Covid#3

I’m taken aback by how quickly I’ve become quite miserable and depressed this week.  It’s not been just moments or spells that have passed; a solid gloominess has set in.  It’s not like me.  I think I’m usually upbeat and I handle trying times and challenges optimistically and positively, so how have I become so very glum so suddenly?

This past week’s been tough on teachers and school staff.  Personally, I’ve watched the anxiety rise in the boys I teach to the point where one hid under his desk, afraid to touch anything.  We’ve watched as pupils have tried and often failed to understand why their friends have stayed at home and won’t come back.  Children in the last year at their school who were looking forward to the important milestone that is leaving and all the celebration that goes with it are devastated that it’s been snatched from them.  One five year old I know was having nightmares and thought his school was closing because all his teachers were dying.  Now, we’ve said goodbye to our classes without knowing when we’ll all be together again.  My own class had effectively shut itself down by Wednesday, and I miss them already.  Teachers and school staff have stood by these children throughout this whirlwind.  We’ve also endured the uncertainty that closing so suddenly has brought.  It’s all strained emotions and has been exhausting.

It also doesn’t help that coronavirus is all anyone is talking about, the news comes thick and fast, and it is all so bleak.  The death toll in the UK rose to 220 today and the trend is scarily like Italy’s, where 800 died today.  It could be a couple of weeks before the calamitous scenes we see from there are repeated here.  That sense of what could well be coming adds to the gloom.  That and the fear.  I really admire the stoicism of everyone on social media who is posting uplifting messages, jokes and pictures, but the constant bombardment of all these posts seems to emphasise the dread of the virus – a sort of grin and bear it denial that it’s coming for you.  I want to tell everyone to pace themselves with all this positivity.  It needs to last a long, long time.

There’s a sort of desolation I’m feeling that’s like getting a coldsore when you’re supposed to be going on a hot date or catching the flu on Christmas Eve.  It’s a disappointment that seems desperate and hopeless.  Obviously, it’s not that bad; it just feels that way at the time.  It’s being deprived of something you were really looking forward to.  That’s certainly true now – we’ve all had to cancel things – but it’s more than that because we’ve been deprived of so much that we usually take for granted: visiting the gym, having a swim, indulging in hot chocolate and a slab of cake in a café, dinner out, mooching around the shops; sharing a bottle of wine with friends.  Boris optimistically reckons we’ll ‘turn the tide’ in twelve weeks, but if it takes twelve weeks to just turn the tide, will it take another twelve weeks to get back to some sort of ‘normal’?  The seeming endlessness of all this makes it hard to keep things in perspective.

I suppose death and disease are bound to have this effect on me.  To take my mind off it, I’ve been reading about the horsemen of the apocalypse!  “The horseman on the white horse was clad in a showy and barbarous attire … While his horse continued galloping, he was bending his bow in order to spread pestilence abroad.  At his back swung the brass quiver filled with poisoned arrows, containing the germs of all diseases.”  In these circumstances it doesn’t take the personification of pestilence to get you down and I admit that reading about him hasn’t done much to improve my mood, although I did manage a wry smile as I imagined him crossing paths with Santa somewhere over China back in December.

I’m usually good at taking a challenge in my stride but I’m finding that it’s much harder when it comes so suddenly without any time to prepare and builds so rapidly; when there’s no way of knowing how big it will get, how long it will last or how great the impact will be and when there’s no end in sight. 

Covid#2

I made it to Cornwall, via a minor triumph at a Bournemouth supermarket.  I found chicken!  Mum had asked me to keep my eyes open for some since it’s become so scarce.  Mother’s Day wouldn’t be Mother’s Day without a nice roast chicken!  In these strange, scary times, even that otherwise innocuous thought ends up making me feel sad, as I think of other people who won’t be spending Mother’s Day with their mums this year. 

The empty shelves in the supermarket have mystified me.  Living on my own, I never need much in the way of groceries; a bag of pasta, a four-pack of toilet rolls, a couple pints of milk, 500g of mince – it all lasts me ages compared to most households.  When you’re only cooking for one, a little goes a long way and it’s easier to improvise with whatever you can lay your hands on.  I’ve walked the barren aisles of the supermarket more in astonishment than despair.  Where do people put all the mountains of toilet rolls, pasta, meat and tinned things they’re buying?!

I’m pretty sure this panic-buying will pass before long, the shelves will refill and we’ll be able to get most of what we need once again.  Personally, I don’t doubt the supermarkets and the politicians when they tell us there’s plenty in the supply chain for all of us.  I wonder what it says about other people’s trust in our politicians and our retailers that they seem to not believe them.  Am I being naïve (again)?  I only hope that the very real despair and the tears of older people and emergency services staff who can’t get the groceries they need has more of an impact on the panic-buyers.  Their anguish really is heart-breaking.

The drive to Cornwall felt strange.  I thought the roads would be quiet but they seemed much the same as every other time I’ve driven down.  It made me feel less guilty about embarking on unessential travel.  I listened to podcasts – not a word about coronavirus for a whole four hours!  The local pub here is open and through the window I saw people playing pool, laughing and drinking with their mates.  It all reinforces the strange sense that nothing’s changed and everything is carrying on as normal, even while knowing that not far away this virus is killing people.  167 people have died in England now.  This is the lull before the storm.

It’s the last night for a long time that those mates will gather in the local pub.  They’re all closing from tonight, along with bars, restaurants and cafes, and cinemas, theatres, nightclubs and gyms will follow in the next day or so, all by order of the PM.  

Just as I was beginning to see results from my renewed enthusiasm for the gym too.

Covid#1

Today, my brain became too addled by Covid19.  Today it became too much.  Yet I think it’s barely started. 

School’s closed.  Or so the Prime Minister said. 

We saw this coming for most of the past fortnight; everyone thought schools would close at the end this week – two weeks before the Easter holiday.  I expect that sort of speculation is exactly what the Government wanted – just enough for schools to get prepared.  And we did what we could.  We readied the children we teach and we readied extensive packs of learning activities for them to do at home.  Naively, we thought Government might also be preparing.

It was announced yesterday: schools will close on Friday.  Except.  Except.  Except.  The children of key workers will still need somewhere to go.  Vulnerable children will still need looking after.  We still need to provide for children with an EHCP.  But who qualifies as a key worker?  Do both parents need to be key workers?  Which children qualify as vulnerable?  Do all children with an EHCP continue to need provision?  And what about school staff?  Are they now key workers?  What happens to their children?  Will they be paid if they stay at home to care for their children? 

All day, the BBC News website has read ‘Answers promised after school shutdown confusion’, yet the answers haven’t come.  You’d think someone in Government might have seen that and thought it doesn’t read well.  All day, confusion, questions and concern have reigned.  All day, Headteachers have fumbled in the dark, jumping to conclusions and adding to the worries of their staff.  (I don’t blame them; they needed leadership too.)  Some parents received text messages or e-mails telling them their children’s schools are closed from Friday.  No ifs, no buts.  Others’ schools told them they would be open on Monday.  Some key workers and parents of vulnerable or SEND children have nowhere to send their children on Monday; others do.  Some school staff have been told to turn up for work as normal on Monday and that they will be working through the Easter holiday; others have been told they might be staying at home until September. 

Never have I felt so undervalued as a teacher.

Weighty pennies have dropped for me personally too.

Usually, I hate it when people say something is surreal, but the experience of many teachers has been surreal in the last week.  Whilst we read about the world around us shutting down and watch it on the news, we drive to work every morning as normal, through regularly busy streets; we cocoon ourselves in our classrooms, oblivious to the outside world; then we drive back home to our regularly comfortable homes.  This won’t last though.

My own class effectively shut itself down on Wednesday – all the children stayed at home – and I miss them already.  We might not see each other again for months. 

I’m going to visit my parents this weekend.  The drive to Cornwall can’t possibly count as essential travel and there might be a slight risk in me seeing them (we’re all in decent health, by the way) but if I don’t see them now, I don’t know when I’ll see them again.  That thought really upsets me.  I wrote it through blurred eyes.  I don’t know when I’ll see my brother again or my beautiful niece and my playful nephew.  I’d always do my part to support people through these trying times and I’ll proudly return to work next week but there’s also a bit of me that envies those who will be at home with their families.  When I come home from Cornwall, go back to work and socially distance myself, I’ll have no-one.

Yet I fear all this has barely started and it’s going to get much, much worse. 

New Years Day 2020 - The Passing of a Decade

A few days ago, it hadn’t even occurred to me that New Years Day this year marked the passing of a decade and I’m not sure about the significance of it.  I don’t remember New Year’s Day 2010 being remotely noteworthy and having lived through the passing of a millennium and forty-three new years, I’m wise enough to know that these moments of fireworks, pealing bells, kisses and celebration are just passing moments, just another day.  It’s not that I don’t value these points in our calendar when we pause, take stock and even make new resolutions, but it’s social media that has got us thinking differently and suddenly everyone’s reflecting on the passing of a whole decade.  I’ve happily joined in with this year’s decade photograph challenge and I’ll just as happily join in with some reflection on the past ten years.

There was sadness for me in the past decade as I lost the last of my grandparents in 2015 and 2016 and a dear aunt in 2019.  I was, however, so proud of my Grampy and Gran and so blessed to have been loved by them until I was nearly forty, and the death of my Auntie Marion – as tragic and shocking as it was – brought her family and mine closer together in a way she would have loved, and a shared resolution to remain closer.  I also gained a gorgeous niece and a wonderful nephew (and two honorary nephews) who bring me endless joy.  My grandparents taught me the value of family and I might actually feel closer now to my mum, dad and brother than I have ever felt.  There may not be many more visits to Cornwall now that mum and dad have decided to move back to Devon, but over the past decade, I’ve spent a full year in Lizard, loving my time with them and the many miles of clifftop I’ve walked with crazy Bramble-Dog.

I’ve encountered some unpleasant characters including one who could have destroyed me, but I have the incredible good fortune to be surrounded by far more awesome people.  Without them, I know my decade would have been far less bright.  Together, we’ve celebrated weddings, skied in the Alps, welcomed the Olympics to London, marked a Royal wedding and the Diamond Jubilee, danced and flirted in clubs and streets and at concerts and festivals, eaten Michelin-starred food and stuffed our faces with equally delicious home-cooked meals and afternoon teas, completed a cookery course, travelled around Europe and even to Costa Rica, played in the snow, sun-bathed on the beach, run places (some of us marathons, some of us less far), walked dogs, skated on ice, drunk gallons of cocktails, gin and wine, swapped books, moved home and sat together in hospital.  Many of the same faces I see in photographs from ten years ago have stuck with me through the thick and thin of the past decade, bringing me comfort and support when I’ve needed to cry but far more smiles, laughter, silliness, life-enhancing memories and love.  I really don’t know how that’s happened or how I can deserve to be so remarkably fortunate! 

At work, the Cranborne-years marked a blip in my career but they didn’t end it as I thought they might.  A certain man made those years difficult but I also worked with some good people, inspiring teachers and wonderful children and families and I learnt valuable lessons, not least the power a Headteacher can command and the impact one person can have on a culture and its people.  Leaving without knowing what I was going to do next was both a relief and daunting, and it was certainly bold!  Stumbling into special education at Linwood was the best career move I’ve made.  Once again, I work with amazing teachers and teaching assistants, many of whom have become great new friends; I love being back in the classroom; I’m rediscovering my ambition and starting to lead again and, above all, I’m learning for myself, which I enjoy immensely.

Writing this, I’m conscious of the things that haven’t happened to me in the last decade.  I’ve had accidents and been unwell, but I’ve not had to stay in hospital.  I’ve chosen to change my job but I’ve not lost it nor been made redundant.  I’ve never been hungry or had to use a foodbank.  I’ve not been the victim of a crime.  No-one injured me.  (It seems I don’t need other people’s help on that front!).  I’ve not lost my home and the most uncomfortable place I’ve had to sleep is on the floor of a friend’s room after a wild night out.  I’ve not been attacked because of who I am, my beliefs or something I’ve said.  I’ve never been arrested.  I don’t have to hide and I have little to fear.  It’s easy to take all that I have for granted but I don’t and I know I’m a very lucky boy.

Although a part of me doesn’t want to put any sort of a downer on my personally positive review of the decade, it would be wrong to indulge in self-satisfaction and ignore what is going on around me.  The truth is: I don’t ignore it.  Generally, I think of myself as a positive and optimistic person but sadly, I’ve never felt more pessimistic about the future my niece and nephew and the children I teach are growing into.  The poverty and homelessness I see around me every day appals me.  I accept Brexit is going to happen but for me, it represents the worst of a Little England to which I don’t feel I belong and I still fear for the impact it will have culturally, economically and on the influence we have in the world.  We ended a decade with Australia in flames yet Australia remains one of the world’s biggest greenhouse gas emitters and its government’s response to climate change – like that of governments around the world – is pitiful.  After decades of denial, uncertainty and inaction, we may in the past ten years have woken up to this emergency but we still seem to be fumbling around in the dark for solutions.

I’m afraid too for the state of politics and democracy in Britain and around the world.  The quality of our politicians is poor; they lie and aren’t trusted (I don’t trust them) and for their own interests, they exploit the democratic deficit that they perpetuate.  I wish Boris and his government well but I think the prospects for his tenure as PM are bleak and depressing.  Like Nelson Mandela, I believe in the power of education to change the world, but there are too many children who don’t go to school and the quality of education is far from good enough for far too many children even in the UK and it is far too slow to improve.  We depend on politicians to lead development in education but I’m more convinced than ever that it’s not in their interests to do so; a better educated population might expect more of them, question them more and shift the balance of power.

Despite this gloomy view of the wider world, I’m still beginning a new decade feeling overwhelmingly positive.  I believe that individuals – me included – can do small things that can make a difference and that if we can’t rely on politicians to bring us together, we can come together positively in other ways – through social media and the great work of charities, for example.  The past decade gives me hope personally and reminds me of what is possible; the value of family; the love of my friends; that we can counter the worst of humanity with the best of it; the value of learning; the significance of good, hard work and ambition and that I can overcome personal trials and adversity with the help of the wonderful people around me.

4, 3, 2, 1 - The Incredible Five Point Scale

I was in a foul mood this morning.  I’d got it into my head that it was going to be a rainy Saturday so I stayed in bed too late only to then discover it was lovely and sunny and it felt like I’d wasted too much of the morning.  Then I was rude to a Jehova’s Witness, which isn’t like me, and I felt bad.  Then I made coffee with gone-off milk.  Throw in general tiredness, weird dreams and inconsiderate neighbours and by the time I left the flat, I was a ‘four’.

If you don’t know the five-point scale, a ‘four’ is close to meltdown.  I use it with my class of autistic boys to reflect on our feelings, learn more about emotions and develop strategies to manage them.  As its name suggests, it runs from one to five.  At ‘one’, we might feel relaxed, blissful, confident and at ease; we smile, laugh, chat, joke, play and it’s easy to focus on our work and learning.  At ‘five’, we might be depressed, distraught, incensed or aggressive; we shout, cry, hide, punch, kick, throw things and it’s impossible to do anything productive.

Every morning at school, we all share our five-point scale ‘score’ and describe our feelings, then throughout the day, we record our ‘score’ and reflect on our changing emotions.  We’re learning new, more nuanced vocabulary for them too and we talk about strategies for managing our emotions.  What does a ‘three’ look, sound and feel like?  What can you do when you’re a ‘three’, you don’t want to become a ‘four’ and you want to de-escalate to a ‘two’ or a ‘one’?  My own five-point scale is on the wall for my students to see.

I pretty much stormed out of the flat this morning after snapping, ‘It’s no good!  I’m just going out!’  It wasn’t until I caught myself shouting at myself in my otherwise empty car with that knotted feeling in my tummy that my own five-point scale kicked in.  Storming out of the flat without knowing where I was going to go was pretty irrational – a heat of the moment impulse.  However, my own five-point scale that I’ve shared with my class – drawn up in more rational moment – tells me what to do: I need to be by myself and it helps to go out for a walk.

So that’s what I did.  I live close to Hengistbury Head - a beautiful nature reserve in Bournemouth with the sea on one side and Christchurch Harbour on the other.  After about twenty minutes walking, I was a ‘three’.  Watching carefree young children play on their bikes and scooters helped.  The bright sunshine falling green through the leaves and the sound of the wind blowing through the trees helped.  The simple smiled greetings from strangers walking their cheerful dogs helped.  It all helped to put things in perspective – a concept, I thought, that it’s important I teach my class.

Above all, the wildlife, especially the birds, helped me.  I paused frequently, listening intently to an unrecognisable bird’s song; it’s fun trying to work out which tree it’s coming from and to find the elusive songster among the leaves and branches.  I watched a stonechat flit from gorse to gorse, egrets striding through a marshy field, a hungry hovering kestrel and gulls battling against the strong wind.  Bright-legged waders sifting through the water with their long bills were especially engaging.  I couldn’t work out what they were – probably redshanks but they looked greyer than the ones in my book.  I lost myself in watching them for about twenty minutes, oblivious to anything else around me.  Focusing so hard on this one thing, simply living in that particular moment without a thought for another was, I realised, a wonderful exercise in mindfulness.  Thus, I became a ‘two’.

I went home feeling much happier, maybe not quite a ‘one’ but not far off.  I think I’ll tell my class this story on Monday.  It will surprise them because they know I rarely reach four or five but perhaps it will also help them to understand that there’s no shame in reaching that stage if we can diminish the impact on those around us and we have strategies that help to manage our emotions.  It was a powerful reminder for me of the value of the five-point scale.  In a simple, numeric score, it sums up and communicates so much but it is also an effective tool for teaching young people about emotions, how to recognise and describe them, how to manage them and in doing so, how to protect their emotional wellbeing.

For more information about the five-point scale, I recommend ‘The Incredible 5-Point Scale: The Significantly Improved and Expanded Second Edition’ by Kari Dunn Buron and Mitzi Curtis.

Defending democracy - My first ever protest

To be honest, it wasn’t much of a protest.  Fifty or so people, a smattering of Lib Dem conference delegates and a few dogs gathered in the sunshine around half a dozen fluttering EU flags.  There were a few feeble chants of ‘This is what democracy looks like!’  Three or four speakers made rambling speeches.  And the ‘march’ through the town centre gardens was more of an uncoordinated, leisurely stroll in the sunshine.

I nearly didn’t take part.  When I arrived, the turnout was so disappointing that I sat on a bench watching a few more late-comers arrive and contemplating a late breakfast somewhere instead.  This matters though, I realised – perhaps more than anything else I’ve ever believed in – and I want to stand up and be counted.  So I clapped as the speakers took their turns, admiring them for having the courage to take the mic when I wouldn’t, and I handed out ‘Brexit is breaking Britain’ leaflets as we ambled toward the seafront.  

I was nervous about joining my first ever protest – fearful of other people’s reaction, and that fear wasn’t entirely unfounded.  As we handed out leaflets, the anger, hostility and rudeness of some Leavers was shocking – all older people, shouting, pointing, swearing, jabbing their middle fingers.  Scarily, it wasn’t difficult to imagine these confrontations becoming violent.

I understand the frustration of those finger-jabbing Leavers who were so angry at our protest yesterday.  They have been massively let down.  Three years on from the referendum, it’s patently obvious that Brexit isn’t as easy as they were told it would be.  It turned out that the politicians who won it had no plan for actually delivering on their promises and still have no plan.  And they were given a date for Brexit that has proved unachievable.

I posted on Facebook that I was taking part in my first ever protest to defend democracy.  How could I claim such a thing, I was asked, if I also advocated ignoring the result of the 2016 referendum.  I understand the point, which is why I want to respect that result.  I voted remain, I was desperately sorry to be in the minority, I’m cynical about people’s reasons for voting Leave, but a majority’s a majority; that’s British democracy for you.  If a good deal can be done with the EU that enables us to leave whilst maintaining a close, positive relationship with our European neighbours, I will sadly accept it.

There must be a deal, however.  Back in 2016, we were told it would be easy to get one; the possibility (wherever you put it on the probability scale) of terrible disruption and economic catastrophe resulting from a no-deal Brexit is too great a risk to take; and the view that we should just take the hit and get it over and done with ignores the fact that the hit could be dreadful, it still won’t be over and done with and the no doubt continually acrimonious debate that will still follow about our future relationship with the EU. 

In the meantime, whilst we await Boris’ miraculous deal, Parliament ought to be doing its job, debating the detail and holding the Government to account, and the rule of law must be upheld.  Boris’ decision to suspend Parliament, his attempt to silence opposition and talk among Ministers of ignoring the law is beyond contempt.  This is not a case of ‘Parliament versus the people’, as some say; I am the people as much as any Leaver is, and I demand to be represented.  Whilst I’m not, I’ll protest for the democracy I believe in and against this appalling assault on our values. 

Notre Dame: Has God moved out?

Since Notre Dame burned, there’s been much emphasis in the news on the officially secular nature of France’s society – analysing the significance of an eight-hundred year old church in what one commentator last night referred to as our ‘Godless society’.  Strangely, it was an expression that made me cringe a little; I’m not especially Godly myself, but I fear what God may have been replaced with in our world, and I’m sad for people with faith in God who it seems are written out of society with such a phrase.

Nonetheless, the blaze at Notre Dame has sparked reactions that get you thinking.  As of this morning, €800million have been raised for the reconstruction of Notre Dame, including enormous donations from wealthy families and their businesses – Gucci, Yves Saint Lauren, Louis Vuitton, L’Oreal and Total among them – and President Macron has boldly pledged that the great Cathedral will be rebuilt in time for the 2024 Paris Olympics.

In this secular, Godless world, what motivates this generosity?  Where does God feature in Macron’s determination and the desires of people all around the world to see that great monument to Him restored to its former glory?

I think I understand some of the emotions that swept around the world as the flames swept through Notre Dame, which have prompted this will to rebuild.  Firstly, there’s that connection to a special (even sacred) place that many will have felt.  Like me, millions have stood in front of those twin towers, gazed in awe at those beautiful stained-glass windows and sat in peaceful silence in that vast nave.  Notre Dame is a place where it feels you can reach out and touch history, and maybe even touch the divine.  Even if you haven’t been there, you know of somewhere special – even spiritual – that it would be devastating to lose.  When these places are gutted by fire, we are all gutted.

Then there’s something elemental and timeless about fire that plays to all the fears that permanently lurk at the back of our minds.  It starts so easily with that one spark and spreads so quickly, out of our control.  It burns so fiercely and indiscriminately, destroying just about everything in its path.  There’s a reason hell is a place of fire and brimstone: fire can seem evil; we fear it more than almost anything.

On Tuesday night, when almost all hope had been lost, the fire at Notre Dame was beaten; evil was defeated.  Fear and despair were replaced with good old Christian feelings of triumph, hope and rejoicing.  The ancient walls of Notre Dame stood strong – an enduring symbol of hope and resilience and, apparently, the strength of French (and even European) culture, faith and society.  It’s no wonder that we all want to see the cathedral rebuilt, phoenix-like.

These same sentiments would almost certainly have played out similarly had Notre Dame been ravaged by fire in any of its nine centuries.  But there would have been another dimension to them: the God dimension.  Had Notre Dame burned in Holy Week a few hundred years ago, a God-fearing society would less have launched an inquiry into how it started as questioned why.  What had they done to provoke such divine retribution?  And their determination to rebuild would have been to the glory of God – the same motivation that sent great cathedrals soaring skyward a millennium ago.

As much as I too want to see Notre Dame rebuilt, there is today something odd about a proudly secular government of a liberal, multi-cultural society pledging to rebuild a grand house of God.  Does this imply that France is actually less secular than we thought or that Notre Dame is these days less a place of God?  Has he moved out?

What too of those benefactors who will help fund the cathedral’s reconstruction?  Once upon a time, they may have believed such generosity to the Church booked them an eventual one-way ticket to paradise.  Is it too cynical to wonder what they think they are buying today?  Validation in the court of public opinion, perhaps.  And how comfortable ought we and the Church be with oil companies and fashion houses funding holy endeavour?  (If that’s what it is.)   I don’t know about the morality of these donations but post-Sackler and once the embers of the Notre Dame fire have died down, it surely won’t be long before someone questions it.

Finally, to use a somewhat hackneyed Christian question, too often asked in school assemblies: What would Jesus do?  Specifically, I wonder what Jesus would do if he suddenly found himself with nigh-on a billion Euros.  It seems quite a pertinent question to ask in Holy Week.  We are told he said, ‘Do not store up for yourselves treasures on earth where moth and rust destroy … but store up for yourselves treasures in Heaven.’  (And for ‘moth and rust’, we could as easily read ‘fire’.)  I wonder then, would he want that billion Euros spent on building a great monument to himself or would he want it spent on refugee children like he himself had been, clothing the poor, healing the sick, feeding the hungry and bringing hope to the lonely?  

God knows what the answers to all these questions might be.  Throughout time though, people of all faiths would have seen a calamity like the great fire of Notre Dame as a sort of test.  At this time of year especially, Christians today, sharing faith with those who first built all our ancient churches, must surely see the significance of the fire in the asking of those questions.

Probably like most people of faith in God and of no faith, I want to see a billion Euros spent on rebuilding Notre Dame and at least another billion spent on the poor, homeless, starving, sick and needy this Easter – a practical renewal of ideals you might call Christian, if you like.  I’d like to see Notre Dame restored not only as a magnificent testimony to what can be built in stone but as a shining beacon of what humanity can achieve.