Sorted Magazine

Category: Comment & Columnists

  • From the archive: Fogle’s inspiring quest…

    From the archive: Fogle’s inspiring quest…

    The BBC series Scotland’s Sacred Islands is so much more than a travel programme. It’s an adventure; a mighty quest!

    Like all the best heroes in all the best stories, Ben Fogle undertakes a challenging physical journey only to discover he’s really taking an inner journey of the heart.

    During his 1,000-mile trek, adventurer Fogle is closely followed across land and sea by a BBC camera crew who record his every move. In the first of four one-hour episodes, he visits the Inner Hebrides, exploring the landscape, meeting the people and investigating the spiritual aspects of this part of the world. Fogle tells us: “I follow the ancient sea roads and explore Scotland’s cradle of Christianity.”

    With his trademark narrative style and boyish curiosity, Fogle questions the locals about their connections to the land. He gently probes for answers about their spirituality and tries to understand what influence these islands have had upon them. In episodes two and three, Fogle travels across the Southern Outer Hebrides and the Northern Outer Hebrides, pausing to engage with the island dwellers and take in the stunning views. He’s done his homework, too, as he shows an understanding of the kind of human spirituality which is set against the panorama of human existence and within a broader historical context.

    STIRRING STUFF: Fogle’s latest TV offering focuses on the remoteness and beauty of Scotland.

    A seasoned broadcaster and explorer best known for his New Lives in the Wild programmes, Fogle gives the impression that he has unwittingly developed a growing awareness of something, or someone, that is ‘other’.

    Clearly, he is stirred on some deep level by the natural beauty of creation. Unashamedly searching for answers to his own spirituality Fogle follows the trail for answers. Treading lightly on both the land and the hearts of those he meets, it’s no wonder folks of all faiths and none are happy to welcome him into their private remote worlds. Scotland’s Sacred Islands is so much more than a travel programme, it’s an adventure, a mighty quest. Like all the best heroes in all the best stories, Ben Fogle undertakes a challenging physical journey only to discover he’s really taking an inner journey of the heart.

    The series culminates in a journey around the Shetland Isles, where, Fogle has a very open conversation with a nun living alone on the northernmost point of Britain. But as so often happens in life, just as we sense Fogle is getting closer to finding some answers, yet more questions arise. I’m left with the feeling that this is the beginning of his journey, not the end.

    The documentary features high production values and stunning aerial footage of some of the most beautiful beaches in the world. The cinematography is exceptional and each episode is paced to include ‘space’ for the viewer to simply drink in the magnificent scenery. These stunning montages are greatly enhanced by a selection of quality instrumentals that create an immersive feel to the viewing experience. However, as far as I can tell, no musicians are named in the closing credits. This disappointment aside, Scotland’s Sacred Islands is a wonderful tonic for the armchair traveller and spiritual seeker alike.

  • From the archive: How my Dad guided me…

    From the archive: How my Dad guided me…

    Dave Hopwood reflects on being a father and a son

    There is a great moment in the movie Cinderella Man when boxer Jim Braddock tells his son Jay not to steal, while assuring him that he is totally loved by his parents. I really like that scene because it seems to say so much about being a dad, loving your children and guiding them. When I look back on my own dad, I have many great memories of his love and guidance. When I confided in him about having a crafty smoke to calm my nerves before performing in a school play, he came straight back with the advice that it wasn’t a good idea to make it a regular thing. I remember him being moved to tears when he read a letter about folk in another country being so hungry they had to eat rats to survive. And I remember many happy times watching old cowboy movies and war films together. We talked, laughed and bantered about so much over the years, and I hope his faith, gentleness, compassion and sense of justice have leaked into me a little bit.

    I now have two gorgeous daughters and am muddling along doing my best to be a good father to them. I became a dad at 39, and then again at 50. There are no rules about timing really, are there? Mind you, bouncing around on a trampoline at my age is no mean feat! When our first child was born, I was so ecstatic, I ran out of the hospital, banged on a stranger’s car window and announced, ‘I’ve just had a daughter!’ I was so overjoyed I didn’t care what people thought of me.

    However, you don’t have to go far into dadland to discover its challenges. I’ve found myself stretched and shaped in so many ways. I’ve felt clumsy, proud, amazed, frustrated, lost, found, bewildered and chuffed. Every day’s a learning curve. One of the things I try to stick to is this – when things go wrong and the rhubarb hits the fan again, let’s do our best to sort it out and move on. No moods left bubbling away for extended periods. Our faith in Jesus is vital to us, and we do our best to pass that on to our girls, but we’re realists, and want to earth that faith in the muddling and bumbling of normal life. I love the way that young children have no separation between God and Scooby Doo. We created a poster in lockdown with this title in the middle – God is… It features the phrases …bigger and stronger than anything else…helpful and kind…cake and ice cream…joy not religion…Barbie in the Dreamhouse…a walk on the wild side. That sums us up really. Dadland continues to be a country littered with the mundane, the wondrous, the emotional and the unexpected. And I’d say one of life’s finest things is dancing with your five-year-old daughter to old tunes in the kitchen.

    Actor, writer and Artistic Director of Searchlight Theatre Company, David Robinson reflects on his father, Ken

    As late spring turns to summer, I can begin to reflect on my Dad’s favourite time of the year. The painful recollections of yet another disappointing season supporting Bolton Wanderers Football Club can be thankfully forgotten again for a few months, and thoughts can turn to a day he always eagerly anticipated, the commencement of the cricket season. As a lad in the suburbs of Manchester he had successful trials for Lancashire County Cricket Club. Alas, back then young hopefuls didn’t get paid in the winter, so he pursued a career with Her Majesty’s Inspector of Taxes instead, and there he remained for over forty years. The bragging rights for me in the playground talking about a county cricket player would have been considerable, a little less so for a renowned tax inspector from the Inland Revenue. He was able to carve out many years as a keen and very accomplished club cricketer, and I enjoyed watching and eventually playing alongside him.

    I also followed in his footsteps when it came to his enthusiasm for amateur theatre. He trod the boards in many a local drama company spectacular as a young man, and then, many years, later we acted together in a few creaking Agatha Christie favourites and other similar masterpieces. Thankfully, no reviews have been made available for this article.

    In later years he became a keen and regular member of the audience, whenever and wherever I was performing. Alongside my Mum, they would be selling merchandise and promoting my company for me in the interval. And then there would come his preferred time in the evening, the post show party: he would greet everyone and ensure that all glasses were filled with a chilled chardonnay or similar libation. Hospitality and the gift of welcoming came naturally to him, and many of my friends benefited from it.* No one was left out on the sidelines: he always took a genuine interest in everyone.

    I observed and learnt the strength of teamwork from him, and how no team member is less important than another, essential for any successful cricket eleven, or the rising stars of the Royal Shakespeare Company. It was being there and feeling part of a team which was key for him, whether it was the Lord’s Cricket Ground or the local village green. As long as we could retire to the the Bull public house afterwards and discuss where it all went wrong, it all didn’t really matter, and we could all try again next week.

    His hospitality was matched by his encouragement and I miss hearing his mobility scooter manoeuvring into position at Palmerston Place Church in Edinburgh for our first night at the Fringe; a week and indeed a city he always loved. My first year at the Fringe without him was 2016, and I had written and performed a comedy piece on Laurel and Hardy, something he would have without any doubt enjoyed and insisted on seeing countless times. But this was ‘Another fine mess’ he didn’t get to see.

    His funeral was in the summer of that year, we played Smile by Nat King Cole in the crematorium, and then everyone gathered in a country hotel where the chardonnay flowed, and the smiles of reflection and appreciation continued. Many spoke of his optimistic spirit, but as he often observed, ‘You can’t support Bolton Wanderers for over 50 years and not be an optimist.’ Outside the large patio windows to the hotel, we could see the village green, where they were preparing with great care the cricket square for the forthcoming game at the weekend. He would have certainly approved.

    He had declared after an innings well played.

    Gethin Russell-Jones is a writer and church leader. In order to understand his father better, he wrote a book about him…

    I wrote a book about a man I love. He’s been dead for 10 years but my affection for him is very alive. I think of him every day; his face drifts in and out of my consciousness and occasionally my dreams. I can’t tell you how many times and in how many situations I’ve asked the question, “what would he do now?”

    My father wasn’t the touchy feely type, neither was my mother really, so I must have inherited this blasted quality from another part of the gene pool. But he remains the biggest male influence on my life by a country mile. Not that I agree with him on everything. You’ll have noted that I’m writing in the present tense. Even though he’s resting in peace ahead of rising in glory, he’s alive in my memories. I would never admit to speaking to him but there is a strange conversation that goes on. And in many ways, it’s a more equal relationship now. Less deferential and more human, which strikes me as strange even as I’m writing it.

    More equal because I can ask questions and disagree with him in a way that I found difficult in the days of his flesh. The biggest sign of this shift in our relationship came in the form of the book I referred to in my opening line. Conchie, what my father didn’t do in the war, is my critique of one of the biggest periods in my dad’s life. In 1939, at the age of 21, he took a decision that made him different to many other men. He became part of a minority; a tradition of dissent that has a long, and often vilified, history. He refused to register for military service and instead became a conscientious objector. This choice sprang directly from his Christian faith. In fact, I don’t think he would even have used that kind of language. For him it was a matter of obedience to the Bible’s general command against taking another human life and to Jesus’ call to love and not hate. No exceptions and no wriggle room.

    And for much of my life I have asked two questions about this choice. What were the precise reasons for his refusal to fight, and would I behave differently in the same circumstances? That’s why I wrote the book, five years after he passed away. I wanted to interrogate him, cross examine his motives and beliefs. More than anything else, I wanted to understand the young man who bravely swam against current of the time. I went in search of answers, but life (and indeed death), is not so binary. I found the I man knew, but also the one I didn’t.

    I’m not sure how he feels about my questions or indeed the book. But I do know that I was loved. And he showed me that character, faithful living and dissent make very good companions.

    This article was first published in the May/June 2021 issue of Sorted magazine.

    Main Photo Credit: Mari Lezhava via Unsplash

  • Comment: Failing and falling

    Comment: Failing and falling

    Crunching across the pebbled shore line, kayak instructor Gary, gathers up four paddles and shares them out among our group of nervous newbies. Clueless, we form a loose semi-circle around him and attempt to mimic his arms-outstretched, water-less, air-paddling techniques. In the event we fall out of the kayak and into the chilly water, Gary tells us we should simply grab the side of the boat and: “do our best impression of a seal going from sea to land”. This mental image fails to reassure me, however, his insistence that the life jackets will keep us afloat until help arrives is empowering.

    Scattered across the broad body of water, little blobs of blue, white, orange, and red bob along in a seemingly random fashion. The colourful distant blobs are occupied by one, sometimes two, tiny paddling passengers. Suddenly one of the white blobs takes off and flies majestically across the flash, Gary tells us that “up to seventy” white swans frequent this spot. They cluster together along the most sheltered water which is close to a long stone embankment. Mature woodland occupies about two thirds of the shore line, the remainder has a gradual sloping pebbled beach where the brightly coloured kayaks and paddle boards are moored. This is where we will launch from.

    Sit-on kayaks are shallow, flimsy bits of banana shaped plastic not much bigger than a baby’s bath tub. Uncoordinated paddling in tandem creates an alarming rocking motion which laps the water into the boat. The majority of it drains out of the kayak through little holes but some forms a worrying wet puddle in the seat. As the shore line gets farther and farther away the deep water grows rough and menacing and a sense of vulnerability grows with it.

    Suddenly two members of our party accidentally capsize their boat and plunge into the inky black water. Lifeless, the upside down kayak drifts aimlessly. We gasp and hold our breath for an age until two familiar heads pop up to the surface. We raise the alarm and soon a rescue craft zooms to help them upturn the boat and clamber back aboard. Their peels of laughter bounce over the water, the relief is palpable. They paddle towards the shore, but take a second tumble in the shallows. Scrambling up to the water’s edge, back on to dry land, and still giggling, they declare that: “falling in was the best part, the water is lovely!”

    Main Photo Credit: Filip Mroz via Unsplash

  • Sport: The speed, thrills and spills of Oxford Speedway

    Sport: The speed, thrills and spills of Oxford Speedway

    Live entertainment is unparalleled. By being there, for instance at it a concert, sporting event, theatre or air show, you are part of the unfolding history. There is an explicit emotional link between you and the main event that can often have a magical and lasting effect. Seeing Queen at Wembley in 1986 and watching Notts County’s return to the English Football League at the same venue thirty seven years later are, I am convinced, engrained within my DNA. But these experiences can come at a cost and aren’t necessarily always that convenient.

    Partisan supporters, allocated seats, and a sense of extravagant expenditure, can be the dominant reflection if the main event doesn’t match the anticipated outcome.

    Of the many choices on offer it takes a lot to beat an experience that represents value for money, accessibility, friendliness and excitement. The secret is speed and this is on offer in heaps at Oxford Speedway, the home of the Cheetahs.

    If you haven’t been for a while, or never at all, get along and check it out. Mingle with the crowd, there is no segregation, and whatever your age or background you will be made to feel instantly welcome. Choose your viewpoint, from the luxurious glass fronted grandstand to the ample terraces, or move effortlessly between the two. You will always be able to see all of the action.

    This magnificent stadium has bounced back from a fifteen year period of abandoned oblivion to be dramatically brought back to life by promoter Jamie Courtney and the many volunteers drawn from the local community. A real phoenix-from-the-fire story and in their second season back in the Championship the Cheetahs senior side are top of the league as are their junior Chargers team too.

    If you are unfamiliar with this mesmerising motor sport buckle up and take in the following extraordinary statistics: Speedway bikes, with four riders in each heat, can accelerate to 60 mph faster than a Formula One racing car. 500cc engines with one fixed gear running on methanol, a speedway bike has another astonishing attribute: they have no brakes. Let me repeat that – no brakes.

    I was at the league encounter with the Bandits of Berwick who sensed an upset from the outset. Virtually neck and neck for twelve of the fifteen heats the Cheetahs form for the remaining three races was akin to scoring three goals in the last ten minutes of a pulsating Premiership football match. Three five-ones were the perfect successive holes in one with heat thirteen being the pinnacle of passion.

    Embracing a couple of majestic manoeuvres that defied Newton’s laws of motion, executed by the scintillating Sam Masters on the inside, and the sensational Scott Nicholls on the outside, sweeping past a stunned Rory Schlein was the Speedway equivalent of the climax to the 2017 Epsom Derby when Wings of Eagles blitzed to victory in the last fifty yards.

    For a night to remember I recommend you check out the fixture list, clear your Wednesday evenings, and connect with the Cheetahs and Chargers as they create sporting drama and represent the best bang for your buck you will ever get over a couple of hours.

    https://oxfordspeedway.club/

    © Ian Kirke 2023

    @ianjkirke

    Photos: Courtesy of Ian Kirke and Scott Nicholls

  • Book Review: Manhood by Steve Biddulph

    Book Review: Manhood by Steve Biddulph

    As the revitalised England cricket team slog it out with Australia for the Ashes again, I’m reviewing a book I bought when I visited Australia nearly twenty years ago. Steve Biddulph has the reputation as Australia’s best known family therapist and parenting author. In his book Manhood he examines two crucial issues: Creating a healthy masculinity and how men can free themselves from crippling and outdated roles. I read the book when I came back to England and have continued to dip into it ever since.

    He hits the mark for many of us in relation to who has taught us about our masculinity by stating: “It takes the help of many men to turn a boy into a man. School doesn’t do it; watching TV doesn’t do it; Mum, however hard she tries, can’t do it on her own. Boys need exposure to healthy men and this need continues into adult life”.

    And he sites the enemies or prisons from which men need to escape as loneliness, compulsive competition and lifelong emotional timidity. There’s a whole chapter devoted to ‘You and your father’ and another discusses ‘Being a real father’.

    I met with a group of blokes this week and as we shared honestly both the joys and challenges of the things we are involved in, one said “I come alive when I do that!” It reminded me of something Steve Biddulph says about finding a job with heart.

    As I reflect back on the various chapter headings I realise that, since I first read it, I have (surprisingly) made some progress. I understand more about where I am coming from and I feel more engaged with my kids despite them having grown up and left home. I am rediscovering more of my adventurous spirit, and I am less passive. I try to initiate rather than wait for an invitation that never comes. I have found a sacredness and depth in my primary relationship, and I am pursuing authentic male friendship via small groups and vulnerable friendships. Whatever point you are on your masculine journey, this is a really helpful book and I heartily recommend it.

    Manhood by Steve Biddulph is available here and there’s further information about Steve here

    Main photo credit: Glenn Carstens-Peters via Unsplash

  • Review: Billy No-Mates

    Review: Billy No-Mates

    Max Dickens describes himself as an author, a playwright and a recovering stand-up comedian. But he has a problem. He’s thinking of getting married, but not sure which of his friends he should choose as his best man. His book Billy No-Mates is an in-depth, honest and humorous investigation of male friendship and the story of how he figured out who the most appropriate friend was.

    Dickens unpacks an account of how he struggled to compile a list of ten men friends from which to choose his best man. He googles the phrase ‘getting married, no best man’. He’s surprised to find 994 million results. He is hit with the bombshell realisation that he isn’t alone in his isolation.

    He investigates the many factors which can affect our ability to make and maintain friendships. He talks about the risk of loneliness due to moving away from where your friends are, or having poor health which cuts you off from others. Divorce, bereavement, unemployment, or retirement can reduce and sometimes sever our connections with friends. Dickens refers to a 2019 YouGov survey suggesting that one in five men have no close friends, and, according to sociologists, men face ‘network shrinkage’ as regular contact with friends dwindles after the peak of connection around the mid-twenties.

    Photo: Max Dickins

    At one point Dickens says that with increasing regularity he found himself experiencing ‘a peculiar form of grief: the discombobulating experience of hearing about his male friends’ engagements, marriages, health scares and other massive life changes through social media’ rather than face to face contact.

    I can relate to many of the scenarios he presents and have often wondered what would be a normal number of men friends to have. How many blokes do you need in your life who can be there when you are in a crisis or who you can trust with confidential information? Yet in our culture there are many who feel isolated, disconnected and lonely, with no context for meaningful connection and friendship.

    Billy No-Mates has an interesting section on male banter, which has gained a bad reputation in recent years as it has transitioned from blokes having a laugh to some men taking the opportunity to put others down. I liked his point about how cruel men can be in giving their mates nick names and how the Best Man’s speech often is an opportunity to deride and embarrass the groom for all sorts of youthful misdemeanors.

    Men have the reputation of being closed books when it comes to emotions, preferring to tough things out rather than appear needy. His research revealed that hanging out with male friends was considered by many men as an escape from the emotional intensity and expectations of their home and work life rather than an opportunity for close connection.

    The popularity of men’s groups and men’s sheds is discussed. Some may provide a sense of belonging and purpose as men work shoulder to shoulder fixing stuff, while other groups are aimed more at improving mental health and wellbeing as men enjoy chat and friendly banter over a brew.

    Clearly, making and maintaining male friendship is not something which happens automatically. It needs to be intentional, and that requires effort. Billy No-Mates is a good read with plenty of humour alongside the more serious findings of Dickens’ research, which included him trying out renting a friend. Who knew that was an option?

    Billy No-Mates – How I Realised Men Have a Friendship Problem by Max Dickins – Canongate Books

    Main Photo Credit: Courtesy of Max Dickins

  • Faith: The Return of the Prodigal

    Faith: The Return of the Prodigal

    What do you associate with the word home? A person or a place perhaps? Somewhere in which there is a strong sense of welcome and belonging? What then when life goes pear shaped, or we make a choice which leads us down a road to lostness and loneliness? Don’t we just long to be home? it’s almost as if we are programmed with a need to head back to the familiar, to what represents security, no matter what the reason for our leaving in the first place.

    Sadly, there is a generation of young people growing up who have left home because it wasn’t a good place to be. Their feeling of lostness must be greatly amplified.

    I first read Henri Nouwen’s book The Return of the Prodigal in the mid nineties. With a subtitle of A Story of Homecoming I immediately connected with the theme. The book is centred around the story of the Prodigal Son which Jesus told. Nouwen discovers much about himself as he sits and looks at the original Rembrandt painting based on that story. Little did he know what a journey of discovery would take place in his own heart.

    As Nouwen examines the three principal characters in the story, he can identify with the younger son in his desire to leave behind safety and security, strike out on his own, and subsequently squander the inheritance his father gives him. He can also identify with the elder son’s anger and self-righteousness at seeing what he regards as his faithfulness overlooked by the father, whilst his younger brother’s waywardness is seemingly celebrated.

    But he also draws out the nature of the compassionate father, who loves both sons equally. Nouwen realises that he needs to go beyond identifying with either of the sons, and to move away from adolescent desire for independence and sibling rivalries, and to become a welcoming father himself to others.

    Neuwen is very honest about his own inner struggles and failings as he looks at the two sons. About his own journey Neuwen writes: The farther I run away from the place where God dwells, the less I am able to hear the voice that calls me Beloved, and the less I hear that voice, the more entangled I become in the manipulations and power games of the world.

    Speaking of the younger son Neuwen writes: Once he had come again in touch with the truth of his sonship, he could hear, although faintly, the voice calling him the Beloved and feel, although distantly, the touch of blessing. This awareness of, and confidence in, his father’s love, misty as it may have been, gave him the strength to claim for himself his sonship, even though that claim could not be based on any merit.

    It’s all too easy for us to wander off to distant lands, squander our inheritance and then feel a sense of disconnection and disappointment. This book is a reminder that our heavenly father still looks out every day, hoping his kids will come back home.

    The Return of The Prodigal by Henri Nouwen is published by Dartman, Longman and Todd.

    Main Photo Credit: Alejandro Luenjo via Unsplash

  • Comment: Remembering my water-gypsy ancestors

    Comment: Remembering my water-gypsy ancestors

    Beneath the trailing branches of a weeping willow tree, boat-master Mark stands, clip board in hand, calling out the names of his passengers for the day. Queuing politely, one by one, little groups step forward and board the narrow boat. Mark pauses to welcome each guest with a smile, and his assistant Gayle, warns us to mind our heads as we descend the five wooden steps down into the body of the barge.

    As the midday sun heats the air, a luminous light creates a hot fuzzy haze over the surrounding countryside. England’s distinctive greens gleam pleasantly against a turquoise sky. It is this striking colour combination, enhanced by a watery Turner-esque sort of light and shadow, which pulls phone cameras out of pockets. It’s enthralling. Everyone is taking photos. Like we’re seeing things for the first time.

    Under Mark’s careful hand, the old coal barge glides along the canal, moving just a smidge slower than some walkers on the tow path. An abundance of vegetation lines the embankment, water lilies are momentarily submerged and tall green blades bow down gracefully in the rolling wake of the boat. Every now and then the hypnotic scrolling scene is interrupted by a gaggle of baby ducklings paddling quickly atop the water as they try to catch up with Mummy.

    Up on deck Mark points to a pile of chunky, sliced tree trunk on the bank: “Last week that tree fell right across the canal and blocked our path completely, we had to get the passengers off the boat and have them picked up by coach.” He tugs his cap and chuckles: “I towed the boat back up the canal, all the way to the marina!” He seems quietly pleased that his normally uneventful journey was interrupted by a victorious mini-drama.

    Thin sandwich triangles and volcanic jam scones are served on a ceramic cake stand adorned with painted pink roses. In an unhurried fashion two smiling ladies serve us tea, coffee and fizz. Everything is mesmerizingly slow; the boat; the water; the service; the pace; the chatter; my thoughts. A tinny radio plays familiar northern soul tracks, playful children wander up and down. The underside of a low stone bridge draws a small crowd of passengers onto the small front and rear decks. They comment on the quality of the bridge’s workmanship, but the sight sends a shiver down my spine.

    I’m reminded that my great uncle was crushed when he accidentally slipped between his boat and the side of a bridge such as this. Several days passed before he died. I try to imagine what life must have been like for him and my great-grandparents who lived and worked on a canal boat similar to this one. On a warm summer’s day, in capable hands, on a well cared for boat, it feels oh so safe and civilised. In this comfortable re-imagined construct I can’t begin to understand the level of treachery and risk my ancestors endured. And perhaps I don’t have to. Perhaps they wouldn’t want me to. Perhaps they would just want me to raise a glass to them and experience the magic of a safe, slow, sail, drenched in vibrant colour and sunshine.

    Main Photo Credit: James Homans via Unsplash

  • Comment: NHS tips for busy fathers

    Comment: NHS tips for busy fathers

    Achieving the right work-life balance can be challenging for any parent, especially in a world altered by the pandemic.

    However, there are ways to make it work, and NHS Property Services (NHSPS) has shared some helpful tips for Fathers’ Day that can guide dads, and mums, in achieving that balance.

    One of the most important things you can do is to eliminate daytime distractions by setting boundaries and sticking to them. This means turning off your phone or computer during family time or setting aside specific hours for work-related tasks.

    Another important tip is to structure your time to be optimized. This means planning your day and setting achievable goals for your work and personal life.

    You may also want to consider scheduling family time on your calendar to ensure that you make time for your loved ones.

    Delegating tasks to your team can also be helpful, as it can free up more time for you to focus on your priorities.

    It is also important to aim for integration rather than trying to separate work and family life altogether. This can involve finding ways to incorporate your family into your work life or finding ways to bring your work home with you.

    Finally, remember that quality time with your family is more important than quantity. Being fully present during family time can show your commitment to your children and your work.

    Helen McCarthy, Chief People Officer for NHSPS, said: “This Fathers’ Day, take these tips to heart and strive for a healthy work-life balance. It may not be easy, but with some effort and intentionality, you can find a way to make it work.

    “Remember, your family and your work are both important and finding a balance is key to living a happy and fulfilled life.”

    Main Photo Credit: Caroline Hernandez via Unsplash

  • Opinion: Is Annika all at sea?

    Opinion: Is Annika all at sea?

    Annika is either a TV crime drama, a crime drama spoof, or a comedy. I’m not sure exactly which. However you look at it, the BBC hit series is a contemporary take on the archetypal loner who tirelessly pursues justice, outwits the bad guys, no matter what the personal price. Nicola Walker plays the role of Detective Inspector Annika Strandhed, newly promoted and desperately trying to fit in and lead her team at the Marine Homicide Unit (MHU) based on the bonny, bonny banks of Scotland. Each episode conveniently races from corpse to conclusion in the space of 45 minutes. This is handy on a school night when you can’t afford to be awake at 3am trying to work out whodunnit.

    The creator, Nick Walker (no relation to Nicola Walker), and the screenwriters have carefully woven together several multi-layered story threads into each self-contained episode. The complex characters gradually unfold their individual back stories, and we get to know them bit by tiny bit. The cultural sub-plot is very much of the moment, though the dialogue is sometimes choppy and the script does seem to follow a formula. The crime drama scenario centres around a marine-based murder, usually committed by the least nasty person on screen, which is then cleverly solved. Red herrings notwithstanding, DI Annika, has her final show down with the culprit and the cuffs are on. But, as with so many police procedurals, this insightful competence is starkly contrasted by the flawed protagonist’s messy personal life and a crippling inability to solve very much of anything at all in that regard.

    Annika personifies that fashionable modern trend of always being switched ‘on’. Her head is all over the shop. She’s stressy, awkward, and never fully present in the moment. When she’s working, she over shares her personal troubles with her subordinates at every opportunity, they have no choice but to listen. When she’s with her 15-year-old daughter Morgan, who inevitably gets drawn into the saga, she seems mentally absent and still puzzling over the latest crime to be solved. When she’s enveloped by what has to be some of the most beautiful scenery in the world, Annika is stuck in her own head, mumbling musings from her mental archives.

    For good or ill, the screenwriters have employed a gimmick known as breaking the fourth wall, in which a character talks directly to camera. Remember Shirley Valentine talking to the wall, and the viewer? In that movie, another male writer, Willy Russell, took a stab at unpacking the inner workings of the female mind. I’m still working out how I feel about the integrity of that arrangement. These ‘asides’ certainly hold the viewer’s attention. Between dealing with brutally murdered corpses, Annika casually unpacks stories about her Nordic ancestors and encrypted snippets of her personal history. The viewer becomes a kind of imaginary friend or therapist. Though we’re not actually physically present in Annika’s fictional world, we’re recruited to be involved in helping to process her issues. The audience is asked not so much whodunnit, but rather, who is she?

    While the scenery, atmospheric music and production values are truly spectacular, the complex writing is thoroughly crafted and the characters are well developed, I was left feeling quite sad for Annika. She seems friendless, forlorn, desperately casting around to be liked and validated. And for all her career success she’s battling with that most modern ailment, a deep down loneliness and disconnection. I can’t figure out if Walker plays the socially awkward loner brilliantly, or if she’s just playing a parody of herself. Episode four suddenly shifts up into will-they-won’t-they gear, but before that there’s no evidence that Annika has any significant connections in her life. No Mum, sister, best friend, neighbour, romantic partner or community group. The effects of social isolation have been sort of normalised, perhaps even glamorised, on screen. Is this a brilliant work of art imitating life? Or an unhealthy invitation for life to imitate art?

    In a troubling reflection of the digital age in which we live, Annika simply sends her inner most thoughts out into the ether, reaching out to everyone, and ultimately no one. It’s a dysfunctional one-way relationship in which she controls the narrative while attempting to befriend the viewer. She’s wrestling with some big stuff, trying to figure out the way forward alone, without any wise counsel from friends. She’s married to the job so there’s just work, a saintly round-the-clock devotion to it, and not very much else. A lifestyle choice of self-medicating with alcohol, and drinking alone, is hinted at. In spite of all her cleverness, corny quips and crime case closures, Annika’s life is out of balance. She does not seem to be a happy bunny, and if I were her friend in real life, I would be really quite worried about her.

    Main Photo Credit: Val Fraser