In the eyes of the beholder

A high school in County Durham has taken the unusual step of removing seats from its dining hall, apparently after a child ‘walked into a chair,’ thus prompting the pupils to claim it was done ‘as a health and safety’ measure. According to the staff it was done merely as a trial to create more space. Students wouldn’t stand for it, and so complained about vertical in-digestion, which I guess brought them one step closer to their parents who – if they are anything like me – are perpetually ‘noshing’ on the run. Naughty, often necessary, but true. I gather school benches will soon be restored.

Also it was reported over the past few weeks that Julian Fellowes, novelist, peer and writer of Downton Abbey, feels his opinions (in general) have been automatically discounted since he recently turned 70.
I think I’ll have to add that in my experience when a person reaches their late thirties or early forties they often find their opinions are considered worthless, Even worse if you’re female, and one’s radiant glow is on the wane. You may feel you have passed your zenith of youth, and your face may reflect not simply your age, but your journey of life! In my case my face has completed several marathons, and I’m less than half way to 120. So, oftentimes us ladies hit a double disadvantage, where men are frequently regarded as greying and distinguished, and we often look ‘lived in.’ By the time one reaches this age, young people are not really listening to you (especially if they’re YOUR young people) and folks may no longer acknowledge you, or hold doors open for you. But, when you hit 70 you risk becoming ‘invisible!’ Everybody is going to get old – unless like myself, you’re VERY unlucky – but they don’t often see it from where they’re sitting. They think they’ll be Forever Young.

Another fascinating piece of news this week is about the pianist Sir Andras Schiff, who I heard recently playing with the Orchestra of the Age of Enlightenment. He comments that audiences of today are rather ignorant as to what makes a ‘good’ performance. His view – slated by critics – is based on the fact that an audience which would have been around at the time the classical repertoire was written, would not just have been educated people, but they would likely have been able to play instruments – woodwind, piano, brass. They would have had family soirees, would probably have sung in harmony in church or in choirs, and therefore they would have some notion about what a good performance or a bad performance was. Today’s audience are largely musical ‘window shoppers’ (non players), blinded by wizardry, pyrotechnics or by speed, as opposed to tone, timbre, nuance. These subtleties are lost, I would agree, on 99.5% of an audience and many critics no doubt as well.
Schiff, who played Brahms 1st and 2nd piano concertos on consecutive evenings, has just made a recording of the 2nd Concerto with the AOE. Not the first time this musician has played it, of course, and by the way Schiff is 66, and there’s not a musician alive who would consider him past his sell-by date. He is vivacious, ferociously energetic and ranks amongst the best players in the world.

Now to something much more serious. Further to my comments some weeks back on coronavirus, where a member of the NHS staff told me that they were expecting to have to curtail outpatient services, more recent updates predicted that cutbacks will also significantly affect chemo and radiotherapy. The P. M. originally predicted that up to 20% of the workforce might stay at home and self isolate. This fallout of staff has already started in China and Italy. Now in terms of treatment, as cancer patients we have but three options: chemotherapy, radiotherapy and surgery, aside from a zero action philosophy (not really recommended). Chemotherapy, the first line of defence, perhaps requires the least specialist of staffing in that your drugs are administered by specialist nurses, rather than oncology doctors; radiotherapy perhaps requires some very expert radiographers to administer targeted therapy, and surgery obviously requires the expertise of a high-volume surgical centre with surgeons who have a reduced mortality rating on their CV. So, cancer patients need one of these three. One simply cannot do nothing and let cancer cells run amok – it’s inhumane.

Now for the gritty part. I’m going to say something which may be perceived as a bit controversial, and if I upset any readers, it is truly NOT my intention. I am championing for equality. You’ll see why if you read on….

They are talking about ‘prioritising’ the more curable cancers. Let me call them the ‘A’ group, and ‘B’ group.’ The A group would include leukemia, lymphoma, Hodgkins etc. Professor Karol Sikora (Rutherfield Cancer Centre) says those cancers that are not curable, but are slow growing – my B group – including lung cancers, pancreatic cancers etc, could be ‘treatment delayed’ by a month, and it wouldn’t make much difference to outcomes. Really?! Who is being cavalier about the ‘outcome?’ I have to take issue with the latter comment because for someone who finds themself diagnosed with stage 4 pancreatic cancer, which brings a dismal survival of perhaps only 8 – 14 weeks, delaying it by 4 weeks would be an absolute disgrace. This has nothing to do with me falling into that bracket, I just think it’s iniquitous.

Keep in mind that 14 week guess-timate when I remind you I had to wait 7 weeks to be given a biopsy, and a total of 9 weeks from diagnosis to begin chemo, because of an admin error in the NHS. We remind ourselves they are obligated to commence treatment for patients on the cancer pathway within 8 weeks, but with pancreatic, that’s really pushing your luck. I met patients who had a biopsy within a week, and a Whipple operation 10 days later. Someone like myself, currently clocking up 18 months, is well outside the norm. My GP is very tuned in to my case, because in his career he has lost only one person to pan-can, and they didn’t hang around for long. He doesn’t want to lose a second patient. If my response to this cancer is perceived as unusual, then for the more ‘usual’ stage 4 person, picked up after their symptoms force them to visit their doctor, they may meet their maker in 4-6 months, even with treatment. Ergo, a month of delay and allowing further spread of disease is absolutely unacceptable.
On the contrary, some might actually say that patients with the most survivable cancers should waive priority because they’re going to survive anyway, I don’t know.

My own mother, ז״ל, had bladder cancer, which was nominally treated, but the medics knew this wouldn’t bring about her denouement. It was a slow growing cancer, (apparently even s l o w e r in the elderly), and in fact it was her heart and advanced age which took her first. But had she had something like mesothelioma, a cancer brute on anabolic steroids, often picked up at a late stage and lethal, we would have pushed with every ounce of our being for aggressive treatment. Pancreatic may be slow growing, but when it finds you, it has already booked your one-way ticket to Bushey! No time then to shilly-shally.
Hypothetically then, those in the first group could present or be treated 6 weeks later and would still survive. The pancreatic/ lung patient who presents with metastatic disease (lungs, liver, peritoneum) has a probable survival window of 6 weeks, if untreated. Therefore, let’s at least TRY and help them extend their lives. We are not all old, debilitated or unworthy. Even if we were, SO WHAT!!! There is a duty of care, and a human right to fair and equal treatment. Their mentality might have been bang-on, if following Darwin’s theory of ‘survival of the fittest’: but we are cancer patients. This is the 21st century and we are fighting a virus, not ebola, or aids. Many of us in the B category are simply fighting to survive. I say, we should all get fair and equal treatment. It’s not like we are queuing up for cosmetic surgery, or something perceived as trivial. They will have to cut back on non essential surgeries or procedures instead. The NHS must NOT de-prioritise patients like myself!

Age and survival are surely relative terms, but most critically these are now – more than ever – in the eyes (or weigh scales) of the beholder.

Now, not wanting to be a complete harbinger of doom, but I’m obliged to remind you there’s not much time left until Passover. I’m sure Lord Fellowes might therefore encourage you to watch Downton Abbey, if only to glean some old fashioned cleaning tips. Unless, of course, you’ve finished your chometz blitzkrieg already.

Greetings to all

Jacqueline x

March update

There’s a concern among educators that children in the state system are being denied access to music education, ergo that music is becoming the the preserve and privilege

of the wealthy. The government have decided to invest £80 million pounds in a move to make music education accessible to all schools with the anticipation that all children should be able to leave school able to ‘read and write music,’ so says Nick Gibb, the School Standards Minister. They hope that children will a result become more active in school choirs and orchestras. This follows the visible decline in uptake at both GCSE and A level. The claim blames the introduction of the English Baccalaureate in 2010, which focuses on traditional core subjects in a new accountability measure for schools. Hannah Fouracre, director of music education (Arts Council England) said she was ‘delighted at the funding.’ From my Russian friends I gather music, gymnastics and ballet schools are widely available across Russia for all young people to try. Of course, they can then work with the most aspiring and talented youngsters, and help make them the best in the world. Watch these individuals perform at Leeds International Piano Competition, at the Olympics, perform with the Bolshoi…. If you have a catchment of many hundreds of thousands individuals, you will find the best. They also have a totally different mentality to their discipline, training and standards. I know this, as my piano tutor studied in Russia, and used that same methodology in her own teaching. I see it in my daughter’s ballet training. I think then it’s a little bit optimistic to try and do this across the UK when most of us would, quite frankly, be happy if our children could read and write to a high standard. From my own forray in music teaching, I know it’s frequently regarded as a peripheral subject, not one to be taken seriously. When that view is countenanced by staff, the children are unlikely to consider it a serious, worthwhile art form. Nicola Benedetti disagrees with the concept of inclusion for all, saying we have to concede that not everybody is inherently musical. She stated, ‘not all children have the discipline and perseverance to learn an instrument.’ I’m with her on that. This is, however, at odds with her petition last year to have music as a universal right for all. So this takes me back to my comments last week about resilience, where parents have to accept that sometimes our children are NOT artistic, are NOT musical, can NOT dance and may lack other skills that some others do have. Not that a child lacks talent in everything, but that they may have a talent in some things, but not in others. It is impossible to ‘make’ everybody good at art, for example. My art class is a good example of that. You can become better with effort, but drawing a face may result in a modified circle with primitive notions of features, whilst others will produce an enigmatic study in almost photographically capturing something real. If you can’t cut your fabric properly, you are unlikely to become a dressmaker. (I’m one of those!). It is what it is.

The World Health Organizational [WHO] recently recommended that parents limit their children’s screen time to 1 hour a day or less up to the age of 5. This study was published in the Lancet and claims to be the first to look at the effects of early-life screen usage. The study targeted children for three years from age 2. By age 5 they were running around each day for around 40 minutes less than their counterparts. This is not rocket science, it is simply common sense, no?

But with our present lockdown I think we all throw away the gadget keys. We are in exceptional times.

Recent health news scathingly states that breakthroughs in cancer drugs – which could drastically extend lives – can take decades to reach patients in the NHS. This has been evidenced through a study by the Institute of Cancer Research, who found that between 2009 to 2016 it took an average of 14 years for treatments to become available on the NHS. It took 22 years for a drug called trabectedin, used in soft tissue carcinoma, to go from being patented to getting the final go-ahead from NICE, our British regulatory body. The problem is that these breakthrough lifesaving drugs have to not only pass relevant clinical trials and then be authorised, but they then have to be approved as cost-effective and that puts a massive burden on the manufacturers because they may be curative but not cost-effective. By the time they have gone through the red tape, many more people will have died. Another drug created to treat bone cancer took 20 years to reach NICE approval, whilst the breast cancer drug olaparib, which got the go-ahead from the FDA in the States more than 2 years ago, still has to be approved by NHS watchdogs.

Whilst on the dreaded cancer topic I expect JW readers will have realised by now I take my disease very seriously. I intend to beat pancreatic cancer, if it is beatable. My view is that something has gone wrong organically with misidentification of rogue cells, but that there must be – conversely – a way to reprogramme those same cells to be identified as invaders, as parasitic, and destroyed accordingly. Conventional chemotherapy is systemic, in that it targets something but attacks everything within its path to catch the ‘bad guys,’ but often it is like zapping a wasp with an atom bomb. (okay, I exaggerate, but you do see my point)

I wanted to flag up that there is a new product that I am trying, sent to me from the United States, but is not available here. It is currently being ‘put through its paces’ as a antitumorogenic, at times destroying tumours within a matter of months. I’ve read the research papers and have been trying this particular product for only a short while. Having been on a merry-go-round of scans recently, my latest results are more positive, and the oncologist was baffled by the change. I think if anything it might be a combination of conventional and unconventional methods. But there remains the possibility that the change could be credited to the maverick product. More on this another time.

Winter update

It’s been an interesting past few months with my oncology treatment. The very personable consultant (!!) has decided I can resume chemotherapy, if somewhat grudgingly, although she would really have liked me to take a chemo break. Many other oncologists are savvy enough to admit that pancreatic tumours just love a holiday. Gives their malignant cells a new lease of life! So, I’m not going to be signing up for a holiday, not just yet. But before restarting chemo, I am scheduled to have repeat scans.

In the interim a new battery of cancer tests are being developed by Glasgow Precision Oncology Laboratory, called Glasgow Cancer Tests. These are a suite of affordable tumour and blood tests designed to be used routinely. Looking at a sample of a patient cancer to screen for biological markers, they aim to allow every cancer patient access to the latest in treatments and clinical trials.

Presently these are being evaluated by NHS labs in England and Scotland, and in addition are being used in a University of Glasgow led Precision-Panc clinical trial for pancreatic patients.

I was pleasantly surprised to read of a new potential treatment for our fellow pancreatic sufferers. This new discovery by researchers at Sheba Medical Centre, Israel, found that pancreatic cells were almost completely eradicated in 2 weeks by using a drug known as PJ34. By the way, is my oncologist reading this??

Recent news scathingly states that breakthroughs in cancer drugs – which could drastically extend lives – can take decades to reach patients in the NHS. This has been evidenced through a study by the Institute of Cancer Research, who found that between 2009 to 2016 it took an average of 14 years for treatments to become available on the NHS. It took 22 years for a drug called trabectedin, used in soft tissue carcinoma, to go from being patented to getting the final go-ahead from NICE, our British regulatory body. The problem is that these breakthrough lifesaving drugs have to not only pass relevant clinical trials and then be authorised, but they then have to be approved as cost-effective and that puts a massive burden on the manufacturers because they may be curative but not cost-effective. By the time they have gone through the red tape, many more people will have died. Another drug created to treat bone cancer took 20 years to reach NICE approval, whilst the breast cancer drug olaparib, which got the go-ahead from the FDA in the States more than 2 years ago, still has to be approved by NHS watchdogs.

Whilst on the dreaded topic I expect most people will have realised by now I take this cancer very VERY seriously. I intend to beat it, if it can ever be beaten. My view is that something has gone wrong organically with misidentification of rogue cells, but that there must be – conversely – a way to reprogramme those same cells to be identified as invaders, as parasitic, and destroyed accordingly.

Conventional chemotherapy is systemic, in that it targets something but attacks everything within its path to catch the ‘bad guys,’ but often it is like zapping a wasp with an atom bomb. (okay, I exaggerate, but you do see my point) I wanted to flag up that there is a new organic product that I am trying, sent to me from the United States, but is not available here.

It is currently being ‘put through its paces’ by the FDA, as a tumour killer, sometimes destroying tumours within a matter of months. I’ve read the research papers and have been trying this particular product for only a few weeks. Having been on a merry-go-round of scans during the past month, my latest results are showing a previously unseen (til now) reduction in tumor activity. The oncologist was baffled by this apparent progress, and their report remarked that I ‘seem to be responding to treatment.’ Well, if anything, I think it might be a combination of conventional and alternative methods. But there remains the possibility that the change could be credited to the maverick product.

I was very honoured in early December to attend a reception for the community, to meet HRH The Prince of Wales at Buckingham Palace. It was a splendid affair, with many dignitaries in attendance, including Lord Winston, Lord Pickles, Chief Rabbi Mirvis, Simon Sebag Motefiore, celebrities and many, many normal people from all walks of life. I met representatives from charities such as Camp Simcha, Norwood, Chai Cancer Care to name only a few.
HRH Prince Charles spoke eloquently as ever, mentioning the positive impact our community has on the world at large, that we often triumph in adversity and was particularly touched by the fact we – as a community – pray for the continued welfare of the Royal Family every week.

There were, of course, some light hearted moments, one being when he mentioned his beloved paternal grandmother Princess Alice (one of the Righteous among the Nations). She insisted on being buried on the Mount of Olives, but when family members questioned ‘how on earth they would get there’, she replied indignantly .. “it’s only a bus ride away!” Small groups of delegates got to meet the Prince individually, and during our few moments of conversation, I told him I was giving a charity fundraiser and he was touched I was doing it in my capacity as a cancer sufferer also.

I told him I was giving a charity fundraiser and he was touched I was doing it in my capacity as a cancer sufferer also.
This year my concert was in aid of Motor Neurone Disease and Oncology.

We raised a total of around £7,000 which should make a welcome contribution to charity funds. Thanks so much to all who attended or made a donation.

Back soon x

Annus Horriblis

I must apologise to my blog readers for a dearth of posts from me over the past few months. I have simply been overwhelmed with all life has thrown at me, but I am still fighting fit, well maybe fighting to get fit. Or possibly just fighting. Take your pick.

I will post – over the new few weeks – some of my non blog articles, and so apologies if you’ve picked these up in other media formats. I know not everyone sees it, so for some of you it will still be newsy.

It’s been such a full year since I was originally diagnosed, I thought it opportune to summarise the care I have received over this time. So let’s take a trip back to the beginning. In September 2018 I go to the GP with minor issues, which are caused by a stricture in my bile duct. Can’t fault my GP here as he went all out organising the liver bloods, ultrasounds and scans. I do have to point out at the next hurdle, the CT, the consultant was reluctant to scan me, on the grounds I looked clinically very well. I still do, but hey, ho. The CT obviously picked up this very nasty cancer, but then the hospital mislaid the scan, and as a consequence I missed out on 2 critical MDT meetings, which was a major setback. Next I was given an appointment with a surgeon, which sounded optimistic. However an admin person then called me up to cancel that, telling me instead that i had to go to an oncology appointment, This without having even seen a doctor. Now in 2020 everybody surely knows what oncology is about, even the least educated would know it is not astrology or urology. So I do my own in depth research on the deranged bloods which had caused my GP to rush me to hospital and eventually, after digging very deep, I find only metastatic pancreatic cancer. I almost laugh, because NO-ONE has even hinted at such a possibility. So as I sit down in the oncologist office, he says… I suppose you know why you’re here? It’s a bit like taking a seat on Mastermind.. yes I reply, I’ve got pancreatic cancer. Now what I don’t want to hear is the expression stage 4, because I know that is extremely ominous. So I wait for his next comment. Yes, and we think it’s stage 4. There are some lesions on your lungs which lead us to think that. Also in a few blood vessels and the para aortic lymph node. Well, blow me down. It’s only been 3 weeks and they are pronouncing me a no hoper. 3-6 months is then deemed a possibility, but we will be starting chemotherapy which should hopefully make a difference. So, when will I start chemo? Aha, now that is a little tricky, he replies. First we need to take a biopsy, before we can proceed. (Even though we know exactly what we are dealing with.) So I have to wait a further few weeks, to have the confirmative biopsy.

I subsequently meet the surgeon who holds the scales of life and death in his hands. He tells me I am unlikely to qualify for surgery but he will consider it after I complete numerous chemo cycles. I press this kindly and distinguished gentleman to approximate my survival rate if I am, indeed, classed as metastatic. Without any sense of pleasure, he says I am unlikely to make it more than 12 months.

Now I’ve had time to check this biopsy lark out. ERCP/ EUS is a really horrid procedure, very poorly tolerated and most times done under general anaesthetic as frequently it is aborted with sedation. Now by this juncture I’ve already had a different procedure which was done under mild sedation. I was given 4mg of midazolam, and I was awake pretty much throughout, to the point I was able to engage in reasonably coherent conversation. Not exactly what the doctor expected. So I ask the consultant oncologist, the surgeon, the nurses and finally- in the presence of a doctor friend who accompanies me to the dreaded ERCP – we remind the endoscopist that 4mg wasn’t enough. So he reassures me that I will get 5 mg of midazolam. First he has to get changed. He comes out of the procedure room and goes into the adjacent patient disabled toilet to change- the one that sick patients use, and changes into his sterile scrubs. It is disconcerting to say the least. No changing area for staff? I go back in and sit up on a procedure bench, next to me on a small table is a very ugly black hose. I look at it incredulously and, without even realising the following words have left my mouth, I hear myself say. ‘you’re not going to use that?’ The idiocy of the rhetorical comment makes me laugh. I say… lucky I’m going to be sedated, huh! Now my friend has to leave the room, and I settle down uncomfortably for a session worthy of a horror movie. I wake up at least 3 times during the procedure, on one occasion, mumbling… ‘ahm going to be sickk’, and promptly vomit blood. Trying to speak with a virtual garden hose down your throat is a major accomplishment. But the trauma of it was something I will never forget. Never. When it was completed, I met my friend outside, and she was horrified that I had not been adequately sedated. I walked back to the desk to look at my notes, as I am incredulous I could have been awake with decent sedation. The notes are very illuminating. The procedure was poorly tolerated from the outset, it states. (You don’t say). The medication record explains all…. 2 mg of midazolam, followed by 1 mg each time I woke up…. 3 times in all. Absolutely disgraceful. The endoscopist had to be heartless to allow a patient to suffer like that. I am still thinking of reporting him to the GMC. But there was more fun and games waiting ahead of me.

So I finally get started on chemotherapy, my regimen being Folfirinox the UK gold standard for pancreatic cancer. I endure all the slings and arrows it can throw at me, because I am still holding on to hope desperately that I might still qualify for surgery. I am due to give my fundraiser concert a few weeks later, full of optimism, but wary of further bad news following me, as an albatross follows a ship.

I travel up north for the umpteenth time a few days later, and whilst I am away I take unwell, heading straight into a pulmonary embolism. On my return to London I head straight to the hospital where I am immediately admitted, for another CT and treatment. It takes nearly 3 days to get this done, and I wait for the result, feeing a tad stressed as the concert is only a week or so away. During the middle of the night a junior doctor makes her rounds (4 am) and I have no choice but to ask her what the result is. She smiles at me and tell me I will be on blood thinners for between 3 to 6 months, which she then adds.. (which is) the rest of your life. I didn’t smile in return. Did she not realise the enormity of her remark? Another individual not much bothered by her lack of empathy.

And so I was discharged only to go back with a horrific chemo induced throat infection, the night before the concert. Leaving A&E just hours before the concert was a bit nerve wracking. But the event ran to plan, and it was a joyous occasion. Fast forward a few months, still on chemotherapy, and I am told I am now eligible for surgery. This is the best news I have probably had in my life, because – as the surgical team tell me – it is my only real chance for survival. Unequivocally.

When we begin the surgery at the beginning of April, I am buoyant, and feel like I have just won the lottery. Suddenly it crashes around me, half way through the procedure, when they wake me up early, only to say the para aortic lymph node is proven as metastatic. I am dealt a blow that to this day, I have struggled to recover from. We have to continue the enforced chemo break, which was necessary to allow surgery, but now I end up in hospital for a whole month, due to cellulitis and an abscess. This was not helped by an over zealous research fellow, who idiotically discharged me shortly after the aborted surgery, despite knowing I had complications. He was so talented he decided to try and open an infected incision with a cotton swab stick to check things out. Plainly he was naive because he felt quite vindicated, despite my then requiring a surgical drain and morphine.

We had an enforced break over the summer at which point I was put on a new chemotherapy with a different consultant. If the first oncologist was perhaps a little screen happy during consultations, at least he appeared to listen and would smile at a suitably light hearted remark, and display concern if something was amiss, or results were less good. Meet my new consultant, extremely professional, I can imagine this woman getting the gold medal at medical school. What was obviously missed out in the degree was an understanding of the human psyche. Of all the disciplines in the armoury of the hospital physician, empathy, decency and warmth are critical to forge the patient – practitioner partnership. This appears to have been bypassed, to the extent that every suggestion I offered, was batted down. Every petition to review strategy was taken as a personal slight. The truth is the cancer patient is fighting for their very survival, and this should not be underestimated. I hear remarks like, you have a non operable tumour, it is incurable, it is non survivable, or variations on that theme. No smile, no sympathy, no empathy. In fact when I was told bluntly, …. ‘that’s the trouble with allowing patients access to their records,’ I nearly fell over. The implicit objection to one’s right to have knowledge or to have a meaningful conversation, was just appalling. When I disputed the hint of liver metastasis one week, I was practically shown the door, the consultant was so angry that I wanted to challenge something which would categorise me with a further catastrophe [once you are told it is in your liver, that’s the game changer]. I asked if I could be considered for a biopsy to prove metastasis or not. I was told flatly, ‘no I would not be subjected to an invasive procedure, and we should take the view of the radiologist who wrote the comment in the report.’ Funny how they would not move swiftly to start my chemo, because they needed to take a biopsy. It was dogma, it was their procedure. However, when it comes to another matter, they turn the tables and essentially say, ‘no ~~jacket~~ biopsy required!’ [misquote from a Phil Collins album.] Ironically on the. following visit, the radiologist had apparently decided metastasis was unlikely. It was a hollow victory as the oncologist was still angry, rude and palpably hostile, following my earlier challenge. That she knew I had just buried my father, but ignored that detail, and neither offered condolences or showed any compassion, was truly inhumane. On the opposite end of the. scale, the lady who put the death notice in the press for me, showed empathy. The consultant has definitely missed her calling: Pathology – not Oncology – would be much more appropriate.

I must conclude this unhappy tale by stating that, although not a medic, I am within my own field, extremely driven and qualified, and I resented being taken for a person of low IQ; the doctor had no idea I had read the same research papers they had, and that I know very well which chemo combinations are effective, which studies show poor survival rates. And more than anything, I have a right to argue for my survival. They have no right to play G-d and expect the patient to say ‘thank you,’ accept it, and simply lie down.

To all those out there, I implore you to seek other expert opinions, request adjustments to treatments and question with all your might. We only get one life, and it is only for the Almighty to decide when our time is up.

Concert for Charity

Addendum:-

This is an all-new concert programme, with brand new material, so if you came last time you won’t be disappointed.

As before, there will be a song book, so you can join in with your favourite songs.

There will also be a reception before we start where you can mingle and relax.

————————————–

I’ve been asked by friends and supporters in the community to post the details of my forthcoming charity concert.

My concert was planned some months ago, a repeat concert from one I gave last December. Unfortunately I was not really expecting to survive this far, but I’m stubborn and will fight to the end.

My own cancer is pancreatic and as I have only been given chemotherapy, I am including oncology in the fundraiser.

However as my father very recently died from a dreadful variant of motor neurone disease [ALS], I am going to make a further sizeable contribution to that charity.

Dad would expect me to go ahead with the concert, understanding music has been the biggest part of my life for 40 years!

The event will be on December 15th 2019, in North London. As a ladies only evening, it will be full of music & laughter, and guaranteed to put a song in your heart and a smile on your face.

Attached is the flyer. If you are based in London it would be good to have your company.

Debbie and Romano are, like myself, professionally trained musicians, and we will put our heart and soul into entertaining our audience.

If you are out of London or unable to attend, you might still consider supporting these charities. A PayPal link is attached and any donation you make would be making a difference to many lives.

Please go to http://PayPal.me/Jacquelineconcert in your browser.

Back to my piano now, and all the songs which I love so much.

Hope to see you there

Jacqueline xx

Hello from Jacqueline

Hi all you lovely people.

I realise you must wonder what has happened as I have not blogged here since our eventful summer holiday.

Unfortunately there has been a lot going on, both with my treatments and in my family. My wonderful father died only a few weeks ago and this has been devastating.

I will post some catch-up blog pages very shortly, with some of the articles I have submitted to press.

Normal blog service to be resumed shortly.

I am also giving a London concert in December, and details will be posted on next blog. It will be a magical, musical evening, and I do hope some of you might like to come.

Significant donations will be made to several charities.

Best

Jacqueline xx

737 to hell & holiday jinx

Travelling economy class to and from Israel is perhaps economical, but it comes with a sanity waiver. Alongside your constricting seat, you have pull-down arm rests which your seat neighbour will tussle for. You can find yourself with your arms squished against your torso and precious little breathing space. Just wait until the food and drink trolleys come round, and you have your tray table resting on your knees to boot. All around are the mandatory children screaming and wailing. (Did I mention we also had lots of children.) On a flight such as this we always seem to pick the short straw and this time was no exception. On the return leg we had a half pint sized 2 year old sitting behind us, who kept sliding down into a horizontal position and consequently he kicked the back of my seat every 20 – 30 seconds. He belonged to a family with 5 children variously aged between 2 – 17. After an hour or two I swapped seats with someone in my row to escape it, but it was to no avail. The parent then decided to share the pleasures of her willful toddler so he could kick each of the 3 seats in front of him in turn. (Caring is Sharing say my own children). At half time – 3 hours in – he was joined by a slightly bigger sister (nearer 4) who took unashamed, vicarious pleasure in teaching her younger sibling lots of additional travel tricks. Due to her occupation of the toddler’s seat, he was now standing directly in front of his parents legs, on the floor directly behind my seat, and the double thwhack from the pair of them was enough to make a sane person plead to leap out from the window. If only one could…. I looked around at some happy campers, sleeping on their reclined seats, feeling frustrated that I could not even enjoy the seat in bolt upright mode. To complement the ambience there was a screaming one year old a few rows behind kvelling for a gold medal at Atlanta. Plus one further up in front – stereo! Truly the Russian army would have been beaten into submission with such an assault..

Now I distinctly remember travelling with our small children and the stresses this invited. Having an overtired toddler was a recipe for disaster, and so you tried to avoid this where possible. Similarly we stood for no nonsense in allowing our small children to stand on chairs and bat an unsuspecting traveller in front. This was etiquette verboten, as was permitting them to kick the chair in front. On a short domestic flight it would have been bad enough, but on an intermediate or long haul flight it was just 2 steps away from criminality. So how come we got the full orchestral percussion, with full music and drums….? I think paying for an upgrade probably a very wise move. And I had tried.

Now as a flyer with various airlines, I know you get variations on a theme of culinary provision, ranging from good food to no food. But I am unfamiliar with the concept of truly awful food. Yes, the Israeli national carrier provided something borderline edible, and which was rejected by all of our kids and both adults. A variation of a roll with cold meat, but heated up to oven temperature. Quite revolting. Other passengers corroborated the feeling of disgust for this concoction. I’m going with another carrier if I perchance ever go again. And it’s a very big IF in my current state of health.

Our summer spectacular was booked at a popular and central location in Jerusalem, close to Kiryat Moshe. Let’s play the guessing game. 6 letters and it’s MAD in the middle. The hotel lobby was grand and very inviting, however you needed to wait a considerable time to access your room. Check in is only from 3pm, so prepare for a disappointment if you have come off a night flight. However, the wait is to be expected for – after all – they are busy cleaning to make your stay special, aren’t they?? The first surprise was at check in, where they get you to pay your full room bill before getting the key to your room. Bang goes your chance to discuss anything unsatisfactory before checking out. You get to your room, and then find lots of surprises:- dirty carpets, rubbish under the main bed, fridge not cleaned…. so you wonder what exactly they were doing over the past 5 hours. I am not alone in considering the condition of rooms to be substandard. Some of the ‘finds’ in my room were totally nauseating.

But see below for an image taken by my friend:

(this courtesy from her, taken at the end of their stay). It took me 8 days to completely deal with the substandard cleaning of our room, with a friendly manager called Mandi, but it was only resolved effectively when a kind and intelligent member of housekeeping dealt with it, that it was then in a condition suitable for the next guests. Ha! Thank you to Abbed al Fattah for this.

They put an extra couple of beds into the 2 rooms we had, unfortunately the mattresses for these were not fit for purpose and caused a very serious head injury. Suffice to say they sent a large bag of ice upstairs to me, but this ruined most of my holiday.

Eating in the hotel dining room was a real joy at breakfast, with delights for every palate: Salads, tuna, salmon, pickled fish, herrings, cheeses – soft and hard, boiled eggs, bourekas, waffles and pancakes, breads, rolls, jams, cakes and muffins, fresh fruit, fruit salad, purees, more than one could list. The pictures below give a fair representation.

My favourite pit-stop was at Nissim the omelette maker, who was engaging in his chefs hat, and made a darned good omelette:- 1 egg, 2 eggs, madam? Cheese, onion, herbs, mushroom? Fried eggs? All made to your preference.

Beware the man who queues in front with an group order for 4 omelettes, all different, and he is not alone in the multi-order queue.

With such an array of food, it is therefore quite reasonable to make a quick roll for lunch, but what appalled me was people who filled massive platefuls of food like skyscrapers, for lunch take-out bags, frequently leaving masses of the food completely untouched, still on the tables. This surplus, perfect food went straight to the bins. And there must have been tonnes of it. I encourage my kids to eat what they take, ie not to have eyes bigger than stomachs.

Whilst you are sitting enjoying your breakfast, there are the swimming spoilsports, often from our own neck of the woods (we noted), who rush out to hog 7 sunbeds, replete with swim bags and towels. Now this behaviour would be fine, (maybe!?) except that they then don’t make it out to the pool until 11.30am, after doing something much more important – packing, eating, resting. By then there are a stream of miffed hotel clients walking up and down, fruitlessly searching for a sunbed. I witnessed near breakdowns whilst towels were thrown onto the poolside and unhappy customers stormed off. Who do the sunbed hogging folks think they are? Germans?

Hotel Holidays can unfortunately also bring out the worst in people, in your own family, and even across communities. The people you met from your home town may show very selfish or unflattering qualities and leave new found friendships negatively affected. There is something to be said for staying away Far From the Madding Crowd. So after 4 years running and going to sunny Buxton, where you can do your own darned thing, it may be back on the menu if 2020 is in my sights. Or maybe a solo holiday, far from the aggravation and noise of bickering children (including my own!) and disputes about who pays for what.

But for now back to sunny and gaspingly hot Jerusalem. The children were delighted and excited to eat in any of of fast food eateries, the huge bonus being that they were kosher: deli burgers, McDonalds (yes, really) Falafel, Chinese, sushi. Its all there, available and reasonably affordable. We did as a family (on one occasion) eat in the hotel dining room, on shabbat lunch, but this gave me indescribable food poisoning. I wouldn’t have believed it, except my friend who was with us, and had frequent flyer points in this same hotel, had related a horrific incident from food poisoning on her last stay. So there you have it, 9.7 times out of 10 you’ll be just fine, but someone will drop into the 0.3 and boy-o-boy, make sure you have immodium on standby. At the risk of exaggerating (which I’m not) I had less need of it during my truly horrible chemo sessions, than from one dodgy dinner here.

One big pet hate was the slamming of doors, most irritating and common at 3 or 4am. I surmised this was either late night arrivals or sometimes people late night packing for early departure. Either way the noise was unnecessary and totally selfish. Holiday tour groups were big offenders here. Parties of 150 guests on a mission to Galilee and Bethlehem, felt they had taken over the whole hotel. On our last night (after my spending 4 hours packing during the day, so ergo, I missed pool time with the kids and any rest time) constant noise and door slamming on our floor sent me on a search and report mission along the corridor. I discovered a full blown party going, at 4am, with smokers having a high old time. Security were called, as this purports to be a non smoking hotel, and they were told to pack it in. The slamming stopped, although the smoking probably didn’t.

On our second shabbat we relocated from the hotel to Ramat Bet Shemesh to share a Bar Mitzvah celebration, the coming of age of a grandson of one of my oldest friends from South Africa days. Would be unfair to drop them in it here, but I’m sure they won’t mind me sharing a picture taken at the seudah.

Being that I wasn’t invited to mix on the mens only side (actually more to do with the fact I was taking the photo) you see the BM boy in front, his grandfather, father and uncle. Plus my husband on the far right. It’s the only political place to stand these days!

The reason I bring the BM in is because we found a hiccup in arrangements travelling around. The buses and trams (light rail) are splendid, all air-conditioned, so good you really don’t want to get off them, particularly into 34 degree heat. However you usually need a Rav Ka, which is a travel card. And whether you use the card, or cash (when paying at machines or on coaches etc) it makes not a jot of difference if you have a 5 year old, a 9 year old, or a 15 year old with you. Israelis don’t give you any child concessions. [What a chutzpah! What a cheek.] Not unless you have been resident for a full year. Really?! However if any visitor to London, be they British, Gambian or even from the EU (go on, laugh!) they get the child discount – or even travel free where the child is under 10 – without fuss. Getting a child oyster card is more protracted as you have to apply with proof of address, elegilibity, photo and wait around 5-7 days. So getting the oyster is not ideal if you’ve made a quick trip.

So what have I covered, the flight, the hotel, the food, the travel, the drawbacks… Now I suppose its time to share some of the positives. The BM I’ve already mentioned, but here are the more touristy bits.

1. The hotel swimming pool. One indoors and one outdoors. Kids loved it. They could have spent the whole holiday under water.

2. The Western Wall

Pilgrims, locals and folks from all religions come here to pray, say some tehillim (psalms) or make a special appeal to the Almighty. I couldn’t in all conscience ask for intervention for myself bu instead asked for all those deserving of a cure or healing. I hope I was included.

3. We visited the Tunnels beneath the old city. Fascinating, not overly long, but perhaps hard work if you can’t stand for long periods, whilst you get a history brief. On the day we were there the lifts for disabled were out of action, although for those of limited disability you could manage without a lift. The tour ends in the Arab quarter, where a guide with security will escort you back to the beginning of the Tunnel Tour at the Jewish Quarter.

4. We met up with a couple of old friends who had come in from Netanya to meet us. [thanks – Madelaine and Charles]

I also had the chance to play the hotel piano, which of course was fun for me, but free entertainment for several hours for the guests. (can’t add audio, but it was music for all tastes)

5. The Museum of Israel

Too much to say here, but it has artifacts from all over the Middle East, special books over 500 or 700 years old, truly spectacular. These books were variously donated by American and British benefactors, and so fragile and special they were kept in a darkened room. There were silver exhibitions, pottery, clothing, judaica and a small if somewhat curious exhibition of current trends in modest dress (women). Prepared to be shocked. Think ultra orthodox Isil meets Ku klux Klan. See second picture below.

6. An amazing – if rather overcrowded – chocolate workshop, based in Kibbutz Tsuba was thoughtfully organised by my friend Shani, who had been before. We were given chocolate pieces to glue (with liquid chocolate, obviously. What else?) The choice was to create a car or a house. I chose the house, not as a gender stereotyping, but because it was cute. You could find yourself spending ages with the ‘glue’ as the chocolate structure frequently collapsed as you moved onto the next section. It was a challenge, but once holding together you decorated with jelly babies, sprinkles, mini marshmallows. Lots of fun!! See below:

My chocolate house then made it all the way back to the UK, intact, unmelted, pristine, only for my idiot teenager to eat it, as he argued it ‘needed eating.’ Didn’t even offer me a little taster. Not exactly a quick nip down to Tesco job for another one. Who votes to send him back to make me a replacement?

7. At the end of our holiday I gave a ladies concert in RBS, courtesy of a kind lady who hosted me a similar event when I was there 3 years ago. This time I mentioned my altered health status, as I do believe education and awareness can save lives. Pancreatic cancer does not care who you are, or how young you are.

Would I go back to Jerusalem again? Not in high summer, not at peak time, although I might be tempted back to the same hotel, if only to get another Nissim omelette.

Goodbye for now!

Mum’s the Word

I decided to write this time about my mother, who has recently passed away, aged 87. Although she had been diagnosed in 2018 with bladder cancer she had a myriad of other serious health issues competing in the race to take her first. She was in her later years a recluse, agoraphobic and was almost paralysed with inexplicable anxiety. This seems an opportune time, however, to celebrate her amazing life.

She was born in 1932, the last child of four, to Victorian parents, who already had 2 sons and an elder daughter. They were respectively aged 19, 17 and 14 at the time of her arrival. She was by all accounts a feisty little girl, and throughout her life showed the same enduring quick wit, superior intellect, and multifaceted range of talents.

Her mother was one of ten children (I didn’t know this until recently), 3 sons and 7 daughters, although several of those aunts died in infancy and all 3 uncles died prematurely in adulthood. Nonetheless, with such a massive network, one can imagine lots of jolly goings-on with tribes of cousins to play with, plus weddings and such like. In her early childhood she possibly had her share of funerals too, with the untimely intrusion of World War II.

One of her uncles had died in the trenches in WWI in 1915 (1st day of the Battle of the Somme) and another uncle in 1916, so both died before her birth. The third uncle also died during WWII, but as a result of mustard gas poisoning in WWI. She recalled her grandfather never recovered from losing all 3 sons. One of mother’s own brothers then died from stomach cancer following his return from enlisted service in the Merchant Navy in 1940. He had eschewed a combat role, and ironically died anyway, aged 26. Her father then died suddenly a year later (aged only 49) grief-stricken at the death of his elder son. I recall this is something she did mention over the years. She said her father had ‘literally dropped dead in front of her, from a heart attack.’ Thus she would probably have been greatly affected by all these losses.

But, because she didn’t share much of this history with us as we grew up, lots of details have come to light only since her passing. With each discovery my sister and I have made – often in a smog of emotion – we have been able to piece together the 3D jigsaw which represents her life.

I always knew for example that she was a talented linguist, speaking fluent German, and in fact our aunt, who was 14 years older than her, told me once that mother was engaged to a young man in Germany. When I asked my mother once or twice about this, she wouldn’t be drawn on it. Now having found a couple of photos of an extremely handsome young man, I believe the engagement was probably true, and my mother could only have been 18 at most. How romantic, how fascinating!

I am left to wonder….

how they met
what he did for a profession
were they planning to live in Germany
what ended the engagement?

Post nazi-Germany and the Holocaust could both have been factors, but that would need to remain speculative.

We then found mother’s Leaving School Certificate, which showed her with honours in French as well as German. So she was tri-lingual – a great shame she didn’t pursue her languages, nor did she get involved in helping us with our school level French.

Boy, wish I’d known her talents …. I really was miffed I couldn’t opt for German, but it was – back in the day – in the same subject column choice as music.

Talking of academia, we found her notes & college essays, written in impeccable, beautiful script, with honour grades and scores from her lecturers. She was obviously fascinated with science, religion, history and a whole range of other topics. She was – even in her 80s – still making notes on the Christmas Lectures from the Royal Institution, explaining intricacies of quarks and particle physics.

Mother self-funded her college course, by working in an office for a few years. I’m sure office work was not intellectually taxing for her, but it was probably a crash course in acquiring skills and lessons for life. She was known to speak out when matters were unethical or questionable, and that is a trait which both my sister and I have inherited.

Our mother had a passion for singing, and we have come across photos of her singing with choirs in the Queen’s Coronation year (1953). I was always a bit surprised that mother didn’t learn to play the piano as her mother was by all accounts a gifted pianist who could play Liszt and Chopin. I don’t remember hearing Grandma playing, but my mother did.

One early memory I have is of running down the hall of Grandma’s flat to the drawing room, and making for the piano which was against the wall next to the bed-cupboard. Grandma would frequently have locked it, but our nimble young fingers could reach the back of the key bed, and ergo, you could just about play a simple piece by spatial guesswork. Inevitably Grandma would come in sighing, “oh, alright then. I’ll open it.” Then my sister and I were free to busk at leisure, playing little ditties, or easy pieces of music.

But I have digressed….. Even in the absence of learning piano, mother covered a complete range of vocal classical repertoires, including oratorio, folk, Gilbert & Sullivan. We were tutored by her to sing duets in festivals and would compete against youngsters presented by professional teachers & choir trainers. When – on occasion – we might come in frustratingly as the runners-up, members of the audience, sensing her disappointment, would say to my mother, “…. but do you know who trained the winners?” Then they would whisper the name of a known musical diva. For an ‘amateur’ then to help us reach such an incredible standard was no small feat. Bravo, maestro!

Mother got involved in amateur dramatics, acting in a senior administrative capacity for the largest drama organisation in the country, for 20 years. She would attend festivals, sit with adjudicators, keep them organised and on top of national regulations and local politics. As an indication of the respect they had for her, and her professionalism, she would always be invited to attend profile dinners, banquets and gatherings. On occasion she would even be driven home in the Lord Mayor’s limousine, if she hadn’t a lift organised. I bet she regaled him with stories and jokes galore.

Mother also got involved in the writing, directing and acting sides of productions. We took all this in our stride, not really considering that she was different from other mothers. But she was. Vivacious and very different.

My sister and I both remember outstanding G&S performances of Yeoman of the Guard, Mikado, HMS Pinafore, Quaker Girl, Salad Days, plus other dramatic and musical performances whose titles now elude me. Father would often join the male chorus as his contribution to the escapade.

Frequently I would also be dragooned into playing piano for second-line rehearsals with members of the group saying, ‘Jacqueline, you read music – play this through with us.’ (This phrased as a command, rather than a request.) My sight reading skills were thus honed on the cliff face which was rehearsals. There’s no time or place for…. ‘Oh, this is a bit hard’ …’ Just give me a minute to work this out, won’t you.’ .. ‘Hang on, which part are you?’ You simply sank or swam. I swam. No choice.

She and dad would also take us to operetta, theatre and even real opera – Puccini’s La Boheme, and Madame Butterfly (I think these were more for mother, as the female leads suited her voice, which was high soprano / coloratura). Our parents.,. wanted their two daughters to be grounded and rounded individuals. I believe we are.

She was also a talented Baker, her father and grandfather both being professionals. [I can’t claim any talent whatsoever in this regard – my soufflés and cakes more likely to sink than most] But rounds of her Victoria sponges, scones, Swiss rolls, battenburg, gingerbread, Dundee cakes and chocolate treats were always in plentiful supply. I have made very good attempts at more exotic cake creations like sachertorte, dobus torte (try that one) plus staples such as tray cake and shortbread But these are my occasional forays into the kitchen. I remember the big jelly pan which came out in jam season, and the red berries which would mysteriously disappear whilst said jam was being prepared !!

She could be found dabbling successfully with her needlework [she was given an excellent for this in her reports also] and she would make us things from time to time. I still have the little drawstring gymn bag she made for me in Primary 1, with my name label hand sewn on. Made out of pretty curtain fabric, this would have been in the era of Sound of Music. She was actually a “Maria” in her own right. This was, remember, the age of make do and mend, non-instant shopping, nothing on instant delivery from Amazon. The only talent I think which was absent was drawing and sketching, although I’m sure she would have done well, had she been interested.

When I last saw mother, only a week before she died, she was sitting in bed reading Churchill’s War Speeches. Here was an intellect still with batteries on full power. I am so sorry I didn’t engage more with her in conversation, but both of us were exhausted at that point from different activities.

I can see many overlapping interests and passions we shared: creative writing, musical production, high level intellectual functioning, sharp humour, and even our handwriting was similar until recent years. I have crammed an awful lot into my life, but feel I still have a way to go to reach the zenith she did. And in some areas I cannot even compete.

Mother – I salute you, and bow to your talents and the awesome person you were. You will be forever missed.

They say, ‘The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree!’ I hope my own ‘apple tree’ (7 branches) bears the same fruit. And more.

Jacqueline xx

Picture shown above is one of my favourites, taken when I was less than a year old, and we were at the park.

Eggs, Spoons and other games

Over the past few weeks we rounded off the school year with the Reception class Siddur party. Two classes of adorable little children, assembled in their Shabbos finery, to read Chumash and sing beautiful songs for their parents. They sang their little hearts out to well-deserved adulation and much applause. This was my final child’s siddur party (number 7 of the 17 I have been privileged to accompany), and it still tugged at the heartstrings.

Congratulations to our very own Menorah Foundation School which has recently been judged Good by Ofsted, thanks to recently appointed Head, Mrs Karen Kent, and her stellar team of teachers. Congratulations also due to the newly created Yavneh Primary, and their Head Teacher Caroline Field, who received judgements of Outstanding in both chol and kodesh.

On the topic of schools, I notice experts are urging the Treasury to keep schools open across the long summer holiday, to run sports clubs in the fight against obesity. The Royal Society for Public Health has commented again that type 2 diabetes is soaring amongst the younger generation. I’m all for all year round, full-time school, with a few weeks off here and there. Summer holidays can be physically very draining, and that’s even without taking any exercise! Who out there will admit to being exhausted and mentally beaten down by week 2 of the school holidays? Or am I simply unique?

A further point of news is on the controversial topic of private versus public education. I believe the choice should be the prerogative of the individual, and most are honest and open about these choices. So, I am awarding here a Big BOO to Labour counsellor Nick Childs who rails against private education. His quote that, “….privatisation fetish won’t provide our children with a good education,” is quite telling, given that he sends his daughter to Roedean at nearly £40,000 a year. When challenged on this dichotomy he replied, “My views on the privatisation of publicly owned state schools should not be confused with my family’s personal decision or views on independent schools.” Nicely said, Nick. Nicely hypocritical! A bit like saying a pensions minister supports the abolition of state pension, whilst topping up their own private pension pot, and accepting a bonus equal to 10 x an average salary.

At the end of last year Mayor Sadiq Khan decided that mini cab drivers, including Über drivers, should pay the £11.50 daily congestion charge to drive into the centre of London. Despite mass protests on this Mr Khan hasn’t yet budged, so now it has gone to the High Court to make a decision. Given the demographics of the Über driver population, the unions are claiming it is insidiously a racist manoeuvre and that under the Equality Act, TFL needs to avoid ‘indirect discrimination.’ Why should black taxis be exempt from charges if other car services are not. One can argue that black taxis still have to pass the Knowledge, whereas their competitors can rely on sat-nav to get customers from A to B. The Knowledge requires drivers to know 100,000 landmarks and 25,000 roads. For this they are permitted on street pick ups, unlike mini cabs who must be booked. According to a survey 80% of black taxi drivers are white, compared to 8% of Über drivers, classed as white- British. If TFL’s aim is to reduce traffic they may well achieve that; if it is more to raise money for the council coffers, that smacks of discrimination.

A barrister recently hit the headlines, apparently making a bogus claim against Qatar airlines, in which he claimed to have been bitten by a brown recluse spider on a flight from Doha to Cape Town. It’s a flesh-eating spider for the non – arachnologists. He has undergone several operations to save his leg. The judge overseeing the case received testimony from a witness claiming that the lawyer was pursuing [and had so admitted] it to assist his purchase of a house. The airline’s lawyers said they suspected fundamental dishonesty, and that he had actually been bitten in Indonesia whilst on an exotic holiday. The QC representing the lawyer stated his client faced an £800,000 legal bill if he lost the case, as well as putting his career in jeopardy. Ouch. OUCH. Hmmm, Now that 800k would certainly buy a nice little house. Or maybe help with that new school hall.

Overseas news :- Chess is a sport one would not normally associate with cheating. However, Igors Rausis (58) from Latvia was caught red handed doing just that. Filmed sitting on the loo, he was caught on the chess app ChessBase, which maintains a database of every chess move from the inception of the game: over 5 million moves, accessed at lightning speed. Now web-based surfing/ cheating is normally a behaviour associated with teens and young adults, and we might therefore regard phone cheating alongside plagiarism. Disappointingly it has crossed over into the genteel and cerebral world of chess. Many tournaments will disqualify a competitor for even being in possession of a phone, and high-level competitions require players to go through a metal detector every time they enter the playing arena. Rausis broke into the world’s top 100 last year, evidently unusual for someone so old. Jumping from Master to Super Grandmaster status is akin to graduating from being a parent in the egg & spoon race to qualifying for the 100 metres at Helsinki. The prize of €1,000 at the Strasberg open will not be going back to Latvia!

Zoe Strimpel [Telegraph} recently related an incident in a cafe, where she had the dubious pleasure of sitting next to blaring garage music from a customer’s laptop. Asking the question, ‘did he by chance have some headphones?’ , he replied aggressively in the affirmative but argued that he was ‘here first.’ De facto he has sole rights to invade public shared space with his noise? I similarly recall sitting in a Cafe and taking a vacant chair. I was abused royally by a customer eking out his single cup of coffee, whilst enjoying the free WiFi, without regard to anyone else wanting the space. He was more angered when I stated the obvious – that at most he had occupational control of one seat, not 2 or 4. I watch in anticipation to see if the coffee chains clamp down on this blatant arrogance, but frequently people ignore and tolerate it, perpetuating the social abuse. This social bullying exists in the corporate/ business world also. Those who are abusive, seem to find solace and misguided support in the silent complicity of those who are simply too scared to speak out against injustice. Not a trait in my repertoire:- I was brought up to speak out against wrongdoing, even if you are the lone voice in the room. I will not be afraid to meet my maker, and answer if I spoke out for truth and justice. Between now and then, hopefully the selfish folks on the train or cafe will simply go deaf first. Hearing aids will doubtless become fashion statements, like in-ear phones are currently. Who remembers the days when you went out for a cup of coffee, and actually chatted to people? Aside from me, who always speaks to anyone, as long as they don’t look like a potential Jack the Ripper….

Anyway Since dealing with my sick parents, one of whom has recently passed away, it has been excruciating to watch the other slide and accelerate into an advanced stage of MND [motor neurone disease] robbing them of dignity, speech, ability to eat and drink, interact socially and have basic cognition. It’s a cruel, cruel disease. MND can have an insidious and non-specific beginning, which can cause delays in correctly diagnosing the condition. I have learned so much – unfortunately – from first-hand experience of watching someone really suffer. (This topic I will elaborate on in another blog.) Being with my father meant however another long journey courtesy of Virgin trains and this time the return journey involved changing at Crewe. Whilst standing on the platform I chatted to an engaging young boy and his dad, who were also bound for Euston. As readers will have sussed by now, I frequently meet interesting and unusual people, and this trip was no exception. This youngster is a junior reporter with Sky news. I thought they were having me on, but no…. Braydon Bent is a weekly reporter for the FYI programme. If you aren’t a Sky follower you can keep up with Braydon’s travels in the junior paper, First News. A few weeks ago he was on his way to 10 Downing Street, to interview Theresa May. Recently he was in Cape Town, reporting on the epidemic of stray animals, and the care being provided by animal charities. This is a weekly outing, providing young Braydon with an incredible opportunity of a lifetime. Very outgoing and articulate, he is a blogger, a little bundle of energy. Oh, did I mention he is only 10 years old? Let’s see what he then makes of Boris!

Bye for now.

Love Jacqueline x

Fashion comes, fashion goes.

Apologies, this was delayed and went to press without making the blog.

It’s been a busy few weeks of news. Aside from the B word, on everyone’s lips (BORIS, not Brexit), there has been a surfeit of fascinating stories across the country. But to clarify my position on Boris, I was one of his staunchest supporters prior to him becoming Mayor of London, and even travelled round on the Boris Bus with other campaigners. I think he will make an interesting PM, more so if he trims the cabinet down to a manageable size. If that means saying goodbye to the Conservative remainers, then so be it!

I’m aware that many viewers have been avid fans of the period dramas shown over the past few years. In my day it was the original swashbuckling Poldark which captured the nations imagination, these days it’s Pride and Prejudice, Victoria, Downton Abbey, Elizabeth and Gentleman Jack. But there is a young man who has taken his love affair of period style to a new level. Zack Pinsent is a 25 year old who has abandoned contemporary clothing over the last 10 years, and now favours a tailcoat, cravat and top hat. Now in case anyone thinks I’m about to mock this young gent, you’d be completely mistaken. I celebrate being different, I applaud his confidence and lack of conformity. Can’t see it catching on in our far right shuls, but you have to say it out loud – it’s one heck of an improvement from the dull and dreary jeans, blue shirts and trainers, all in various shades of dirty. Aside from the accessory accoutrements of bad taste, like sunglasses tucked in where a tie would normally be worn.

For my own fashion passion, I grew up secretly wishing I could transport myself back to the 1940s. I know it was post war austerity, but I liked the dress code, tzniut style, when women still looked – I guess – like women. In the 50s things certainly hotted up for the girls with full flouncy skirts, and in the 60s skirt lengths went from flouncy to mini. Being a youngster in the 70s, I remember with sheer horror a lime green flared trouser suit which was presented to me: ‘on trend’ I most certainly was, but I suffered nightmares for years, in case a photo of me wearing it should ever surface.

But back to young Zack. He has taught himself how to make these garments [brocaded frock coats, waistcoats and pantaloons etc] and has set himself up as a tailor, with clients across the world. His recent short interview on BBC went viral, and he garnered nearly 30,000 likes on Twitter. In fact he could probably be cast in one of the upcoming period dramas. Good on him!

I am pretty upset to read that users of class A substances can apparently now avoid prosecution, if they agree to undergo treatment. Police forces in Avon & Somerset, Durham, Cleveland and Thames Valley are offering deferred prosecution if users desist from reoffending for four months. (Not sure how they plan to monitor that ….) Now why is it that should you be unlucky to be caught for example on a residents bay in Hendon, a mere 3 minutes after restricted time takes effect, you will get your £50 fine, no negotiation for being a first time offender, no offer of going on a resident bay/ parking awareness course, nada. I know which is socially more damaging, and it’s not the presence of a Fiat punto on a quiet residential street. Traffic wardens, like all predatory creatures, stalk with intent, and are merciless to parking oversights (like your ticket at the shops ran out 3 minutes ago), or to compassion (you’re pushing a buggy like a grand prix driver to get back in time, but failed to make the deadline). So should we perhaps keep a database of narcotic offenders, and send them text reminders not to re-offend with their favourite toxin, in the same way your pay-for-parking text reminds you?

News from across the pond: American Cori Gauff, aged 15, was overcome with emotion after beating the five-time Wimbledon champion, Venus Williams in the first round of matches. Now putting aside the 24 year age difference and the fact that Cori was sitting a science exam only a few days earlier, one still wouldn’t expect Venus to be knocked out in straight sets by a novice. But she was. Cori said, “My goal is to win [Wimbledon]. In my science test I got a B, and today I give myself an A.”

Less happy news is of Californian student Jordan Lindsey, who has tragically died after being attacked by three sharks whilst she was snorkelling in the Bahamas. Aged only 21, she failed to hear the warnings shouted to her by her parents, and she suffered truly horrific injuries. Despite being rushed to the Doctors’ Hospital in Nassau, Jordan was pronounced dead on arrival. Her father said it was ‘ironic she should die from a shark attack, given her love for animals.’ Hmm. I’m still not loving sharks, even though I am a genuine animal lover. A second story appeared in the Telegraph (2 July 2019) which resonated too; Rosa King (33) a zookeeper of 13 years experience at Hamerton Zoo Park, Cambridgeshire, was cleaning the windows of the tiger enclosure, when she was suddenly attacked by a male tiger, causing devastating injuries which made it impossible for her to be saved. At the inquest it transpired that a gate had been left open. It was then stated that it was Rosa’s job to check the gates were locked. Her mother said, ‘it was clear from the age of two that (her daughter) would end up working with animals.’ Both cases were very tragic, both deaths probably avoidable, but both young ladies followed their dreams, entering a danger zone, convinced they were safe.

We have an obligation to do hishtadlus, by making our little effort to be safe, and we trust the Almighty will do the rest.

Recent health warnings indicate that 75% of toddlers are eating too much, mainly because parents are feeding them ‘healthy’ snacks which are literally no better than sweets. A Public Health England investigation of over 1000 foods aimed at babies and small children, showed some fruit based products are 3/4 sugar. Last year more than £100 million was spent on these products, a massive rise in consumption over the previous 5 years. Fruit pouches, purées are not the safe haven one might presume. We are being duped by stylish marketing and peer pressure. One product sold as ‘one of your five-a-day’ contained 68 grams of sugar per 100 grams. They are no more part of a genuine five-a-day than my walking upstairs constitutes exercise. On a different subject, a report recently published by Yale university calls for prehabilitation – those newly diagnosed with cancer should eat lots of fruit & vegetables, limit alcohol, keep a healthy weight and exercise for 150 minutes a week. This to be part of an exercise and nutrition plan to boost chances of recovery and survival. Golly….. I better get out and start walking!!

Another study, this one from Cancer Research UK states that obesity has now overtaken smoking as the leading cause of cancer. Excess weight is contributing to 4000 more cases of bowel, kidney, ovarian and liver cancer than those caused by smoking. One third of children are overweight or obese by the time they start secondary school. Studies have found that obesity causes 13 types of cancer, and also makes some of these more aggressive. The study shows that obese people now outnumber smokers by two to one. This is very very worrying.

One of the first ever oncologists in Britain has just died, aged 87. Professor James Malpas was on the staff at St Bartholomew’s in London, and worked with colleagues to make a drug called MVPP which gave remarkable results in the field of Hodgkin’s disease, improving survival rates dramatically. He decided to study medicine after his GP took out his appendix. [not sure if this means his GP was also a surgeon, or he was an impromptu clinic patient] He is survived by his son Tim, who became a paediatrician. His other son James, an art historian, predeceased him.

Finally congratulations to Sally-Anne Huang, on becoming the first female Head in the 500 year history of St Paul’s School for boys. Currently Head at James Allen’s Girls School in Dulwich, she will be moving to the £38,990 fees per annum school, whose alumni include Samuel Pepys and John Milton. As High Master she may oversee the introduction of a co-ed sixth form. I shudder at the maths of sending just one child there (around £280,000). I wonder if there are parents with mega families on roll, happy to provide private education for their five or six siblings, lined up for attendance. In the same breath, a spokesman for the Headmasters’ and Headmistresses’ Conference, which represents Eton, Harrow amongst others, said “rising fees had played a part in ‘driving parents away’ from private education.” Numbers attending private schools have dropped to a five year low. I know all too well what a teacher’s salary in the state sector is. Even in the world of privilege [when I was offered Head of Music in a school over the river] I, as the teacher, would struggle to afford to send my own children there.

Oh well, there’s always the Lottery….

Love

Jacqueline x