Category Archives: My own

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How can war still exist?

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There’s so much talk of war, and war crimes right now – discussion about who has visited what horror upon whom, and whether such horrors are legal. It makes my heart shrink into my bones.

Why do questions like these still have to exist?

How can we claim to be ‘playing fair’ at all when we bring death and destruction to another? How can any of us walk tall when others are ripped apart by loss, and their homes cratered with corpses? Where is the honour in deliberately obliterating the hope and livelihoods of millions caught up in the storm of our actions? Where is the pride in shredding the souls of others, in stamping bootnails and bombs into generations of families? What is the justification for any form of warfare, regardless of whether it is legal or not?

Surely there is none, for we know in the deepest layers of our common humanity that the cruelty and violence of war should be banished from all lands for all times, for the sake of us all.

Copyright Georgie Knaggs & The Phraser 2023

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This was a wonderful present

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I am the lucky recipient of these – a birthday gift. So far I have not used them, but they are lodged in the back of my mind making plans that I hope will come to something when my blogging year is done.

Over the years I’ve tiptoed out into the podcast/audio world a couple of times, and to my surprise I’ve discovered that once I’ve got over the stage fright, it’s relatively simple. To date my shaky editions have been made on an old (2014) 13-inch MacBook Pro, with a microphone, a connector, and the help of GarageBand (which came with the computer).

The first time I came across a big problem was with the short story I’d written during lockdown. I’d assumed that recording the different sections would involve exactly the same process I’d used for earlier podcasts. I was wrong. I soon discovered that when reading, every breath I took was huffing into the recording. It sounded like I was blowing up balloons in the background, or else puffing along on a running machine. I consulted a recording veteran and was told I needed a ‘pop shield’. Since I didn’t have one, didn’t even know what one was, a homemade version was produced by stretching a cleaning cloth across the gap in a coathangar, and then stapling it in place. The difference it made was amazing. On I plodded.

Then, recording done, I packed away the duvets and debris, the microphone, and the coathanger pop shield, and went back to blogging.

However, since then three gifts have arrived. The first was a proper pop shield, and then a few weeks later the amazing equipment above. How lucky … and daunted … am I.

Now there’s planning, and a big space for ideas.

Copyright Georgie Knaggs & The Phraser 2023

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Today I baked a cake

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Here in the south of England we’ve had a beautiful day of cloudless sunshine – a day that shimmered with fresh cold. A good day to do something. I had a little time on my hands so I decided to bake a cake.

Once I’d found the recipe, I set the oven to the right temperature and switched on the radio. Instantly familiar voices swirled in, bringing the world with them.

Fergal Keane was the first I recognised. He spoke about writers whose words had somehow risen out of the darkest of places. I imagined these writings like tiny flags, pinning hopes for better on to an unknown future.

As I sifted the flour, weighed the sugar, and mixed them together the voice changed. Now the talk was of London, where the old ways of remembering stood stiff against those using the city as a billboard for messages of their own.

I broke three eggs into a bowl just as a WhatsApp pinged in from France. Then another message came in from Canada. Both were asking about the parade in London that they were watching on television. The Canadian reported seeing a giant pig on the screen.

I measured out the yoghurt and oil, then added the vanilla and the zest of one lemon. The news in the background switched to Israel and Gaza. Horrific news. Misery pounding its harm. Accounts of hospitals being bombed. The scars of shattered families ricocheting around the world.

I dug in the kitchen drawer for the right spoon, yanked it out and began to fold the cake ingredients together. The fruit was the last to go in, its bright red blotching upwards as I poured the mixture into the tin.

From Iceland there came a report of a possible volcanic eruption.

I opened the oven and slid the cake on to the middle rack, the door thudding closed as I straightened. Through the window I could see the sun shining, and the sky blue enough to jump right into. I switched off the radio, and went outside. The sound of birds filled the air.

Copyright Georgie Knaggs & The Phraser 2023