You judge: Was Clara Guilty?

You judge: Was Clara Guilty?.

People Power

Some from Scotland may know this story, but having been inspired on the storytelling front, I wonder how many messages you can derive from this true account?



The Island of Gigha (pronounced Geeya)  is approximately half as long and half as wide as the Gaza strip – and  is home to a mere 170 people.

Up until a few years ago, a neglectful landlord ruled over the inhabitants. He had allowed the housing stock to fall into disrepair, so that it had become the worst in Europe. The Islanders complained and begged him for help. He refused to pay.  These people then challenged him to do better, and when he again refused, they fund-raised to buy the island from him.

They got together and bought Gigha (www.gigha.org.uk) and, through ownership, have certainly solved many of their problems. They make their own rules. There is no policeman on the island – nor has one been needed.

Peer pressure reigns.

You cannot buy a house there unless you can provide a Business Plan that is passed by the Island Council, and would create employment. (Some people have presented such plans four times – and still been refused.)  I believe it is a fairly nerve racking experience.

So they control immigration.

Those who are required are invited in, and are allowed to buy a property.

The hotel is the only one on the Island, and they all work together to run it at a profit. It is a Community Project which helps to support the island.

Ethics and integrity shine through. Everywhere they have made an effort to save money.

Their wind-turbines- named Faith, Hope and Charity - were bought second hand .

They have now repaired the housing stock and are self- sufficient in electricity. The excess they sell to the mainland.

They are justifiably proud of their achievements, this little band.

They have fought a major battle, and won.

They are empowered.

They have control over what they own, and they value it. Every inhabitant beams with pride.

Little things began to have importance.

When my husband and I cycled the length of the island on New Year’s Day, 2008, he suddenly stopped and said: “Can you hear that?”

I stopped and listened – and, I must admit, it is the first and only time I have heard audible silence. I now know what “The Sound of Silence” means.

In the beautiful gardens, there were signs which said: “You are here for your enjoyment – please walk on the grass” or “Please smell the flowers.”

It was liberating. To be told what you can do, as opposed to what you can’t.

When we so frequently see neglect and waste – is there a better way?

Could people do much more for themselves? At the moment they have not been asked.

Is it a question we should consider?

Would there be less complaining if not only Local Authorities, but Health Boards and Education, were in the hands of elected ordinary mortals?

If Government took a step back?

Would there be greater fiscal prudence?

©Linda Jane McLean

Lance the Boil

Fear and trepidation rose within my teenage frame, and I quaked as I tried to smile a welcome at the most powerful person I knew. I eventually mustered the strength to smile and say: “Good morning!” as if I meant it.

Matron responded to my salutation graciously, and then wondered aloud if I could help her. Nothing seemed less likely – and I gestured to the empty space around me where so many staff had been just a few seconds ago.

“There are doctors and Sisters here!” I protested to no avail.

I felt very exposed – like a rabbit in the headlights, as she bore down on me – the last member of staff visible on this Tuesday morning. I was rooted to the spot. With the magical disappearance of all trained personnel, I stood in A&E with Matron, apparently alone. As a second year Nurse, my antennae had obviously not been fully in tune.

It had been a quiet start to the morning in A&E, and I had been ruminating on the pleasant events of the night before and daydreaming. This meant that I had been slightly distracted – and I was caught unawares.

And now she wanted me to deal with her problem.

Xxxxx

“I have a boil on my hand, Nurse,” she informed me, “And I would like you to lance it.”

Time stood still. I had never lanced a boil before – I had seen it done, and I understood the principle – but to attack my Matron with a scalpel was unthinkable.

Again, I remonstrated. “There are people around,” I said, stalling hopelessly, regarding the void of human activity with disbelief. Such was the effect of the power that a Matron wielded.

“I’m sure you would be better with someone more senior,” I tried again – not wanting to admit that I really had no idea what I was doing.

“You don’t understand, do you, Nurse?” She put the question kindly. “I am training you – I need to know that you are competent before I send you out into the world.”

Casting one last, despairing look at the vacant surroundings – realisation dawned: I would have to bite this bullet.

Quickly, I cleaned and set up the trolley with swabs, antiseptic, scalpel, and dressings.

I cleaned her skin, and then I said to her, almost unbelievably: “This will just hurt for a second…” as I had heard my seniors say.  The offending boil was pierced. Then I expressed the pus, cleaned the wound and dressed it.

She thanked me profoundly, congratulated me, and said it had been virtually painless.

Amazed at my achievement, I watched as she strode silently away. She carried with her all the confidence of rank. I wondered at her bravery.  To put herself in the care of someone so junior simply to evaluate the training was extremely courageous.

But no doubt she left with an impression of her student nurses. I hope it was of competence and caring. And it empowered me – it gave me confidence. If I could deal with a Matron, I could cope with anything.

And I wonder, as I see the managers of hospitals increase – both in number and remoteness – whether they would ever consider this. They could probably manage to do it incognito. But I don’t suppose competence or caring is among their vast array of targets. They don’t see that by tackling these two issues, the results would follow.

Maybe someone is needed to lance the “Target Boil” – and let the managers see that it is competent practice and practical caring, combined with dignity and respect, that will bring results that they seek.

No-one who trained in my time placed any credit in the notion that you could treat the Health Service as a business. We also believed that when it was shown not to work, that the mistake would be recognised and we could revert to tried and trusted standards.

We did not believe that a system which was so patently not fit for purpose would be pursued relentlessly, ad infinitum – and with a determination which is laughable.

The target boil was not lanced. Instead more targets were introduced. Now we have so many targets that they are conflicting.

The target boil has caused septicaemia – and the patient is now very ill.

With the root of the problem neglected, it is doubtful if the Health Service can fully recover.

© Linda Jane McLean

Designing from destruction

Using nature

Lanzarote  was once a fertile island.

Then a way of life was destroyed by a volcanic eruption.

There is not much that can be done when fields and pastures are destroyed, and a way of life disappears.

Volcanic ash and rock buried everything that had once been fresh and beautiful.

However, years later, a man emerged with vision. He saw that  disaster could be turned into asset.

He found several  volcano bubbles joined together, and the picture shows what he managed to achieve.

This is  thinking outside the box on a grand scale: to turn the products of natural catastrophe into a home.

I’ve been there and visited – and this picture does not do it justice – believe me.

But if you’re in a hot dry land and you want respite from the sun’s glare, somewhere cool and relaxing, you’ll find it here.

This is design using the environment. It is incredibly clever. Even the pool is almost subterranean.

The house consists of five bubbles – he calls them “spaces”  - there are no interconnecting doors. One area  flows freely into another.

The creator was Cesar Manrique – and this link will show more astounding pictures of his work - http://travel.spotcoolstuff.com/canary-islands/lanzarote/cesar-manrique-house . He loved his island home and preferred doing things simply. Anyone who has been to Lanzarote will have heard of him.

When he died he left many examples of his genius.

He drew his ideas for his  designs on anything that came to hand  - from serviettes to cigarette packets. It was important to give his idea form. Everything was kept simple and in keeping with the surroundings.

But of all the examples that I saw, this volcano house was the most stunning – the most unusual – the most haunting.

And it wasn’t simply the buildings – it was the reputation that he created, which brought  complete devotion from his followers. When Cesar spoke, you have the feeling that everyone on the island listened.

He became so influential that he could hold sway over the planning and infrastructure of a whole island. He decreed that no building on the island should be more than two stories high.  When a multiple story building was built, it stood empty for years while the debate raged. It was decided that there should be no more.

What factors were at work? What message was conveyed that everyone was able to relate to and understand.

Was it the simplicity of ideas, the love of his country and his desire to promote the very best features in a way that was understood? And to use the worst in a way that was awe-inspiring?

One thing is certain. Cesar was a leader  - he had vision – and he took his people with him.

Linda McLean

Inspiration Leads the Way.

Times are tough, huh? There are going to be cuts in jobs and services.

Yet we have been here before. We have had far less than we have now.

What would use all the talents of our citizens?What would  stop them falling into despair and destroying the environment?

What about a project? The people must decide from the very few resources that they have available to them what to make of it. What is most important to them? What does the Community need?

A competition could start on some of our empty buildings, and make them useful again.

Think about this:

Two Nissan huts were once built on Orkney. You don’t get much cheaper or less cheerful.

These huts were given to Italian Prisoners of War,  who had been sent to these remote Islands to work on the Churchill Barriers. Strangers in a strange land, they had repeatedly asked to be allowed to make a place of worship. Something that would bring comfort and be familiar to them.

Thus, with two  huts joined together the work started.

From metal workers to painters and artists, they took a pride in the finished item.They had no money, but they cared.They used everything at their disposal. From bully beef cans as candle holders to scraps of metal for the iron work.

Who would think of dipping a lorry spring in cement to make the font look as if it stood on a barley sugar twist stem? Someone who understands how to use whatever is at hand – all his resources. High ideas – produced from very little.

It stands today – attracting more money than its nearest neighbours.  Yet it has no congregation, no minister, and no services. What is on offer here is peace: an understanding of peace that perhaps only prisoners of war know. Men stop on their way home from work and sit and contemplate a while. Worried women go to find comfort.

It is never closed – yet no Business Plan could have created this. The passion hits you still as a physical force,

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Italian_Chapel

And I tell you this: from the minute the door is opened and you see inside, you are enthralled: that so much could be given by the many to so few.

©Linda Jane McLean

In whose name are such things done?

Yesterday, I heard of the experience of a disabled man in an electric wheelchair in Edinburgh.

He was accosted by two twelve-year-old boys, who switched off the power  in his chair and pushed him in front of the traffic in a busy street.

Was their concept that people with disabilities can do nothing and feel nothing?

As a drama, however,  it makes the point.

It demonstrates  what happens to people with disabilities daily throughout society.

Their motivation is isolated and turned off. They are left in a place that is not of their choosing.  Society puts them in a position of being  unable to contribute anything, where they are  regarded as helpless and hopeless.

Then they are labelled “disabled”.

Interestingly, the Police are looking for the two youths in the Edinburgh incident.

Perhaps one day, when it is recognized that this episode is only the tip of the iceberg, they will widen their search.

When it is recognized that it is not appropriate to keep a citizen in their own home, week after week, month after month, against their wishes,  because they have a disability.

I learnt recently that prisoners are paid £25.00 per week. My mind boggled as I considered.

If you have committed a crime, you receive free lodgings, your  bills are paid, and you get£25,00 per week . You are offered work, training, recreation, and access to computers.

Contrast that with the person with a disability, trying to live at home on benefits: paying bills, paying for food, paying rent or mortgage and paying for care. And what are they offered?

In whose name are such things done?

Is it fair? Is it legal?

Is it too much, for those who have committed no crime, to  want freedom?

We can all give voice – but we need people not only to hear but to listen.

And after they have listened to have understood.

With comprehension will come action.

Perhaps if  ”Hearings” were introduced in the world of disability,  the truth would come out.

Look what can be done.

Who is the judge of  disability?

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Gc4HGQHgeFE&feature=player_embedded

Linda Jane McLean

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The Adaptation of Knowledge

These are just some thoughts that I thought I would share. In a new situation we have to think differently.

It is a story from during the War – but it could do with being retold in the current climate.

WEAPONS/TOOLS

When the soldier moved from Scotland to the Western Desert, he was astonished at the number of things he had to unlearn. Things that had been drilled into him, he now had to ignore.

For example, in the army, you were always taught to clean and maintain your rifle.

In the desert, if you cleaned your rifle in the standard manner, you were absolutely certain it wouldn’t fire.

Grease and oil attracted sand.

SAFETY:

Defences are usually in place before a battle: one imagines forts, walls, to protect the men. And how was this done with nothing but sand? Tanks from both sides could roam at will all over the desert.
So they made Invisible Boxes. Very real Invisible Boxes, it must be said.

Each one could hold a division.

Hundreds of mines were dug and hidden in the sand to contain the troops. The entrances were clearly marked, and could be “shut” just as quickly with the addition of a couple of mines. Every box had a name.

DIRECTION

Because the desert was such a disorientating environment, (“like being at sea on land – it was so featureless” ) the sun compass was an excellent example of how to put your knowledge to a different use. ( http://www.trademarklondon.com/prod_desc_SUNCOMP.html?sno=298 . Cole and Bagnold  both produced these, but the Cole model was in frequent use))

Quite ingenious, this was a device which used the properties of a sundial, but in reverse. The premise was that if a sundial is set up so that it points North, the shadow will tell the time.

So  if the shadow pointed at the time, you knew where North was.

Once set, a man could get into a truck and proceed with confidence as the shadow fell across the correct time.

STRATEGY

Every battle needs a start line.

How did you make a start line in such a featureless landscape?

How could you direct thousands of men to start as one from the correct place?

How could you make a line in the sand, which would be clear to your troops, without letting the enemy see what you were up to?

These were problems that nobody had thought about – but now demanded hours of problem-solving and resourcefulness. It took many false starts, planning and practice, trial and error, before the answer was found.

THE SOLUTION

It took nine miles of signal cable – which it was decided would look quite innocuous. Even if it was seen, the opposition would not know what it meant.

This was laid by sixty men over a period of two nights, with men carefully pacing their way along compass bearings until the points converged. (The angle was critical, as they would all have gone off in the wrong direction in such a flat wilderness if there was an error in calculation.)

Metal spikes were driven in every fifty yards.

The Commanding officer spent the last day giving representatives of each battalion a guided tour, so they were clear, and each was able to mark their own boundaries.

Then, on the night of the battle, parties went out at dusk with rolls of white tape, unrolled them, and fixed them to the cable. Ninety minutes later they had a clear white start line.

They had no idea how the battle would go, but they would all start in order.

The answer isn’t always found in books.

If we’ve never been here before, we must learn as we go.

©Linda Jane McLean

Without the Wings to Fly

French, debonair, dark-haired and handsome, the pilot of Concorde enjoyed a wonderful life. He had an attractive wife, two lovely girls of three and five, and everything he could wish for. His home was beautiful: the setting was superb – he lacked for nothing.

That is, until he caught the flu.

That night changed his life.

Xxxxx

His flight had been returning from New York – and he had started to feel quite ill on the way back. However, it was only when he was talking to the ground staff that he found his head starting to swim. There seemed to be quite a crowd where there had only been two or three before. Was he seeing double?

This was all most inconvenient. He had promised to take his wife out to a dinner dance that night– after he had a few hours sleep. She would be disappointed if he couldn’t make it. He got a lift home with a friend, and told his wife he was feeling unwell. She had, as he had feared, built her hopes up on the evening out.

“You’ll be better by tonight, yes?” she asked.

He assured her that he would. And so he went to bed to lie down. When she came to wake him some time later, he was unable to get up.

“You want me to go myself?” she asked, moodily.

He didn’t care. He felt too ill. He couldn’t remember what he said.But she left him – she went out, and she did not return until the early hours of the following morning. By then he was unconscious. His children were crying.

His wife was furious that she had come home to this. He was unconscious  in the morning, so she phoned the doctor.  He was taken to hospital where meningitis was diagnosed.Following the meningitis, he developed epilepsy. He would never fly again.

His wife decided that this was not the life she had chosen and found someone else. She did not want to be reminded or tied down in any way to the life that she had known – so she put the children in an orphanage.

Unwell, unemployed, with all his confidence and flair gone – he was devastated.He was astounded that his wife could be so hard and unsympathetic when he most needed her.And the girls, of course – what was he to do? He could not earn at the moment – his mother and father had taken him in, but they were too elderly to deal with the grandchildren all the time, and there was no room. And he could no longer afford the luxury of the extra room.

It had all been taken from him.

I met him one sunny day in Le Havre. His sister thought it would do him good to speak to me, as I had suffered from epilepsy all my life. But this was different.

I had known at the outset that I was going to be required to fight for everything I gained. This poor guy had sailed through life, innocently believing that everything he had was permanent. His talent, ability to earn, keep his wife and family comfortable was just plain normal. That was before he hit the brick wall.

The distress that his altered status had on him was obvious.

We talked for a while, in French, and then he asked if I would come with him to see his girls. We went to the orphanage. They were pathetically pleased to see him. He tried to find out what had happened to the new clothes he had bought them – but they had disappeared – again.

We went to his home, and I talked to his parents, who looked stressed.

“It’s simply not fair!” he asserted. “Why me?  Why everything? I’ve been left with nothing. It would have been better if someone had put a bullet in my brain – then I wouldn’t feel the pain every day.”

I could say nothing. He had fallen so far from what he knew: he had lost his friendships with those he believed cared. His job, his wife and his family were all gone. His home and all he had worked for had simply evaporated. He used to enjoy everyone’s complete attention when he spoke – now no-one listened. I can’t think of a bigger loss – yet society marches on by. They’ll give generously to earthquake and famine victims.

But what about the neighbour? Who  volunteers to help with the little things?

When the pilot can  no longer fly, or the teacher and doctor no longer walk, how do we treat them? Does loss of status lead to loss of identity? Does this doubly disable? Does anybody see what we are doing and how we are behaving?

Our adult behaviour makes William Golding’s  “Lord of the Flies” as innocent as a fairy story..

©Linda Jane McLean

Lost Knowledge

As an architect, my father used to wonder aloud at the many marvels and systems which the Greeks and Romans had invented and produced, and his inability to understand how the knowledge to reproduce such things had been lost. He would comment:

“They were world leaders – the best in their field.  How do you ‘lose’ knowledge?”

As I looked at Poltalloch House, I finally knew the answer to his question……….

ul.

Impressive for Storage

Poltalloch House is not far from Lochgilphead, nestling on a hillside overlooking Loch Crinan. It had obviously been a formidable estate at one time.  There was a Church in the environs, a comfortable stroll away for the gentry – you know the sort of thing. This Church is still used twice a month: there is a notice on the door asking visitors to close it after their departure to avoid swallows nesting inside.
We stumbled across it by chance, pulled by curiosity after noticing a ruined mansion in an elevated position, in the far distance. After several false turns, rutted roads, and gates, we reached our destination.

Poltalloch House was agonisingly eloquent in its suffering.

Its empty elegance and grandeur cried out in distress.

The beautiful workmanship on the finials, the very fine wrought iron craftsmanship on hundreds of metres of fencing, had stood the test of time.

The sandstone too was in excellent condition presumably because the roof had been removed.

We walked its boundaries, silently, respectfully, almost in awe, absorbing what it could tell us. We saw the great rooms, the Conservatory and the stable block. We found the massive boiler room. Everything appeared intact except the roof.

Great trees had now taken up residence inside the house and peered carelessly through the windows at us.

Huge steps, fashioned in stone, were barely visible. The gardens that must once have been could now only be imagined: imposing, solitary weeds now stood seven feet tall.
What once was definitive of majesty was laid low.  Where once there was glory, neglect had taken root. It spoke of Yesterday, where confidence abounded: it informed us that today none can be found. It told, not only of Scottish history, but of Scotland’s future.

This house was a perfect study of so many skills, trades, and architecture. How to create a dwelling of substance and beauty, and where to place it to best advantage.

It incorporated employing and teaching many people a huge range of skills.

Tomorrow the trees will undermine it; vegetation will claim it. It will no longer be seen. It will be no more.

Knowledge, and how to use it, will once again be lost.

Despite the owner’s great distress, the law says it must be preserved in this way. It’s called “preserving a ruin”.

Is there no better ways to use our resources?

NEGLECT

Is this what we want – what we really, really want?

Or was the original a better idea?

For some more great pictures of how Poltalloch has been preserved, see

http://www.derelictplaces.co.uk/main/showthread.php?t=9990%20…

 

©Linda McLean

The Cost of Chaos

I had given up smoking, so I was not at my best.

Just a touch crabby, I was struggling with a complicated knitting pattern to try to keep my hands busy, when the front door bell rang.  I was trying to create a beige heron on a green background at a blue pool which was surrounded by red flowers. There were so many coloured strands – and now I had to put it down and answer the door.

Carefully, I placed the work of art on the chair, and went to see who wanted me at nine o’clock at night. The bell rang again, impatiently.

“Coming!” I shouted, trying to contain my frustration.

Clara stood on the doorstep. She was the daughter of my next door neighbour.  We didn’t see much of her. I had maybe spoken to her twice.

She was in a state of severe distress. She was both crying and shaking uncontrollably, exclaiming at frequent intervals that it was not her fault.  I took in the scene – and I was appalled.

Hanging limply from her right hand was a hammer, which was dripping blood on the doorstep…….

Xxxxx

My mind automatically clunked into top gear. This girl had been released from a high security prison, but she had done very well. She had put new curtains and carpets throughout her parents’ house. I had seen her working very hard frequently, washing windows, bringing back shopping, laying out the flower beds. Our paths simply had not crossed often.

“Nobody listened to me!” she wailed.  “I told them I couldn’t do it THREE TIMES!”

“Okay, I’m listening “  I said, with just a hint of trepidation. “Tell me what happened.”

“I put the hammer through Mum’s head, that’s what happened. I told them……”

“Wait just a minute…have you phoned anybody… the ambulance….?”

“No” she said.

“Okay, just give me a tick – I’ll need to get some stuff. I’ll see what’s happened and we’ll sort it out. Okay?” I rushed to get some swabs and bandages, and said to my husband that I thought there had been a serious incident.

“Phone an ambulance” I shouted to him, as I went with the distraught girl – still clutching her hammer – to her door. My husband was in a wheelchair, so it took him a lttle while to get organised.

We entered Clara’s home– and it was much worse than I had expected. Her mother had part of her skull missing, and there was blood all over the floor. I phoned an Ambulance, and then set about seeing what I could do. It was a head wound and it was bleeding furiously.  She was only partly conscious, but I spoke to her and made reassuring noises as I worked.

“I TOLD them!” Clara insisted.

“Yes, I know – you said. Would you mind putting the hammer down and helping me with this? I need to get some pressure to stop her losing so much blood. “

She responded immediately – for which I was immensely relieved. She was still trying to explain that she had been driven to it – that she had been provoked – that she had told them again and again that she couldn’t manage.

“They told me I could manage in the Community,” she went on. “Community Care was good, they said. They’re not using the big institutions any more. And I wanted it to work. Why didn’t they listen to me when I wasn’t coping?”

I tried to make soothing noises in between my bandages, but she was inconsolable. I wondered what they would make of this job at the Royal Infirmary. It would probably stick to the wound, and I would get my blessings for even trying.

Meanwhile, Clara was wringing her hands in despair.

“It’s all going to happen again, isn’t it? They’ll take me away again, and it’s not my fault!”

I felt heart sorry for the girl, but there was too much to do.

“Can you let my husband in the door?” I asked hearing his knock. “Perhaps before you go you could get me a newspaper. Do you have one?”

She went off to the kitchen and came back with an Evening Times. I found this appropriate. Then she went to get my husband.

I laid the paper out on the floor – I wanted to get as much blood as I can on it – so I could estimate the loss. It is so difficult to estimate blood loss, I thought if I collected it on a newspaper, weight would have helped in the calculation. But of course, a lot had seeped into the carpet.

My husband entered at this point, and said he had phoned the ambulance, and greeted Clara’s dad.

It was only then that I realised that her husband was sitting in the corner – not reacting at all.

I apologised for ignoring him, but he brushed my excuses aside. He was disabled and only moved with difficulty.

“That’s a hell of a woman!” he stated. She just doesn’t know when to quit. You could see poor Clara getting more and more distressed.”

“I understand” I said.

I had heard more of their arguments at full volume through the wall than he would like to know about. I had even once been called in to rescue the mother from the kitchen sink. It was an old Belfast model and she had decided, for some reason known only to herself, that this was the best place for sulking after one of their fights.  So she took all her clothes off, and climbed in. It was only when she couldn’t get out, and he was unable to help her, that I was called.

However, I digress.

The tragedy, in this instance, was three fold:

The daughter was destined for a secure unit again.

The mother was going to be in hospital for a long time.

The father was going to go into care for a while.

These stories do not make the headlines, but they cost money.

What was the price paid by these three  for a total lack of vigilance?

What was the cost to the NHS of an inappropriate decision ?  It must have run to tens of thousands of pounds – in the short term.

In the long term, none of them were able to function independently again.  No price can be put on that.

When will the Community learn to care? And who will teach them?

©Linda Jane McLean