Benjy, Heel…!!!” It would been nice to join them, if only she could – if only…

But what is so hard about climbing downstairs? Putting on a light raincoat and skiffing one step at a time out into the open air? Why was that such a challenge? Okay so the apartment where Susie lived had an old-fashioned, spiral staircase, the steps of which were so worn, they dipped in the middle; it was dark and musty; but that wasn’t the issue, not really.

It was the effort, with no guarantee that at the end of it, she might not end up slipping anyway, falling headlong into the mud, tumbling over her walking stick and making a darn nuisance of herself. Better to stay out of the way… Having decided, Susie, contrary to the last, recognised the unspoken challenge and stood up, outraged by the perfidy, the sheer nerve of her own thoughts. How dare they condemn her to live always alone, here in this – admittedly elegant – living-room?

***
(to be continued)

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September 9, 2019

Beauty by the Beach

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Beauty by the Beach

“Oh, how lovely!” she sighed, breathing deeply, letting the smells of salt and seaweed soothe her lungs. She stretched out her arms and lifted them high as, into the sky she cast her gaze, grateful for the white clouds that scudded overhead. The seagulls screamed as their wings clipped the ocean spray and far over there, interrupting the smudged brown horizon, sandstone hills and cliffs housed nesting colonies of razorbills, gannets, cormorants, puffins, and predatory, snatching, arctic skuas.

Beneath her feet, where her shoes squelched in the hard, rough sand, the water puddled, forced by her weight to pool in her footprints. From force of habit, she examined the curve of the waves as they came in to crash at the shore, as sinuous as living snakes, as determined as the pulse of a heart. And everywhere, beneath the crowded cacophony of birds, waves and wind, there was the musical highlight of draining sand, pulsing notes from each minute shell and holed out fragment of rock.

Pulling in her gaze, as she always did after a while gazing, Lizzie bent to examine the shoreline for interesting shells, for shards of colour, for flat spirals of splintering white, or round curled coronets. Here and there her eyes picked out a deeper blue, a flash of bright purple or a slick of purest orange, and automatically, her hand would reach, collect and cradle each find. Soon, she had a collection of about ten specimens, all different shades of pink, yellow, red, brown, orange or blue and purple. Each, she caressed and examined minutely, turning them over in her fingers, brushing out the sand, promising to love and savour them carefully.

Many times, this is what she had done and she knew that would all be lies. None of the colour would hold unless it was trapped in a water-filled glass jar and left to sit on a window sill, in the sun but ever so slightly in the way, the screwed-down top gathering dust. None of that brightness would be transported to the ledge in the bathroom, where motes would dance, but the collected water would be still and flat and lifeless. So Lizzie blessed the shells and let them loose. She threw them high in the air, and watched as each beautiful spark sank beneath the waves.

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September 7, 2019

Short Story – We Need to Talk

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Short Story – We Need to Talk

Suzie could see herself, snapping and snarling as she wiped the tiles behind the cooker, which streamed with steaming rivulets of water. The entire back wall had to be wiped down fast, her arms carefully navigating behind hot handles, sticky bottles of oil and damp teabag boxes containing unused chamomile infusion. She could hear herself getting angry, and wanting to stop, but why could Ali not see what needed to be done? Why was he leaving her to do all this now, while he tucked into steak pie? Why had he burnt the curly kale, left the potatoes to boil to mush? She had been gone only ten minutes.

Squeezing out the heavy, hot cloth, she abandoned her scrubbing, wiping and sniping, then sat reluctantly with a heavy thump and salvaged what she could of her own meal – charred kale, cooling potatoes and hummus – while her husband and daughter carefully finished their steak pie. Maxine slipped out of the door and Ali quietly waited for the storm to pass. Suzie had to decide what to do.

“I want you to– ” she tried to explain, “And I get cross, because you never …”

Ali nodded, “Yes. That is true. I don’t.”

“And you will always be just yourself, after all.”

“And I do love you.”

“I’m sorry I left the kitchen, but I thought you knew.”

“Knew what? You never said.”

“Not to burn the kale, to add water.” At this, she was hard pressed not to cry aloud, thinking that without her to tend to this kind of thing, her husband and daughter would live on pies and bacon and eggs. Her heart heaved with sorrow at the loss of green veg. Without her there, he would manage meals in his own way, but would that include any green stuff? It was a worry, of sorts.

Then she recalled her sister, burning onions, and a small, wry smile lifted her face.  Even the best cooks forget to tell each other, “The soup needs a stir in five minutes, I’m just out to the garden for a moment.” Even the best of intentions get caught up in conversations, as we stand with our backs to a pot bubbling up over the stove. Accidents happen when we have other things to do.

“I’ll tell you, next time I go out.”

“And I’ll try to watch more closely.”

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September 4, 2019

“All Fun and Games…” by Christopher Brookmyre

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“All Fun and Games Until Somebody Loses an Eye” by Christopher Brookmyre

Sometimes, we go looking for books and they find us.

I was in a local charity shop and these two books by Christopher Brookmyre perched on a top shelf just winked at me. You know, I took one out, looked at the cover and the blurb, put it back and made to walk on, but they smiled at me and sorta winked, so I just decided to give both of them a good home. I’m glad I did.

The first novel by Brookmyre which I have read, “All Fun and Games…” is your fairly standard thriller fare, except it has softened, kinder edges; less gratuitous killing than, say, a Lee Child or even a Grisham. There’s a gently subversive edge that says, “You realise, of course, that I’m teasing.” Not only does this particular novel start with a Jane Bond – a heroine, grandma called Jane Fleming who dreams of having an exciting life – but it makes obvious allusions to the Bond Movies and – spoiler alert – indicates in the final few pages that the whole thing was a set-up. Subversive, funny and humane, “All Fun and Games…” is a quietly enjoyable polemic against fighting, war, the arms industry and the dangers of un-regulated capitalism. Which could sound dull, but is anything but. Witty, inventive, and memorable, I’m really glad I was prompted to delve into this book.

I’m also delighted that for once, our author makes a heroine of a woman, and one in her mid-forties. Her husband hardly features, her son is largely a vector for some clever techie sleight of hand but Jane Fleming seems to have it all – fitness, courage, looks, stamina and enough intelligence for a dozen others. Perhaps one reason why this book is so enjoyable to me – as it must be to thousands of housewives – is that it gives homebodies an out for all the inevitable stuff that people of a certain age have to endure: housework, routine, shopping, babysitting, fetching and driving. If Jane can have adventures, so can we all, though perhaps not quite on this scale. In any event, I find the hope of adventure for all of us most heartening, and if you are wanting or needing a shot of courage, optimism or hope, I recommend this read.

I can’t wait to start reading Brookmyre’s next novel, and I’m glad to know there are many more waiting to be read.

Thanks for listening.

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September 2, 2019

Cooking up a fantasy

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Cooking up a fantasy

Instead of the purveyors of entertainment cooking up a fantasy, I would love to see real cookery shows. Not competitions timed against the clock, but everyone pitching in and doing things together, learning how hard it is to make a thing look effortless, without fancy camera work. It’s time for the single-super-person / super-mum role model to be dismantled in favour of a communal, inter-personal approach to cookery that acknowledges a more realistic perspective.

I know people who drink while they cook, but rarely at any other time. Might that suggest that the cooking – the expectation of it, its relentless necessity – is the trigger? Gregarious individuals who only want company and who, instead, are dragooned yet again into a solitary kitchen filled with labour saving mod cons and who would give anything for a night off?

If Nadiya and Mary and Delia really want to inspire us they can stop pedalling the impossible mythology of cooking with all its contradictions:- 

~ Though s/he is emancipated, s/he cooks, nay, enjoys cooking all the time, alone. 

~ Because s/he is pleasing other people, cook is therefore fulfilled and happy

~ This is the way it has always been and will always be.

~ By cooking, the cook encourages sociability in others, though cook is solitary and would really love to have some help. Not to have to ask for it, just to receive it as a matter of care and courtesy.

~ You may be cook alone, but if your food is delicious – and note, if you will, the implied threat in that – you will always attract friends. None of whom will venture into your kitchen to help. But admiration is reward enough.

All I can say is, how 1950s. Viva la revolucion!

Thank you so much for listening.

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