‘She looks like a woman with a past, doesn’t she?  

Most pretty women do.  But there is a fashion in pasts just as there is a fashion in frocks.  Perhaps Mrs Chevely’s past is merely a slightly décolleté one, but they are extremely popular nowadays.’    

So is she a clever but dangerous woman who lacks any scruples to get what she wants, an adventurer, a dangerous seductress, a victim?  

‘Oh I should fancy Mrs Chevely is one of those very modern women who find a new scandal as becoming as a new bonnet, and air them both in the park every afternoon at five-thirty.’ 

Bored, frustrated and manipulative, her intelligence and sexuality are but instruments in a game of power and influence.  She seems so far into it that she has forgotten how to feel. 

‘She wore far too much rouge last night, and not enough clothes. That is always a sign of desperation in a woman.’  

She blackmails Sir Robert Chiltern into protecting her investments by threatening to expose him.  She has in her possession a letter proving that His Majesty’s Foreign Secretary kick started his career by selling secret government plans to a speculator. 

‘I think that in life, in practical life, there is something about success, actual success, that is a little unscrupulous; something about ambition that is always unscrupulous.’   

But Sir Robert’s young wife, as beautiful as she is uncompromising, has put her husband on the fourth plinth, making it perfectly clear that her love for him is purely a projective identification of one with perfect morality. 

‘I remember having read somewhere that when the gods wish to punish us, they answer our prayers.’

In so doing, her principles damage Sir Robert far more then the bribery and manipulation of Mrs Chevely could ever do.  

‘And is Lady Chiltern as perfect as all that?  What a pity!’

Sir Robert cannot face telling his wife the truth.  He knows it would destroy their marriage. Mrs Chevely knows this and is prepared to destroy both his career and his marriage.    

The fact is we all have our dark sides, the things we are ashamed of.  It never does to have such high principles (one wonders what is being defended). 

‘Well, the English can’t stand a man who is always saying he is in the right, but they are very fond of a man who admits he has been in the wrong. It is one of the best things in them.’

Lord Goring is the catalyst in Oscar Wilde’s wittily observed play (The Ideal Husband).  He’s rather like Falstaff or the wise court jester, but in this case it is the dandy philosopher, brilliantly played by Eliot Cowan.   He enters as a louche and dissolute character, but he understands the flaws of human nature; everybody is capable of doing wrong. 

‘Nobody is incapable of doing a foolish thing.  Nobody is incapable of doing a wrong thing.’

Idealisation is a very fragile basis for marriage.  Acceptance and forgiveness are more important.  As Sir Robert complains:  

‘Why can’t you women love us, faults and all?  Why do you place us on monstrous pedestals?  We all have feet of clay; men as well as women, but when we men love women, we love them knowing their weaknesses, their follies, their imperfections, love them all the more for that reason. It the imperfect, not the perfect who have need of love.’

But is it that gender specific? 

An Ideal Husband, probably Oscar Wilde’s best play, is currently at the Vaudeville Theatre in the Strand and stars Samantha Bond, Rachel Stirling and Eliot Cowan.  It doesn’t deserve a half empty house.  

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Last night’s Any questions was broadcast from Sheffield High School on the borders of Nick Clegg’s constituency.  The panel agreed that Sheffield, which is still recovering from the collapse of steel and mining industries in the eighties, will suffer more than most cities from the cuts.   Fourteen miles to the south and west in the picturesque vales of Derbyshire around the Chatsworth Estate, there will be scarce a scratch.  Indeed, this morning as I ran past the Carleton Gate, a notice advertised £1000 reward for information leading to the recovery of a precious African Grey Parrot on long term medication.  It’s a different world down here.  But I still get an embarrassing cheque for winter fuel allowance, free bus travel and reductions on the train!   

I voted for this government.  I wanted to get away from the adversarial bickering of party politics and have a real mature consensus.  I reasoned that there wasn’t much to choose between the parties and when it came down to it.  Surely, men and women of slightly different persuasions would be able to work together for the good of the country.  And that, by and large seems to be happening, but I and millions of others hadn’t quite realised how draconian the cuts might be. 

Just this last week, George Osborne announced that he wanted to cut an extra 4 billion off the welfare budget (over and above the 11 billion planned) by making it much harder for people to remain on unemployment benefit long term,  VAT has been increased, Vince Cable announced that Royal Mail delivery services could be sold off with many thousands of job losses, and front line services in the police may go with £40,000 job losses.   Funding for schools is to be reduced, and unversities do not have the capacity to accept students who would otherwise get in.  This year, even students with four A’s are having to sign on.   And yet, there is no sign of the increased investment that might allow the economy to generate funds and avoid a catastrophic rise in uneployment and poverty.  Such cuts tear at the seams of the social fabric and threaten the release of criminal behaviour and civil unrest.  And yet they’re slashing front line jobs in the police force as well. 

Is this joined up government?  Are ministers talking to each other?  Who’s in charge of publicity anyway?  It doesn’t make sense.     

What does the government expect?  That workers will be phlegmatic about it and say, ‘yes, we’ll do our bit for the country’.  They might have done this 70 years ago with the bombs falling and ‘Winnie’ in charge.   But now?  I fear that  as the cuts go deeper, people will get so angry they will take matters into their own hands.  I fear this oncoming winter of discontent will be every bit as bad as 1979 and Maggie’s no longer in the wings with a rescue package.  Gordon Brown must feel vindicated, although his policy of tax and spend risked economic collapse by driving interest rates up.  

There is a limit to how long government can continue to bleat; ‘It’s the last lot who created the mess.  We’re just trying to clear it up and it’s going to be tough for us all.’  No it’s not; it’s going to be tougher on the poorest among us and the last lot still say they would have done it so differently.  But is that so much Ed Balls?

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I went through to the bedroom.  Mum was half lying, half sitting on pillows, wild eyed, without teeth, without hearing aids or glasses.  I was shocked.  I put her teeth and hearing aids in, put her glasses on and asked Rosina to help me get her up.  She looked scared and refused.  ‘I’m not allowed.’  So I manoeuvred mum out of bed onto the wheelchair and wheeled her into the sitting room and danced with her onto the sofa,  where we settled down and thumbed through old photos of Bristol.  When the next carer arrived, I asked if they would change her pad.  Rosina looked doubtful but Joanne said ‘of course.’    Afterwards, as she was going, Rosina told me there was faeces in it and they weren’t allowed to deal with solids. 

Later,  Cheryl rang from the office and told me she had talked to the rapid response dementia team, the district nurse, the physiotherapist and they were all of the opinion that mum had to go into hospital.  ‘It takes two carers to help Doris onto the commode or to change a pad.  And they cannot deal with solid matter’. 

I sighed, ‘Health and safety.’ 

‘Nick you would not believe how many regulations there are these days.’ 

‘I would, Cheryl, I would.  But the bottom line is that if mum goes into hospital, she will die, and I don’t want her to go like that.’ 

I had visions of her waiting around behind a curtain in Casualty for hours and then being going  to a crowded and noisy admissions ward.  So I announced: ‘Why don’t I be on call, Cheryl.  I can call in twice a day to lift her.’  

‘But, Nick, you will need to be in all the time –  even through the night.  You will not get any sleep.  And how are you going to deal with her if she is incontinent of faeces?’

‘Well, I will just have to be less squeamish.  Can’t we at least try it?’ 

Mum had rallied with me there that afternoon and I didn’t want to abandon her now.

‘No Nick, I really think we have come to the end of the line.’

It had all started after the fall.  The carer had left her alone in the bathroom and gone into the kitchen to make breakfast when she heard a crash.  The doctor decided she hadn’t broken anything, but thought she had a chest infection.  He prescribed oral morphine, which I withheld because I felt it would hasten a slide into hospital. 

But now there seemed no alternative, so I telephoned the GP and arranged for mum to be admitted to a private hospital over the weekend.  Four hours later and the ambulance still hadn’t arrived.  ‘Oh, it’s Friday night and they will be out on 999 calls.’  Mum was exhausted and sinking, so I dialled  999. 

‘Oh no, squire’, said the paramedic, who was built like a rugby player.  ’Our rules are we have to take her to casualty at the Northern General and then they can take her to St Benedict’s after that.’ 

‘But she’s already got a bed in St Benedict’s.’ 

Eventually he agreed as a favour, but explained how much trouble he would get into if his supervisors knew.  ‘It’s not me squire.  It’s the regulations. You’ve just got to be so careful these days. But she’ll like it here.  They’ve got shower gel!    

St Benedict’s was quiet and peaceful.  Mum settled into a comfortable bed and went to sleep. 

The next day, they phoned me at 8.30am and requested a deposit of £2500.  I gave my credit card details and then asked to be put through to the ward. I was connected to the consultant, who explained with great grace that they had taken an Xray and would begin to mobilise her if there was not a fracture. 

But when I arrived, she was fast asleep and unresponsive.   They had not got her out of bed.  She had been incontinent overnight and she was not swallowing water.  

I talked to the sister. ‘We’re a busy ward.  There are surgical patients and children.  Your mum needs a lot of attention and it’s the weekend. I don’t have the staff.’ 

Can nobody help care for mum?  I have encouraged them to put up a drip and give IV fluids, they have catheterised her.  I know when meal times are and will go and try to get some of that delicious cottage pie down her. 

I suspect their attitude is to let her die with dignity.  That’s fine, but although she is 94,  mum’s heart is healthy and she is physically quite strong.  She needs the kind of 24 hour one on one attention the carers were giving her at home, but she will never get that in hospital.    In the meantime, they give her lovely food but she can’t feed herself,  they provide drink but she won’t drink it,  they prescribe mobilisation but the physio looks after the whole ward and doesn’t have the time to get her up on her feet and mum is too frightened. 

She’s now been in St Benedict’s for three days and there’s a change.  It’s like she has lost hold of her life.  When I arrived yesterday, she was slumped in a chair, desperate, pleading, ‘Oh please, oh, please Nick, pulling at the sheets on the bed, plucking at her drip, trying to sit up.  I put her hearing aid in and tried to communicate but when she responded, it was with half a sentence.  ‘I want to go …. Get me out ….. Nurses…… Toilet’ .   She recognised me, stared at me desperately before her eyes seemed to cloud and look away. 

I phoned the consultant.  ‘It will be a long haul to get her back to where she was before she came in, if she ever gets back.  Over the next few days, we will get her over the infection and try to encourage her to feed herself and walk, but I suspect this will take more time than we have got.   You will need to get her in to a nursing home.  

I guess mum had been on the brink for some time,  kept going by the constant round the clock attention of her carers.  It would only take a moment’s neglect; a fall plus the rigid application of  regulations and she was suddenly in a place where they couldn’t help.   I sense her terror.  I hold her and she quietens a little but as soon as I let go, she’s back in her own version of hell.   And what now?  She certainly can’t go back.  She will go to a nursing home.  They will keep her body alive , they will feed her, give her drinks, turn her, manage pressure sores.  I can only pray that her mind has  long gone by then,  she has released her fierce grip on life and resigned to oblivion.  

People say that the British have the best care system in the world.  It’s not true.  The boost in NHS funds may have enhanced the efficiency of health provision, but it has not improved care.  Care requires flexibility and compassion.  It takes human understanding to know how to work within the rules to provide what a patient needs.  All too often regulations lead to restriction and a withholding of care.    

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What a turn around.  Just two weeks ago, they were at each others’ throats, raising voices, jabbing fingers.  How could they ever work together?  Then it was make your mind up time. They talked, found that they had more in common than differences, but the bride had doubts.  Unable to decide, she again turned to reliable but boring Gordon, but Dave demonstrated how much he cared, promised more than she expected and well, despite her parents misgivings, she was swept away.  After all, didn’t she love Dave all along?  They were going to be so happy.   And what a party, we’ll have!

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These men had devoted the majority of their lives to an idea encompassed by a position of power and influence.  It had become their identity and meaning.  Without it, life had no purpose.  How could anything replace it?   Something that was all consuming was no longer there.  The sense of grief must have been overwhelming; it would be difficult to know how to carry on.   

This doesn’t just apply to politics, of course, or indeed any job.  It is found after the loss of anything or anybody, who had occupied so much meaning in one’s life.  It’s the loss of meaning that’s the thing.  People in the armed forces during the war found it difficult to cope with peacetime.  Those who fall in love and lose it can grieve for years.  It may not be  the person they miss, but what they meant, the way that relationship had transformed their lives.  It’s the same kind of thing that married couples experience when one of them dies, the same thing when a child dies; all that investment and hope in a future suddenly taken away.  

Gordon has two lovely blonde- haired little boys.  He is a fun dad.  It’s to be hoped that Sarah and the family will restore the meaning.

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There was George W. Bush, the rich privileged son of a previous senator and president, the playboy, the drunkard, the ne’er-do-well, who went into politics by default.  He was governor of Texas for a time but really didn’t have to do very much.  He went into the presidential race with no experience in national government whatsoever. He might have been a quiet reflective president who slipped into the job and worked well with people, but I doubt it.  He was too much of a maverick, too much of a loner; he wanted to be a hero too much.  He was dangerously out of his depth, reliant on the same hawkish advisers that his father had when he was in power.

Then there was Blair.  Again, not a committed politician.  As a student, he was an actor.  He performed in a rock band, he enjoyed the limelight.  The law initially gave him his theatre; he could master a brief quickly and deliver the essence of it with skill and eloquence.  When Blair entered politics, he found his true vocation.  He had great appeal.  He could dress something up as if it was brand new and exciting.  He introduced the concept of New Labour.  He was the man of action and change, a complete contrast to John Major’s grey man.

Then there was God.  George W. had found God during a visit to Billy Graham in the 1980s.  From that moment he realised that God had singled him out to be President.  It was God who suggested he send  troops into Afghanistan.  It was God who commanded him to send troops into Iraq.  But this was introjection;  George W had assumed messianic qualities.  “It wasn’t me Guv, it was God.  He commanded me to do it”. 

Tony Blair was more reserved about his religious convictions.  But like Bush, he was born again.  He was an Anglican who became a Catholic.  He was convinced of the moral righteousness of war in Iraq.  It was his duty to get rid of evil dictators whenever he met them.  Again, one wonders why he didn’t attempt to do anything against Robert Mugabe in Zimbabwe.  But with God on his side, how could his troops fail? 

Then there was 9/11.  The sense of outrage was felt throughout the American continent and around the world; George W. had to do something.  So he declared war – war against terror!   Blair was much better with words than Bush was.  He became Bush’s  PR manager.  They convinced each other they could conquer the world.  They were a hubristic duo, both convinced of their moral rectitude. They didn’t listen to counter arguments. They disparaged those who opposed them, even those in their own governments.  Blair disbanded the cabinet government and set up his own foreign affairs and defence departments within Number 10.  His foreign minister, Jack Straw, was side lined.  Blair wanted his place in history and so did Bush.  So they ignored international law and opinion.    

The war went as predicted.  It was over in about 6 days.  Saddam Hussein went into hiding, but was eventually caught and assassinated.  Bush went on an aircraft carrier in the Gulf of California wearing a flying jacket and was photographed with the words ‘Mission Accomplished’ emblazoned on the bulkhead behind him.  But they both failed to plan for the peace. 

There was widespread looting and destruction. The lawlessness went on for several years and engaged hundreds of thousands of troops at great expense to both countries.  But the American provisional governor had disbanded  the Iraqi army and police force and isolated the more reasonable elements that might form a new government.  The Americans and their British allies knew best.

The Hubris Syndrome; Bush, Blair and the Intoxication of Power was written by David Owen, the former  British foreign secretary in 2007 and published by Politico’s.

They were made for each other,  weren’t they?  Not so much a marriage made in heaven as an accident waiting to happen. 

There was George W. Bush, the rich privileged son of a previous senator and president, the playboy, the drunkard, the ne’er-do-well, who went into politics by default.  He was governor of Texas for a time but really didn’t have to do very much.  He went into the presidential race with no experience in national government whatsoever. He might have been a quiet reflective president who slipped into the job and worked well with people, but I doubt it.  He was too much of a maverick, too much of a loner; he wanted to be a hero too much.  He was dangerously out of his depth, reliant on the same hawkish advisers that his father had when he was in power.

Then there was Blair.  Again, not a committed politician.  As a student, he was an actor.  He performed in a rock band, he enjoyed the limelight.  The law initially gave him his theatre; he could master a brief quickly and deliver the essence of it with skill and eloquence.  When Blair entered politics, he found his true vocation.  He had great appeal.  He could dress something up as if it was brand new and exciting.  He introduced the concept of New Labour.  He was the man of action and change, a complete contrast to John Major’s grey man.

Then there was God.  George W. had found God during a visit to Billy Graham in the 1980s.  From that moment he realised that God had singled him out to be President.  It was God who suggested he send  troops into Afghanistan.  It was God who commanded him to send troops into Iraq.  But this was introjection;  George W had assumed messianic qualities.  “It wasn’t me Guv, it was God.  He commanded me to do it”. 

Tony Blair was more reserved about his religious convictions.  But like Bush, he was born again.  He was an Anglican who became a Catholic.  He was convinced of the moral righteousness of war in Iraq.  It was his duty to get rid of evil dictators whenever he met them.  Again, one wonders why he didn’t attempt to do anything against Robert Mugabe in Zimbabwe.  But with God on his side, how could his troops fail? 

Then there was 9/11.  The sense of outrage was felt throughout the American continent and around the world; George W. had to do something.  So he declared war – war against terror!   Blair was much better with words than Bush was.  He became Bush’s  PR manager.  They convinced each other they could conquer the world.  They were a hubristic duo, both convinced of their moral rectitude. They didn’t listen to counter arguments. They disparaged those who opposed them, even those in their own governments.  Blair disbanded the cabinet government and set up his own foreign affairs and defence departments within Number 10.  His foreign minister, Jack Straw, was side lined.  Blair wanted his place in history and so did Bush.  So they ignored international law and opinion.    

The war went as predicted.  It was over in about 6 days.  Saddam Hussein went into hiding, but was eventually caught and assassinated.  Bush went on an aircraft carrier in the Gulf of California wearing a flying jacket and was photographed with the words ‘Mission Accomplished’ emblazoned on the bulkhead behind him.  But they both failed to plan for the peace. 

There was widespread looting and destruction. The lawlessness went on for several years and engaged hundreds of thousands of troops at great expense to both countries.  But the American provisional governor had disbanded  the Iraqi army and police force and isolated the more reasonable elements that might form a new government.  The Americans and their British allies knew best.

The Hubris Syndrome; Bush, Blair and the Intoxication of Power was written by David Owen, the former  British foreign secretary in 2007 and published by Politico’s.

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But hang on a bit.  Are the parties so far apart?   The Prime Ministerial debate on Thursday night was more like the X Factor than a clear exposition of policy.  Yes, the Lib Dems would scrap Trident, the Conservatives are wary of Europe and would give people more say in how schools, hospitals and local government is run,  Labour claims to be the only party with the knowledge and experience to run the economy.  But when it comes it comes down to it, isn’t this just political posturing – the need to say something different?  Wouldn’t all these stances need debate and modulation to arrive at a  policy that is likely to work? 

There is actually more that joins the parties than separates them.  Difference are of more of style than content.  We can always point to any government that has been in charge as long as Labour has and accuse it of ruining the country.  Novelty always seems more attractive.  But will a different party lead to different government?   The economy, war in Afghanistan, schools, the health service;  it seems that there is little room to manoeuvre.  What is required is a steady concensus.  People are fed up with the constant back biting and bickering of party politics.  It would be good to see Vince Cable sitting down with Gordon Brown and coming to an economic strategy that we can all trust.     Exit from Afghanistan is surely something that we all want and is too important to be left to party politics. 

Most governments in Europe are coalitions.  Are they any the worse for that.  Look at Germany for example.   Britain insisted on proportional representation after the war to prevent a return to totalitarianism.  Germany has been remarkably stable and successful.   

 The problem with government is the politics.  Domination by a single party does not make for the best decisions; only those that are expedient.  The same could be said of our first past the post system.  It may facilitate decision making, but at the expense of important perspectives.   A significant proportion of the electorate are green, yet they are unlikely to get a seat.   The Lib Dems may capture the popular vote, but they will not necessarily get many more seats than they already have.   

Single party government is always looking over their shoulders to their supporters; the Unions, big business and the wider British public.  After a lifetime in medicine,  I am convinced that the NHS fails the majority of ill people, but no party dares address that.   I think our lives are too regulated, but any attempt to unpick that is accompanied with cries of outrage leading to reinforcement of health and safety.  There is too much fear in politics.  While an established coalition might affront the domocratic principles we are so proud of and lead to fears of totalitarianism and tyranny,  there are times when it seems the only way to deal with a crisis. 

Crisis creates opportunity for change.  We had a coalition during the war.  Even characters are dissimilar as Churchill and Attlee found they could work together.  Beveridge could bring on the Welfare State.  Surely the economy is too big a crisis to be left under the control of a single dominant politician, who shows every sign of being susceptible to paranoia.   But will the public see that?   Has the economy really created the crisis of a European war or is it like global warming – we know it’s there, but they effects of not hit us yet?  

The choice is this election is not really one of policy.  It’s all about personality.  I thought all three leaders performed really well on Thursday.  As polls indicated, there was really little to choose between them.   The choice is between the devil we know and the new kids on the block with bright ideas, who we don’t.   I think it’s time for proper joined up government we can have confidence in.

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‘Every Good Boy Deserves Favour’ was written at around the same time.  It was Andre Previn’s suggestion that Stoppard write a play for orchestra while he write the score.  Stoppard originally thought of building it around a triangle player who imagined he owned an orchestra.  But Russian dissidents were being imprisoned in mental institutions, so conceived the idea of having two men imprisoned in a mental institution, one, the triangle player, who was really mad and the other, just politically insane.  Madness is always a cultural diagnosis.  If it weren’t, all devout Christians would be considered mad. 

The orchestra becomes a theatrical device, not to say, gimick.  It not only expresses the emotion, but when the musicians are abused and their instruments smashed, it shockingly depicts the state sanctioned assault on feeling and truth; the madness in the system.    Alexander Ivanov is an embarrassment.  He refuses to retract his criticism or to admit that his treatment has worked.  He refuses to save himself, even when his son pleads with him to do so.

Human behaviour is predominantly driven by emotion.  Civilisation and its institutions; medicine, the law, government, protect us against uncontained emotional reactions by setting rules and customs for behaviour.  But what happens when those rules break down into anarchy and when those responsible for maintaining the rules ignore them or commit atrocities themselves?.  Then people become conditioned to corruption and brutality; they cease to notice any more. Terrorism and war can do dreadful things to men.  Remember the SS, Smersh and the guards at Abu Graib and Guantanamo Bay as well as terrorists anywhere.  They become brutalized.  The veneer of civilization is scraped off leaving the rust of repression, the erosion of fear.    

My companion at breakfast was from Johannesburg.  I asked her how she survived the constant threat of attack.  ‘You get used to it,’ she said. ‘Very few muggers or thieves get prosecuted.  Many of the police were freedom fighters and they just turn a blind eye when it comes to arresting ‘their own.’   

But strangely, Stoppard’s play failed to shock me – perhaps because the theme seemed too familiar or perhaps because I’ve become too cynical.  I am less easy to shock these days.  .   

Every Good Boy Deserves Favour is currently playing at The Olivier Theatre with the South Bank Symphony Orchestra. 

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