I grew up in the 1960's and 1970's within earshot of the radio catching bits of what sounded like rambling monologues in a transatlantic drawl. I did not understand or appreciate them. They were the distinctive reports of the celebrated journalist Alistair Cooke. The following is my homage to his content and style.
I speak to you tonight from the home of one of our citizens.
It is a modest place, tucked away in a leafy suburb of a north-eastern City, called Hull.
A City which secured great wealth for the nation from its status as a stalwart of the deep sea trawling industry and major coastal port but yet was forgotten for its great sacrifices in the second world war when 1185 of its residents were killed in the blitz and all but a few of the houses and other buildings escaped any damage from the relentless aerial attacks.
This heritage is never far below the surface in the sensitivity of the city population. Furthermore it is one of the few places left in the UK with vacant plots left where the bombs fell and were never redeveloped. Breaks in the long early twentieth century terraces of neat two storey houses have the outline of the old chimney breasts where a hospitable hearth and tin bath will have formed the centrepiece of a families life but at sometime in the melee of the Hull Blitz were left rudely exposed as a string of high explosive or incendiary bombs sliced their way through the civilian areas.
The home from where I speak is a modern one but the old maps show it to have been built on the site of a Convent and Presbytery. Remarkably these large buildings seemed to have survived the war years but fell to the pressures of developers as recently as the mid 1970's.
The family who reside here comprise parents and three grown up offspring. Mother works as a Personal Assistant and the Father is a Chartered Surveyor. Occupations that keep the economy of the nation ticking over, The demographic for this part of the city marks out their employment as typical in what is colloquially known as "brown bread" or "muesli" territory. This refers to a reasonably comfortable although not affluent lifestyle. Two family cars on the driveway, one main holiday a year, contributions to Further Education and a bit left over for Charitable giving.
The family regard themselves as being in a fortunate position compared to other areas of the city which have struggled over the last few recessionary years followed by inevitable austerity. It is more than fortunate for that is my interpretation. The family quickly correct me in stating that they have been blessed and that God has provided all that they have needed and more. I find this faith interesting as it is not the chest thumping and bible bashing type prevalent to their American counterparts but a quiet and faithful belief that is quite rare, I would warrant, within the increasingly secular and materialistic UK population.
The family sit down for their friday night meal.
It is an informal and happy event and being the end of the week it is always a home made chilli. They take it in turns to cook but are all somehow hovering around the kitchen offering to prepare the ingredients or in the case of the young adults they regularly ask for an update on when the food will be ready. They have busy lives after all.
A bottle of crisp white Pinot Grigio but under a £5.99 threshold is opened and offered to all of legal age but invariably it is the Father who consumes most although claims that the exceptional texture of the chilli is as a consequence of a couple of glasses of wine which have found their way into the mix.
The consensus is for a painfully hot chilli. It is not held to be a success unless bringing out a sweat and actually proving to be uncomfortable to eat. The culinary habits are indicative of the shift in the nation to a truly global menu.
I watch as the meal is carefully prepared. The scene resembles many that I have witnessed in my travels around the world from Albuquerque to Albania, Rekyavik to Adelaide and all points around.
This is remarkable given that the average British households have been squeezed and squeezed by the incumbent Conservative Government. Bedroom Tax, cuts in benefit, soaring energy prices, the highest petrol costs in Europe and all of this against a common fear amongst all for job security, the burden of debt, tuition fees, the temptations of wicked gambling in all forms however innocently advertised on a 24/7 basis and all of this before concerns of global warming, world poverty, social and political upheaval. Oh, and Brexit.
So, I briefly enjoy the chatter and laughter in this house seeing it as a brave face on a less than rosy economy in spite of the first faltering green shoots of growth and renewal that some commentators have remarked upon. I am however heartened by the spirit of those here assembled and know that with a strong ethical base and determination for justice and fairness the prognostic appears promising.
Goodnight and God Bless.
It is a modest place, tucked away in a leafy suburb of a north-eastern City, called Hull.
A City which secured great wealth for the nation from its status as a stalwart of the deep sea trawling industry and major coastal port but yet was forgotten for its great sacrifices in the second world war when 1185 of its residents were killed in the blitz and all but a few of the houses and other buildings escaped any damage from the relentless aerial attacks.
This heritage is never far below the surface in the sensitivity of the city population. Furthermore it is one of the few places left in the UK with vacant plots left where the bombs fell and were never redeveloped. Breaks in the long early twentieth century terraces of neat two storey houses have the outline of the old chimney breasts where a hospitable hearth and tin bath will have formed the centrepiece of a families life but at sometime in the melee of the Hull Blitz were left rudely exposed as a string of high explosive or incendiary bombs sliced their way through the civilian areas.
The home from where I speak is a modern one but the old maps show it to have been built on the site of a Convent and Presbytery. Remarkably these large buildings seemed to have survived the war years but fell to the pressures of developers as recently as the mid 1970's.
The family who reside here comprise parents and three grown up offspring. Mother works as a Personal Assistant and the Father is a Chartered Surveyor. Occupations that keep the economy of the nation ticking over, The demographic for this part of the city marks out their employment as typical in what is colloquially known as "brown bread" or "muesli" territory. This refers to a reasonably comfortable although not affluent lifestyle. Two family cars on the driveway, one main holiday a year, contributions to Further Education and a bit left over for Charitable giving.
The family regard themselves as being in a fortunate position compared to other areas of the city which have struggled over the last few recessionary years followed by inevitable austerity. It is more than fortunate for that is my interpretation. The family quickly correct me in stating that they have been blessed and that God has provided all that they have needed and more. I find this faith interesting as it is not the chest thumping and bible bashing type prevalent to their American counterparts but a quiet and faithful belief that is quite rare, I would warrant, within the increasingly secular and materialistic UK population.
The family sit down for their friday night meal.
It is an informal and happy event and being the end of the week it is always a home made chilli. They take it in turns to cook but are all somehow hovering around the kitchen offering to prepare the ingredients or in the case of the young adults they regularly ask for an update on when the food will be ready. They have busy lives after all.
A bottle of crisp white Pinot Grigio but under a £5.99 threshold is opened and offered to all of legal age but invariably it is the Father who consumes most although claims that the exceptional texture of the chilli is as a consequence of a couple of glasses of wine which have found their way into the mix.
The consensus is for a painfully hot chilli. It is not held to be a success unless bringing out a sweat and actually proving to be uncomfortable to eat. The culinary habits are indicative of the shift in the nation to a truly global menu.
I watch as the meal is carefully prepared. The scene resembles many that I have witnessed in my travels around the world from Albuquerque to Albania, Rekyavik to Adelaide and all points around.
This is remarkable given that the average British households have been squeezed and squeezed by the incumbent Conservative Government. Bedroom Tax, cuts in benefit, soaring energy prices, the highest petrol costs in Europe and all of this against a common fear amongst all for job security, the burden of debt, tuition fees, the temptations of wicked gambling in all forms however innocently advertised on a 24/7 basis and all of this before concerns of global warming, world poverty, social and political upheaval. Oh, and Brexit.
So, I briefly enjoy the chatter and laughter in this house seeing it as a brave face on a less than rosy economy in spite of the first faltering green shoots of growth and renewal that some commentators have remarked upon. I am however heartened by the spirit of those here assembled and know that with a strong ethical base and determination for justice and fairness the prognostic appears promising.
Goodnight and God Bless.
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