Wherever we go, there is talk of war - and mostly of Trump. Speculation seems to circle the globe these days. As I was clearing two drawers of my desk, I came across two small relics of another anxious time: clothing ration books. One dated 1944-45, stamped Basic Ration for one person. Inside, the stern instruction: "Do not lose this book. It cannot be replaced."
Pages of tiny stamps followed, each one a reminder of scarcity.
The second book, dated 1946, carried my own name and our old address - 37, Upper Victoria Terrace - with the issuing office's rubber stamp and registered number B O73002. In those years, everything was scarce; people made clothes, even wedding dresses, out of parachutes.
From the same drawer emerged a little notebook given to us in Haiti, where we stayed in 1984 at the Hotel Splendid in Port‑au‑Prince. I had been invited to a conference organised by the International Development Research Institute of Canada, working with the University of Mauritius. I hesitated - Haiti felt impossibly far - but my husband insisted: "This is a unique occasion... How many conferences do you think are ever going to be organised in Haiti?" He was right.
The journey began badly: my handbag was stolen at JFK Airport, with everything in it. It was found the next morning, in a dustbin, stripped of money and jewellery, but thankfully my passport remained.
Haiti itself was unlike anything I had ever experienced. The heat and humidity on landing were almost unbearable; air conditioning was nonexistent. We were taken to the Hotel Splendid, a French colonial wooden structure, much like those in Mauritius. Time, storms, fires, and cyclones have since erased it - wooden buildings rarely survive long in Port‑au‑Prince - but the memory remains: the light, the verandas, the tropical greenery, the feeling of being half the age I am now, in a place far from everything familiar.
What I remember most are the faces of the staff - reluctant, unhappy, downcast. Haiti was a profoundly unhappy place. The gulf between rich and poor was stark; beggars were everywhere. The reigns of Papa Doc and Baby Doc, and the murder of a president, had left deep scars. The earthquake of 2010 left three million dead, thousands injured and homeless.
Luxury for a few, poverty for the rest. Not that it has ever been any different.
Haiti returns to my thoughts this morning, perhaps because memory softens nothing. When I visited in 1984, poverty was already woven into daily life, yet there was still a sense of fragile order. Today the country stands on the edge of itself: no elected president or parliament, only a transitional council trying to steer a nation battered by violence and hunger. Gangs hold most of Port‑au‑Prince; millions are displaced; more than half the population faces acute food insecurity. Institutions have crumbled, and the police can no longer contain the chaos.
There is a promise of renewal - but it feels as delicate as the Haiti I once knew, still waiting for the dignity it deserves.
The hush of Holy Week is over. Not as hushed as I remember it. On the whole it has been "business as usual." I find this sad. I love the Holy Week of my youth.
This Easter Sunday, let us continue to pray for peace in this world, and for justice - for where there is no justice, there can be no peace.
A Happy Easter. I leave out the Very. In a world so full of strife, I cannot pretend to be that optimistic.
The photos below are of ladies who attended the Women's Day lunch at the French ambassador's residence which I wrote about last Sunday. We could not fit in all the photos so here are a few more.
