I was going to write about the state of the world….

…….after an evening crying to myself about the bombs in Brussels, the atmosphere of fear we live under now, and the thoughts that my daughter will be at St. Pancras station tomorrow, my son in Heathrow after a flight from Istanbul on Friday.

…. after a disturbing conversation with friends earlier in the week that revealed just how closed the minds of  some can be. This little town has taken in a family of Syrian refugees. I would have expected my intelligent and - I thought - sensitive friends, who write lovely sensitive poetry about their own loves and losses, to be more understanding of these people who have been torn from their country, travelled the most horrendous and terrifying journey, old and young, to be finally housed in a cold, grey and  -- apparently - unfriendly land.

The grievances are: Headscarves, The women shouldn't wear headscarves because it makes them stand out. Actually their poor clothing makes them stand out too, besides which, it isn't so long since all women in this country, from the Queen down, wore headscarves. That was OK for a different reason - non-religious. It was to hide their rollers, keep their hairdos in place or their heads dry. Or just to keep themselves warm - which, let's face it - a Syrian refugee planted in Scotland might need.

Second grievance: Old man seen sitting on a bench in the High Street smoking and staring at passers-bye. Um…. could have been a local? Could be a refugee wanting to absorb the local atmosphere, see what it's all about… also doing what old men do in many countries (with  better climates tis true) sit outside under a plane tree watching the world pass by. Maybe he wanted a moment of feeling 'normal' again.

Third grievance: Single man (again old I believe) seen sitting in the park near the children's play area watching the children. This was seen as sleazy behaviour. So every refugee is a potential child molester? To me it brings an entirely different, heart-tugging picture of a man possibly watching his own children or grand-childen play freely at last. Equally possibly, remembering the children in Syria who were afraid to leave the house, afraid the house would be bombed around them, afraid, afraid… having no childhood. Equally possibly he, like the man in the street, was just sitting somewhere watching normal life in a, so far, peaceful country and getting some healing from it.