CHRISTA ACKROYD I could never give up my addiction to the real world for Lent

EVERY year I promise myself I will give something up for Lent. As a child it was easy. My mum would simply ensure that whatever had been decided we should do without would not be in the house until the Easter eggs were produced on Easter Sunday.

Those eggs were enjoyed if I am honest with what amounted to sheer gluttony.

My brother used to savour his. They would still be wrapped in their foil and displayed in their boxes uneaten for weeks to come. Mine were gone within in a day or so unless my mum rationed them, which she was often forced to do.

In fact I became a dab hand at pinching the majority of the chocolate while rewrapping what was left in what was akin to an egg shape and replacing it in the box in the hope no one would notice. But that’s chocolate for you. Or rather for me. It is among my many weaknesses.

As an adult it was and is up to me to show some sort of self control. But it’s never easy. The devil that sits on my shoulder whispering ‘Go on, one can’t hurt’ leads me by the hand towards temptation, which is of course the whole idea in the first place, based as it is on the Christian belief that Jesus went into the desert for 40 days and 40 nights to pray and fast and avoid temptation before dying on the cross.

And so each year, with the best of intentions, I make at least some attempt to show myself I have the discipline to do without while accepting that apparently I don’t. This year has been no exception. In fact as we didn’t have the little ones here for Shrove Tuesday and Pancake Day, the date actually passed me by. Or at least that’s my excuse.

Every year I attempt to give up something in keeping with the tradition that pancakes are made to symbolise the last remaining remnants of food before the fast begins. A treat before the famine. By tradition it was meat which was shunned, which would actually be easier for me than the sacrifice of chocolate, sugar or biscuits. But it never happens. I don’t deliberately decide to fall by the wayside. I simply find myself reaching for the aforementioned banned substance without thinking and then it’s too late. In fact I often crave more than ever that which I have decided to do without, so this year I planned things would be different.

At first I considered a total fast each Monday. Fasting either for 24 hours or the new trendy ‘intermittent fasting’ whereby you only eat between certain hours of the day, so giving your body the chance both to process and to rest, is all the rage now. Not that it’s a new thing.

At the start of next month my Muslim friends will fast between dawn and sunrise for a whole month. They do it quite literally religiously and I know what discipline it takes. But while I can just about manage to skip breakfast and cram my eating into less hours of the day, abstinence has never been my middle name. So that won’t work.

And then I hit on something, or rather someone else did, that I genuinely know would be good for my soul. Every Monday my friend, Rob, a laid back furniture restorer and antiques dealer from Grassington, turns off his mobile phone for the entire day. He lets his customers know that he is simply not contactable on No Mobile Mondays as he seeks calmer pastimes without the incessant reminders of the real world with constant pings and rings from his mobile. But for me that would take even more discipline that giving up chocolate.

If I am honest, I am addicted to the real world. Whereas others can protect themselves from what is happening in the here and now by switching off the TV and not having half a dozen newspapers on their phones, I admit I have a need to know. And so this week my head, as is often the case, is full of things I can probably do nothing about but which have at the very least annoyed me and at worst are cause for serious concern. In other words, the news.

I care not whether Prince Harry has done an interview where he reluctantly talked about his father’s illness. I know the nature of the beast and not one journalist worth his salt would not have asked about his reaction to the health concerns regarding the King and hinted in their questioning about the prospect of reconciliation. To be followed up in my view by ludicrous claims that translate to Harry offering to step back into some sort of Royal role is neither here nor there. As is how long his meeting was with his father. What is important is only that there was one and that he is offering support in any way he can to a parent. The rest is up to them.

I have also found myself energised reading something which strikes me as one of the most ridiculous things I have ever heard, that Leeds Playhouse has decided to put a trigger warning on their production of My Fair Lady, saying it revolves around themes of “high society Britain, classism and sexism”. Heaven help us as if we didn’t already know and even if we didn’t surely we are mature enough to see it for what it is: a charming if dated musical beloved and enjoyed by an audience quite capable of making their own judgment on whether the Professor’s treatment of a London flower seller was acceptable and just.

But after switching on the Baftas for light relief, what is really swirling in my head is war. Not just the killing of innocent civilians in Israel and Gaza, which surely must lead to every right-thinking person to call for a ceasefire, but also what I fear is fatigue in the minds of the public with what is going on in Ukraine. It is two years this week since the Russian invasion of someone else’s country. Trump postures and Biden dithers, making me worry the former will once again become the President. Here is a man unfit to run his own business empire let alone be a major player in international relations, who now hints he would no longer support offering arms to Ukraine, which means they would probably lose. Which poses the question how, amidst the the murky death of Putin’s main detractor, and the threat of a nuclear strike upon Russia’s enemies, can we not see the implications for all of us if they were to succeed and redouble our efforts to ensure that doesn’t happen?

Indeed as I watched the Baftas where Oppenheimer, about the creation of the atomic bomb, picked up its awards and The Zone of Interest, set in the concentration camp of Auschwitz, was recognised, how can we not draw parallels with what is happening today? Not all films are made purely for entertainment. Not all news is not so important as to be ignored.

And so my mobile phone will not be given up for Lent. It will stay turned on as a reminder that life can change in the blink of an eye for those who have done no wrong and need our support. And so instead I will try to give up wine or go to the gym more often or do 101 other things that would benefit me. But giving up access to the real world will not be one of them. Preferable that it would be if only we could.