At first blush, Bradley Manning seems an unlikely person to be a present- day hero. With his smooth moon-shaped baby face and heavy black horn-rimmed spectacles, he stares out at us from the protest posters which proclaim his impending martyrdom by the US government.

My partner and I have joined a cluster of people who gathered outside the American Consulate in downtown Vancouver  on the occasion of this young man’s court martial. A court martial which could impose life imprisonment or even the death penalty – for being a whistle-blower.

The audacity of what he did is breath-taking.  Reports vary widely as new information is released but over a quarter of a million classified documents of war crimes were uncovered by this 24 year old, with regard to the covert activities of the US military and the government in the course of the Iraq and Afghanistan wars.  Activities which included helicopter gunship killings of  civilians, women and children, captured on military video cameras.

And so we join this little band of protesters outside the forbidding facade of the US Consulate, in the forlorn hope that something, anything might be done to awaken the conscience of – whom? The American government? Vain hope. Our own government which rubber stamps whatever actions our all-powerful neighbour takes? Not likely. Who then?  Our fellow citizens?

As I march slowly round in a circle, chanting our hopeless demands to ‘Free Bradley Manning’ and that ‘Whistleblowing’s not a crime’, I’m aware that more than half the demonstrators are older people, like ourselves. And I further notice that those who stop to take our leaflets explaining Bradley Manning’s courageous act, are also predominantly older people. Why, I wonder? Long memories perhaps?

Perhaps they remember other earlier whistleblowers that corrupt governments tried to muzzle. Like Daniel Ellsberg with the Pentagon Papers or the Nixon/ Watergate exposure by two reporters, Woodward and Bernstein, or Ralph Nader in his lone campaigns against big business corruption. Or perhaps they’re thinking about Julian Asange, founder of Wikileaks.

Because Bradley Manning and Julian Asange are the two whistleblowers behind Wikileaks – that political bombshell that is causing havoc in the corridors of power – not just in the US but in Canada and around the world, as the authorities wait for the next tranche of documents to unveil even more skulduggery by the infamous one percent and igniting more outrage amongst the Occupy movement and the 99 percent.

Small wonder the American government wants to bury Bradley Manning in as deep a prison hole as they can dig. And then extradite Asange to provide a similar fate.

But there are signs of rebellion – from petitions to Obama by over half a million people calling for the end of his isolation and torture, from continued calls by Amnesty International for Manning’s release, to a probe by the UN chief torture investigator, as well as public protests across the world for his release.

And on top of all that, Bradley Manning has been nominated for the Nobel Peace Prize.

So perhaps it’s not hopeless -  maybe our small but vocal protest here in downtown Vancouver will add to the groundswell which will bring his eventual release. And provide encouragement for future whistleblowers. God knows we need them.

As Woody Allen says – half of success is just showing up. Today is the First of May, the day of international labour solidarity and the Occupy movement has called for a General Strike – around the world. I intend to be out there, in my community of downtown Vancouver, in that growing body of ordinary people,  seniors as well as youth -  practising civil disobedience.

And I’ll be holding up my placard: REMEMBER BRADLEY MANNING.

Grandparents were much in evidence on a loud protest demo and march against the Tar Sands in Vancouver this week. As we cheered all the First Nations chiefs in their traditional regalia who had come to speak out against the devastation that will surely follow if the pipeline to Kitimat goes through, the talk was all about how our generation is the first to leave our world worse than when we received it. This heavy burden we are placing on our children and grandchildren seemed uppermost in everyone’s mind, not least ours. We both carried placards bearing slogans emphasising our grandkids.

Bill McKibbin, that tireless campaigner for the planet’s future voiced the other subject which is more and more in the zeitgeist – that of civil disobedience as the logical next step in the struggle to save our environment and make it safe for our progeny in the generations to come after us.

We have to be prepared to face whatever the establishment and government will throw at us and if that means going to jail to bring attention to our planet’s plight, then I suppose that’s what we must do.

What McKibbin further proposed was that the people in the front line should not be the youth , the Occupy activists or those trying to hold on to precarious jobs in the current recession but… yes, that’s right – seniors. Those of us who have no jobs to lose or families to put at risk should be the ones to get arrested in the struggle. To go to prison as the ultimate protest we can make for our offspring and their future.

It’s one thing to go on a protest march in solidarity with hundreds or thousands of others and  share in all that feelgood  sense that you are part of the cure and  not of the cause.  But quite another to go to jail for those beliefs.

For my generation who never had to go to war, the thought of going to prison is scary to say the least. Am I prepared to do it to prevent the inevitable devastation which exploiting the tar sands will do to our world? I’d like to think I would.  It’s something older people like me can do which might just make a difference.

And if anyone needs to go to jail to prevent the destruction of my grandkids’s future then I’d prefer it was me rather than my children.  They have enough to do providing for my grandchildren’s present life.  It’s up to me, I think, to protect their chance of a future.

But as my grandmother used to say, ‘fine words butter no parsnips.’ Am I ready to go to jail for what I see happening, or do I just talk about it? I don’t yet know. Are you?

You haven’t heard about turmeric yet? Researchers are now touting it as the latest wonder food to stave off the onset of Alzheimers. It is now right up there in the top ten items we should be eating regularly along with various berries and chocolate. For those of us seniors skeptical of  the latest superdrug urged on us by the pharmaceutical giants, it’s a relief to find something natural  to add to our constantly changing diets.

Now that we’ve been told that all those supplements which overflow our medicine cabinets are not only a waste of money but in some cases actually harmful to boot, I am on the alert for the next best thing to come along. And turmeric is the current buzz. In the trendy neighbourhood near where I live, the spice shelves in the local supermarkets are already empty of this particular Indian specialty. But eventually I tracked down a little sachet of the precious stuff and brought it home to try out.

Now any of the wild berries are easy to use – just pour them in a bowl with a dollop of yoghurt and eat – instant brain food,  right? But you can’t just sprinkle turmeric on your cereal or mashed potatoes – it requires a bit of planning. Well, it’s a curry spice, so in it went with the usual garam masala I normally use in my favourite curry combo. But the resulting taste was very bitter. Turns out that garam masala already contains turmeric so a double dose of it is not recommended.

However, I ate it anyway, on the grounds that it might not taste great but at least it was doing me good. I thought maybe I could try it  on scrambled eggs next. Before I go out for my brisk thirty minute walk every morning.  Because along with eating super brainfoods to keep our memory razor sharp the researchers and scientists also insist that daily vigorous physical activity is the main thing that will keep us out of the Alzheimer’s Ward.

I convince my significant other that it is imperative we begin our new regime immediately. No time can afford to be wasted at our advanced age if we want to retain those increasingly shy little memory cells. Lady Gaga means something entirely different to us than it does to our children and grandkids.

So the alarm is now set for an early morning jog along the seawall, past the Vancouver Aquatic Centre where the girl on the reception desk assures me that I can have cheap senior rates for entry to the huge pool and fitness centre. I leave clutching the brochure which informs me that 32 laps end to end equals one mile or 77 makes up a mile if I choose to swim side to side.

I can practically feel the benefits already and I’ve only been on my turmeric and jogtrots for 2 days. For example, this morning right after my breakfast of curried eggs, I found my second set of keys where I’d cleverly hidden them a month ago. And only this afternoon I remembered  that my oldest friend is wintering in New Orleans – previously the closest I could recall was that he was somewhere in Louisiana. I feel like Alice’s Red Queen who claimed she often remembered six impossible things before breakfast.

Oh and best of all, those diligent research scientists are now insisting that power naps are a must for us to  stay in top form.

Well I could have told them that. You see, old dogs can learn new tricks.

From Paris to the Pacific Rim is quite a change and I’m only just beginning to adjust to living in a high rise in Vancouver at the ocean’s edge after a spell in the heart of Paris. Comparisons are odious, they say, so I won’t attempt one. Rather, I’m trying to adopt the Buddhist view that everything is change – a more positive or at least helpful approach to this next stage in the process of living in the 3rd Age.

With my 76th birthday fast approaching, I feel a sense of urgency in using every day and not letting them slip through my fingers.So much still to do, it’s hard to prioritise. What shall I focus on first, with everything clamouring for attention? My old fallback of writing a ‘to-do’ list feels inadequate.

The main change my significant other and I are coping with is having our own separate working and living spaces.  Vancouver has a surfeit of one bedroom apartments but very few three bedroom ones unless you can afford living in penthouse suites.  As a result, we opted for two one bedroom places on the same street with the same stunning views of  English Bay.

Our plan is to shuttle between the two places, alternating the cooking and sleeping arrangements. Whose ever apartment we’re in for the night, that person cooks. Then the next morning, after breakfast, the other one heads back to their apartment and we each get on with our own work undisturbed. By the afternoon when we ‘ve finished working, we get together again but this time at the other’s place. No excuses for not working.

Sounds clever, doesn’t it? We pinched the idea from JeanPaul Sartre and Simone de Beauvoir who both felt the need to maintain separate working spaces. If it worked for them, it can work for us, we figured. We’ll see. Already I can foresee potential traps – like leaving stuff at one place when we’re at the other.  I already spend an inordinate amount of time looking for things like glasses, keys, papers etc. So I could be doubling that wasted time if I’m not careful.

Meantime, I’m trying to stay positive and open to change, like the Buddha counsels. One of my 2012 resolutions was to become more socially engaged in all that Vancouver offers. Already I have volunteered once again at the local Food Bank and also joined Village Vancouver – the local Transition town initiative.

Oh yes, and I’ve signed up for a class in organic balcony gardening. Roll on 76…

Maybe this year it’s the women’s turn at last to sort out the mess that we men have got us into? Recently, I’ve seen and read some encouraging signs that this  could be the case. And the bulk of these women are 3rd Agers too.

If we look at the Alberta tar sands for example, several of the First Nations chiefs are women and they are the most active and vociferous in defending their lands against the inroads of the oil corporations and their destructive pipeline plans.

Ranged alongside them is that most doughty of champions of our precious water resources, Maude Barlow, president of the Council of Canadians.  To hear her speak in defence of the world’s water against the giant international corporations trying to monopolise the water supplies of  3rd world countries, is to be inspired to get off your backside and join the struggle.

Another woman  doing battle with the corporations is Alexandra Morton.  She has fought long and hard to raise awareness of  the international fish farm industry, systematically destroying the wild salmon stocks up and down the Pacific coast in British Columbia. She has led protests to parliament and rallied marchers throughout BC in her attempts to save the salmon for future generations.

Perhaps our most famous 3rd Age grandmother is Elizabeth May, Canada’s and North America’s first Green MP and leader of the Green Party of Canada. Only recently elected in a hard struggle against her Conservative opponent, she has set out to single-handedly fight for green solutions to our myriad environmental problems, tackling Harper’s anti-Kyoto corporate government. A sharper, tougher, more experienced champion would be hard to find.

Unless we look outside government to the world of journalism and Naomi Klein. She has built a well-deserved reputation as a political analyst and writer of international calibre. I heard her most recently, rallying the Occupy Wall Street protesters as she gave voice and substance to their movement. After her most famous book, The Shock Doctrine, in which she exposes the ruthless methods of the corporate takeovers of democracy – when she speaks, people listen. As the articulate, passionate voice of the current socially active generation, we 3rd Agers can feel we have new champions to continue the struggle.

As a Canadian who has long despaired of our country ever finding its true voice, this is all encouraging news. We need our own champions and these women and others like them – Margaret Atwood, for example, have shown us that all is not yet lost in the fight for our planet and our grandchildren’s future.

I, for one, feel invigorated and inspired by their example.  2012 promises to be a tough year ahead on many fronts but I hope to find somewhere to lend a hand in the struggle.

Happy New Year.

In a few hours I’ll be on the Eurostar to London and 5 days later I’ll be back in Vancouver. Will this really be  a farewell to Paris or only an ‘au revoir’?

Three months is not a long time to fulfill a lifetime’s dream but it may have to do.  It has been long enough to get over the feeling of just being a tourist and start to be recognised by some of the locals who now smile and greet me in the neighbourhood. It’s been long enough also to realise that at 75, my ability to become a  fluent speaker  in French will not happen.  So, unless I’m happy to be a wistful expat, forever on the outside of any meaningful discussion, it’s time to acknowledge, graciously I hope, that my dream of living in France is over.

For better or worse, I’ve chucked in my lot with the Anglo Saxon world and that’s where I belong. I’ve met many older expats in different countries and they live a strange half-life, neither fish nor fowl, not fitting in either in the host country nor back at home. That is not for me. I’ve loved my time here in Paris and although I haven’t seen everything there is to see, I’ve seen enough. I can go home to Canada content.

Three months in another country is long enough to distance yourself from habitual ways and attitudes and examine where you’re going with what time remains as a seventy-something. Another bonus of being in France, where philosophy is debated in the daily newspapers not just in the universities.

There has been time too, for involvement, if only in a support role, with the mostly young people in the Occupy Paris movement. My last trip up to La Defense, the heart of the financial and banking district, was to take coats, sweaters and art supplies instead of food.  Perhaps back in Vancouver, I can find a more active role and join the debate which has surprised our world by its plucky refusal to go away quietly. For someone who lived through the sixties dreams of revolution, it is heartening to see the stirrings of a new society, whatever form it may take.

Time to go home and get involved.

Martin Luther King Park, in front of our appartement, is a large sprawling area of former railway yards which was supposed to have become the Olympic Village if Paris had been chosen for the 2012 Olympic Games.

But London won that dubious honour and is now busily bankrupting its citizens, adding to that long list of hopelessly indebted cities who have unwisely been host to the Olympic Games in the past.

On top of the current financial crisis, it is ironic that London has willingly added to the UK’s already staggering debt burden.

Paris, meanwhile, has acquired the land and is constructing the largest environmental park in the northern half of Paris, plus a lot of much needed housing for its growing population – and no huge debt mountain to weigh down its citizens. Martin Luther King would be pleased.

He would also probably agree that the social turmoil today is equivalent to the period when he was campaigning for civil rights and the country took to the streets en masse.

The difference is that today’s uprising is spreading around the world – from the Arab Spring to southern Europe, to North America and Asia.

But curiously, Paris, which in 1968 was the centre of the fire-storm of all student civil unrest, is now standing on the sidelines of the Occupy movement.

I’ve been searching the streets and the internet for news of possible Occupy Paris protests to join and have found only one. It plans to begin a camp in the heart of the commercial/banking district known as La Défense.  A small group has set November 4^th as the start of their Occupy Paris protest camp.

As my own  gesture of solidarity, I intend to join them but don’t think I’ll be taking a tent along with me – too cold and too old.  So I’ll be a daytime protester, to begin with at any rate.

Perhaps I’ll bring coffee and croissants for the campers for breakfast, and “pour encourager les autres” as the saying goes.

Yesterday, in the Latin Quarter, we saw a noisy demo of banners and flags, with loud  chanting and a sizeable police motorcycle escort. We hurried over to join in, thinking we had at last found an Occupy Paris spontaneous protest.

But no, the flags and chants were from the Syrian Students in Paris Support Group for their own country’s Occupy movement and its demands for the end of the Assad regime.  Still, as they paraded past the Sorbonne, chanting and shouting, the public support for them was obvious. So maybe the French students will after all turn out for the Occupy Paris camp on November 4^th.

I hope so. I’ll be there to urge them on and at last be able, if only part-time, to show my support for this astonishing movement which has fired the imagination of half the world. At 75, I didn’t think I’d get such a chance again.

This song by Leonard Cohen, which should be the anthem of the Occupy Movement, says it all.

He sang it on his recent tour, age 75:

“Democracy”

It’s coming through a hole in the air,
from those nights in Tiananmen Square.
It’s coming from the feel
that this ain’t exactly real,
or it’s real, but it ain’t exactly there.
From the wars against disorder,
from the sirens night and day,
from the fires of the homeless,
from the ashes of the gay:
Democracy is coming to the U.S.A.
It’s coming through a crack in the wall;
on a visionary flood of alcohol;
from the staggering account
of the Sermon on the Mount
which I don’t pretend to understand at all.
It’s coming from the silence
on the dock of the bay,
from the brave, the bold, the battered
heart of Chevrolet:
Democracy is coming to the U.S.A.

It’s coming from the sorrow in the street,
the holy places where the races meet;
from the homicidal bitchin’
that goes down in every kitchen
to determine who will serve and who will eat.
From the wells of disappointment
where the women kneel to pray
for the grace of God in the desert here
and the desert far away:
Democracy is coming to the U.S.A.

It’s coming to America first,
the cradle of the best and of the worst.
It’s here they got the range
and the machinery for change
and it’s here they got the spiritual thirst.
It’s here the family’s broken
and it’s here the lonely say
that the heart has got to open
in a fundamental way:
Democracy is coming to the U.S.A.

I’m sentimental, if you know what I mean
I love the country but I can’t stand the scene.
And I’m neither left or right
I’m just staying home tonight,
getting lost in that hopeless little screen.
But I’m stubborn as those garbage bags
that Time cannot decay,
I’m junk but I’m still holding up
this little wild bouquet:
Democracy is coming to the U.S.A.

(-you can hear him on YouTube if you don’t have the CD)

My elderly mother-in-law used to regard going to the local post office in the village where she lived, to buy a stamp, as her day’s outing. The rest of the family thought this was very amusing, including me.

Yesterday, I finally bought a stamp. One full month after arriving in Paris, I’ve discovered where the local post office is. Until you find yourself in a place as appealing as Paris, you forget that people back home are not satisfied with an email. Something more is expected of you. Like a postcard at least. I stopped sending postcards years ago, along with Xmas cards. It’s a lost art – like letter writing, only more difficult.

Many stages are involved. First, you must find a suitable card – the Eiffel Tower or the Arc de Triomphe will not do – far too insulting. We had visited many museums and art galleries before choosing an acceptable card which reflected our friend’s artistic leanings and our own impeccable good taste. Often this involved nearly as much time in the museum bookstore as in the actual museum itself.

Next comes the writing. You can’t just dash off some cliché like ‘having a ball’ or ‘don’t you wish you were here,’ on the back of a photo of Rodin’s majestic sculpture of The Burghers of Calais. Something more is demanded if you don’t want to be dismissed as a philistine. Much agonising is required to find  the mot juste to reflect the suggestion that you are up to appreciating great art.

Now, things become even more taxing. I don’t know about you but since switching to email, I no longer carry around with me an address book fully updated with postcodes and street numbers. So I can’t sit in a museum café, scribble a few lines and drop it in a letter box while the mood is upon me. No, I must take it back to the appartement, where I put it down somewhere while I begin the hunt for my old address book.

Knowing that even if I find it, my friend’s latest details will probably not be there anyway, the hunt is only half-hearted. I seldom manage to update my email list when people send me changes of address, never mind my old address book, which is full of scratchings out and illegible jottings over top of old ones. When I do find it, I’m reminded of how many people are in it whom I don’t even remember. But I don’t dare throw it out in case it might be needed sometime.

From time to time, well-meaning friends or relatives – usually women – will present me with a nice imitation leather-bound replacement, but the thought of transcribing all those cryptic notes defeats me.

Eventually, after an exchange of emails, I acquire the necessary address and code and look for the postcard in the pile of leaflets, brochures and old copies of Le Monde which I accumulate on a daily basis here in Paris. I find the Calais Burghers at last, stuck in a guidebook, marking some future intended theatre visit.

It took me half an afternoon and many puzzled looks, shrugs and useless vague directions to track down the local bureau de poste. I was surprised to discover Parisians apparently use snail mail even less frequently than I do. When I at last located it, a wall of automated machines faced me. After several futile attempts to operate one, a young female employee input the necessary data and pointed to the sum indicated on the screen, before moving on to the next baffled senior who stood aimlessly toying with a touchscreen.

I removed my change and something I thought was a receipt but turned out to be the actual stamp. It was a simple strip of white paper with the amount printed on it and adhesive on the back. No coloured engraving of the Louvre or Charles DeGaulle, only a three inch long strip which would cover up part of the address if I put it across the card. In the end, I put part of it on the front and folded the rest around the other side nearly masking one of the Calais Burghers anguished faces.

Embarrassed, I looked around for the letter slot but couldn’t find anything resembling one. Another young woman with a toddler led me outside the building, around the corner to a row of letter slots and pointed to the one which said Etranger. I deposited my dog-eared Burghers in the slot and went off with my significant other for a well-earned glass of vin rouge at our favourite people-watching café.

If you’re expecting to receive a postcard from me, you may have to wait awhile.

As the old saying goes, you don’t get a second chance at a first impression. But it’s been so long since my first impression 50 years ago that it almost seems that way.  In that long ago time I had hoped to live and work here in Paris but I couldn’t make it happen so I de-camped to England where I lived and worked for the next half century, biding my time.

During that period I made several forays back across the channel but only for holidays or short breaks, never to stay to live and work. Until now. Finally, at age 75, I’ve managed it. For the next 3 months – maybe longer – I shall be living my dream of being a resident of Paris not just a tourist.

The tiny appartement in the 17th arrondissement that we’ve rented from an old acquaintance, will be home and after only a few days here it’s starting to feel like it. The Batignolles area is an old working class district and still has a strong village flavour despite the rapid gentrification that has overtaken much of it. The little park opposite is full of kids and families throughout the day and evening. As I sit looking out at it from my 4th floor open casement window, the sense of community feels palpable.

When I descend from my rooftop eyrie to mix with the locals and practise my rusty French the feeling intensifies. So far, everyone has been friendly and helpful – well, nearly everyone. The monosyllabic newsagent at the kiosk outside  my local metro station who sold me a copy of Pariscope – the indispensable weekly guide to what’s on – failed to point out to me that it expired that day. As I stood there, staring at it and taking in this fact, I could feel his eyes on me. I raised an eyebrow at him, holding up the guide but he never cracked a smile, just giving me a slight shrug. I grinned and walked away. Live and learn. Tomorrow I will buy the new week’s guide – but not from him.

Notwithstanding my newsagent encounter, it is a fallacy and a slur to say that the Parisians are rude and dislike English speakers. Make even a token gesture at French and they will politely rescue you. At least, if you’re a senior, or so it appears to me so far. Admittedly I have a reasonable background in French but I have been away from it for many years. And I am also in my mid-70s with all that that implies. I have enough trouble trying to recall certain words in English, even though it has been my career, never mind coming up with the ‘mot juste’ in French.

And it’s not just words, of course, which elude me. Directions, street names, metro destinations, telephone numbers and even door entry codes all provide new challenges. When I was last struggling to live in Paris half a century ago, every apartment building had its resident guardian – the concierge. Usually female and always daunting, they took a dim view of foreigners of any stripe – especially young ones. More especially a young one trying to smuggle a girl past them  into his room.

All that has changed. The struggling economy has replaced these formidable females with electric door entry codes.  The big heavy doors remain but the dark hallways no longer harbour their household guardian. I simply punch in my 4 digit code and heave against the old door when I hear the electronic click. Although twice already I’ve had more trouble than I used to with the concierge.

On the night of my arrival, I fumbled with the entry code for fifteen minutes, straining against the door with my load of bags and cases. Nothing happened except that I became aware of curious glances from customers in the cafe opposite. I was about to go and look for a public phone to call for help – who, I wondered? – when a young woman approached, keyed in the code and opened the door. I quickly showed her my piece of paper with the code and my apartment  door key to prove I wasn’t trying to break in. She glanced at it and assured me the code was correct, then held the door open for me to enter.

The next evening, on returning home, I was again refused entry. Fortunately, the confectioner from the shop next door was watching me as he stood outside having a smoke. He even knew the correct code without asking me for it.  When I showed him my piece of paper, he explained that sometimes you just have to ‘repetez’ over and over – the electronics are temperamental apparently – just like the concierges of old, I thought. One must be patient, he said and allow sufficient time between attempts. I tried again. No luck. He took over and opened it first try. Smiling, he held the door open for me.

At length, after several more exits and entrances, I felt I had mastered it – until last night. I punched in the code several times, waiting patiently between times as instructed but still nothing.  A thought crept in slowly – wrong code number. I had it written down of course, safely stored upstairs in my room.

Do you know how many permutations there are of four numbers? Neither do I but I tried quite a few, with pauses and repeats before I finally remembered the correct sequence. It is now seared in my brain – I think – but I’ve taken the precaution of putting several copies of it in various pockets and wallets and passport, just in case.

It  is now just after 6pm – time to go out to eat and see my first play in French.  Nervously fingering my piece of paper with the door code, I prepare to leave.  If only that concierge of my youth were here to let me in when I come home. At 75, I have a warm feeling of nostalgia for her.

On the eve of a trip which will take me half way round the globe from Vancouver to Paris – and back again a few months later, I should be full of anticipation and excitement. In the past, I would have been. But now, things have changed. Too many difficult questions have been avoided or evaded in order for me to indulge myself with this journey.

Up until now, I’ve managed to suppress them but yesterday they were triggered afresh by an article in the Toronto Globe and Mail. The writer shoved my face into what is to me an increasingly unacceptable situation.

She began by denouncing my generation of ageing geriatrics for not only causing but continuing to exacerbate the problems we all are facing today. We are a gerontocracy who think only of ourselves to the detriment of everyone who comes after us. By hogging the lion’s share of the planet’s wealth to support our increasingly obscene way of life while around us both at home and abroad people struggle to survive and support their families, the writer says, we have lost our right to claim any level of respect.

Where is the sense of balance which previous generations have always exercised in providing for those who are the future of our societies – our children and grandchildren and theirs in turn?

Our current behaviour and those of our elected politicians is worthy of contempt, as we scramble to control more and more with total disregard for those who are punished for our senseless greed. Senseless because it will all end in tears.

By allowing those we have placed in power to become ever more brazen in their plundering of everything from food to oil and even to our access to water, we have created a situation over which we have lost control.

Meanwhile, I continue on with my life as usual. My seemingly innocuous trip to see my children and grandchildren in Europe – the very ones whom I should be most concerned about –  inadvertently puts them at risk.

To travel in the manner we have grown accustomed to since the end of the 2^nd world war is to throw all of this into high relief. I see at once the huge amount of resources I consume getting myself from here to there. What used to be an occasion to look forward to now fills me with embarrassment and guilt.

A historian might point to the plundering of our planet’s resources and resultant impoverishment of the majority of its inhabitants by a reckless minority, as an uneven trade-off for our feelings of guilt as we carry on with our blind behaviour.

As Lenin said on the eve of revolution – what is to be done?

For myself, I will travel as far as I can by train to the water’s edge. After that, unable to find a ship (except for an obscenely luxurious cruise liner), I’ll fly across the pond, assuaging my guilt by buying indulgences (carbon offsets) like a medieval pilgrim, there to embrace my children and grandchildren in a bittersweet reunion, before eventually reversing the process and returning home, perhaps for the last time.

I don’t think I can put myself through these moral contortions again.

Previous generations of travellers who left their families behind to seek a new life in the new world, knew they would never see them again. We have forgotten that the same fate awaits us as we burn up the last of our precious fuel resources in the childish belief that we can have our cake and eat it too.