Labour: pulling levers and finding that the cables were cut long ago…

I’m not one of those people who wish the Labour government ill. I want the country to be better, and whilst I tend to the view that liberal solutions are, by and large, more effective, why would anybody want their country to be poorer, weaker, meaner?

But, as a civil servant, I also know that it takes time to initiate lasting change. System failures tend to require investment over extended periods, especially when the missing resources are human ones. You can’t just magic up doctors, or police officers or, as the Government are discovering, lawyers. And, as a result, the pledge to “fast-track rape cases through specialist courts at every crown court location in England and Wales” has been walked back.

This presents a wider problem for politicians, as promises to turn round failing public services run into the barrier of poor public sector morale, uncompetitive salary scales and under resourcing of key areas of work. You can’t solve these without a long-term strategy of raising pay scales, proper employment levels and investment in service provision. And that means upfront costs without immediate benefits, leaving any “progressive” administration at the mercy of public opinion whipped up by a hostile media.

It doesn’t help that the public are less patient, less trusting and more likely to have their own world view reinforced by media algorithms. The incessant chatter of supposedly intelligent journalists and commentators doesn’t help either, as they take ever more shallow stances in order to gain attention. You never, or at least, hardly ever, see anyone admit that they were wrong, even when they turn out to be horribly so.

Now, perhaps you could be more optimistic if our body politic consisted of political forces campaigning on philosophical lines, based on propagation of facts and ideas. But it doesn’t.

So, any government genuinely intending to improve public services needs to be honest about how long it will take to generate positive change, and how much that’s going to cost in the short to medium term. And yes, you can talk about the long-term benefits, because high quality public services can, and should, save money in the long term, whether that be in reducing reoffending levels, or care costs for the elderly, or getting people back into the productive economy.

Labour have five years to start that process, and in that time, improvements should start to become visible. But given the damage done over decades, it’s going to take more than just one term to create the public services we deserve at a cost that is sustainable.

Worcester: not going there from exactly here…

Catching trains is usually a fairly straightforward affair, especially in suburban stations. There are two platforms, one ‘down’, one ‘up’, usually corresponding to the usual rules of the road. And, when you have platform indicators telling you when trains are coming and which track they’ll be one, it should be pretty foolproof, you’d think, right?

But I’m getting ahead of myself a bit.

Pre-COVID, when we were last in the Metro West suburbs of Boston, there was a really good local pizza place called “Volturno” which, amongst its various delights, included an octopus starter which Ros and I both rather enjoyed. Unfortunately, the Framingham branch bit the dust, presumably down to the pandemic.

The good news, however, was that the original restaurant in Worcester had survived, and as we were both at a loose end today, we thought that we’d take the train from West Natick and have a nice lunch. The train fare for the scheduled forty-five minute journey was a very reasonable $4.50 each way (no discount for return journeys, I note) and, whilst the trains themselves are definitely showing their age, they’re warm and comfortable enough.

The Massachusetts Bay Transportation Authority (MBTA) is a bit eccentric. Outside of the rush hours, they insist that you board the train at a specified spot on the platform which, at West Natick, is a small raised section at the most westerly end of the platform. And, to make matters more entertaining, during large chunks of the day, ‘down’ trains serve the ‘up’ platform.

On arrival at the station, I noted the platform indicator stating that our train would leave from track 1, the ‘up’ or ‘wrong’ platform, and that we should board from the designated spot. So, you can imagine my surprise when, spot on time, the train arrived… on the other platform.

No problem, right? Simply cross from one platform to the other, board train. But no, there is no footbridge at West Natick, and the sole crossing point is at track level, at the other end of the platform. I am not as quick across the ground as I once was, but I wasn’t simply going to give up, given that the next train was two hours away. And we made it with the aid of a bit of frantic waving and a kindly train conductor who, seeing us heading towards her, held the train until we could board.

Drama, and a bit of cardio exercise, over, we could enjoy the train ride to Worcester, dotted as it is with forests and lakes. And, due to the quirky scheduling which allows twenty-seven minutes for the twelve-minute journey from the penultimate stop at Grafton, we were a full quarter of an hour early arriving at our destination.

Union Station is a rather magnificent gateway to the city, having obviously been built for a time when many more trains served it. Now, apart from the rather workaday commuter trains, it has one long distance Amtrak service, the Boston section of the Lake Shore Limited, per day, and the gorgeous passenger hall is almost entirely wasted on the people scurrying through it.

Worcester itself is in the process of reinventing itself, and I remember going there twenty years ago when the outlet mall built in the downtown area had spectacularly failed, creating an enormous void in the heart of the city. Things have rather improved although, like a lot of American cities, it feels a bit stark and empty of life. Ros reminds me that the development of American cities was, and remains, very different to that of European ones, and I do occasionally need to remind myself of that.

We walked about a bit, admiring City Hall and Worcester Common in front of it, before heading to lunch. Disaster! Volturno was closed for repairs - it might have been nice had they mentioned that prominently on their website, but luckily enough the neighbouring brew house was open and serving some good food and equally good beer. I’d spotted products of the Wormtown Brewery in the past and was now able to put two and two together - Wormtown is a nickname for Worcester.

Replete, it was time to head back to Union Station for the train back to West Natick. As we arrived, it dawned on me - we were on the wrong platform again. And again, passengers were dashing to catch the train. We got off the train, shrugged our shoulders at the eccentricity of the MBTA, and went home…

2025 is here, and so?

I’ve never really been one to mark the New Year. We’re often away, but that’s as much for reasons other than the celebration of the turning of the page from year to year.

But 2024 did see a few changes, mostly psychological, I’d suggest. I turned sixty which, whilst the day itself didn’t really resonate, has led to a mild sense of, well, it’s hard to explain really. I do feel that I’m slightly slower, slightly “older” and thus mildly more cautious. And, of course, this is absurd. Physically, nothing has changed, in that my weight is pretty constant, my underlying health (apart from slightly elevated cholestrol) apparently good if my recent health check is to be believed.

Best of all, I have Ros. Yes, I admit that that sounds a little “soppy” but as the years pass by, I value her in ways that I might not have expected. Even her simple presence enhances my day.

And, with the new home, life is much simpler. Having pretty much everything we need within a short walk (including my office) just allows a degree of spontaneity that didn’t exist when we were in the Creetings and I have a Senior Railcard for when Ipswich comes up short.

So, a new year offers an opportunity (or, if you like, justification) to ring the changes a bit, and that’s my plan for the year ahead. Nothing big, or wildly ambitious, but simply making slightly different choices and engaging a bit more.

Wish me luck along the way…

Regional Candidates Committee - let the verwaltung* commence (but not until the New Year)

And so, I was elected to the Regional Candidates Committee for the East of England Liberal Democrats - fairly comfortably as it turned out. And that wasn't a given. I've been far from active in Regional Party politics since my two year stint as Regional Secretary more than a decade ago, and many of our current members weren't around then. So, in that sense, apart from my friends and colleagues that I've kept up with, I don't have an obvious support base in such elections and rather relied on a manifesto rich in experience and high on relevance to get me through.

But here we are, and I have a job of work to do - although what I end up doing is to a great extent dependent on what the re-elected Regional Candidates Chair, Lori Flawn, needs or wants. At least I know what might be done, and when, which should at least be useful. And, I don't want her job, so I won't be getting in her way (not deliberately, anyway).

The new Committee, currently consisting of Lori, myself, Jacqui Morley (the Regional Vice Chair), Will Tennison and David Roberts, takes up its duties on 1 January, which gives me time to do some light reading first - it's always nice to know exactly what the parameters are and who I might want to talk to at various points. And, at some point, I ought to get to know my new colleagues a little better - to be honest, only Lori is that familiar to me.

So, where is that Regional Constitution…

I’ve been clothes shopping…

I am not, to anyone’s mind, ever going to become a fashion icon. Let’s rephrase that, given that I’ve spent most of my life noting that you should never say never, it seems highly unlikely that I am ever going to become a fashion icon. I kind of begrudge spending anything significant on clothes, I have almost no ability to colour co-ordinate, and I take care of myself in a relatively haphazard way. I don’t much like ironing either, although I acknowledge it’s necessity. For, if I’m honest, walruses and high fashion tend to be strangers.

It’s not that I can’t afford to dress well, it is perhaps that I prefer to spend the money on travel and, from time to time, good food.

There was a gloriously short period when I escaped my usual colour palette of blues and greys, but I was stick thin to the point where the staff I managed started trying to feed me, I had a 29 inch waist and my collarbones stuck out. At that point, I could look like Che Guevara meets Regency - I had the hair, the beard, the burgundy and lilac waistcoat and the gold pocket watch. Everything else was chaos, and my stress levels were through the roof, but I did look good. It didn’t last.

These days, I dress predominantly for comfort. Given that there isn’t much cause for me to dress formally, my vast array of shirts goes unworn, the two boxes of ties that I have somehow accumulated (how, I have no idea) are seldom given an airing, and the suits that I do have may fit - I have no idea and probably don’t want to. I really ought to have a sort out but I’m not one to get rid of things that are still in perfectly good condition.

Ros is of a slightly different view. She does see the value in paying a bit more and buying things that look good. Neither of us go mad though, we’re both a bit Presbyterian about such things, but there are some things where spending that extra amount is justified - I believe the phrase is “anchor outfits”, the items that you can mix and match around. For me, that’s jackets. I still miss the forest green corduroy jacket that I bought in the Brussels outlet of Celio, a French menswear chain that had some interesting stuff. I wore it to death and mourned its passing.

Which brings me to today. We’ve been keen to support the independent retail outlets near us, as they offer something a bit different to the retail chains, and may well represent the future of Ipswich as a shopping destination. And we’d seen a corduroy jacket in the window of a shop on St Peter’s Street which looked rather like something I’d wear.

So, as Christmas is approaching, I felt that a treat was called for, so we popped in to have a closer look. And, sure enough, there was one that fitted and actually looked good on me. Yes, the price tag was a bit more than I’d normally pay, but having something nice is no bad thing, so I got my card out and committed retail therapy.

Perhaps there is something to be said for being nice to oneself from time to time…

I'm not dying, at least, not yet...

One of the things about getting older is that the NHS tends to take more interest in you. Now, given that I believe that preventative medicine is a thoroughly good thing, I can hardly object to that. And so, when I received an invitation from my surgery to come in for a free NHS Health Check, naturally I thought that taking this up might be a good idea. After all, what's the worst that could happen, right?

Hmmm... well, actually, quite a lot, I guess. I am, after all, the far side of sixty. And whilst the Senior Railcard is a welcome boost to my finances, I am at the stage where things start to go wrong, or simply fail. But you can't dwell on these things and, in any case, isn't it better to know what might be wrong and, if there is anything, what you might do to mitigate it?

The first stage was a blood test, which was relatively pain free. I'm not a huge fan of needles, which does make me wonder why I watch the needle going in, but that was alright. All I then had to do was wait a week and return for the inevitable lecture about being less of a walrus.

As it turned out though, the whole walrus thing went unremarked upon. My blood pressure is fine, blood sugars fine, cholesterol a bit on the high side but nothing remarkable and, in short, if I lost some weight, I'd be in pretty good health for a man of my age. That is, as you might imagine, modestly reassuring. I might start paying more attention as I cross roads going forward, but otherwise, I have nothing obvious to worry about.

There is, however, a sense that I can't simply maintain the habits that I always have. I eat reasonably well, thanks to Ros, and I really don't drink that much any more, so much so that I'm beginning to run up a significant balance with the wine club I'm a member of. Holidays are an issue in that they tend to be the primary cause of weight gain, and I'm not terribly disciplined when it comes to diets.

On the other hand, the 10,000 steps each day are a positive, and I tend not to experience much in the way of stress, despite the things I do both professionally and for "leisure" - is being a Liberal Democrat leisure? Life is, in most ways, good.

Ah well, onwards and upwards (in a chronological sense, at least)...

For Gawd's sake, get me to the Parish Council on time...

I am, allegedly, a responsible adult. At least, I am the Chair of a Parish Council which should, theoretically, make me a responsible adult - I leave that to others to judge. But, in planning our trip to Tirana, I had suffered something of a diary malfunction which meant that, whilst I was starting my day with an excellent breakfast in our Tirana hotel, I was supposed to be finishing it at a Council meeting in Creeting St Peter. And, given that we're a councillor short, we don't have a lot of wriggle room in terms of absences.

There is only one British Airways flight per day to Tirana, and the Monday flight leaves Mother Teresa International at 13.35, with a scheduled arrival time at Heathrow's Terminal 5 at 16.05. That notionally gave me three hours and twenty-five minutes to exit the aircraft, clear immigration, collect our luggage, catch two trains to Stowmarket and have a taxi drop me outside the Church Room. Easy, right? No reason to be slightly on edge, eh?

The weather was still nice, and we were packed and ready to go, so we took the opportunity to take a last stroll around the city centre before heading for the airport where we encountered a rather jolly, helpful chap who turned out to be the local British Airways manager. I did wonder for a moment if he was real, as that's not always what you expect from their ground staff...

The lounge is nice enough, with homemade cake and an interesting selection of Albanian food and wine, but we did need to spend the last of our Albanian Lek - a bottle of Albanian rose did the job - before we headed to the gate a little earlier than we had been told to, only to find that the flight was already boarding. It was all so efficient, indeed, that we were ready to go ten minutes early. I might yet make my meeting...

There is, if you're flying into Heathrow, every likelihood that you'll end up in a holding pattern over East London for ages, but after an uneventful flight, we were on the ground early and, whilst immigration was busy, we made good time through the e-gates. My hopes of catching the 16.50 Elizabeth Line train to Liverpool Street were rising.

And yet, and yet, where was the luggage? We reached the carousel only to find a distinct lack of activity. We waited... and waited, as time ticked on. I was just beginning to give up hope when, at 16.41, there was a flurry of bags and, grabbing mine, we made haste to the Elizabeth Line station where the train was still waiting for us.

The connection at Liverpool Street for the 18.00 Norwich train was a relatively easy one, and I had a taxi waiting for me at Stowmarket when I arrived there at 19.20, which whisked me to the Church Room in the nick of time. 

But a responsibility is a responsibility, right?...