Green is for Grenfell

September 15, 2024 / aggiemurch

Written and read for you by Muriel Murch with WSM by my side

One evening last week, four mid-sized yellow ambulances screeched to a halt in the little parking cul-de-sac which serves this side of the Auden Place Council housing apartment blocks. The ambulances were left with engines running and lights flashing as the paramedics carrying their bags, searched to find where they needed to go. They were gone a long time and when later I finally looked out of the window the parking lot was empty. There had been no blue lights flashing or blaring sirens signaling their departure. The next day I learnt that Sylvie had fallen downstairs and had not recovered. Those who knew her went about the day sobered and reflective.

Last week the second volume of the Grenfell Inquiry report was finally published and made available to the survivors of the tragedy, and today’s government ministers. On the evening’s broadcast, the news-anchor standing in front of the Grenfell Tower, bathed in moonlight and cladding with its green heart wore a bright green coat as she spoke. Green-heart buttons are worn by Prime Minister Sir Keir Starmer and London’s Major Sadiq Khan seen standing on the right side of this event.

The daily Parliamentary schedule allows that after the morning’s Prime Minister’s questions there is a pause for those who have meetings to attend – to leave. On the morning when the report was to be presented the choking exodus of Members of Parliament was sobering to those who remained seated and disgusting to those survivors watching. Sir Keir turned to face the gallery as he gave his heartfelt apology, acknowledging that on every level – regulatory, council care, business and responsibility – the Government had let them down. The report left no doubt that the 72 deaths from the Grenfell fire of 2017 were avoidable.

The living community that had existed within that tower block, that exists in all housing estates and neighborhoods to a degree, has become one of bereavement for the Grenfell survivors while they remain physically misplaced in temporary housing. ’We want Justice’, read the banners at Grenfell but what is justice, what would it look like? Now the buck of blame is sliding from the place of government regulation, to counselors who did not listen to their citizen’s concerns and onto leaders in businesses. Tracking those responsibile is like following a river to its source, as a hidden stream emerging from the earth that may yet come to rest outside of the garden shed of the Prime Minister of the time, the Rt Hon Lord David Cameron who so eagerly started his ‘bonfires of red tape’ hoping to free businesses of unnecessary regulations. ‘For every new regulation cut three’, was the guideline while each and every one of the construction firms with government contracts took advantage of the burnt red tape. Once all 1,700 pages of the Inquiry documents have been read, surely there will be some firms will be highlighted and named. Sir Keir Starmer calls for the companies involved in the disaster be banned from receiving government contracts, and that the government would support the Metropolitan Police’s investigation into the fire, saying it was “imperative that there is full accountability, including through the criminal justice process, and that this happens as swiftly as possible”. But the Metropolitan Police are stalling, shuffling papers to be read in detail by lawyers – before proceeding with any prosecutions. It will be at least two years before charges are brought against anyone deemed at this time to be responsible.

The report – all of it. Image: Ben Gingell via Dreamstime.com

While the inquiry has been bound together, distributed and read, the criminal courts have been unusually busy for August, as the far-right activists who erupted with violent anti-immigration protests in cities across the country a few weeks ago were rounded up and swiftly brought to trial. It was nasty. Sir Keir – again – expressed his determination to crack down hard on the rioters, and so the courts have been working overtime and in quick succession jail sentences have been handed out like military call-up papers. But there is another problem. England’s jails are reportedly ‘not fit for purpose’. Last week’s count showed only 500 places out of 88,000 were left, 400 being quickly taken up by the far-right rioters, leaving only 100 places, either to be given to more rioters or – possibly saved for those who took advantage of the Tory government’s bonfire of red tape. It is noted but not yet spoken how quickly some prosecutions can occur, while others linger in old manila folders. A jail-house solution is being acted on as I write. 1700 ‘low risk’ prisoners are being released across the country today. We are assured ‘High risk prisoners are not being released’. But that depends on your point of view, who is high risk or low risk, to whom? Prison staff are already struggling with this new check-list of red tape with things to be done to get those lads and lassies out of the prison gates. There is no time to wonder who will receive them, where they can go, who will support them, or will they just find it safer to return to lock-up. Will they leave enough room for the Right Honorable gentlemen and business leaders to maybe one day sit on benches beside them?

This afternoon the government just approved Chancellor Rachael Reeves’s bill to cut the fuel payment allowance given to pensioners last year. Not many people are saying the obvious – that the allowance was a double-hitting ‘take that’ act from the past Prime Minister, Rishi Sunak, first as a sop to mop up any old voters who might have put an x in his box on election day, and secondly to skewer the next government with less money in the kitty and an unpopular choice to make. But Sir Keir and the labour party still have some political support from raising pay for essential workers in the National Health Services and then to the train-drivers, thereby keeping that union at bay – for the moment.

Sir Keir has not traveled far this summer. He’s been busy reading the manual and fixing the government’s old bike whose chain keeps falling off and brakes need new pads. In Ireland he met the Irish Prime Minister Simon Harris to ‘reset the UK’s relationship with Ireland’. There was also a visit to Paris renewing his friendship with France’s new Prime Minister Michel Barnier. Both are detail-oriented men, and keen to connect rather than disagree. French government being what it is at the moment, Emmanuel Macron’s appointment of Michel Barnier as the new Prime Minister makes England look relatively stable and calm.

And so for excitement – rather than war – we ready ourselves for the upcoming US presidential debate which will have happened by the time this letter airs. It is more nervous-making than any football match with the stakes high for the US and the world. Even those who are not counted will feel the waves of power as they settle in November.

This has been A. Letter from A Broad. Written and read for you by Muriel Murch.

Supported by https://www.murchstudio.com

August Bank Holiday W/E

September 2, 2024September 4, 2024 / aggiemurch / 1 Comment

August Bank Holiday,

Written and read for you by Muriel Murch with WSM by my side.

‘Out of the Office’, automatic replies come bouncing in to anyone foolish enough to write a business letter in the month of August. Occasionally there is a head’s up – a note saying “I will be away on holiday until the ‘something’ in August. If this is urgent please contact – whoever the poor soul is who has been left to ward off intrusive calls.” Lawyers, bankers, publishers, doctors, stylists, and politicians all go away, usually taking a plane to Spain or even as far as Turkey, leaving delivery drivers and grocery clerks to carry on. Pete from the Primrose Hill market farm stand has taken his wife to visit her family in Croatia.

Chugging along under Tower Bridge Photo by WSM

Over the weekend, the river is choppy as the wind battles with the sun to give the tourists a boat-ride to remember while cruising up and down the Thames to Greenwich where the Cutty Sark, along with the maritime museums and colleges waits patiently for them.

Returning to the city from their seafaring adventures the tourists pour into the street, across Westminster Bridge circling around the Palace of Westminster, the House of Parliament and Big Ben, now free of three years of scaffolding, and whose clock-face shines over the river.

But across the bridge from the Houses of Parliament is the wall that encircles St. Thomas’s Hospital and lines the walkway along the river.

Painting of St. Thomas’s Hospital at the Welcome Trust Museum

The Hospital was named after Saint Thomas Becket and first built in Southwark, possibly as early as 1173. The reformation of the monasteries caused its closure but in 1551- the young king – Edward VI – allowed the hospital to move up-river a bit while being rededicated to another Thomas – the Apostle. St. Thomas’s Hospital was first dedicated to serving the poor, the destitute and homeless and though it has become a world renowned teaching hospital it has remained open ever since. It is seeming and appropriate that the wall that cradles the hospital close to the Thames and faces the Houses of Parliament is still decorated with painted hearts and messages commemorating the thousands who died in the Covid epidemic that began in January of 2020.

Within the Houses of Parliament, the green benches in the house of Commons and the red benches from the House of Lords are mostly bare. If Sir Keir Starmer, during his term as Prime Minister, finally has his way then those red benches, so bloated by gift peerages from previous governments – both Labour and Conservative – will become even more sparsely filled and those gifts of ermine robes in very short supply. Though most of the politicians have popped off on holiday the Prime Minister has cancelled his two weeks of family time in Europe and stayed at home. Sir Keir knows that there are things to attend to and if he is lucky he can get some serious work done – for he is a methodical and serious fellow – and have a look at the bookkeeping left by the previous government. What exactly is the state of the economy and the country and how much money is available in the kitty for all those reforms that he promised? Not a lot it seems. Like a new contractor coming in for your house repairs, there is some teeth sucking as he looks at the job before him. And like any English builder – there is fault to find with those who came before him. Instead of “They used the wrong paint love,” Sir Keir’s line is already “Things will get worse before they get better.” A version of Lord David Cameron’s “Hard times are ahead we are going to have to tighten our belts.” And we all remember how that went down. The £600 fuel allowance that was so freely given out last year has already been cut for the upcoming winter. There will hardly be a city and country household who will choose not to heat their entire house – however small it is.

Like many of us – not on holiday – in England – Sir Keir has been watching the wars as they continue to unfold. The Ukrainian army has popped a missile over into the Russian territory of Kursk, and captured a few Russian soldiers that it promptly swapped for 115 men of its own. Our screens light up with the flames from the Israeli and Hezbollah strikes at each other. Is it a game of fire and fury, a warning or wake up move? All is paused as each side ponders and watches the other.

Then there was the Democratic Convention held in Chicago last week, orchestrated into a fine piece of rousing theatre. Only the most cynical among us could not be flickered into a moment of hope that the homegrown terrorist among the American people could be held at bay. The concept of a woman – a comfortable and pleasing shade of brown – with a steady coach beside her, may – with much luck and hard work – keep America safe for a few more years, is enough to make one giddy with hope. One could see this as a sea change of colour that comes with autumn, the maturing of the fruits of this season.

At the market the colours are changing too. Bright red berries are giving way to the blush of young apples, the green cream of pears and the dark purple of Victoria plums, while the deep black of hedgerow berries glisten with a shimmering autumnal hue.

With constant support by murchstudio.com

Remembering the First Time

August 10, 2024 / aggiemurch / 1 Comment

Remembering the First Time

Written and produced for you by Muriel Murch with WSM by my side

It was 1948 and I was 5 years old when, with my mother and Brett, my nanny, I stood on the side of The Devil’s Punch Bowl. As each horse came to the crest of the gully, they paused, taking in the drop, collecting three strides down, before a leap over the solid tree-trunk above the deep ditch then galloping up the other side and away onto the rest of the course. As a big grey horse thundered past, my mother and Brett let out a cheer for the Swedish rider. Brett was from Sweden and this was the first Olympics after the Second World War. The equestrian events at the 1948 London Olympic Games were all held close to home at the Tweseldown Racecourse by Aldershot – a military town and at a very early age we were taught, “Never talk to the soldiers”. The American team won the eventing, the Swedish team placed second, with Mexico taking the Bronze medal. The changes in the political geography of countries can often be seen at the Olympics. In those days Mexico and Argentina sent successful equestrian teams all over the world. I never got over the thrill of seeming that grey horse leap into and over the Devils Punch Bowl.

I was hooked and it would be less than ten years before Taffy and I were galloping through those same forests and over any obstacle I found in the secret freedoms that lay on those moorlands.

We remember those first times, and now as this year’s Olympics play out in Paris we watch the athletes perform, many for the first time for their country.

Sir Keir is a serious man and treating his new premiership with appropriate gravitas, and while the Labour Government was seriously going about getting settled in, they too felt they could breathe gently and watch our athletes in Paris giving their very British best. But if he had hoped for a longer honeymoon period it was soon cut short as we watched the riots break out in a fire storm over the killing of three little girl children finishing a dance class in Southport. An unnamed seventeen year old boy – incorrectly rumored at first to be a Muslim refugee – is being held in custody. Rumours – spreading as fast as the wildfires of Canada and California, have sparked violence in cities across the country. Far-Right nationalists fuelled by the disinformation from social media, are following a pattern discernible in North America, Israel and Hungary, among other eruptions around the world. Gray headed grannies holding signs for ‘Nans not Nazis’ are in danger of being knocked to the ground by the boys in thier street that they may have helped raise.

Far right rioters attack asylum seeker hotels in Tamworth. Photo for Al Jazeera

From Southport in the north to Aldershot in the south, towns up and down the country that hold deep pockets of poverty and unemployment are fuelled with anger and rioting in an all-too-familiar manner. Sir Keir Starmer is facing his first time as Prime Minister with this storm battle and our country’s worst elements. Nigel Farage barely makes an effort to keep a neutral face while he sits in Parliament and no one can believe that he is not chalking one up for the far-right team. The Police have been given ‘extra powers’, more prosecuting lawyers have been called in, though from where and where to it is hard to tell. ‘The rioters will feel the full force of the law,’ promises Sir Keir, but some of us wonder if those said rioters will care, and what the law stands for – for them and for us all. It just took one incident – no matter that misinformation was spread – lines are drawn across the streets of neighbors, with those leaving flowers for the children and their families, and those rioting for an England they never knew, each side is screaming to be heard.

Certainly other government leaders are not concerned about the internal laws of their own country or the international laws that loosely hold the global community together. The recent swap of Political prisoners, brokered by Germany, Norway, Slovenia, Poland, North America, and Russia that took place in Turkey was the largest game of checkers since the Cold War. 16 Russian dissidents, Germans and US prisoners were returned for 8 Russian undercover spies and agents. But there are still hundreds of political prisoners left behind in Russian prisons, and who knows how many Russian prisoners are also still in European and American jails. When the talks first started, Navalny’s name was among those put forward for release, ‘Sure, no problem,’ said Putin in the Russian political way. During the months that the final arrangements fell into place and the talks continued the ‘Sure no problem’ line was repeated, but Navalny died in prison on February 16th. Bait and switch. Check mate. Putin never intended for Navalny to go free.

It was 1992 when at KPFA Pacifica, I was handed ‘Time and Tide’ a new book by Edna O’Brien who was coming to California for an extensive book tour. This was to be my first book interview. As I picked up the book and turned it in my hand, the portrait of a sensual and defiant Edna stared out at me from the back cover. Edna was a woman who – if she took to your husband at a dinner party might – or might not – return him for breakfast. This I knew to be true. ‘Time and Tide’ was not an easy book, even if you were a follower of Edna’s writing. But I understood Nell, her heroine, even as I cringed at all the troubles that beset her through the pages.

Edna O’Brien at that time. Photo from The New Yorker

Edna arrived at the radio station in a fuss. Her plane has been delayed and her luggage was lost. She was as tiny and Irish as I was tall and English but quickly I saw that we were both nervous. Edna upset at the loss of her luggage and the fact that her silver pendant had rubbed a stain on her white jumper. I was terrified of her intellect and sexuality. But as we sat down, locked together in the recording booth, and began to talk, she relaxed, answering my questions with eagerness and generosity and the conversation began to roam as she remarked “Well, Ulysses is difficult isn’t it?” Then we slipped into film as both of us had been knocked sideways with ‘Raise the Red Lantern.’ by Zhang Yimou. It was clear we shared a mutual concern for the plight of young women and that, as well as my thorough preparation, softened Edna and she recommend me for the publishers next author, Susan Sontag. Now Edna has died at the age of 93 after a long illness and I wonder what was the illness that took her away from this world at the beginning of this late summer time. Edna was my first Author Interview and I will never forget her.

Apart from the riots and the Olympics there are the perennial editorial concerns about the decline of wildlife and insects. Our little terrace is less than 150 square feet and is now full of summertime beauty. We get excited when we see the honey, bumble and mason bees, and then a cabbage white butterfly, an orange tiger moth, and a blue dragonfly also come by. Their first arrivals let us know we are doing the right thing on our tiny patch of heaven.

This has been a Letter from A. Broad. Written and read for you by Muriel Murch, and supported by murchstudio.com

A correction from the audio to the text. In the audio I say Stockport when it should be Southport.

The Waiting is Over

July 28, 2024 / aggiemurch

Written and read for you by Muriel Murch with WSM by my side

With an emergency run on 4 x 4 gauze squares and medical tape as ears are covered in solidarity of one nicked by a bullet, this might be the week to invest some petty cash in Johnson & Johnson. You never know when the secret service will not be paying as much attention as they should be. Surely another head will fall in the line of duty, though last week’s bullet served a gift onto the locks of the dyed orange one, who now combs his hair into a cunning curl around the wound while one wonders why the bandage remained on for so long. Is there a hole, a missing chunk from the ear lobe? Will this require time out for plastic surgery, or is he too old for that? Age now being an issue placed on another foot.

For the waiting is over. The long weekend that began on Thursday when the American President, Joe Biden, reportedly tested positive for Covid and retreated to his Delaware home where, in close isolation, he prepared his letter to the American people. Published on Sunday, the 21st of July at 1.46pm, saying he would not seek reelection to be the next President of the United States. Age, infirmity and honesty have called him, and he listened. It is no easy thing, accepting who you have become with all that you have done, and want to continue to do, and put aside the dreams of what you still wish you could be. Leaders from around the Western world have, in their own styles, tipped their hats to Joe, breathing a sigh of relief that he has made this monumental decision while nervous about the unfolding of the oncoming political months in America. As of this writing, Kamala Harris has earned enough support from the Democratic delegates to be on the ticket as their democratic nominee in August.

Politicans who could be considered either Presidential nominees or running mates are all endorsing her – saying in one way or another – “I’m right behind you Kamala.” Well, strong women are familiar with that phrase.

But how will it play out in greater America? Is America really ready to put all of its prejudices aside? Kamala Harris is: a woman, a caramel-colored woman of mixed race with a Jewish husband, a lawyer, and from California. Now there will be endless discussions – but maybe it is a time to think, know what we know, what we do not know and, as some say, understand the difference.

At the same time came the Windows computer melt-down that also began on Thursday. The BBC news chose only to tell us of the doctor and hospital appointments that were cancelled, pharmacies struggling with prescription refills, and of travel disrupted, flights and trains cancelled, and long queues at airports around the world. Many, like Schiphol in Amsterdam, who cancelled over 200 of their flights on Friday – even little Jane Does at home or our community library – all were effected due to the Windows outage. This was all brought together for us with the weather forecaster smiling and chatting along with no tell-tale screen behind her. We were lost as to where the winds, the rain or sunshine were coming from and going to. I asked our daughter Beatrice – who follows such things – to explain, as simply as she could, what happened on Thursday night. She says, “usually this sort of software is teased out, 5% here, 10% there and so on, checking for those glitches and things that go bump in the night – or on your computer. However the company, Crowd Strike, decided to send out the updated software to all Windows computers across the world at once. They have been juggling knives the whole time and dropped one – this time slicing a toe off. Business company IT staff are still working, getting computers one at a time up and running. Though the weekend is over and world politics, wars and sport return to take precedence, people are still trying to get to their doctor or back home, and through this week the effects are still being repaired.

Thursday also began a long weekend of the British Open Golf Championship played out at the Royal Troon course in Scotland. The rain and the wind raced in from the sea and onto the course beating down the roar of old champions as they tried to rise only to be shut down by younger, faster and tougher players. Tiger Woods drove out at Royal Troon this weekend, beaten by the course, his age and health and it could be hard for him not to say, ‘maybe there will be another time’. We watched holding our breath as Justin Rose, my home-town boy, ‘almost’ won the championship to raise the famed Claret Jug. Will he, can he win one more time?

TROON, SCOTLAND – JULY 21: Justin Rose of England tips his hat to fans in the grandstand as he celebrates a closing birdie putt on the 18th hole green during the final round of The 152nd Open Championship at Royal Troon on July 21, 2024 in Troon, Scotland. (Photo by Keyur Khamar/PGA TOUR via Getty Images)

The truth can be brutal. Novak Djokovic spoke his own just over an hour after his defeat at the Wimbledon Championships, “I was inferior on the court. Carlos was the better player from the beginning till the end. He played every single shot better than I did. Last year I lost an epic five-set match where we went toe to toe. This year it was nothing like that – it was all about him. He was the dominant force on the court and deserved to win”. Gareth Southgate has also resigned from his role as manager of The English Football Association. In his eight years as manager he raised this squad up to be so very close to the best. He too is stepping aside to let another man take the helm.

There was a pause in all this to-ing and fro-ing and on Saturday I find the Farmers’ Market as busy as ever. The school year has ended, but with plans and travels disrupted, many families have not left the city. My first stop is always the French olive bar where barrels of olives, beans, garlics and vine-stuffed leaves tell me there is no need to cook dinner tonight. A small dish of this and that with a baguette from the French bread stall and a glass of wine will be just perfect. Then I visit with Ron who has been sick for the last few months and lost so much weight that his teeth are getting loose. But he has help to set out his honey on the table and a stool to sit on. I know that to pay him by card is the easiest for him, but maybe because the nurse in me is curious I hand him a 20 pound note to see how he manages. He has to think about it and find the £10 note and the £ 3 in coin. He comes up with £ 2 and I stop at that. We talk awhile, he so softly I have to lean in to catch the words fluttering through his teeth, but we manage, seller and customer, continuing our connection, passing a few friendly minutes together. Ron, with the support of his family and the other market vendors may manage the summer months sitting on his stool and selling his honey. But there will come a day when like the Joes, Tigers, Novaks of our lives it will be time for him to close up his stall and watch the people go by.

This has been A Letter From A. Broad. written and Read for you by Muriel Murch
As always, overseen by beatrice@ murchstudio.com

Behind Closed Doors

July 15, 2024July 18, 2024 / aggiemurch

Written and read for you by Muriel Murch with WSM by my side

The Piazza Santissima Annunziata is almost empty with only a few tourists bearing the late afternoon summer heat while seeking refuge in the churches and museums. Idanna drives straight into the empty Piazza and parks the car. We get out and look around. In the center sits The Grand Duke Ferdinand (from 1608) astride his horse. The horse is facing the little telescope alleyway that leads directly to the Duomo, but the Duke’s eyes, if you look carefully, seem to glance up to two windows, three stories high, on a red building. The shutters remain open so that through the centuries he can look to, and be seen by, his mistress behind them. His arm is raised in salutation to the Pope of the day, or to her – it is left to the onlooker to imagine. On another side is the hospital of the Innocents, an orphanage and museum still run by the nuns from the Sisters di Maria. A small grilled window sits facing the square where – at night time – a mother could – between 1660 and 1875 – raise the grill and lay her new-born babe on the rota where friars, on their night-time shift, sat waiting for a delivery, not as midwives for a wanted child, but as caretakers receiving the fruits of enslaved and then abandoned love. These are the buildings and stories we take in as we make our way to the side door of the Church of Santissima Annunziata, for our friends, Idanna Pucci and Terence Ward have something to show us.

“It is a surprise,” says Idanna after we had stopped at the Palazzo Pucci to pick up the ancient key that would have weighted heavy on the twisted cord belt of a monk’s cassock. Again, her face lights with that impossible grin she has when holding a happy secret. The door is thickly double paneled, over eight meters tall, and the strong wood is sun-cracked. Terry takes the key from his pocket and places it in the single lock.

In the bright late afternoon sunlight the key is reluctant to turn and it takes several wiggles before it catches and the door is opened. We enter the tall cool space of this chapel dedicated to St. Sebastian and now lovingly restored by Giannozzo and Idanna Pucci with the help of World Wide Friends of Florence.

WSM and Terence Ward look up to St. Sebastian.

Terry gathers the three red velvet chairs placed in the chancel for musicians together and we gather around as Idanna tells the story. Her lilting voice takes us back to 1082 when a little house of prayer was dedicated to St. Sebastian, then leads us down the path of history through the Middle Ages, the building of this church of the most Holy Annunciation and this chapel, to the paintings commissioned, sold (by one of the unscrupulous relatives) and now lovingly replicated through the guiding hand of her brother Giannozzo. Her voice sings with the joy of the story, coming to when the chapel was reopened and rededicated in May of this year. Idanna is grinning with the happiness of sharing their gift to the city with us. They then lead us around the three major paintings of Saint Sebastian hanging above the alter sanctuary while underneath there are sculpted reliefs of Pucci ancestors, the good and the maybe not so good. Finally we look up at the breathtaking cupola. As we lingered in the beautiful sanctuary a guide from the main church brought in two more visitors to see this sidebar of history. Taking our leave, we walk over the moveable stones that cover the crypt holding Puccis and maybe even a Medici or two. “Have you been down there?” I ask Terry, and he firmly shakes his head. “I have looked. It is a jumble of bones all tossed about, from the flood’. In 1966 the Arno river flooded and swamped Florence ravaging much of the art and bibliotic heritage of the city. The Pucci crypt would be one among many holding places of the dead to be tumbled into confusion and dust. Leaving, Terry turns the key once more in the lock. Walking to the car in the still almost-empty Piazza, I silently said goodbye to the orphanage museum, the Convent of the Sorelle di Maria and the old Duke with his arm raised in salutation.

The Hospital of the Innocents – Orphanage and Museum – Photo by WSM

With our time in Italy we missed the final run up to the UK general election and returned only in time to watch Ukrainian Prime Minister General Zelensky meet his Hungarian counter part, Victor Orbán. Orban, who for six months more is head of the European Union, then went on to chat with his pal Vladimir Putin.

The countries that make up the EU cried ‘Foul, He is not speaking for us,’ but Orbán merely shrugged, figuratively speaking, saying he was just going to listen and hear what each side has to say. He may be dreaming to broker a peace deal – always a good thing to have noted – but his hand is more eager to grasp Putins’ than Zelensky’s. As each Eastern European leader swims across the tides of history pulling and pushing the boundaries of their country it is within our memory to recall Hungarian refugees arriving in England while fleeing their own county’s oppression.

As July 4th – the UK polling day ended – TV screens lit up like a game show as presenters pointed out which constituencies were turning from blue to red with touches of amber for the Liberal Democrats and green for – well – the Green party. But it is the red of a Labour takeover of the country that has prevailed. As Dishy Rishi drove off to hand his resignation to the King, the movers were quickly packing up the Sunaks’ plates and cutlery, curtains and bed linens to take out of the back door. An hour – or is it two – later, steady Sir Keir Starmer was off to Buck House, asking the King’s permission to form another government. The handover has to be quick so the country is not left to its own devices. The moving vans are as quick in and out which is rather lovely, for #10 Downing Street is just an old run-down city house in constant need of repair. The inconvenience of any refurbishments only heightens the impermanence of the position, as power comes and goes and hopefully, while you have it, you can do more than change the curtains.

Sir Keir Starmer has not been idle. The smell of Pledge furniture polish was barely cleared from the cabinet room before he gathered his new team around the oval table and gave them each their work orders for the weekend. There was not an old Etonian among them and there would be no potting shed moments. For some, their bags were already packed to fly out, meet and greet, and start work. The weekend saw Keir begin his trip around the British Isles meeting the other UK government leaders. While with the First Minister of Scotland, Sir John Prescott, the chants from protest marchers could be heard through the ministerial walls before Sir Keir was whisked away past the waving Pro-Palestinian flags to meet the First Ministers of Wales and Northern Ireland. On Monday, he arrived in Washington DC, attending the two day Nato conference, filling his movable dance card with more meetings of world leaders, some who are uncertain about their political future. As Sir Keir enters the stage, others are exiting, stage left or right or hovering in the center holding an unenviable heavy portfolio. While Zelensky can be assured of continued support from the UK, the State of Israel, Gaza and the Palestinians remains out of balance. The elections in France have handed Macron a mixed plate but there is relief that, for the moment, the Far Right parties of Farage in England and La Pen in France, though now more visible than ever, have been contained – but only just.

When thirteen of us gathered together at a Palestinian restaurant on the Marylebone Road, for a Coup 53 reunion and an early celebration of Walter’s 81st Birthday, I looked around the table counting our birth-countries: Sweden, The Caribbean, Finland, Iran, North America, Ireland, and England, and am grateful to break bread in a place of such multiplicity.

By the closed door of the ladies, I stood with a tall, young, beautiful Palestinian woman just back from the day’s march. “How was it?” “Really good, we were over 100,000 strong.” Smiling together we know that however dissimilar we appear our women’s hearts beat in one accord.

And always supported by Beatrice @ murchstudio.com

Monday Nights at the Movies with Mark

June 30, 2024 / aggiemurch / 1 Comment

Written and read for you by Muriel Murch with WSM by my side

It’s a Monday evening for goodness sake, with an early opening of 6.30 pm. People have to rush from work, and – this being a youngish crowd – they do. The British Film Institute is hosting its 92nd MK3D monthly – Monday night at the Movies with Mark – Kermode that is – and the theatre is packed with a live audience of hundreds of film fanatics. Which is what they must be because Mark and his team never announce who his guests will be. For the past few months the BFI has been going through some serious renovations – we hear the new bar is not senior friendly – and this live event is the 4th to take place at the IMAX theatre in Waterloo – between the railway station and the bridge across the Thames River. Unless you really know where you are going it is very easy to get lost. Our driver had to be chased down by a runner, to turn around and take a dive under the river before we were led on foot through a labyrinth of latrine smelling tunnels. But we made it in time and were gathered up by Mark’s team of very efficient and kind women. And this may be one of the keys to his success. Mark surrounds himself with good people and because he is good, and passionate about cinema and its history good people want to be on his show, want to hear his show and want to work for him. This night Walter was to be one of the guests and as we all assembled in a discrete roped-off corner of the bar, gentle weavings of admiration stretched across the guests who gratefully sipped their beverages of choice but as elders, we were happy to refrain, before being locked into an auditorium.

After Mark’s news he introduced his first guest, Robbie Ryan, the director of Photography on ‘Poor Things’. Robbie was followed by Rachael Ramsay co-director of the documentary ‘Copa 71’ on the very successful Women’s Football World Cup that was erased from sporting history – until now. Then came Johnny Burn the sound designer on ‘The Zone of Interest,’ before the senior fellow, Walter gave a shout-out for the 50-year release of ‘The Conversation’ and his latest film ‘Her Name Was Moviola’ directed by Howard Berry.

Mark Kermode, WSM and Robbie Burn photo by MAM

Mark is deft in drawing out the information he wants from his guests and dropping in, like sweet strawberries, clips from the films they are talking about, for after all it is film that Mark and his audience are here for. But like all good hosts he also turns the questions a little more inward onto the guests. On a Literature program I might have asked a guest ‘What book is beside your bedside? Rose Grey, owner and chef of the River Cafe, asks her guests on the Podcast ‘Ruthies’ Table 4’ ‘what is the comfort food of your life’? Mark’s question is ‘What are the films that have influenced you?’ and then showed chosen clips.

Robbie Ryan picked ‘The Elephant Man’, and ‘Women in Love’. Rachael Ramsey a lesser-known work, ‘Bring It On’, Johnny Burn chose ‘Apocalypse Now’ and Walter picked the final scene of ‘2001’. The breadth of these films, the evolution of their styles and subjects left me – again – in awe of the art of Cinema.

Burlington Arcade Beadles outfitted by Joshua Kane

On Saturday – when London is given over completely to tourists – I am making my way down to Piccadilly for the last-minute errands before a real vacation, and I hurry as best I can through the streets. From New Bond Street I weave my way into the Burlington Arcade, now almost completely overtaken by boutiques with the bling of today. I see two old shops that remain – their windows filled with diamond brooches and rings laid out on black velvet, looking like small spinsters trying not to seem bold. Two young Beadles were stationed – one at each end of the arcade – but neither was wearing their beautiful Joshua Kane outfits, merely a routine heavy black with white piping livery coat and top-hat. Coming to the Piccadilly end of the arcade I slip into a gentleman’s summer sports shop and – because it is French – I buy my husband an elegant, and very expense pair of shorts. He will be furious but look great – he has good legs – and I’m smiling because he will – eventually – wear them.

Earthday March with Bird on Piccadilly. Photo by MAM

On Piccadilly, a long march is going past and I think for a moment: it is for Palestine or Ukraine? But no, the colours are too soft and the energy too high. No one is silently angry, this is a peaceful Earth Day Summer Solstice parade march. There are human butterflies and bees and birds and placards and the spirits lifted. Their music makes me happy. I walk between them, all smiling and waving and slip into the last shops I need to go to.

For a moment I am able to forget the horrible wars that continue and the utter utter stupidity of the English Political General election that is happening next week. Now a row has erupted and – like a festering boil – causing swelling in all the body politic. Apparently a ‘few’, shall we say five, politicians have gone to the races – this being Ascot week after all – and as they say, ‘Put on a bob or two’ betting on the date and maybe the outcome of the General election. And in classic English fashion the security policeman who joined in this gamble has been arrested. The politicians have yet to have their knuckles rapped. This has taken over any talk about National Health patients waiting lists, education, or crime, or anything that the country really needs to think about.

I stick with the Earth Day marchers and pop into the teashop and the bookshop for more gifts and memories. Bookshops will do that.

A week earlier at a dinner party, Gabriel Garcia Marquez’s name had come up and Walter mentioned that when we had visited Cuba in 1989 and while strolling awhile after a long latin luncheon, Gabriel and I had made a connection. The dinner guests were eager to hear what that was and I quietly said that after we had spent some time together Gabriel had asked me to write to him.

“And did you?” was the breathless question. “Oh No. I was afraid of being collected.” and I could tell they were disappointed at the possibilities I had rejected.

Back at home as I pack up the gifts, I think again about Gabriel Marquez and all his books that I had not got around to reading. During one of those ’It’s 2 am and I’m still awake’ moments I find ‘One Hundred Years of Solitude’ on our study bookshelf and put it by my bedside. But it is at the local library that I find the one book I have read. ‘Love in the Time of Cholera’ published in 1985. An old friend and lover – of literature – and I had read it at the same time. Our friend died earlier this month and sitting under ancient olive trees overlooking hills and lakes of this corner of Italy this seems the right book, the right time to turn those pages and say farewell to over 60 years of friendship.

And always supported by Beatrice @ murchstudio.com

Somber June

June 18, 2024 / aggiemurch

Written and Produced for you by Muriel Murch with WSM by my side.

Grey skies and the London skyline over Primrose Hill by Beatrice Murch

The grey sky is pouting – there is no sun – just a half-hearted threat of rain. The London season is muted; the Chelsea Flower Show and Royal Ascot Race week do not shine as brightly in splashing colour across the weekly magazines. Even Queen Mary’s Rose garden in Regent’s Park – that in June is usually overwhelming with the attar of roses and a wild palette of colour – is subdued, while beds of favourite roses have been grubbed up and new adolescent bushes planted in their stead. On our little terrace the roses and geraniums that should be bursting with cheerful reds and yellows remain shy and closed, while the potted tomato plants stand nakedly to attention, seemingly condemned to a fruitless life. It is sobering.

Rainy London from the top of a double decker red London bus by Beatrice Murch

At the bus stop on Thursday morning I join a small crowd waiting to catch the 31 that has gone missing from the Chalk Farm stop, “Not stopping here mate, you have to go back into Camden”. But I walked forward to Swiss Cottage – on past the road works overlooking the railway line that have been in progress for at least a year’s duration – and settled in to wait – looking as one does – for the big bright red bus to come around the corner. But it was hearing a sound I had not heard for years that had me turn my head. Sharp, fast hoofbeats and the King’s Household Cavalry came trotting smartly down the road from Primrose Hill on their way through North London to Hampstead. The traffic was stopped in all directions as the horses took over the streets – trotting in tandem, one rider with two horses. Keeping the Household Cavalry horses fit and quiet is only a part of the weeks of preparation that comes before next Saturday’s Trooping of the Colours which marks the Sovereign’s official birthday as it has for over 260 years. In April there was an ‘incident’ in London when a construction site’s sudden dumping of rubble down a roadside shaft spooked the horses and several bolted and soldiers were unceremoniously dumped on the road. It must have been quite a ruckus, as five horses were injured along with three soldiers. Camera phones were clicking as the horses took off – galloping along the streets with blood streaming down their bodies. The incident was admirably ‘contained’ and progress information – first the horses and then the soldiers – was metered out in the best British understated tradition.

Prince William in procession photo by Getty

And so, on this upcoming Saturday the King will take the colours – not on horseback as he did last year – his first year as Monarch – but in a carriage befitting his health and doctor’s advice. And Princess Kate, the Duchess of Cornwall and the Colonel in Chief of the Irish Guards, whose honour it is this year to lead the trooping, was missing from this past week’s dress rehearsal. In a heartfelt letter to the regiment, she apologised and wished them all well and luck. As the nation does her. The silence around the princess’s illness is more sobering than the intermittent news of her father-in-law’s health, and underlines the rest of the news the country has to hear.

Not least is the snap election on July 4th called by Rishi Sunak. Standing at his podium outside of #10 Downing Street in a downpour of rain and unsuitable suit, the question of whether to raise an umbrella or not must have been a snap one, and as Sunak turned to retreat back inside – water dripping from his coat tail, he did truly look like a drowning rat, and one could not but help feeling just a little bit sorry for him. This week he was followed by the French President Emmanuel Macron dissolving the French parliament and calling for a snap election to be held within the next 30 days. The French president said the decision was a “serious and heavy” one, but that he could not resign himself to the fact that “far-right parties … are progressing everywhere on the continent”. He described it as “an act of confidence”, saying he had faith in France’s voters and “in the capacity of the French people to make the best choice for themselves and for future generations”. This is confusing to both the French people and the governing European bodies based in Brussels. How will it play out? Is it truly a bid for gathering up and solidifying a democracy that is crumbling over much of Europe and the world.

Presidents Zelensky & Macron in France June 2024 – photo courtesy of Macron Instagram

But before Macron called for his snap election – along with the leaders of the allied nations – among the Canadian, British and US, he attended the D-Day commemorations on Omaha Beach. This 80th remembrance brought together for maybe the last time, the mostly 100-year-old Veterans from all the Allied countries. A heavy dose of British royalties were also present to pay homage and show gratitude. This was also a time when the Ukrainian President Zelensky could say thank you while meeting and greeting and hopefully gathering more support for his country’s war. The Soviet Union lost more than 25 million lives in World War II and – though there have been Russian officials attending those ceremonies in the past – there were no invitations sent – or representatives present – in France this year. These wartime commemorations always bring a special pause in all countries – there are a lot of them and they do go on a bit, as they need to, because there is much that can happen there, in front of a camera or behind a closed door. President Zelensky has a lot of hustle to get through gathering the spoken, moral and physical support that he needs for Ukraine. Like chess pieces moved by an unseen magnet under the board, the world leaders who are present pick and choose which meetings and photo calls to attend. They circle each other, and the wars that they are fighting or funding. It is ironic that this commemoration, ending this war, is taking place as another war is embedded in the land that was to hold and heal the displaced people from 80 years ago. Each day – while Ukraine fights on – there is more news from the Middle East. After the carnage that killed 270 Palestinians to release four Israeli hostages, there is another US backed peace offering on the table endorsed by the UN security council – between Hamas and Israel. But there is little word of the others – refugees – otherwise known as Palestinians.

This has been A letter from A. Broad. written and read for you by Muriel Murch with support by WSM and as always overseen by – beatrice @ murchstudio.com

Seeing Red

May 27, 2024 / aggiemurch

Written and produced by Muriel Murch

The sun is shining as we find our way into the Queen Elizabeth Center on the South Bank of the River. The Uber drops us off and the driver waves vaguely in ‘that direction over there.’ Four men in yellow vests are lounging on a break and smile at our questioning faces. They point to a door set back in the wall and in we go.

WSM about to be a Doctor of Philosophy of Film with a Governor and teacher of Ravenesbourne University.

Greeted with smiles of relief by the student staff that we got there in time, Walter is ushered away to be gowned. Beatrice and I head for the coffee while David eyes the pastries. One by one the professors emerge with gowns over their suits and mortarboards and velvet caps held sheepishly in hand to mill about and also eye the pastries. Each gown is different, signifying their graduating university. Walter and Robin Baker, OBE, RCA, FRSA will be wearing the turquoise of Ravensbourne and, because they are both to be made honorary Doctors, a soft velvet cap, with the appropriate colored tassel. The lovely student hostess takes Bea, David and I over to our reserved seating to wait. David takes out his drawing pencil and paper. The students come in clustered like bees – grouped in their disciplines – smiling and nervous while their families sit behind them, also smiling, proud and nervous.

Ravensbourne is a small university that has made its way to London from the Ravensbourne river in Kent. Robin Baker is the man most responsible and it is his vision of the challenges – combining art and business that these young graduates face today. Finally we are asked to stand as the professors file in to take their places on the stage and turn to face those young eager faces solemnly looking back at them from the audience. There had been a moment of panic before entering the hall, Walter’s tassel was red – for journalism – instead of blue – for Education, Public works and Art – but it didn’t seem to stop this new Doctor of Philosophy in Film from accepting his diploma and saying a few words. And then David could leave. As we watched the students enter the stage, accept their diplomas and return to their seat – each in their own personal manner – we could see that 99% of these students are from Africa, India, and the Asian Continent all studying here in London, very much made possible by the quiet Robin Baker who had long ago understood that what the English have taken away we need to return.

King Charles III painted by Johnathan Yeo

This week ever mindful of the English summer season beginning, the Kings first official Portrait was unveiled at Buckingham Palace by the King himself. Did he know it was so RED? Painted by Jonathan Yeo it is, in fact, rather nice – if Red. Posters for sale on EBay are doing a brisk trade in print sales, for the picture is of a kindly king, handsome in an elder way. His face is sweet and only his hands show the physical work of weekends spend hedge-laying and hiking his beloved moors in all weathers.

Meanwhile Europe is getting antsy. There are growing protests in Georgia. We must look at an atlas, Georgia, now where is that? Well it shares a boarder with Russia and from some Georgian towns it is possible to see smoke and gun-fire coming from the Russian army training grounds not a hundred miles away. If your border nestle beside Russia then you will either – like Belarus and President Lukashenko – welcome your mother or, like Ukraine, and its President Zelenskyy fight to protect your country as the Russian army invades with battles fought back and forth along the roadside coast-line or now like little Georgia get very nervous about laws being passed and seawalls to be protected. These are not little squabbles. While the Slovakian Prime Minister Robert Fido’s life is no longer in danger, feelings are high and divided between the peoples of Europe about the war in Ukraine and if their governments should support Ukraine or Russia. It has been over 20 years since a European politician was shot. This suspect was 71 – an age where one doesn’t have too much more to lose – a retired security guard and a poet.

Last Sunday there was an accident. Iran’s President Ebrahim Raisi along with the Foreign Minister and six others were killed in a helicopter crash. There were no survivors. President Raisi was a hardline cleric close to Iran’s Supreme Leader, Ayatollah Khamenei. BBC Weather presenter Simon King – who used to brief RAF air crews ahead of missions in the Middle East says: “ … it seems it was clearly a disturbed weather day, forecasts suggest the cloud levels would be at a level that would have been covering the mountains, there would have been hill fog, so there would have been a lot of hazards to address.” Foggy weather can be a help or a hindrance – depending on your circumstances.

The old TV series, ‘Yes Minister” carries a longstanding political joke. One minister says, “There will be an inquiry”. The Prime Minister replies “Oh good. Then nothing will happen.” So it has always been. But finally one inquiry has come to a halt. Since the 1970’s when contaminated blood and blood products were given to patients through until the 1990’s, the Infected Blood Scandal has been pushed aside, shoved from one ministerial desk to another but not given up on. Finally, after Teresa May’s 2018 appointment of Brian Langstaff his report has landed in Parliament and is damming. Langstaff was not the protecting Safe Pair of Hands that May’s government had hoped. Hearing the testaments of patients and their families, seeing the look on the faces of politicians and whoever else he spoke with as they lied to him made for a 2000 page plus report that defamed them all.

Through seven Prime Ministers and countless National Health executives and doctors, the truth was hidden. 30,000 people had been infected with HIV, Hepatitis C and B by tainted blood supples – bought from America – and at least 3,000 have died. On Monday morning the report came out and was handed to the victims and their families before going off to Parliament, giving Rishi Sunak the opportunity for his finest speech to date calling this: ‘A Day of Shame for the British State.’ He can think himself lucky that he is the apparent deliverer of ‘the truth’. He promised that this government will pay whatever it takes to the victims of this cover-up scandal. In such situations there are steps to be taken. Among the scandals of the last fifty years, the Contaminated Blood scandal sits at the head of the list, while the Grenfell Towers and Post Office scandals remain to be completed.

“This must never happen again,” says our prime minister – as have others before him. Even as he says those words, in his deepest sincerity voice, another scandal has emerged. Smaller this time – possibly it can be swept into another sewage holding river, as the South Devon Water Board ‘Invited customers to boil their water’. Luckily – in this instance – there have been no deaths, but severe ‘tummy problems’ caused by an itty, bitty parasite getting into the water supply. “There is no remedy for this,” says a very tidy looking Water Board spokeswoman. “The Tummy problems will go away after a couple of weeks.” But don’t worry, ‘there is going to be an inquiry and this must never be allowed to happen again.’

This has been A Letter from A. Broad. Written and read for you by Muriel Murch.

And always overseen by Beatrice @ murchstudio.com

Eleanor Coppola

May 19, 2024 / aggiemurch / 4 Comments

Eleanor readies the deck for Machiavelli, that she taught us all for those times of waiting. Photo by Janet Robbins or MAM – card players both.

In 2008 Eleanor Coppola published her book ‘Notes on a Life’. It did well, though was received with mixed reviews; some people were curious about the life of a Coppola, others about art and relationships, while others understood that a woman’s world is that – a woman’s world – and the challenges that women face, in all walks of life, have many overlapping similarities. As an artist as well as a wife and mother, Eleanor knew first-hand of the trials, the fears and the courage it takes to share your work and your voice with others.

At that time I was still producing ‘Living with Literature’, radio programs of conversations with writers, teachers and thinkers for radio broadcast on KWMR.org. Eleanor the artist, Ellie the friend, and I sat down for a conversation about her book, her life and her quiet observations, that become notes to be shared.

Eleanor Coppola left us in April of 2024 but listening back to this conversation from 2008 it is wonderful hear the energy in her voice, the understanding in her mind and the compassion in her heart – for they remain with us.

Muriel – Aggie – Murch

And always overseen by – beatrice @ murchstudio.com

Solitude op 127 #2 is from Piano Music of Cécile Chaminade played by Peter Jacobs.

The Sky is Crying

May 12, 2024 / aggiemurch

Written and Produced for you by Muriel Murch with WSM by my side.

“Look Granny, The sky is crying,” David says as he peeks out from underneath our umbrella. And we laugh because the rain is soft and light and warm and we know that it is just a little late May-time cry from the sky. And of course it is raining because the cottage windows have just been washed.

The park Elderflowers are bowed down with the rain

First I see his ladder, it wobbles as he perches it up against the study windowsill before ringing the door bell.

“ello Aggie – I saw you was back.”

“Perfect Chris – I have been thinking about you wondering when we would catch up. How have you been?”

“All right – middling you know.” And together we laugh as old friends do. Chris drives up from Sussex and parks his van somewhere in Camden. His tools are simpler now, an old wooden six-foot ladder that is wrapped in cloth and duct tape to protect the windows, a black plastic bucket, spray bottle of dish soap, window wiper, and cloth. He has a route of regulars through Camden, up Parkway and Regent’s Park Road before curling down through Primrose Hill until he has had enough for the day and can circle back to Camden, load up his van and drive home before the commute traffic gets too full.

“You’re limping more,” I say to Chris, Such is our familiarity over close to 20 years that I can say such things.

“it’s uh cyst on my muscle,” he replies. “Never heard of such a thing.” And he limps up and down the stairs. Chris is a London lad who, with his move to Sussex, has dipped his toes into semi-country living. He is old school and while he will go to the doctor he will not voluntarily step foot in a hospital. With Dickinsonian knowledge he knows well that you can die in there. As Chris does less for us – I pay him more. No longer able to hoist a big expandable ladder, nor not steady enough to carry our flimsy one upstairs, he no longer clears out the junk and leaves from our gutters. There was a time when he could reach the outside of the upstairs kitchen window and then help me replant out that lonely flower box. But no more. He can’t get up on the ladder and I can’t get onto the kitchen window ledge. About an hour in it is time to ask.

“ Would you like a cup of tea now Chris?”

“Oh, wouldn’t mind at all.” And so I make the tea. Chris is close to finishing up but the tea must come as tea break – not the end of the job. With milk, no sugar, and two biscuits. Chris needs the break and I sit down beside him. It is time to talk over matters most serious. But before we start Walter comes up to say hello and goodbye. Chris doesn’t quite stand up but returns Walter greeting.

“Morning Sir, you are keeping her well then I see.” While my husband chuckles his response I feel like an elderly dairy cow – still producing. But this again is our familiarity. Now it is time to get comfortable with our conversation.

Chris tells me of his sister in France – doing well with her family. And then it is on to politics.

John Swinney is sworn in as First Minister of Scotland – Photo from Hollyrood

The Scottish National Party is doing the Highland Reel with their changing of the presidential guard – for a moment longer – the leading Scottish governmental party with the First Mister of Scotland, and have just chucked out their leader Humza Yousaf as First Minister. He seemed to go quietly – almost too quietly – some saying he fell on his own sword with his dismissal of a collaboration with the Green Party and then begging them back to no avail. Sir John Swinney steps up to the helm, saying he will continue Yousaf’s independence strategy. A brown man steps down for a white one – who – admittedly is apparently untarnished – unlike Nicola’s Sturgeon’s husband Peter Murrell or her mentor Alex Salmond, neither one as yet in jail for any financial slipping and sliding and who both look like 19th century Moreland farmers still eating beef in quantities over and above the necessary calories for sitting around in government houses. Stepping up to the microphone as the new first minister, Sir John Swinney is trimmer. At first this looks like a right old stitch up, but maybe he is a guiding tugboat bringing this limping ship of the Scottish National party into safe waters. It remains to be seen.

Prime Minister Boris Johnson with his dog Dilyn after voting at a polling station in London in 2022. (Photo: AP/Matt Dunham)

Meanwhile Chris and I continue, curling our lips in mock horror at the buffoonery of Boris Johnson showing up to vote in the English by-elections without any ID – a law brought in by his government under his watch – and his – “you’ve seen me with my terrier dog on a lead” – just does’t cut it. We shake our heads in mutual disdain. Now the tea is finished, and it is time for Chris to carry on along his rounds and we say goodbye until he comes knocking on our door again in a few month’s time. I will see him through the summer, with his little ladder propped up against the window of a rock and roll bar on Parkway.

As the by-election results come in we watch the Tory party begin to implode. Rishi Sunak holds a tight grin as he speaks and congratulates the few Tories who have held onto their seats. A photo-op occurs in an Indian Restaurant where he is filmed chopping carrots with such inefficiency that the by-standing chefs are biting their lips and holding a tight smile as if watching a child with a knife for the first time. The Labour Party Leader, Sir Keir Starmer tries to look hard-working and casual as he goes about the country congratulating those who have worked hard on winning their labour seats. Poor man – someone should tell him that a white tee shirt under a jumper doesn’t suit every male figure. And all this hopping about the country for these by-elections puts the real business of government aside. The Conservatives are in the process of taking a whipping at the polls and government ministers are shuffling from one foot to another, not yet quite sure where to land and where to speak.

But Foreign Secretary Sir David Cameron has stayed busy, and along with the French President Emmanuel Macron, committed money and arms to Ukraine while still trying to broker any kind of peace in the Middle East. Russia’s President Putin has plenty to say about that.

The student protests with Pro-Palestinian sympathies about the bombing of Gaza are growing around the world, each country’s universities going about their demonstrations in their own cultural way. On the campuses here in England, because so far there are no overt clashes between the students, the administration and police, they are not covered by the evening news. While the young students and some professors already know the cost of speaking out, they are prepared to do so. When asked by the Guardian columnist Nesrine Malik about the cost – of their education, their reputation – a student replied, “The students in Gaza don’t have schools to protest in; they don’t have medical care to be taken away from them. This is nothing compared to what they’re experiencing.” Could it be that this time it is the young of the world who can silence the guns of war.

This has been A Letter from A. Broad. Written and produced for you by Muriel Murch

And always overseen by – beatrice @ murchstudio.com