Cataract operation number two

 At last. The day of my second cataract operation at Ealing Hospital. This time it's the left eye. The right eye was dealt with on March 23rd as a result of which I was able to read books and look at computer screens without the need of glasses. That was groundbreaking. This operation is supposed to improve my long distance vision. Currently it is so poor I cannot read the number on an approoaching bus when I stand at a bus stop and like an idiot I don't know if I am supposed to hail it or not. Hence my preference for bus stops with only one bus route, as I know what is coming. 

My appointment was for 12 noon. Then I got a call 3 days ago asking me to come at 7.45am. Finally yesterday another call. Can I come in at 1.30pm. Next thing is the logistical problem. I have to dilate the eye beforehand so I cannot drive to the hospital. I come in by bus. The problem is that I have to be collected after the op, but Albina is too weak to drive our car. Finally my old mate Stefan volunteers to help collect me and I suggest somewhere around 3pm. 

I forgot. This is the NHS. That is not how things work these days. These are not the balmy Blair-Brown years. The NHS is crippled by the Tories. Staff shortages, difficulties with moving patients into nursing homes, and so on. By 3 o'clock it becomes obvious that I won't be seen begore 6pm, provided the staff do not decide to give up and leave early. The two Polish assistants at the operation know me well and suggest I go downstairs to the cafe and have something to eat and drink. So I buy a magazine, have exhausted all the information I can find in today's Guardian. I read about the covid riots in China, the massive killings of women and child demonstators in Iran, the eastward tilt in the axis of political and strategic inluence in Europe from West to East, with everyone expecting Poland to play a pivotal role, once it has a sensible government. When I trot back upstairs there is still a queue of patients waiting and I realize it will be 7pm before I get treated.

Finally, I am invited in. The young lady surgeon, Miss Sarmina Khan, is impressive and funny, and says her Polish staff have told her all about me. We all agree that, despite the late hour and the fact that I am the tenth (and last) patient of the day, the vibes in the room are positive and the team get down to it. While I lay flat with a small neck rest, they drop gallons of some liquid into my eye which they forcibly keep open with metal clamps, then they inject me with a local anaesthetic and cover my face with something like a shroud, while they poke around in the eye through a slit in the shroud for about fifteen minutes. I am under their spell, not moving, but being very much alive. In that time they flush out the lens and replace it with an artificial plastic lens which is attached to the back wall of the original lens to keep it all in place. That new lens is shaped into giving me a much better long distance vision (my choice) to match the imroved short distance vision in my other eye. I could not see much of this, but at a certain moment I felt liquid pouring down the side of my face. I felt chatty and relaxed but decided not to say anything as I did not want them to lose concentration.

When it was all done I was helped up feeling somewhat unsteady and taken back to the waiting room for final instructions. I was wearing a very rough and ready eye patch stuck down with tape. I was told to keep it on all night and then remove it in the morning and start the post-operation treatment with regular eye drops for the next 2 weeks. We shall see how that works out, and finally we shall see whether I still need glasses at the end of the day. Will I be able to tell one bus route from another now? 

Farewell to Inglis Road

 

On our way back from Albina's chest X-ray at Hammersmith Hospital we decided to drive round to our old address at 48 Inglis Road, where we lived in our wonderful four bedroom house for 35 years, initially with my mother, and where our son was brought up. We had sold the property in 2018 for a £1.4 million to a family planning to rent it out. We later learned that the new owner had changed her mind and sold on the property to a developer, possibly the same developer whom we had refused earlier. In the meantime we had retrieved the housename "Casa Albina" and watched the property deteriorate and the beautiful garden we had kept going turned into a jungle. It was not our business any more, but we heard from the residents that they had fought like lions to prevent the erection of a three storey block of lates on the site. Unfortunately they lost.

This time we found that the worst had happened. There was no house. No sign even of our reinforced concrete floor erected on 32 metal pillars which had been installed when the house had been underpinned in 2009. All there was was a muddy field with the soil partly chrurned up, the surrounding brick wall and two gates still untouched, and the three magificent trees, a thuya, a yew and a horsechestnut, which had been protected by a tree preservation order  were still standing. We looked at the scene glumly and took some picture. This was where we had brought our five day old son after he was born at Q Charlotte Hospital, surrounded by jubilant family and friends: here was the site of his combined tiger walk, swing and slide apparatus, where he entertained his childhood friends; here I entertained my Council colleagues as we plotted changes in our committee structures; here our close friends Ewa and Jacek had their wedding reception; here I held my rowdy 40th, and 60th birthday parties running happy and half naked round the garden under the protection of our surrounding walls; here my mother had her bridge parties; here we had that fabulous Easter Monday water fight with some fifteen young people, while Albina was away in Poland; here we constructed our fabulous bedroom with the long mirrored cupboard through which there was a secret entrance to our en suite bathroom; here was where I consolidated my library with shelves weighed down by more than 4000 books. This was our world, Albina's, mine, my mother's, my son's, so popular with our admiring friends, especially my mother's Polish friends, who called it a typical country "dworek". We drove home in silence.

I sent pictures on What's App, including a short videod sweep of the site, to Sandro. He immediately replied not to send any more pictures. He wouldn't want to show it, but I think he was upset, very upset, more even than us. After all it was the site of his childhood, which had now been ripped from his existing reality, and to which he could not physically return. Ever.

While I heard nothing more from The Tablet, I translated my own article into Polish and forwarded it to the Polish Weekly, the official newspaper for the Polish community, but with a circulation of less than 1000, despite heavy subsidies from Poland and from Polish organizations in London. Normally I also circulate my articles to other Polish magazines and websites, so they are read quite widely.

The future of the Polish Weekly was under discussion at the zoom AGM of Polish Cultural Foundation on Saturday. Only 11 of us attended and there was nobody there below the age of 60. It's a dying publication but with a long history as part of an unbroken sequence of Polish printed publication in London since 1942 when the then Polish Daily was merged with the Soldiers Weekly, It switched from being a daily newspaer to a weekly one in 2015 after 75 years of publication,  but it was only a newspaper for the older generations who had survived the war but were now literally dying out. It was also the newspaper for established Polish organizations, but completely unknown to the average Polish resident in the UK.

In its dying days it is trying to survive as a website and has received considerable funds for that purpose, as well as a promise of a large subsidy from my old enemies at the Polish Combatants Association Trust Fund. They seemed rather shy of raising the issue at the AGM, so I chose to raise and asked when they would seek to present the case to the Polonia Aid Foundation Trust (PAFT), whose support would be vital, and where I myself could possibly use my influence to secure a larger grant. However, they said that currently they were not in a position to make a presentation, as the key person who would be operating the new website was on a maternity leave. Give it another year. After all, what is one year in a history that rolls on through the decades from 1942.   

Albina is back

 Albina is back from Poland, refreshed and happy. I met her off the plane in Terminal 5.She travelled club class, so she had already eaten and was well rested. I kept her up to date on a couple of things as we drove home and reminded her of her coming hospital appointments, as well as my cataract operation next Monday. As she had been with her cousin Hania, and her son Robert, she was exceptionally up to date on sport, full of admiration for the English and Saudi victories in Qatar and angry at the sluggush defensive display by Poland in the match against Mexico. Mind you, as soon as she had sorted out her correspondence over the last month and updated her medicine cabinet, she trotted off to bed reminding me to wake her at 8.30pm. Curiously, when she got up, she switched on the TV to watch the Belgium-Canada match. Albina watching football? You can see Hania's influence now. Wonder how long that will last.

In the meantime Brendan Walsh of The Tablet had shown some interest in my text on the plight of Poles in Belarus, and I shortened the text a little at his request and added some comments on the Vatican's embarassing silence on the crimes of Putin and Lukashenka. They still have this centuries' old dream in the Vatican of uniting the Churches, east and west. A pious lovely dream. But the East is now under the domination of the Russian Orthodox Church, and the Russian Orthodox Church is part of the state, regardless of whether the state is Ivan the Terrible, or Stalin, or Putin. Even in Communist days, when the Soviet Union was the supreme embodiment of state atheism, the miserable patriarch in Moscow pretended to be a religious leader, but was actually part of the state apparatus. Somehow, so many Popes in turn, John XXIII, Paul VI and now Francis, did not seem to understand this. In pursuit of this empty dream they dither, they confabulate, they make earnest statements in favour of peace and dialogue, but they treat the oppressor and the oppressor on a par, where the only possible method of dialogue is the cudgel in the hand of the oppressor over the head of the oppressed. 

Also, I have had a run of bad luck with my nosebleeds. I spent 15 minutes trying to stop the flow at the office yesterday. I rushed to the loo to contain it there, but it continued unabated for far too long. When it finally stopped the room looked like a scene from a gangland execution. Feeling fine this morning I thought I would pop in to the gym at the Brentford Fountain before collecting Albina from the airport. Bad decision. The nosebleeds returned as soon as I had finished 15 minutes on the rowing machine and was just mounting the leg press. It lasted for an even longer period than at the office yesterday, and it was all quite embarassing. Blood was everywhere and I tried to contain it with my vest. When I finally picked up Albina I mentioned it to her. She then berated me for going to the gym the day after the first serious nosebleed. That sounded quite logical. I'm a bit of a chump there.

The interrogation did not stop there. When can I get the clinic to do something about it? What could I say?I have an appointment to see the Ear, Nose and Throat specialist at West Middlesex. Great! When? On Thursday 15th June 2023. That's seven months from now. There's the NHS in action. Words fail us both.

To the Power Station

 

I woke half-heartedly this morning, feeling no particular urge to do anything exciting, like clean my teeth, or physically get up and make a cup of tea. I had just enough energy to switch on the button that brings out the television embedded at the foot of our bed and switch it on to watch the news and then Laura Kuenssberg's programme. Cop 27 in Egypt finished with many of Glasgow's promises on fossil fuel from last year left unconfirmed. The scientists say that the goal of a 1.5C maximum upgrade on the temperature in the XIXth century by 2050 is no longer achievable. We will lose many species for sure, more glaciers will melt in the Alps and the Himalayas, most of the coral reef will disappear, and the fires and floods will continue with biblical effects and increasing frequencies. We have just had our 8th billion baby and India has virtually caught up with China in population.The only good news on that front is that Lula has promised to prevent further damage to the rain forests in Brazil, Indonesia has planned to stop utilizing coal and the principle was established of a loss and damage fund for third world nations suffering from climatic disasters. Sadly, however, that fund does not possess a single dollar.

Then we have the Tories desolate because the latest budget will not save them from a calamitous election result and Labour also desolate because the latest budget will give them a bitter victory in two years time in which they will inherit all the tax increases, energy overreach and government cuts that the Tories have postponed. In the meantime we have plunged into recession without an anaesthetic. Thank you, Brexit, Covid, Putin and Truss. Kuenssberg tried to cheer us up with the latest Artemis launch but the thought of humans settling on the Moon by 2030 was not really relevant to our current concerns.    

To cheer myself up I decided to view the new retail development at the Battersea Power Station. This gigantic construction, with its two massive turbine rooms and four magnificent concrete chimneys, remains impressive, just as it did in 1929 when it was opened as a single coal-fired power station. The second turbine hall was added in the 1940s to meet with the energy capacity required for London. It was a magnificent piece of industrial architecture designed by Giles Gilbert Scott. I remember in the early 1970s, during the three day week under Edward Heath, standing on Chelsea Bridge at midnight, eating a hot snack from the all night hot dog stall and watching the collier barges surreptitiously and silently sailing into the Battersea Power Station jetty. 

Now the building remains colossal and there are lift excursions inside one of the 103 metre chimneys, three storeys of shops and bars and a cinema under the roof. The place is teeming with life. On the north side there is an ice rink and a fun fair reaching to the riverside. Yes, the place has life, but it has no real soul. The building, tamed and gutted for so many years, does not inspire and energize within its lifeless walls. 

However, adjoining the south side are some fanciful residential blocks, which look like a badly designed lego construction in white bricks with windowed balconies popping out of the building. Certainly eye catching, and actually a very clever layout of what I am sure are roomy and comfortable interiors. 

On the way I had picked up a fresh copy of my dear friend's book, in which my sensuous and lovely Grazyna Maxwell has written about her brother after he got selected for a wrinklies reality show called the "Love Spa". It was an original idea to have people in their sixties and seventies meet and undergo all the toing and froing of a Big Brother experience but with the ambition of showing that these old folk still having a goal in life, and can still find adventure and romance. I have seen pictures in the book of them dancing, dressing up for an XVIIIth century ball and zooming along a high wire, and I have started to read this. I promised to give Grazyna my estimation of the book, and so far it looks promising. I wonder whether it will be a bitchfest, as well as a love in, and whether her brother, who is a widower, actually finds romance.   On my way home I dropped in on a retro concert with pre-war Polish and English songs, where a lot of guests turned up in flapper gear. The atmosphere in the POSK basement, the so call Jazz Club, was electric, as the singers crooned to our delight along with some quite suggestive songs, such as "I'm too frightened to sleep alone", which had been a hit in the Polish 1930s cabaret scene. There were some wonderful gifts auctiond off and I got myself a beautiful Japanese doll in a deep red kimono. I paid only £100 and I felt guilty as I think the organizers had hoped to auction it at a higher price. Should I offer them more money? I will ask Albina when she arrives. 

Visit by our MP

 On Friday I had arranged for our Hammersmith MP, Andy Slaughter, to visit POSK and meet the new re-elected Chairman, Marek Laskiewicz. Also the two local Ravenscourt Ward Councillors, Liz Collins and Patrick Walsh, were also invited. This was an easy task for me as Andy and I have cooperated in the past and I have invited him to meet a number of organizations here, and we have shared political platforms. Also they are all fellow Labourites and as a past Labour Councillor and parliametary candidate (twice), we were all on the same wavelength, at least politically.

The meeting in the POSK gallery went very well. Marek and the new Secretary, Monika, guided the three of them on a tour of POSK, showing them the new Atrium, some of the larger halls, the theatre, the library, the bookshop, and finally the restaurant, where we stopped for a coffee. Marek seemed very pleased with the meeting and he got the councillors to agree to include POSK events in the Hammersmith Council calendar. Liz Collins and I stayed to have dinner at the restaurant and we chatted anout "cabbages and kings", notably, our families, the budget, the war in Ukraine, the plight of Poles in Belarus and the attraction of Polish cheesecake. We also talked of the possibility of POSK provided her and Patrick with space for a monthly surgery. From my own experience as a councillor, I remember that  surgeries are mostly held in lonely places, like school buildings late at night, and particularly for women councillors, there is the question of security. In POSK, with as permanent daytime and evening reception staff, they would undoubtedly be safe. I mentioned it to Marek after she left and he thought it an excellent idea for improving council-POSK relations and providing a little extra income.

Cruise - We miss Shanghai

 Have just had a troubling letter from Fred. Olsen Cruise Lines.

Because of very complicated Covid-19 protocols for tourists in China it would not be practical to pull in at Shanghai. This is quite frustrating because I had spent considerable time preparing my own and Albina's visa aplications for that one day in China. It goes into 8 pages and included details of our parents, what other visas would be on our passports, details of what charities we belong to (they do not like NGOs in China) and even details of my Polish passport, despite the fact that I would be using my UK passport for the trip.

It also means that we will be by-passing China, which I had really hoped to include in the list of the 40 or so countries I have visited so far. Instead we would spend an extra day in Singapore. I wonder if that means that we will no longer be passing through Taiwan Straits and missing sighting all those Chinese and U.S. warships in confrontation? That would have been interesting. 

Fred. Olsen also said that our India trip would be under threat. This is because there is no online e-visa application system for visas for UK citizens. That would have been really bad as Albina and I would be missing out on Mumbai, Agra and Kerala. If that happens they would compensate us with Phuket in Thailand and Kuala Lumpur in Malaysia, both of which we have already visited. They were holding out the hope that because of the latest trade talks more skilled Indian citizens would be allowed to come to the UK legally. In thast event the e-visa facility would be restored for Brits.

As it is, I was prepared for this as I have completed our Indian visa applications online and have booked a visit at the Indian visa clearance centre in Hounslow for next Wednesday. I do not understand why others could not do the same. If Mumbai and Agra do get dropped I will claim for compensation.  

Polish Minority in Belarus under threat of Russification

 On Wednesday I met a lady from Grodno (Hrodno in Belarusian) who runs a theatrical group, which now can no longer perform publicly because of Lukaszenka's ban on public use of the Polish language. Now members of her troupe, which includes an orchestra, will only be able to rehearse privately or online.

We talked about the possibility of funding a handful of them to come to London and to perform in POSK for a week or so.

In the meantime I had prepared a report on the situation in Belarus and am looking for a newspaper or magazine that would be interested in publishing it. Hope I find something in the next week. 

Here is the text.

 Polish Minority in Belarus under threat of Russification

With the turmoil and destruction in next door Ukraine hogging the media headlines, we are paying less attention than before to the internal repression now proceeding unchecked in Belarus. There are currently some 1,400 political prisoners in Belarus, many of whom are being beaten during interrogation and kept in unhealthy overcrowded prisons. Some of the prisoners have been dying in unexplained but sinister circumstances. Other members of the opposition, like former presidential candidate, Svietlana Cichanouska, languish abroad. The Belarusian dictator, Aleksandr Lukashenka, has been consolidating his power base following his fraudulent election victory in 2020, and is now assisting Vladimir Putin in seeking to extend the theatre of war to the northern borders of Ukraine and to other neighbouring countries, like Poland.

Lukashenka no longer takes account of the reaction of his western neighbours and is now turning against the national minorities that identify with those countries. In particular, he is persecuting the sizeable Polish minority, which had been settled in the western border territories of Belarus, especially in the Hrodno province, since the fifteenth century. Official questionable Belarusian statistics from the 2009 census indicate the Polish population of Belarus at 295,000. However, 413,000 Poles were recorded under a previous poll held in 1989 by the Soviet authorities and according to the Ministry of Foreign Affairs of Poland, the number is as high as 1,100,000. It forms the second largest ethnic minority in the country after the Russians, at around 3.1% of the total population. Furthermore, Polish authorities had received more than 162,000 applications for Polish identity cards from Belarusian citizens with Polish roots.

Since 1937 Belarus underwent intense Russification under Soviet rule, which led to the suppression of all non-Russian languages in this territory, including even Belarusian. The collapse of the Soviet Union in 1990 led to the re-emergence of a Polish self-identity and the opportunity to speak Polish and to let Polish culture flower. Following the Polish-Belarusian treaty, signed in 1992, several independent Polish cultural and social organizations emerged, including the Union of Poles in Belarus (ZPB) with 20,000 members, the Polish Education Society (PMS), the Polish Institute in Minsk, the Mickiewicz Museum in Novogrudok, and Polish cultural centres in Lida, Mohilev and other towns in Belarus. There were more than 200 Roman Catholic parishes in Belarus, often run by Polish speaking priests. Four Polish day schools were set up with funds raised in Poland, including the largest in Hrodno, with 620 pupils, offering them the chance to study afterwards in a Polish university with a Polish scholarship. 

A rich Polish culture extends back in history to when the whole of Belarus was part of the amorphous multi-ethnic and religiously tolerant Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth, and when Polish was the language of the social elites. For example, a native of Belarus was the leading XIXth century romantic poet, Adam Mickiewicz, who is honoured today as the national poet of Poland, Belarus and Lithuania, even though he wrote only in Polish. This historic tradition, as well as the Polish minority’s distinctly Roman Catholic faith, had always been resented by the Russian-speaking authorities in Belarus, and that includes Lukashenka himself.  

Lukaszenka had earlier tried to divide the Polish community by interfering in the internal elections of the Union of Poles, and confiscating the Union’s property when the “wrong“ Chairman was elected. Nevertheless, the unofficial Union had continued to function under the leadership of a teacher, Andzelika Borys, and had identified itself with the mass democratic movement which challenged the fraudulent presidential election results of 2020.

In March last year following the popular annual celebrations on the feast of St Casimir, a Polish saint, five ZPB local leaders were arrested on trumped charges of organizing illegal gatherings and were even threatened with charges of treason. Three of them were expelled permanently with their families to Poland, but Andzelika Borys, and ZPB vice-chairman, the journalist Andrzej Poczobut, remained in prison. They were charged under article 130 para 3 of the Criminal Code of the Belarusian Republic “for inciting national and religious hatred and furthering discord on the basis of national, religious and linguistic identity, as well as the rehabilitation of Nazism carried out by a group of people”. Andzelika Borys was released from prison in March this year because of her poor health and is currently awaiting trial under house arrest. Her colleague, Andrzej Poczobut, who is also correspondent for the Polish liberal newspaper “Gazeta Wyborcza”, has been languishing in prison for more than 600 days, awaiting trial. According to Philipp Fritz of “Die Welt” he could be facing a ten or twelve year sentence, or perhaps even the death penalty. Apart from accusations of “rehabilitating Nazism”, he is supposed to be guilty of calling for sanctions, “whose aim would be to undermine national security”. He is listed on the Belarus national register of “terrorists”.

After abolishing the Union of Poles, the regime has turned to eradicating the Polish language in schools. Lukashenka is subverting the Belarusian constitution which allows national minorities to run schools teaching in minority languages. Since September, despite massive protests by parents, all four Polish day schools, in Hrodno, Volkovysk, Mohilev and Brest, have been transformed into Russian speaking schools, following a new Education Code, introduced last year, which prevents the establishment of education centres in Belarus which would teach in minority languages. The headmistress of the school in Brest, Anna Paniszewa, was also arrested in March last year for organizing a meeting with her pupils about wartime ani-Nazi and anti-Soviet partisans. Under the new Code, Polish literature can be taught in the Polish language, but for just one hour in the week, and subject to the permission of the local authority. There would be no more state examinations in the Polish language. In September the Supreme Court decreed the winding up of the Polish Education Society, and confiscated their expensive headquarters in Hrodno. At the same time, the local Polish Cultural Centres in Belarus had been closed down, one by one, and their property, which had been funded by cultural organizations in Poland, was confiscated.

He is also trying to eradicate traces of Poland’s past. The local authorities in Lida are planning to churn up the local Catholic cemetery, first opened in 1797. It includes many historic Polish funerary monuments and the graves of Polish airmen and soldiers killed in the Polish-Soviet war of 1920 and in the wartime resistance movement. In August local authorities destroyed a cemetery with Polish Home Army soldiers at Surkonty, including the grave of legendary one-armed commander, Colonel Maciej Kalenkiewicz. Destruction has taken place in at least ten cemeteries with Polish memorials and gravestones this year. Pavel Latushka, former Belarusian Ambassador to Poland, has blamed a desire for vengeance against Poland as being responsible earlier this year for the destruction of the graves of the Polish Home Army soldiers, citing the example of the cemetery in Mikuliski. 

Polish Catholic churches still remain, as well as the Seminary in Hrodno, but most priests with Polish citizenship have had to leave, and fear of prosecution prevents any independent Polish cultural activities in churches. In September, after a minor fire in a backroom, the iconic XIXth century Catholic “Red Church” in the centre of Minsk (it was called “red” because of its distinctive red brickwork) was closed for an indefinite period. The priests and parishioners were told to clear out all their property by the middle of October, despite an appeal by the Catholic Church hierarchy. The church was used once as a sanctuary for street demonstrators in 2020, and the police had had no hesitation in marching in and carting them off to prison. At one stage the former head of the Catholic Church in Belarus, Archbishop Kondrusiewicz, a Belarusian citizen, had been barred from returning to Belarus from Poland, after he had prayed for political prisoners in Belarus outside the walls of a prison.

During a meeting in London this week with a Polish theatrical producer in Belarus, I was told that Polish cultural activities, like dances and plays, could only take place in private accommodation, and even then, there was the constant fear of being denounced by unsympathetic neighbours.

“Belarus is under Russian occupation, and the authorities in Minsk are fulfilling the ideology of the Kremlin,” says Andrzej Pisalnik, editor of the popular Polish website “znadniemna.pl” and ZPB activist. He had been arrested for subversive activity, along with his wife, and they were facing a heavy prison sentence. They agreed to being forcibly repatriated to Poland after their 10-year-old son was threatened with being sent to a children’s home “For more than a month,” says Pisalnik, “they claim to be “denazifying” Ukraine, and now they want the total elimination of all Polish life in the occupied territory of Belarus”.

The exiled leader of the democratic movement in Belarus, Svietlana Cichanouska, has stated, while in Poland, that the closure of Polish schools in Hrodno province is an act of revenge for the support that Poland has given to the Belarusian opposition, and now against the war in Ukraine. There have been international protests in Poland and Lithuania, but Western countries have shown little interest at this relentless persecution of a national minority, which is overshadowed by the current war in Ukraine.

Not only Polish culture is under threat from Russification. Belarusian democratic leader Aleksandar Milinkievich believes that “Belarus is undergoing the Soviet policy of destroying national identity and ending the teaching in languages other than Russian.” For similar restrictions have led to the closure of two Lithuanian language schools and two Ukrainian ones. Even the Belarusian language is under threat as it may be relegated solely now to the teaching of Belarusian history. Belarusian and Russian are both considered official languages of Belarus, but only 23% of the 9.67m population speaks the former, whereas more than 70.2% per cent speaks the latter. No more than 10% of Belarusians say they communicate in Belarusian in their day-to-day lives, mostly in the country villages. In the academic year 2016-2017 near 128,000 students were taught in Belarusian language (13.3% of total), but many of the village schools are now closing. This year, a number of Belarusian language printing presses and bookshops have been closed down and their owners arrested. 

This official Belarusian/Russian policy of Russification has even wider implications. It is reflected in the attempt by Russia to eliminate all aspects of distinctive Ukrainian culture in Ukraine, as well as its political independence. Ultimately the Russian government would wish to extend this policy of Russification to all its more vulnerable neighbours in Europe and Asia.

Wiktor Moszczynski

Independence Day concert

 I was roped in by by my colleague Monika to help with supervising a young people's concert in POSK to commemorate Polish Independence Day. Polish Independence Day in Poland clashes every year with Armistice Day in the UK, and both even ocurred in the same year - 1918 - at the end of the First World War. In the past 10 years I had participated in the annual marchpast the Cenotaph on Remembrance Sunday. Initially, as Chairman of the Friends of Polish Veterans' Association, I had organized the Polish contingent in that march. Later, I just participated, However, this year I took a break as I thought my presence superfluous, now that I have resigned as Chairman, Nevertheless, I felt it difficult to refuse Monika's plea, as she was organizing this on behalf of the Federation of Poles in GB. Also Albina was still away in Poland recuperating in a health spa, so I was free to follow my own devices.

Actually Monika, and her friend Agnieszka, had organized everything, by decorating the hall and preparing a programme with a couple of Polish Saturday schools. All I had to do was to make an appearance at a Mass commemoraating Independence Day in the Polish "garrison" church in Hammersmith and then steer the VIPs into the front two rows of seats in the theatre. That included a female consul, a military attache, and several female chairs of Polish education organizations, as well as the heads of the two participating schools. Easy peasy. I watched the performing children with interest. Those from the Forest Hill school performed in several groups representing different classes, and they gave a spirited performance of the history of Poland from the loss of independence in the XVIIth century to its restoration more than 120 years later. Those from the Panufnik Music School performed as individuals, either singing or playing instruments, and displayed a variety of artistic levels, as well as different strata of self-confidence. Also an 11 year old boy came on stage as an individual to give a solo performance on a Vilnian xylophone. 

Yet their Polish language was largely fluent and accent free, despite the fact they were largely born in England, and a sizeable proportion of them came from mixed families. You could tell that from the non-Polish surnames of some of the young performers, and occasionally from a darker hue in their skin colour. Young Polish families are certainly integrating, but luckily not assimilating. They live in an English environment at school, yet their Polish language and culture remains intact. So nothing has changed that much from my childhood, although there were fewer mixed marriages then, and certainly no intermixing of races. For a start, there were no black or Indian families in the country for them to mix with.  

Every time I see these children perform I have feelings of regret that I was never able to coax Sandro into going to a Polish saturday school. He had problems adjusting to any establishment at the time, not just Polish school or scouts. However as a result he seems to remain largely oblivious to his Polish roots, still speaking in Polish occasionally with his mother. I have no sense that any of my rich Polish heritage will pass on to him or his children (if any) in the future. Of course, he now has a Polish passport, but that was largely to make it easier to travel and possibly settle in future in Finland, following Brexit.

Eltham Palace

 

The first I had ever heard of Eltham Palace was yesterday evening as I was checking some notes in a guide book and still wondering why there was no mention of Reading. I chanced on the name as a lesser known former royal palace which had retained the old walls, the moat and the traditional medieval grand hall but had an ostentatious modern wing attached in the last century. It was described in the guide book as London's hidden secret attraction, tucked away in London's more exclusive south eastern suburb. I resolved there and then that evening to visit it today. To enforce my resolve I even paid for an entrance ticket and a guide book online.

I reached Mottingham station, a remote outpost on the Gravesend line, accessible from Waterloo East and London Bridge. A quick check on the map showed that I was less than a mile away from the palace, but I still had a long steep trudge uphill to reach it. I was immediately enchanted as the palace is approached across an authentic XVth century bridge, built apparently for Edward IV, and led over a picturesque moat surrounded by authentic early medieval walls from the XIVth century. Across the bridge, and behind a proud lime tree, lay sprawled a hybrid palace consisting of a 1930's millionaire's mansion on the left and a XIVthe century great hall on the right. 

Originally the royal palace had been a manor house and hunting lodge presented by the Bishop of Durham to the luckless Edward II, who sought in turn to appease his powerful French wife Isabella by granting it to her. It did not help and she still overthrew him and eventually murdered him. She fortified the walls of the palace and brought up her son, Edward III, here. Fanciful tales linked Eltham as the site where Edward first instituted the Order of the Garter, although the garter was more of a male attire at the time, rather than a female one, so I'm not sold on the story of the royal mistress's fallen garter. His son Richard II was largely responsible for the garden (before he was murdered). It was at Eltham that Henry IV entertained the Byzantine Emperor Manuel II, and Henry V hosted the German Emperor Sigismund. However the great hall and the bridge were erected later by Edward IV. The royals, especially Henry VIII, enjoyed and enriched this palace up until the English Civil War, when the place was looted and abandoned, At one stage the crumbling palace became a farmhouse and the great hall acted as a barn. 

In the 1920s the Courtauld family were allowed to buy the property and build a new mansion alongside the old hall. It is that strange combination of the old and the new that amazed me when I crossed the bridge. When I entered the modern building I was struck by the most exquisite Art Deco furnishing that I had ever seen. It covered the spectacular circular entrance hall with its brown veneer panelled walls and white furniture laid out on a large peach coloured circular rug, which is complemented in turn by a circular domed roof above it, punctuated by glass apertures letting in the light to offset the darker veneer walls. A flawless time capsule. The adjoining dining room had beautiful black lacquered doors and panels encrusted with various animals. Upstairs there were more opulent masterpieces of art deco in the two master bedrooms and the adjoing guest bedrooms. Each had en suite bathrooms, one of which had a marble bath with gold taps, overlooked by a gold mosaic vault and an exquisite white female statue. Another oddity was a cage in the corridor which housed the families' pet lemur, which had the run of the house and sometimes bit the guests it didn't like. From these rooms there was a corridor which led onto the gallery that overlooked the genuine medieval grand hall. And yes, it was grand. It must have been as long as a football pitch and had the height of a cathedral nave. Its interior had plenty of light because of the numerous windows, some of which included stained glass. The hall was topped with an oak hammer beam roof complete with drooping pendants and comparable in size and detail to the roof I saw at Westminster Hall. The overall impact of this hybrid palace of contrasting styles and ages was stunning. I was so pleased with my sudden, almost whimsical, decision to travel here.

                                       

The gardens were just as eclectic, a mixture of Richard II, Henry VIII and the Courtauld family. There are extensive meadows, enclosed rose gardens, a picnic area, a historic wooden bridge, secret gates and passages through the medieval and Tudor brick work and a picturesque moat surrounded on the one side by Isabella's wall and on the other with a steep grassy bank. The moat has no crocodiles, but mysterious black fish, the size of koy, can be seen frolicking in the water. I sense they would be more than a match for any passing heron. I could see myself coming back here sometime with Albina, or with friends.      

In search of Reading

 I sent the balance of £3000 to Rol Cruise and also booked the 3 day trip to Mumbai, Agra (for the Taj Mahal) and Kerala. I believe that will be a popular one, so I had better get my booking in early.

 Another day to myself. I'm being spoilt. Now that from last week the Elizabeth Line has a service straight through from Reading to Abbey Wood and Shenfield, and all of that accessible to me for free on my London Freedom Pass, I decided to try the libne for a visit to Reading. Once again I parked for free at the Ealing Broadway Shopping Centre, as they are still rebuilding one of the exits, and jumped on a train to Reading at Ealing Broadway. The Elizabeth Line is so sleek, silent and smooth as it purrs along the track, you hardly notice the time passing, especially if you're immersded in a newspaper. Within 45 minutes I was at Reading Central station.

What should I do, or see, in Reading? Well, I was determined to wander around a shopping centre and to have a meal there, but I had no idea what to visit. When I got to the station I looked for a map of the town. There was no map available at the WH Smith store, no map available at the otherwise well stocked Waterstones, and no map of Reading at any vantage point in the street. The only map outside the station showed where you could catch various buses, but it did not give a clue as to where these buses were going. I was reduced to referring to Uncle Google for my information on where to shop, what to view and to find an appropriate map. I felt it was some kind of conspiracy by the local town council to ensure that no stray tourists should end up in the streets of Reading. It made me equally determined to continue my search.

Luckily the town centre seemed to be near the station, so I did not need a bus. I wandered past the initial redbrick Victorian buildings in the surrounding streets and soon chanced on a pedestrianized thoroughfare, brimming with traditional high street shops and banks and leading to the Broad Street Shopping Mall. Now that was a disappointment. They claim that this was the original shopping gallery in Reading, but unfortunately nearly a third of the potential retail premises were empty. I settled in a pleasant cafe, called Boswell's, for a coffee and a delightful raspberry cheesecake,and took stock.

Closer study on my phone revealed that the alternative end of Broad Street came to the town hall behind which were some abbey ruins. It was strange that the presence of this apparently ancient abbey was being kept a secret by the council. Eventually I reached the town hall, a sprawling but pleasant building, alongside a medieval church. Again no clue as to the whereabouts of the abbey site, so I wandered around the north side of the town hall and suddenly came across a small but delightful park called Forbury Gardens. It was dominated on one side by a mound with a seating area around a majestic plane tree.

 On the other side there was an uncharasteristic black statue of a gigantic lion, twice or even three times the size of a real lion. Of course you can get statues of lions in England as support figures for large monuments, as, say, in Trafalgar Square, but to see them just so isolated and so outsized fired my curiosity. I walked up close and found it was a war memorial listing several hundred soldiers from the Berkshire regiment killed in the Afghan Wars. It was dated 1886 (the date was in Roman numerals). I noticed that, unlike the Great War memorials, the officers were kept separate from the non-commissioned officers, who in turn were listed separately from the privates. Not very egalitarian, you might think. However, I was always under the impression that listing all soldiers, including privates, who died in battle, started at the end of World War One. Previously only the top officers were honoured and buried. The rest were gathered in a heap, stripped and transformed into fertilizer and soap, as happened after Waterloo. Yet this was an earlier example, and deserves merit for all that. The Berkshire Regiment suffered massive losses at the Battle of Maiwand in 1880, one of Britain's worst military disasters in her numerous colonial wars. All part of the Great Game, and in fact Kipling wrote a poem about it, but it must have been little consolation to the families of those soldiers from Reading and the surrounding countryside who perished for God knows what purpose, in the savage Afghan mountains.

                                         

And then a revelation! At the far corner of Forbury Gardens was a half hidden tunnel with an information board outside it stating in bold letters "You've Found the Abbey Ruins". Yes, I had found the secret entrance to the Abbey ruins, and with no thanks to Reading Council! I have never seen a British town before so secretive about its treasures. Yet I had taken up the challenge and found the secret walled garden. The ruins were indeed wondrous. There was a stillness and silence that blocked out noise from surrounding traffic. The building had been pulled down by King Charles I during the Civil War to prevent the Roundheads from using it as a fortress. However, the remaining 12th century walls and arches retained their majesty and their mystery. Reading Abbey had an important history as it was the site of the coronation and later the burial of King Henry I, son of the Conqueror.  In fact, the Abbey and its surroundings had been well served by kings that were called Henry. Henry I founded the abbey and was buried here, Henry II attended the official opening of the abbey, and Henry III gave Reading a royal charter. But Henry VIII was not so helpful. He closed down the abbey, and executed the last abbot.

I sneaked round the back of the Abbey Gardens, and came out onto the River Kennet, and then wandered back around the Victorian prison building to rejoin the centre of town and have a meal. Hold on a second? Did I say the prison building in Reading? Of course, we have the "Ballad of Reading Gaol", where poor Oscar Wilde had such a miserable time. And who says there is nothing to visit in Reading? Reading Council, please note.   

Richmond Park

 

A quick visit to the clinic for them to give another verdict on my swollen left leg and also to get a referral to Specsavers for a hearing test. Time to have these medical issues sorted before the big trip. The doctor gave me the referrals, not only for the hearing test, but also for the swollen leg where I was directed to West Middlesex Hospital. Hopefully that will not be delayed too much because of the coming nurses' strike. As it is, there are 7.1 million patients currently on hospital waiting lists, so just how can things get worse?

Following that I had nearly the whole day to myself  before a 7pm zoom conference with the Federation of Poles in Great Britain. So I drove to Richmond Park. I hoped to get to the central parking area but the road was blocked on the southern route as an area had been set up for the annual cull of the deer. So I parked at Broomfield Hill and trudged over to the central car park. I sat on a park bench for some time trying to read a newspaper in the brisk wind, Then I gave up, walked up through Spankers Hill Wood (I love that name!), and then over to the causeway between the pen ponds after passing through the so called Deer Park. Funnily enough, I have seen deer all over the place in Richmond Park in the past, but never in the Deer Park or at the pens. They're probably in hiding somewhere now, hoping to avoid the cull. It's a true darwinian selection as the weakest and least physically attractive are chosen for elimination. Natural selection, or ethnic cleansing?

While there, I got a call from Rolcruise reminding me that this was the last day in which to pay the remaining balance for our world trip. I had to apologize that I was not at home but suggested they ring in the afternoon when I would be back home. Sure enough, that afternoon I made contact again and transferred £29,000. A mere trifle. The balance of £3,000 I shall send tomorrow as I had criossed the limit of what Barclays would allow me to spend in any one day. We are committed now. There is no turning back. 

Embassy Worries

 Travelled straight from work to the Polish Embassy for the annual reception commemorating Polish Independence Day. I left the car at the Ealing Broadway Centre car park. There was a technical hitch at the car park, so the electronic gates were open and parking was for free. I caught the Elizabeth Line, now that there is a direct link through Paddington, and I travelled to Bond Street in just 15 minutes. The only problem with that was that I emerged at Hanover Square, completely and utterly disorientated. It took me nearly 25 minutes to figure out how to get to the Embassy in Portland Place. It should have taken me 10 minutes. I felt ashamed. Me, a Londoner by birth, to be completely baffled by Oxford Circus. I could not distinguish Regent Street from Oxford Street and Regent Street North from Regent Street South. These streets display no road names at the Circus end, so I wonder what the tourists, busy photographing the Christmas lights (already!), would make of it. 

Once in the Embassy, I slipped the blue ribbon of my Commander's Cross Order of Merit around my neck. It is the only time in the year when I can display it. Consul Balcerowski came up to me suddenly and introduced me to Professor Wilczek, the Ambassador. Surprisingly, I had not yet been introduced to him so far, despite the fact he had been here nearly a year. He eyed me carefully and nodded, implying he knew who I was. As I had been chatting at the time to the new Secretary and Treasurer of POSK, I introduced them to the Ambassador. I mumbled my thanks for the invitation, and then he was off. Nothing to write home about, though I was hoping at some stage to familiarize him with the need to fully relegitimize the Federation of Poles as the main representative voice of Poles in the UK. They should be playing a more visible role in events such as the transfer of the 3 presidents. Another time, perhaps.

Familiar faces and strangers. It makes me feel quite gloomy as I recognize fewer and fewer people. In time they become a blur, as I cannot tell apart the familiar from the strange. This particularly concerns the young(er) women who accost me and chat away, while I nod and reply, desperately trying to recall who they were. I failed initially to recognize Alicja Donimirska, the head of the Polish YMCA, whom I always admired, as I was thrown by her new hairstyle. It was by her husky voice that I finally recognized her, and also from the topic of conversation that I twigged at last who she was. I pointed out to her that she had not yet finalized her membership of POSK, even though I had forwarded her application to the POSK office. Another lady, I finally recalled, was the poet Kasia Zechetner, whom I met through the Union of Writers. I was further approached by a youngish lady, who had been a Polish City Club official, had been working with me some eight years ago in activating participation by Poles in local elections. It was a complete failure but she was pleased by the impact we supposedly made. Yet I still could not remember her name. And then there is happy go lucky Monika Tkaczyk who is on my wavelength in so many ways, and who did a selfie with me. 

I remember older faces better than the younger one. The wrinkles and silver hair reveal that they have marched to the relentless music of time in parallel with me, and I could read from the expressions on their  faces what is their current activity and state of health. I can recall them in their younger apparition, when the future lay before them and their energy and ambition drove them to perform their tasks. These were older friends, from Solidarity, from POSK, from the theatre, from earlier marches past the Cenotaph. I can still recall and mingle with them, balancing a glass of white wine and a tasty Embassy canape on one hand, without the dire need to identify them and to seek an avenue of escape, Now is the time to fill the remaining empty spaces in our diaries, as we promise to attend their coming events, be they concerts or lectures, or just social events. 

At one moment, an Embassy official invited me to speak to a camera about what I thought of celebrating Independence Day in the Polish Embassy. A somewhat strange request. I said the obvious thing about celebrating it since childhood in London, but being unable to celebrate it at the Embassy until the old Communist regime had collapsed. I ended on a lighter note by saying that at least it gives me an opportunity to show off my Commander's Cross.

Here and there in the conversation comes a smidgeon of events in the outside world, Russians retreating from Kherson, silly Williamson resigning, even sillier Matt Hancock exiling himself to the Queensland jungle, Trump announcing the red wave and threatening to promote his odious self for a new run at the presidency. Much as I admire Biden for his courage and determination, he cannot allow himself to put his own name forward for a second presidency. He is too old, too stuck in his way, too worn out, and the electorae knows that. Let a younger person have a go, and preferably not Kamala Harris, as her impact on events is exactly nil. I let these matters churn over in my mind as I take my leave and head back to Hanover Square for the return journey. At least I did not get lost this time. 

Farewell to three presidents

 I participated in a truly historic day today. The remains of the first three Polish presidents in exile were exhumed 3 days ago from Newark Cemetery and today the 3 coffins were officially blesssed in St Mary Magdalene Catholic Church in Newark and made ready to begin their final joutney to be interned at the Holy Providence Church in Warsaw, along with other figures, forming part of a kind of a Polish pantheon. Polish ministers were present along with the Earl of St. Andrews and many of the leading figures from the Polish community in London, Manchester and Bradford filled the church to witness this event. 

In London we had turned up to catch a coach outside the Polish Embassy at the outlandidh time of 7.45 in the morning. Many of the the leading chairs of Polish organizations in London were in that coach and although the atmosphere was very serene and friendly we mostly spent the early part of the journey in silence, carching up on sleep. We stopped for breakfast somewhere near Peterborough, and again for a shorter stop near Grantham. We finally arrived in Newark outside the church after mid-day. From the coach I could see the attraction of the town centre with a medieval castle overlooking a very picturesque River Trent and also some fine Georgian and Victorian architecture, including a brewery, perched around tiny narrow streets through which our giant coach could barely pass.

The rain had stopped and although I had arrived with a large umbrella and a coat, I decided to leave them in the coach. After all, I was only going to spend time indoors, first in the church, and then for a reception at Newark Town Hall, which was almost directly opposite to the church. Big mistake. The inside of the restored medieval church was beautiful indeed, tall and full of light from the upper windows. It was also very cold. The mass, which started at 1.30 was an hour and a half long. The Polish army choir vied with the local St Magdalene Church choir as they interspersed the liturgy with hymns, some in Polish and some in English. But the mass was also punctuated with bugle calls and with Polish soldiers in full dress uniform stomping up and down the aisle as they changed their watch over the three coffins, draped in presidential colours. As we all felt the chill inside the church, I could at least reminisce about my previous visit to this church, when the remains of Polish wartime prime minister General Sikorski had been exhumed 30 years ago and transferred to the Wawel Castle in Krakow, under the watchful eye of the Duke of Edinburgh.

The oldest of the three presidents had been Wladyslaw Raczkiewicz, who had been nominated in September 1939 by the last pre-war president, after the latter had been interned in Romania. Raczkiewicz had been based in France and after 1940 in London and was recognized as the rightful president by all the allied and even neutral governments, and even, at one stage by Stalin. However, when under the Yalta Agreement in 1945, Poland was left abandoned as a Soviet satellite state, Rackiewicz was no  longer recognized as President. Yet he continued until his death in 1948 and, after much controversy, he was succeeded by his eventual nominee, August Zaleski, a former Polish foreign minister, who had managed to have Rackiewicz's last will changed in his favour, rather than the previously designated nominee, Tomasz Arciszewski, who was a Socialist. Zaleski remained President in exile until his death in 1972, and refused to step down when his five year term of office had ended. This caused a massive rupture as General Anders, along with Arciszewski and the prominent diplomat, Count Raczynski, set up a rival Committee of Three. Zaleski was succeeded in turn by his nominee Stanislaw Ostrowski, the last Polish mayor of pre-war Lwow. Ostrowski, who was seen as a unity president, then carried on the burden of office until 1979, before he too handed over the seals of office to his successor, Raczynski. It must all seem very ruritarian but these presidents were acting in accordance with the 1935 constitution, whereby in time of war or national emergency, the president, who, according to that constitution, "was responsible only before God and history", could nominate his successor. The legitimacy of this office acted as a moral and political counterweight to the Communist regime in Poland, whose legitimacy was not based on proper free elections, but on the will of the Soviet overlords. Amazingly enough these presidents completed their mission to the end, as Raczynski eventually nominated his successor Kazimierz Sabbat, and then, as late as 1989 when Sabbat died unexpectedly, his successor Ryszard Kaczorowski handed over his seals of office, the original copy of the 1935 constitution, and the presidential flag taken down from the Royal Palace in 1939, to his successor, Lech Walesa, who was legitimately elected by universal suffrage in December 1990, after Poland was free. One could smirk, but still it was truly a matter of mission accomplished. Today that completed mission was honoured by the transfer of the remains of these three presidents to Warsaw. 

I remember when Zaleski died in 1972. He had lived in isolation in his residence in Eaton Place, near Sloane Square, rarely venturing out, because the majority of public opinion in Polish London had tended to view General Anders as the most prominent Polish figure. However Anders, the hero of Monte Cassino, died in 1970, and following Zaleski's death 2 years later, the London Poles were able to agree a compromise candidate in Stanislaw Ostrowski. Although I had no reason to like or admire Zaleski, I travelled by car with Albina and another friend, a former paratrooper from the Battle of Arnhem, to Newark Cemetery. I was drawn there by curiosity over all the pomp and symbolism. I remember the silence over the grave as Ostrowski spoke, praising his predecessor, and renewing his oath to continue the mission, though to all intents and purposes, they lived in an enclosed bubble of unreality, their seeming legitimacy ignored and treated as irrelevant by the majority of Poles in Poland, and also by many in my generation. I also remember that we then travelled back to London, taking General Kopanski, who had been commander of the Polish garrison in Tobruk, into our car, as he did not want to be returned by coach. Embarassingly my friend's old banger of a car broke down. I had to flag down one of the London bound Polish coaches following not far behind, to make sure the frail old General who was running after me, could get back safely to London.

Finally the ceremony in the church was over. The three coffins were led out of the church by a military escort. Slowly we made our way out of the church, into the pouring rain. I was still coatless, not only frozen cold, but also wet, as I made my way across the market square to the beautiful Georgian town hall for the reception. Then there were many speeches, from the Polish Ambassador, Polish ministers, a member of Ostrowski's family and the Mayor of Newark. As usual the Polish speeches were pompous and overong, and the English speeches short, respectful and humorous. When will they ever learn? However the snacks that accompanied the wine, provided by Nottinghamshire County Council, were a delight, as they were small morsels, brimming with exciting and unexpected flavours, both sweet and savoury, that you could just pop into your mouth There were numerous TV stations but I was too absorbed chatting to friends who travelled from Bradford and Manchester and missed any opportunity to engage with the media. Probably a sad thing as the Polish communities were seen largely as witnesses to the event, rather than as fellow organizers. After all, the three presidents were part of us and our heritage, and we were not even party to the decision to make the transfer. 

What would public opinion in Poland make of it? Something from the obscure distant past, of little relevance to Poland today. Earlier, on my way from the coach to the church, as I crossed the market square, I overheard a Polish TV journalist consult his programme manager in Warsaw. "All right, all right," he was snarling, "just how many of these fucking Presidents are there?" On the one hand, sentiment and admiration for a mission accomplished, on the other cynicism and indifference about the past. Welcome back to Polish reality. 

Our coach sped back silently through the night, back to London and to reality.

A contentious POSK Council meeting

 

The day following the signing we had a meeting of the new POSK Council, which had been elected at the AGM last month. I met Zaneta before the meeting and she told me her version of the dispute, but she, like Krysia, had spent the last week in tears over this conflict. 

Before the meeting I had a pre-planned interview withe a TVP camera crew talking about the prospects of the war in Ukraine. I considered that it would continue until next year as I had no doubt about the detrmination of the Ukrainians and of the U.S., U.K. and Polish governments to continue to resist Russian aggression. I did not expect too many changes in Moscow as the only likely change currently would be a coup by Prigozhin and his Wagner group, but I doubt if the Russian army would stomach that. In any case, Prigozhin could be even worse, though he is basically a brutal and cynical gangster, and is not driven so much by a warped ideology like Putin. My concern was the flaky opinion polls on the war on sanctions in Italy and Germany. I also used this interview to urge the Polish government to cut short its "second war" with the EU and Germany, and concentrate on building up European solidarity. Probably those last remarks will be removed by the TVP programme editors. After all, this was the Polish state televison and an objective assessment of Polish politics is not in their DNA. 

Because of that interview I came in late to the meeting. There was a storm brewing already with the former POSK directors still picking holes over the minutes and the lack of proper financial reports. At one stage one of the participants anounced that she had been personally insulted and stormed out of the room. A number of people were asked to go after her and bring her back, and she was oferred an apology. Then the issue between Joanna (Krysia was no longer a Council memeber) and Zaneta blew up in a mighty conflagration as Joanna stated that Zaneta, who was in charge of Culture, would have no access to anything the children's theatre does and they could ask the police to enforce this. Council members listened in astonishment. After both ladies had spoken, the chairman stopped further discussion and said he would have a meeting with both parties. Certainly a mediator would be advisable as it would be a pity for POSK to lose both parties and a calming mediation may be the only solution. Emotionally they are not yet ready for that. At the end of the meeting Marek announced the names of the new Directors. Not everyone was my cup of tea, but the importane thing is that the old Secretary and Treasurer no longer hold those posts. In fact the new Secretary is Monika Tkaczyk from the Federation of Poles, and that is somebody I am happy to work with. 

Also Marek announced that I would continue to be the POSK representative with the Federation of Poles in Great Britain. Maybe so, but I had warned that I would do nothing more after the Federation's January AGM. 

Theatre Agreement signed

 

Finally, it is done. This evening, Helena Kaut-Howson and Magda Wlodarczyk from Scena Polska (the Polish Stage Company), and Marek Laskiewicz and Zaneta Brudzinska from POSK, have signed that elusive agreement on the free use of the POSK theatre upto 5 weekends in the year and the underground Studio for six Sundays. Sweat and tears and banging of heads together and now it is done. I was the only witness, so I took a photo,  

The signing was followed by a sweet ceremomy over wine, cheese and cakes where a large section of the acting community turned up to reminisce over fellow thespians and theatre producers who had passed on. We had photos thrown up on a screen and various anecdotes from their colourful lives were exchanged. Many descibed their talent and sense of sacrifice, though one or two tales were quite raunchy. 

I popped doenstairs to get some water for the teetotallers. At the gallery I ran into Krysia Bell, the manager of Syrena, the Polish children's theatre, and her chum, the former POSK Chair Joanna Mludzinska. They were in quite an emotional state as they outlined a terrible tale of their falling out with Zaneta. I had no intention to describe the details. Knowing Zaneta I could not imagine how their tale of treachery and deception could possibly be true. Knowing Joanna and Krysia I could not imagine how their tale could be untrue. This stand off in my mind, shook me to the bone as it was due to my cooperation with Zaneta that we were able to get that agreement with Scena Polska signed. I went back upstairs to the libations. Zaneta saw my pensive face amidst the merriment and asked if anything was wrong. I just shook my head and said it was nothing. 

An afternoon with Naomi

 

 Two more days (Monday and Tuesday) at the London Chamber ofiice were exceptionally busy. We had more than 400 UK certificates to stamp over those two days. We were assisted by a new member of staff from the head office who was sent down to us in Ashford for a week. He did well until he got into an argument with a holiday agency with whom he'd booked a holiday for next week. He had forwarded them a payment of £800 and they claimed not to have received it, He had a long and highly unpleasant conversation with them, as the office turned blue with his colourful language, and then he collapsed, crestfallen by the injustice of it all. I urged him to get his bank to sort it it out. It was the Bank of Ireland and I actually googled for him and printed off the details for the help desk in the London office of the bank. He had no faith in the bank but eventually he rung them. As the bank looked at the issue, it transpired that he had been scammed, not by the holiday agency, but by another body with an account which had picked up on his holiday plans.These scammers are the scum of th earth. He was only a junior lad with one of his first jobs and the £800 was a fortune to him. I don't know how things ended, but I'm sure I shall find out on Monday next week when I come back to the office.

On Thursday I travelled to the British Home (for the Incurable??!!, depressing or what?) in Streatham to visit my old Polish Solidarity colleague Naomi. When I had been Chairman, she had been Secretary, and we had been a very effective team, especially when it came to lobbying the Labour Party successfully over 2 years to convince them not to invite Communist Party representatives from Eastern Europe to their annual conferences. 

She is now a tetraplegic. She is paralysed from the neck down, except that she has limited use of her hands. Very limited, I should add, as her right hand is in a harness and she can just about pick up a newspaper, or a spoon (or a chocolate) with her left. She has been in this Home for nigh on 10 years. She had been suffering from intense back pain for many years, and kept pressing her local A&E at Mile End Hospital to treat it. They could not find anything and eventually assumed that Naomi was imagining it. They pumped her full of drugs and damaged her memory and her brain irreversibly. And it was only after this treatment that they realized she had a damaged spine, which it was also too late to treat. So she is stuck in this electric wheelchair in a home in Streatham, unable to perform the most basic human functions, but still listening to classical music and remaining up to date with the news. So we chatted about old times, about Putin and Ukraine, Bolsonaro and Lula, climate change and gender politics, the German Reparation claim lodged by the Polish government, and of course the saga of Boris, Liz Truss and Rishi Sunak. She puts all her trust in Keir Starmer. Her assessment of Labour's chances, not only in winning power, but ultimately ruling effectively and staying in power, are quite astute. Her Labour loyalties remain intact, re-enforced as they are by her Jewish values and sensibilities (I almost said, prejudices). Needless to day, for her, Keir Starmer walks on water. I share her hopes, but not her optimism. 

Yet sometimes her halluciantory obsessions return. She fears she may be expelled, because she has been rude and short-tempered with the staff. I told her she has to apologize, if not once, then more times, as she implied that she had particularly upset the black staff. She wanted to find a Jewish home for an alternative, although these are for elderly terminally ill and do not have the physiotherapy resources of the British Home. Could she perhaps stay at my flat? I could imagine Albina going bereserk at the mere suggestion that I might even have considered it. We wouldn't have the room for her and a carer, and certainly Albina would be too physically weak to lift her or even push her wheelchair. Then she expressed concern over the fate of her Iranian partner. She was worried that he may have been kidnapped. So could I ring and check with the Iranian Embassy? No, Naomi, sorry, get a grip. 

I left quite depressed over her fate. Due to hospital negligence she was now a prisoner embalmed in her own body, but with an imagination and a worldly awareness that was desperately trying to escape to freedom outside. Last year she had managed to join us at the annual picnic in Ravenscourt Park, with the help of two members of staff. This year she could not make it.  

On my way home I dropped into the Holiday Inn at the end of my road in Brentford to attend a meeting of the Brentford Lock residents. I thought it was a general meeting and I could ask the question that vexed Albina about responsibility for cleaning the outside of our windows at our 3 bedroom residence. Obviously we could clean the large door windows on our balcony from our main bedroom and our kitchen, but the windows to our sitting room, our spare bedroom and our study were all inaccessible from the outside. When I turned up I discovered I had made a mistake. It was only the committe meeting of the residents, although BLW members had been invited to it, on the proviso they wanted to join the Committee.  It was actually the committee A.G.M, The chairman and the secretary were both fed up with poor support and infighting and had decided to retire. Seeing me, they immediately invited me to be the new Chairman. Politely, I refused. Oh OK then, but at least you can join our Committee? I shrugged my shoulders but they took my silence as a yes. They talked then about some projects and wound up the meeting. Hastily I put in my question about the window cleaning. Unfortunately, window cleaning was our responsibility, not the managers' of the building. So bad news for Albina when she next rings from Poland.

I woke up in the middle of the night in a sweat. I was now a member of the resident's committee, when I was supposed to be running down all my activities, before the big world tour. I tossed and turned over this. Finally, I got up (it was about 6am) went to my laptop and sent the retiring secretary a message. My apologies, but please do not publish my name as a committee member, as I decline that position. I felt like an idiot who did not appreciate all their hard work, but it was more than my life's worth to tell Albina that I was now on yet another committee, even though it was a British one.