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Why my mailbag is such good fun

Vic Barlow
18/ 4/2007

I SPENT much of last weekend reading through my mailbag. It was a lot of fun.

One reader sent me this notice he received from Macclesfield Borough aptly entitled 'Talking Rubbish':

IMPORTANT NOTICE

Due to a printing error, the waste and recycling calendar that you received is incorrect. Please replace it with the calendar delivered with this notice.

The questions he would like me to ask are as follows:

1. Who was responsible for the printing error?

2. Who was responsible for proof reading before printing?

3. How much council money has been spent correcting the error?

4. How many households were affected by the error?

5. Is the incorrect recycling calendar recyclable?

If MBC would care to respond I'd be happy to print the answers. I have a lovely letter from the Spiers Sisters telling me about a rescue Labrador that only speaks Punjabi. How fantastic is that?

A Wilmslow couple who found a dog running loose in the traffic took the stray animal home and contacted the elusive MBC Dog Warden, Cheshire Police and a local animal sanctuary. All their calls were answered by voice mail but not one was returned.

Now, I'm sure if I spoke to any of these organisations they'd produce very convincing policy documents relating to stray animals wandering the highway.

Sadly, the gap between what authorities SAY they do and how they actually PERFORM continues to widen with box ticking proving far more important than problem solving.

I received a lovely letter from a gentleman who'd been sorting through his late wife's treasured possessions and came across the following poem.

Written by Phyllis McCormack while working in an old people's residential home:

What do you see nurses, what do you see?
What are you thinking when you look at me?

A crabbled old woman, not very wise
Uncertain of habit, with faraway eyes...

Who dribbles her food and makes no reply
When you say in a loud voice 'I do wish you'd try.'

Who seems not to notice the things that you do
And forever is losing a stocking or shoe

Who resisting or not lets you do as you will
With bathing and feeding the long day to fill.

Is that what you're thinking... is that what you see?
Then open your eyes, you're not looking at me

I'll tell who I am as I sit here so still
As I move at your bidding, as I eat at your will.

I'm a small child of ten with a father and mother
Brothers and sisters who love one another.

A young girl of 16 with wings on her feet.
Dreaming that soon a lover she'll meet.

A bride soon at 20 my heart gives a leap

Twenty-five now I have young of my own
Who need me to build a secure happy home.

A woman of 30, my young now grow fast
Bound to each other with ties that will last

At 40 years old my young now soon gone
But my man stays beside me to see I don't mourn

At 50 more babies play round my knee
Again we know children my loved one and me.

Dark days are upon me, my husband is dead
I look to the future and shudder with dread.

For my young are busy with young of their own
And I think of the years and the love I have known.

I'm an old woman now and nature is cruel
T'is her jest to make old age look like a fool.

The body it crumbles, grace and vigour depart
And now there's a stone where I once had a heart

But inside this old carcass a young girl still dwells
And now and again my battered heart swells

I remember the joys, I remember the pain
And I'm living and loving life over again.

I think of the years all too few-gone so fast
And accept the stark fact that nothing can last.

So open your eyes nurses, open and see...
Not a crabbled old woman-look closer see me.

Considering my recent column on the treatment of the elderly this poem seemed rather appropriate. Unfortunately it's as relevant today as it was when it was written. We haven't progressed too far in our treatment of the aged have we?

Thanks to everyone who took the trouble to write, I'm extremely grateful. If you failed to sign your name and address I'm sorry but I'm simply not allowed to respond.