An  interpretation of what Percy Bysshe Shelley was trying to say

The poem seems to depict Ozymandias as a forgotten dictator, who once considered himself to be an almighty king, but whose empire has long since collapsed. The sonnet describes a “half-sunk, shattered visage”, inscribed with “My name is Ozymandias, king of kings: Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!” this is clearly an attempt by the sculptor to ridicule Ozymandias in front of future generations, by drawing attention to how all his monuments are now wrecks. It also exposes the king’s vanity, as he supposedly believed that the statues described would have lasted for the rest of time, as testament to the glorious might of Ozymandias! Instead, the writing lays bare his foolish short-sightedness, almost parodying him as it strips the king’s legacy of all dignity and honour.

The exact message of “Ozymandias” is difficult to precisely articulate, but it could be said that, no matter how great and powerful you consider yourself to be, time will always tell how you truly are.

A speech explaining what I would send to Room 101 and why.

For exile to Room 101, I would strongly recommend the caravan. For years, the motorways of Britain have been clogged, every summer, Easter or bank holiday, with the persistently slow and wobbly menace that is the caravan. Some people may claim that these dingy plastic depression machines are “brilliant for getting out and seeing the countryside” or “a perfect little home form home”, when in fact they are neither. A caravan holiday consists of hitching up a massive block of flimsy plywood, pebble-dashed fiberglass and hideous plastic to the back of whichever car you can find that has a tow bar (rather than one which is fast, comfortable, reliable, efficient, practical or stylish), and ambling along many motorways and A-Roads at speeds of up to 35mph, while behind you, thousands of cars honk, beep and swerve as they try to get out of the traffic you have caused. When you eventually reach the campsite – a flat green field next to a road, just like you have in your own area- you must then park, unhitch the torture centre from the back of your 25-year –old Volvo, set up the gas, electric, and water tanks, then settle down inside the rolling Tupperware box. Then you can get used to “the wonderful world of camping”: Living in a house smaller than a garden shed, in a field where hundreds of other, equally foolish/misled families have also hitched up their own fibreglass depression chambers – although not nearly as depressing as yours, because they have a much bigger caravan with a wide-screen television and nicer-looking beds – and whose children are now running around screaming at this new stuff called “grass”. Then, when you need the toilet, you must squeeze into cordoned-off cubbyhole behind the 70’s velour sofa and defecate into yet another hateful plastic tub. At dinner, because the caravan will not have adequate room, facilities, or ventilation to let your parents cook dinner, you will have to go “t’ local pub” and wait for half an hour to get an overpriced version of something you could have microwaved in a packet.  Then, when it is time for bed, the whole family must convert the sofas into submarine sized beds, and sleep together in the cramped, smelly, fiberglass depression machine. Even when it is time to go home, the misery persists, because you must pack away the flimsy deck chairs and plastic dinner sets back into the caravan; disconnect the water, gas and electric, then empty the camping toilet. How many of you seriously want to spend a holiday carrying a bucket of your own and several other people’s faeces to a disposal pit inside a wooden hut.

Not only is caravanning not good for your will to live, but it is not cost effective either; a new caravan will cost at least £10,000, and in this day and age, fuel costs will eat into your savings even more. Also, caravans are notorious for causing traffic jams on fast roads, as they are not allowed to exceed 50mph, and even at that speed the trailers can still wobble about dangerously (on sharp corners they can flip over if pulled too quickly). There are some people who argue that caravans are a good thing, and that they would not be able to cope without them, but this is simply not so; since most campsites already have washing and sanitary facilities, campers could easily switch to tents which, though equally horrid, can at least be folded up and placed in the car. Caravans are not necessary, and removing them will improve the world by and large.

An extra chapter, to add to the end of Michael Morpurgo’s Private Peaceful, explaining how the family react to Charlie’s death.

The carriage clangs and rattles as we roll across the old Cranberry passage bridge. Outside, the sky is clear blue and the sun is shining bright, but the cold grip of the winter still clings to the leafless trees and damp, mud strewn grass. Normally the farmers would be working the fields, in preparation for planting the seeds, but now they are nowhere to be seen. Perhaps, like me, they were called off to battle, forced to trade their spades and pitchforks for grenades and rifles. I shudder as I think that, even now, as I sit on the train home, they might be huddled in a trench somewhere, listening to the shells exploding and the guns of the wipers blazing in the distance. All the great nations have poured so much into fighting battle after battle after battle, so many people, riches and resources have been lost that there now cannot be possibly be anything left worth fighting for.

I sink deeper and deeper into my memories about my career in the army. I remember pretending to be a twin in order to get in, I remember running laps with my gun held above my head because of vile, horrible wicked Hanley. I remember feeling seasick over the channel, the training camp at Etaples, when we caught the German naked after we stormed his trench. I remember meeting Anna at the Estaminet in Pop, and then I remember Charlie. Don’t think about it, Tommo, don’t keep going back there. But I can’t help it; no matter what I do to distract myself from it, my thoughts eventually lead me back to the firing squad, and to Charlie singing Oranges and Lemons in defiance as the bullets flew towards him. How he ended up sprawled across the ground, stone dead. How Hanley had my brother court martialled for cowardice and disobeying orders, even though Charlie clearly knew better than the sergeant (who lost most of the group because of his idiocy). I keep thinking how, if death is the punishment for disobeying orders, there must surely be a death penalty for getting your company pointlessly slaughtered.

Then I wonder what I would have done in Charlie’s place; if I would have gone with the sergeant, and died in the mud, knowing I had given my life for nothing, or if I would have said no, and then been through an unfair court martial culminating in me being shot by the firing squad. What really annoys me, though, is the timing of Sergeant Hanley’s death. If Fritz had just aimed a little straighter, then Hanley would not have been able to punish one of his group for his own stupidity. Instead he managed to hold on ‘til he had done the deed before finally sinking into the fiery depths of hell, where I am sure he will be most welcome. Eventually, I manage to pull myself out of this horrible mental loop and focus on a happier subject, like meeting little Tommo for the first time.

*

With a hiss of steam and a loud whistle, the train comes to a standstill, and through the clouds of steam, Eggesford Junction Station comes into view. I have been told in advance that the family cannot be here to meet me, as Molly is still working and mother is tending to Big Joe. Apparently Big Joe fell into a river a week ago and caught a dreadful cold. The colonel had tried to wallop him, but Mother would not let anyone near him until he had calmed down a little.

I wonder to myself how Mother always managed to stand up to him, to protect Charlie and me no matter what the circumstances. Perhaps Molly will one day be in the same situation with little Tommo, her son, my nephew. Perhaps one day little Tommo will go poaching in the colonel’s river, or will get humbugs from a lost pilot. Maybe I’ll be there with him, “Uncle tom”, looking after the child like Charlie never can, acting as little Tommo’s father figure. But how would I know how to be a father? What example do I have to follow? One thing is for sure: I shall never let little Tommo near an unsafe tree. The crowds on and off the train push and babble as they swap places, meanwhile I slowly walk down the platform, ‘round the back of the station and down the road to the colonel’s estate. It is getting warmer now, the road ahead of me is bathed in a warm glow from the sun high above, and as the colours of the grass and the sky start to come out, I begin to feel at home once again.

*

After a stroll of about twenty minutes through the much-neglected countryside, at last I catch sight of the little cottage where I grew up. Despite the difference in the weather, and the lack of as many pretty flowers in the garden, it hasn’t changed one bit. I look through an upstairs window and see a figure gazing at me, it must be Mother, she realises I have seen her and she rushes down the stairs, out of the back door, frantically hurrying towards me.

“Tommo!” she cries “Oh, Tommo, my baby!”, and for a brief moment I wonder if she remembers which Tommo she is talking to. She meets me halfway down the hill and hugs me tighter than ever. I try to hug her back but have difficulty trying to wrap my arms around her while carrying a heavy suitcase. Together we walk towards the cottage, and she keeps asking me questions about the army, about the trenches, and Sergeant Hanley and

“You have been bathing regularly, haven’t you?”. When we arrive at the front door of the cottage, Big Joe is waiting for us inside, his face lights up.

“Tommuiluvuilu” he cries (at least, that’s what it sounds like), and he wraps his arms so tightly around me and Mother that I feel as if we will be crushed.

“Alright, Joe”, says mother “give him some room to breathe!” and at last, we are released. “Now,” says Mother, showing me inside, “there’s someone else who would like to say hello.”

I remember when I was very young, everyone else seemed so huge, and I spent most of my life looking directly up at people while crawling about on the floor. It was as if I existed in a different universe to everyone else, for they were all huge compared to me, ate different foods, lived different lives, and talked in a language which I did not yet understand. In short, grown-ups were a different species.

Now, mother takes me into the kitchen and shows me a most wonderful sight. In the corner, wrapped in bright yellow blankets, is little Tommo. He is, without a doubt, the most adorable little creature I have ever laid eyes upon, with wide blue eyes, a tiny, button-like nose and small, round ears. For a moment, as I look at him, the burden of Charlie’s death, and of every other problem in the world seems to briefly evaporate. I then get a feeling of having come full circle, for I am now the giant, looking down at the tiny baby from high above, thinking back to when I was that size, and wondering exactly when I became the almost adult that I am now. Eventually, mother snapped me out of it.

“Isn’t he beautiful, just like you all were.” she said “Oh, and to think one day he might be going to France…” she stopped herself, visibly on the verge of tears. For a moment, we had nothing to say, but then Big Joe started coughing again, and mother rushed to give him a handkerchief.

When Molly arrived, it was almost sunset, and Big Joe, though still visibly excited about me being back, had eventually been forced into bed. Mother was in the kitchen, getting ready to make dinner, and I was in the front room, looking after little Tommo. I heard her walking across the garden, and hurried to the front door. I knew she was expecting me to be there, but she acted surprised when she saw me, she hugged me tightly and started telling me all about the colonel’s sudden decision to cut everyone’s wages, and how the Wolfwoman nearly fell down the stairs. We sat together for dinner, talking about life in the trenches and back home. At last, I felt as if we were part of a family again. But those feelings were short-lived, for then Molly said

“So, what really happened? To Charlie, I mean.”

Right now I am still trying to give them an answer, Molly and Mother are staring at me expectantly, and the only thing breaking the awkward silence is Little Tommo’ s gurgling. At last I speak.

“Charlie wasn’t a coward.” I say “He was shot because Hanley didn’t like him. The sergeant told the platoon to go and charge right into the enemy firing lines. Charlie said we’d all be killed, that it’d be stupid and he wasn’t going. He was right, and all. Only half of the soldiers who went out ever came back. Unfortunately, Hanley did, and I bet he was annoyed that Charlie was right and he was wrong. Anyone else would’ve admitted that, but not Hanley.” I realise that Mother has a tear on her cheek, but I keep going, “Charlie got court martialled, then shot for cowardice!” Molly bursts into tears, then the baby wakes up and starts crying. Mother comforts Molly, but Molly does not want it. She walks over to little Tommo, and through her own tears she tries to comfort him by singing Oranges and Lemons in her sweet voice. I cannot bear it anymore, and storm outside. Eventually, Mother comes out, she sees me staring down at the earth scornfully. She puts her arm around me and says

“It isn’t your fault that Charlie died; if you had tried to save him you would have been shot as well. War is no playtime, Tommo, and sometimes you have to give up the people you love.”. Mother is right, Charlie was destined to die from the moment he signed up. Then I remember how the Colonel ordered us to join the army, ordered us to go and threatened to evict us. My mind is filled with images of the cruel Colonel, the Wicked Wolfwoman and Horrible Hanley, all being shot to pieces in No-Man’s-Land while we watch from the trenches, me, Molly, Mother, Big Joe and Little Tommo. Charlie is there too, with Father and Bertha. I wish it could be true, that we could be together again, forever. I look up to the stars, where, somewhere, Bertha is howling and Charlie and Father are saying

“We’re always here for you, Tommo, always.”

Mother walks me back into the cottage and together we sing Oranges and Lemons as we slowly start to adjust to life without Charlie. It will be tough, but I think I’ll manage.

An  imagining of the sort of letter which Molly would have sent to Thomas and Charlie as they went away to join the army.

Dear Tommo

By the time you are in a position to read this letter, you will be well on your way out of Iddesleigh and into the war. I do not know how we will manage without you back home. Already, things are starting to change. The colonel has told us that, with nearly all the men gone from the estate, I’m going to have to take on additional jobs. I now have to work from six o’clock in the morning to six at night.

The worst problems, though, are back at home. At the time of writing, it is still three hours before you leave, and already Big Joe is getting worried. We might not be able to hide the truth from him for so much as a week, let alone the many months for which you will be away. But even then, there is always the chance that you and Charlie don’t come back.

I know I probably shouldn’t be frightening you like this at this time, but everywhere I go, I hear about how our troops are being slaughtered, our defences overrun. I wonder how many people from our village are going to come back in one piece. I’m so worried about you, Tommo, and about Charlie, too. I can’t bear the thought of living the rest of my life without you, or of raising the baby on my own.

I know that you are in charge of your own life now, but promise me this, Tommo, promise me that when you get out onto the battlefield, you give the Germans a good kick up the backside for me.

Love from

Molly

 *

Dear Charlie

The more I think about you, and where you are going, the more I am starting to miss you. After being with you for many years, I don’t know how I shall adapt to us being apart. You are the most wonderful man I have ever known. I know that most people would disagree. They would point out how you stole Bertha and got me pregnant, but I don’t care, I love you in a way that they could never understand. I have to live without you now, and I don’t know how I’ll cope.

I now have to work twelve hours a day for the Colonel and the Wolfwoman, while you go off to slaughter the Germans. The colonel says that getting rid of you was the best thing to do, and that you need to find out how to become a man. I don’t see why he cannot go to fight in the war, being a colonel.

Back at home, Big Joe is already getting suspicious, and mother is looking ever more depressed. She says that we have to look happy for you, and that we must not cry when you get on the train. Even if I manage to hold back the tears, I will be crying inside. I don’t want to have to say goodbye to my husband so soon. But, I have to look on the bright side. Hopefully all will go well and you will be back home before the baby is born.

Your mother keeps reminding me that we need to start getting ready to look after the infant; we’re going to go out next week to but some new bed sheets and blankets, and perhaps some toys for the baby to play with. Of course, we don’t yet know whether or not the baby will be a girl, but your mother and the people around the village are continually referring to it as my “daughter”. With any luck, (s)he will have his/her father alongside them as they grow up. I would hate to have to raise her alone. Try to beat the Germans quickly and come home soon.

Love

Your Wife Molly