In the House of Reason - part 1

It has been a struggle to put pen to paper in recent times. Time, energy, and inclination have been lacking; also lacking has been the discipline to put the finishing touches to a story. In an effort to combat this, I'll be publishing my current project to my blog as I work on it. It'll be raw and unedited. The aim is simple: if people are reading it, then I have a reason to write and a reason to keep going on a daily basis. I'd love your feedback, but more than anything I'd love your time as you work through this first story I've written in months.

In the House of Reason

Part One

There are nights to make you believe in demons, and this was one. Wind howled and rain lashed down as the cab pulled up in front of the little vicarage, and I wasted no time in paying the driver and hurrying, bags in tow, to the front door of the house. My journey from Winchester into the rolling hills and villages of Hampshire was over, and not before time.

I was greeted by a little tonsured man. I could see his dog collar was stained and frayed even in the half-light spilling from the blessedly warm house as I tumbled over the threshold, keeping my hat pulled low to stop it from blowing away. The door closed behind me, I straightened to see a fat hand offered in greeting.

“Father Nichol,” the little priest said. In my rush to get into the house, I had not noticed the way the man’s belly pulled at his black cassock. I took his hand and shook it.

“Doctor Kincaid.”

“I know who you are.” Father Nichol gestured that I should continue into the vicarage’s front room. “I sent the letter. I am so pleased you could come.” He held out a hand again and I looked at it for a moment, puzzled. “Your hat and coat?”

The little priest seemed chaotic. Not just in his appearance, but in his manner. He was rushed, flitting from action to action without completion in each of his activities. As I unbuttoned my coat and handed both it and my hat to Father Nichol I felt dizzy, like a man made to look in several directions at once. Suddenly, I looked forward to sitting down. It was with the same sense of rush and havoc that I was chivvied into the front room, where a roaring fire warmed the chill in my bones almost instantaneously.

The front room was as chaotic as the impression I had been given of its inhabitant. One wall was occupied by a bookcase, filled haphazardly with peeling tomes, their covers absent, faded or otherwise damaged. In front of it, two patched seats sat at odd angles. Behind one, a collection of faded newspapers poked out. The rug on the floor was stained and tattered, and the floor was covered with odd papers and various articles. A cross was knocked on its side, leaning against the stone hearth. As I sat down wearily in the less skewed of the two chairs, I felt something digging into my leg and reached down to extract a set of rosary beads, strung together with string painted in a fraying gold.

“I usually have a housekeeper,” Father Nichol said, sitting in the chair opposite. In the flickering light of the fire, he looked to be around fifty, but tired. What remained of his hair was grey or white. His eyes were shadowed. My coat was still draped over his left arm, with my hat on his hand; he had forgotten to hang them up before coming to join me. I raised an eyebrow, encouraging him to continue. “These recent events seem to have scared God-fearing people away from me.”

“I read your letter asking for a coroner,” I said. I had taken the priest’s statement about not having a housekeeper as a sign that I was not about to be offered a drink after my ordeal travelling down rutted lanes on this wildest of nights. “You were vague about what has happened, other than the need to investigate the death of this man Goodall.”

Father Nichol looked into the fire. For the first time, he seemed to be trying to compose his thoughts. Staring into the pandaemonium of flames, where the devil himself makes a home, did not strike me as a good way. When he looked back, he wore the deadened look of a man who has forgotten what it is to sleep.

“There is madness in this death, Doctor. I have never seen anything like it.” So he had the hope that a man of law and medicine, whose life it was to discover the cause of death and place reason upon it, could answer his questions.

Never taking my eyes from him, I opened my bag and pulled out a pen and paper. “Start at the beginning.”

After a breath, Father Nichol spoke, in a low voice. “I have known - I knew - old Mr Goodall for many years. He had a voice for the Church and he used it at a time when it was not popular or the done thing. It cost him in the election when Gladstone lost Manchester.”

“Papism is not a vote-winner,” I said, before I could stop myself.

Father Nichol’s smile was small and sad “It took a strong man to speak for the Church when it was to his own personal cost. Mr Goodall was ever the friend of St Luke’s, even when his wife departed this world while delivering their second child. That was some twenty years ago. I prayed for him, but those prayers were not heard. Many would blame the Church, I have seen it many times, but Mr Goodall retained his faith and came ever closer to me, until recently. He was a good man, a good father to his two children. His son grew up and left the house many years ago, but his daughter remained to look after her father in his dotage.”

My notes so far were few; there was little on possible causes of death. “Was he a melancholy man?” I asked. From the vague letter I had, there was a chance that the cause of death was self-inflicted, although it would not explain why the priest had contacted the chief coroner of the area and insisted on his attendance.

“Surprisingly not, considering his losses.” Father Nichol brought his hands to his face. “His daughter is melancholy, but I would expect no less. She has sustained losses and blames herself. I have counselled her many times not to blame herself for her mother’s death, but there is a fault in her spirit that leads to her inflicting pain on herself for something she could have no control over. It was she who nursed Mr Goodall through his last weeks. But I jump ahead,” he said, flicking a hand out, as if to dismiss what he had said. “For your investigation you must know of the changes.”

“You referred to them briefly in your letter.” I pulled the letter from my notes and read. “You spoke of ‘changes sudden and violent in character and spirit, with no recognisable cause’.”

“There could have been a cause,” the little priest said. His face was dark. “I did not wish to alarm you or have you judge me mad by writing of them in a letter to a learned man such as yourself. The truth is I believe Mr Goodall to have been possessed. The changes were sudden. He had always been a friend of the Church, but he suddenly distanced himself from both myself and the parish. I heard whispers of a deeper madness that had afflicted him. Ravings and such. When I tried to speak to him or his daughter, I found the door slammed in my face.”

I raised a hand to stop Father Nichol speaking. “I am a man of reason, Father,” I said quietly. “I do not deal with superstition or belief. I deal with the cold facts of a case to establish a cause of death.”

“I understand, and this is why I did not mention it in my letter.” Father Nichol fixed me with his eye and I saw the steel underneath his doubt and worry. “If I had mentioned this you would have dismissed me as a madman. What sane man believes in possession by the devil and his forces? But I needed you here. You are a man of reason and logic. I understand you have no particular faith to cloud your thinking, and you would be able to prove what I have seen and felt. I, a man of a faith dismissed by so many, do not command that respect. Even, it seems, among those who would otherwise believe what I say. Together we can investigate, with my knowledge of scripture and belief and your reason and logic, to discover the truth of what I saw.”

“You said the door was slammed in your face, Father,” I said. Perhaps it was no surprise that the priest had forgotten to offer a cup of tea, if he had forgotten his own story. “How do you see through wood?”

Father Nichol gave another wan smile, shadows flickering across his features and making him look like a ghost. “I was permitted by the daughter to see Mr Goodall when the madness first set in. It has been the return of the son which has cast me out. I have attempted to see them several times, but when Mr Goodall died it became all the harder. I have not been allowed to see Olivia, to comfort her, or Mr Goodall, to perform my duties over him as he would have liked.”

“You say in your letter the funeral took place without further investigations, and in the other church in the village.”

The priest wrung his hands. “A lifelong Catholic should not have their funeral in a non-Catholic church, and nor should they be buried in unconsecrated ground. If I could I would move him from where he lies.”

My hand stopped making its brief notes. I did not trust myself to look at the little man. It was clear that what he felt was right and proper was at the forefront of his mind, and not the family’s wishes. He did the family a disservice that was in no way a credit to his Church. Dogma, when it guided belief beyond reason, was a reason to disbelieve anything being said.

“Burial in line with the family’s wishes is not enough of a reason to make an investigation into the death itself,” I warned. I was already impatient with Father Nichol. “Unless you tell me how an investigation is warranted. It will be especially difficult with Mr Goodall already being buried as I will not, without exceptional reason, be able to order an exhumation. I take it that the family is opposed to an investigation?”

“They are.”

“I do not see how I can investigate properly.”

“For this kind of investigation you will need to keep an open mind and speak with people. I do not think desecrating the body will avail you of anything.”

In a deliberate action I put my pen down on my lap, along with the letter and my notes. I had not taken kindly to Father Nichol telling me my job. “Father, I feel my time has been wasted here. I have travelled many miles on this wild night. I will need to stay here overnight as there is no way to get a cab, and that will affect my work tomorrow. There are families who need me to establish what happened to their kin.” I frowned, unable to conceal my displeasure. In a matter of minutes I had felt more frustration with a case than I had in many years. “My job is in Winchester, not in this small village. I came as you are well-respected, and you claimed real urgency, but from what you tell me there is little urgency other than in your own mind. Old men go mad, Father. There is no possession and no malignant influence from other planes of reality. The mind simply collapses under the weight of worry and years, and from what you tell me Mr Goodall had more worries and pains than many men.”

Father Nichol’s hands kneaded air like a baker kneading invisible dough. “This is what I feared. There is more at play and more at stake here than meets the eye, Doctor. You must believe me. What I saw when I was allowed to see him was the madness of damnation and Hell. I fear it has passed on to his next of kin.”

“His son?” I asked. Keeping my frustration from my voice posed a challenge to me, albeit one I had been well-trained in over my years of dealing with the bereaved and the bereft.

“Olivia. His daughter.”

I shook my head. “My realm is discovering the cause and means of death, not those still alive.”

“You deal with disease in Winchester, do you not? You can trace vectors of disease so those alive are not afflicted by the causes of death of those departed? Is that some part of your job.”

“It is. But for disease. For bacteria. Not for superstition, Father.” I tried to inject some sympathy into my voice, make it seem less that I was frustrated, and more that I had respect for his position but my own responsibilities prevented me from undertaking his request.

“This new scientific knowledge is beyond me.” Father Nichol waved the same dismissive hand. “Whatever causes disease, could it not also be here? If the daughter is afflicted then her life is in danger, and it is your responsibility prevent this demonic affliction from spreading.”

I took a moment to think. As the Winchester coroner, public health did form part of my role. Just the previous year I had traced a measles outbreak to an orphanage and prevented it spreading further. Although some had died from the disease, I had stopped others from meeting the same fate. Add to that, I was already in the parish of St Luke and any journey back could not begin until morning, when I could be making investigations. I felt myself giving in to Father Nichol, despite my misgivings.

“I doubt this is anything other than ordinary elderly dementia,” I said carefully, watching the priest’s face, “but tomorrow I will go to the home of the Goodalls. If, as you say, they are refusing your company, I shall open a formal investigation. I have my materials with me, and I can act as an officer of the law. I shall have to start,” I added, meeting Father Nichol’s eyes, “by taking your statement."

To be continued...

A Great Matter of Things

When I was at university, around the time my heart left legal practice, I studied a module called trials of dissenters. The focus was not on learning the ins and outs of the operation of law, but on its historical application where the law was used in part to persecute those beyond the pale of respectable society and what it showed us about jurisprudence. The list of trials studied was eclectic; it's not often you'd find the trial of Jesus Christ being studied and presented alongside the trial of Oscar Wilde.

Among those studied in the early days of the module was the trial - such as it was - of Anne Boleyn. We looked at procedure. We looked at the facts. We looked at the historical context of the time. We skipped the outcome; once convicted, it really was a case of burying the bodies so far as the sentence was concerned.

I have a question for my university professors now: why not study Thomas Cromwell's role in that trial and his eventual downfall? Was he a dissenter, in a broad definition? Is it significant that he had no real trial of his own other than bills of attaintment, considering what had happened with the woman he had installed as queen consort - and subsequently brought low with the harvested testimonies of others? Leaving aside matters of time, there's more in Cromwell and his rise and fall than there is in Anne Boleyn in any matter other than a trial itself.

Over the past year I've been working my way through Hilary Mantel's phenomenal Thomas Cromwell trilogy with those questions in mind. As I finished the trilogy this morning - with its inevitable tragic denouement - the questions resurfaced. Here was a common man, risen to the highest office in the land despite his birth, at a time when value was placed on blood far more than ability. Here was a man who stood against the Catholic Church and played his part in the English Reformation. Was he not, in his way, a dissenter, eventually brought down by that dissent?

There's no doubt that Cromwell was no typical figure of his age and Mantel's depiction of him shows him as such. The boy from Putney made good into the Lord Privy Seal, a baron of England despite his common birth. He was a soldier, a lawyer, a statesman. A man who relied on his prodigious wit and prudence to become King Henry VIII's right-hand man. Someone at the heart of schemes to promote England's interests - but also the interests of a new orthodoxy that challenged the status quo. Such a man - as shown by Mantel - challenges the establishment, who would wish that such a man be brought down. The end, when it comes - and I hope I'm not spoiling the ending for anyone, considering these events took place in 1540 - has a sense of inevitability to it, and not just because of the knowledge of Cromwell's real-life fate.

Cromwell can be said to be a dissenter in the sense that he transgressed from the norms of the time. He would have fit hand in glove with the trials of dissenters unit studied in the same way as Anne Boleyn and Jesus; a social and political misfit who rose and rose before being destroyed - in a physical way, at least - by those who took a position of social and political orthodoxy, damned by his own actions even as they progressed the interests of the place - and beliefs - he served.

I cannot recommend the trilogy - beginning with Wolf Hall - highly enough. It's possible to enjoy the ride, but it's also possible to read far more into the events and apply them to now. Vested interests face upstarts. The psychology of power and interplay of various interests. The darkness of humanity and the treachery of those who are only a misstep away from a slippery slope. Mantel's work is masterful. As for Cromwell himself, he continues to blaze a trail through history as a man both of his time and outside of it. A modern man in an early modern setting, who helped to shape modern England.

The Witness for the Defence

The atmosphere in court can be dry, but there is a buzz on the day a key witness gives evidence. Anticipation hangs in the air and speculation is whispered in the public gallery, passed between reporters and interested parties. 'What do you think they will say?' Normally, the courtroom itself is an island of calm throughout proceedings, regardless of what is going on outside; the media scrum around a Christine Keeler or Lord Archer doesn't penetrate the sanctuary of benches, barristers in wigs and gowns passing notes amidst piles of lever-arch files, all under the watchful eye of a stern judge. But on the day a key witness gives evidence, some of that excitement percolates through to the courtroom itself, giving a real buzz to the day's proceedings.

There was a similar feeling to the press conference held yesterday for the evidence-in-chief of Dominic Cummings. The political fall-out over it has already cost the government a great deal of trust, a commodity they cannot afford to lose in the midst of the biggest public crisis since the Second World War. So what would the chief SPAD say? What was his excuse for seemingly breaking regulations his government set to protect public health? Would this clear up the matter and allow people to regain their trust in government, assuring them that those who set the rules were subject to the same rules as the man in the street (or, if we keep our legal theme going, the socially-distancing man on the Clapham omnibus)?

Cummings should be pleased that this wasn't evidence being given in a courtroom setting and it was, strangely, in the Rose Garden at 10 Downing Street. Leaving aside the rather large issue of why it was deemed appropriate for an unelected advisor to give a press conference at all - in defiance of all political conventions - the press conference will have raised eyebrows as well as questions. Cummings' bizarre and contradictory explanation of his actions in March and April would, if given in court, have had cross-examining counsel drooling.

It's an exchange I would give money to see: the experienced silk, composed and polite, facing down the arrogant witness. The little smirk Cummings made at the very end of his unprededented media appearance would, transported into court, have been noticed. In all honesty, I'd love to be in the place of that silk; a story so full of contradiction and hubris is begging for rigorous cross-examination, and I'd be willing to bet that any half-trained bar student would be able to take the entire story to pieces with half-a-dozen targeted, precise questions - especially if they had done their homework on the writing that surrounds the whole case.

The big question would be how to approach a witness like Cummings. The barrister would have to measure a number of things - the mood and patience of the jury with the witness, the stage of the case, what other witnesses have said - when deciding how to deal with him. It is possible to imagine that defence counsel would have advised Cummings not to give evidence in the first place, taking the gamble of an adverse inference over the risk of his man tying himself in knots that could be unpicked by any competent legal professional. Depending on the mood, it could be possible for the cross-examining barrister to discredit the evidence with one or two swift questions, perhaps repeating some of the statements back to the witness before making an excoriating coup de grace.

"You say neither you nor your wife had symptoms?"

"You say you drove for five hours without a break, with a child in the back of the car?"

"You say you went for childcare, yet never received any assistance when you arrived?"

"You say you were ill, but you left the house to take your child to hospital?"

"You wrote the guidance, do you not understand what you were writing?"

"You say you wanted to check you were safe to drive?"

"Your way of checking eyesight was to drive a car? For thirty miles? With your wife and child in that car when you were uncertain?"

"The fact is that we can't trust a word you say, isn't it?"

Such an approach can really damage a witness. It's short, it's sharp, it makes the point. If a jury or panel of magistrates is already impatient with a witness it can make their minds up. There's very little subtlety to it and it gives rise to 'explosive exchange in court' headlines. It's the drama that television is made of. To an extent, it's a hack-and-slash, broadsword approach to cross-examination, but there is a risk attached to it. It can come across as rude and turn a case the wrong way if the advocate has read the room incorrectly. Sympathy for the witness - who is being bullied, after all - can override the evidence being presented, much as it shouldn't be. People making the factual decisions in the case are human.

Less dramatic, but for me more effective, is the approach of killing the witness with kindness. It won't create front-page headlines. There won't be gasps at revelations and fiery exchanges. Instead, it rewards patience on the part of the advocate and shows up the witness through politeness, building them up, then pointing out every inconsistency. All of this is couched in terms of getting to the bottom of the matter. The witness has two choices: they can provide explanations that further create inconsistencies and cast doubt on their veracity; or they can  agree with you and undermine their own case. Of course, there is the third option, when they blow up in your face and seem to the jury like they're unreasonable under polite questioning, which is also unhelpful.

This is an approach with Cummings that would be worth seeing. There would be a slow build-up of the original case. "Can you confirm..." "Just for the avoidance of doubt..." "You say that this was the case..." Then there would come the slow, gradual tearing down of everything that had been said. "If I can take you to your own witness statement, dated..." "Is this accurate..."

It would take hours. No doubt by the end of it reporters' hands would be aching and the court artist would have been absent for the entire afternoon session, creating their sketch for the evening news. But the jury would be left in very little doubt as the barrister's questions poke holes, rapier-like, in the witness's story. Each inconsistency would be exposed, along with its reasons. Where only reasonable doubt needs to exist to acquit, any doubt that the defence was a pack of lies just would not exist, even without those words being spoken.

This is a case that will never come to a court of law, but the court of public opinion should be able to convict Dominic Cummings. At a time when confidence in the government is essential, he has done more to undermine that confidence - and therefore public safety - than anyone. Those who make the rules cannot be exempt from them, and if caught flouting those regulations they need to have the integrity to resign as a point of principle. It is particularly important in those who are unelected as they are otherwise unanswerable to the people within a democracy.

As fun as it is to imagine a tense courtroom exchange between advocate and witness, there is a serious point here: we should not be being asked to believe Cummings. We should not be watching a government put the job of one man - a man who has previously said that 'if some pensioners die, too bad' - ahead of the lives of people. Nor should his job be placed above the sacrifices that people have made in order to protect people from this virus. People have been unable to see their loved ones, sometimes to the extent where they have not had the chance to say goodbye in their loved ones' final days. People have lost livelihoods. All too often - in no small part down to lax guidance and the government's overly laissez-faire attitude to lockdown - people have lost their lives. With the latest Financial Times estimates suggesting that 60,000 people have now died as a result of COVID-19 - 0.1% of the population between March and today - his continued presence in the highest echelons of government is a gross insult to the people of Britain.

I do hope to see him in a court of law one day. It will be interesting to see how he copes with being ripped to pieces when his arrogance and lies catch up with him.

The Coronavirus Law, Or How Not To Draft Legislation Unless You're Trying For Herd Immunity Via The Back Door

I'm going to hazard a guess that if you're reading this you're aware of the Prime Minister's address to the nation, regarding the loosening of lockdown restrictions. You may be searching for answers; it's hardly like the actual changes were made clear.

I can't provide those answers yet. I'll probably write something new on the restrictions once I've read the published guidance tomorrow. I already have a few thoughts on that - the main one being 'who on earth other than myself dives into the House of Commons library and Legislation.gov.uk in their free time to find out what they can and can't do?' - but they'll also have to wait for a later time.

The situation is as clear as mud. And, just to add further sediment to the water, I'd like to start at the end.

In his address, Johnson stated that fines for breaching lockdown will be increased. Good. Positive start. For me, the main problem with lockdown has been that it hasn't been properly enforced. At least, the main problem with lockdown that isn't the fact that it has been subtly and gradually loosened through contradictory advice from the government has been that it hasn't been properly enforce. A deterrence through proactive policing isn't a bad thing. It's worked in France and Italy, and it would work here.

The problem is the regulations themselves. The Health Protection (Coronavirus, Restrictions) (England) Regulations 2020 are pretty clear when someone is allowed out of their home. A person may leave their home when:

• Shopping for basic necessities for themselves or the member of a vulnerable household;
• They are obtaining or depositing money witha business specified in a schedule of the Regulations;
• Exercising, either alone or with a member of the same household;
• Seeking medical assistance;
• Providing care to another;
• Donating blood;
• Travelling to or from work (don't get me started on the wording of this as it's accidentally rendered all work outside your place of residence illegal - a classic example of rushjob legislation written by an idiot) or volunteering;
• Attending a funeral of a close family member;
• Fulfilling a legal obligation (such as attendance at court);
• Accessing critical public services such as social services;
• Taking a child to or from the other parent with custody or access when the parents do not live together;
• Going to a place of worship if a minister of that religion;
• Moving house;
• Avoiding injury or illness.

In short, quite a list. They're not reproduced verbatim; you can access them yourself if you're interested. The problem is that frequency isn't specified. Nor are activities that qualify as exercise, seeking medical assistance, etc. Interpretation depends upon the individual. The police have been issued with guidance, but this guidance doesn't have force of law.

Interestingly, a big deal was made of the restriction on personal exercise when lockdown measures were first introduced. The law itself at no stage makes reference to not being allowed to exercise more than once a day; this was only ever guidance without legal force. And that guidance has been loosened as time has gone on and the government has taken an increasingly populist approach. Neither was there ever a legal restriction on going out elsewhere to exercise, nor a proscription on different types of exercise. You know those people who went for a wander with a picnic in the park? Lawful excuse. Complete idiots, but when the law has been rendered unenforceable by virtue of being thought up by people without a clue, there's no legal recourse.

Also loosened - quietly, without telling anyone - have been the restrictions on freedom of movement outside the home. Again, you may remember there being a big deal made of the main reasons you could leave home. Those haven't changed; in truth, nor have many of the activities listed above. They were always legal; the government just didn't tell you about it. The fact is that the lockdown has, in fact, only ever related to the restriction of business practice with a prescribed list of businesses who may and may not operate.

So what of today's proclamation? Legislation.gov.uk interestingly says that there are no pending amendments to the statutory instrument that manages the lockdown; whether this is true or not we'll see tomorrow. So in short: nothing has changed other than the guidance now being provided by the government being much more wooly; there's much more scope now for people to abuse those regulations, particularly employers who wish for their staff to come to work as they haven't provided home-working facilities in the past. In my former place of employment - unless things have changed with regards to hardware and setup - many of the secretaries and paralegals will find themselves back in the office as the government has pretty much mandated it. The scope of exercise is now so wide that it's impossible to police, and will prove a go-to excuse for people flouting any kind of guidance.

Has anything changed legally? It appears not, and this is a problem. The law was far too loose as it was, and was never enough to allow the police to get on top of any real issues that could arise. Add to that the inherent contradictions that have run throughout the legislation. It's fine to go to work with 100 other people on a construction site or in an office, who will all go to different households, but you're barred from seeing your parents or children, even when you can maintain physical distance from them. One of those appears to be a far more obvious vector for the disease than the other, yet it is the one being encouraged as of this evening by the government. If the latter is banned, then the former must also be banned.

We will see more tomorrow. It may be that with the publication of additional guidance all will become more clear and more logical. It may also be that the enforcement of what limited regulations there are will be made easier by amending the existing law. What it doesn't disguise is that the existing law was absolutely inadequate - another example of rushed legislation not being up to the task, either by accident or design - and that the revised regulations appear to be contradictory and geared towards money rather than health.

Stay safe. Stay home.

Lockdown: A Mental Health Post

Quick warning before you start: this is highly personal and probably a little confused. It's a sign of the times that I'm seriously struggling to express exactly what's going on. This is a bit of a stream of consciousness, a hopefully cathartic splurge that might help others as well as myself. Whatever happens, and as hard as it is to reach out or make feelings known, we are in this together.

*

If popular history is to be believed, Shakespeare wrote King Lear in the midst of an outbreak of the plague. While locked down, he turned his incomparable genius to one of his most enduring plays - albeit one where no main characters exit, persued by a bear. It's a parable some in the Twittersphere have put out: 'See, you can be productive in lockdown! Look at this!'

It's nice that some have tried to keep people upbeat and encourage creativity. On the other hand, telling people to measure themselves against one of the great historical literary geniuses is probably not that inspiring. 'Look, you can work on your first touch in lockdown. Even Lionel Messi is managing it!' Yes, and Messi is one of the best footballers ever with what is probably a small estate, while you have a back garden and a patio that needs weeding. Not to mention, you're not as good as him.

At least, that's what the voices say. Being creative in lockdown has been a futile task, made harder by one fundamental fact.

For the past six months I have been suffering from an episode of depression.

It's not been easy to deal with at the best of times. To help, I'm on a course of anti-depressants. It's likely I'll still be on them more than a year from now. I was on them before it became clear that COVID-19 was going to hit Britain, and hit Britain hard. There had been days before then when it was hard to get going, to say the least. When getting up on a morning was the hardest thing I could do.

Thankfully, I do a job to get up for. As stressful as it can be, as much of a workload as it has, as demanding as each day is, I enjoy teaching. There's a reason why I want to be in work for 7, an hour and a half before the school day begins. When I fell into depression, school took on an additional meaning: it was the reason to keep going. Seeing those kids every day, much as they can be the most irritating so-and-sos going, was a reason to get up. On the final day of regular school, some of my year 8s trailed me around when I was on duty to applaud me and say thank you; I can only say the feeling was mutual because they'd kept me going.

Then came lockdown.

I can't say I've struggled more than others although I'm also prepared to acknowledge that it's not an experience I've relished. A combination of medication and a constant, hard training regime have kept my head above water, at least for the moment.

One of the symptoms I've found in depression has been the bone-tiredness that comes from keeping going during the day. It was a symptom at school; constantly putting a face on to the kids was draining, even though I also got energy from the classroom and doing a job I love. By the end of a week I was on the point of collapse.

That same bone-tiredness is present now, but for different reasons. Keeping going, keeping working has needed me to stay disciplined. 8-4 most days, making lists of tasks to complete for school on a daily basis, keeping to a routine during each day. On one hand, it's kept me going. Knowing what I expect of myself and knowing what others expect is a motivator. At the same time, it's exhausting. It's artificial. There's a constant feeling of 'what's the point?' The motivation of seeing 30 kids staring up, wanting to know what's next (or, just as often, how they can avoid work and keeping me on my toes with tasks) just doesn't exist.

Today I started work at 8:55. I completed my list of essential tasks by 11:10. I can't do any more. I'm exhausted; physically from a demanding running regime, mentally and emotionally by a psychological millstone that hits every part of my life. The former keeps the latter in check and has kept me just about functioning.

That isn't to say I'm completely functioning. I was struggling socially before the lockdown. A few weeks before all this kicked off I had to force myself to two friends' wedding. I very nearly didn't go. It was nothing to do with not wanting to be there and celebrate their day. It was entirely to do with the tiredness I felt, and the absolute hopelessness seeping through every thought. Why would they want to see me? Wouldn't I just bring it all down? I left after a couple of hours of the evening do, completely shattered after putting a face on.

Equally, socialising in lockdown is a challenge. I've lost count of the number of times I've picked up a phone to speak to someone but decided against it. I'm too tired, too often, to entertain speaking to someone - at least that's what my conscious reasoning is. The result is an isolation that's deepening and counterproductive.

Truth be told, I am coping. Just. But I'm not coping to an extent where I can entertain the idea of being creative or doing more, for the time being, than the bare minimum that needs to be done to keep going.

Some might question why I've written this. Partly, it's as catharsis. I often feel better after explaining something. When I told my parents I was on anti-depressant medication I felt better than I had in weeks (perhaps helped further by a fantastic performance from Town that night - a 2-1 win against Bristol City that could have been 8 or 9). I've kept a lot of things quiet, either to not bother people or because I don't want people to think any the worse of me, or think that I'm incapable of doing what I need to do. I know that isn't a healthy attitude to have.

Yoda one that I want

Criticising the creators of a story for getting their own characterisation wrong is not a good idea. It makes you look like a complete idiot. All too often on Twitter we see men (for it is always men) explaining a character and their motivation to the creator of said character, seemingly without thinking, 'Maybe this person knows more about their own character than I do'. Normally the end of that exchange comes about when the critic asks the creator just who they think they are, and the creator points out the name on the cover.

With that now in place, I'm going to criticise George Lucas for the characterisation of one of his own characters and possibly look like a complete idiot.

Yoda has been one of the enduring characters of the Star Wars saga, and not just because when 900 years old you reach, look as good you will not. He's small. He's green. He's wise. He has expressive pointy ears that a Vulcan would look at with envious eyes, were it not completely illogical. He's also got a reputation as a benign, benevolent presence within the Jedi order.

I for one am mystified how this came to pass, because Yoda in the original triology was a very different character. He wasn't defined by his weird syntax in Empire; no, he was best summed up as being a Jedi master taking on Luke's training who carried a vaguely threatening aura. There was very little benevolence about him. In fact, I'd argue that the audience was encouraged to reserve judgement on him. Was he actually helping Luke, or was he a potential enemy? Once we see his motivations are pure, he's still not all benevolence and helpfulness.

Consider this: When Luke Skywalker first arrives on Dagobah, Yoda doesn't reveal who he is. Instead, he is this mischievous elf thing. We can work out from the context that Yoda is judging Luke, working out whether the son of Anakin Skywalker is worth training. He sees someone who is impulsive (not helped by having a blaster pulled on him within about half a nanosecond of unveiling his presence), who has too much in common with his father, and who he even says he feels cannot be taught. This is a long way from the Yoda we see in the prequels.

Also consider this: When Yoda agrees to train Luke - after intervention from Force ghost Obi-Wan Kenobi - there's a distinct sense of underlying threat. He asks Obi-Wan whether Luke will finish what he begins, at which point Luke says he won't fail. That he isn't afraid. Yoda's response? 'You will be. You will be.' The camera shifts back to Luke, who's sitting back, uncertain of Yoda. That's not the response of a benevolent teacher; it's the response of someone much darker. It's almost a threat against Luke. That threat is carried out. Luke is sent into the cave where he faces a dark side version of himself in Darth Vader's armour. Yoda gives him no warning what to expect; in fact, he tells Luke that he won't need his weapons when he sets off to the cave, leaving Luke potentially all the more vulnerable. That scene - for me, one of the best in the entire saga - is open to so much interpretation. Did Luke take the darkness with him by taking the weapons? What would have happened if he'd gone without? Was he really at risk? But in not telling Luke what he faced, Yoda was revealing himself as a potentially threatening figure.

Then there's the bit everyone remembers. You know the bit: sinking X-wing, Luke being a bit whiny and negative, failing to lift it out of the water, and then Yoda showing off. 'I don't believe it,' says Luke in an echo of every child I've ever taught. 'That,' says Yoda, 'is why you failed.' It's inspirational. If you believe, you can achieve. It's something I'm more than happy to put on my own classroom wall as an inspirational quote. The problem is that Yoda has once again shown his own power. That power is so much greater than Luke's, and yet he's sending Luke out to face Darth Vader. It should be said that Yoda is absolutely clear that Luke is nowhere near the end of his training at this point, which is why he says Luke shouldn't go to help at Cloud City - his one actually benevolent move - but it's still something that should make us question Yoda.

So in the original trilogy, Yoda sends us mixed messages. He's something of an enigma. Even if his goals match with the rebels, his methods and deeper motivations are open to debate. He's mischievous, slightly threatening and even slightly arrogant. So why does he become something a far cry from this in the prequels?

We never see that version of Yoda in the prequel trilogy. We see someone who is a patient teacher. We see someone who is child-like and yet wise and calm. There's no threat to him. There's little mischief. The character has gone out of him. There was no reason for him to turn into that character either.

It's been said by more commentators than I care to read that the prequel trilogy is a massive disappointment. People have consistently suggested improvements, but one of the obvious ones is staring us in the face. And if George Lucas had beeen sharp enough, I'm sure he'd have seen it: Yoda should have been different. We see Yoda's stubbornness in Episode I when he withholds his blessing from Obi-Wan's decision to train Anakin, but that's about it. We don't see that threatening side. We don't see a side of him where he would withhold training from someone.

That's another problem. The end of Episode III sees Yoda pretty much declaring Luke and Leia the new hope, so why would he refuse to train him? There are many legitimate reasons why he might have taken the action he did in Empire - testing Luke is the obvious one, with the intention always existing to train him when he showed himself worthy of passing on the torch of hope to a new generation of Jedi - and many of those points make some of my arguments moot points, but none addresses why Yoda was characterised as this incredibly patient teacher with time for all. The big problem is that George Lucas failed to realise what he had created in Yoda.

So how could Yoda have been improved? There are a number of suggestions I'd make. One would be to have made him more arrogant so the doom of the Jedi order was in part down to his hubris. That's implied at times in the novelisations and the expanded universe, but not explored at all in the films. Another could have been to make his teaching techniques closer to his methods in Empire, and they could have pushed Anakin closer to the dark. It makes more sense than the sudden shift that Anakin undergoes in Episode III.

One thing does have to be said, however. The Last Jedi gets an awful lot of unfair stick from certain quarters. I confess myself to be a fan, and my favourite part comes with Yoda. That's because the Yoda in The Last Jedi - Force ghost that he is - is the Yoda from Empire. You're left slightly uncertain about his motivations and his methods as he seems to burn down the first Jedi temple. He's got that mischievous threat back. Although you know he's on the light side, his methods are unorthodox. His wisdom doesn't manifest itself in benign little lessons; his guidance is far more about threat. It's a bit of a stretch to say that Yoda is dangerous, but you can't say that he's absolutely benign.

The Walking Dead?

In the years since graphic novels gained recognition as a serious form of storytelling, quite a few noted series have emerged. Some of those have been postapocalyptic thrillers with a range of voices to be heard. Y: The Last Man told the tale of a society bereft of all men except one (and Ampersand, his pet monkey) and was an original take on familiar tropes. But perhaps the best known - in no small part down to the TV series based on it - is The Walking Dead.

It's got a plot familiar to any who know genre fiction. Zombies rise. World ends. Humans in danger. Stuff happens. Like most of those tales, it's gritty and 'realistic'. Or at least as realistic as it's possible for a plot to be when it relies on the dead rising in an unspecified fashion.

For the past year I've been meandering my way through the compendium editions of The Walking Dead. The first compendium begins the tale of small-town cop Rick Grimes and his family as they attempt to piece lives back together and find something new in a world at once familiar as the one they occupied for their entire lives, but also new, bereft of the familiar comforts of electricity and society itself. The subsequent compendiums, you'll be unsurprised to hear, push on through the same story, weaving a world that is at once intensely personal but also massive.

The issue with graphic novels is always with depth. The aforementioned Y: The Last Man was a good story, but at times it felt like it lacked something. Perhaps my first experiences of adult graphic novels - Watchmen, V for Vendetta - set me up for something more, but the series as a whole, whilst being immensely enjoyable, seemed to lack something. It could, of course, be the writer. I've not really got into Brian K. Vaughan's Saga either, and that's extremely highly rated elsewhere. But my experiences with other graphic novels suggests otherwise. There are plenty I've enjoyed. There are few that have left me awed in the same way as phenomenal fantasy novel or the best science fiction short stories.

Thankfully, The Walking Dead is one of the few series to have maintained that awe with its depth. It's deceptively simple at times and you could be forgiven for thinking early on that it's going to be a straightforward - if dark - tale of man versus zombie. In fact, that's perhaps as far from the truth as its possible to be. The Walking Dead is a story about humanity and how humanity faces up to disaster when society collapses. From the prison in compendium one to Alexandria and the Commonwealth in compendium four, there's a constant sense of being on the very edge of violence - not from the unknowable towards the known, but from one human to another as people are pushed right to the edge of their limits. The characters are truly what drives The Walking Dead forward. They're layered, complex. Again, a problem of graphic novels can be that characters can be left two-dimensional. Not so here. Robert Kirkman takes the time to develop them, to test them, to make them seem more real.

But does that depth come in part from the length of the series? Consider for a moment: Y: The Last Man runs to around 1,400 pages over 10 volumes. The Walking Dead runs to near enough 4,500 pages over 32 volumes collected into 4 compendiums. It could be argued - albeit not by myself - that Kirkman had the room to be patient, and to build character rather than advance the action constantly. For me, it's not an argument that holds true, but it's certainly something for a new reader to consider as they embark on the first issue.

Something that certainly isn't in doubt is the constant sense of danger that underpins the narrative. This isn't Gene Roddenberry's vision of Star Trek, that much is for sure; conflict between characters is as much the source of that violence as any. Rick is never comfortable in his position. Threat is ever-present, and not just the threat of external violence. And on the odd occasion that it lulls you into a sense of security, of cosy catastrophe a la Wyndham, there's something just around the corner to shock you back into the reality of this new world.

The Walking Dead is highly recommended. I started the series wondering whether it would be something I spent any real time with. In the end, the answer was long evenings spent in a world without TV and electricity, without structure in society, and where might was, very often, right. It's not a comfortable read, but it is one that will make you think.