It has been a busy week in the Holme Valley. Trying to turn round the supertanker which was once a publishing business, before it goes down with all hands, following six months of neglect while I was ill last year, is proving to be hard work, involving prolonged phone calls to the likes of Paypal customer services, about why the web shop doesn’t work properly. You probably get the picture. Given that it’s still not sorted out, and there’s the prospect of yet more moronic conversations of a Kafkaesque nature next week about “configuration buttons” and “account settings”, I almost wish I’d been raptured!
I’ve been so busy I have hardly had time to notice the weather, but my recollection is that it remains cool and showery, with occasional fleeting glimpses of the sun. That means it’s shaping up to be like it was last summer (not that I recall much of last summer) and the summer before, where we had a burst of hot weather in April then drizzle til October. Whatever, the summer is already passing by at an alarming rate. The wind and rain are already knocking the petals off the clematis, and four weeks from today it will be Midsummer.
The reason for all this flurry of activity is that it’s now looking increasingly likely that my other job, “the office”, my career in the digital personalised print industry, is going to make me redundant, or rather, make my post redundant, a fine distinction which they were anxious to draw, for obvious reasons, which are not unconnected with unfair dismissal. I know very little about employment law, and I care even less, to be honest. If they don’t want me, then stuff them, it’s their loss and their funeral, and they can sink or swim. It’s mildly sad that, after 21 years, I really don’t care any more about people who I used to think were friends of mine as well as colleagues, but it’s a consequence of their decision not to care about me, and they have to live by it. In the greater scheme of things, and in context of all the other stuff that’s happened to me since last July, like nearly dying, it’s a fly-speck on the mirror of eternity. Though it stung a bit at the time. Being no longer a block in their building.
What it does mean, though, is that the Press will have to become my prime source of income, taking over from my non-existent benefits (£327.25 in arrears and still counting, DWP) if we are to have any hope of battling out of this storm. And/or I can try and get another job, at 56 years old, in a wheelchair, in the teeth of a howling recession. That, and selling stuff. I am organising a huge “triage” of the house into four categories: keep, skip, freecycle, ebay. I have a handmade guitar which I will take £500 for, and a Rapido Folding Caravan which is going for £250, buyer collects in both cases. That would keep Barclays at bay for two months. So, money has been on my mind this week. “Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers” as Wordsworth said, in other circumstances – “The world is too much with us”.
The animals are completely oblivious of all this economic turmoil raging round them, of course; their lives remain as placid and pseudo-bucolic as they ever did. Mind you, Kitty has troubles of her own, in the form of unwanted nocturnal visitors. One night last week, or rather, very early one morning, I disturbed in my sleep to note the hind quarters of a cat, as the said beast transited my room en route for the cat flap. My sleep-fuddled brain then registered that the said hindquarters of the said feline beast were tabby, and not sh/h/b&w, as it says on Kitty’s vet bills. So that was Spidey, next door’s cat, going home, no doubt after nesting for the night in the office upstairs.
The next night brought round two of the cat wars, featuring (in the blue corner) Kitty, against (in the red corner) The Interloper. Two falls, two submissions, or a knockout, as Kent Walton used to say. Surprisingly, I discovered, as the yowling and growling woke me yet again, that Kitty was the surprising victor, and The Interloper, which must be twice her size and a full Tom to boot, was headed out through the cat flap in one bound. I praised Kitty for seeing him off. Her tail was the size of a bog-brush. She scowled at me, saucer-eyed, and padded away, back in search of the warmth of the hearth, from which I concluded that the stove must still be in in the kitchen, the other side of my wall.
Tiggy, of course, has chosen to rise above all this, or rather to sleep through it. I wish I could do the same. But then she is the equivalent of 98 in human years, and stone deaf. Debbie also slept through it all, apparently, but she has the equally valid excuse of being dog-tired, utterly exhausted after another week of Herculean efforts to instil literacy into Dewsbury, the town that education forgot. So much so that she fell asleep during the act of eating her tea on Friday, while we were in the middle of arguing about the interpretation of poetry. Still, I suppose it makes a change from arguing about how we’re going to pay the mortgage.
In a week when it has been, to be honest, fairly unremitting hard grind, it was pleasant to see my fellow member of the Kamikaze Ground Staff Reunion Club, Bernard, again. I’m becoming convinced that he pops up like a talisman whenever I am at my lowest. It was on Wednesday afternoon, this time, after I had just undertaken a singularly uninspiring and unrewarding series of telephone calls, that I heard the outside door go, and then Bernard’s voice shouting was I in. So he ambled over to the sofa, budged Kitty up, sat down, and we talked for an hour and a half, a peaceful oasis while the maelstrom of commerce raged all round me.
He told me that, at the age of 89, he had just achieved another one of his lifetime’s ambitions. As a retired engineer, he had been to the Manchester Science Museum and seen a “hot air engine”. Apparently the heat source heats the air, which expands and pushes the piston, which in turn drives the flywheel. We’d previously been talking about the amount of packaging in modern life, most of it unnecessary. Suddenly, a light bulb came on over my head.
“So if you had an incinerator in a house that could burn household rubbish to provide a heat source for a hot air engine, that could drive a flywheel and produce electricity?”
He thought for a while and then said, in theory, yes. So that’s another component of my Rooftree house sorted out, then. And it would stop the waste going into landfill, converting it into energy that could heat the house and produce some of its energy needs on site. Thanks, Bernard. As many readers of this blog will know, I have a special affinity for hot air and rubbish, so maybe I am the person uniquely placed to see their potential applications.
One good thing about all the “busyness” of trying to revive a semi-dormant business, is that it has stopped me brooding too much this week on the lack of progress in other areas. Every situation has its good and bad points, I suppose. The good point is, this computer allows you to hear the music exactly as the original artist intended, the bad point is, the original artist in question is Dr Dre. You see what I mean. Actually, there has been progress, albeit limited. I have seen and approved the drawing for the ramp, and the new standing hoist was delivered last Monday, but I haven’t used it yet, because my OT and my physio can’t come and see me until tomorrow morning. Still, give me enough bricks and I will build you a cathedral. Eventually.
A metaphor which brings me neatly back to matters religious. Once again, it’s been a week when I have been busy rendering unto Caesar, so my spiritual life, such as it is, has had to take a back seat. I could not avoid, however, the fervent speculation about the rapture, especially online. Various threads on various message boards asked questions such as “what would you like to do before the world ends?”, “Who will feed your cat if you are raptured?” and “what music would you like to be raptured to?” [Not, in my case, Doctor Dre.] Anyway, in any event, it never happened, so the questions never arose. But it did set me thinking, what would I do if I knew I only had 45 minutes to go, or something. Is it possible, when you are happy, to be any happier, without the moment passing? Half the time, we don’t realise we are happy anyway until we look back on it afterwards. So, in the end, rather than trying frantically to gather everyone around you for one last, false party, as the sky splits in twain and the seas boil, perhaps it’s better to just carry on, as before, and put the kettle on for a nice cuppa. So when the Almighty comes to rapture me, I am sitting here with the cat on my knee, Deb is on the sofa, and the dog is stretched out in front of the fire. And if they can’t come with me, then I don’t want to be raptured. A heaven without cats and dogs is unthinkable, however much I might want to see my mother and father again, not to mention Auntie Maud.
The readiness is all. I guess the real trick is to try and live every minute as if you are going to be raptured. As Blind Willie McTell said:
“Could be tomorrow, you never know the minute or the hour”.
Still, as someone memorably said when the rapture failed to happen, it’s not the end of the world, is it? And so, not having been raptured, I decided to have a quick look at the lectionary for today, to see if in my absence last week, Big G had left me any Easter Eggs.
The first text, Acts 7:55-60 (King James Version) seems to be about the martyrdom of St Stephen.
But he, being full of the Holy Ghost, looked up stedfastly into heaven, and saw the glory of God, and Jesus standing on the right hand of God, And said, Behold, I see the heavens opened, and the Son of man standing on the right hand of God. Then they cried out with a loud voice, and stopped their ears, and ran upon him with one accord, And cast him out of the city, and stoned him: and the witnesses laid down their clothes at a young man's feet, whose name was Saul. And they stoned Stephen, calling upon God, and saying, Lord Jesus, receive my spirit. And he kneeled down, and cried with a loud voice, Lord, lay not this sin to their charge. And when he had said this, he fell asleep.
Martyrdom is a minefield, of course. Many of the people who commit some of the worst outrages in the name of political causes think themselves martyrs. And before anyone thinks I am having a go at Muslims in particular, in the week when the Queen visited Ireland, we can remind ourselves that we had our own extremist religious maniacs, on both sides, a lot nearer home. I suppose the difference with the early Christian Martyrs is that they had martyrdom done to them, rather than deciding to become “martyrs” themselves in the course of murdering other innocent people. Perhaps that is a distinction we would all do well to remember. Anyway, I don’t think Big G is telling me to actually be a martyr, however much I might feel like one, these days.
So I turned to Psalm 31
In thee, O LORD, do I put my trust; let me never be ashamed: deliver me in thy righteousness. Bow down thine ear to me; deliver me speedily: be thou my strong rock, for an house of defence to save me. For thou art my rock and my fortress; therefore for thy name's sake lead me, and guide me. Pull me out of the net that they have laid privily for me: for thou art my strength. Into thine hand I commit my spirit: thou hast redeemed me, O LORD God of truth.
This speaks more directly to my experience, at least this week. Pull me out of the net they have laid privily for me. Pull me up with the standing hoist, and pull me out of this financial mess, which is a net laid privily if ever there was one. The third text, 1 Peter 2:2-10 (King James Version)
As newborn babes, desire the sincere milk of the word, that ye may grow thereby: If so be ye have tasted that the Lord is gracious. To whom coming, as unto a living stone, disallowed indeed of men, but chosen of God, and precious, Ye also, as lively stones, are built up a spiritual house, an holy priesthood, to offer up spiritual sacrifices, acceptable to God by Jesus Christ. Wherefore also it is contained in the scripture, Behold, I lay in Sion a chief corner stone, elect, precious: and he that believeth on him shall not be confounded. Unto you therefore which believe he is precious: but unto them which be disobedient, the stone which the builders disallowed, the same is made the head of the corner.
I’m aware that on one level, the reference to the stone which the builders rejected having become the cornerstone refers to the Jews having rejected Christ, but I also take from it the sense that we all have a part to play, no matter how useless and ill-formed, all these different stones have to fit together to make the Cathedral, each stone in its correct place, and there is always the capacity for any of us to become the keystone in our own particular arch. Each of us holds something together. So there is hope for me yet, I suppose. Somewhere, some enterprise, is lacking this particular dumb stone.
Finally, completing the building metaphor, comes John 14:1-4 (King James Version)
Let not your heart be troubled: ye believe in God, believe also in me. In my Father's house are many mansions: if it were not so, I would have told you. I go to prepare a place for you.
Back to buildings again. Am I building something here? Am I part of it? A key part of it? If so, we’re building it brick by brick, stone by stone, and I only hope it’s worth the effort. One of my favourite books is William Golding’s The Spire, and I wrote before in Here Endeth The Epilogue about the faith of people who started building a cathedral, knowing that they would never live to see it finished. And, bizarrely enough, one of the tasks which will need to be accomplished before the ramp can be built is the moving of two rows of wall-topping stones which have been stacked in the driveway ever since we demolished a bit of garden wall to enable us to get both vehicles off the road, back in the day when there were two vehicles.
As TS Eliot says, in East Coker:
“In my beginning is my end. In succession
Houses rise and fall, crumble, are extended,
Are removed, destroyed, restored, or in their place
Is an open field, or a factory, or a by-pass.
Old stone to new building, old timber to new fires,”
It doesn’t particularly feel like a time of building, it still feels in many ways like things are crashing to the ground all around me. But I suppose there comes a point where anything that can fall off has fallen off, and it’s time to start picking up the pieces and putting them back together again. As Mr Kipling said, in between making exceedingly good cakes,
“If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to broken,
And stoop and build 'em up with worn out tools”
The question is, of course, do I have the strength to do it?
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