Emma Beddington writes about being embarrassed by the state of Britain when her French in-laws visited, citing various ways in which the country compares poorly with France (I saw the UK through the eyes of my French in-laws – and it was deeply embarrassing, 23 April). But she ends on a positive note, describing how her in-laws were impressed on a train when they saw “a lovely group of women sitting next to us in Hawaiian garlands, enjoying prosecco at 8am”. If that is the light at the end of the tunnel, it’s not much.
I can understand Beddington’s “countrybarrassment”. Especially because there is no other country I have been so much in love with as Britain. For some 60 years, I travelled its length and breath, reading its literature, enjoying its arts. Its people were always welcoming – at least, that is what I thought, and I still think that most of the time the friendliness is sincere.
It has been saddening over the years to see Britain going down the drain, from Margaret Thatcher’s premiership onwards: a slow, agonising process. But as long as you did not live there permanently, you could ignore many of the problems (although perhaps not the near-collapse of public transport).
And then Brexit happened. I wonder whether Beddington’s French in-laws also felt that awful sense of betrayal: your beloved turning their back on you (supposing those in-laws had as particular a liking for Britain as I did). It is not the visas and other nuisances, duly mentioned here, but the plain fact that after centuries of warfare (and we are now daily reminded of what that implies), much of Europe had come together as a family, not always a happy family maybe, but close relatives nevertheless. Alas, a family disowned: now that is a reason for embarrassment as no other. Of course, I know that for many Britons it is exactly that. But because it all seems to be accepted as a done deal, with some unwanted side-effects that possibly can be mitigated, and not as a terrible disaster, this bears repeating.
Frederick Naerebout
Delft, the Netherlands
• Emma Beddington is right, we should be on the streets like the French are. But look what happens in the UK when tens of thousands do get on to the streets. For several years I have been part of a campaign to stop Bristol airport expanding. On 21 April, I was among thousands marching to the Department for Transport and meeting outside it to demand a rational national aviation policy, and no further expansion.
The speakers included current aviation workers demanding a just transition, an ex-pilot, a scientist debunking the “sustainable fuel” myth, and people who live under flight paths. This was just one of many simultaneous protests outside government departments. Reaching home, I asked my husband what had been on the TV news – nothing. The same on Saturday – in a climate emergency, the death of Barry Humphries merited lots of attention, but continued protests by tens of thousands did not. If only we’d pulled up the paving stones or set a few cars on fire.
Caroline New
Bristol
• Emma Beddington states that her French in-laws were both teachers who retired well before hitting 60 and that they were horrified that the retirement age in the UK might reach 68. The implication is that French teachers are much better off than their British counterparts.
This is highly misleading. Some French primary school teachers can retire at 57, but will not receive a full pension as they have not completed 42 years’ service, and so very few do. The minimum retirement age for secondary school teachers is 62 – they cannot retire any earlier than that. Compare this with UK teachers who can retire at 55 (obviously with a reduced pension depending on the number of years served).
Jem Eastwell
Boulogne, France
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