The week ended with the funeral of a friend, Peter McDermot. It was conducted at St Mary’s in Alresford, and as the service unfolded, the connections flowed thick and fast, so many memories came tumbling back.
Peter and his wife had three sons. Their two elder ones both spoke beautifully about and for their late father.
Peter's eldest also mentioned their beloved brother Hugo, who was taken far too young by a brain tumour. He is buried in St Mary’s churchyard, and now his father’s remains rest beside his.
Hugo was a close school friend of our daughter Clem, and she helped nurse him in his final weeks. Clem and her husband Brian were married in St Mary’s too. Little or nothing changed in the churches of the Middle Ages.
I remembered the choir from the school where she was teaching, crammed in with her closest friends in front of the altar and around the pulpit.
The gate from the churchyard brought back memories of us all spilling out after the wedding, and the lovely pictures we have from that day.
Clem always visits Hugo’s grave when she’s back in the UK. She and Brian have just spent a couple of weeks with us, seeing friends and attending to educational business, too.
As they flew back to Riyadh, they passed over Kuwait, and she took some beautiful aerial photographs of that vibrant city, the bright glow of streetlights and homes below.
The sight reminded me of another night glow, in 1992, when I arrived to see the oil field fires that the Iraqis had set to wreck the Kuwaiti economy.
The night then stank of burning oil, with ash and thick black smoke everywhere.
That memory prompted Clem to recall that I was the first British journalist to enter “liberated” Kuwait at the end of the First Gulf War, which I’d covered from Saudi Arabia for nearly two months.
I sent her back some old photographs from those monumental days, locals greeting us with sweet tea and cakes, the fighters in rags with their Kalashnikovs, and the remains of Iraqi tanks bombed to oblivion as they retreated from the victorious allies.
Alastair Stewart: My memories still swirl and swoop in lovely, mysterious shapes. They make loss bearable
| GB NEWSThere was also a photograph of me in my chemical, nuclear and biological warfare suit with Dame Sue Tinson, our field producer.
The Saudis found it odd that “the boss” was a woman, I like to think Sue paved the way for Clem, now very much a boss herself.
Even with dementia, my memories still swirl and swoop in lovely, mysterious shapes. The church, beside
Peter’s old family home brought back vivid recollections of the annual cricket match he organised every summer for his sons, their friends, and all the mums and dads.
Halcyon days, memories that helped make the sadness of his loss and funeral bearable.
Earlier in the week, I had my regular lunch with two old friends.
We all despaired at the state of economics and politics, wondering where the leaders and the great ideas had gone.
We agreed that Trump and Farage have charisma and seem to grasp what’s needed economically, but both have fellow travellers who often lead you in unsavoury directions.
Farage made an important economic speech during the week, arguing again for higher personal allowances before anyone pays tax, though only when the country can afford it. I’d argue we can’t afford not to go down that road.
Nigel also praised enterprise, invention, risk-taking, entrepreneurialism, and hard work, but he’s right: these things must be made attractive, rewarding, and worthy of recognition. It’s what people want.
Meanwhile, Rachel Reeves goes from bad to worse, warning that she may have to raise taxes in next month’s budget.
We need that like a sinking ship needs more holes below the Plimsoll line.
She blamed everyone else, Brexit, Trump’s tariffs, but not a word about her obscene levels of borrowing or the burdens placed on employers and wealth creators. It’s the politics and economics of “not me, guv”.
A blitzkrieg on public spending is needed, but Labour backbenchers and junior ministers forbid it.
Starmer went to Rio for another round of global strutting on climate change.
We apparently helped fund a road in Brazil that goes from somewhere to nowhere. I love the irony.
I attended and reported on the first Earth Summit in Rio in 1992 and still have the souvenir Swatch watch!
In Starmer’s absence, we were “treated” to Deputy PM David Lammy at PMQs. Normally he’s Keir’s nodding puppy, grinning and giggling at every opportunity.
This time, he was less amused and less amusing, as two more convicted prisoners were wrongly released on the Justice Secretary’s watch, Lammy’s real job.
He ducked questions from the Tories, who revealed that one was a fraudster and the other a sex offender, both on the run. One has since turned himself in. Second only to the economy and Treasury, it’s pathetic.
I have another brood of new ducklings, and I needed them this week.
The week closed with an apology from Culture Secretary Lisa Nandy for giving an important job in football to a known Labour donor, David Kogan. Both should have known better.