dancingthroughchaos

A nation’s culture resides in the hearts and in the soul of its people – Mahatma Gandhi

In these enlightened times, we are all rightly encouraged to be sensitive to those of different backgrounds, ethnicities and traditions in order to bridge what has sometimes been, not just a gap, but a yawning chasm between people groups.  This is called ‘being culturally relevant’.

Since I am currently in South Africa, where history is still very much alive in a way it isn’t in the UK, I am particularly aware of this.  In the northern hemisphere we’re trying to justify, or at least rationalise our colonial past with our current place in the world, while simultaneously mourning our collective demise in the face of gross political mismanagement, echoes of the worst parts of the 1970s, an overwhelming horror at the huge rise in inflation and the colossal price rises of just about everything.  While China and India claw their way to the top of the economic pile, we will be imminently reassessing our outgoings, very probably reacquainting ourselves with the post-war delights of corned beef hash and increasing our intake of the cheapest baked beans on offer.

Here, in the southern part of the not-as-dark-as-it-used-to-be continent, political mismanagement is old news, life is cheap and corruption is part of the fiscal landscape.  But, that is not the only thread running through the social demographic.

I always enjoy conversations with those who live here; those who know the warp and weft of the place; who have a different perspective from my own, and who still believe in a better tomorrow.

So, imagine the fun I have just had while sitting in a chair for an hour having my feet pampered and chatting with a local lady.  Regular readers will be aware that my feet were thoroughly shredded during the recent Isle of Wight adventure undertaken for my middle sister’s birthday.  It took a month for my poor trotters to recover before they were bludgeoned all over again in Switzerland a fortnight ago.  Consequently, a restorative pedicure seemed entirely appropriate as I parted company with yet another layer of epidermis.

Originally from Zimbabwe, Pamela is a whizz at this spa treatment.  She is stylish and sassy, with a sense of humour to match.  I was poised with my usual array of questions about how things are going there, her family, what she misses etc, etc.  However, I was somewhat startled when all this was swept aside in the time it took to adjust the temperature of the water in which my battered peds soaked.  While they breathed an almost audible sigh of relief, Pamela batted aside my enquiries in favour of her preferred topic: Downton Abbey.

In a somewhat surreal conversation, she told me that she had worked for an older lady who loved this series and who had spent much of her retirement following the rise and fall of the Crawley family from the comfort of her armchair.  Pamela was intrigued, and, in an idle moment she had browsed Netflix herself and found the source of her employers entertainment.

I have spent a full hour exploring the minutiae of the titled families of England, primogeniture, inheritance, the House of Lords, laws of royal succession (changed in 2013 should anyone ask you), the rigid social strata of the late nineteenth and early twentieth century England, the emancipation of women and the delights of afternoon tea.  

‘Do people still live in such vast houses?’ she asked.  Answer: very few since, over time, death duties rendered it impossible to keep them going.

‘Do you still have castles?’  Again, very few except for those kept open for tourists (eg Warwick, Leeds), lots of ruins and of course, Windsor Castle where the Queen lives from time to time, but in an apartment, not the whole lot.

‘Does everyone really have afternoon tea at 4o’clock?’  No, we’re all watching the clock and getting our heads down for the final hour of the working day; though a cuppa is always welcome.  

‘Why can’t women serve at dinner?’  ‘Why was Mr Carson always so adamant about that?’  ‘Why was he the only one allowed to answer the telephone?’

My feet were wrinkly and soft by this time, exfoliated, and creamed to within an inch of their lives and still the questions came.  I hope some of my answers were a) accurate and b) satisfactory.

After all this I can only conclude that, thanks to international streaming services, we are all considerably less divided than we were.  Apparently, afternoon tea deserves a national revival though I suspect that, in England at least, there will be less tea and cake and more bread and water for the foreseeable future.