It has been a busy week in the Holme Valley, although one which has been chiefly passed in waiting, and marking time. We "marked time" in more ways than one, of course, this week, because we put the clocks forward to “British Summer Time” by one hour, so my frantic preparations to get everything that I can boxed off here, before I go into “Broadmoor” for my physio, have 6o fewer minutes in which to take place.
On some fronts there has been great progress (I have written the hard copy press release for Zen and the Art of Nurdling, created jacket mockups for Catheter Come Home and Albion, and started laying out Revudeville) but on the “social care” front, there have only been tiny slivers of success, and that at the rate of a glacier melting.
The people who “officially” provide the ramps for Kirklees (as opposed to the previous department who promised to do so, and then found they didn’t have a budget) have been back in touch, and are coming to do a survey, next week, no less. There is corn in Egypt yet. Meanwhile, Oakmoor a.k.a. Broadmoor remains resolutely shut, because the existing old biddies already incarcerated there are still vomiting for England. Still, looking on the bright side, at this rate it could be a toss-up whether I end up with Broadmoor or Ramp-ton! (Boom Boom!)
The garden, now that we can see it, looks in a bad way from the depredations of winter. The daffodils are nodding bravely in the wind beside Russell’s mosaic, but Nigel’s painted memorial stone looks as though it’s suffered in the frost. One day, ramps permitting, I might be able to get down there and see. The brushwood bole is definitely in tiny leaf, though, which would have pleased Browning, the spray beginneth to springe, and the tree outside my “bedroom” window (in reality, what used to be Colin’s kitchen) has tiny catkins on it. And squirrels in it. Oh, and there are at least two thrushes, because I saw both of them together, so maybe the original one wasn’t as ubiquitous as I thought, and in fact the mouldy Christmas pud fed a whole family of thrush lookalikes.
Given that it was running up to being officially Summer, the weather this week has been officially mild, with the conservatory door being open to the outside world even when (gasp) there was no animal wanting to go either in or out. Tig has been taking longer “constitutionals” in the garden than previously, and as I type this, is basking once more in the patch of sunlight on the conservatory rug, slightly further this way than she was last week, as the sun and the earth shift inexorably on their axes.
Kitty is more reluctant to go adventuring, but then cats are always seekers after warmth; even Nigel in his prime, who used to wander far and wide, going his own little ginger Nigelish way, used to come back of an evening and curl up in one of his secret Nigel-holes amongst the filing in the office, or the stacked-up furniture in the front room. Anyway, Kitty has been treating it like any other week, and staying in the cat bed in the hearth, which managed to acquire another hole burnt in it, on Tuesday night, when a spark flew unnoticed out of the fire. Unnoticed, that is, until it started to smoulder… fortunately, Kits wasn’t in residence at the time.
The reason for the sparks is probably the new coal, which seems to have been delivered in humungous great lumps, almost the size of a bag of sugar. When I looked at the scuttle the other day I couldn’t believe the size of them, and remarked to Debbie that they might as well just give us the keys to the mine, and have done with it, except that the mine these days, as I’ve often observed, is more likely to be in Chile.
On the wider front, in the world outside our little green valley, the week has been bookended by two sporting defeats for England, in the Rugby last Sunday, which occasioned much shouting at the television from Debbie, and in the Cricket last night, which had the same outcome, only from me this time. Still, at least we no longer have the awesome responsibility at being best in the world at something, and we can return to our usual position of mumbling “mustn’t grumble” in a slightly embarrassed way, before sidling off or changing the subject. On the Rugby, I suggested to Debbie that it was probably time to consider bringing back Prince Obolensky, to which she replied “who?” I can’t believe I know something about Rugby that she doesn’t. Much googling of Youtube clips of old Pathe newsreels of his 1936 try at Twickenham against the All-Blacks ensued, with me doing my impersonation of the clipped 1930s tones of the commentator (“end here is Prince Obolensky, renning laike a racehoyrse…”)
On a more serious subject, I noted that the coverage of the crisis in Japan tailed off dramatically, once the media realised the nuclear reactor wasn’t going to go ka-boom any time soon, and they all high-tailed it back to their cosy studios. I did hear that Lady Gaga has apparently “designed” a charity bracelet for the people of Japan, as if they haven’t already suffered enough. In other news, we’ve been bombing Libya, with missiles that apparently cost £800,000 each, although we allegedly don’t have enough money to keep the libraries open at home. The pretext is that we are saving the lives of civilians, by bombing the cities where they live, in the hopes that, at £800K each, the missiles are smart enough to be able to recognise, and only hit, the baddies.
And this week has marked the March for an Alternative, intended to give ordinary people from all walks of life the chance to protest against the scale and savagery of government cutbacks, but in reality hijacked by a small group of anarchists who ensured that the only thing about it which appeared on the news was images of people breaking the windows of banks. Had I not been stuck in this wheelchair, I would probably have been marching with them. I would like to have been, but political activism, like going to the Lake District, going to the Isle of Arran, or even going to the pub for a pint of old-and-mild, is something else which I have lost from my life since my legs gave out. I’ve already said goodbye to the Lakes and to Arran in my heart, if I ever do get back there, it will be a miracle, the way things are going.
So, once again in search of miracles (and still not finding any) I turn to the Book of Common Prayer and find, firstly, an obscure footnote that says that I should actually have been reading the Collect for Ash Wednesday for every day of Lent as well as the actual Collect for that day. OK, sorry God, I missed that one. Blame the printers.
So in addition to
“We beseech thee, Almighty God, look upon the hearty desires of thy humble servants, and stretch forth the right hand of thy Majesty, to be our defence against all our enemies; through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.”
I should have added:
“ALMIGHTY [those caps again! I love it!] and everlasting God, who hatest nothing that thou hast made and dost forgive the sins of all them that are penitent; Create and make in us new and contrite hearts, that we, worthily lamenting our sins, and acknowledging our wretchedness, may obtain of thee, the God of all mercy, perfect remission and forgiveness; through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.”
Well, I would be more than happy to trade an admission of my wretchedness at the moment (it’s not exactly a state secret) in return for “perfect remission”, so if you are listening, Big G, now as always, it’s a deal.
The Epistle this Sunday is Ephesians 5. 1., which exhorts me amongst other things to
“walk in love, as Christ also hath loved us, and hath given himself for us an offering and a sacrifice to God for a sweetsmelling savour. But fornication, and all uncleanness, or covetousness, let it not be once named among you, as becometh saints; Neither filthiness, nor foolish talking, nor jesting, which are not convenient: but rather giving of thanks.”
Well, that’s me stuffed then. Walking in love is another thing I used to be able to do, in several senses of the term. The problem with the giving of thanks – or one of them – is that you never actually know the moment you are happy – not until it’s passed, and you are looking back on it – but at that actual moment, the moment where your happiness was maximised, and – like every other rhythm in the universe – was just about to pass the tipping point and become its opposite, the experience is so intense that it defies definition. “We had the experience, but missed the meaning”. It is only when you look back that you remember the days when you walked in fields of gold, and the girl you walked in love there with now walks elsewhere, either in reality or in her thoughts. Very seldom does the beginning accord to the end, as the Gawain poet says. Or, as John Donne said – oft quoted by me:
"Oh how feeble is man’s powre
that if good fortune fall
he cannot add one single houre,
nor a lost houre recall"
This week’s Gospel is St. Luke 11. 14, which starts out, rather splendidly:
“ Jesus was casting out a devil, and it was dumb.”
It certainly was, picking a fight with Jesus, and he zapped its sorry ass.
“And it came to pass, when the devil was gone out, the dumb spake; and the people wondered. But some of them said, He casteth out devils through Beelzebub the chief of the devils.”
Mamma Mia, Mamma Mia, not Be-el-ze-bub! In a minute, we’ll all be doing the headbanging scene in the car from Wayne’s World! But Jesus, equal to the challenge, faces them down and says that actually, he casts out devils by using the finger of God. However, he does then proceed to give them the Scarborough Warning, in George Bush terms:
“He that is not with me is against me: and he that gathereth not with me scattereth.”
Maybe that is my problem. By going through these blind-man’s buff contortions, these gropings towards the concept of what might be called a God, by not blindly accepting it all, I have “scattered” and lost my way, in the process of trying to be a signpost to others, even if only to say “don’t go there”. Maybe I have, like the man Jesus describes in this passage, invited seven kinds of devils to dwell within me. If it wasn’t so difficult to justify the ways of God to men, I might be more reconciled. If only, as I have said before, God could be a bit more like Jesus in his everyday life. But, as it is, yes, I remain scattered, like last year’s dead leaves dancing before the winds of March, before breaking up, brittle, in the sunshine of April.
The last bit always has me chuckling though:
“And it came to pass, as he spake these things, a certain woman of the company lifted up her voice, and said unto him, Blessed is the womb that bare thee, and the paps which thou hast sucked. But he said, Yea rather, blessed are they that hear the word of God, and keep it.”
I just have this aural vision, if that’s allowed, of Jesus speaking in the voice of the Prince Obolensky commentator, or Leslie Phillips, going “Ra-ther!” at the mention of “the paps which thou hast sucked”. So, that’s me being toasted by demons with pitchforks for all eternity, I guess. Sorry, Big G, I know St Luke was trying to be serious, but humour is the last ditch of my defence, right now.
Next week brings a renewed challenge, of course, with the possibility that Broadmoor may re-open as early as Monday. These next few days are going to be critical in the fight to recover the ability to walk, if I can do it. I am determined to do it, because I don’t want my life to be over at the age of 55. Please don’t tell me that my life won’t be over, even if I am stuck in this wheelchair for the rest of my life. I know you mean well, but my old life, the life which, for all its faults and struggles, was when I walked the fields of barley, and when I was last sort of happy, died on St Swithun’s Day last year. And I cannot call back that time, or any other time I have lost, any more than I can recall the “lost hour” this week that saw us transit to British Summer Time.
Whatever follows is bound to be different. And probably, barring miracles, unpleasant. And maybe painful. Very seldom does the beginning accord to the end.
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