In Homage to Old Ladies

Since the events below happened I have vowed to immortalise the Old Lady in a blog post, so have finally got around to doing it. There is arguably little point in doing so, as I'm assuming (and I realise I'm stereotyping rather here) that most Old Ladies don't tend to peruse naval-gazing blogs that are mainly about football, and, even less so, pause over blogs named after Indie albums of the mid-90s. But, nevertheless, I regret that I didn't think to ask the name of the Old Lady in this post, and so I'd like in some small way to say a belated thank you to her for caring about me, and for making me stop to realise this: people are nice.

A couple of weekends ago I had been at a wedding in Rye. I'd been careful not to drink too much (though I admit the concept of "too much" is both relative and moveable), aware that I had to get up at a pretty ungodly hour after going to bed post-disco (and oh, what a disco - but that's a story for another time) to travel the tortuous route across the country for a weekend of intensive postgraduate study: Rye to Ashford, Ashford to London, London to Nottingham. Slightly distorted vision which I put down to switching from contact lenses to glasses with slightly different prescriptions got progressively worse as strange shapes hovered frustratingly on the edge of my field of vision; lights flashed; pain hit the left side of my head and chasing a deadline on a moving train was a less than pleasant experience. The full effects of post-wedding fatigue and too much champagne coupled with migraine ickiness finally hit soon after I got onto the train to Nottingham.

I have a love-hate relationship with on-board toilets: love because they make for amusing dinner conversation: soon after the introduction of electric doors I mistakenly thought I'd locked it when I hadn't, and the ominous, slightly Star Wars-esque noise of the door opening again, quickly revealing a deeply embarrased young businessman in a suit desperately pressing the "close door" button to no avail as I sat somewhat helplessly doing the same was, looking back, quite funny; hate because, well, they're actually quite horrible. The second the train pulled away I locked myself in the cubicle with the intention of staying there for the foreseeable future. Foolishly, I had assumed others would be courteous enough to leave me alone.

15 minutes or so into the journey there was a loud, businesslike knock on the door, and a purposeful voice said (rather superflously, give the door would've said "engaged") "I know you're in there". This didn't seem to warrant a response, so I didn't give one. He continued "I saw you go in there more than 15 minutes ago. Would you like to come out and show me your ticket?" I'd like to say I engaged him in intelligent conversation, but actually I think I made some weak, rambly noise along the lines of "hang on a minute", because he carried on, in a voice that seemed to suggest all his suspisions were confirmed but he was playing along with me, "What are you doing in there?"

I opened the door proffering my ticket, but found my question was already being answered by a small, elderly lady straight out of an Alan Bennett novel who was standing behind the ticket inspector, tapping him firmly on the shoulder as she began to reprimand him: "I don't think this young lady's very well, you know. I think you owe this her an apology, don't you?" None was forthcoming as he gracelessly stamped my ticket, declaring resolutely that when people "hide" in the loo they are "generally just common fare-dodgers", and I swayed in the doorway murmuring that I was sorry, so she continued "I told you she just wasn't very well, " and then, a little creepily, "I've been listening". I retreated back into my cell leaving the Old Lady witht he apparent toilet fetish to continue to argue the toss with the ticket inspector, who was saying you couldn't be too careful, to which the Old Lady retorted "A simple "Are you alright?" wouldn't have gone amiss."

Eventually, this bizarre scenario thankfully over, I went and found the seat I'd paid for and sat and dozed, until, about 20 minutes past Luton, I felt a tap on my shoulder. The Old Lady was standing next to me, insistently pushing a paper cup that smelled nauseatingly of its hot plastic lid close to my nose. "Peppermint tea," she announced, almost triumphantly. "I got it from the drinks trolley for you. It's very good when you've got a poorly tummy."

I worry now that I wasn't grateful enough, though I gushed the standard "Oh, that's so kind" and offered money which she refused to accept, but I was a little overwhelmed. This Old Lady came across all at once as the sort of elderly Last Of the Summer Wine battleaxe you wouldn't want to mess with (I never saw the ticket inspector again and wonder if he made it out of there alive), and, at the same time, as a tender and lovely grandmother. I am truly touched that someone would go out of their way to help this young (I look younger than I am), bedraggled stranger in a Bradford City hoodie, and I am highly amused that she fought my corner with the over-zealous train guard. I didn't think to ask for her name, and she shuffled off to the next carriage then got out at Leicester, otherwise I may have tried to say thank you later. The contrast between the two characters in this not-especially-exciting little interlude doesn't do much for the reputation of Midland Trains, but it says a lot for the kindness of strangers. To the ticket inspector: I hope you failed to mind the gap when you stepped off the train; to the little Old Lady: my heartfelt thanks - I salute you.

The Lady's Not Returning

For a brief moment last week statuses about Margaret Thatcher probably outnumbered kittens on my Facebook newsfeed. This Thatcher-Kitten ratio indicated just how deeply people felt about her, with those feelings ranging from to love to loathing, and from something bordering on hero worship to unadulterated joy at her demise. I was in with a client when news of her death broke, and glanced at my phone to see a text simply stating "Ding, Dong, The Witch is Dead", and I knew immeditately to whom it was referring. The somewhat tasteless website, www.isthatcherdeadyet.co.uk (which proudly declares "hated by the Daily Mail" as an endorsement, confirmed simply YES in huge letters across the screen (with "the lady's not returning" in smaller ones underneath, because, after all, who can resist a pun?) Arthur Scargill, presumably comfortably ensconced in his free apartment in the Barbican - one of Britain's most exclusive addresses - tweeted a jubilant "Thatcher dead; Scargill alive". Across the country champagne corks popped and in Northern towns people partied long into the night.

That a single individual could envoke such passionate hatred is extraordinary. While the television stations broadcast round-the-clock tributes and newspapers eagerly printed full colour supplements that had presumably been ready for publication for years, social networks buzzed and bubbled with vitriol. A version of "Ding Dong The Witch Is Dead" was released in a spirit of opportunistic entrepreneurship which the Iron Lady herself might, ironically, have admired, and quickly climbed to Number 2 in the charts. People bickered publicly and bitterly about what was and was not appropriate when it came to speaking of the dead. A few people, rather than just keeping out of it, competed for the prize of Most Sanctimonous Comment Posted on Social Media by loudly proclaiming how they were not going to celebrate anybody's death, because they were above that sort of thing, delivered in a teacherly tone of which Maggie herself would no doubt have approved. After the inevitable debates about the £10million pound cost of her funeral and all the many things it could have been spent on instead, central London temporarily became an obstacle course of metal barriers and police cordons for the day, and we said our final goodbyes via what was a state funeral in all but name.

And so, farewell, then, Baroness Thatcher. I tried to refrain from comment, but once the funeral was over I felt compelled to point out why I, though not celebrating, felt uneasy about much of her "legacy", and downright angry with a not insignificant proportion of it. As a child growing up in the 80s in the North, I would have been forgiven for thinking my dad had Tourettes, swearing every time she came on the televison. Studying for a Masters in Ethics several years ago I looked into some of her policies afresh, promising myself I would be objective: I have, after all, done well for myself; I had a good education, have a good job, have a fullfilling family life. Growing up in Thatcher's Britain certainly did ME no harm. And yet, having weighed it all up, I'm afraid I still fall firmly down on the left. I can't in all honesty see that many of the policies she gave us led to good. If anything, I blame them for some of the less commendable attitudes so many seem to have towards one another now, and a segregation of society that, whatever we might like to believe, has grown, and not decreased. In the words of a friend "We became a selfish society. I fear that's too entrenched now to ever change."

So here's what I put on Facebook. Judge for yourselves, but this is my honest, well thought-out opinion.

"I respect Margaret Thatcherand her integrity and I believe she did things for the right reasons, but at the same time I think many of her actions were detrimental to the common good, and some unforgivable. I think privatisation to the extent she took it was wrong; the sale of council houses was wrong; the vilification of the poor (read "Faith in the City") was wrong. I believe her attitude that anyone could do anything was aspirational and well meant but ultimately contributed to the creation of an underclass that is looked down upon, and has led to today's inaccurate and damaging attitude that the poor are all scroungers and that they somehow "enjoy" being poor. I think Tebbit's "get on your bike and look for work" comment was vile and provocative, not to say unworkable. I think much of what has been allowed to happen in the city and ultimately led to the current crisis resulted (partly) from a culture that she started and encouraged. I think Section 28 was a cruel and unnecessary legislation which prolonged attitudes of homophobia and stifled the acceptance of difference. I am ashamed that we were in the minority alongside countries similar to ourselves when we chose not to impose sanctions on South Africa to end Apartheid, I think the bombing of the Belgrano was a mistake (though this happened perhaps under her watch than her orders), and I sincerely hope she was not aware of the Hillsborough cover-up, though I fear that, to an extent, at least, she was. I believe she did a lot of good - especially in world politics (as long as you forget those friendly rounds of golf with General Pinochet) - but many of those who bear a grudge do so legitimately, and deserve to have a voice: to criticise and evaluate need not amount to a personal attack, and as such should not be stifled: we are, after all, a free country, and Baroness Thatcher herself would surely have defended this, at least. All that said, I'm glad her funeral was treated respectfully. May she rest in peace."