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Chicken update…

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It has been said (much to Audrey’s disgust!) that to be a member of Aoradh you need to keep chickens…

Not sure what that says about us all- but 4 of us now have them, or are planning to.

Our birds have settled in now, after just a couple of weeks. They started out timid and traumatised, scared of their own shadows. Then over the next few days, they explored further and further out of their coop into the garden- going a few meters extra each day.

The kids have been so involved with them- running out each morning to check for eggs, picking them up to help them get used to being handled, and reporting on their activities hour by hour.

We are getting two eggs a day at the moment- we think that one of the chickens has not started laying. The eggs really are delicious- big, with dark yellow yolks.

And despite my rather unsentimental attitude towards animals, they are very endearing creatures. They do such odd things- Today one of them had a fight with a bumble bee, and yesterday, one had a peck at a friends bum as she liked to look of a zip on her trousers.

Some tips so far in case you are considering joining in the chicken owning craze-

  • Preparation- get your garden chicken proof first- decide which areas you are happy for them to roam, and fence off as appropriate.
  • So far ours have not done too much damage- although we lost a salad crop, and we have a regular chicken poo collection- if you are happy to take the risk, then focus on your boundaries.
  • Putting them away in the coop at night is no trouble at all- they like going to bed at dusk, but try it in the middle of the day when they are mid peck, and it is a different ball game!
  • A decent coop is worth the £60 that you spend on it- being so much easier to keep clean.
  • Chickens (even battery ones) love to explore, and peck at interesting things- give them plenty to do.
  • They are great fun- the very best kind of pets- ones that put food on your table!

Middle class aspirations…

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There has been a fair bit of soul searching/life-style-evaluating  on the old tent. Perhaps it is just evidence of an unfolding mid life crisis- blogging style.

How middle class!

I grew up in a single parent family, to a working class mother. We had very little money.

I do not want to pretend that we had nothing- there was always food and presents at Christmas- but the shadow of poverty was always on us. Second hand clothes, and even home made clothes singled us out for terrible bullying at school, and every single activity was overshadowed by worry about COST.

My mother was very good at squeezing some kind of security out of the state benefits that supported us, but her constant anxiety about the cost of repairs to the house,or replacing a lost coat led to terrible rows.

So it was that from an early age, it was drummed into me that the only life worth aiming for- the only one that was acceptable- was one based on middle class values.

  • Education
  • University
  • Sobriety
  • Responsibility
  • Professional employment
  • Property ownership
  • Security

Adrift as I was as a young man, this was the island that I swam towards. A suburban world of respectability, gainful employment and financial comfort. Or at least, being in a position where money was not something that ever needed to be worried about.

But I never really reached this point. This is the great middle class trap- when is enough? When do we achieve safety? How many stocks and shares, how big a pension pot, how recently should the house have been re-painted?

Alongside these motivations have always been dissonant and equally powerful ones- arising from my faith (not needing two shirts on my back, camels not fitting through eyes of needles etc) and my left leaning politics (property is theft, international trade and inequality etc.) Life then is lived in the presence of internal conflict and discomfort.

But having started down this path- how do you change direction?

My conviction is that most of us simply can not. Life is simply too full of obligations and compromises. And there can still be blessing, beauty, and grace in this middle class life. There are still people who open up their suburban lives and homes to the other and from this part of our demographic come the committee members, the community activists, the fund raisers and the protestors against many an injustice.

Some of us are forced to change direction by crisis. Redundancy, mental/physical ill health or some other extraordinary life event that disturbs our innate conservastism.

Outside of this, change takes such courage. Like standing at the edge of a cliff and daring yourself to jump in the direction of a crumbling ledge in the middle distance.

The sort of courage demands a great confidence. Confidence of purpose, and clarity of vision. A willingness to embrace risk and uncertainty.

And for me, confidence was always absent. It was lost somewhere aged 8, and I never really found it again. Confidence belonged to those other middle class kids, who were able to embrace risk and uncertainty whilst beginning from a  firm platform.

But standing here I now am.

Daring myself to jump. Or waiting for a push.

Here is a poem from a few years ago;

Michaela loves that time when evening turns to dusk

When streetlights shine with purpose

But people have not yet drawn their curtains

.

There laid naked by approaching night

The secrets of some other sitting room

Are shelved

Are stored in boxes from Ikea

In two dimensions

Animated by the ubiquitous TV sets

Flickering from the corners

.

Arm in arm we share clandestine glances

Whispering our words of approval or approbation

And walk on into our own lives

.

There was a time when we watched in aspiration

Building middle class castles in our minds

Safe within suburbia

Dreaming of a day when we too would know the security

Of ownership.

A solid sideboard

And stripped pine floors

.

Like the moths flapping at the amber streetlights

We are drawn to the artificial arc

Of convention

And conformity

Tied down to the temporal

Walking to stand still

.

Michaela and I

We sometimes transcend the tramlines

Or at least we try

.

We catch a glimpse of another way

The scent of freedom on the breeze

Blown there from another Kingdom

And we start to fly

.

I do not believe that Icarus

Melted his wax wings

I think he mortgaged them.

20.2.06

Living in the shadow of death…

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I heard someone discussing health care today- the usual discussion about self inflicted health problems, such as those associated with smoking or obesity.

Discussions like this usually make me feel uncomfortable- many of us think that we ought to be healthier- take more exercise, loose some weight. It has been a guilt on me for most of my life.

But that is not the point of this post.

Because the counter argument that was made really made me think. It went something like this-

What is this obsession with making life longer– as if this were the main reason for life itself? Why should every thing that we do be governed by the fear of death?

Why do we measure life quantity so rigourously- in terms of years, months, days and hours (as well as the cost of maintenance through health care?)

Whilst at the same time we have lost sight of any reliable qualitative measure of life- despite all the lifestyle choices that we are bombarded with- the holidays, the houses, the constructed leisure experiences, the pressure to consume ever more produce that fills life with all things shiny and new…

What makes for a ‘good’ life?

I suppose for many of my friends, this might include varied experience, travel, relationships, family, economic security, fulfilment. All of these things are good.

But is this it? We live as long as we can, and if we are lucky we might have some laughter, some love and consume a fair bit?

No. Something in me rebels against the hollowness- the shallowness– of this kind of life.

As was the writer of Ecclesiastes-

13 I devoted myself to study and to explore by wisdom all that is done under heaven. What a heavy burden God has laid on men! 14 I have seen all the things that are done under the sun; all of them are meaningless, a chasing after the wind.15 What is twisted cannot be straightened; what is lacking cannot be counted.

(Chapter 1)

But there is more.

There is life that is not lived as an avoidance of the inevitable, with added entertainment.

It is a way of life that seeks human connection, human service, and the life of the Spirit of God within us. The way of Jesus.

This kind of life is not easy and clean or overly concerned with safety or security. It is more likely to be messy, unpredictable and even downright dangerous.

But this is the kind of life I long for. Because the alternative seems like no life at all.

Michaela’s step father Robert died recently- the shadow of death fell across us, and we still live with the grief and loss. But life is such a precious, wondrous, joyous thing. Let us not waste it in the pursuit of quantity.

Life still flickers

I have heard it said that

Dead men walking

We are

Corporeal

Tenderised

Like veal

Blown by flies

But life still flickers

Faint but strong

Vibrating these hollow veins

And the voltage you make

Is a current

Wired to the nape

Of my neck

Because this thing we are

Is more than just

A bottle

For blood

So much more than just

Shapes

Mixed from mud

Beautiful creature

Sing spirit-

Sing

Recovery stories, and how we understand mental ill health…

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I have been reading a few of the personal stories on the SRN website, and it set me thinking again about this thing called mental illness.

For those who are unaware of the powerful and life giving concept of ‘recovery’- in this use, is applies to a way of understanding mental illness that is radical and yet very simple. For too long, the dominant way of understanding mental illness has been through a medical paradigm-

Dysfuntion——————–Diagnosis———————Treatment

But for years, there have been voices saying that this way of seeing mental illness just does not work on any level.

Dysfunction?

What is ‘dysfunction’ when we apply it to mental health? We all have problems. We all have fluctuating mental health. One in four of us seek medical help because of this at some point of our lives. For the most part- we just get on with it, life goes on.

It is such a subjective experience. What you experience and cope with, I might experience and not cope with.

It might relate to a dreadful life event, like bereavement, or it might be because of vulnerabilities that we have carried since childhood. It also might have a biological/genetic element- although no-one has ever been able to agree how much of our vulnerability is nature, and how much is nurture. Because of this, the same ‘dysfunction’ may in fact relate to very different issues.

But there is no doubt that many of us do hit the rocks emotionally, psychologically and spiritually. Some of us will need help, so we go to the experts.

Diagnosis

Then we come to all the labels that psychiatry has come up with in an attempt to categorise dysfunction. Each one with its own set of sub categories- some examples below:

Schizophrenia (simple, paranoid, hebefrenic, etc)

Depression (reactive, chronic, manic, agitated etc)

Anxiety disorder (panic disorder, phobia, obsessive compulsive disorder etc)

Now all of these categories have a set of symptoms that we look for, and even (in today’s parlance) a ‘care pathway’ that people will then be expected to follow- with recognised assessment processes and evidence based interventions lined up and ready.

But make no mistake- researchers have looked in vain for a virus, or a brain-wiring fault, or any kind of identifiable physical, testable, observable location for these disorders. They are not like a broken leg, or a cancer, or other kinds of medical issue that are diagnosed according to observable scientific observation. Rather they are always nuanced, individualistic, mixed in with all sorts of personality/life experience/drug use stuff, and all that messy, unquantifiable humanity.

So what we have is a changing picture (we currently use international standard diagnostic classification version 10) of fairly loose observationally based, subjective categories, albeit applied as consistently as possible by highly trained and experienced doctors. The edges of the diagnostic categories are blurred, and their usefulness still much disputed.

Check out this decent summary of labelling theory.

Treatment

When we have our diagnosis, then we have associated treatments- usually drug based, intially from our GP. Sure there are lots of other ways of getting help- often called rather condescendingly ‘talking treatments’- counselling, psychological therapy etc, but these are not universally available, and the middle classes get far more than their fair share. Also because of the dominance of the medical model (which assumes some kind of biological basis for serious mental illnesses like schizophrenia) then most of this talking stuff is aimed at people who are regarded as ‘neurotic‘- as if these people are some how totally different in their needs to be listened to, understood and helped towards a greater self knowledge and self worth.

Most of the drug treatments are very ‘dirty’- in the sense that they are loaded with extremely debilitating side effects. The activity of the drug companies, and the power and position the system allows them to take within hospitals has to be seen to be believed. There is always a new wonder drug just round the corner- a new ‘lilly the pink’.

And yet, research would suggest that ‘getting better’ is not the goal of all this treatment for many of us. Rather it is aimed at alleviating some of our symptoms, and ‘maintaining’ us in some kind of stasis.

For some, this is OK- they are grateful and satisfied. For many more, the effect of the psycho-medical machine is to give a half life, or even a no-life. People lose just about everything- job, relationships, income, role, self worth, self determination, hope. Is there any wonder then that suicide rates are so high?

At the same time as experiencing all these losses people gain a few other things- a label, a new ‘sick’ role, benefits that have diminished in value in real terms. It is a poor exchange. Because in gaining this kind of identity- or rather being expected to live within the boundaries of this kind of identity- we are condemned to a dependent life. And transcending this can be extremely difficult.

Perhaps it might be far more difficult than the mental distress that started us down this road in the first place…

So, returning to the recovery stories.

These are records of people who have decided that it is possible to experience good mental wellbeing despite the presence (or the absence) of mental ill health.

They describe the landmarks on the journey towards a different kind of recovery- one that is less concerned with diagnosis or treatment, and much more motivated towards real life issues like

Hope

Self worth.

Real choice.

Friendship.

Meaningful activities.

Fun.

Please read some of them- because I suspect that there is more of the Kingdom of God in one of these stories than in a thousand sermons.

Downshifting…

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So friends- you may have noticed a wee sub plot on this blog over the past few years- all the veg growing and the chickens pecking and the desire to live more simply…

Downshifting.

There is a lot around on the old t’internet about downshifting. Everyone is doing it, it seems- or rather everyone is talking about doing it.

And to be fair- not everyone is able to downshift really- because even being able to consider the possibility of downshifting rather depends on a degree of consumption and employment that is already a position of privilege- another of those middle class fantasies ever since the glorious Felicity Kendal in The Good Life-

Downshifting is an idea that has perhaps never been so relevant in the shadow of the Credit Crunch, and in an increasing awareness that our way of life in the rich west is not sustainable, equitable or morally justifiable. It is dependent on greed for ever more pointless gadgets.

Talking of gadgets, William is sat next to me watching ‘The Gadget Show‘ and it is making me feel slightly ill. A review of the latest i-phone- which is a bit like gadget porn. A totally pointless test to see whether the i-phone could post something on twitter faster than some less sexy piece of plastic.

To be honest, even though we do not live a profligate lifestyle, I too like stuff. I notice that Oliver James is speaking at Greenbelt this year- author of the book Affluenza, defined like this-

affluenza, n. a painful, contagious, socially transmitted condition of overload, debt, anxiety and waste resulting from the dogged pursuit of more. (de Graaf [1])
affluenza, n. 1. The bloated, sluggish and unfulfilled feeling that results from efforts to keep up with the Joneses. 2. An epidemic ofstress, overwork, waste and indebtedness caused by the pursuit of the American Dream. 3. An unsustainable addiction to economic growth. (PBS [1])

But for all my talk- I have been a wage slave for all my adult life. 20 years working for local governments as a social worker- climbing up the slimy pole into management- which comes with scant extra financial reward as the difference between a main grade social worker and my current post as area manager.

Making a decision to move away and do something different has been a subject of conversation in our house for years. But then there is a mortgage, growing children, security, role and purpose… all sorts of reasons for inertia.

However- it could well be that the decision will be made for me- or at very least an opportunity will be given to me for me to make some radical decisions… because of the regular scourge of all people who work for local authorities- euphemistically called ‘reorganisation’- or this time round, I heard a new phrase which still makes my eyebrows go sky wards- delayering.

(I kid you not- delayering. Who makes this stuff up?)

I had an exchange of e-mails with an old friend yesterday. He has made some brave decisions over recent years- moving from a high flying career in business through to working as a dog trainer, and now a bicycle engineer. He and his wife have now bought some land with a view to growing their own food and keeping- you’ve guessed it- chickens!

He sent me a great list of things that he thought were important for any of us aiming to live a simpler, more sustainable life-

“I think there are practical steps to take in ‘disconnecting from the matrix’.

First I would get rid of all debt if at all possible. Could you carry on work, reduce your spending and overpay your mortgage and clear it or reduce it drastically? This might take 5 years or so?

Second, make your house as energy efficient as possible. No draughts and insulate, insulate, insulate – heating bills WILL go up and STAY up!

Third, grow more of your own food. Food prices will go up as the cost of oil rises. The added benefit is you will eat healthier.

Fourth, only buy things you really need or will give you great LASTING pleasure. No point wasting money on things that won’t get used.

Fifth, be part of a vibrant LOCAL community that can care for each other, barter and trade goods and services with each other. I’ll give you 5 eggs for 2 lettuce for example.

Also, stay fit and healthy as the NHS won’t be around in its present form!

Here endeth the lesson for today!”

Not sure I fully agree with him in relation to the NHS, but the rest makes good sense.

Watch this space friends- I have decided to let go, and let things unfold- being prepared to make some risky leaps as and when it feels right.

It is time to follow the Spirit into some more adventures…

The hens arrive (along with one egg)

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I know, I know, it is sooo middle class.

Kind of like the new stone cladding.

Or the new companion to every IKEA kitchen.

If you do not believe me, check out the Eglu. The coop for people with far more money than sense…

But today we collected three chickens. They were from the British Hen Welfare Trust, and are all ex battery hens, so have had a pretty crap life up till now. Battery hens are all disposed of (in the sense of ‘killed’) after one year of production, as egg productivity drops. In the first year, each hen will lay around 300 eggs, but these 18 month old hens will probably manage around 4 a week now.

Two dozen eggs a week- more than enough for us, although William will eat as many eggs as you will put in front of him.

If it is not obvious why we wanted to keep hens (apart from just being pretentious!) then perhaps you can call round and have breakfast with us some time- fresh egg with chunky toast anyone?

They are all a bit scraggly and the expectation is that they will take a few weeks to settle in to their new coop before we will see any eggs, but when we opened up the box that the chickens had travelled home in, one of them had rewarded us already with a nice brown egg!

Back from hols…

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We are back in Scotland after a lovely break on the Yorkshire coast after what we can only call a traditional English holiday…

We stayed in Michaela’s uncle Barry and Aunt Sue’s caravan up on the cliffs next to Whitby abbey, and hardly used the car at all for the first week- cycling and walking everywhere. The distances were increased as the swing bridge over the harbour broke down, meaning a long detour from one side of Whitby to the other.

The sun shone, and when it rained, it was dramatic and beautiful…

I confess that I always find blog posts on other people’s holidays a bit naff, so this time we decided that each of us would just list our highlights- so here we go…

Michaela

Listening to Norma Waterson along with some of her singing family in an old church. Singing as easily as breathing.

Going first class on the North Yorkshire Railway- the first time ever (and perhaps the last!)

Relaxing, reading writing letters, lying in bed in the morning…

William

Watching England under 19 cricket team play Sri Lanka at Scarborough Cricket Ground. Catching a ball on the boundary, and getting autographs of both teams. Chatting to the Sri Lankan team in their room, and being on first name terms with their coach!

Riding a real steam train.

Cycling into town.

Emily

Relaxing. Somewhere were we had never been before- doing touristy things, and seeing old Whitby.

Eating very good chips!

Horse riding.

As for me…

All of the above (minus the horses!)

I really needed a break- and it was certainly that- spending time with those I love the most, walking and riding and building sand castles, it was simply lovely.

I loved visiting Whitby Abbey, and walking on the moors.

And the cricket match- watching William lit up by a game that I love- that was special too…

It was also really great to meet up with Graham Peacock, whose blog I follow (Digging a lot.) Graham is a Methodist minister who lives near to Whitby, so we hitched a plan to meet up and share a pint. We share a lot of interests- faith, cricket, music, so we had lots to talk about.  And yes- he blogged about it first!

However what was amazing was that we discovered that I used to work with his wife Victoria when I was a social worker in Bolton!

Small small world…

Jim Crow repainted- again…

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So- another twist in the local debate about a painted rock on the Dunoon shoreline.

Photo c.1900

The rock has now been defaced twice by someone who decided that direct action was required to highlight the murky history that may be behind this local land mark. Local politicians have expressed their outrage-

Councillor Bruce Marshall, chair of the Bute and Cowal Area Committee, told the Standard on Tuesday: “I was unaware that Jim Crow had again been defaced and find it hard to believe that anyone can be so petty.
“Jim Crow has been a landmark on the foreshore at Hunter’s Quay all of my life and I would not like to see it permanently lost.”

From Dunoon Observer.

Two people were seen yesterday redecorating the rock with its golliwog face.

The local paper has dealt with the issue in a rather lazy and partisan fashion. It reads like the reporter was looking for a way to dismiss any concerns about the rock, and seeking to interpret history in this light. A quote from the article–

In an age where international news was not widely spread, it is unlikely that Dunoon people knew about these laws when the rock was originally painted, possibly around 1900.

It seems more likely that the rock was originally named after a Thomas Ingoldsby rhyming story The Jackdaw of Rheims. which was popular in Victorian times, The poem, about a particularly pious jackdaw made ito a saint, ends with the stanza:

And on newly-made Saints and Popes, as you know,

It’s the custom, at Rome, new names to bestow,

So they canonized him by the name of Jim Crow!

The research the local reporter has done seems to ignore the pervasive influence of ‘coon songs‘ and ‘black face songs’ in the Victorian and Edwardian music halls (right through to the dreadful black and white minstrel shows that were on TV in the 1970’s.)

People in Dunoon, and holiday makers from the big city who flocked here around the turn of the 20th Century, probably did not know much about the Jim Crow laws, but they would have known that ‘Jim Crow’ was a derogatory caricature of a black man.

As for the Jackdaw of Rheims– written by Rev Richard H Barham (under the pen name Thomas Ingoldsby,) it makes one reference to Jim Crow- as part of a long poem about a Jackdaw. Here is the question- why did Barham use this name? The song ‘Jump Jim Crow‘ was a huge international hit, with sheet music sold over all the world- carrying the caricature everywhere it went. The song was written about 5-10 years before the Jackdaw of Rheims was published.

The Observer reporter appears to assume that before the internet, before radio and TV, communication of ideas like this between continents was unlikely- that there could be no real exchange of ideas between sleepy Dunoon and America. This is to totally misunderstand our history-

Looking back from a totally different culture and time, there is no blame that can be attached to whoever first crudely decorated this rock and wrote ‘Jim Crow’ on its side. It was probably a bit of holiday fun. Using terms and prejudices that were so pervasive that they were hardly noticed.

The issue remains how we come to understand the symbolism contained within this image now– how we engage honestly with our past.

And this rock gives us an opportunity to do just that.

I notice that the local paper did not quote this-

“… there can be no doubt that the painting of the ‘face’, with its exaggerated red mouth, is a typically caricatured image of a black person, as popularised by the American entertainer T.D. Rice in the nineteenth century. […] I feel certain that black visitorsfrom outside would see this as somewhat insulting […] as a derogatory reference to their skin colour and origins.”

Institute of Race Relations.

So –  are we sure that this is just a little bit of harmless local colour? And even if it is just that- are we really comfortable with the associations that are being made, and the offence that this might carry to the descendants of slaves who had to fight on for generations against the oppression of the Jim Crow laws?

If the rock is to stay, then we need to tell these stories.

If we are to keep the face on the rock- then let us also put a big sign on the foreshore dealing with the darker side of our past…

Social work and stress…

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Social work is a job for young people. Mostly.

A few survive into their 40’s- possibly by specialising, or (oh dear- like me) becoming a manager, but on the whole, the nature of the job, and the political/economic/social environment we work in simply burns people out.

It is a slow process- and is poorly recognised even within the profession- as it is usually manifested in a loss of effectiveness and responsiveness- and in these days where performance targets dominate every area of practice, this kind of thing wins you no friends in busy teams.

It is a process that must be difficult to understand when you have never been involved in this kind of work. Some of my friends have a go at me as being in an easy lazy public sector job, often in comparison to their ‘real’ jobs. I smile, but inside I want to have a bit of a go back- and ask them to try doing what I do for a while…

I want to ask them who they think will do the jobs we do if we do not?

Who will visit a family living in squalor because of an alcoholic parent?

Who will look after an old cantankerous man who has become to infirm and confused to get out of the house, and has been unable to manage to get himself to the toilet for the last few weeks?

Who will try to build relationships of trust with the people on the margins of society who have lost all social connections?

…etc etc.

Because in devaluing the people that do these things, we potentially devalue the people who need the help.

I read this today-

“Modern social work is in a state of crisis. It has always been a profession towards which society has displayed ambivalence and it is now grossly underfunded and understaffed. Tragedies and subsequent vilification of social workers and their managers are reported with increasing frequency. The profession attempts to function in an environment of obstructive administrative ‘systems’, … severe financial restrictions and conflicting demands …” –Davies, p. 9, Stress in Social Work (1998, Jessica Kingsley Publishers).

“Because they deal in actual and emotional injustice, and actual and psychic injury, the reality for social workers much of the time is that while they may bring about some relief or improvement, the most that they may hope for is some damage limitation, particularly in areas such as child abuse and criminality.” —Davies, p. 19, Stress in Social Work (1998, Jessica Kingsley Publishers).

This is a familiar picture to me. Add to this the fact that the cut backs in public spending are making things worse. I am about to lose my job for the second time in 2 years through ‘reorganisation’. Quite what I will be doing in 2 years I have no clue.

My colleague recently had a health check and was told her blood pressure was very high. A retest suggested that this might just have been temporary as a result of a particularly bad day.

‘I think I am going to take the blood pressure test with a pinch of salt’ she suggested, and then realised what she had said.

We laughed.

Thank the Lord for companionship and good colleagues. As long as we can hold on…

The battle against racism returns to Dunoon’s foreshore…

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There is a rock about a hundred yards from where I live that has been decorated for about 100 years like this-

I have previously described some of the controversy that surrounds this rock (here and here.)

I recently came across another website run by someone I know in Dunoon, which was set up as a result of his concern about what the history and symbolism of the rock might mean…

He quotes someone called Dr Waters from the Institute of Race Relations as saying this-

“… there can be no doubt that the painting of the ‘face’, with its exaggerated red mouth, is a typically caricatured image of a black person, as popularised by the American entertainer T.D. Rice in the nineteenth century. […] I feel certain that black visitorsfrom outside would see this as somewhat insulting […] as a derogatory reference to their skin colour and origins.”

Last year someone took matters in their own hands and painted out the rock with some brown paint. They did a rather good job, and it was hard to tell that it had ever been decorated.

And as the local furore raged, someone else simply redecorated it as above.

Well, last night someone revisited the rock- this is what it looks like today-

Is Dunoon a racist town?

No more than any other I would say- although the largest ethnic minority here are the English, and we have a measure of anti-English sentiment like most places in Scotland. But narrow mindedness and prejudice are a feature of all our human communities and perhaps in small isolated towns like mine they can be long lasting.

There are not many black faces here. However, there used to be an American Naval base here until around 15 years ago, and there were lots of black American servicemen here then. Stories of race riots and segregated drinking are part of the local folklore. As are fond memories of the life and vitality brought to our community by people from African American origin.

Quite what these servicemen thought about the rock, I would love to know. Where they so used to such images that it was unremarkable? Were they told not to protest by their command structure? Or did it carry no racist meaning for them?

I hope that this latest act of direct action might yet highlight the meaning of ‘Jim Crow’ for Black Americans to people in Dunoon.

Because I think that we have should challenge prejudice wherever we find it- whether or not it is unintentional, or inherited from a previous generation with a different world view.