NO matter what you think of the stupid messaging by Lucy Connolly (" Race hate jail term for wife of Tory councillor," The Herald , October 18), what is the relevance of choosing to identify her specifically as married to a “Tory councillor", rather than simply by her name or as a childminder, housewife or mother, unless you are seeking somehow to politicise the matter? I thought The Herald was better than that.

Surely it would have been better also for you to have at least commented one way or the other on the appropriateness of the relative severity of her penalty of a prison term of over one year, particularly with the impact that will have on her children, in comparison with a period of useful community service which seems to me a more obvious fit to the nature of her crime?Are we happy to be sleepwalking apparently into locking up people who voice opinions with which those in authority disagree, as is common practice in totalitarian states, and does that make actually a political prisoner?

Alan Fitzpatrick, Dunlop.

Lucy ConnollyLucy Connolly (Image: PA)

 

Alternatives for the A83

I REFER to recent correspondence about solutions to the worsening landslide problems on the A83 Rest and Be Thankful (Letters, October 15).

The current preferred option of an avalanche shelter at an estimated cost of £470 million does not seem to be universally accepted. I offer an alternative proposal, albeit without the benefit of topographical surveys (to determine relative levels), and without geotechnical surveys (to identify the prevailing grounds conditions).

My suggestion, in simple terms, involves the following:

• Old Military Road: Improve alignment and widen for two-way traffic over its first three kilometres at the southern end, more or less in the valley bottom.

• Long embankment: On top of the existing steep, winding Old Military Road up to the viewpoint at the pass, create a new rock-filled embankment, possibly about 800 metres in length, with a new straight two-way road, with crawler lane, all at a gradient of about 12%.

• Cutting at the Beallach : To reduce the length and height of the approach embankment excavate a rock cutting, possibly up to 8 metres deep.

This work could be undertaken with minimal disruption to the present A83 which is benched precariously into the hillside.

The sides of the embankment could be sensitively landscaped and the rock cutting could be shaped and then hydro-seeded.

This has not been costed but I "guesstimate" it to be cheaper than the avalanche shelter at almost half a billion pounds.

Robin M Brown, Milngavie.

Lament for a disappearing joy

I HAVE just returned from a few days in London. The plan was to enjoy myself: see a show, eat some nice food, take in some sights. So, why do I feel as if I have just come home from a funeral?

Amongst all those "fun" things, I really wanted to indulge in my favourite pastime: a quiet pint in a quiet pub, having a quiet read of a good printed newspaper.

A chance to hold hands with the world and those who are on it.

A chance to be handfasted to journalists committed to reporting the good, the bad and the ugly of humanity.

A chance to feel relaxed and liberated from the clutches of a pernicious algorithm.

Yet, in London's west end, a funeral wreath's throw from Fleet Street (ironically still a metonym for "The Press"), I read in several shops the death notices of printed newspapers. Blazoned above each of these shops was a word which is not just becoming archaic, but a misnomer: "newsagent". None of these shops sold newspapers.

Before processing any further bearing the bier of printed news, I admit that I do have a digital subscription to The Herald. However, I regularly buy the printed version.

Now, I know that I would be unlikely to find my favourite newspaper in London (although I remember when I could), but I would have settled for anything, something I could clasp in my hands, stretch out in my arms. Something that would thrill me with planned and polished articles, experiences and opinions.

Now, I know that mobiles, apps and all those other thingummyjigs can give me news instantly, but for me something is missing: the emotional bond with a newspaper that yon portable contraptions cannot give.

As I drafted this letter in a pub waiting to head home, I looked up from my notebook and two things struck me.

First, some folk had stopped looking at their phones to gawp suspiciously at me (What's that guy doing? Why isn't he scrolling? What's that plastic stick in his hand?).

Secondly, the pub's walls were adorned with newspaper front pages marking historic moments. This made me wonder if there will be framed screenshots on the walls of the pubs of the future (don't get me started on that).

After another fruitless visit to the station's "newsagent", another five-and-a-half-hour journey beckoned and I mourned, reflecting on Hegel's words: "The newspaper is the realist's morning prayer." Perhaps, if he were alive today, he would look upon it as the nostalgist's performance of the last rites.

Oh well, I could always catch up with my emails.

What's this in my inbox? Editor's pick? By Catherine Salmond? Let's get scrolling!

The newspaper may be dying, but long live the newspaper.

Gordon Fisher, Stewarton.

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Pennies for her thoughts

A CLOSE friend of mine has just received a bonus ahead of her 80th birthday.

Her pension is going up by a staggering 25 pence a week to celebrate the milestone.

A month after the payment starts the new money will allow her to send a thank you letter to the Department for Work & Pensions, but only by second-class post (85p).

Her imagination is going wild with what else she can use the extra pennies for. If she's caught short at Glasgow's Queen Street station she can access the public toilets (50p) once a fortnight.

Andy Stenton, Glasgow.

Before, during and laughter?

THE ScotRail announcement that really annoys me (Letters, October 16 & 18) is “Don’t forget to take your belongings with you before you leave the train”. Not possible. They mean “Remember to collect your belongings and take them with you when you leave the train.”

Helen Ross, Bridge of Allan.