My plan for today has been upended by a most distressing and unusual event that happened before my eyes this afternoon. I was driving on a local road in Eastbourne when I saw a woman aged probably late 20s/ early 30s staggering along the pavement, covered in blood and clearly distressed. It was impossible to know what had happened. Had she been in an accident? Was she high on drugs and been in a fight? Was it a domestic? I stopped and asked if I could help but she just shrugged and walked away. She went into an archway with her back to me and I thought perhaps she was being sick or just wanted to be alone. She’d left four or five bloody handprints on the wall of the doorway. I then watched her stagger off again and some other people tried to help. All this occurred outside a friend’s restaurant, so I went in to get some water to wash the blood off the walls….it was a bit gruesome to say the least and not a great marketing tool for the restaurant. It was as I was doing this that the guys who had tried to help the woman came back to explain what had happened. I had been slightly curious about a few orange plastic handles on the ground, but they also pointed out that there were razor blades there, a type that I’d never seen before, that looked like miniature weapons of war. She had been self-harming by taking great gouges out of her face. It was only at this point that I fully realised what had happened and that I had innocently watched her doing it. I’m normally pretty good at stepping in during emergencies and accidents and doing the right thing, but on this occasion I had totally failed this poor woman. I’m not sure what I would have done if I’d realised what she was doing, it would have been a very awkward decision. But as I write this a few hours later I feel sick to the stomach; mainly for her and the awfulness of her situation that she felt the need to do that, but also at my inaction and failure to help somebody in dire need. Ironically, so much has been in the news in the last day or two about the dramatic increase in self-harming, particularly amongst girls and young women, but I had never witnessed it first hand and certainly nothing like this. I’ve seen a lot of pretty terrible sights around the world, but this will take quite a while to get over. It was the savagery and pointlessness of it that’s really shocked me.
Anyway, I was going to write on a lighter note, so let me lift the veil of gloom with a pet hobby horse. I heard the sports presenter on Radio 4’s today programme this morning talking about England’s chances in The Ashes. She was talking about the England women’s team. I shall no doubt be accused of misogyny, sexism and a whole load of other ‘isms, but there is no truth in that. More often than not, I would rather spend my time with women. I love everything about women. The differentiation surely isn’t between sexes but between qualities. Like men, women can be highly intelligent or extremely stupid; stunningly beautiful or (sorry Callie) dog ugly; brilliantly athletic or fat and cumbersome; would be Mozarts or tone deaf; potential Picassos or creative dunderheads. So I am not being sexist when I say that they are not playing for The Ashes. That little urn is a very specific trophy that recognises Australia’s first win in England at The Oval in 1882. The Sporting Times published a satirical obituary saying that English cricket had died and “the body will be cremated and the Ashes taken to Australia”. It’s not just cricket. Rugby League has also purloined the phrase to reflect matches between Gt Britain and Australia. Some irritating PR person has thought it clever to pump up their sport by this barbarous act. There is only one Ashes and it’s a series that’s taking place on the playing fields of England this summer. If that sounds truly pompous it’s because I’m wearing my MCC blazer, Panama hat and bacon and egg tie. By all means dream up some other clever trophy or title, but leave The Ashes where they belong. Please.
ADayInTheStrifeOf 