one-hand-clapping

War Horse

2012-02-15T12:14:00.002Z

Just back from two days in London with the family, including a trip to the New London Theatre to see War Horse. Having deliberately avoided reading the book or seeing the film - despite it being one of daughter no2's favourite stories -I had the joy of watching the tale unfold in front of my eyes, in a way that was both familiar (due to its WW1 setting) and fresh.

In case you've been living under a brick, War Horse is taken from the children's book by Michael Morpurgo, that tells the story of Joey, the beloved horse of teenaged farmer's son Albert. Joey is sold to the army, and so follows a painful history of life in the trenches and at the Front Line for both man and horse. It's not The Faraway Tree, this so-called children's book.

The National Theatre production of War Horse opened in 2007, and quickly won enormous popular and critical acclaim. The horses - and a few birds - were provided by the Handspring Puppet Company. The production went on to win awards for set design and choreography, and was revived in 2008. It has subsequently transferred to the New London Theatre, an appropriately intimate venue.

I was aware that the puppetry was clever and beautiful. What astounded me was how quickly it drew me in, so that within a couple of minutes I had totally bought in to the lie that this flimsy structure of cane and cloth was living and breathing and yearning and loving, right in front of my eyes.

I grew up with the Sooty Show; Lambchop; Emu; later, Spit the Dog. They 'talked' to the puppeteer; there was no effort to make them 'real' animals. They bore no more resemblance to a bear, a sheep, a bird or a dog than did a sock or a piece of fake fur. They were cartoon characters, alter-egos of the puppeteers.

More believable, oddly, were the Muppets. Here were authentic characters that existed as their own beings. No matter that no rat is blue and no pig wears a feather boa; what sells us the characters is their autonomy. But of course these are not real animals, that would convince outside of the construct of the Show.

On seeing the Lion King several years ago I was wowed by the use of masks and puppet. The first shock was seeing the actors faces below the masks, and the puppeteers themselves on stage. The curtain had been swept aside, and the audience could see backstage to all the little tricks of the theatre. It wasn't magic; but it was magical.

In War Horse every effort has been made to study the movement of horses, and replicate that - the way their bodies move, and how their emotional responses translate into tiny movements and subtleties. Joey was real: there, right in front of me. And yet I could also see the three puppeteers it took to bring him to life - two pairs of legs between the horse's legs, and one man standing beside the head. It wasn't a horse and three men I saw, however; all were part of the same whole, a device that was exploited when a horse later died and the puppeteers rolled away, as if the soul was leaving the body.

Morpurgo wrote his book from the point of view of the horse, Joey. For the stage this was necessarily changed, which enables a rounder, fuller tale to be told - one that tells us Albert's story during the time of separation. My daughter still prefers the book version, as she adored the 'voice' of Joey and felt that his version of events played up some characters that were more muted within the stage version. Point of view choices are always interesting, and it is good to see that the stage version embraced the necessity of change so positively and made this tale their own.

If I should stumble

2012-02-11T17:37:00.000Z

The Man and I have had a longstandinggrumble about a certain road sign that we see as completely pointless. It's the one that tells you there's falling rocks. Really, what are we supposed to do when wesee it? Leave the road? Duck? Come back in a tougher vehicle? The point isthat, by the time we are on a road where that sign is deemed necessary, it’salready too late. We are at risk, either from rocks raining down upon us orfrom obstacles in our path. At best it’s an indication we should keep our eyespeeled.

This week at Safe Space we were thinking about stumblingblocks, which may be defined as ‘an obstacle orhindrance to progress, belief or understanding’. In the Bible it is used byJesus (Matt 18:1-9) and about Jesus (1 Cor 1:18-25). In the former stumbling blocks are seen as inevitable, and in the latter Jesus himself is the stumblingblock. Clearly then they are not necessarily bad; conflict in ourideas is to be expected at times, challenging and ultimately moving us on.

The phrase is used commonly todenote anything that gets in the way of our plans. We trip – over finances,education, job interviews or whatever, and are said to have reached a stumblingblock. We trip, but we soon right ourselves, finding a way over or through orround it in true ‘going on a bear hunt’ style. But in matters of faith, are weperhaps more likely to give up altogether? Here stumbling blocks often involvethe very people or institutions that should be there to support us through darktimes. Rather than staying to work things out, it may seem easier to avoid theissues altogether – to get off the road.

For example: I have tried to list as manystumbling blocks I can think of with which I

have wrestled over the past twenty years.

The Church’s attitude to women

The Church’s attitude to sexuality

The Church’s attitude to the sick

The Church’s attitude to race

The doctrine of penal substitution

The Church’s attitude to poverty and wealth

The Church’s attitude to eternal destiny

Leviticus

The Church’s attitude to issues of morality

The Church’s attitude to mission

The Church’s attitude to prayer

Suffering, both personal and global

The Church’s attitude to science

All of Paul’s letters

The Church’s attitude to single people

The Church’s attitude to the Bible.

I know it’s subtle, but you may just beable to recognise a theme coming through there… And no I’m not talking aboutany particular church. Sometimes the block has come through one or two people;sometimes through a book, or a preacher; sometimes through an all-pervasiveattitude. What scares me is that I am sure no-one set out to become a stumblingblock to me; and so it stands to reason that at times I have been that forothers.

What happens when I feel ‘blocked’?Sometimes I wrestle, engaging with the subject through reading, discussion andthought; sometimes I put it on the back burner. Sometimes I pray, and maybe getangry with God – for not making things clearer to me or, more likely, toothers. The end result is either that I feel drawn towards God, or alienatedfrom him. Fortunately such alienation has always come round in God’s favour, sothat now I tend to not worry too much – it’ll sort itself out, given time. Ijust need to stay receptive to the possibility of that slow shift in a Godwarddirection, or occasionally, a Eureka moment. One of the most important things to me in my wrestling is to try to grasp at a God's eye view - to appreciate how different the perspective of a divine, all-loving being must be. God doesn't zoom in and out, shifting his attention like some sort of almighty Google Earth; this God, the God that can dance through nebulae, and brush each blade ofgrass, is in all of it, all of us, simultaneously. The small obstacle that I view as insurmountable may be just a trivial speck to him; but he holds me, even as I hold it, and so wrestles along with me.

Stumbling blocks can be huge obstacles; orthey can be small, unseen stones that trip us up and leave us flat on ourfaces. I read recently a travel journal, in which the writer visited theneolithic burial chamber of Gavrinis in France. At the entrance to the passagetomb there lies a stone embedded in the floor, over which many visitors trip.The guide shared the theory that this stone is placed deliberately, to forcevisitors to this grave to kneel in respect.

Perhaps stumbling blocks could develop inus a new respect and reverence for the God that sent his own stumbling block,so that we would not boast of any wisdom we had gained on our own merit.

Words fail me

2012-02-06T15:27:00.000Z

It was left to my husband the philosopher to introduce the subject of language and our approach to God at this week's Safe Space. Having been told not to make it too philosuffy*, he began with a quote from Wittgenstein:
"The limits of your language are the limits of your world."

As someone who loves words, whose private pleasures almost always involve reading, writing, crosswording and so on, I tend to view words as a rich source of enlightenment, rather than as a barrier. But of course, that's just the good words - the words that clarify, or mystify in a helpful fashion. And the words that do it for me are likely to be different from those that do it for you.

The trick when approaching the God who is so much more than we can imagine, or describe in words, is to seek diversity, drawing from the language and traditions of many expressions of the Christian faith. As my philosopher put it: "It's like being given a new 50 colour pencil set for Christmas when you've only had five felt tips to play with before."

But how do we deal with the fact that so many different voices and traditions tend to contradict each other? What about those voices that are speaking pure hogwash? Or, more dangerously, those that are leading one gently up the garden path?

The only test we have is this: can we imagine Jesus saying it? Is the substance of what is being said in keeping with his teachings? WWJS?, if you like.

Without the person of Jesus, we can say little about God of which we can be sure. When Moses asked God for his name, the only answer was 'I am'; and yet throughout the Old Testament there is a cacophony of descriptions and names for God, that betray this silence. He is both a warrior and a peacemaker, friend and judge. He is on high; close by; a strong tower; a mother hen. He is fire and light and deep darkness. He is shining revelation and treasure found in secret places. He is storm clouds and morning dew. All are images: partial, provisional, inspiring but capable of being misused and misunderstood. Treat with caution. 'I Am' will not be named.

Even our basic fall-back words are fraught with danger. Thomas Aquinas pointed out that when we use the word 'love', we think of human love; but even the best of that is a poor comparison for the love of God, which is timeless, infinite and pure.

We spent some time thinking of those words used in worship that help or hinder us, with a particular focus on male and female imagery, and negative descriptions of ourselves as typified by the prayer of humble access.

As a poet I am aware that I am overly fond of certain words when speaking of God. My favourite is 'wild', perhaps in reaction against oversanitisation of our untameable God. It denotes unpredictability; lavish ferocity; a lack of restraint. Qualities that I don't see much in my own, well-ordered, life - perhaps to my own detriment, at times. Focussing on this attribute of God speaks to me of something I want to see more of in my life, as well as speaking of the nature of God. But God's nature is in balance: he is also gentle, wise, measured, careful. Without his restraint we would not be.

In John's gospel we read that 'the Word became flesh, and dwelt among us.' Jesus is God's description of himself. The Word that set the planets in motion, living and breathing and walking around Palestine.

Until I can get my head fully around that, I will have to rely on a few other, smaller, words.

*Philosuffy, adj: obscurely full of philosophical references

The Bottom Line

2012-01-30T11:20:00.000Z

Colorado National Monument

Despite the title this post will not tell you which underwear to select when wearing something clingy. In fact, this post will not instruct you any which way at all.

Last week our 'Safe Space' group gathered to discuss what is at the core of Christian faith; the central beliefs that must remain if we are to describe a faith as 'Christian'. In any faith setting we can sometimes feel as though we are trying to believe too much, like the White Queen in Alice through the Looking Glass:

"Alice laughed: "There's no use trying," she said; "one can't believe impossible things."
"I daresay you haven't had much practice," said the Queen. "When I was younger, I always did it for half an hour a day. Why, sometimes I've believed as many as six impossible things before breakfast."
Lewis Carroll

It is tempting to try to boil down our beliefs into something that defines us tightly, whilst defining others as the infidels - as illustrated by this slightly ridiculous story from Emo Philips. So we looked at a selection of creeds, some of which were startlingly simple, some of which were plainly written by committees of stroky-bearded men with no homes to go to. The one that resonated with the group best was from the second-century bishop, St Irenaeus (and incidentally is the motto of the school where my kids attend and husband teaches - well done them):

"The glory of God is a human being fully alive."

No, it doesn't tell you what you must do to be saved; no, it doesn't clarify the persons of the Trinity; no, it doesn't even mention Jesus. But there is something about its simple, joyful expression that we loved. It tells us that God enjoys us; and that his enjoyment is fulfilled when we enjoy him. And we do this by being...well, us. Us, in the best possible version. Us, all the way through.

In case you're worried, yes we also agreed that Jesus was vital to a faith that is Christian; there's a clue in the title. But there are times in life when being too prescriptive about what doctrines we must believe is at best unhelpful and at worst destructive. Jesus was very good at saying and asking just the right thing at the right time to the right person; he didn't need to regurgitate every last detail at every opportunity.

We also took to this distillation of a life of faith, confirmed by Jesus:

"You shall love the Lord your God with all your heart...and love your neighbour as yourself." Luke 10:26-28

Simple. Clear. Direct. Challenging.

Many of us find periods in our journey of faith when we are unsure what we feel: having instructions to do can get us across such arid deserts. A quote from George macDonald illustrates this:

"Troubled soul, you are not bound to feel,but you are bound to arise. God loves you whether you feel it or not. Youcannot love when you want, but you are bound to fight the hatred that is in youto the last. Try not to feel good when you are not good, but cry to Him who isgood. He changes, not because you change. No, he has a special tenderness oflove towards you because you are in the dark and have no light. His heart isglad when you arise and say, “I will go to my Father.” For he sees you throughall the gloom through which you cannot see him. Will yourself to be his will.Say to him: “My God, I am very dull and low and hard but you are wise and highand tender, and you are my God. I am your child. Don’t leave me here, alone.”Then fold the arms of your faith, and wait in quietness until light begins torise in your darkness. Fold the arms of your faith, but not of your action:think of something that you ought to do and go and do it. If it be but thesweeping of a room, or the preparing of a meal, or a visit to a friend. Heednot feelings: Do your work."

Our worship used a song from the duo The Civil Wars, which expresses the tension in a human relationship where there is love but also pain - and in it all, a sense of knowing that love underlines everything - the bottom line.

Oh, and here is my attempt at a creed, written for Easter Day last year - one that hopefully is more of a celebration and less of a legal, read the small print, sign on the bottom line, document.

We believe inone God, the Almighty,

The ‘yes’ at theheart of the Universe

The starter andcompleter

Who holds,envelopes and sustains.

The Father heartwhose fierce hug

embraces thewrestling nations.

We believe in Jesus

The dancer andleaper of our hearts’ delight.

The one whoentered our world in human flesh

And livedamongst us, knowing our pain and our joy.

The gatherer andsender out

Who flung hisarms wide

laughing atdeath and making all things new.

We believe inthe Spirit

The Holy Onefrom God

Intangible andunknowable

And yet closerthan each breath;

Inhabiting ourthoughts and dreams

Discomfortingand comforting

Calming andinspiring.

We believe inone God

The mystery, thehidden treasure

who is found bythose who seek

and brings answers tothose who question:

we believe thatin him we find all that we are searching for

and thattogether he forms us into his own people

foreknown andforgiven

experiencing hisnow and awaiting his future.

We believe inone God

And welcome hispresence in this place.

TAWEaster 2011

On Rumsfeld, unlikely beasts and blue marbles

2012-01-20T12:12:00.001Z

This blog conveys the bulk of the introduction to the first session of 'Safe Space', the group I talked about in my last blog entry. I've published it here partly for the use of the group members, who may have left last night's meeting thinking 'What was THAT all about?' (although I'm unconvinced revisiting it will help much!); and also for any readers who may be interested in how we are approaching this. The meeting ended with a time of contemplation of names for God, followed by a run up the road pushing our car. We hope this last stage will not become a regular feature - as long as we remember to turn off our lights! Thanks to all who ran and pushed...

Donald Rumsfeld is, in my opinion, unfairly maligned. To clarify: you can malign the ex US secretary of state for defense as much as you like for his politics, let’s be clear on that point. But there is one statement that he made that will forever come to mind whenever his name is mentioned, and for which he was unfairly ridiculed. Personally I think it was a quiet moment of genius.

“There are known knowns; there are things we know we know.We also know there are known unknowns; that is to say we know there are some things we do not know.

But there are also unknown unknowns – there are things we do not know we don't know.”

In the context in which the statement was given – the search for weapons of mass destruction in Iraq – it succinctly summarized the situation. But the statement has wider relevance to the questions of life, the universe and everything. There are known knowns. There are known unknowns; and there are unknown unknowns, the dark matter of the collective knowledge of humankind without which we are always to some extent groping blindly – or, as Paul put it in his letter to the Corinthians, ‘seeing dimly in a mirror’. But in addition there are also things we think we know but don’t really – unknown knowns, if you insist, Secretary Rumsfeld. The philosophers worry about brains in buckets (how do we know that we are not a brain in a jar, stimulated by scientists to experience our world as we think we know it? Why do we think our world is ‘real’, and not a dream or a computer programme as in the film ‘The Matrix’? What evidence do we have?). That’s all too hypothetical for me. Me, I worry about giraffes.

I never knew I didn’t believe in giraffes until I saw one. Of course giraffes exist. I know this. Of course I knew they’d be big, ungainly, unlikely animals. But confronted with one at Longleat, my mind reeled in such a way to suggest that I had never really believed in them at all. Since that experience I have had similar moments with some famous landmarks – most notably the Leaning Tower of Pisa and Mount Rushmore. I knew they were there. I had seen photographs, seen film, met people who had visited them. And yet there was a moment of reality, that revealed that up until that moment of encounter I had filed them in the part of my brain labeled ‘fiction’.

There are things I know.And there are things I think I know.

Sometimes it takes a personal encounter to reveal our lack of understanding.Sometimes it takes a change of perspective, something referred to as a ‘paradigm shift’ – an over-used expression that has been applied to many areas of life as well as the large-scale changes in scientific understanding to which the phrase was originally applied. These days the concept of a paradigm shift has been reduced to whether one can see the duck or the rabbit, the young or the old woman in pictures that are familiar to most of us. We forget that it originally described something much bigger and more unsettling, that came at the end of a period of dissatisfaction with a standard explanation into which new information would not fit; after wrestling, arguments and tearing out of hair. We forget that seeing things differently split the scientific community, at least temporarily, and that it was a brave person indeed who confessed to seeing a rabbit when everyone else was looking at a duck. Mendelian genetics, biogenesis, plate tectonics, quantum mechanics – all these now central tenets of scientific thought were once unknown unknowns, then known unknowns. And before that they were the opposite to what we thought we knew – the so-called known knowns of their day, when humanity believed that a body-building father could pass on strength to his children; living matter spontaneously came into being; and that the continents of the earth and the sub-atomic particles were equally and predictably fixed. Such massive shifts in understanding may have their ‘Eureka’ moments, but they tend to come at the end of long painstaking hours of thinking, testing and re-testing. The new idea may be simple or complex; something a child could have figured out, or one that takes a genius in their field. However they came about, these ideas often caused some initial pain and disturbance, along with the dizzying sense that everything we thought we knew was wrong. The shift from classical to quantum mechanics is still doing this today, with its fresh revelations from the Cern Large Hadron Collider and its preposterous notions of string theory and time travel.

So, to recap:Donald Rumsfeld was right. We don’t know a lot, and there’s stuff we don’t even know we don’t know.Indeed, as demonstrated by what I’m choosing to call the Giraffe Experiment, we may not even believe what we assume are the known knowns.Throughout the history of human understanding there have been moments when everything right turned out to be wrong. Such moments can be painful; that doesn’t make them inappropriate or even unnecessary.And sometimes they can be rather wonderful.

One of the best examples of an image that in itself caused a paradigm shift, rather than being an illustration of one, is a photograph taken on Christmas Eve 1968. You will know it well: you’ve seen it on posters, on TV, on greetings cards. It’s so familiar that its power has been reduced to a duck/rabbit moment. It’s called ‘Earthrise’.

This photograph was taken by Bill Anders, an astronaut in Apollo 8. It was quick thinking on his part – this was not part of the mission. The spacecraft took three days to reach the moon, then orbited it 20 times. On Christmas Eve they made a broadcast from this orbit, during which they read the first ten verses of Genesis. Both words and image offered a God’s eye view of our planet for the first time.

Together with a later image, taken by the Apollo 17 crew in 1972 and named ‘Blue Marble’, ‘Earthrise’ altered our perspective on our world profoundly. Many contemporary accounts speak of the impact in terms of the fragility of our home; its beauty; and its one-ness – the nations were not separated by the hostilities of the day, but were all subject to the same natural laws and environmental dangers. Indeed, it is these two images more than any others that have been credited with kick-starting the modern environmental movement. Interestingly, the astronomer Sir Fred Hoyle had written in 1948: ‘Once a photograph of the Earth, taken from the outside, is available, a new idea as powerful as any in history will be let loose.’ Certainly this seemed to be the case.

We knew that the earth would be seen from the moon. We knew that it would be beautiful, yet look insignificant in the vastness of space.We thought we knew; but we didn’t. Not really.Neil Armstrong put it like this: ‘It suddenly struck me that that tiny pea, pretty and blue, was the Earth. I put up my thumb and shut one eye, and my thumb blotted out the planet Earth. I didn't feel like a giant. I felt very, very small.'

Knowing is not a constant state. Things change; new information comes, and our openness to that will vary from person to person and from time to time. There may be ‘Eureka’ moments; but mostly knowing and understanding is a slog, a wrestling match that is no less rewarding for the struggle. Embarking on a life of faith requires us to be available for moments when everything shifts, and we are left dizzy and disorientated.Think of Saul the persecutor of the church, walking to Damascus to find new Christians and make their lives hell. He wasn’t by nature a sadist; he wasn’t doing it for pleasure, but out of a sense of righteousness. He was a godly man who thought he was doing right by his Maker. When he met God in the form of Jesus on that road, he didn’t argue that God had it wrong; but he must have been feeling pretty dizzy afterwards. Some duck/rabbit moment.

When I was twenty-four and newly moved to Bristol, I had a faith meltdown, which was so deep-rooted that I was not able to go further, deeper; I had to unlearn before I could learn, to disassemble before reassembling.I would go to church, and feel alienated; come home, and cry. Or I would stay at home, and be no happier, missing the structure and rhythm of my life and feeling like I was missing God, too.I remember many hours and days of a sense of falling, of standing too close to a precipice and not knowing if I was afraid of it or drawn towards it.I knew that to admit a loss of faith would call every aspect of my life into question – but ‘Unless a seed falls into the ground and dies, it remains alone; but if it dies, it produces much’ (John 12:24).My faith, such as it was, had to die. It was too small, too constrained. It was the unconsciously assumed dregs of other people’s faith. It didn’t fit me; it wasn’t really mine. Oh, it had served me well, at times; I had known moments of wonder. But my connection to the God of that version of my faith was slowly being squeezed into oblivion. If I wanted to know God, I had to let go, and jump.

The thing about jumping is that landing is not always guaranteed. Landing is, in fact, entirely optional – at least when it comes to God. He doesn’t necessarily ‘do’ gravity.So now I have a few known knowns; but even they are subject to change on an almost daily basis. The best I can honestly say is that I work to this principle; IF there is a God, IF he is not an impersonal force – what would he be like? I absolutely and unequivocally believe that God is a God of love – something that, before the long jump, was a parroted statement.

I believe in a God of love. I am just not always sure he’s there. Which, rather wonderfully, is so much better than before when I always believed God was there, but was not very sure at all that his intention was always to love.

So, here we are on a January day in 2012. Christmas cleared away, Easter in the distance. Caught between winter and spring, between doubt and faith. On the outside, looking in. Ready to think about the known unknowns, and the unknown knowns.And maybe even to catch a glimpse of some true unknown unknowns, things that are, up until now, nowhere in my head at all.

If I ever lose my faith...

2012-01-14T18:29:00.000Z

One of my current 'projects' is that of devising and leading a small group for friends who are finding holding onto faith a tough thing to do. The idea began as a kind of 'agnostics anonymous', for people who had once been sure about their Christian beliefs but now felt less certain. Such a change of spiritual state can be painful, and leave one disorientated and alone; unable to articulate the cacophony of thoughts and feelings, so alien are they both to oneself and those with whom one has walked the Christian path. There is no room in many churches to speak of what we don't believe, or don't feel, when it is at odds with the primary ethos. So we wanted to create a safe place where such folk could talk openly and honestly, whilst providing a way back that was simple but profound.

The idea grew, as I discussed it with others. I had advertised it, rather unwisely, as something for 'those struggling with their faith' - a dreadful phrase, which is shorthand Christianese for 'backslidden, heathen, and lost'. No-one wants to put their hand up. Everyone hopes to avoid being at that party. That's just one step away from the (back) door. We're left feeling rather like the little characters in the picture above, from round the door of Conques cathedral in the Auvergne, France - peering into the church, not quite sure if we belong. So lately my explanations of it have broadened out. It's a group that wants to explore, positively and creatively, some of the questions that can stifle instead of inspire our faith. It is seeking to provide an opportunity for this exploration in a safe and non-judgmental environment. It is the place where you can put up your hand and say 'I don't get it'; 'Surely that just doesn't hang together'; 'I'd love to believe / used to believe, but it's just not working for me'; or 'I believe; but this church malarkey isn't making that easy...'

Last night I met with the other members of the small planning group. Thanks in part to a bottle of red, our ideas for the weeks ahead incorporated teabags, Donald Rumsfeld, red codpieces and who could do the best Tina Turner impression. It's going to be fun.

I'll try to keep you posted as to what we really cover...

Oh, and if any friends in the Bristol area are interested in joining, do get in touch soon.

Well, that's that then...

2012-01-06T18:51:00.001Z

I spent this morning getting rid of Christmas.

To clarify: this was not some 'Bah-humbug' moment. Contrary to what my colleagues believe, I actually like Christmas; just in its proper place, which is for a limited time span of around 2 weeks only, and particularly without exposure to a never-ending syrupy slick of cheesy songs.

No, this was a reversal of the Christmasification of our home.

For the first time in memory my family had de-treed whilst I was at work earlier this week. It was a joy not to be the one to pick off all the trimmings, drag the crisp-leaved potential firewood outside and hoover up 90% of the needles, carefully leaving 10% to be found randomly throughout the year. My part this year was to remove the remainder. But first I had to notice it.

Thus I played an elaborate game of hide and seek without being entirely sure what I was looking for. Every time I thought I'd finished, up popped another card / silver snowflake / fake icicle etc etc to foil me again. Throughout the process I found myself singing a weird version of No Christmas by Jay Foreman, who was an amusing support act when we went to see Dave Gorman but has now become a bit of an earworm. Don't say I didn't warn you.

There's Christmas on the shelf
There's Christmas on the stairs
There's Christmas on the floor
There's Christmas in my hair....

This Christmas time was a strangely muted affair for me, due to a lengthy period of unwellness. I had to give in, and let others do or accept it wasn't going to be done. To be honest I enjoyed the experience, although not the missing events or coming home early pooped thing. Christmas for me is Advent; the looking forward, looking towards, expectation. Whether you are approaching it with a spiritual dimension or not, this is often true; despite all the weeks of pointing the way, it strikes me as jarring the way that Christmas seems old hat the second the 25th December is over. When I worked as a ward nurse this was often particularly the case when I was rostered to do a late shift on Christmas day; quick, eat the dinner! Quick, uniform on! Those patients in hospital over Christmas tend to be the sickest ones, who are often oblivious to the rather sad attempts by the NHS to make a Christmas in hospital seem jolly (favourite moments? The year every patient was given an alarm clock, only to have them all go off, in their wrappings, an hour before wake-up time when on night shift; and the time some dimbo had plugged the ward Christmas tree into a double socket with the arrest trolley defib machine, with the result that a cardiac arrest resulted in a nurse running up the ward with the trolley dragging the tree behind it).

But this year Christmas lingered pleasantly, as I whiled away the hours reading in a haze of Lemsip.

I may try to approach things this way again in future, though preferably without the illness. There was a piece of research published recently that said Christmas Dinner is so complex, it takes the average woman(!) until the age of 47 to master it. So I've got time...on the other hand...what's wrong with Lemsip and chips?

Here it is...this year's Christmas Poem...

2011-12-19T10:31:00.000Z

I wrote this for our candlelit carol service at St Matthew's last night. You need to imagine it read by 2 voices, one male and booming (Mr Wheelybin), and one female and a bit whispery (me, with the Cold From Hell). Also some rather lovely and evocative guitar and piano backing, which led seamlessly into the next carol - O Come O Come Emmanuel (I gave 2 musicians this version by Sufjan Stevens, and they played about with the concept - only without the words). I was aiming for 'solemn joy', the kind that makes the hairs on the back of your neck stand up...think we got there. I enjoyed it, anyway. Which, given the way I feel at the moment, is saying something.

Come, all yefaithful. Come and gaze

At mysteriesbeyond this age.

Come together,come alone

Come kneelbefore this meager throne.

Come, you Adamsand you Eves

In unnumbered,countless throng

Follow the callthat you’ve received:

Come and jointhe heavenly song.

Come, youpopulace of dust

Come meet thepromised God-with-us.

The One whopainted starry skies

And now within amanger lies.

Come believers,come you doubters

Come with joyand penitance

WelcomeAbraham’s sons and daughters

Come, join handsand start the dance.

The promise offorgotten days

The word thepatriarchs obeyed

A vision of thestars and sand

A multitude, tofill the land;

Come now, youmultitude, to hear

The angels singof God made man:

The Word madeflesh, the Prince of Peace

Now born a sonof Abraham.

Come, come, youchosen sisters, brothers

Come, come, anddance with one another

Take delight inknowing he

Who takesdelight in knowing thee.

Come bend theknee, and raise your sight

Towards the Lordof heaven and earth

Come welcome inhis dawning light

Come sing forjoy at heaven’s birth.

TAWDecember 2011

The God-particle

2011-12-14T14:40:00.000Z

In the beginningthe scientists searched, hovering and waiting over a sea of data.

Their conceptswere as yet formless and void; and still

They hoped forAnswers.

In thebeginning, particles accelerated and crashed

purposefully,creating sparks of energy and possibility;

Radiating thenotion that the elusive would be found.

And there wasmorning, and there was evening; a thousand times over

As the worldwaited for triumph or disaster

And thescientists spoke in a language all their own.

And thescientists called forth others

Media-savvy,able to explain and enthuse

Justifying theexpense, the time, and the total lack of progress.

They waved theirarms, and drew diagrams, saying:

‘Let there be aseparation between the knowing and the unknowing,

between Them andUs. For we are the new astronauts

explorers ofTime and Space, discovers of Matter

and Fact.’

In the beginningthey groped in dark matter

For a fleetingglimpse of a legendary particle

That some hadchristened ‘God’.

Counting the days

2011-11-12T16:08:00.001Z

I love new diaries and calendars, and can never persuade myself to use more up-to-date technology to organise my days. Having already taken possession of my lovely new 2012 diary, and entered all the dates and memos on little scraps of paper at the back of my old diary, I am now in the process of sorting out the family calendar. Usually I buy something with arty pictures / photos: since it is hung in a prominent place in our hallway that I see every time I walk downstairs, it becomes the artwork I notice the most. This year I thought I would buy one of those photo calendars and upload my own photographs: but which to choose?

I've already decided against pretty pictures, chocolate-box images of flowers and scenery: too bland. Pictures of my family will be given the thumbs down - there's always someone who will object, and to be fair, I would soon have something to say if I had to look into my own eyes every time I walked downstairs. Similarly friends - less likely to object, particularly if they never come round to see it, but still - bit of an imposition...

So all that's left is the oddities, not pretty, sometimes personal, often quirky. These are some of the photos currently on the shortlist. What do you think?

Oranges at Versailles

Cat

Best olive stall ever:
St Chinian, Languedoc

Sundowner at Port Isaac

Conques, Auvergne

Pembrokeshire cottage

Ambling Band, Street Party, Bristol

Favourite Things

2011-11-04T13:01:00.002Z

According to the adverts, women are obsessed with smells. We weep when we can no longer detect the fragrance of our air freshener. We throw ourselves bodily at inadequate young men wearing cheap deodorant. We rejoice when our home is filled with the odour of gravy, and delight in that of clean washing. Anyone would think we were nothing but walking olfactory organs.

Besides smells our interests venture little beyond fashion, food and fairly old-fashioned hobbies - that is, if you believe the women's magazines. Cream coloured ponies. Crisp apple strudels. That kind of thing. Oh, and visiting a certain budget frozen food shop is the obvious mark of true Madonna-esq motherhood.

After a fairly rubbish month I thought I'd write a ditty for the sisterhood to sing along to. Completely true, of course. Altogether now....

Perfume that makes me smell of KeiraKnightley

Washing detergent that makes whites glowwhitely

Finding my colours are Autumn or Spring

These are a few of my favourite things.

(Om-pom-pom, om-pom-pom x2)

Spandex that grips wobbly bitsoh-so-tightly

Such things will bring me joy both day andnightly.

Plug-in air fresheners, and crisp potpourri –

These are the things that will fill me withglee.

When my chin’s long

When the gin’s gone

When my hormones rule

I simply remember my favourite things

And then I can keep my cool.

More knitting patterns, so I can getknitting

Adverts for sofas so I can get sitting

Plates with a picture of William and Kate

These are the things I’m least likely tohate

(Om-pom-pom, om-pom-pom x2)

Fashion that suits me if I’m straight orcurvy

Diets that protect against rickets andscurvy

Going to Iceland – the shop not the state –

Just some of the things I most appreciate

When I feel bad

When I look mad

When the world seems strange

I simply remember my favourite things

And then I know I’m deray –hay- anged!

And repeat, ad nauseum, until someone replaces the gin or the men in white coats come calling.

One hand clapping, cooking, typing...

2011-10-07T13:31:00.000+01:00

This won't be a long post, for reasons that will become clear.

Back in 2006, when I started this blog and was stumped for a name, I chose 'one-hand-clapping' partly because I had recently had 3 lots of surgery trying to make both hands fully functional. I had spent a chunk of that time suffering the pins and needles, aching and generally useless digits typical of severe carpal tunnel syndrome. Treatment was largely successful, although I still wear splints at night.

However, on Wednesday my left hand went almost totally numb (my little finger is spared). Fortunately I am right-handed. That night I suffered extreme pain for 6 hours, and in the morning the GP confirmed a trapped nerve, probably at the elbow, possibly at the neck, but unlikely at the wrist so unrelated to the carpal tunnel. I am now doing the 'wait and see' thing, with the promise of physiotherapy next week and the threat of surgery if things don't improve soon. At least the pain has abated.

In the meantime I am back to coping unidextrously with life. Clapping is the least of the problems, frankly. Typing feels weird - you try using just your little finger on one hand (I used to use voice recognition software, but ended up screaming at the computer when it got it wrong. Curiously the words I used then used to be transcribed perfectly.) Cooking is like dicing with death. Doing up a necklace, or a bra, becomes a matter of faith.

What's the sound of one hand clapping? It's the sound of me punching the wall in frustration, mate.

Letter to an unknown future

2011-10-04T19:02:00.000+01:00

I haven't posted for a while, not because nothing was happening, but because I didn't know what to say.

Two weeks ago my father-in-law was taken suddenly, seriously ill. He is slowly on the recovery road now, but is still in intensive care and has to face yet more obstacles to daily life once he is back to some sort of normality - compounded by the fact that he is also registered blind. In addition, he is the main carer for my chronically ill mother-in-law. I don't really want to say much else about this, as it's not really my story to tell; but if you are of a praying persuasion, we would appreciate your efforts on our behalf. Anyway...

This all dredges up the dreaded issue of aging again. So many of us fear old age, for a variety of reasons - the fear of pain and disability; the fear of the unknown, and eventually of death. But I guess one of the main issues is that of a loss of self. Depression is common in the years immediately following retirement, then tends to be less prevalent again; then becomes more common in the older population, late 70's and 80's. And no wonder, when faced with the catalogue of aging signs and symptoms, along with the side effects from whatever cocktail of drugs their doctors select. Deteriorating vision and hearing can cause individuals to feel increasingly cut off from their surroundings and contacts. Memory loss further detatches and debilitates. And along with all this comes the sense of losing personhood - that self image we all carry, stuck at age 20, 30, 40...

They shall not grow old, as we that are left grow old;
Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn.
- Laurence Binyon

As faculties diminish, assistance is needed. But first one has to ask for help, which is no easy thing. The aging person may be beholden to family, or to strangers; neither rests easy. To have to ask, to have the thing done badly or just not how you want it, and then to have to be grateful through gritted teeth... none of this comes naturally. And all to be surrounded by endlessly cheerful carers who treat you as if you were three years old. An old friend of mine used to refer to the 'Pop School of Nursing' - as in, 'We'll just pop your clothes off, pop you into a gown, pop you on the couch and then I'll pop off and get the doctor.' Sometimes I hear myself saying it; and cringe.

One of the things that frightens me is the tendency for older people to lose distinguishing features. Hair colour, waistlines, jawlines all slowly melt into the familiar generic Grandmother / Grandfather 'look'. Fortunately society does not 'expect' this so much, or so early, as it once did; there is no longer the need to adopt the same clothes and shoes, hairstyle and glasses as every other septa / octogenarian. As I look into the mirror and notice the slackening skin and wiry white hairs, the poem 'When I am an old woman, I shall wear purple' goes through my head. I fear I may relish the transformation into an eccentric grumpy old woman (a process that has very much begun already); and the very first nurse /carer who talks to me in that slightly high pitched nicey-nicey voice, telling me to 'Mind how I go, dearie' or similar will be nicely but firmly told to Sod Off. At the same time, aging brings the loss of loved ones - and old friends cannot be replaced. A few years into my marriage I realised I spent time almost exclusively with people who only knew me as married, as my older friends lived further away, and the associated loss of a sense of self made me sad; how much worse to arrive at a place where no-one remembers you young. Photos merely underline the passing of time, rather than truly recalling the person you once were. perhaps it will be different for this digital generation, their every move captured on video. Old friends are the ones who know all the stages that brought you to this place, but still love you; who laugh with you and at you, dragging out old jokes whose mere mention provokes helpless laughter. Those old friends are particularly precious in my life; they have made me who I am. Without their company, I would be diminished; and would fear being forgotten.

In the meantime, I shall try my hardest to remember that every individual, at whatever age we happen to meet, holds the same potential for sadness, joy, laughter, quirkiness, anger and grief as the rest of us; that age is not a predictor of how anyone will react to any given situation, but that the general level of garbage that surrounds the aging process may increase the likelihood that it won't be good, at least not if the conversational opener is 'I just popped in to see how you are today, dearie'. That inside each person, regardless of age, exists a unique story, that affords a unique outlook on life.

If only we all had the time and patience to listen to those stories.

The wise man built his house upon the...er...

2011-09-06T23:34:00.000+01:00

We were rather taken by this unorthodox use of space in the French town of Vernon, near Giverny, whilst on our 'olidays.

I can only imagine the application for planning permission.

Looking rather like it has blown in from Kansas, it balances precariously across two of the remaining piers of a bridge that has long since ceased to function as such. Proof that nature abhors a vaccuum? Or that building regs in France have always loosened up considerably after the second bottle of wine has been opened?

Either way, if you're a pigeon, this is THE place to be in Vernon.

Home from home: post GB 2011 analysis

2011-08-30T10:57:00.000+01:00

After four days of being in the microcosm that is Greenbelt Christian Arts Festival, I'm back home doing a bit of restorative work and asking the Big Questions - namely, what can I possibly eat, has the milk gone off, what was that all about, what can I take from that experience, and how can I get those stains out of my jeans?

And this year - did I follow the ten commandments of GB (see previous post)?

Well, I certainly saw more than I ever have done before, by the simple trick of Turning up on Time. I know, I know... not only that, but I turned up early enough to grab a good seat and so discovered that the time wasn't wasted, it was transferred into a lovely opportunity to chat with friends and strangers.

I entered a photo in the swap, and am now the proud owner of another stranger's photograph that has a lot of meaning for me. More new friends made.

I avoided any sit-at-the-back-silliness in communion by staying in bed that morning. It worked for me.

The prayer room was used, as was the Tiny Tea Tent and the Jesus Arms where time was spent with my God and with the fabulous people he gave me as my friends. And everyone seemed pleased to see me too, in a 'NORM!" from Cheers kind of fashion.

Highlights included talks from Nadia Bolz-Webber, Pete Rollins, Mark Vernon and Padraig O'Tuama (who managed to make me break a promise to my late grandmother, that I wouldn't 'turn Catholic', which I remembered as I stood and recited a modified Hail Mary..); performances from Paul Kerenza, Mark Thomas, Ockham's Razor and Will Stopha; music from The Unthanks, Billy Bragg and Get Cape. Wear Cape Fly; and a bizarre screening of the film 'Back to the Future' with comments throughout from 2 comedians (heckle from small child: 'You're ruining the film!' Answer: 'That's why we're here!')

Sadly, no salsa, as it clashed with Paul Roberts' 'Bluffers guides'; sad for me, a relief to Paul, and a lucky escape for Greenbelt. Instead, I danced and whooped and waved my arms to the great Mavis Staples (above), in a departure to my usual music listening stance (arms folded, feet steady, jaw set).

I did however appreciate the irony that after a Greenbelt where so many talks embraced the uncertainties of a life of faith, we were all ending the festival singing together that our faith was sure and our hope was certain. Faith has a quantum quality, it seems - both seem to be true, until we open the box and examine it up close.

In other news: I managed to ignore the call of the toilet - a bit; I did engage with some slightly bonkers worship, although was sad to have missed the totally teched-up event (candles on iPads, prayers via Twitter) that realised at the last possible moment that they had forgotten the bread for the Eucharist and then had to search for an image of bread on-line (seriously, what could they do then? Take turns to lick the screen?); and largely due to close observance of commandment number ten, I engaged with everything I attended without coveting the GB experiences I had missed out on. Much.

Now, that is a miracle.

The Greenbelt Commandments

2011-08-25T18:24:00.000+01:00

It's that time of year again. Having missed our favourite Christian arts festival altogether last year, and made rather fleeting visits that didn't quite hit the spot in the couple of years before that, we're in for the Full Monty this time (albeit in a wussy, hotel-plus-popping-home kind of fashion). Note to would-be burglars: various children, parents and cats are in and out of our house all weekend; so don't even think about it.

This year is going to be different. This year I am determined not to spend my time flitting from the second half of one seminar to the back of the queue for something I'll never get into, only to end up first in the queue for the Ladies and thence to the beer tent where I look round for someone I know, then realise they're already talking to someone far more interesting than me. Nor will I interact with the art by spending exactly 5 seconds on each picture / sculpture / random idea presented in a visual fashion, before saying 'Hmm', nodding wisely, glancing at my watch and moving on. I will not skulk at the back of worship events refusing to enter in to something that, at first glance, resembles rather painful street theatre. No! I am a new creation! Out with the cynical, the tired, the critical, the aloof and the introverted! In with...well, with what, exactly? I feel I need a few ground rules...

SO, having perused the online Greenbelt 2011 line-up at length, I have devised the following commandments....

1. Thou shalt have no other goal but the seminar / event already circled in the programme: do not be tempted by the beer tent, the Tiny Tea Tent, the Bookstall etc etc or you will miss the queue and be left outside, where there is much wailing and gnashing of teeth etc etc.

2. You shall not make for yourself any bits of clay modelling or other messy collaborative art which always frankly ends up taking much time (see point 1) and looking like a dog's breakfast. Instead, play to strengths and take a photo along to the Photo Flash Swap.

3. You shall not change the words of all the songs during the communion services to something childishly funny. Oh, right then - you shall.

4. You shall not feel obliged to see everything, and rush around until feet are sore and head is frazzled. It's a spiritual holiday, not a route march. Instead, you shall spend time in the prayer room, and focus on the Reason for it All.

5. You shall spend your time enjoying the company of all the wise and lovely people God put in your life; and not assume that the others don't want to talk to you. Who knows who will bring what to your journey, this weekend?

6. You shall embrace life; specifically, you shall honour your agreement to learn salsa with the lovely Rev Dr Paul Roberts. Two completely left-footed people dancing...we should sell tickets...or perhaps two negatives will make a positive?

7. You shall be faithful to your first loves (Billy Bragg, John Bell, David Runcorn) whilst embracing new passions / gurus (Occam's Razor, Padraig O'Tuama, Mark Vernon) and maybe even attending Something Completely Different: Goth worship, anyone?

8. You shall not become so desperate that you will steal the loo queue place of a small child. On the other hand, you shall not become so obsessed about the state of your bladder that you begin to queue 2 hours before you need to, 'just in case'.

9. You shall not pretend that you enjoyed or even understood the 'Lesser Church of Little Gidding's Jesus-ran-away-to-the-Circus' event; but you shall at least attempt to engage with at least one such happening. There was a time when you were just as bonkersly blowing up balloons, setting fire to stuff and floating rose petals down a stream; perhaps it's time to rediscover that. A bit.

10. Above all, you shall not get to the end of the weekend feeling that everyone else found the good stuff. The good stuff is wherever you are, and whatever you make it. Breath deeply. Participate. Don't carp. Perhaps even pray.

See (some of) you there?

Bringing home the bacon

2011-07-24T18:16:00.000+01:00

One of the downsides of working in the health sector is that there is a tendency for others to see you as an expert in All Things Health Related. I never mind being asked about things in which I consider myself to be a relative expert, but have to confess these are fairly slim pickings. There are over 1000 dermatological conditions, and I'm very good at advising on four of them; reasonably good at around another twenty; slightly pathetic at the next, say, thirty; and frankly nowhere on the rest (correct that: I'd have a good stab at spelling quite a few). I really do wonder what I've been doing with my life... but that's another blog entirely. Having said that, there's a time and a place. Ideally the time is my working hours and the place is a consulting room; but failing that, I'd prefer it if friends do not, for example, drop their trousers in the middle of a dinner party to show me their awkward little rash. Not unless they've bought me flowers first, at least... actually a number of friends have flashed some skin at me in times of extreme anxiety / embarrassment / itching, and that's fine, we've remained friends, I think I helped, and anyway the matter now rests with our lawyers.

More problematic is the friend who rings up 'just to check' because the GP is closed and they're worried. Or else because they are too embarrassed to 'bother' the GP, and want reassurance that it really is 'something' that deserves attention. Over the years I have had calls about a range of symptoms, particularly from parents of young children in the days before NHS Direct. The difficulty is not overstepping the mark in terms of giving a person the impression I am in some way qualified to recognise, for example, the signs of meningitis - particularly remotely. I don't want a disaster on my conscience, so I may err on the side of caution - but on the other hand, I don't want to worry them unduly. So I flip between 'yes-I'm-sure-it's-fine-but-get-to-an-emergency-room-NOW!!!' - style advice. Not necessarily helpful to the recipient, but then, I don't want to encourage them...

Since NHS Direct started there has been less of this sort of thing, for which I am grateful. But last week, at 9:45pm, came this gem from the mother of a schoolfriend of one of my girls. And for once, I was lost for a good answer. I will try to recreate the phone conversation for you here:

"Hello, I'm sorry to bother you at the late hour, but I really need some urgent health advice and I didn't know who to ask."
(Me) "O-kay....what's up?"

"I know this may sound like an odd question, but is it safe to eat raw bacon?"
"Err...what do you mean, safe?" (stalling for time!)
"Well, I've just been watching my lodger preparing her supper, and she was cooking with bacon, chopping it up on the board we use for raw meat, and as she chopped she was putting one piece in the pot, and one piece in her mouth!"
(Desperately seizing on something I know) "I think it might be a problem in that she was using the same board as you use, say, for raw chicken..."
"Yes, yes, but is it OK to eat raw bacon? Is it safe?
"Well, I'm no expert on food safety, but isn't bacon a cured meat? I mean, does that make it a bit safer than normal raw meat? Certainly safer than raw chicken..."
"Oh, thank goodness! You've totally put my mind at rest!"
(Trying to claw things back rapidly) "Well I don't know! I mean, I'm just guessing!
"Who would have thought it! It's safe to eat raw bacon!
"I didn't quite say..."
"Well thanks very much for that, I'll let you get to bed!"
"Err..."
"Goodnight!"

(Click. Brrr. The call ends.)

SO...if you hear or otherwise come across a wild rumour that raw bacon is the Next Big Culinary Ingredient and Totally Safe To Eat, please think twice before doing so. It may just have started here. And as you'll agree from the exchange detailed above - I Know Nothing.

The Parable of the Lost Photograph

2011-06-20T12:11:00.000+01:00

There was once a woman who had 10,000 photographs (at a very rough estimate: but definitely Lots). One day she realised that she had lost one. Rather than being satisfied with the remaining Lots she had in her albums and on her computer, she began to search the house: on tables, under beds, inside cupboards, beneath the piles and piles of papers that seemed to gather on every available surface in her rather rambling family home. Eventually she had to admit defeat; and, feeling somewhat miserable about the loss of that one photograph - which was precious to her, being a record of a happy and slightly bonkers moment in her marriage - she sat down and shared her misery with whichever of her friends happened to be on Facebook at that moment.

Some time later her husband, who (whilst a prime suspect in the development of the piles and piles of papers) could be quite an organised chap, had a brainwave; perhaps it wasn't in the house at all! Neither had it been cast into the outer darkness of the wheelybin, where there would be much wailing and gnashing of teeth (you know how it goes)... instead, it might have strayed from the carrier bag from whence it came and even now be wandering lost in the boot of the car!

And lo, it came to pass...

And when she found it, the woman gathered her virtual friends and family together and said, 'Rejoice with me! I have found my lost photograph, which means absolutely nothing to you but (you will be glad to hear) will shut me up moaning for five minutes!'

For what was lost has been found; and what was miserable now has a Great Big Bonkers Smile on her face.

Here endeth the lesson.

Photo Finish

2011-06-17T12:59:00.000+01:00

Either you will 'get' this post, or you won't. I realise that in writing this I could well come across as entirely self-obsessed and self-pitying; or, even more so than usual.... I am writing it in a fairly miserable state of mind, so please excuse the self-indulgence (only three lines in and already far too much 'self'; but then, what else is a blog for?)

Today I lost a photograph; or rather, I realised that I had mislaid it, and probably in a place which ensured it went out with the rubbish last week. Of course, if that is not the case and it turns up, I will be delighted to share it with you. But as of this moment, it is lost forever. It was a daft photo of Richard and I, taken early in our marriage on Brighton pier, circa 1991; we have put our faces through the holes of one of those cut-outs much loved by the Victorians, a sort of 19th century photo-shop. I posed as Albert, standing with 'my' hand on Victoria (played by Richard)'s shoulder, who is seated. Of course, neither of us could see the other's face, to know how 'in character' we were. So the photo showed a po-faced Albert, nose in the air with the nasty smell of commoners up his (my) nostrils; whilst Richard provides Victoria with a crazed grinning mad-eyed expression. The combination was hilarious, though of course you will have to trust me on that one. For several years I have had it blu-tacked to the wall in my office, where it has amused many a passer-by and kept me going through dull audits and tedious spreadsheet updates.

Last Saturday I moved offices, and took the photo down. Rather than transfer it to another wall I took it home, together with other stuff in a carrier bag, with the intention of scanning it to share the full joy with fellow bloggers and facebookers. Only, I forgot; left the bag in the car, to be emptied several days later by husband who was oblivious that I had foolishly shoved the photo in the bag. I am sure it went out with the rubbish, which was collected on Monday.

So, to recap, so far I have: 1. Described a photo that you will most likely never see; 2. Shared the tedium of office life in the Dermatology Centre; 3. Shared the tedium of domestic arrangements in the Wheeler household. If you have made it thus far, congratulate yourself heartily (and try not to hate me). The reason I'm writing is not because of tedium, but because of loss. The reason I loved that photo so much was because it made me laugh, partly because the image was intrinsically ridiculous, but mainly because it was US. Us, at a moment in time, captured being ourselves - our young, funny, separate-but-together selves. We have so many photos where we are trying to smile for the camera (with, inevitably, one of us squinting or frowning or failing to look like a member of the human race), or where one of us is staring artistically off into the distance, with the slight impression of someone who is trying to remember if they need to buy more loo roll whilst attempting to solve Fermat's last theorem in their head. Staring wistfully in Ireland. Staring wistfully in Colorado. Staring wistfully in Brittany. Trust me, we have the set. But this photo...the lost photo...there was nothing wistful or artistic or contrived about it. Somehow it was our marriage, in a nutshell. We also, quite rightly, have hundreds of photos of our kids to the extent that a photo of the two of us alone is rare from the past 17 years. Now that we are beginning to imagine life after kids have left, I have become melancholic about those old photos of just the two of us.

Before you ask, yes I am well aware that there are people in the world with Real Problems. I am also aware of global warming, the debt crisis, the situation in the Middle East, poverty, famine and disease...OK OK this isn't ever a twitch on the needle of global suffering. And to be honest, it doesn't rate on the scale of things I am concerned about closer to home, either. But today, I feel sad. Sad that I will never look at that photo again. Sad that I cannot share it with anyone. And sad that I can't ever go back to the young, funny person who put their face through a hole and pretended to be a po-faced Prince Albert, while her young, funny life partner smiled manically next to her in the most unconvincing impression since Kim Jong-Il shared his Captain Jack Sparrow.

The Usual Suspect

2011-06-02T23:50:00.000+01:00

I like to have a little look at the stats about this blog. It's fascinating to see where people are when they look at what I've written, and what interests them the most. You're a strange lot, you are; of all the posts I've written, the most popular by far is a little throwaway comment on the health-giving properties (or not) of breakfast cereal. It wasn't big, clever, funny or even particularly interesting - just something to keep me writing, whilst nothing much happened - yet time and again it gets hits, mainly because people insist on searching for info on cereal. Strange.

Far more worrying, however, is the fact that several people have found my blog recently whilst searching for 'Arrest of Tracy Wheeler', or 'Tracy Wheeler mug shot'. I've found the mug shot, and I have to say - it's not pretty; though I doubt that I'd look my best either with no make-up under harsh lighting, and with a number stamped across my bosom.

So then I tried to find out what this Floridan Tracy Wheeler had done. OK she's got absolutely no link with me, other than a name - and that one 'e' down - but I felt a strange sympathy with her, if only because searching for her had led someone to me. But my second search found a SECOND felon - this time in Indiana, and this time with a full complement of 'E's'. Tracey Wheeler had been sentenced to 35 years in jail for possessing and dealing in cocaine, as well as 'maintaining a common nuisance' (well, who hasn't done that?). Her appeal in 2009 was turned down; so there she sits, still.

I guess many of us at some point have idly googled ourselves, perhaps with the hope that the little we do in the world has earned us a smidge of fame, or perhaps to see the road less travelled. Someone else with our name is the doppelganger we never had, the self we could have been. Up until now Tracey Wheeler has been a byword for safe and dull; achieving moderate success in sports, in creative design, and in complementary medicine. I am delighted to see that in 2008 Tracey Wheeler was advertising a gelding that on first glance looked half reasonable, according to a reader of Horse and Hound. She does a mean haircut. She's a college lecturer. She is paying too much for her electricity. And occasionally she writes a dermatology article or some poetry, and tells you about her cats.

I've been thinking a lot lately about the small moments or spurious reasons on which we base major decisions, that can turn a life in one direction or another. I went to Nottingham University, where I met Richard; but it was nearly Leeds. The decision came down to whether I wanted to go to Fontainebleau for the field course (Leeds), or Bavaria (Nottingham). Of course, that was the one year the usual field course professor took a sabbatical and the stand-in took us to (roll that drum...) Skegness. Without that decision I would not have met Richard; and our kids, these particular kids or similar versions, would not exist. No doubt you can think of similar instances in your own life. It is exquisitely poignant to think that such major personal matters rest on such numbskull moments. It is somehow more painful that a completely random event, because it seems as though we are in charge - which is, frankly, terrifying.

So... given slightly different circumstances could I be trading in horses, or cocaine? Could I be an expert reflexologist, or hairdresser, or doing fairly well at a chosen sport? Could I be standing terrified under the glare of a police camera flashgun, contemplating what I had done and what it would cost me?

Or would I just be paying too much for my electricity?

When Irish Eye is smiling...

2011-05-24T22:54:00.000+01:00

So, Diarmuid Gavin finally wins a gold medal at the Royal Chelsea garden show.

In the past this mildly irritating but perseverant garden designer has come up with (amongst other things) coloured knobs on sticks, white globular pods to sit in and...er...not much else, and what looked like quite a lot of dead grass. I'm probably missing something. This year he has won a gold for the first time, with a garden called 'Irish Sky Garden' - a plot with pools of water and mainly green planting (ie not a lot of action on the flower front) and a large metal 'eye', turfed on top and with plants around its benches, that can be hoisted by crane to a height of 82 feet - according to the Telegraph - or perhaps 52 feet - also according to the Telegraph (get it together, guys!). Apparently it was inspired by the film Avatar: I looked, but no blue people (3D or otherwise) were to be seen. There is room within this 'eye' for an interviewer and an interviewee, ie Dairmuid being interviewed by Alan Titchmarsh; though, owing to 'Elf and Safety regs, Joe Public will not be able to queue for a ride (quite right: what is this, Alton Towers?)

Amateur Gardening magazine editor Tim Rumball (oh, him) is incensed. The gardens are for everyone (so long as they've paid the £45 entrance fee)! All visitors should be able to ride in the Eye, and also to replicate the idea at home! This is just a gimmick! Well, duh....

After so many years of failing to reach the gold standard, Dairmuid played to his strength - a slight sense of the ridiculous. No, it would never be my favourite (nor that of the judges, for that matter, I suspect). No, I can't see anyone building a miniature version in their own plot, and hoisting it on the rotary washing-line. But did it get people talking? Was it memorable? And did it bring home the bacon? You betcha. With coloured knobs on.

Incidentally, the eye will find its final resting place in Cork. Every chance it will soon become another slightly odd graffitteed piece of public art. Good luck to it.

A beautiful pea-green boat

2011-05-16T11:55:00.000+01:00

There are plans afoot to sail a ship upon a methane sea on Titan, one of Saturn's moons.

I could just stop there; rarely have I typed a more glorious sentence than that. I am rarely switched onto astronomy, as it seems to involve far too much standing around in a freezing cold garden squinting through the eyepiece of a telescope at something that may or may not be Mars, and not nearly enough visiting the Hadron Collider hand-in-hand with Brian Cox. But think of it: if this project gets funding (and there's every chance), and if it comes off, in a few years time there could be a craft made by human hands sailing purposefully on an alien ocean. Titan is a place of extreme temperatures (minus 290F), sufficient to ensure that methane exists as a liquid rather than the gas it is on our planet. There is no hope of finding life in such conditions; but perhaps the clues to what sort of conditions existed before life began.

Saturn is perhaps the most romantic of planets. Not the biggest, not the closest, not the most colourful, yet certainly the most recognisable with its rings of ice, debris and dust. These rings spin to keep pace with the planet, and cradle within them over sixty moons, the largest of which is Titan. Titan is unique within the known universe in that it is the only moon known to possess an atmosphere. It has weather. Alien wind and alien rain. And weather produces features that we would recognise - lakes and rivers and valleys and beaches. It's not likely to become a top holiday destination, owing largely to a bit too much nitrogen in the air as well as the freezing cold and the distance. But if we could, if we could sail in that ship: ah... we would see something that looked a little bit like home, even as the ice and dust of the millennia whipped across the skies.

So long, and thanks for all the fish

2011-05-14T10:02:00.001+01:00

Ten years ago to the day Douglas Adams died of a heart attack, aged just 49. So it seems an appropriate moment to talk about the impact this author had upon me, particularly as a mid-teenager who hadn't really found her 'thing' at the age of 14 when the TV version of 'The Hitch Hiker's Guide to the Galaxy' (or H2G2, as we geeks say) burst onto our screens. I say 'our' screens - I think it was largely ignored by my peer group, not really unexpectedly since left-field sci-fi comedy wasn't the staple diet of most of the pupils at Queen Mary's High School for Girls. Such fare would have detracted from the slavish following of Soft Cell and Adam and the Ants: all that backcombing took dedication and time. So I ploughed a lonely furrow in my little corner of the Midlands; but that was OK, because I felt part of something bigger, a world where at any moment I could order a Pan-Galactic Gargle Blaster (the effects of which were like having your brains smashed out by a slice of lemon wrapped around a large gold brick), where I could snicker quietly at those girls who still thought that digital watches were a pretty neat idea, and where it was enormously important to really know where your towel was.

H2G2 had it all, as far as I was concerned: ridiculous characters you could believe in, daft approaches to real philosophical problems (why was the answer to the question of life the universe and everything '42'? Because we've never really understood the question), laughably shoddy special effects (in hindsight, yes it was far better on the radio) and a cracking theme toon. But most of all, it had words, funny words, crafted sentences that were laugh-out-loud funny and repaid the reader a hundred times over.

And yes, I probably did read them a hundred times. Once the books came out I devoured them, over and over, until I seriously considered applying to Mastermind as an outlet for all this specialist knowledge. Favourite lines? Oh..."It must be Thursday. I never could get the hang of Thursdays". "'It's unpleasantly like being drunk.' 'What's so unpleasant about being drunk?' 'Ask a glass of water'". "The first ten million years, they were the worst. The second ten million years, they were the worst, too. The third ten million I didn't enjoy at all. After that I went into a bit of a decline". The phrase "He just phoned up to wash his head at us" could leave me helpless with laughter. You probably had to be there.

And then there were the improbable situations. The whale, called into existence and hurtling fast through the atmosphere. The beast that was bred to enjoy being eaten, and could tell you so. The invention of the Babel fish, which provided simultaneous translation of any language when inserted into your ear.

The invention of cricket as Earth's response to a bloody intergalactic battle. The Bugblatter Beast of Traal, a creature so stupid that it thought that if you couldn't see it, it couldn't see you. An early adopter of new tech, Douglas mentally invented both the internet and the iPad in order for his concept of the Book to work. Ah, the Book itself: with the calming voice of Peter Jones, it had the words 'Don't Panic written in large friendly letters on its cover. I wanted to live in a galaxy like that.

I realise I have just outed myself as a total geek, but the point is this: at a time when every teenager needs a hero that has nothing to do with the choices of their parents, I chose Douglas. I pretend that music was a big influence, that I was segueing from The Specials towards The Smiths; but it was words, not so much music, that was my thing. The idea that this clever, witty, prescient man was writing and unwriting sentences, often hitting writer's block and avoiding his desk for days, appealed to me hugely. Waiting for another of his books put one in a special club. They dripped out, slowly, until eventually there were 5 books in the increasingly inaccurately named H2G2 trilogy, plus two in the Dirk Gently's Holistic Detective Agency series (I recommend these to you, particularly if you are like me a Neil Gaimon fan; he owes a huge debt, and knows it). I love the thought, postulated by Adams, that the first Dirk Gently book was written to accommodate the sentence 'High on a rocky promontory sat an electric monk on a bored horse', which popped into his brain and then needed somewhere to live. Adams never claimed to find writing easy; he wrestled with it all his life, partly because he never wanted to produce words that weren't all individually chosen as the right ones for the purpose. I salute that.

H2G2 gave me a sense of belonging at a time when I needed it most, those awkward mid-teens (it gives you a true idea of my geekiness that I haven't looked up any of the quotes - they remain burned onto my brain). It made me yearn for a universe of smug doors, depressed robots and drinks dispensers that analysed my taste-buds then always produced a hot liquid that was almost, but not quite, entirely unlike tea. Where Chesterfield sofas materialised, and important people spent three years in the bath. But most of all, where I too could put words together in such a way that made people laugh, think twice, and yearn to inhabit another world - one of my own making. I am still wishing.

It saddens me that I never wrote to Douglas to thank him for the impact he had on my life, and for the continued pleasure his words give to me.

I guess I have now.

Eight minutes

2011-05-13T17:46:00.000+01:00

In eight minutes I could
Catch up with the headlines
Boil two eggs – consecutively
Take a shower
Grind beans, boil water, make coffee.

In eight minutes I could
Fall in love
Say my vows
Conceive a child
Sign my will.

Eight minutes would prove insufficient
To conduct an argument
Prove a point
Take things to their logical conclusion:
These things take time…

If I could go back in time
Eight minutes
What would I choose to do?
Walk to the postbox – and back
Clean the bathroom
Straighten or curl my hair?

Eight minutes ago
I had not yet decided
What I would do
With this eight minutes: yet
Eight minutes ago
The light that illumines me now
Left the sun
To take its long journey…
And now continues
Scattered and reflected
Bounced and bewildered
Into the deep darkness of outer nothing.

I exist in its past
My present
Is its future.

Eight minutes on
I have written this poem.
That’s all.

Professor Brian Cox

2011-04-26T18:41:00.001+01:00

OK so this is rather tongue-in-cheek; and it may be just to annoy The Man, who feels he should have been given his own BBC show about the wonders of space since he is roughly the same age as Brian, and has the same Carl Sagan book from his childhood. But girls - come on. Look at those lips...

He paints a picture of the heavens with every word he speaks
Describes the telescopic view of every star he seeks.
He names the furthest galaxies and makes dark matter bright
He changes his location almost at the speed of light
His mouth describes phenomena, such as how the sun’s eclipsed:
But all is lost on me; cos I’m just looking at his lips.

Oh, Brian Cox, Brian Cox
You’re my favourite science fox
When you speak of nuclear fission
You’re like a man who’s on a mission

He understands how black holes squeeze the juice out of reality
Explains, with aid of diagrams, the lighter side of gravity
He’s a proper scientist, a real physics insider
He’s got restricted access to the large Hadron collider.
He knows which planet has what moons, their colour and their size,
But I remember nothing; I just gaze into his eyes.

Oh, Brian Cox, Brian Cox
Let me stroke your lionesque locks
I really wish that I could listen
But you’re creating quite a frisson

He comprehends the laws of nature, knows where Einstein’s at
Can update us on the status of Schrodinger’s blessed cat.
No place on earth is too obscure, no planet out of reach
He travels far, from star to star, to boldly go and teach.
He segues from the desert to the Big Bang to the sea:
But all except his glorious pecs are sadly lost on me.

Oh, Brian Cox, Brian Cox
Let us dance beyond Orion’s rocks
Please hear this, my heartfelt petition
You can be my personal physician

You’re so steamy, so D-reamy
I wish that we could form a teamy

Oh, Brian Cox, Brian Cox
You’re my favourite science fox
My love for you is spilling over:
Please stop, before I turn supernova.

Until the end

2011-04-22T15:53:00.000+01:00

It shouldn’t be him.

I know everything he’s done, and everything he’s said, but still - it shouldn’t be him.

He’s too young, it’s too soon. There’s so much more he could do, that he could have made of himself. I believed in him; I knew we hadn’t seen the best of him yet. All this.... it shouldn’t be happening to him. He’s only 30 years old. All that potential…wasted.

Of course, lots of other people would say he got what was coming to him. That he’s a liar, a thief, and a trouble-maker. But I know him. I’m family, you see. I know he was only trying to do what was right by us. To feed and clothe us. If he didn’t look after us, no-one else would, not our sort. And, yes, he stuck it to the Romans at the same time. That’s why they hated him. He’s a dirty upstart Hebrew who didn’t know his place. Well, he always had a big mouth on him. I should know, he’s my brother. And perhaps he shouldn’t have taken what didn’t belong to him. And then of course the violence… well, he had to defend himself, didn’t he? No-one ever gets anywhere in this world by turning the other cheek. But he doesn’t deserve this. He should have got off with a flogging at most, something to remind others of who’s in charge. As if we needed reminding! Not this…horror.

He shouldn’t be here, like a common criminal. They’re the ones that deserve it. The murderers and villains, with no thought for human life. Still, they got what was coming to them. No-one cries underneath their cross.

Except I see I’m not the only one. There are other women, gathered under another cross, softly crying now. I recognise that state: the one that comes after the disbelief, and anger, and wailing. Soon they’ll be left with nothing but despair, like me. Because what else is there? We’re losing our family and friends. These ordinary men that are extraordinary to us, because we know them and love them. I wonder what he’s done to deserve this?

He’s panting out a few words now, my brother. Cursing the Romans. Spitting out his pain and grief. Insulting the man next to him, who was supposed to be some kind of religious leader, even the promised one from God, for all the good it did him. What else is there left to say?

This other man, the one with all the weeping women, is trying to speak. ‘Father, forgive them…’ Forgive who? The Romans? The Rabbis, now clustering round and muttering between themselves? The mockers, with nothing better to do on a dark Friday afternoon than to poke fun at a dying man? – or does he mean the rest of us, those who wait for death here on this forsaken hill?

There is another criminal, a real hard type, on the far side. Now he’s joining in, having a go at my brother. ‘Whaddya wanna go shouting at him for? He’s done nothing wrong! At least we’re getting what we deserve!’

Are we? Did any of them deserve this? Do any of us, who are watching and waiting, deserve this?

Now he’s asking for some sort of comfort. “Remember me when you come into your kingdom’. Kingdom – huh! There’s a crown of thorns on his head, and a sign above saying ‘King of the Jews’. A fine king he makes, all bloody and broken.

Now this ‘king’ is whispering back: ‘Today, you and I will walk together in paradise’. Well, I wish I could see that, I really do. The king and the criminal, hand in hand. Some people have no idea of reality.

He’s getting weaker. They all are. There’s a weird kind of half-light to the sky, and a low rumble of thunder in the distance. The birds are quiet. Everyone else seems to be staring up at the man beside us, waiting for him to say something more. No-one ever looks at the likes of us like that. We’re not important, not worth paying attention to. Just one more bit of street scum to be cleared away.

Looking up at the man called the king I see he’s looking at my brother, with something like pity on his face. No, not pity: love. It’s as if he knows him, like I know him. And loves him, like I love him. More, even. It’s strange… in the middle of all his pain, the man seems to want to reach out to a low-class scoundrel like my brother, seeing all the good stuff that’s inside him. Knowing all the bad, but loving all the good. My brother jerks his head up suddenly, and meets his eyes. Something happens to him, I don’t know what, but I know it’s good: then he sighs, and his head flops down.

I think he’s gone.

And through my tears I see that the King is looking at me.

Art in Lent 5: Resurrection

2011-04-17T17:35:00.000+01:00

What words do we associate with resurrection? Are they static words, or active ones? Resurrection means ‘the act of rising from the dead’. It suggests upward movement; a change of state; a bodily transformation. For a long time I have associated the word resurrection with dance - that bodily expression of an inward state of being. Dance is capable of expressing joy and wholehearted involvement in a way that other strands of the arts cannot. A large part of the reason for that association is due to this image by Bagong Kussudiardja: though I must confess that it does not actually represent the resurrection, but Christ’s ascension into heaven.

Bagong Kussudiardja was an Indonesian artist, dancer and & cultural activist. He studied dance in New York, and founded an Indonesian institute of fine art. Working mainly with batik, his images are full of the fluidity he expressed in his dancing, with many pieces taking dance itself as the focus. Usually his figures are dressed in the bright cloths of traditional Indonesian dance. In contrast this painting uses more sober, stark colour – a deep brown figure against a pale background, in which a white bird shadows the uplifted movement of the figure in the foreground.

The title of the piece is ‘The Ascension’, which identifies the figure as Jesus and recalls the moment when he was taken back into the heavenly realms. However, his dress – a simple loincloth – calls to mind the moment of resurrection. The white bird behind him stretches out its wings and tail, as if it is taking the form of the grave clothes that Jesus is shedding. His ankles are crossed, as if still tethered to the cross; but his arms are flung wide, embracing the heavens.

As the figure lifts his arms his body is thrown off-balance, as if in movement: he seems to dance, or even swim, towards the heavens. This is in contrast with the more staid and regal bearing of Christ in many Western depictions of the resurrection, such as that of Piero della Francesca. Kussudiardja’s Jesus is more joyful, leaping from the earth and praising his Father in heaven. Yet this is not a solo performance; the presence of the bird demonstrates the opportunity for any who would join the dance. We are invited in, and feel that at any moment he may reach down and clasp our hand to swoop us up into ecstatic motion. The resurrection is both inclusive and ongoing.

Another image of dance that has spoken to me over the years is far more familiar: it is ‘Danse I’, by Matisse. In the fluidity of the figures and in the open circle I find a picture of the church: a people rejoicing in the freedom of Christ, both echoing his resurrection and looking forward to the day of their own. The circle is not closed; a print of this picture used to hang on our wall and I felt that at any moment I, inhibited and undemonstrative as I am, might join the dance. Each figure dances freely, individually, without concern for form or structure; yet the whole is coherent. This ‘church’ does not busy itself in striving towards conformity, but celebrates the diversity of the people of God. Even the gender of the dancers seems confused at times – even more so in Matisse’s second version of this subject – and I am reminded of the Biblical assertion that in him there is no male or female…all are one in Christ Jesus.

Behind the figure in Kussudiardja’s painting is a bird, a creature that inhabits both earth and heavens. Its wings and tail are spread open as it takes flight, reminding us of the verse in Malachi (4:2) – ‘the Sun of Righteousness will rise with healing in his wings’. Specific birds are used symbolically in many cultures. It is not clear which bird this represents. Is it a swan? In Indonesia, swans symbolize the discrimination between good and evil. Or (more likely) is it a white peacock? The peacock is well recognized in Asian art, and Christian symbolism links peacocks to immortality and the incorruptibility of the soul. The white feathers of the bird also bring to mind that of a dove. To Jewish thinking the dove was the bird of hope, the one that found evidence that the flood of Noah was subsiding – and so that God’s wrath was ending. Within Christian thought the dove is a symbol of the Holy Spirit, as seen at the baptism of Christ. This painting marks a moment of rebirth, as Jesus leaves behind the limitations of human flesh and rises to the life eternal that he has promised to share with us, through the work of the Spirit. The bird acts as a midwife to this rebirth, as she will do also for us when we leave behind our own flesh and rise to eternal life.

It is interesting to consider how different artists have depicted the resurrection, over the years. Too many for my taste are in soft focus, perhaps even with Jesus developing a propensity to float several inches above the grass. In many paintings Christ is inscrutable, aloof perhaps. The scars of crucifixion are clearly there, reminding us of recent agony and death; yet the face is not entirely of this world. Many images have Christ alone, or surrounded by those who sleep; the resurrection has come stealthily and secretly, and has yet to be discovered. In some the harrowing of hell is depicted – the doctrine that Jesus descended to the place of the dead. Many update the events, or change the location to surroundings familiar at least to the original audience. How would we want to imagine the scene? Or how else could the energy and wonder of the resurrection be represented?

In a number of films of the life of Christ the film-maker stops short after the resurrection, or merely hints at it. Directors are squeamish about re-introducing the figure of Christ, after so bullishly murdering him in the previous scenes. For me the best modern film that portrays resurrection does so without any mention of Christ. Instead, an entirely innocent man is incarcerated in a hellish jail for almost 20 years. During this time he suffers all manner of degrading and agonizing torture, both physical and mental; and yet he retains his integrity and dignity throughout. He shows courage, wisdom and tenacity, and achieves moments of joy and a sense of freedom for the other prisoners and therefore also himself. At last he is pushed too far, and his long plan is revealed; during the time of his imprisonment he has been digging a tunnel out, slowly and painstakingly. He drags his body through the narrow tunnel, then crawls through half a mile of sewerage pipe to freedom.

Whilst Andy escapes he does not leave the others without hope. He ensures the downfall of the corrupt and vicious prison warden, and so ushers in more humane era for the prison. His best friend, meanwhile, is released soon afterwards, having served his time for a real murder and become a changed man over the years of imprisonment, many lived alongside Andy. Without the routine of prison life, he is lost; but is found in the revelation of the plan Andy has for his life. It is fascinating to me that the author of the book that inspired this film should have called it ‘The Shawshank Redemption’. In it the characters find redemption, both in terms of paying their debts to society and those they have specifically harmed; but also in terms of their very natures being ‘saved’ by the experience of knowing Andy. What was for Andy an escape from hell became a rescue mission for them all.

At the climax of the film Andy finally emerges from the hell of tunnels and sewers to stand tall, washed by the cleansing rain, a free man. Jesus has left the prison of the human flesh and traveled through the pit of hell and death to rise, arms outstretched, free at last. In Kussudiardja’s painting I see the same stance, the same joy and liberation. It is both an end and a beginning, a new start that each of us are invited to take – if we will only join the dance.

Art in Lent 4: Doubt

2011-04-08T10:59:00.001+01:00

This should have been the easiest of the Art in Lent sessions for me to write. This is, after all, the one in which I feel that I am an expert. Doubt has been a major feature of my walk with God, so much so that I cannot imagine another way of ‘doing’ faith. Without doubt, would I even recognise faith, when it comes?

And yet I have really struggled to write this. In part, that struggle has come because there is no one piece of art that represents doubt as I experience it. Because, after all, doubt is an absence, isn’t it – and how do you paint an absence? Doubt is the missing piece, the gnawing ache, the secret guilt. Doubt at best is the thing we leave behind when we come to faith, or come to a greater experience of faith – so that we can say, yes I experienced doubt, and ultimately it strengthened my faith. It made me examine the reasons why I believe and means that I no longer shove things under the carpet. Faith becomes stronger, richer and more considered. Surely doubt is something that is cast off, so that we can walk in the footsteps of Christ once more.

Well…sort of. Actually that is not my experience, and that is perhaps why more than anything I have found it hard to write this session. For me doubt is a daily encounter, and for a long time that meant that I found it difficult to deepen in faith. Now I have come to a sort of armistice with doubt; it always hovers there, and some days it informs my thinking and feeling more strongly; but on the plus side, it also informs my faith. More on that later…

The image we are using is Caravaggio’s ‘The Incredulity of St Thomas’. Now housed in the San-souci palace near Berlin, it was originally painted whilst Caravaggio was in Rome aged about 29, around 1601. Although other details of its provenance are unclear it uses the same model for an apostle as was used for a series of paintings on the theme of Matthew’s gospel, commissioned for the Contarelli Chapel, which were his first major commission. Caravaggio’s religious paintings caused a sensation because of their dramatic and often quite macabre details. He used not idealized settings but realistic, dimly lit surroundings with his models taken from the street and elevated to the position of angels and apostles. Caravaggio himself lived a disreputable life: in the years following this painting he was accused of beating another artist, and a soldier; he was arrested following complaints about his behaviour;, and once for throwing stones at the guards. He was accused of throwing a plateful of artichokes at a waiter. He fled Rome in 1605 following a brawl in defense of his mistress, and following a disputed game of tennis in 1606 he killed a man. The darkness, violence and ugliness of Caravaggio’s paintings came straight from his life and his own heart.

And yet – he painted beautifully. Each line and furrow of the skin captured. Each passing thought expressed in each face. Every character in a Caravaggio painting has a role; there are no bystanders simply there to improve the composition. You instantly believe in the moment, can imagine the conversation and predict the action. Take his version of the meal on the road to Emmaus – each figure is intensely active, involved and ready to spring into word or action. Or his ‘Calling of St Matthew’, in which four figures are turned towards Peter and Jesus as Matthew doggedly counts the money. You believe in these characters, whether the style of art is to your taste or not; they matter. They are you and me.

Which is why ‘The Incredulity of St Thomas’ is interesting. There the four characters are, all intent on the wound in Christ’s side. Even Jesus seems engaged in self-examination. As I said, it is difficult to imagine how doubt could be portrayed in art, and this is not the moment of doubting but the moment of faith for Thomas, based on the evidence he sees and touches. This is a popular subject; but other depictions are rather more reverent, and certainly less visceral that Caravaggio’s verson which is comparatively graphic - the sort of art that would have the BBC putting out a ‘this contains images of a disturbing nature’ warning. As we travel into the painting we feel as if we, too, could reach in and place our fingers inside the warm soft flesh. It is shocking, unseemly – almost distasteful.

When it was evening on that day, the first day of the week, and the doors of the house where the disciples had met were locked for fear of the Jews, Jesus came and stood among them and said, “Peace be with you.” After he said this, he showed them his hands and side. Then the disciples rejoiced when they saw the Lord. John 20: 19-20

We read here that Jesus appeared, and blessed the disciples (‘Peace be with you’), then showed them him hands and his side; then they rejoiced. His presence alone was not enough to convince them of his bodily resurrection. So it does seem a little harsh that Thomas is saddled with the moniker of the doubter. Jesus seems more than happy to allow for the disciples’ confusion and skepticism, and is not squeamish when he offers his wounds for Thomas’ inspection. In this painting Jesus even takes Thomas’s hand and guides it into the gaping spear-wound. He is not offended by Thomas’s incredulity, even as he is not offended by ours. But he speaks to us down the years as he says, ‘Blessed are those who have not seen and yet have come to believe’. He lets us know that he understands the difficulty in reaching and maintaining faith without the tangible evidence before us. There is a special blessing for the disciples who are to come after this time.

But Thomas (who was called the Twin), one of the twelve, was not with them when Jesus came. So the other disciples told him, “We have seen the Lord.” But he said to them, “Unless I see the mark of the nails in his hands, and put my finger in the mark of the nails and my hand in his side, I will not believe.”
A week later… Thomas was with them. Although the doors were shut, Jesus came and stood among them and said, “Peace be with you.” Then he said to Thomas, “Put your finger here and see my hands. Reach out your hand and put it in my side. Do not doubt but believe.” Thomas answered him, “My Lord and my God!” Jesus said to him, “Have you believed because you have seen me? Blessed are those who have not seen and yet have come to believe.” John 20: 24-29

Thomas himself looks old, a little weary perhaps, with his cloak coming apart at the seams; and he has clearly seen many things. He is not a young man who may be swayed by tall tales. He wants to weigh the evidence. He doesn’t want to be called anyone’s fool. It is unclear from scripture whether he actually touches Christ, or whether the sight of him is enough; but clearly this is a life-changing moment. But do we believe that he, or indeed any of the other disciples, never doubted again? They may not have doubted the person of Christ, nor even his death and resurrection; but they may have other problems, ones that we are less likely to struggle with, concerning the ongoing presence of Jesus after he had returned to his Father. I imagine that, after walking and eating and sleeping next to him for three years, it was hard at times to learn to walk daily beside him without his bodily appearance on earth. Thomas may have had doubts in his mind that co-existed with the faith that allowed him to spend the rest of his life sharing the gospel with passion. We don’t know; perhaps he never said.

What do we know of Thomas? In other mentions of him in the gospel he comes across as a rather pessimistic man, as in John 11 v 16 (‘Let us go with him, so that we too may die); and someone who wanted things said plainly, such as in the exchange with Jesus in John 14: 1-6 (‘You know the way to the place where I am going.’ ‘Lord, we don’t know where you are going, so how can we know the way?’). And we may suspect that some of his refusal to believe in Christ’s resurrection came from feeling left out when all the other disciples were in on the action. For some of us, being told something by everyone else is guaranteed to make us dig in our heels.

And am I a modern-day Thomas? My doubts, unlike my faith, are a personal thing. I have no problem sharing my faith. I do so at work, at home, with friends, at church. Jesus is part of my life; I am not embarrassed about that, and I find that he crops up pretty often in all sort of conversations. But sharing my doubts? Ah, that’s another issue entirely, and one that is only made worse when everyone else at church seems so sure. The problem is that I don’t have periods of doubt, to be swept aside by renewed faith. Faith and doubt co-exist. One feeds off the other. To consider God is to question much of what I understand about the material universe, about suffering, about theology, about the history and imaginations of human beings. In considering the doubts I find myself back at the side of Jesus, being asked once more if I want to place my hand inside his flesh. The more I think it likely that I will one day throw it all up in the air, the more I feel compelled to follow. And yet still I find myself thinking ‘yes, this is the way I believe, this is how I think God is; that is, if he exists at all.’

I used to feel concern that such an inner struggle meant that I would not ‘grow’, and become more like Christ. Now I look back and see the miracle: it happened anyway. I am not the person I was, and where I have changed it is mostly in a Christ-ward direction. Such is the miracle: in the ordinary and in the doubting, God’s holy fire has surrounded me and made things new. I keep returning to the image in Exodus of the burning bush: just one more ordinary scrubby foliage, that was surrounded by flame and inhabited by the presence of God. The one who is ‘I am’ inhabits even the ordinary doubts, and does not consume but leaps into passionate flame. The two exist together, the material and the spiritual, the doubter and the believer, the Spirit and the flesh. Heaven come to earth.

In Caravaggio’s picture I like to look at the faces of the other two disciples. Rather than standing back with a smug ‘well-of-course-we-never-needed-him-to-do-this-for-us’ look on their faces they lean forward, intensely involved. I like to think they were glad of one more chance to check that they hadn’t imagined it the first time. In church we spend a lot of time saying what we believe, and checking that we are saying it ‘right’; but it seems to me that there is far more that we don’t understand that we do, and so it should be since God is infinitely more than we can envisage. One definition of doubt is ‘to be uncertain’. Whilst I wish I were more certain about some things – perhaps it’s not something that comes easily to my nature – I am also concerned when Christians claim to be certain about everything they believe. Such certainty breeds pride, and can be anti-missional. It is in the exploration of doubts that we discover the possibilities that faith presents to us, not in rigid certainties but in the creative envisaging of a God who is bigger and more wonderful than anything we have so far experienced. I think that church should be a place where we can doubt noisily and openly, and where questions are as much a feature of our lives together – lives of faith – as answers.

Art in Lent 3: Suffering

2011-04-01T09:51:00.000+01:00

I don’t often find images of the suffering of Christ very helpful in my contemplation of the Passion. They are either so gruesome that I find my eyes fixating on the details of suffering, losing the meaning in the process of this individual death; or else the Christ they show is sweet, silent, almost cloying in his innocence. I lose the sense of God choosing the path of sacrifice. I worry that the Man of Sorrows no longer has a choice.

In addition there are cultural difficulties. Images of the cross are now specific to that one death in our minds: it is easy to forget that, under Roman occupation, crucifixion was reasonably common, and associated with the lowest in society – the thieves and murderers, the scum, for whom it was important that the form of execution was not only agonizing but also degrading. Indeed, Christ was not portrayed on the cross in Christian images until many years after his death, such were these associations at the time. However painful to look at, many images of Christ’s crucifixion are a relatively pretty and dignified version of the truth. In reality there was no heavenly light or glowing halo; no protective loincloth; no dramatic raised head or meaningful looks. Only the agony, the panting breath, the splintering wood, the searing nails, the scorching thorns, the naked public defaecation, the burning muscles, the few gasped out words before death. And what of the face of Christ? How do I relate to a sixth century icon, a painting by a Flemish master, a Victorian allegorical work, a twentieth century film? What about those from more alien cultures to our own – from Mexico, from Japan, from Ethiopia? How can I find Christ, through such variety?

I find that simplicity is helpful; hence my choice of ‘Ecce Homo’ by Mark Wallinger (1999).

Ecce Homo: behold the man.

Then Pilate took Jesus and had him flogged. And the soldiers wove a crown of thorns and put it on his head, and they dressed him in a purple robe. They kept coming up to him, saying, "Hail, King of the Jews!" and striking him on the face. Pilate went out again and said to them, "Look, I am bringing him out to you to let you know that I find no case against him." So Jesus came out, wearing the crown of thorns and the purple robe. Pilate said to them, "Here is the man!" John 19: 1-5

In the KJV v5 is translated as ‘Behold the Man’; after questioning him, and receiving no answer that convinced him of Jesus’ guilt, Pilate echoes this in verse 14 with ‘Behold the King’. These are ambiguous words. Pilate could be accusing – either the crowd or Jesus; pleading – for the crowd’s mercy; or even worshipping. So too is this sculpture ambiguous. It is startling in its simplicity: a pure white man, life-size, with no seams associated with life-casting. Every last skin bump and pit is shown. The eyes are closed, in subjugation; does the knowledge that they had to be closed because of the process, the way the model had to wait entombed in resin, change the way we respond? He is naked, save for a small loincloth; Wallinger has not chosen to depict the robe; but the crown is there. This is a Christ someway between the twin pronouncements of Pilate, between ‘Behold the man’ and ‘Behold the king’. He is both. He is neither.

The crown of thorns is gently gilded, echoing the shining haloes of the icons of the past. This Christ has been afforded a golden crown, a sign of kingliness, the gold that was given to him at birth and is his by rights – now painfully pressed into his skull. His hands are bound behind his back. He is shaven, hairless, beardless. Vulnerable. He has the skin blemishes of all men, but the defining features of no-one. He has no need to call attention to himself; this act is not for showmanship. He closes his eyes and imagines the goal, the ones who have been and are to come – the whole of the human race, for whom he stands this day.

Context is everything. Standing alone in a room the sculpture has a lost and lonely look; the figure seems to be waiting for something to happen, and not really engaged in the events of this world. But this piece was originally displayed on the fourth, previously empty, plinth of Trafalgar Square. On the other three plinths stand General Napier, George IV on a horse and Major General Sir Henry Havelock, puffing out their chests and standing larger than life. Nelson, trapped atop his column, gazes out at the city. The glory of man, in war and lineage. The massive lions, with their cradling paws much loved by children wanting photographs of themselves, stare down the feasting pigeons. What would a Messiah do to break into this scene, to get himself noticed? Wallinger’s Messiah simply stands, teetering on the edge of his largely empty plinth, offering himself up to the choice of the masses. Worship? Mercy? Violence? …or indifference?

In Wallinger’s Christ I find my God again. It is a simple, elegant piece that captures the essence of the God-man that gave up his life. Not just his life-breath, but his life: his dignity, his freedom, his influence, his beauty. The lack of physical defining features enable me to find those features I love most – his overwhelming mercy and love, his humility and courage. Seeing that small figure against the backdrop of the self-important city reminds us of the God-perspective, and that little of what we think is important is really important. We must take time to behold the man, and behold the king.

Art in Lent 2: Contemplation

2011-03-29T22:06:00.000+01:00

Michelangelo was commissioned to paint the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel by Pope Julius II and began work when he was 33 years old, completing it 4 years later in 1512. The Creation of Adam is part of nine scenes from the book of Genesis, that itself forms the centerpiece to a complex series of paintings involving around 300 figures. Michelangelo undertook this great work somewhat reluctantly, even running back to his favoured medium – sculpture – until the Pope demanded that he return to work on the Sistine Chapel. This image is one of the three most famous paintings of all time – the others being Leonardo da Vinci’s Mona Lisa and Last Supper – and like them it has spawned many playful reworkings of the scene.

The Creation of Adam shows God the Father reaching towards a reclining Adam. The fingers are not touching, and it is unclear whether the spark of life has already passed from God to Adam; Adam is clearly ‘alive’ yet strangely vacant. If it is ‘pre-spark’ as it were, then Adam is engaged in the act – actively receiving the force of life. True life is absent until the Father’s touch kickstarts not just Adam but the succession of events depicted across the rest of the ceiling.

Like Leonardo da Vinci, Michelangelo’s interest in and study of human anatomy informed his painting and sculpture. Take ‘David’, the renowned gigantic sculpture of the shepherd boy-king that he completed 8 years prior to finishing the Sistine Chapel; the hand alone is perfect, in its rendering of each vein and fingernail. David’s hand and that of Adam are very similar; beautifully elegant, graceful hands, that are relaxed in their pose. God’s hand, in contrast, is a strong workman’s hand, straining to reach forward and close the gap. It is tempting to think that Michelangelo chose one of the scaffolders who helped with the practicalities of the work as the life model, rather than the more delicate model used for Adam. God is busy about his work, getting things done, making it happen; life is no accident for him.

We are used to seeing that tantalizing gap between the fingers closed by a bolt of lightening, as in the title sequence from the old South Bank Show. It has even been postulated that Michelangelo’s knowledge of anatomy stretched to an understanding of the synapses between nerve cells, where the gap between two cells is breached by chemical messengers. This seems fanciful to me, as does speculation that the material on which God rests is the shape of the uterus, or the human brain. Did Michelangelo imagine such a bolt of lightening? I like to think that he instead imagined a gentle prod – after all, he was painting the equivalent of the breath of God, itself an inherently gentle image. God is prodding Adam awake, as a Father might do to a sleepy child – and a touch from such a father, however gentle, has the most overwhelming consequences. No wonder Adam looks vacant: he is in the process of awakening, not from a dream, but from oblivion. And yet the gap remains, between God and Adam. God strains to meet Adam; Adam has only to reach a little to close the gap, and receive the life-spark. In this way this image is perhaps a better depiction not of creation but of our new birth in Christ, when God asks of us that we turn towards him and reach but a little so that we might receive all that he offers.

Within the shape of the cloth that God inhabits exist other beings, including, in the crook of God’s arm, the figure of Eve. This is woman existing yet not created; she exists only as an idea and an intention, in the imagination of God. Perhaps after all this cloth does represent the mind of the Divine Being. Both Adam and Eve, man and woman, are depicted in this moment, at different stages of their creation through to awakening realization of the presence of God.

During Lent it is often a goal to take time out to notice God: in the actions of the day, in the time set aside, and in the wonder of nature around us. In this process we may also notice our own lack of animation, our spiritual lassitude. We are like the dry bones of Ezekiel, rattling around but with no life and breath. To take notice of the beauty around us, to stop and stare and appreciate, is part of what it is to be human. It is also part of what it is to be divine – so in this way we are reflecting the nature of God. As Adam mirrors the position of God as painted by Michelangelo, so we too mirror his image, and reflect back his nature as Creator and sustainer. God gazes on Adam, seeing that his creation is good, and contemplates him even as he breathes life into him; Adam breathes in that life, and then goes on to his task, the naming of the animals – in which he looks, appreciates and stewards them.

Adam’s appreciation of all that God had made took the form of naming, because that was what was required of him, and what was in his heart. It was, in a sense, his spiritual gift. When searching for a definition of a spiritual gift I came across this:

A spiritual gift is the God-given capacity of every Christian to carry out his function in the body of Christ.

I would alter that slightly: A spiritual gift is the God-given capacity of every Christian to carry out his function with flair, where flair denotes something of our individuality and the joy that the exercise of that gift brings. Adam was bringing all that he was to God’s service, with joy.

Each of us will appreciate what is around us in a way that both reflects the image of God in us and the unique take on life that God has granted to us. I tend to turn to words, to poetry, and to photography; those with a background in mathematics may be more likely to contemplate the intricate simplicity of the Fibonacci sequence – the numbers that are repeated again and again throughout nature, dictating its order and beauty. However you contemplate, it should be something that is innate and true to you; not borrowed words, or borrowed sentiments, but something real and unique.

This Lent is an opportunity to wake from the slumber of everyday life, and to catch a glimpse of God-life – life in all its fullness. In order to do this we, like Adam in Michelangelo’s painting, should make a move towards God – reach out our hand, even as he strains towards us. In contemplation of the wonderful things around us we make such a move. Contemplation of creation is never an end in itself, but a gateway to the Creator. It is, if you like, an icon – an image of the one who draws us to himself. Contemplation of the Creator is a fundamental practice of those believers who wish to develop relationship with God.

Art in Lent 1: Wilderness

2011-03-19T12:33:00.000Z

Jacob and the Angel: Jacob Epstein, 1941

Depicting a mighty struggle, it stands nearly 7 feet tall. The translucent qualities of the stone give a depth to the piece, as if one is able to look through the flesh to the structures beneath – the muscles and sinews that strain and pull the other figure into their grasp. Some critics see this as a representation of the struggle that the artist, himself a Jacob, had with his materials – in this case a 2½ ton block of flawed alabaster. Other view this as a comment on Epstein’s Jewish race – he came from Polish immigrants - and particularly their struggle at the time when this was carved.

Epstein has not depicted a gentle angel, a guardian or messenger. This is the moment spoken of in Genesis (Genesis 32: 22-32), when Jacob wrestled with a man until daybreak. In Hosea this man is identified as an angel.

At the time when this happened Jacob was afraid for his life. Esau, the brother that he had tricked out of his birthright, was coming to meet him after many years. As so many times before, Jacob’s reaction was to scheme and plot. He had surrounded himself with the accumulated wealth of the intervening years – the wives and children, the flocks and herds and servants. Now he chose to separate himself from them, and to wait alone in the darkness. And in the darkness a figure came towards him.

The Bible says that Jacob and the man wrestled. There were no blows struck, until the final moment; nor were any weapons involved, other than the strength and cunning of their own bodies. This mimics the birth of Jacob when, following an uncomfortable pregnancy for Rebekah – whose children ‘struggled together within her’ - the younger twin was born clinging tenaciously to the heel of his more passive brother. Despite a mismatch of strength between Jacob and the wrestling man, he refused to yield; and so they wrestled on until daybreak.

Epstein’s angel is no ethereal creature, born of air and light. This is a solid, unyielding figure. The wings are more like the tablets of the commandments than flesh and feathers. Many other artistic interpretations of this account have Jacob warding off the blows of a near-triumphant angel; or else they seem to waltz together in an unending dance. This is a fully-committed wrestle, with both parties sweating and striving for victory. And yet, it is obvious that the angel is holding back; he is not standing tall, but instead is bending his knees to accommodate Jacob’s inferior height. If he were to stand straight, he would instantly lift Jacob off his feet. As it is, this grasp mimics a fierce hug, one which threatens to squeeze the breath from the lungs even as it comforts and protects.

What was it Jacob wanted when he left his family and walked out alone? He had met with angels before, and had received comfort and guidance from them; maybe he sought such comfort again. Perhaps he had no idea that he would meet with God, but needed space and time to consider the next step in his ongoing battle with his brother. Perhaps he felt some guilt for the birthright he had stolen, and with the evidence of his accumulated wealth surrounding him had found it difficult to breathe. It seems unlikely that he expected an adversary, one who would match his strength but not exceed it.

And what of God’s motive? Was the intention to destroy Jacob, or embrace him? In matching his strength to that of a mortal man God deliberately comes in the guise of a human being, with all their frailties and limitations. There is never any doubt that God will win the fight; but he seems to do so by reverting to dirty tactics, leaving Jacob the trickster looking like the fair fighter. It seems only right that Jacob should demand of such a God his birthright – the blessing of God. Yet when Jacob asks the name of his adversary, he is refused. God, not Jacob, is in charge; and Jacob is put in his place, even as his rightful place as the heir of Isaac – a position first won dubiously, now granted by God as a right reward for his tenacity – is granted.

There are moments in our lives when we consciously carve out time to be alone with God; in contrast there are moments when we find ourselves alone and bereft, with none but God to turn to. Both of these can be thought of as wilderness experiences, and in these God may seem especially present or very far away. The conclusion of such an experience can seem ambiguous; in the midst of desolation, what did we really learn of God?

Perhaps the message we most truly learn is that, in his engaging with us, God never becomes less than himself; and that this being is not ours to command. At the end of his encounter Jacob gains a blessing, and that blessing goes with him into the next stage of his journey: yet still he does not learn the name of God. As Moses will discover in the years to come, even Israel cannot know the essence of God’s being, but must simply be content to know that ‘I am who I am’.

And the award goes to...

2011-02-11T14:10:00.000Z

The 2010 Facebook Awards: winners as follows

Best named chickens: Bruce and Sarah Stanley, for 'Hen Solo and Princess Layer'
Birthday Cake of the Year - closely contested, but has to be Gwynneth Pugh-Jones, for 'Pirate Ship'
Most Mysterious Statuses - Sam Sayer (with special mention for equally mysterious profile shots)
For Battling through Weather at all Costs - Gayle Findlay, for multiple hazardous journeys
Rat Catcher of the Year - Cath Hubbuck
Most Entertainingly Harrassed Clergyperson - again, a closely contested award: Simon Cutmore was in third place, but too much beer / too pleasant travels to win; Charity Hamilton is the one to watch for next year; but the winner is Ellen Loudon, for the trials of the Morris Dancers
Best Righteous Ranting: Steve Broadway
Both Best Snowman and Cutest Child Photo go Sally Webb
Most Tortuous Joke (but it paid off, in spades): Tim Summers, for 'Infinite Monkeys requiring Pet Insurance'
Most Disturbing Photographs: Paul Roberts, for Jax's party
The Ooh Matron Award goes to Dom Hubbuck, for 'Rude Vegetable Arrangement'
Best Profile Shot: Sarah Stanley, for the best use of a leopardskin catsuit ever

and the Countdown Special Award goes to Gemma Laing, for daily posts on the number of days until her wedding and the number of pounds lost to fit into her dress.

Reality Christ

2011-01-28T16:06:00.000Z

It's a duo of herring
Served on a bed of five warm focaccia
Accompanied by a glass of red - own vintage, of course.
The boy has talent
We need talent.
But does he have what it takes to go the distance?
Will he give it 110%?
It's an unusual act, what with the lepers and the demoniacs.
It's a 'no' from me, I'm afraid.
See how he washes those feet -
That shows grace, that does,
That shows style.
He's got the X-factor
That certain something, the cross factor.
It's all about the journey he's taking:
Can he collect enough stars? Eat bugs? Survive, in there?
Can he please come to the diary room?
We want to know what he's thinking....
We just want that little bit more.
Jesus, you are live at Golgotha: please do not swear.
Tell us, how does it feel? How do you feel, right now?
Tell us why you think you should stay?
It's the moment of truth...

Regrettably, Jesus, you have been fired:

Please leave the planet.
We'll be talking to you later, on the post-eviction show,
And again, in an exclusive
overheard by the News of the World.

TAW 2011

Bodywork

2010-06-01T18:47:00.000+01:00

I am spending a holiday at home, not doing anything much; and curiously I find my thoughts turning to work, but in a positive, not-particularly-about-anything, not-stressed-out-at-all kind of a way. In fact, with appreciation for the privilege that is nursing.

There are many wonders to be experienced as a nurse. Being part of a caring, curing team; holding the hand of the distressed and dying; seeing new life come into the world; snatching glimpses of the miracles that lie beneath the flesh. Of course, along with all that goes the blood and the gore, the smells and the unmentionables. Every nurse has his or her limits, beyond which the stomach turns so much that caring becomes a struggle. But it is true that familiarity helps one to cope.

As a student nurse I worried about what my reaction would be to the sight of so much corrupted flesh on display: the human body under stress can have a bit of a road traffic accident effect - it's difficult to stop staring. However, one quickly adapts such that absolutely anything seems 'normal' - as, indeed, it is. Now, I enjoy the variety - not in some sick voyeuristic fashion, nor in order to make me feel better about my own imperfections (although I admit that can be an added bonus at times - I'm only human!). Increasingly I find myself delighting in the diversity of the human body - its various sizes, shapes, colours and abilities. Dear Flo Nightingale said it well:

"Nursing is an art: and if it is to be made an art, it requires an exclusive devotion as hard a preparation as any painter's or sculptor's work; for what is the having to do with dead canvas or dead marble, compared with having to do with the living body, the temple of God's spirit? It is one of the Fine Arts: I had almost said, the finest of Fine Arts."

As a dermatology nurse I am concerned primarily with the outer boundary of the body. To see skin is to see the person - their race, their shynes and discomfort, their age. To touch diseased skin conveys a tender respect that many patients have not experienced for years. Diseased skin inhibits an individual, shutting them off from life experiences, even from the touch of those they love the most. It is such a privilege to be part of their road back to accepting themselves, as well as hopefully towards healing.

I feel honoured that so many people have entrusted their own bodies, or those of their loved ones, to my care. However much we seek to become spiritual people, feeding our inner beings, we are also absolutely physical. We occupy the space around us, breathing its air, polluting and changing the small plot of earth with which we interact. And oh, we are beautiful: yes, even you!

I have perceived that to be with those I love is enough,
To stop in company with the rest at evening is enough,
To be surrounded by beautiful, curious, breathing, laughing flesh is enough,
To pass among them, or touch any one, or rest my arm ever so lightly round his or her neck for a moment - what is this, then?
I do not ask any more delight - I swim in it, as in a sea.

There is something in staying close to men and women, and looking on them, and in the contact and the odour of them, that pleases the soul well;
All things please the soul - but these please the soul well.
From 'I sing the body electric', by Walt Whitman.

Thank you, Walt: I have not heard it said better.

Some time ago I watched a programme celebrating the work of The Company of Elders, a dance troupe for older participants run by the artistic director for Sadler's Wells ballet. Many of the dancers had no experience in dance at all; but their age had encouraged them to become less inhibited as they got older, not more. As one of the more physically inhibited people I know (dancing and I are, if not total strangers, then distant acquaintances), I can only hope and dream. Perhaps it is when the tyranny of trying to stay young is forgotten that a true celebration of the body can begin.

Women's weekend

2010-05-08T23:04:00.002+01:00

Just recovering from a busy 2 days at church, all the women getting together...Fun, food, poetry, prayer, dancing and discovery...
Huge thanks to Emma and Vicky for organising it all!
I wrote this specially for the start session.

At the women’s weekend
We shall leave the boys and the men
to fend for themselves; to liberate
our precious time for consecrated ends
As they refrigerate the washing
and then try to comprehend
the list of jobs we left behind.

At the women’s weekend
We shall bring our weary minds and bodies
in hope that this will be our time;
This will be the moment when we leave those lists behind
so to focus on each other in the presence of our God
who seeks to meet with each of us
not included in ‘man-kind’.

At the women’s weekend
We shall synchronise our moon-cycles
Knit bicycles from withies
Discuss the power of the matriarchal
prophet; and the proper purpose of polenta.
And we shall learn to juggle
our many hats and plates
To struggle with the daily weight
that sits upon our shoulders; to create
a new song, that our mouths may sing His praise
instead of being stuck with mantras older than the hills –
‘You forgot to put the bins out’ –
and ‘There’s nothing but repeats on television nowadays’.

And at the women’s weekend
We shall meet with One who met with women
Housewives and harlots, mothers and daughters
Those that were the centre of attention
and the ones who came alone. He caught her
who touched his cloak, she who bled and kept on bleeding
and lived outside the sphere of man’s respect;
He caught and raised her up, to stand erect
amongst the pressing crowd, and taught her
in that moment that he understood the depths of female pain,
when even sisterhood had turned its back. And leading
her on to walk along with him, so he calls each mother, daughter
Once again.

I've never seen Star Wars

2010-03-29T14:28:00.002+01:00

...yes, obviously I've seen Star Wars; I refer you to my previous post. This relates to the radio 4 programme of the same name that has Marcus Brigstocke interviewing someone reasonably famous whilst encouraging them to try cultural experiences that they had missed out on, up until that point. This week it was the turn of Jenny Eclair, who is quite a favourite of mine as long as she isn't doing her stand-up act. Poor, poor Jenny Eclair. Other people have eaten innocuous salads, or played video games, or gone to see Hamlet. Jenny got the following 'must-do' experiences:

1. Reading a self-help book
2. Eating jellied eels
3. Watching Apocalypse Now
4. Listening to experimental jazz
5. Having a bikini wax

It says much about Jenny that, despite it going against all her feminist principles and hurting like stink, the bikini wax seemed to be the favourite activity out of that depressing list.

Still, there's a few more ideas of what to do on a wet (as it inevitably will be) Bank Holiday Monday.

Bra Drawers (may the corset be with you)

2010-03-16T20:48:00.003Z

Yesterday in an underwear drawer far, far away...

So yesterday I finally got round to a task that I had been putting off far too long, namely sorting out my bra drawer. I've read stuff about women's knicker drawers, and seen that scene in Bridget Jones Diary when BJ faces the difficult choice of sexy knickers versus knickers that make your clothes look good. In women's bra drawers the options are far more complex. The categories are as follows:

1. The Holy Grail of bras - the bra that makes you look good in your clothes, good in your underwear, and is extremely comfortable. This bra does not technically exist, yet the modern woman is diligent in her perpetual quest. She seeks it here, she seeks it there. Occasionally I have heard rumours ("It's amazing! But I had to go to the same shop as the Queen uses, and pay a small fortune!") but invariably the tale sadly ends, "...but then I put it in the tumble dryer..." and so the quest begins again.

2. The assertive bra: makes believe you have the perfect pair of gravity-defying breasts, yet would be the last item in the world you'd be seen dead in. Life is cruel. Alternatively, the assertive bra is neon coloured (you thought the straps would look good; then remembered you weren't 19 any more).

3. The 'it's-so-comfy-I-can't-bear-to-throw-it-out' bra, despite the fact that it now has holes, is greyer than Eeyore, and holds your once-pert pair in a ground-grazing position. Possibly with a maternity easy-release catch, for midnight snacking.

4. The 'pretty' bra, usually with matching knickers; the sort of bra that your mother-in-law would be proud of.

5. Conversely, the opposite. Need I say more?

6. The origami bra. Strapless, halter neck or just plain 'multiway', these are tricky to negotiate and can result in injury. Not to be confused with 'motorway', although similar results when it all goes wrong.

7. The neutral bra: vital for wearing under more sheer fabrics, but no amount of re-branding (It's flesh-toned! It's natural! It's nude!) can detract from the fact that you're wearing beige.

8. The sports bra. Designed to give you zero bounce, it grips your vital assets so tightly that breathing becomes optional. No wonder the Williams sisters always grunt so hard on the court.

9. The 'hang-it-all-down-with-the-kids-wear-it-on-the-outside bra. On one optimistic and sunny day you bought this, thinking you'd wear it half peeking round the corner of a sarong or under a lacy and inadequate piece of knitwear. You never did.

10. And finally, the novelty bra. The female equivalent of ties with reindeer, these have cute cartoon animals or slogans. The current trend is for 'nautical' bras. Nautical! I ask you... can't see Captain Pugwash in these.

So, having ascertained that most of my bras fit into category 3, I replenished the drawer with loveliness yesterday (mostly category 4, thanks for asking) and then had to go through the painful process of actually throwing most things away. Out with the saggy, the baggy, the grey and the torn underwear of yesteryear! In with the hard-wired, scratchy-laced, assertively-padded and tightly-strapped!

As Princes Leia put it: "Help me, Oh bra-36B; you're my only hope."

Burn after reading

2010-03-12T14:17:00.004Z

Book Groups: seem like a great idea. You take it in turns to choose a book, you all read the book for the month, you have a friendly discussion over refreshments. In this way you are introduced to books you would never have found, or would not have got round to reading; and you get more out of books, by sitting back and thinking about what is good, bad and ugly about them with friends who may have a very different take.

I am now on my second book group, to which I have belonged for around 3 1/2 years. All in all I must have read an estimated lots of books for book group, some of which I have loved, many I haven't; but the one for this month is possibly presenting me with the biggest challenge yet. I'll admit it: I was prejudiced against 'The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo', by Stieg Larsson, for a number of stupid reasons:

1. Don't like the genre (it's a thriller)
2. Don't like the title
3. Don't like the cover
4. Don't like the fact that it's on the bestseller list
5. Don't like the number of pages (533!)
6. Don't like knowing that, despite all 533 pages, it's still only volume 1 of 3

I have been attempting to get into this book all week, and am still only up to page 37. Part of my problem (and please, try not to judge me too harshly here) is the unfamiliar names (it's translated from the Swedish). Whenever I come across a foreign person or place name I read it as 'bleah' in my mind, which makes for some very tedious sentences with this book: ..." said 'Bleah' to 'Bleah', as they crossed the 'Bleah' to the 'Bleah'" etc etc. I know, I know: I said try not to judge.

Richard thinks I should give up now, but I am loth to do so particularly as I chose a book for last month that several people found very tedious (The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society, by M Schaffer and A Barrows. I thought it was a nice little book; note that - little - not 533 PAGES!!!). Anyway, it seems only fair that I keep going. In the meantime I shall remember some of the books and authors I have found and loved through book groups:

Skating to Antarctica (see above), and indeed most things I have read by Jenny Diski especially 'After these things' and 'Stranger on a Train'. I find her both touching and sharp, and for a woman who spends much effort shutting others out she manages to include the reader in her intimate circle.

'Half of a Yellow Sun' by Chimamanda Ngozie Adichie, a novel that gives remarkable perspectives on the Biafran war and famine in Nigeria.

Frankenstein by Mary Shelley: I suggested this one, but book groups are great for making you get round to reading books and this one was a real surprise - completely unlike its mythology suggests.

'The Suspicions of Mr Whicher' by Kate Summerscale, an account of a gruesome murder that took place up the road from where my in-laws lived though slightly before their time; and how modern detectives began.

'Headlong' by Michael Frayn: difficult to believe that anyone could make the history of Dutch art a breathless page-turner, but he achieved it.

And not forgetting 'One Hundred Years of Solitude' by Gabriel Garcia Marquez, which I would probably never have got to the end of had it not been a book group assignment (there is such a thing as magical realismed-out) but I am heartily glad that I did.

Back to the Floozy with the Painted Shoulder, or whatever it is...

Menhir

2010-03-01T19:46:00.002Z

Yes I do know this isn't a menhir, or standing stone; it was somewhat perplexing to find that, despite the fact I am a self-confessed nut for ancient venerated bits of rock, I don't actually have a photo of a standing stone that also has the requisite atmospheric mist and lack of Yours Truly gurning at a camera. So please be satisfied by this image of The Cheesewring up on Bodmin Moor, taken on a glorious (ha!) day last August.

Anyway...thought it way past time I combined my (possibly unnatural) love for all things old and rocky with my love for writing. I'm reliably informed (by my father) that it is possible to 'get' the rhyme structure if read aloud, preferably by something ancient and flinty (no mum, it's OK; not talking about you).

In the cold dampness of November
Through the glooming light of a half-remembered day
I see you: Longstone
Ancient and beloved, alone
against the gorse and heath and sky.

You are the colour of the moor, its moods and shifts
reflected in the contours of your stone, the drifting
seasons both familiar and strange.
This is not your home; you stand estranged
from land that gripped and held you fast.
Your uniqueness recognised at last by ants
that ripped and dragged and rolled you to this place
to stand, your face turned towards the coming years.

Time has passed; four thousand
years of weathering winds and sun and rain
as lichen crusts the outline of your frame, and generations
pass beneath your shade. Your roots lie deep
within the borrowed earth that once
lay undisturbed, where now the dust of venerators past
can quietly sleep.

And why the toil to bring you to this place?
Why struggle with the soil, to pull and push you far from home
to stretch your twisted angles to the sky,
and grace the landscape with unyielding form? Were you
a marker for the days and years, the key
that unlocked flower and fruit and womb;
the panacea for barren lives and barren land,
whose loam holds those who made your profile true?

Or did they recognise within your form
One who would know, beyond the fragment of their time;
would show the way to mysteries far outside
the wisdom of their years. And could they hear
your call to brothers standing ‘cross the plain,
to another greater higher mind, a name
that quietly waits to speak –

I lay
my cheek against your cold damp skin, and sink
my hands into the glowing moss that shapes
and softens edges, as I wait -
As the wind keens across the heath, and the crow
disturbs the silence of the now.

TAW February 2010

On family weddings, dancing, and the provision of 800 bottles of wine: some thoughts

2010-01-29T18:04:00.001Z

‘There was a wedding in the village of Cana in Galilee. Jesus’ mother was there; Jesus and his disciples were guests also. When they started running low on wine at the wedding banquet, Jesus’ mother told him, “They’re just about out of wine”. Jesus said, “Is that any of our business, Mother – yours or mine? This isn’t my time. Don’t push me”. She went ahead anyway…’ (John 2 verses 1-5: The Message)

It was not the time.
Too soon, the guests would say goodbye
The celebrations now run dry
To mutter ‘cheapskate’ quietly
And slowly slip away; the bride
Would gather disappointed skirts, her dream
Now sullied by this hurt, her groom
Now anxious to divert so coughing nervously.

It was not his time:
He’d only just begun to pace the land,
to show to each his face
to find the ones in need of grace
to follow in his wake. This day was one
for other men to shine - take centre stage, to dance
and dine and drink before the Great Divine
until the morning breaks.

Yet on this most-blessed day, when joy
Suppressed by insufficiency was born again
When wine outpoured most liberally
- the best of wine, the zest of life –
filled each and every cup. When two
sought to become one, and through
this lavish miracle there grew
a new and blissful hope.
Six stone water-jars there were – six jars
Containing water, nothing more:
To quench the thirst, to cleanse the skin
Remove the stain and dirt and sin
The ordinary curse. He looked on water
seeing wine; the laughter in the bridegroom’s eyes;
the humdrum commonplace defied
by overflowing mirth.

And happiness
caught each one unaware
brought each one wonder in that place
where man and wife stood face to face
to dance amongst the throng.
And one who caused the heavenly song
Now joined the revelry, to dance
With bride and groom, with father, mother,
With smallest child and eldest brother
To each his heart belonged.

And then it was time:
Quietly, barefoot, on he danced
and pausing, with a backward glance
smiled at God’s benevolence
then gently walked away. And on into the night
the sound of wine outpoured and sorrows drowned
of love renewed on holy ground
went on till break of day.

TAW 2010

Turkey lurkey

2009-12-27T09:00:00.001Z

So Christmas came and Christmas went
And all we have to show
Is a wrapping-paper mountain
And a bird that seems to grow.
It started off enormous
And then it just got gross
It’s not even a favourite
Not chicken, quail or goose – oh -

Whatever can be done with too much turkey?
It’s glowering upon me from the fridge.
Whenever I begin to feel more perky
It peers around the dish of cold damp veg.

This wasn’t on the wrapper
It said ‘feeds just 6-10’.
No mention of disaster
With an ever-expanding hen – oh -

Whatever can be done with too much turkey?
I’ve curried, frittered, stir-fried all I can.
I’m taking sandwiches with me to worky
Now I swear there’s more than when we first began.

I’ve consulted Delia
Who says make saltimbocca;
I’ve sliced and diced and stripped it
This turkey is a shocker – oh –

Whatever can be done with too much turkey?
Whate’re I try there’s always more to come
The recipes have started to get quirky
A strange addition to a Chelsea bun

I’m starting to make headway
Soon I’ll be at skin and bone;
But then there’s still the soup to make
I’ll be eating this in June – oh –

Whatever can be done with too much turkey?
I’ve foisted meals on everyone I know
But still this bird just sits there, being lurkey
How I wish that it weren’t flightless, and just go!

Food for thought

2009-12-23T17:57:00.003Z

One of the lovely things about Christmas is the opportunity to cook: favourite dishes to share with family and friends, or special dishes that only come out once a year. Over the years I have collected a number of recipes from people that have been, and continue to be, special in my life; this means that, every time I cook 'their' recipe, I think of them (and if I'm feeling especially spiritual they get a prayer, too!). Today I did a marathon cook, starting at around 8:45 and finishing at 5pm (actually I still need to go back and do a bit more). So: thank you to Mark and Ruth (for carrot and courgette bake); to my mum ( for apricot and cashew nut stuffing); to David and Helen (for puy lentil and feta salad); to Richard's mum Sue (for winter coleslaw); and to my Dad for cranberry sauce.

And of course thanks to Saint Nigel, Brother Jamie, and Our Blessed Lady Delia.

You should all feel especially blessed tonight!

Things the Wheelers learned in 2009

2009-12-22T23:08:00.002Z

Dear all

Apologies if you have read this already; this is our Christmas letter this year. Yes, I know, one of those dreadful round robin thingies. Here's a confession: I actually quite like them, as most people I know seem to make some sort of effort to entertain or provoke thought. So here's my little effort, and also apologies to those of you I haven't sent cards to this year - my organisational skills only got me so far!

January: that the neighbours like kissing, after a ‘few’ drinks at New Year.

February: that nothing exciting ever happens in February.

March: that a dental injection administered at 10am leaves Tracey unable to speak at an 8pm meeting without causing general hilarity.

April: that all Richard has ever needed in life to make him totally happy is a shower with a decent water pressure.

May: that Jordan (then aged 14) can hike up a mountain. And hold her pee in until back down the other side, all night if necessary. And that when travelling to Venice it is a good idea to check you know where you are staying when you go for a little walk at 11pm, or at least that you have an 11-year-old child with you who pays attention (unlike her parents).

June: that Jordan is rather good at dancing the cha cha cha, paso doble, salsa, etc etc…

July: that Annie is brilliant at both drama and art, as evidenced by leading roles and prizes. And that Tracey can still make her grey matter remember stuff, as evidenced by her top-of-the-class prescribing exams; but that this may cause both her and her family to tip into nervous breakdowns.

August: that there is no law that says just because you had a soggy fortnight in Cornwall last year, it means you won’t get one this year too; but that taking a Nintendo Wii Fit with you makes the days go with a swing, even if mother has to limp through the streets of Fowey following a Wii-related injury (no alcohol involved, honest). Also that Richard loves live music, but Tracey contrives to feel bored even during a U2 extravaganza; and that 20 years of marriage has mysteriously flown by, almost as if they were enjoyable.

September: that Annie was made for secondary school; that she is a Big Hit with the boys; and that she pulls a mean pint of cider. That Jordan is a little peculiar when suffering with pneumonia. And that writing off a car can have good (financial) rewards .

October: that however many times you sing ’There’s a rat in ma kitchen, what am I gonna do…’ sooner or later you do actually have to do something, and your cats will be of No Use Whatsoever. And that small rats eat surprisingly large amounts of poison.

November: that Tracey needs to write even more articles for nursing journals to pay for the Wheeler’s Grand Trip in the US next year. That Richard Dawkins is married to an ex-Dr Who assistant. And that much rain + dodgy roof = big hole in the US trip fund.

December: that writing songs for church as a couple could possibly lead to the breakdown of the aforementioned Happy Marriage. That mock GCSEs cause much sorrow, but in the morning there is rejoicing. And that there is nothing that cannot be solved by another mince pie and a glass of mulled wine, even if the neighbours are looming again…

Have a wonderful Christmas! With our love, Richard, Tracey, Jordan and Annie

The Carpenter's Tale

2009-12-21T04:39:00.004Z

Working by the light of a lantern, the man’s practised hands carve and shape the wood. His skill and imagination has formed countless objects, many practical, some beautiful, usually for the price of his daily bread. Now, he turns his thoughts to a more precious goal – a gift for his new-born son.

What will this be, my son? What will you be?

I have made so many things before, but none so frivolous nor serious as this. I want this block of wood to become for you a plaything and a memory; a keepsake of me, your father. But what to make? What can I fashion for you, when you are as yet unformed? Oh, I can see you, touch you, smell you; but you are a mystery to me; both your origin and your destiny lay shrouded in mists. Here, I hold the certainty of this wood, and feel the definite grain and splinter beneath my fingers. What is the pattern and pain of your life to be?

Perhaps I shall make a house for you; a dwelling in miniature, to mimic the place where you and I and your mother now live. Something that will recall for you in later years the home of your childhood. Perhaps too it will mimic the home of your future, where you and a wife and child may live out your days. Is such peaceful existence to be your lot? Is your remarkable beginning to settle into ordinary existence?

Or a set of bricks, that your small hands can build and rebuild into houses and cities of your own imagination. Will you be a shaper and builder, like your father? Or will your desires lean more towards destruction? Will you tear down the self-protecting walls others have so carefully built?

I could make for you a Noah’s ark, with the animals lined up two by two. A rescue ship, that saves and protects whilst looking out on so much wasted life. Will your inclination be to save, or to punish? Would your ark be one of liberation, or a means to select only those most deserving?

A boat… a simple boat… on which you could imagine setting sail to cross the lake called Galilee. Would you be a fisherman, my son? Or content to follow in your father’s footsteps? I somehow think that you will carve out your own path. Would you sail to further shores, to experience more of this strange world (that at present must seem strange with every breath)? Will you long to travel, to break free from the constraints of this small town? Will people in far-off places know you by name?

Maybe I could fashion a tree, a diminutive version of the whole from which this wood was taken. A symbol of rest, shelter and provision. A safe haven for the birds of the air; a shade for the weary traveller. Would a tree speak to you, in your life to come?

No… this wood shall become a box. A box, that now your mother can fill with all manner of surprises and trinkets for you. She may place there the gifts which you have been given, strange and wonderful things that we do not yet understand and perhaps never will. They seem to speak of kingliness, and of adoration; and even of death. Still fresh from the watery womb, and already our thoughts turn to the end of your life. But rest, child; be content in your dreams. Death waits for us all, but for you, it is a distant shadow.

On the lid of the box I shall carve beautiful things: the riches I cannot afford to give to you. Gold coins, and pearls, and hidden treasure; Feasts, with a father holding out his arms to his son, and proffering an ornate cup. They are just stories, my son; for stories and this crude wood are all I have to offer you. Do with them as you will. But for now I will love you, with all my being; I will hold you, and sing songs to you of redemption and promise.

I will protect you from the world, for as long as it is in my power to do so.

Happy Christmas, all.

Cereal Killer

2009-12-11T12:36:00.002Z

I like cereal.

I like it at practically any time of day: early morning, obviously, but also as a late night snack or an insomniac's comfort. I have even tried the 'cereal twice a day and one proper meal 2-week diet', and didn't find it too onerous. I'm a bit hard-core with my choice of cereal, and almost always eat the same: organic sugar-free muesli with a few added linseeds (you can never have too much fibre), topped with a light sprinkling of Special K red berries, all gently basking in a puddle of cold semi-skimmed. I use the same bowl, and the same spoon, every time.

My cereal habit started young, my first love being Weetabix. Weetabix with sugar and milk; with banana; with cold stewed rhubarb, or gooseberries. I didn't even mind that it went soggy within about 10 seconds. I progressed through fruit and fibre and Alpen, with a brief flirtation with Crunchy Nut Cornflakes. Now it's just the above concoction, with occasional seasonal changes - fresh fruit chopped on top, or porridge when it's freezing outside. This constant in my life is very comforting when I consider a healthy lifestyle - at least one part of my routine is definitely under control.

Except that it isn't. According to some nutritionists, cereal is Of the Devil and Definitely Going to Kill You. Even if the worst offenders are avoided - those sugar-coated pretend-chocolately affairs - the onslaught of so much wheat into the system will build up intolerance, and predispose one to type II diabetes. Allegedly. Your best option is porridge, which is a slower-burning grain in the body (although once the salt / sugar / syrup / chocolate drops required to make it taste like anything other than cardboard have been added, it probably no longer rates as a healthy choice).

So what else to eat, given that I really am rather peckish in the morning? Eggs (now apparently OK again)? - no time. Toast? - see cereal. Bagels / croissants / pop-tarts / muffins? - see toast. Apparently we're all supposed to eat natural yoghurt, preferably live and organic, with fresh fruit. Although I am allowed to keep my linseeds (whoopee). Do these people have any concept of what I do in my day? That sort of breakfast would get me half-way to work, whereupon I would have to stop walking and have a little lie down. In the road.

The first time I had any concept whatsoever that other people on the planet didn't choose between cereal, toast or eggs for breakfast was a trip to Greece when I was 9, where I ate a piece of fruit cake and a slice of ham each day. Still, I thought such affectations were for weirdy foreigners, who presumably hadn't yet invented Shreddies. When I was about 14 I read 'Rebecca' by Daphne du Maurier, and was fascinated by the scene where Maxim carefully peels a tangerine for his breakfast with a silver knife. How exotic, I thought! (Don't think tangerines had reached Birmingham in the mid eighties; we were still on satsumas). I imagined that one day I too would be grown-up and elegant and eat a tangerine for breakfast. But Max de Winter probably never had to do half of what I have to do to get out the house, leg it up the hill and do a busy clinic of a morning. One tangerine would barely be enough to fuel me as far as the end of our front path.

Think I'll stick to cereal.

Song Wars

2009-11-26T17:01:00.003Z

The gauntlet was thrown down some weeks ago when the music director at our church commented that there weren't many decent advent songs, so we keep dragging out old staples. So of course, I had to write one. The problem is, I do words, not music, so I asked The Man to pitch in once I had the lyrics nailed.

Now Richard has written a number of songs in the past, when we were part of an alternative worship community back in the nineties (for those of you in your twenties, that's what we used to call emerging church; for those of you in your teens, that's what we used to call church). Most of these had melodies that gained the description 'folky dirge' within our little gang. They weren't known for being jolly, or even particularly purposeful - it became difficult to know when they had finally finished, as they tended to drift off into some slightly mournful or loopy chill-out ambient track, usually 'Mountain Goat'. But they served our purpose well (we didn't believe that jolliness was next to Godliness) and were a nice accessory to our black lyra and Celtic Cross pendants (this was the nineties). One even got picked up by Greenbelt and used in the main communion service - Richard still gets tiny dribbles of money coming in from royalties, about enough to keep him in plectrums.

So I suppose it was inevitable that the tune he (assisted by Jordan) came up with was in a minor key and a tad more mournful than I had imagined. It was also quite unpredictable; this I realise can be a really good thing, lets face it most church music is painfully predictable. However, a congregation has to be able to learn it. I like their tune; I'm just not sure it fits the words.

I then went away and wrote an alternative (I say wrote; I sang it at them). It's a lot brighter, lifting, jolly even. It is however rather like a number of other songs. I quite like it, but I wouldn't get excited over it. Richard thinks it a bit boring. Jordan isn't speaking to me (about this, anyway).

So now Richard is thinking we could use my verse (fits the words better, in all ways) with his chorus (more musically interesting) and possibly my bridge (even Jordan admits their version was unteachable to a congregation). I'm thinking: why stop there? Let's get each person in the music group to make up a line! Or even, each person in the congregation to sing a note of their own choosing! (Sometimes I'm not sure this isn't how things work already, particularly with some of the more archaic hymns).

We need to finalise things rapidly - Richard is leading worship on the second Sunday in advent in 10 days time, which is really the last chance to introduce it. Besides which, Richard and I are now at a stand off that could see us singing different tunes in the same service (I think he'd win, what with having a microphone and all). Perhaps we could scrap the tunes altogether and find a well-known melody that fits. The Road to Amarillo seems to work...

Keeping the wolf from the door

2009-11-02T10:16:00.002Z

As someone who copes with a chronic disease herself I am interested in the language people adopt when speaking of their own or other's illness. Over the summer there was a lot of discussion on this subject with respect to the descriptions of Jade Goody and the cervical cancer that caused her early death. The media adopted the language of war: Jade was 'brave', was 'battling'; she 'fought the cancer', and was 'shell shocked'. These are common terms when speaking of cancer; in particular it is noticeable that the possessive pronoun tends not to be adopted with cancer, in contrast to other diseases. People rarely talk of my cancer, whereas they will own some other conditions - my diabetes, my asthma, my eczema. Perhaps this reflects both the sudden onset or at least discovery of cancer, coupled with its life-threatening capacity (although many other chronic conditions are life-threatening, it is true that thousands of sufferers live out full lives).

Cancer is perceived as the enemy above all other life-threatening conditions, and the language adopted is therefore the language of alienation. Cancer is the Bogeyman, the monster that lurks under the bed; it is strange, it is bizarre, it is unknown, it is unpredictable. It is Other. Sufferers use this idea to visualise the cancer, to gain mastery over it in a way that is not done with other conditions where the link between the psyche and the physical has more convincing proof. It is the cancer; it is not my cancer, for to admit as much would be to allow cancer a foot in the door. Yet cancer above all health defects has its origin in the human. Cancer is our own cells, dividing normally, but forgetting to stop. Cancer is termed aggressive, yet the processes are the same as that required to initiate and sustain life. Cancer is imagined as a terrorist, waging guerrilla warfare inside our fragile bodies; yet cancer is often of our own making, quite literally at the cellular level and also through our insistence, despite all our knowledge of the evidence, on exposing ourselves to environmental conditions, diet and toxins that are inconsistent with healthy long-term cellular processes.

When I am talking to dermatology patients about self-management of their condition I avoid personalising the diseases. I talk of their skin, but the eczema, the psoriasis. Even this is misleading: how can it be their skin, when even the normal epidermis cell sheds and is reborn every 28 days, and the psoriatic skin cell turns over in just 4 days? I too do not like to talk of my disease, my lupus. Yet this disease, like cancer is in many ways of my own making. Systemic lupus is autoimmune: all my symptoms arise from an immune system gone into overdrive, creating a cascade of chemicals that form large complexes. These circulate and cause inflammation in joints, in skin, in blood vessels. The triggers are suspected, but not known. Sunlight exacerbates, but is probably not the initiator. Viruses and hormones are more heavily implicated - indeed, my symptoms started when I was pregnant second time around. Of course, I don't blame the child; but neither do I take responsibility for the disease myself. It is Other. It is The Enemy.

And yet...the battle waged when dealing with a life-long condition, that is potentially life-threatening, is exhausting. I take pills every morning, and have done for 6 years - and will do for the rest of my life. I take pills to protect me from the pills. Every time I feel under the weather, I wonder if a flare up is coming. I get my bloods checked, I attend hospital appointments. Options are reduced. Travel is more difficult. Sleep can be elusive. Plans must be held lightly. Sometimes I adopt an attitude of seeing lupus as part of me, integral, and wonder what life would be without it. I have learned much about myself, and been forced to lean on others. I have probably - although it pains me to admit it - become a nicer person, because of lupus.

Perhaps it is my disease, after all.

Busy doing nothing

2009-10-23T12:25:00.000+01:00

It's the end of a long long week, at the end of a long long half term, and I've got the house to myself until 3pm. There are plenty of things I could / should be doing: cleaning and tidying, washing and ironing, finishing one article and proofreading another. Running on a treadmill. Raking up leaves. So far I have done none of these. So far I have done the following:

Got up - sort of - and eaten breakfast
Read a magazine
Put some washing on a line
Gone back to bed
Read a book in bed
Got up again. Found some clothes this time. Cleaned my teeth. Cleaned the bathroom (only because I want a shower in less squalid surroundings).
Rang work with 'just a thought' about a patient I saw yesterday
Made coffee and a marmalade sandwich, Paddington Bear style
Sat here writing rubbish.

And, er, that's it...

Am now feeling sort of guilty. Or at least, anxious that this waste of time will ultimately catch up with me, and I'll be forced to pay some penalty. I probably wouldn't feel nearly so guilty if I had Done Nothing with a friend or family. It's the knowledge that others are hard at work whilst I fritter time away that's eating me up.

But not enough to make me want to actually do anything.

Now, where did I put that book....

Riding in cars with girls

2009-10-17T11:20:00.002+01:00

Having written off our car (not me, the Man, in case you ask) we are awaiting the delivery of a very nice Skoda Octavia with lots of bells and whistles on it. We did our homework and knew what model, spec and age we were prepared to pay for, then asked Autosave to find us one. As we are without a vehicle we then couldn't be too choosy when they came back with an option that fulfills all our brief but isn't exactly the sort of colour we would have chosen. Annie (daughter no.2) is apoplectic, and may refuse to ever be seen in it. I may have to close my eyes when approaching it. I'm trying to be relentlessly cheerful, given all its other assets, but it's not easy...

My car is an orrible colour

My car is the colour of poo

It's got leather seats heated in winter

It's got climate control when it's hot

It's got wipers that know when it's raining

And then know when to stop when it's not - but -

My car is an orrible colour

My car is the colour of poo

It's got pockets the size of the planet

And a little light where I keep maps

It's got places to keep all my knick-knacks

And room to stretch out for a nap (not whilst driving) - but -

My car is an orrible colour

My car is the colour of poo

It's got 6 gears to change when I'm cruising

And 6 CDs lined up to play

There's sensors that beep when I'm parking

And scream when my parking's astray - but -

My car is an orrible colour

My car is the colour of poo

Its fuel consumption's impressive

And likewise its space in the boot

It locks with the press of a button

Its horn gives a fierce rooty-toot - BUT -

My car is an ORRIBLE colour

My car is the colour of poo

I've tried to deny

that it offends the eye

but the yellow-brown hue's

like something found on one's shoes

I've tried calling it 'gold'

(It's cappuccino, I'm told)

But the fact of the matter

is, despite all this data:

My car is an orrible colour

My car is the colour of poo!

Honest to God

2009-10-12T22:13:00.002+01:00

Sang a new song on Sunday that the younger kids had written during the summer. Can't remember the words (except the line 'God you are healthy' - what's that about??) but do remember the verse valued chocolate as much as the resurrection, and implied that Jesus came at Christmas so we could have presents. I was very happy there had been no attempt to persuade the kids otherwise - the priorities were absolutely those of your average 8-year-old, and I'm sure the heavenly host joined in in the same spirit.

So how to follow this lead, as adults? Instead of singing songs that always reflect where we think we should be directing our thoughts, should we be more honest about where they're really drifting off to?

'Lord you have my heart
but only for an hour,
or else the dinner will burn to a crisp'.

'Here I am, Lord; it is I, Lord,
it's a miracle I made it here today.
I won't say, Lord, that I want to,
but I promise you that I'll still pray.'

Or perhaps we could articulate some of the everyday wonders that we discover as children of God. Stuff like: 'I sometimes get my knickers in a twist, but your love pulls me straight' (a bit 1950's chorus, that one); or maybe, 'thank you Lord, you saved me, from killing my husband, once more' (with verses that substitute husband for 'children', 'livestock' - pets doesn't scan - and 'neighbours'). A favourite for me could be 'Let me sleep Lord; let me lay down in your presence, and drift into your arms / O Lord let me sleep' - though perhaps not right before the sermon.

Songs could also reflect the anguish of living in a fallen world.

'O Lord we've gone and b*****ed it up
the world's in such a mess:
the air is poisoned, the seas are dead
the trees lie felled on the forest bed
and half the people are poorly fed
and so we all confess -

B*****ed it up, Lord, b*****ed it up
O Lord we've b*****ed it up.

Perhaps the lack of poetry expresses something of the heartfelt nature of that particular prayer!

Crouching Tiger, Hidden Grapefruit

2009-10-02T11:06:00.003+01:00

The Man and I were idly wondering how the names of military operations get chosen. They can't be randomly selected (I'll have a vowel please Carol...and a consonant....) and even choosing an adjective followed by a noun could throw up some fairly dreadful combinations (hard to fire up the forces with 'Operation Fragrant Plantpot' or 'Shrugging Shoulders'. Names need to be something that fierce military generals can tell the President without laughing ('What are we calling this operation, General?' 'It's Operation Timid Otter, Sir' - er, no.).

So to come up with such wonderful names as 'Urgent Fury' (US invasion of Grenada), 'Purple Warrior' (UK Falklands training exercise) and not forgetting Desert Storm, there have to be people (person?) with that job, with military credentials and codeword clearance (not sure what that means, but they say it a lot on The West Wing. Hah! Only my 2nd post back and already I'm mentioning The West Wing! Did I say how good it was?). Perhaps they do other things as well - uniform design? Cleaning the situation room?

There have been a few awful names over the years. Frequent Wind, anyone (Vietnam)? Operation Bramble Bush (Israeli attempt to assassinate Saddam Hussein: no wonder it failed). Australia really weren't trying with 'Operation Morris Dance'. Seems a shame they don't choose names that spell things out, 'exactly what it says on the tin' style: perhaps Operation Gleeful Slaughter, Trained Scapegoats, or Unnecessary Carnage.

What I reckon is, the People That Choose have lists, one of adjectives and one of nouns, all approved by some committee. It is then a simple matter to select the next word from each list. Try it for yourself. Select one from the following:

Mountain, breaking, definite, steel, red, sleeping, restoring, exotic, screaming, desert, cautious.

The add a second word from the following list:

Dragon, cedar, wind, cobra, fire, eagle, cactus, tiger, storm, charge, hope.

(Nearly) works for all options!

Most of the good names are very macho and purposeful. Would we get a different kind of operation if we chose names like 'Little liedown' or 'Touchy feely'? Perhaps I'll suggest it to Obama, he seems like a nice bloke.

Especially for Steve...

2009-10-02T08:30:00.002+01:00

So this is the equivalent of me popping out to the postbox calling 'back in a minute' over my shoulder and then not returning for several weeks.
No I didn't get lost, but I did have other things to do (in particular learning to be a nurse prescriber; with proper pharmacology exams and everything!) and then failed to get back into the habit of writing anything except essays.

So here I am - back in the blogosphere - and delighted that more than one person has requested my return, though Steve asked the most so he gets a name check.

Now, there must be something I can write about...

I love my MP3

2008-05-01T18:01:00.003+01:00

I don't know if I'm alone in this, but I could swear my MP3 has a little sentient creature living inside it. Not a scary Dalek-type creature, but rather more cute and friendly.

It started with the naming. Back when iPods started, Richard got himself a big old Creative Zen Touch (not as cool looking as an iPod, but rather more robust, with a massive memory and a lovely strokey-strokey control panel). Since it wasn't actually an iPod we christened it Pseudopod. Then he bought me a tiny Creative Zen V for my birthday (see picture) - aah, how cute is that! - so of course that became 'Diddypod'. And very happy we have been together ever since.

Now both Richard and I have noticed the tendency of our pods to 'bond' with us. This is particularly strong for Richard and his pseudopod, so much so that it started to play the only song in history (probably) that mentioned the name of the Irish town we were pulling into on a tour (and it wasn't Dublin or Belfast). That's spooky. It frequently selects tracks that are uncannily appropriate. Mine, too, seems to have a mind of its own, though it's rather less in tune with mine (although it seems to have my stubborn streak). For example, judging by how often it chooses them:

It likes Kirsty McColl, but not Suzanne Vega.

It likes Fiona Apple, but not Aimee Mann.

It really really hates '1234' by Feist, and will avoid it if it's in a playlist of 2.

It likes rather jolly and slightly novelty songs on the walk to work - Sparks, Ian Dury, Kaiser Chiefs (it really loves Kirsty McColl's 'There's a guy works down the chipshop swears he's Elvis', which obviously presses all of its buttons); and prefers more mellow stuff on the way home (suits me!)

It likes Prince when I'm in the gym.

Tell me I'm not going mad, that there is something other than coincidence to all this!

A Child of our Time

2008-04-28T11:17:00.002+01:00

Richard and I attended a performance of Michael Tippett's 'A Child of our Time' on Saturday, which was a school performance aided and abetted by 4 professional soloists with local connections and a few professional musicians. Oh - and Jordan was in the chorus. I didn't know the piece at all, and my enjoyment of it was not enhanced by the extreme pain transmitted to my buttocks by the hard chairs. However, despite my amazement that the school managed to pull off a creditable if slightly under-rehearsed performance, I have to say I didn't appreciate the composition itself.

Tippett began writing this oratorio in 1938 in response to events surrounding a political assassination by Hershel Grynszpan, events which triggered widespread persecution of the Jews in the Kristallnacht (night of broken glass); the actions of Grynszpan were used by Nazis to justify their actions. Tippett took this concept of scapegoating together with his staunch pacifist sympathies (he was later imprisoned as a conscientious objector) and a bit of Jungian resonance to form the basis of his libretto.

Now I'm not really an appreciator of classical music. I like classical music; I don't like all of it, not by a long way; and I don't often know why I do or don't like something. I liked bits of this. But what I do have strong feelings about is words. And I didn't like these words. I found them rather naff, to be honest. Interestingly Tippett first took the idea of the libretto to T S Eliot, hoping that the great poet would write it for him. It's reported that Eliot declined on the basis that Tippett's music would provide the emotion, and that there was no need for further poetry. I reckon Eliot was being polite, and secretly didn't want to be saddled with such a restrictive brief ('I want it to be about a specific event, but also the universality of conflict, resolution, suffering and oppression together with a bit of acceptance, all wrapped in a Jungian subtext with a smidge of the Bible thrown in for good measure'). So Tippett wrote it all himself. Here's one of my 'favourite' bits:

MOTHER Oh my son! In the dread terror they have brought me near to death.
BOY Mother, mother! Though men hurt me like an animal, I will defy the world to reach you.
AUNT Have patience. Throw not your life away in futile sacrifice.
UNCLE You are as one against all. Accept the impotence of your humanity.
BOY No! I must save her.

...and so on and so on. OK so this is personal taste. But the thing I really objected to was also the thing this piece is often lauded for; the inclusion of several traditional African -American Spirituals. I understand that Tippett was trying to convey the universality of such persecution and suffering, across the sweep of human history. And they certainly worked well in terms of the music (and the words were a welcome relief too!). But I found it hard to stomach hearing about the persecution of the Jewish people alongside Christian songs such as 'Nobody knows the trouble I see'. 'Go down Moses' worked far better, reflecting the Jewish story as it did. Richard was of the mind that these songs were just as alien to the original faith and culture of the African slaves, so therefore they work well as a cross-cultural reference. But I kept wondering how this odd juxtaposition would sound to someone Jewish.

In these times we are perhaps more careful to respect the differences and celebrate the individuality of races and cultures, rather than to embrace the similarities. I am as much a child of my time as Tippett was of his (albeit Tippett was out of step with the prevailing culture, his counter-cultural stance was still one of 1938). I am not sure that I can lay aside my knee-jerk reactions long enough to really appreciate the thought process behind a work such as this.

Many Times

2008-04-26T14:18:00.003+01:00

I visited London for the day on Thursday, with my mum and Annie (off school due to the NUT strike). Mum had wanted to visit the Terracotta Army exhibition, but we had failed to get tickets; so instead I took her to see the Juan Munoz retrospective at Tate Modern, which included the piece 'Many Times'. With 100 figures all with similar Chinese features, I reckoned this was the next best thing to the Terracotta Army.

Other people round the world have seen this piece and blogged about it. Lots of people feel a little unsettled by it - the figures all seem to be in on the same joke, leaving the observer feeling as if they are excluded and perhaps as if they are themselves being observed, even ridiculed. I had no such sense, and rather felt joyful in the presence of all these laughing, footless little men. There was something ridiculous about them that made we want to smile the whole time we were in there. One figure alone could not have accomplished this; rather, it was in the lavish repetition that the genius lay. Many other people seemed similarly affected whilst we were there - as viewers were free to wander at will between the figures I positioned myself in a corner and watched as people walked in, all wearing their terribly serious and earnest art gallery faces, then as their expressions changed to smiles and wonder.

Of course all the best art allows the viewer to become a participant in some way, and this was certainly true for our little party. Not only did we wander between the figures, choosing our favourites and imagining the topics of conversation between them. On the way in Annie had caught a tiny caterpillar in her hair, which she had carried carefully around the exhibition (I think she said its name was 'Kevin'). By the time we left the 'Many Times' room it contained 100 small grey resin figures; and one teeny-tiny green caterpillar, sitting on the shoulder of a laughing grey man.

Songs that end well, songs that don't

2008-04-04T18:39:00.002+01:00

I heard someone on the radio the other day complaining that too many songs just drift away, fading out instead of ending properly. I think I agree. It led me to think about some favourite - and not so favourite - endings. So, in my opinion...

Songs that end well...

A Day in the Life The Beatles - class.
Big Time Peter Gabriel - altogether now: Big big big big big big big big big big big big big big big!
London Calling The Clash - Morse code moment.
Love Cats The Cure - time for lots of silly dancing. Or is that just me?
Deeply Dippy Right Said Fred - you'll have to trust me on that one.
This Charming Man The Smiths - altogether now - dum dum dum dum dum dum dum dum dum dum dum dum dum dum dum dum dum dum dum dum dum dum dum dum ...diddle-iddle, dum-dum-di-dum-dum, diddle-iddle DUM DUM!
This town ain't big enough for the both of us Sparks - I love a bit of falsetto, me.
Slave to the Rhythm Grace Jones - you're just waiting for that last intake of breath.

Songs that end badly...

Will you? Hazel O'Connor - yes we know you've paid good money for that saxophonist. But he can stop now. No, really. We've had enough.
Atomic Blondie - what a great song. What a dribble away ending. A good example of the type.
War Baby Tom Robinson - someone else who doesn't know when to pull the plug.
Light my Fire The Doors - eek! The last chord is a nails-on-blackboard experience.

And the jury's still out on...

Sinnerman Nina Simone - any of the endings played would have been great. I just think she should have picked one, and stuck to it. The song starts ending after about 7 minutes, and finally grinds to a halt after another 3.

Face off

2008-03-24T10:14:00.003Z

Richard, Annie and I watched the final part of BBC's 'The Passion' last night with a small amount of trepidation that the usual cynical approach to the resurrection would prevail. We had only watched the previous episode, not the ones earlier in the week: I'm always a bit reticent to see interpretations of Jesus, afraid that someone else's version of Christ will stick in my head in an unhelpful way. Even if the version is potentialy a good one - remembering Zeffirelli's 'Jesus of Nazareth' - it can still 'stick' a bit too well, so that I can feel I'm praying to Robert Powell at times - even now!

But I loved the way that last night's production interpreted two of the gospel readings. The Bible tells us that both Mary in the garden and the two on the road to Emmaus failed to recognise Jesus at first; then 'saw' him in the simple and familiar - Mary as he called her name, and the two as they watched him break bread. 'The Passion' demonstrated this by using different actors, the first one looking more like the original than the second (or was that the same person with different hair, prosthetics etc?), who used some familiar body language and turns of phrase to make both the disciples in the story and the audience wonder if it was the same person or not.

The whole effect made me more conscious of the ordinary humanity of Jesus - dirty fingernails, calloused feet, sunburned face and all; and of the ability he has to get under our skin, to force us to recognise his presence even when everything in us wants to deny it.

Palm Sunday: Imagine if...

2008-03-16T21:23:00.004Z

Through the dust and fumes of a Spring morning he rode,
Choosing the simplest and most humble of transports.
The crowd began to gather almost at once
As news of this most inauspicious of visitations spread from house to house.
Through the outlying regions he came, gathering momentum, freewheeling where the gradient allowed, smiling at those who had dropped everything to celebrate this moment.
Past Filton, Horfield, Bishopston, Montpelier, he paused at the traffic lights and gazed up the City Road towards St Pauls, not speaking but calling just the same.
Then, onward he cycled, slower now
Through Stokes Croft where the everyday artists sat smoking and waving, and the girls from the massage parlours smiled to acknowledge one who would not condemn.
Crossing to the Barton Roundabout he briefly dismounted
Clattering his bicycle down the ramp so that he could celebrate with those who also had nowhere to call home, as they whiled away the hours drinking toasts to the music of the subway tin whistle.
Back on the bike, chasing the skinny dogs that leaped around his wheels, he turned southwards; passing the temples of commerce and on to the place where the fountains danced for joy. The people came surging forwards now, rushing out of shops and bars to lay their fleeces and their city jackets over the fag-ends and discarded chewing gum at his feet. Unable to contain their wonder they kicked off their shoes and splashed through the fountains, reaching for songs that they half-remembered; then lapsing back into those they did –
- Mr Blue Sky –
- All you need is love –
And ‘Angels’, as some held their lighters aloft, whilst others captured the moment on their mobile cameras.
He did not wait for this photo-opportunity; instead he turned once more, and began the slower ascent up Park Street, pausing only briefly to beckon the clergy from the Cathedral gathered outside on the grass, and swerving to steer in and out of the skateboarders as they put on a show for him.
Laughing, he stood up on his pedals, leaning his head towards the handlebars, aware of those around who likewise bowed their heads.
As he reached the Triangle more crowds gathered, shouting his name now, and ‘Hosanna! Hosanna!’
Children on a school trip to the Museum called out ‘Look this way! This way!’ –
And he frowned,
As the teacher corralled them back into their orderly crocodile.
No sense of order was his domain this day
As the chaos of crowds and the cacophony of praise prevailed
And the traffic was brought to a standstill by one lone cyclist
Who nonetheless was a calm point in the midst of all this
And on whose actions rested all of the upheaval in other peoples’ lives.
Turning towards the Whiteladies Road
He rode on
Because even the rich people need saving.
Office windows were flung open
or lifted to the height that restraints would allow –
as the assembled crowd raised their frothy mochaccinos towards him
then turned back to the priorities of the day.

Ride on.
Ride on.

TAW March 2008

How to sleep during sermons whilst not discouraging the preacher

2008-02-18T22:48:00.002Z

Some suggested methods....

Glaze over. Does not allow you to close your eyes, but in all other important respects you can sleep. Probably best not to be on the front row for this one.
Develop a habit of nodding your head, David-Gray-style, in order to infer agreement. Eyes may gradually come to a complete closure.
Have a baby, and then time its feeds appropriately. Rather an extreme method unless you're already planning to have a family.
Steal someone else's baby. Note: the child needs to be fairly young, and very compliant, or the opposite of sleep will occur.
Slump forward, head in hands (or resting on pew in front). Only a viable option if it's not the sort of church where this is taken as a sign that you want 'ministry'.
Shout 'Maranatha!' and prostrate yourself in front of the pulpit. Not one to try every week, but useful for special occasions, and very effective - it is possible to stay there for the duration of the service, as everyone will be too embarrassed or too awed to disturb you.
Become the vicar. Gradually leave longer and longer significant pauses between points, during which it is quite possible to grab if not forty then at least ten winks. As you are the preacher, it is unlikely that you will become discouraged by this practice.
Join the worship group, playing a large instrument that you can successfully hide behind whilst snoozing. Your choice will of course depend upon your body size and shape. Do not choose the piccolo.
Develop an 'inconvenient' bowel habit that allows you to sit down somewhere nice and quiet for the duration of the sermon.
Go on the church coffee rota, and take it so seriously that you need to put the kettle on at about the time the preacher stands up. Kitchens are generally nice warm places. On no account drink the caffeine until after a little nap.

Of course, I rarely need to use any of these methods, as the sermons at our church are invariably riveting and excellent (just in case the vicar reads this). But they do prove useful at the occasional wedding, licensing, ordination etc...

String Theory

2008-02-15T10:54:00.003Z

I read an interesting review in Third Way magazine, of a book 'The Trouble with Physics: the rise of string theory, the fall of a science, and what comes next', by Lee Smolin. Apparently Smolin argues that physics has to some extent 'lost its way' over the past 30 years, having been caught up in its desire to find a 'grand theory of everything' (i.e. to make it all fit together, whether on a cosmic or subatomic scale) and potentially sidetracked by its focus on string theory, which remains an entirely theoretical construct of how the universe 'works'.

Now, I can fit what I understand about string theory on the back of the proverbial postage stamp (and not one of those big Christmas special ones, either); and yet I find myself strangely compelled by it. It's all those lovely BBC documentaries I've absorbed over the years, most lately with odd camera angles, jump cuts and trippy music. What I've gathered is this, in case there's anyone reading this who feels even less informed than I: string theory is a way of squaring a circle, namely that considering matter and energy as fixed points in the universe does not explain many of the seeming discrepancies that have been noted in the world of physics over the past 100 years (note: this is very similar to 'world of leather', but with less slippy surfaces). It is a way of reconciling the 'standard model', that of particles, with 'quantum mechanics', which is about cats. I think.

String theory imagines (not a very 'physics' word, this: explains why I like it) that all 'stuff' exists as impossibly tiny curled-up oscillating strings. For the theory to work it does not require the usual 4 dimensions (FOUR??! I hear you cry. Yes, 4 - 3D + time), but 10 (don't ask. That's the great thing about string theory: you can just stop trying pretty quickly). Because the strings are oscillating so rapidly they seemingly exist in different universes, parallel to one another - a great literary device, if ever there was one. It even has a whiff of time travel, breaking the understood rules of relativity. If you think this all sounds a bit Alice in Wonderland ("There's no use trying," said Alice; "one can't believe impossible things." "I daresay you haven't had much practice," said the Queen. "When I was younger, I always did it for half an hour a day. Why, sometimes I've believed as many as six impossible things before breakfast."), then you're not the only one.

Of course, as with so many highly specialist and clever-clogs fields of work the media have fed us all a bit of a fib. There's no such thing as the string theory. What there is is several different theories that all play with a similar concept. And we don't seem to be any closer to discovering some 'grand theory' than we were 30 years ago. It's all pretty tricky. I've always thought that we have lifespan against us with this one - by the time someone has done all the relevant background study, and pondered all the various facets of the problem long enough to get within sniffing distance of something Really Rather Clever, they're pushing up the daisies. Which is why I think the only sane approach is this one: write something silly, and don't try so hard. I think it's fab that there are people out there with both the brains and the will to keep trying to understand it all. Personally I'll leave the Really Rather Clever stuff to Him Who Knows...

String Theory

They say the world is made of strings
Vibrating happily, they sing
Of angels, stars and unknown things:
They say the world is made of string.

The universe is made of string
Elastic bands, that just go ‘ping’
They coil and flex and stretch and fling
Ecstatically lassoing.

Your husband: string. Your children: string.
Your house and car and garden: string.
All matter, live or non-living
Is all a seething mass of string.

If stuff is string, then what’s the string?
What makes this constant wriggling?
This elementary particling
Cannot quite explain everything.

If only we could see this string!
Or feel its gentle quivering!
I fear without our monitoring
This twine will start unravelling.

And if they think this solves the riddle
Of why this world’s in such a muddle
The scientists have not a hope:
It’s all just money for old rope.

The Parish Church Preservation Society

2008-02-14T23:05:00.004Z

We had a gloriously sunny weekend at Lee Abbey, unbelievable weather for February. Photo is of Annie and her friend Molly enjoying the private beach, I opted to be their 'responsible adult' and kept them company for half an hour. The kids generally were a complete delight this weekend, all ages interacting and looking after one another.

I survived lots of singing, and even a banner-waving dance (by the simple trick of taking off my glasses - suddenly I could 'watch' without breaking into giggles. I knew there was a reason God had given me rather rubbish eyesight). Of course, by the end of two days even I felt pretty well-adjusted and bonded etc to my fellow parishioner. I leave you with the following (sung to the tune of the Kinks song 'We are the Village Green Preservation Society', currently being covered by Kate Rusby). As ever, it's written with the great affection I feel for the church. Especially when I've got sand-between-the-toes.

We are the Parish Church Preservation Society
God save flower rotas, polished pews and the PCC
We are the Mission Praise Appreciation Society
God save the Deanery and all Dioscesan Strategy.
Preserving the old ways from being abused
Protecting the new ways for me and for you
What more can we do.
We are the Parish Church Preservation Society
God save those that clean, sing in choir and serve coffee
We are the quiche and salad appreciation consortium
God save the bring and share and all who brung and shared for them.
We are the bended knee, the Choir of Songs and Canticles
Help save all who pray, who really just hope for miracles.
We are the Cut and Stick Storytelling Affiliate
God bless the Sunday School, and all the faithful who’re running it.
We are the birth and death, the Marriage Vow Certificate
God save the Parish Priest, the Wardens and the Bishopric.
Preserving the old ways from being abused
Protecting the new ways for me and for you
What more can we do
God save the Parish Church.

Dust

2008-02-08T09:19:00.000Z

I am very much looking forward to being out of the city, at Lee Abbey for a Church Weekend away as of this evening. The downside is of course having to have breakfast with 130 other people who want to make conversation at some unearthly hour; and having to look excited about yet another 'time of worship'. Those who know me well will know that I struggle with the equation 'singing + shutting your eyes = meaningful engagement with divinity'. I wish, how I wish it did it for me, but....and yes, I do know the argument goes 'but it's not for your benefit...' But a lot of people do seem to get a lot out of it, and I would never wish to stand in their way. But it's not me. I tried. I failed. Sorry. But I digress...

ANYWAY...one reason I am desperate to breathe the Devonian air is the large accumulation of dust that is currently gathering in our house. The loft conversion started on January 2nd and is going well, we now have 2 bedrooms (one very small) plus a bathroom up there that have a floor, nearly all the walls and ceilings, wires and pipes ready for lights and radiators, and a bathtub. In addition to this work we have had some electrics done elsewhere around the house, necessitating much drilling through walls; and a built-in desk created. All this has created clouds of wood, plaster and brick dust. I clean it off the surfaces every night, it's back before morning. It's like some nasty fairytale - the elves slaving away for the shoemaker perhaps, or the girl tricked into spinning every night for the tricksily-named Rumpelstiltskin. Meanwhile I keep catching viruses, one after another, and coupled with the underlying asthma I am living in a permanent fug of blocked sinuses and tightened airways.

Looking on the bright side, the building work should be finished in a couple of weeks. Just the decorating then to do. Richard is currently painting his way through the downstairs, sweeping away the previous blandness with a range of eye-popping colours. We are still debating whether to go for Easyjet Orange in the kitchen. It's very tempting to do so, if only because then we will have actually painted a rainbow - red and yellow and pink and green, orange and purple and blue are the colours of our walls. I have a sneaking suspicion we will be reverting to magnolia for the loft, as some sort of reaction to all this colour...

Rocket woman

2008-01-24T08:56:00.000Z

Jordan (age 13) did the IT careers test ('Plan-it') last week. We were not at all surprised when it took her aptitude for science and maths and her desire to do something loving and caring and came up with 'Doctor', along with all manner of other medical careers. It probably helped that she told it 'I want to be a doctor'. However, we were rather more taken aback by the alternative career suggestion - astronaut. Maybe they noted her tendency to appear as though she lives on another planet at times; but I thought that was common to all teenagers.

It still wasn't as entertaining as one of her friends, who had the options of 'actor' (I expect this was due to him telling the computer 'I want to be an actor') or....greengrocer. Computer says no, indeed. We can't possibly imagine what questions the program asked to come up with this conclusion.

'Do you like vegetables?' IF YES...

'Do you like to be in an environment where vegetables are the predominant lifeform?' IF YES...

'Do you like to feel a sense of power over the destiny of vegetables?' IF YES...'GREENGROCER!'

Alternatively...

'Do you like vegetables?' IF YES...

'Do you like to be in an environment where vegetables are the predominant lifeform?' IF YES...

'Do you like to feel a sense of power over the destiny of vegetables?' IF NO....'ACTOR!'

...or something like that (apologies to any non-vegetable-like actors out there).

The art of application

2008-01-18T19:29:00.000Z

I had a very depressing day on Wednesday, shortlisting applicants for 2 staff nurse posts. Normally we get just a handful of applications, Dermatology being a bit of an unknown quantity to many nurses and outpatients being viewed as a backwater (not so: but I don't need to convince you now). So we teamed up with orthopaedics outpatients to advertise a post apiece, and were most surprised to get a grand total of 62 applicants. Both Tuesday and Wednesday mornings were spent staring at a computer - we also had a new shortlisting online system to get to grips with - and sifting the wheat from the chaff.

Now I've been on the other side of things, and know the desperate feeling when you need to get out of one job and romp across the proverbially green grass on the other side of the fence. You'll apply for jobs that in no way match your knowledge and skills, and I'm sure I've put in the odd application form with a whiff of desperation about them. But around 30 of these were on a different scale entirely. Nurses from India, Pakistan, The Phillippines and Nigeria all stuck working in Nursing Homes and wanting to work in the NHS. They assured me in broken English that their communication skills were excellent; they reassured me that they knew how to operate all the acute monitoring equipment that we never use in outpatients. They told me they had work permits, or if they didn't that they soon would have. One begged me (please please please give me a chance...); one told me they needed the job so that they could stay with their family; one simply wrote, 'I am a refugee'. Not one (I tell a lie: we shortlisted one from overseas) met the criteria we were looking for. By the end of all that I felt cruel, which is not a feeling I have very often and certainly not one I enjoyed. I wonder what will happen to all those nurses - how many will stay, working in nursing home jobs that they hate and missing their experience in acute wards. I suspect that many of our elderly population will be nursed into their dying days by unhappy staff a long way from home. I wonder how that will feel for both carers and residents.

Chim chim cheroo

2008-01-14T12:26:00.001Z

The chimney sweep came to sort out two of our chimneys today. Most disappointing. For one thing, he was called Nigel, instead of Bert - very un-sweep-like. For another his methods were untraditional. He had one of those big chim-chim-cheree brushes, but it was yellow not black; and he mainly used an industrial hoover. Also, there was a complete absence of small boys (in varying sizes, ranging from 'tiny' to 'really rather small', to fit every size and shape of flue) in cloth caps waiting to do a cheery song-and-dance routine. Which was a great pity, because we have the scaffolding up for our loft conversion at the moment, so I was fully expecting to join Nigel and a cast of thousands for a Mary Poppins singalong on my roof. As it was, Nigel looked at me a little oddly and asked who I was talking to just because I was discussing the weather with the cat. I don't think the man had much imagination.

Anyway, £50 later (yes, really. If I'd realised I'd have shoved the end of the Dyson, and probably the fluffier one of our cats for good measure, up the chimney myself) we have two chimneys that are considerably less full of debris. They may not be clean enough to eat your dinner off, but hopefully they won't drop bits of mortar all over a) our fire, and b) our bedroom floor, respectively.

Season's Greetings

2008-01-02T18:04:00.000Z

I have just seen the first advert of the year for Cadbury's Creme Eggs.

On January 2nd.

How depressing.

Here it is...the spiritual bit...

2007-12-23T16:43:00.000Z

God came down
Brushing the savannah with His Midas touch
Infusing the ocean with His complexity
Whispering His way into the sub-atomic spaces.

The universe sang with His joy
Each cell and quasar vibrating at His ecstatic frequency.

Still, not enough, said God; they do not see
Me, neither do they hear my voice.

So God came down
Breathing comfort and promise into the fallen and the distressed
Choosing those without a voice to speak His words
Naming those without respect to be His face.

The earth rumbled with the sound of their voices
Their stories spoke the longings of countless hearts.

Still, not enough, said God; they do not hear
Me, neither do they know my heart.

And God came down
Into the darkness and silence of a watery womb
Into the monotony of dusty roads and endless questions
Into the agony of death and the pain of rejection.

Hard hearts were melted by a single touch, lives changed
At the moment they knew themselves known.

Now they saw
Now they heard
Now they knew His heart

And God said, it is finished.

TAW Christmas 2007

Happy Christmas, all.

Tinsel Overdrive

2007-12-20T14:35:00.000Z

I have gone into pre-Christmas frantic mode. Today is the first day of the best of two weeks off. well, I say 'off', but what with family and church wardening duties I think I get about half an hour to myself!

Anyway, around this time of year I start setting myself ridiculous tasks, often unnecessary tinsel froth or totally unconnected to Christmas yet somehow taking on the 25th December deadline. By Christmas Day all shall be cleaned, including those items that never normally get done (the silver, the tops of picture rails, that kind of thing); all shall be tidy (pretty much an impossible task once the kids have broken up from school - and Richard, for that matter); all jobs shall be finished (e.g. the painting of walls, the sanding of furniture, the outstanding projects from work...none of these are remotely related to Christmas, but have somehow adopted the deadline artificially).

So it was that I found myself in Tesco's well before 9am this morning, and have continued at pretty much top speed until now. Just a shedload of cooking to do now. If I get through that I might hang some baubles up in the dining room, for good measure.

Now, where did I put that sandpaper...?

Leaving on a jet plane

2007-12-17T11:07:00.000Z

Scene: check-in at the Easyjet desk at an airport near you. A nervous-looking older gentleman dressed in long red silk robes is carrying a small bag to the front of the queue. He is greeted by a weary young woman dressed unflatteringly in orange. Her badge informs us that her name is Stella.

Stella: Good morning Sir can you tell me your destination please?

Man: I'm not entirely sure. I set off in a westerly direction, pretty easy really since I originate from the East. But then there was rather a lot of cloud cover, and I got a bit disorientated. I think I need to head east again now.

Stella: That would be anywhere but Edinburgh then.

Man: Perfect. Whichever flight takes me the furthest.

Stella: Can I check your passport please? (He hands it over) That's fine Sir. Nice beard, you've grown it even longer since that photo.

Man: Yes, the beard seems to go with the job.

Stella: What do you do?

Man: I'm a sage.

Stella: A what, Sir?

Man: A sage.

Stella: I'm sorry, I thought that was a herb.

Man: No, no. It's a thinker, a generally wise person (Stella looks blank). A philosopher. A guru. (still blank). An astronomer. A star-gazer.

Stella. Oooh. I'm Sagittarius myself. Is it just yourself travelling today? I seem to have you down for three seats.

Man: That's a common misconception. Because of the three gifts. People always assume there are three of me. (Stella looks somewhat disbelieving). Oh, all right. The other two went skiing instead.

Stella: So...did you pack that bag yourself, Sir?

Man: Oh, yes.

Stella (she reels off): Can you confirm that you have no knivessharpimplementsaerosolsorgascylinders?

Man: Yes. I mean, no, I don't.

Stella: And that you are not carrying any liquids onto the plane, other than verified medicines for the flight?

Man: Er...I do have a bottle of myrrh.

Stella: And that's a medicine, is it, Sir?

Man: In a manner of speaking. It's for embalming. Dead bodies.

Stella: (Pause...) ...Are you planning a terminal event whilst on board, Sir?

Man: No, no...it's just that it comes as part of a set. A gift set, you see. Along with the gold. And the frankincense.

Stella: Nice. Is that from the Body Shop?

Man: Not exactly. Look, it's very important. I don't want to risk it to the hold. And I don't have time to wait in baggage reclaim. I'm running late, what with the cloud cover and the breakdown on the motorway. I never knew it was possible for a camel to have a blow-out in the fast lane.

Stella: Well, I don't know. I don't think they'll let you, but you could try putting it in one of those see-through wallet things. You'll have to pay duty on the gold though.

Man: Fine, fine.

Stella: And you're going to have to take them robes off to get through security. Do you have anything underneath them?

Man: Of course I do. It is December, and I am a wise man, you know.

Stella: Pardon me Sir, I was just asking.

Man: Not at all. Just one more thing - would it be possible for me to get a seat by the window? I'd like to keep an eye on that star...

Time and Space

2007-11-02T11:35:00.000Z

I've always been a bit challenged when it comes to visualising the size of stuff. When we were buying our first home in Bristol I couldn't imagine the size of rooms, so a friend advised me to imagine that her husband (who is over 6 foot tall) was lying down in the space. Since then I have bought a further 2 properties by the simple 'two Adrians by two and a half Adrians...sounds about right' method.

So I was delighted by this little nugget of astounding information, from last Saturday's Guardian: there is so little matter inside an atom (the only matter, the sub-atomic particles, only fill a teeny-tiny fraction of the space) that if you could extract all the empty space inside all the atoms of every human being then the whole of the human race could fit into a space the size of a sugar cube. Though I'm unsure whether that still applies if all the human beings were Adrians.

This reminds me (vaguely) of another favourite nugget of astounding information, that Richard regularly uses in his classes: first stretch out your arms as wide as they will go (I think this works even better for Adrian). Let this span represent the length of time that the earth has existed. Now take a nail file, and lightly rub it across the nail of your middle finger. You have just shaved off the whole of human history.

Of course all of this is a bit mind-boggling, and a long way from being able to reduce the space I live in to a simple Adrian equation. For Douglas Adams fans out there, this may remind you of his advice: that the one thing that you cannot afford to have when living in a Universe this size is a sense of perspective.

When in Rome

2007-10-29T20:10:00.000Z

Got back from 3 and a bit days in Rome late last night, or very early this morning depending on your point of view / body clock (mine went forwards and back several times over the past few days, thanks to coinciding the trip to Europe with the clocks changing for end of summertime). Things I learned while in Rome were:

I know nothing about multi-tasking compared with a Rome taxi-driver. Hats off to the individual who got us from the airport to our apartment whilst negotiating Rome in rush-hour at break neck speed, answering 3 mobile phones that were ringing continually and giving us a running commentary on the sights.

Michaelangelo didn't paint the Sistine Chapel lying on his back, he invented an arched stepped scaffold that allowed him to stand up on the job.

The Pope's bedroom looks out over the security checking queue for St Peter's.

The 'secret' policemen that stand in a mob outside the antimafia office (just up the road from our appartment) all look like they're part of the Mafia.

When in Rome, Richard suddenly starts speaking French.

Italians really understand chocolate icecream. It tastes of chocolate, not chocolatish.

'Scrubs' dubbed in Italian is an improvement on the original.

There are so many ancient ruins in Rome that some have been put to pretty odd uses: we especially loved the sacred temple-come-cat sanctuary.

The Capuchin monks have made three rooms in their crypt entirely decorated with the bones of former monks, all arranged in beautiful patterns, and even making light fittings out of them. It's good to have a hobby.

Pope Julius II scandalised the Catholic world by growing a beard. Apparently someone had worked out that St Peter was clean shaven. Also there was the anxiety that the Blood of Christ might catch in facial hair during the Mass, leading to all sorts of theological hurdles.
Cheap Italian wine tasted much better oncc you get to the second half of the bottle.

Italy loves Halloween, hence the pumpkins here. But it seems a bit weird in hot sun.

Pants

2007-10-23T04:06:00.000+01:00

Well it's another long night for me as the insomnia is taking over my life again. So what better way to while away the wee small hours that write drivel for your personal edification? But not just my own drivel: this is overheard drivel.

I'm not a fan of mobile phones. A Luddite at heart, I object to this constant need to be talking to someone who's not in front of you. When I'm sat on the bus I want to hear the screech of bicycle tyres as they go under the front wheels, not the inane conversations of 30 people all telling someone who's not on the bus a) what they will eat for tea, and b) how long the bus is taking, particularly now it's going to have to stop and clean the cyclist off its wheels.

Still, this particular overheard conversation was a gem, and I have tried to reproduce it here for your enjoyment. For maximum effect please try to read it in its original South Wales accent.

The speaker is a young male, early twenties. Quite good-looking (I don't want you to stereotype him in your head). Let's call him Gareth. We pick up the action after 10 minutes of discussion, mainly about what Gareth will have for tea ('Chicken Kiev tonight. I eat chicken most nights. No, I'm not really a casserole person') and how long the bus is taking ('no, it's not too bad at this time, as long as I leave work at quarter to five it's OK, otherwise I may as well just leave it till 6). He is talking to a female, probably his mother or his girlfriend. Lucky woman.

'So I'm coming home at the weekend, and what I really need is some socks...no, I've got plenty of pants, it's socks I need...no, socks...I said I've got lots of pants. Pants. PANTS. I've got PLENTY of PANTS. No, PANTS. What happens is, we all put our washing in together, and somehow all the socks go...no, the pants come back. I've got pants. PANTS. Can you hear (he says 'yer')...can you yer me? Sorry, we're going up the Gloucester Road and I'm on T mobile, the reception's not very good...PANTS. Look, do you want me to ring you back? (There is a pause, presumably while the call's recipient considers whether this information really warrants another feat of modern technology). Oh, is that better? Yes, pants. I've got enough pants, I've got plenty of pants. It's socks I need. Well, actually I've got lots of socks, new socks, only they're not mine see? I put my socks into the wash, they disappear, and I get someone else's back. No, not the pants. I've got my own pants'.

And so on, and so on until I got off before him leaving Gareth and friend to consider two of life's great mysteries (where do all the socks go, and why do some women promote male underwear dependancy issues?)

And after all of that, you just know that Gareth's going to go home to South Wales Friday night and find a multi-pack of M&S's finest pants on his pillow.

Just keep swimming...

2007-10-22T17:59:00.000+01:00

One of my favourite kids films is the wonderfully animated and deeply wise 'Finding Nemo'. If you haven't seen it you're in for a treat; if you have, I recommend repeat viewings. There's quotes in there for every situation: parenting, loss, love, fear, hope, and finding your way back to the ocean (all drains lead to the sea). I particularly love Dory, the little fish with short-term memory issues and all sorts of hang-ups who still manages to be the most hopeful of all the characters. She's also the one who thinks she can speak whale... anyway,Dory's motto in life is 'just keep swimming, just keep swimming, just keep swimming swimming swimming...' and it's at times when things are crashing round my ears like last week that I find myself chanting that under my breath. Stopping to think about the mechanics of it all would probably result in drowning. Better to just keep swimming.

This week kicked off pretty well, with Cafe Church yesterday on 'Hospitality'. I had chance to use a quote that stayed with me from this year's Greenbelt: 'What most people are looking for in life is a safe space where they can tell their story' (Mark Yaconelli). Of course we were thinking of this in the context of church, but I've also found myself thinking about its relevance within the context of my work life. I run a nurse advice clinic for patients with long-term complex psoriasis and eczema, with all the attendant physical and psychological problems, and have the luxury of spending an hour intially with each patient. When I've had a bit of a holiday, I think I'll spend a bit of time thinking about how to create a 'safe space' that encourages these people to tell their stories. A bit less advice from me, and a bit more from them...

I don't like to moan, but...

2007-10-19T14:44:00.000+01:00

Actually I would like to moan.
Actually I think I'm entitled.
Actually I think that, right now, after the week we've had, moaning is the only sensible thing to do - or the only thing that doesn't pose a risk to my health, at any rate.
The bad week really started three weeks ago, when my body rejected the notion that coming off long-term steroids was a good thing to do, and went into a lupus flare. Cue extreme fatigue, aching joints and muscles, a fuzzy brain and - most worryingly, since this is what put me in hospital before - reduced circulation.
Still, I kept smiling, and kept going, barring one day off to catch up with daytime telly. The steroids went up again, and the symptoms reduced a little to a manageable level. Unfortunately my waistline is going up correspondingly.
The staffing levels at work are at an all time low, I'm currently doing 2 other peoples' jobs as well as my own.
Still, I kept smiling, and I kept going.
Then I caught a bug and spent last Friday in bed - irritatingly on the day we were supposed to be going to Cornwall for a 40th birthday party weekend.
I resurrected myself on Saturday, we drove there, back again on Sunday, exhausting but lovely to see some old friends and at a fab spot at a youth hostel right on the coast.
Then things really went pear-shaped.
Tuesday Richard went down with flu.
Wednesday Jordan broke her wrist and was admitted to hospital.
Thursday Richard had to get into the hospital, despite running a high temperature, to consent Jordan for manipulation under anaesthetic, because I had a clinic I couldn't get out of. I ended up nearly crying over a computer that lost all my afternoon's work, really crying because I was so tired and so wanting to be with my family not stuck slave labouring for the NHS.
By Thursday night we were all home again, some of us tanked up on drugs, all of us taking comfort from our crutch of choice - chocolate, alcohol and rubbish TV.
Richard went back to work today, still looking a little corpse-like, and I have a headache for the 8th consecutive day. Jordan meanwhile is having to come to terms with life in a plaster cast, and Annie is just fed up of everyone else being such a misery!
I'm still smiling. But only cos I've now let myself have a good moan.

Posh's Secret Diary

2007-09-21T09:08:00.000+01:00

By popular demand, here is the skit I did for Sunday's 'Cafe Church' on 'Belonging'. Trust me, you didn't miss anything by not being there to hear my impression. More Jade Goody than Victoria Beckham.

13th July
Dear Diary
Well here we are at last in Sunny Los Angeles. Was v. pleased to see some old friends when we stepped off the plane, as most of the British tabloid photographers had gone on ahead of us. Fortunately me and David had had our hair done during the flight, and I managed to get me pout just right for all the front pages.

In the car on the way to the house we played ‘I spy someone more famous than Mummy’. Brooklyn spotted Cameron Diaz, who looked a bit rough. Cruz saw Britney Spears, who could also do with a bit of work. Then Romeo said ‘I spy daddy!’, so of course he won.

We watched the sun going down over the Hollywood sign.

I think we’re going to fit right in here.

15th July
Dear Diary
What a busy weekend it’s been! Me and David’ve hardly had time to gel our hair.
First David had to go and show his face at his new job. The other players look a bit worried, they’ve probably never seen a real footballer before. He showed them a couple of his moves, so I expect he’ll soon make friends.

Talking of new friends, Tom and Katie came round with Sherpa, or whatever their baby’s called (I can’t bear it when people pick silly names for their kids). I really like Katie, she seems really genuine and soon we were swapping addresses of our plastic surgeons and everything.

David and Tom stayed in the kitchen. I asked him what they were talking about afterwards and he said they were discussing whether using grey grouting would stop the problem of discolouration between the kitchen tiles. Oh, and whether Tom will get to be an operating Thetan if he keeps following the Church of Scientology.

It’s nice they’ve got so much in common.

18th July
Today we went out to a local restaurant for a nice quiet family meal, just us and about 20 photographers. I wanted to have something macrobiotic, like Gwynneth, but apparently I was in the wrong sort of restaurant; they only did supersizes of everything, and it wasn’t healthy. All the boys loved it. Will have to eat lettuce only for rest of week.

24th July
Dear Diary, I don’t mean to moan, but am really starting to get annoyed by being told to have a nice day all the time. Also being asked if I like it over here. And if I’m going to stay here. And if I like ‘soccer’. And if I know that Cruz is a girls name in Spain. These Americans are a bit predictable.
Still, seeing lots of Tom and Katie and little Scrunchie, and have met some other famous people too, though not as famous as us, of course. I think we’re starting to really belong here.

12th August
Funny sort of day. Went out for a drive and there wasn’t anyone waving at us. No pointing either. Romeo said, ‘Mummy, why aren’t those funny people pointing at us?’ I said don’t worry, darling, we’ll get out and go for a walkabout.

Went into a supermarket and there was Cameron Diaz, still looking a bit ropey behind the frozen peas. Still, between both of us you’d have thought we’d have managed at least one paparazzo. But nothing. Went to the checkout and the girl didn’t even look up, not even when she called for the supervisor to check the price of me plastic jugs.

These Americans just don’t do irony.

26th August.
The boys are getting ready to go to new schools. David’s started playing ‘soccer’ again. So it’s just me at home, practising me singing ready for the Spice Girls world tour (though David said: Babe, don’t worry too much. You’re the glamour. Specially now Gerrie’s let herself go all hippy).

Never mind, Katie’s still coming round quite a lot, even though they’ve got a nanny for little Sushi and she says she’s going back to work. I really like her. I’m thinking of getting a new tattoo, ‘Victoria and Katie: true friends forever’ in Arabic down my left leg. That’ll still leave me right leg for when I finally have a little girl.

Besides, I’m really settled here now, so I won’t really notice when they’ve all gone off somewhere. I’ve got me shopping channel, a fitness video to practice, and I need to work on a new pout.

Actually I like it on me own.

27th August
Dear Diary
Only 72 days until the Spice Girls meet up for the world tour…

Balancing Act

2007-09-20T09:57:00.000+01:00

Annie and I were overtaken by a unicyclist on the way to school this morning. Since moving house I have missed walking through the park every day, as I always enjoyed seeing the early morning exhibitionists that make use of this particular park: the ribbon-waver, the tai-chiers, the pigeon-whisperer, and the man who runs in slow motion with his knees up to his chin (a particular favourite). And especially the unicyclist. But I had always assumed he unicycled purely for pleasure. Now it looks like he uses one wheel as his main mode of transport because today he was cycling along the road clearly dressed in work clothes plus a fluorescent vest, rucksack on back, going somewhere necessary. There was something odd about the sight - surely 'necessary' and 'unicycle' don't go together? And why why WHY would anyone opt to use a unicycle as transport? The increased effort in balance and pedal power would surely put most people off. Though I bet he doesn't get his bike nicked so much.

Complimentary Medicine

2007-09-14T16:08:00.000+01:00

I was walking through St Andrew's Park yesterday on my way to work when I looked up to see three words chalked on the gate-post: YOU ARE LOVED. It may not have been directed at me specifically (though one should never assume anything), but nonetheless it brightened my somewhat weary mood considerably and set me up for the day. No wonder one writer referred to compliments as 'verbal sunshine'.

This is the third compliment I've received recently that has had such a positive effect on me. The glazier who did our windows in our old house came round to give Richard a quote in the new house, and said 'Oh yes, you're the one with the lovely wife'. Lovely! Me! Lovely! Richard probably regretted telling me, as I went round saying 'Lovely!' at inappropriate moments for days afterwards.

The first one was my favourite, though. Out I stumbled from my sweaty tent on a sunny morning at Greenbelt, bleary-eyed from 3 days at a festival and desperate to scrub the fungus off my teeth. Whilst sharing a communal tap with a stranger she suddenly turned to me and said, 'You look amazing! You must be wearing make-up!' (I wasn't).

Yes I know - setting much store by one's appearance is very shallow, and I would far rather be thought of as lovely on the inside. But there was something about the genuine expansiveness of this stranger's compliment that really touched me, and left me smiling for the rest of the day. She may not have had her contact lenses in. She may have decided to say that to everyone who shared a tap with her throughout the festival (in which case, good for her!). But it made me think about all the times I could have given a compliment - when I appreciated something in another human being - but didn't, perhaps because I'm too embarrassed, too British. I'd like to try it more often.

Mark Twain said 'I can live two months off a good compliment'. Those three should therefore last me through till the end of February 08. But please don't let that stop you from giving me another one, and I'll try to do the same for you.

Deoxyribonucleic acid and other simple concepts

2007-09-14T09:21:00.000+01:00

Richard and I reckon we've got the bases covered pretty well when it comes to helping the kids with their homework. By education and job training we can do maths, English, French, all the sciences (with varying degrees of success), RE, philosophy, German and Latin (the latter two to a quite pathetic standard). Through our various interests we can also make a fair stab at music, history and art history, geography, sociology, psychology, literature, politics, classics and cosmology. As we grow older we find ourselves more and more interested in the bits we didn't study - and how they all join up.

Which is probably why Jordan will do anything to avoid asking us to help her with her homework. Last night she was stuck, needing a simple sentence to describe what DNA ia made of. I started on base pairing and the double helix with great gusto. Richard then joined in, wanting to fill in his knowledge gaps since he's never quite 'got' how DNA, genes and chromosomes relate to each other (a rare thing: me knowing something better than him). We then got my old textbook out in order to look at meiosis afresh. My poor thirteen-year-old with a homework deadline started shouting 'But all I wanted was a simple sentence!!!'

It's not the first time we've got carried away. When Jordan was 7 she asked us “Do human beings have a plug?” – seemingly a simple question with a quick answer – NO! But in answering we talked about where energy comes from – that was physics. We talked of coal, and trees, and the sun – that was biology. We discussed nuclear energy, Hiroshima, and why the war was happening in Afghanistan – that covered history and politics. We then got onto the energy of the stars and the galaxies – that was cosmology. And we talked of how we too are made of the dust of the stars, and how all energy was originally flung out from one beginning, and how we believe that that beginning was God – that was theology. No wonder Jordan started getting headaches from an early age.

I guess every child has their own cross to bear when it comes to their parents. Complicated answers to simple questions is probably one of the worst things we inflict on our kids.

Time out

2007-08-23T14:45:00.000+01:00

Well here we are, still surrounded by a number of boxes but we know where our towels are, also our toothbrushes and our knickers (you'll be glad to know). Haven't yet managed to unpack my Bible, though I do now know where it is. Don't know if that means I'll have to resign as Church Warden. Have spent rather more time in quiet contemplation of the Dulux colour chart lately.

So after one of the more exhausting and less spiritual weeks of our lives (despite doing the 'Sit back and relax' service...there's a laugh...) we're about to redress the balance and make the annual pilgrimage to Greenbelt festival. The lovely Paul Roberts offered to take our tent up and pitch it for us, seeing as we'd spent all week pitching a somewhat bigger and sturdier tent, so the hard work is done. The sun looks fixed on shining for the duration, Richard's practised the song he's singing at the Foundation service on Friday evening, and then it's Billy Bragg! Hurrah!

This year is the first time we'll have taken both kids for the duration. I'm hoping they'll get something really positive out of it, and not just spend the whole time in the bead tent. Neither are interested in queuing up for the children's activities. They're hoping for some comedy, preferably silly poems with Paul Cookson; a film or two; the animals; and escaping any enforced traipsing round labyrinths. They also love being with adults when they're being silly. Shouldn't be difficult. Richard wants music, old friends and a mental workout. I want a bit of vegging out, just being, with and without other people.

Oh - and I'd be delighted if God showed up. Though I strongly suspect he's already got his tent pitched, and is probably waiting in the beer tent for the rest of us to get there for another hymn-singing session.

Becoming dis-connected

2007-08-19T17:06:00.000+01:00

We came back from 2 weeks in France last Sunday.
I went to work most the week.
We started packing up our 4-bed house in earnest on Thursday night.
We move tomorrow.
I am now almost entirely surrounded by boxes.
We are running the 'Cafe church' evening service, ironically enough with the theme 'sit back and relax'.
I no longer have the faintest idea where anything is, and have lost the ability to prioritise.
Which is why I'm spending the only spare 5 minutes I have before disconnecting the computer writing this.
I think it's www-separation anxiety.

Now we are 40

2007-07-16T14:32:00.000+01:00

It's been nearly two

weeks since I reached the milestone that was my fortieth birthday, and there's not been a moment free to post anything about it until now. The summary is: I had a fantastic birthday. More specifically...

1. The day itself: freezing cold trip with my parents to see Tyntesfield House, cos that's what ageing forty-year-olds do - go to see National Trust properties, and eat sandwiches in the pouring rain. Seriously, it was an amazing place and I'd recommend it to any similarly ageing friends out there. I was particularly fascinated by their driving principle of keeping everything that the Gibbs family had accumulated over the years, with the upshot that every last not-so-antique jam jar - complete with Hellman's mayonnaise label, or whatever - had to be catalogued. Also pleased to hear that the Gibbs' wealth came from importing bird guano. Insert your own joke here.

2. Excellent prezzies, despite telling people not to spend money. Best surprise: Richard bought me my very own Burgess, a pen drawing of a reclining figure. I'm trying to ignore the fact that my father can only see a monkey's head when he looks at it.

3. Night out with work folk, joint do with a 30-year-old and two leavers, to Byzantium which remains one of my favourite Bristol restaurants.

4. Party at home, for which the weather miraculously improved enabling a relaxed vibe mainly in the garden. The pic shows the morning after the night before...be grateful it isn't one of me at the same time.

After all that - which was stretched out over a week - I hotfooted it to Birmingham's ICC for the week-long annual dermatology conference. Amazing building, it seemed to be comfortably accommodating a jazz festival, a schools music event, and two simultaneous dermatology conferences (one for nurses, one for medics - often we get split into separate venues cos there's so many of us). Birmingham, too, was a bit of a revelation - last time I visited it properly was around 1985, so it's improved a bit! Thursday afternoon was particularly good, I skived from the last couple of lectures to meet up with my Auntie and go shopping. We strolled through a pleasantly warm and sunny city, with 2 beaches, open-air jazz, fountains, shopping-trolley-free canals (still can't believe the 'Birmingham has more canals than Venice' claim, though) and more bars & restaurants than you could shake a stick at.

Finally made it home on Friday in time to prepare for Cafe Church yesterday, on the theme of language and God. My main role was to make bucket loads of cake. Why does so much of my life seem to revolve around cake?

Back to normal life tomorrow, two more weeks of regular work before holidays. We're hoping to hear about a moving date soon, hopefully on our return from sunny (I hope) France. Now, what sort of cakes do they do in France...?

A first time

2007-06-26T16:57:00.001+01:00

Following on from my previous post, I'd like to share a more recent example of a 'first time' for me: the'wow' factor of seeing the art produced by a friend of mine, Helen Burgess who produces the most stunning wirework sculptures and drawings. It was a delight to see that some examples of her work are currently on display at the Bannatyne gym I drag myself along to on a regular basis, making those visits much more pleasurable (though it feels wrong to be sweating in the general vicinity of such loveliness). Do follow the link, and enjoy.

Do you remember the first time?

2007-06-22T10:08:00.000+01:00

Daughter #1 is preparing for her grade 3 bassoon exam and an end-of-year concert. The bassoon is probably not an instrument that should take centre-stage: yet one of the concert pieces is a bassoon duet, a somewhat strange version of Delibes' 'Flower Duet' (from Lakme). On hearing her parp-parping upstairs I asked if she had heard the more conventional version, a duet for soprano & mezzo-soprano. As she hadn't, I sat her between our good speakers and put on the CD. By the end of the piece she had tears in her eyes (good girl: the only reasonable response), and I found myself envying her that 'first time' experience.

Do you remember your 'first time'? That moment when you heard a piece of music, looked upon a piece of art, understood an equation, were enthralled by a classic novel or felt as if you were known by a poet? I found myself remembering when I had heard the Flower Duet first - I'm not what anyone would call a classical music buff, so it was as part of a film score (if you are a classical ignoramus too you may know it from the British Airways ads of the late 1990's) and it was like a door had opened, as I had always sworn up till that moment that I hated opera and all its works. Even now it has the power to move me, although I have not the faintest idea what they're warbling about (and don't need to). I also remember reading 'Not Waving but Drowning' by Stevie Smith as a teenager and feeling that she 'got' me at that moment in a way that only Morrissey did otherwise; and a couple of years later, having the same experience with T S Eliot, and a sublime moment of wonder spent in the company of John Donne. I loved reading Jane Eyre without knowing who was in the attic. I had a similar sense of revelation the first time I understood - after two weeks of struggle - the biochemistry of photosynthesis, or less prosaically, how a leaf can turn sunlight into sugar (I'm afraid that knowledge is now lost in some dusty forgotten corner of my brain). And when I looked down a microscope and saw the chromosomes of a locust that I had killed (sorry), dissected (sorry) and generally squished physically and chemically until the code of its existence was laid out in front of my eyes.

The painting above is 'The Luncheon' by Monet. Now I just think of it as a pretty painting, quite nice but nothing I would connect with emotionally. The first time I saw a print of this was in a hospital corridor as a student nurse, waiting in X ray with a very sick patient. I had chance to look and look, like I never do now with art. I saw the dappled light on the child and the table, and the way the eye was drawn in to the sunlit path. I wanted to BE in that painting, like I never have with any other since.

I want more 'first times' like that.

No fleas on us!

2007-06-08T14:49:00.000+01:00

I must be feeling better, because when I discovered a flea lurking under one of the cat's favourite chair today I went into de-flea overdrive. I reckon if I'd found it when I felt so ill earlier in the week, I'd have lain still and let it bite me. Still, it's been hard work - dusting, washing floors, vacuuming and washing chair covers etc etc. Then spraying insecticide throughout the house. Just what a woman recovering from an asthma flare-up needs!

The irony is, I was only doing a very light task suitable to a recovering woman still in a slightly delicate state. I decided to sort through our games & video cupboard, chucking out the things the girls have grown out of (early learning centre games; duplo; wind in the willows tapes) and the things I've grown of (cranium; geri does yoga). But in order to sit in front of the cupboard, I had to move a chair, and that's when...

At least it wasn't as bad as the last time I found a flea. That was on my head. Immediately after I'd had my hair cut. Oh, the mortification!

And the nice thing is, our house is now very, very clean. If a bit smelly, thanks to the chemical spray.

Ofsted / Off colour

2007-06-06T12:02:00.000+01:00

Not a great week in The Wheelybin. I'm off work with The Cold From Hell (can't breathe / can't sleep / faceache etc etc); We're missing Jordan, who's on a school trip at a chateau in Normandy all week, jammy so&so; and Richard's school got the Ofsted announcement on Monday. For those of you not in the know, Ofsted inspectors now fancy themselves as a crack SAS-style team - they sweep in with minimum warning, do their stuff rapidly (all in one day in this case) and leave devastation in their wake. It's supposed to be less stressful for the teachers this way. All I know is that Richard has had very little sleep, has grabbed food occasionally, and has spent most waking hours at the school over the past 48 hours (it seems much longer, due to the intense work on the timetable for much of half-term). He really needed me to hold the fort and feed him, whilst I really wanted someone to look after me, so we're both feeling a bit sorry for ourselves. Hence the lyrics below. Those of you familiar with my 'work' should know to join in, effecting your best Neil Diamond / Barbra Streisand impressions. If you can find someone of the opposite gender to do the other part, so much the better.

You don't bring me Lemsips

She: You don't bring me Lemsips
You don't plump my pillows
He: You hardly talk to me anymore
When I crawl into bed at around 2am.
Both: I remember when...
She: We used to share the sofa
And even watch Big Brother
Now after filling forms late at night -
He: And you've gone to bed, babe, you're not feeling all right -
She: Well you just roll over and turn out the light...
And you don't bring me Lemsips anymore.
He: It used to be so natural
She: (Ooo used to be...)
He: To have a conversation
She: (A con - ver - say - shun)
He: But used-to-bes don't count anymore, now I haven't the time to say more than 'goodbye'.
She: And baby I remember all the colds you've wiped up
When you've tucked me in bed and rubbed Vick on my chest
He: But now when all I want is some food and a rest
She: I'm all comatosed while you're still at your desk...
And we don't watch the West Wing
He: You don't bake me fruit cake
She: You don't bring me Lemsips anymore.

I realise that these words may leave some of you anxious for our mental state, but don't worry: we don't really watch Big Brother. But life without The West Wing? I don't think so.

Packing up

2007-05-30T17:21:00.000+01:00

So we've sold the house; had an offer accepted on what will hopefully be the next Wheelybin; and now it's time to start the sorting, chucking and packing.

We spent a surprisingly enjoyable yet totally exhausting day on Monday - which also happened to be Richard's birthday, we really know how to celebrate in our house! - turning out the attic. Both of us are squirrels at heart, and had buried away some ten boxes or so of what is lovingly referred to as 'memorabilia' (roughly translated: junk). By the end of the day it was amalgamated into just one box. So what didn't make the cut?

Photos of people that we'd forgotten, that will never cross our paths again. Where these people had actually died, consigning their images to the bin felt really weird. After all, in some cases that second we took to remember who they were might be the last time that person lives on in the memory of someone on this planet. Creepy.
Rather a lot of letters written to each other when we were still 'courting' (yes, that's how long ago it was!) putting each other right on a variety of theological points. Looking at them afresh, I must say I still think I was right. Fortunately Richard seems to have come round to my way of thinking on most issues. Suspiciously so, in some cases...
Yet more letters from ex-boyfriends. Mostly moaning about schoolwork, academic work, first job, Bolton and the miseries of living there. Very little romance to be found. I have not the slightest idea why I kept them in the first place. No wonder wrangles over RT Kendall (once saved always saved - anyone remember that?) seemed like a breath of fresh air in comparison.
'Just Good Friends' ('relationship' book for Christian couples pre-marriage) and 'John & Janet have sex' ('relationship' book for Christian couples post-marriage: not sure it was actually called that). We're holding out for Dave Tomlinson's 'The Post-Evangelical Marriage'.
My wedding headress and garter. It's bad enough remembering I wore one.

And what did we keep? Amongst other things...

All the usual photos, notes, postcards etc from so many friends that we have had the good fortune to share and grow up with. We loved reliving moments that made us laugh - and cry. My favourite find was a scrapbook kept during a fab year's flat sharing, right up to the plans for our wedding (including the seating plan - yikes! Did we really make those people sit next to them?!)
School reports and academic assignments where we shone. The rest got thrown away. We reserve the right to develop selective amnesia when it comes to our past.
Notes and doodles written and passed along the row in very dull A level General Studies lectures. The mundanity of requests to fetch cheese & onion crisps and bitchy comments about a new hairstyle capture a moment far better than any yearbook.
The odd - and I do mean odd - message from Richard that was supposed to be romantic, such as 'to the best thing (!) in a 50-mile radius of Birmingham, excepting perhaps Dave Pope'. Again - remember him?
A Christian 'relationship' book by John & Christine Noble. Trust me, it's the funniest read since the Da Vinci Code.
The first song I ever wrote. Music and everything. Coming soon, to a Foundation service near you...I was seven.
My wedding dress. The girls both dutifully tried it on, after Richard insisted it was a family tradition. He used to wear his mother's wedding dress all the time. He was probably seven, too.

Sold!

2007-05-18T14:04:00.001+01:00

Finally! I haven't posted on this topic for a long time because it was just all too depressing and tedious for words, but today we accepted an offer on Home Sweet Home. After the weekend we'll start looking in earnest for where to move to. We've been here before - we had a buyer and had had an offer accepted - but the chain didn't progress. But I have a good feeling about this one. In the meantime we have helped Richard's parents to move house, and Annie inherited Grandma's dolls' house. She has to content herself with arranging miniature rooms whilst awaiting a bigger one for herself.

Schrodinger's cat

2007-04-25T20:32:00.000+01:00

So we've been exploring the theory of Quantum Mechanics this week. Muffin went missing, last seen on Saturday evening. By Sunday teatime we were getting worried, since he's the cat who normally goes out for an hour at a time, and always seems to be within earshot. Had he been run over? Was he trapped? In a coma? Lost in time, wearing flared trousers and a dodgy leather jacket? (apologies if you're not a 'Life on Mars' fan...) By Monday we were all very gloomy, and kept flipping between thinking 'he has to be alive; this is the scaredy-cat who never goes anywhere far, let alone across a road', and 'that's it: he's a gonner. He's trapped somewhere, in a shed or a cellar with a jar of poison and a pot of decaying atoms' (I've always been a bit hazy on this bit of Schrodinger's feline experiment). It felt like a quantum, 50:50 kind of a thing.

So we talked to the neighbours, put up posters, posted leaflets, and some of us cried. It was a search almost Biblical in its scope. A real low point was reached when I found myself wandering through our nice residential area randomly calling 'Muffin! Muffin!', as if in desperate need of a sweet pastry product. Some people were very kind, and seemed genuinely distressed that they couldn't be of more help. Several told us tales of their cat's miraculous return, days or weeks or months later. Some started phoning for the men in white coats.

And then...(yes, you knew this had to have a happy ending...)

At 06:22 on Wednesday the phone rang. We knew the news was either very very good or very very bad...

John, a man on the road leading off ours, had just opened his cellar and a cat fitting Muffin's description had shot out (like a cat out of hell). By the time he had said this, we could hear Muffin meowing 2 gardens away.

By 06:24, he was home.

Later I spoke to Judith, the wife of John. Apparently he had woken her up at 6:30 with the joyous news, 'I think I've found Muffin'!

We don't know this man. He and his wife seem quite normal. I think I may have found a new catalyst for community living.

Pieta

2007-04-02T11:12:00.000+01:00

Arms outstretched
Fingers curled like fallen blooms
You lie, abandoned.
I take your weight, finally
as I have not done since you were an infant
but I have longed to do ever since.
Let me take this burden now; leave us,
It is mine to bear. Mine the pain
not softened by forewarnings
but raw, and bloody, and new.
You, my son, are the seed that died
that lies forgotten in the dust of the earth.
Unless a seed dies…unless a seed dies….
I cannot think beyond this moment
I cannot feel beyond the tears
I do not want to reach out, knowing
that you will not reach for me.
Is there hope, even here, in this place?
Promised one...do your promises still hold true?
I was promised a sword to pierce my heart
And yet I see that it has pierced your own breast:
Were you given promises, too? And is there still
a fulfilment yet to come? In all my pain, there is a sense
of a beginning from this end; through all my tears, there is a glimpse
of a tomorrow.

They took him down

2007-03-30T09:50:00.000+01:00

Before Him shall bow all who go down to the dust

and he who cannot keep himself alive. Psalm 22:29

They took him down

His crumpled, pierced body, destroyed by the world

to which he came.

Beyond hope

Beyond life

Sentenced to the dust that rose up to meet him.

Did they cry for him? Did wailing fill the air?

Were breasts beaten and clothing torn

as minds and hearts struggled to comprehend the ending of what had seemed to be a beginning?

What does the heart do when hope is extinguished?

Where does the mind run to when all the answers are removed?

There was nothing left to feel...nothing left to think...

They took him down

His crumpled, pierced body

And took it for burial.