Courage

There are a lot of posts in the Substack world these days and lots of debates. Are we in a crisis? When exactly does this kick in? Are we there yet? Is there anything we can do? Is it too late? Are we all very very afraid?

Watching from the north - and needing to focus less on our own election, we appear to be less afraid, even though we have good reason to be. The unexpected attack on us from the south has created more unity than any local politician has done in a long time. The daffodils are up. Kids are out jumping puddles in their rubber boots. There is a certain childlike joy when trees hint of buds that take us back to our own early days.

My own first encounter with bullies came through hearing stories. I found one in an early book on my shelf that seems made for these days.

Bad Sir Brian Botany

 Sir Brian had a battleaxe with great big knobs on.

He went among the villagers and blipped them on the head.

On Wednesday and on Saturday, but mostly on the latter day,

He called on all the cottages and this is what he said: 

                   "I am Sir Brian!" (ting-ling!)

                    "I am Sir Brian!" (rat-tat!)

                 "I am Sir Brian, As bold as a lion —

                     Take that, and that, and that!"

 Sir Brian had a pair of boots with great big spurs on;.

A fighting pair of which he was particularly fond.

On Tuesday and on Friday, just to make the street look tidy,

He'd collect the passing villagers and kick them in the pond.

                    "I am Sir Brian!" (sper-lash!)

                     "I am Sir Brian!" (sper-losh!)   

                   "I am Sir Brian, as bold as a Lion —

                       Is anyone else for a wash?"

 Sir Brian woke one morning and he couldn't find his battleaxe;

He walked into the village in his second pair of boots.

He had gone a hundred paces when the street was full of faces

And the villagers were round him with ironical salutes.

                 "You are Sir Brian? Indeed!

                    You are Sir Brian? Dear, Dear!

                "You are Sir Brian as bold as a lion?

                    Delighted to meet you here!"

 Sir Brian went a journey and he found a lot of duckweed.

They pulled him out and dried him and they blipped him on the head.

They took him by the breeches and they hurled him into ditches

And they pushed him under waterfalls and this is what they said:

                 "You are Sir Brian -- don't laugh,

                    You are Sir Brian -- don't cry;

                 You are Sir Brian as bold as a lion —

                    Sir Brian the Lion, goodbye!"

In the rest of the poem, Sir Brian went home and chopped up his battleaxe and threw his fighting boots in the fire. He then declares:

I am Sir Brian? Oh no!

I am Sir Brian? Who’s he?

I haven’t got any title. I’m Botany

Plain Mr. Botany (B).

That would be an ideal ending. Still - the streets are full of faces. You can only be a Knight - or a King - if other people let you be one. Maybe it’s time for a few more ironical salutes.

The poem: A.A. Milne, When We were Very Young, 2025.