Thursday, May 15, 2025
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Clap for Our Carers: A Revival of Direct Action

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Standing in suburban London as a short-lived round of applause peters out, I couldn’t help but think to myself: What is the point? Notwithstanding the admirable sentiment behind Clap for Our Carers, there remains the unfortunate fact that my relatively isolated neighbourhood, to the best of my knowledge, contains absolutely zero NHS workers.

Nevertheless, following passive-aggressive comments from some rather cantankerous moralistic neighbours, I found myself clapping vigorously into the silence of a Thursday night for NHS staff that were entirely absent. As a final feeble cheer punctuated the air and everyone turned sheepishly to the warmth of their houses, amid the silence the truth emerged. The clapping is not for carers, not really, it is for ourselves.

Before anyone begins gathering their pitch-forks, torches, and 20-foot straw effigy, allow me to say this; Clap for Our Carers is a wonderful testament to human kindness. It was created with the commendable intention to express gratitude and bolster the morale of an under-appreciated and overwhelmed NHS staff. However, that does not negate the hypocrisy lingering in the participation of many.

Many of these neighbours, those most vocal in their praise, are among those who fail to support the NHS by not adhering to basic government guidelines. They flock to the park in alarmingly large groups, many returned from their chalets and couldn’t quite be bothered with all the trouble of self-isolation. Some are likely to have a mass of toilet-paper in their basement while others are forced to experiment with the versatility of paper-towels.

Ironically, Clap for Our Carers helps facilitate selfish behaviour. Participation in the well-intentioned, abnormal clap-filled display of altruism enables a personal satisfaction and serves as a public display of people who are going above and beyond necessary activity during the crisis. To do something so absent from daily life, they must be! Sadly, this self-affirming enables people to turn a blind eye to their own failure to act appropriately.

Clap for Our Cares typifies the double-think of acting poorly but behaving sanctimoniously. The mindset of performing noble gestures over suitable action has helped contribute to the severity of the current crisis. It is no secret that the NHS has been toiling in a state of crisis for years. While demands for increased support are widespread, action has largely been absent.

People are happy to grumble at dinner parties and launch twitter tirades at their chosen political nemeses, but when it comes to assuming personal responsibility, a reluctance prevails. Most dare not call for the unmentionable, the significant increase in income tax that such change would invariably require. For Tory voters, the uncomfortable prospect was rarely broached, for Labour voters the necessary personal cost was deflected with promises to secure the funding through prying away money from the money-hoarding elite and the corporate world.

The question remains whether the cheers of approval for the NHS displayed by Clap for Our Carers will usher any significant political change. The answer looks discouraging. COVID-19 has not exposed anything new. It has only confirmed the truth that the NHS desperately requires greater financial support. To the dismay of hopeful Labour supports, it seems unlikely that voting patterns will change significantly.

The government response, though initially slow, has been largely appropriate and there has been no Trumpian-scale inaction and incompetency to elicit public resentment significant enough to constitute a shift in electoral behaviour. The likes of which will likely soon be demonstrated in this year’s US election.

Most importantly, no one currently in power is truly culpable for the effects of the crisis. While it is comforting to point fingers at the government, Chinese culinary habits or rather bizarrely for some 5G Masts, such easy explanations remain elusive. Though the shortages the NHS has experienced through decades-long negligence has undoubtedly intensified the effects of the outbreak, as other European healthcare systems struggle to a similar extent, it is difficult to attribute a significant portion of casualties to such negligence. The uncomfortable truth remains that some catastrophes occur beyond human fault.

Clap for Our Carers may reveal the remedy to the current stagnation and the deferment of personal responsibility representational politics naturally entails. The movement and its mass participation has demonstrated the potential success of direct individual action. One woman’s decision to pro-actively display gratitude, snowballing into the mass display of appreciation that has long been overdue.

As catastrophic as this pandemic has been, the necessary social measures to contain the spread of COVID-19 has reminded people of the power of individual action and the profound effect it can have on the welfare of the community. As 750,000 people volunteer for the NHS, perhaps the outbreak has brought us into a new era of direct action and personal responsibility.

Image by Chris Marchant

Review: Portrait of a Lady on Fire

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It’s strange to talk about love in a film review. It seems to be the object of universal pursuit, or rather, more frequently, the object of universal lamentation; yet few could articulate the shape or form it takes. Celine Sciamma, the kaleidoscopic director of Portrait of a Lady on Fire, does not shy away from the description of the film as an exploration of love, the idea and philosophy of love, or even, to be about ‘sentimental education.’

One is reminded of the ancient Greek encouragement of homosexual dalliances between younger and more mature men as a form of education. But here, the gap between worldly or romantic experience is lessened by the fact that the two protagonists are somewhat equal in age. The film is a slow-burner, with much left unspoken and instead communicated through the ‘female gaze’. The artist pursues her subject whilst the subject invites her portrait-painter. The minimalist style characteristic of Sciamma allows maximum focus on the double ententes of the emotional ‘Cat and Mouse’ game to play out. Each gains more ground on the chess board through observation and better understanding of the other, while still succumbing to the passionate dawning of attraction. 

Portrait of a Lady on Fire presents two hours of immersion in the delicate tapestry of a romantic dalliance that ultimately delights in its purity and sincerity: the Romantic ideal played out more on the canvas and in the beholders’ eyes than through words. Much has been made about the feminist statement of a lesbian film conspicuously lacking in male screen-time, but the universality of romantic harmony sparkles. It is a fascinating study of the unarticulated ways in which one falls in love and receives and gives love, and ultimately, how one lives out a long life ahead without the opportunity of living with one’s true beloved. The film is exquisitely optimistic in its portrayal of a life where characters do not live happily ever after upon discovering true love, but rather move on with the loss whilst cherishing the fleeting enlightenment and fulfilment.

The film, well-received at Cannes, avoids the usual qualities that detain the English from French cinema. It lacks the bombastic existential dialogues whilst disagreeing with the idea of profound and pervasive dread or doom. The scenery of Brittany, albeit austere compared to Mediterranean coasts, is pleasing to the eye; and the use of candles and camp fires in an 18th c. setting evokes a sense of romantic nostalgia. Despite the ever-present sense of inevitable loss, the film is fiercely present. The emotions are simmering beneath the surface, eventually bursting out to offer a tender portrayal of two souls united in love. 

One may never love or perhaps one may get to love happily for the rest of their life. But even if these moments are only fleeting, it is still possible to appreciate the joy. Portrait of a Lady on Fire is a film one may revisit many times, only to indulge in its exquisite artistry and delicious moments of discovery. I am still transfixed with the scene where Heloise tells Marianne: ‘In solitude, I felt the liberty you spoke of. But I also felt your absence.’  

Isolation style guide: How to get out of the pyjama day slump

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We are spending more of the vacation indoors than we intended to… and with that comes the temptation to crawl into bed in our pyjamas and Netflix all the stresses away. I for one fell prey to prolonged naps on my first day home, staying in my sleepwear, not making my bed and lounging about. Which resulted in an estimated eighteen hours of sleeping leaving me with six-hours before the days end. Coming to the decision that I would have to get dressed in functional clothes every morning in order to not waste the entire day led me to consider what I would even wear during this isolation.

It made me question whether we dress for ourselves, those around us or the places that we are going to. I came to the conclusion that it is a mix of all three. We often dress in things that reflect how we feel. We also sometimes make our clothes choices based on how other people view us. We most definitely dress for the places we are going to: casual hangouts, work, fancy restaurants or big events. However, being at home in isolation can feel as though it’s impossible to ‘dress to impress’ as it has ceased almost all of our social interactions. Despite this, it is crucial that you don’t make everyday a pyjama day and the first step to doing that is setting a routine for yourself. The first step to this is allowing yourself a regular sleep schedule and waking up at a consistent time. Make a rough plan of what you need to get done for the day, such as: exercise; study time; making meals; time for yourself and with your family members or friends in person or over the phone!

Whilst I would love to do all these things seamlessly in pyjamas, I would be lying if wearing such relaxed clothing fully motivated me to do a workout or do a translation for class. I for one would not dream of going for a run in University Parks wearing my pyjamas, so for a morning exercise routine, I like to wear some sports leggings or joggers to get my brain programmed for exercise. In a similar vein, I try to pull on a pair of jeans and a jumper for working, because they are comfortable but not too relaxed. For special occasions such as a friend’s birthday (which you might have to celebrate electronically) it’s more than important to take the opportunity to dress up. It’s all about making yourself feel like you want to celebrate, so why not wear that outrageous dress you’ve wanted an occasion for, or that gorgeous velvet suit that has not felt enough love. Alternatively, if you’re missing your significant other why not dress-up for a date night and show each other that even if you’re far away, you can still look fabulous in each other’s company.

Now as fun and ridiculous as this may seem, before you know it, it will be time to relax in your pyjamas again and resume that Netflix binge. It’s the little things such as changing your outfits as you go through different parts of your day that can really make your time in isolation seem less like a restriction on your style and rather an opportunity to be bigger and bolder with your fashion decisions. Enjoy the freedom and space to experiment with your clothing to help you succeed within your daily tasks and isolation lifestyle.  

Eventual Ghosts

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My back was towards you on Penny Farthing Lane
But you made the buildings fall away
Replaced by jungles and woods that teemed with chattering life
Washed beneath a napalm rain
And you were the mockingbird, cawing

My ears were secure in podcasted hold as I crossed over Queen Street
But your siren song still drowned out the loud-roaring sea
As we sailed on enthralled in the pursuit of some ardent glory
Unaware of the oblivion rising from the wine-coloured beneath
And you are the prophetess, preaching

My eyes were down as I wandered along Pembroke Street
But you clanked the storybook shut
And opened instead the doors of a gothic manor teeming with chandelier lit balls
As sighs go ignored in the encompassing gardens
And you will be the ghost, haunting

Unless we listen, we’ll all be ghosts.
Lamenting.

Punctuate As The State Sees Fit

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Before we were mad
We could dance as we wanted
We could kiss who we liked
Conversation could bubble enthusiastically
There was no wrong or right

Before we were responsible
There were no pervading questions
We knew no moral grey
There were categories of (not us) villains
and those who saved the day

Before we were old
We could say we’d seen it all
The heartbreak, betrayal, wonder, love
Every empire’s rise and fall

But now I see we only ever appreciate
Before when it is After

NB: Now try placing commas after the ‘Before’s

We are a backwards people

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We are a backwards people.

We created laptops so we could invent printers to set our texts on paper again.

We designed typefaces to mimic handwriting so that the printed text would look handwritten.

We founded the media to inform the public of the truth, in order to diffuse a new genre of truths: “false truths”.

We invented insurance to ensure that the worst can happen to people, just in case it doesn’t.

We made fountain pens and then ballpoint pens and then lunar pens (so that we could write on the moon… since we forgot about our old led pencils).

We replaced candles with gas lamps then incandescent light bulbs and finally LED lights so that years later the new vogue would be “mock-candles”: candle-shaped LED lights.

We had Christmas in December, which is Winter in half of the world, and concocted a “Christmas in July” so that the southern hemisphere might not get heatstroke from all the festivities.

We began to use money and created taxes and complex social-economic systems so that everyone would suffer equally.

We created a backwards world.

The sun revolves around the Earth which revolves around our moon and the twinkling little stars.

And they thought the Antipodes were unfathomable!

Image credit: NASA

Shoulder

She leant back and let the blade of his shoulder frame the picture, for that’s how she would replay it in her head. And her finger drew concentric circles over the hole in his jumper, and he watched her and forgot the advice his father had given him about women. The answer to the question about time pushing on his teeth was unwelcome and his two fingers could wrap around her ankle and she could bite his thumb just hard enough to make his face contort with some deep emotion, but not hard enough for it to bleed. His right hand tickled her upper arm, she responded with a miniature kiss. He was pretty like a doll and had hair that fell perfectly, contracting like a shy animal back into ringlets when it got wet. His teeth were jagged and handsome, and his face flushed when he sat under his desk lamp for too long. She had harsh eyes, and soft hair and looked always in thought, for the top shelf of her mouth naturally perched open. Their hands squeezed like a ribcage and if she told him about the things she kept in her bedside table that reminded her of him it brought tears to some surface. He worried that she was too good for him, and that he wasn’t good enough to be with just one woman. He worried that this was something she also knew, and he worried that this was why she was crying. And they lay there, right in the skin of the moment, with hope not to break themselves.

Image Credit: Charlotte Bunney

Oxford By Night

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As I wandered through midnight Oxford streets
Shimmered gold from lamps and warm dorm room view
Drizzle caught in an auric glow inspired
Beaded crystals on absent cobweb: dew
That should’ve collapsed the whole damn thing there
Yet somehow it clung valiantly on
Lost by an automatic step unplanned
It still quivers in my mind’s morning song.
It haunts me in its fragility that night
Shivering against a Novembered torrent
How many evenings has it weathered in golden light?
To how many has it been forgotten?
I wonder if the weaver will survive longer than its home?
Immortality comes not in cobweb, but in gold tinged stone.

Image Credit: Isabella Lill

Day to live, day to love

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Today is a Sunday, and today is a beautiful day to be alive
Wake up… sniffle and sneeze, wheeze, as your body wakes to the reality of dust inhalation
A dusting across beds and throws, from heads on pillows
It is a hazy start. The mind clear, but a mucus filled nose endlessly dripping

Yoga is next on your list
Yoga is key, relax the body
But it’s hard to feel free in positions like dog, or cat, or tree…..
If the mucus inside makes it harder to breath

Yoga complete, what a feat, what a way to be starting your day
Slide your hands downs your legs and then grab your big toes
Before crouching in ways that resample a crow; your final, and favourite pose…
And there’s not even any more snot in your nose!

Walk. Float. Past the hammock, down the stairs, and out onto the path.
Perhaps a long route back past the old house
Descend only slightly, and select an inefficient route through the olive trees
Increase your changes of seeing a rabbit, or a mouse
Perhaps that red breasted bird that perches fleetingly on the disused washing line

Enter the house, see who is there, only josh in his bed with his crazy new hair
Its late. Its 9:36, and you normally eat just a little past 8, but wait…
Today is a Sunday
A day of rest! No work on a Sunday!
The day of the Lord you might think to your self
Hardly one’s fault to be raised in the throes of a dogmatic cult
But…
Today is a Sunday, and today is a beautiful day to be alive

Josh isn’t hungry and jack is asleep, so breakfast can wait
Negra (the dog). Is. Hungry
She whimpers and sings, with a gurgling moan, in the hope that you might have some food or a bone
But you have set your sights on a lengthy pre-breakfast meditation…
Negra can wait

It’s a cool morning breeze that brings you back
Lost in thought
This time woken by a peculiar song as a gust strikes the eucalyptus beams on the upstairs balcony
Its now 10:38 and you think to yourself that you feel fucking great!
So you walk to your room and remember that nug of your weed that you left in a mug on the side of your bed
Do you need that weed?

Its less about need, and more about want
An inkling that you should appease your desire to be higher than you currently are
You smoke, a tiny, spliff

The day is young. The sun is warm but low
You wait.
Then you walk…
Looking out onto the beach
Searching for the signs of a mid-morning mother collecting stringy sea weed from the high-water mark
But there is nobody there…
Not a bike or a car or a quad so you talk to the air! And she sings back at you

Eyes dampening, corners fill with the beginnings of a tear drop, and you cry
Cry because you can
Cry with the tears that have waited to arrive
Held back by a block that has been there too long, and a ceaseless prolonging of all that was wrong
Tell it “cease and desist and be gone!” don’t let it persist
The time has arrived to be strong and walk out of the mist, so you walk…

With music in your ears, and a distinctly stoned gate
You climb your favourite rock
Watch your favourite tree sway in the same wind
And bask in the light as you dance with your favourite self

Is this the point that we set out to reach?
And by we I mean me but accounting for each of the moments in time that we, have, been…
I am the sum of the parts, all the me’s from the past have necessarily come together
They stand here with me.
And we cry.
As we look upon beauty…

Image Credit: Charlotte Bunney

Walking Together

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Walking together
I thought how I’d never
Forget you
(As friends do at night)
I wondered if you’d
Forget me
I imagined you might

Earlier I’d waited for you
Inevitably late
Glancing around
I don’t want you to surprise me
But you do
Friendly remark
On the tip of my tongue
Gone

All undone
Because I’ll miss you became
The I love you for friends
But please
Don’t say you’ll miss me again

Image Credit: Georgia Watkins