The unplanned road

One of the things I love about writing this column is I can be utterly sure of what I am going to cover on any given week and yet, at the very last minute, land upon another topic entirely, and discuss something totally different from that which I had planned.

Take last week, for instance. I wanted to talk about classical music and one of my favourite recording artists, the late Sir Alexander Gibson, and link it to a recent piece about the joys of charity shops. In the end I switched, just as I started typing, to write about the impact that artificial intelligence (AI) is having on my day job as a medical journalist.

Why did I opt for that issue just as I was about to write the column? Well, I had endured a bruising week away at a conference in Barcelona, where the headlong rush into automation and the chucking away of knowledge and skills gained over decades of experience, which seems to be the primary goal of news agencies at the moment, was laid bare in such a harsh light that it left me reeling and somewhat disheartened, not only about my own career but for specialist journalism in general.

Consequently, I was compelled to write about my experiences, not only to get it off my chest but also to ensure that a moment of profound instability in journalism is, in some small way, recorded.

This week, I believed that I would go back to the column I had previously planned and finesse it before publishing it this week. But it was not to be. (I am sure I will come back to it eventually.)

It turns out that I am in a reflective mood at the moment. It could be the changing of the seasons, with the darkening of the morning light; the gold and brown leaves gathering in the parks and around the trees that line the streets; and the nip in the evening air that makes me think of cosy jumpers and warm coats.

Maybe it’s my obsessing over an uncertain future, which makes me look back over the past couple of decades with a sense of loss and regret. Perhaps it’s simply a function of advancing age, as I contemplate yet another birthday speeding its way over the horizon, or a combination of all three.

Whatever it is, I am left ruminating over my sense of self and identity, both personally and professionally, and what gives us stability and certainty in an ever-changing world.

This has been thrown into sharp relief recently by a sight that greets me every morning when I wander down the hill from our apartment to the bus stop.

A couple of months ago we returned from a week away; a seven-hour drive back from the other side of the country. There was still that oppressive, yet somehow liberating, heavy heat of summer, when the sky may be dark at night but it speaks of the blinding light to come.

We arrived at the bottom of our hill for almost 2am. We were tired, particularly as we had driven all the way with just a 10-minute stop for petrol, but we were glad it was nearly all over. For my part, I was trying to concentrate on the last few twists and turns, and to navigate the abundance of parked cars and vans that crowded the narrow roads up the hill without letting the tiredness distract me.

The final junction appeared before us. Just two more corners before we could pull ourselves, creaking and stiff, from the car and contemplate, with weary boredom, carrying all those suitcases, bags and bits and pieces we had accumulated on our trip up the stairs to our longed-for front door.

As we mounted the hill, a block of flats caught our eye, one that had receded into the background of my daily morning walk to the bus.

Smoke was pouring through the steel shutters of one of the ground-floor flats. I slowed down to crawl as we passed, and I could distinctly see the flickering orange of flames through the tiny gaps between the metal plates that covered the windows.

My heart sank, and I wondered, with a rising dread, about the occupants: a young woman and her son who I used to see often in the mornings but had crossed less frequently now that my routine had changed.

She, I would guess in her mid-twenties, was always immaculately turned out, with makeup to perfection, not a hair out of place and a style of dress that veered toward nightclub VIP area but always stayed the right side of classy. Her son, no more than eight years old, was in fine health and was obviously deeply loved by his brisk but doting mother.

Were they trapped inside?

I rolled the car back down the hill and to one side so others could pass if needed. My wife and nephew, who had accompanied us on our journey, jumped out and telephoned the emergency services, while calling out and trying to see through the shutters.

The smoke churned and billowed in ever-thicker and -darker clouds, and the flames, now raging inside the apartment, were ever-more visible.

Neighbours assembled on the street and on nearby balconies, initially panicked but then reassured when someone shouted down that the woman and her son were away on holiday and the place was empty.

But what would they return to? And would the fire spread to the rest of the apartments? I thought of the horrors of Grenfell Tower and hoped to God that the building was properly insulated.

Soon we heard sirens blaring as the fire engines raced through the streets towards us, and I realised we could soon become stuck at the bottom of the hill, with no means of getting home. Satisfied that the situation would be taken care of, we drove up the hill and watched what we could of the fire from the repair of our balcony.

The next morning, the apartment was a charred, soaking mess, while the remains of burnt-out television, surely the culprit of the blaze, lay discarded on the pavement by the frontroom window. The fire service had evidently pulled the shutters open with brute force, as they gaped like a wound, revealing the trauma that lay within.

And so it has remained. Apart from the addition of a few planks of wood to cover the biggest of the openings, nothing has been touched. A blackened child’s football sits forgotten by a window, along with other shadows of a life turned to ashes.

I wonder what happened to the mother and her son. Where do they live now? Does he still go to the same school every day? From where? Did they return to apartment, see what had happened and immediately leave?

The damage of the fire will inevitably reach deeply into them and irrevocably alter their sense of self and identity. Their stability and certainty has been ripped from them. I hope they can rebuild their lives and once again return to what made them ‘them’ in this ever-changing world.