I've been applying for jobs and, to do that, must submit a CV of my qualifications and experiences. If I'm applying to be a lecturer, I submit my lecturing persona.; for accounting jobs my accounting persona and for writing jobs my writing persona. With five qualifications and may unrelated jobs to my credit, there are many variations of the three main personas I can adopt - business writer, book publisher, personal development facilitator, business coach, university lecturer, book editor, facilitator of men's groups, change manager, accountant, accounting lecturer … they go on, depending on what I think the job advertiser may want to hear.
And where has that got me? Well, I don't have a job yet! So nowhere, really.
All of these qualifications and experiences are, in reality, no more me than the party mask I might put on for a masquerade ball. None of them are who I am - they're just what I've done. They're my history, my used-to-be. They may contribute to who I am (perhaps, perhaps not) but they're not who I am, that changeless being as a creation of God.
And then it hit me, very gently. I am the smile on the face of God. That I have always been, am and ever will be. It needs no explanation, no analysis, no pretending. I drop the masks and it is who I am - the smile on the face of God and, realising that, I know I will be "faced" in the right direction for the next stage in this adventure called life. :)
So, what is next for Arthur Bayly and Mary Collins in their adverture - continued from the previous blog ...
"The alternative is hammers and crow bars, if you insist," said Mary, sensing their uncertainty. "But we don't have those here either and I gather you're in a hurry. Keys are much quicker. Come this way and we'll leave Arthur to get on his way!" As she strode past him she whispered to Arthur, "Go, go now!" and she marched off up the corridor to the lift, fully expecting the two men to follow her. They fell in line with her expectation and followed her obediently.
Arthur breathed a sigh of relief. He was free of them! But, he thought, Mary isn't. What should he do? As relief, fear and confusion swept over him in alternate waves, he felt a tug at his sleeve. He jumped.
"Oh, I'm sorry sir," said an antipodean accent behind him. He turned to see the cheery elfin figure of Halee there with his briefcase. "Sir, right now, you need to take this and go home."
"But where did that come from," asked Arthur, confused. "It disappeared before ..."
"Ah, that's easy, sir, I disappeared it for you!" said Halee with a grin.
"You did?"
"Yup! I did!" said Halee. "They seemed to want it and Mary had warned me someone might want it and shouldn't have it. So I disappeared it for you. Now you must go and all will be well, I promise you."
"But Mary's with those ... those rough men ..."
"Mary's fine, Arthur, just you go or she won't be."
"What?"
"You want me to spell it out?" asked Halee, with urgency. "That bag, in this building, is a lot of trouble for Mary. So you just get going and make it safer for her. You understand?"
"Uh, I think so," said Arthur not understanding at all but knowing that he didn't have to. He just needed to go. "Thank you Halee. Thank you so much."
"That's no trouble at all, sir. Just you get yourself going and don't stop till you're home."
Arthur turned and walked into two large men in police uniforms.
"Oh, gosh," said Arthur with a feeling of déjà vu.
"That's alright, sir, we're looking for a Mary Collins," said one of them.
"Come with me, gentlemen, and I'll see you later, sir," said Halee waving him away surreptitiously.
Arthur walked rather briskly from the building, down the street and onto the waiting train. The journey home was the longest he had ever known. Apart from the possibility of being discretely manhandled at the point of a gun at the next stop (thankfully, there was only one stop before Croydon - Clapham Junction), there was the delicate matter of telling Joan ... or not telling Joan. How do you keep something so ... well, so exciting, scary and potentially harmful to her - perhaps to his family and neighbours ... oh my God, where did it end? How do you bottle up such an experience and save others from worry while they should be warned?
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As she led the men up the corridor to the lift, Mary wondered what on God's earth possessed her to do this. What was she going to do with them? What was she going to say to them? She smiled bravely at them as she waved them into the lift. They waited for her - suspicious sods, she thought. The ride to the seventh floor took seventeen seconds but it seemed like a day. She smiled awkwardly at them and they smiled awkwardly back at her but their smiles turned to grimaces as they frowned at each other. Mary wondered if they were as confused as she was. She knew their day had not gone as planned - pop into the office, scare a clerk into handing over a file, disappear from said office, hand over file to Mr X, collect cash and be at the pub celebrating by 10.00 am - and here they were, still in the building, going in the opposite direction of the said file while being led around by the noses by a bossy young woman with no idea of where the file, or its offending key, was. Mary was tempted to laugh but she stifled it on the grounds of health and safety. Her health and safety.
At last they reached her floor, with a momentary hesitation as everybody waited for everybody else to get out. Stupid English, she though, so insanely polite, it's no wonder nothing gets done and the place is falling apart ... but then, neither of them appeared to be English ... oh dear, maybe, just maybe, they're suspicious and want her in front of them so they don't fall into a trap. She almost giggled at the thought as she was, at that moment, quite unable to formulate any plan beyond the next three seconds, let alone make a trap for them! Again, on health and safety grounds, she stifled the giggle ... just.
As she strode off down the oak-panelled passage to her office, she was surprised that these two large men had trouble keeping up with her. Mind you, most people did. She also noticed her secretary, Toby McGuire, rising from his seat with a large, toothy smile to attend her every whim.
When she'd moved into Sam's office, she decided changes needed to be made - not least to help expunge some of her wonderful memories of Sam - so she had told his clueless and probably quite beautiful (in a clueless sort of way) secretary that as she was so meticulous about constantly cleaning and preening herself, she would be perfect to work in the cleaning team, on her ridiculous salary. Strangely, the girl didn't turn up for her first day of cleaning duties. In the meantime, she had plucked young Toby from the third floor processing team where she had noticed, for some time, that his typing skills were exceptional, that he seemed to have a functioning brain and, most importantly, the bounding enthusiasm of a young puppy. It was nice to have a bloke around. It was only later that she discovered he was a black belt in Tae Kwon Do. She wasn't sure she'd ever need his brick-chopping skills, but it was, somehow, comforting.
"Ah, Toby, these fine gentlemen are looking for the Atkinson file to take away with them," she said loudly down the corridor, while trying to mouth help silently to him.
At the time, it was a little scary but, coincidentally, in line with our wishes. We arrived here on Anna's birthday, 5th September 2009, and decided we'd do the four seasons and leave at the beginning of September 2010. A month ago we were told we'd have to leave by 3rd September! Perhaps we actually created the whole scary situation by our stated intention to God, the universe and many friends … who knows?
It's all very well having these wonderful intentions but, when they happen and we've actually got to face the spectre of change, it can be scary.
So, as the 3rd September loomed closer and closer, our stress and adrenalin levels increased, higher and higher, in perfect relationship to the closing of the gap. And still no job has been found and, without a job, we cannot get accommodation as they will not let houses to unemployed people. The 3rd September moved closer, with each passing day, and our stress increased and sleep was harder to have and it was harder and harder to remain in the place of peace that A Course in Miracles suggests for us. The gap closed and the stress and fear grew.
Then, yesterday, eight days before D-Day, when we should have been stressed to overload, something went ppfffttt and then nothing. No stress. No fear. No adrenalin. No anger. Just stillness. Just peace. Just a quiet smile, resignation and, weirdly, we have no answers and really don't care. Maybe the stress is just too much for our tiny minds to encompass so it gives up and stops caring … stops knowing how to care. Maybe it's insanity setting in but who cares! We're currently in peace, in the void and in surrender, which is what A Course in Miracles suggests for us. Maybe we're finally getting it, that nothing matters and it's all just a silly game played out to amuse us while we realise the bigger (real) game of being our true Godliness.
Who knows? I sure as heck don't and knowing that I do not know does nothing but bring the peace I've been looking for for aeons. Aahhh!!
So, what does Arthur do or think when his back's against the wall? His story is continued from the previous blog ...
He thought of Joan and how she'd like him to act - cool and decisively. This was not a natural state for him but, for her, he tried to pretend. He noticed the clock on the wall said 11.37 and that time stuck in his head.
He noticed the black suits, nearly identical, and he noticed that one man, the one who stepped forward - the one with blonde cropped hair and who could have easily passed for an American sailor - had a faint scar from his left ear to his mouth. As he extended his hand a tattoo showed on his forearm, under his cuff-linked shirt cuff.
His colleague was slightly shorter and broader with a shaven head. Arthur noticed that he kept his right hand clenched and was sure the fourth finger was missing.
Then a strange thing happened - perhaps because his focus was strongly on some things and not on others. Anyway, a shadow, a flicker - maybe it was a trick of the light or the dread in his brain - passed the left corner of his eye. It was there and gone and he felt a faint whisper of wind, a zephyr. His left hand felt lighter but he daren't look down; he needed his focus on these men who, he assumed, were Financial Services Authority auditors. Rather more rugged looking than he'd imagined, they had obviously caught the scent - as auditors are wont to do - of whatever intrigues surrounded the Atkinson case. And here he was, Arthur Bayly, walking from the crime scene with the stolen jewels on his person, so to speak.
"Arthur Bayly, I presume?" said the blonde man, a missing tooth marring his smile.
"Ah, yes, correct. Arthur," said Arthur. "And you are?"
"You got da Atkinson stuff ..."
"The Atkinson file," said the shorter man, interrupting his friend. "We just want to ascertain the whereabouts of that information, Sir."
Arthur felt the prickly heat intensify and spread down his neck, as the man moved closer, his sickly deodorant filling Arthur's head. His legs felt a little unsteady. He was determined not to betray the precious information he carried but he couldn't help himself. He glanced down quickly ... and glanced again. The briefcase was not there! He knew he'd carried it out and now it was gone, like a phantom. He glanced around and saw Halee, the receptionist, smiling sweetly at all three gentlemen.
"Excuse me, sirs," she said in her New Zealand accent, "would you like to talk to our director about that?"
"Your director, whose dat?" asked the blonde man.
"Mary Collins, sir, she's our director."
"But we were told ... we need to talk to Arthur Bayly about this," said the shorter one.
"Who should I tell her you are?" Halee asked with great efficiency as she held up her handpiece, ready to call.
"But it's the Arthur Bayly we need to see," said the blonde man, looking a little uncertain.
"Did you have an appointment with Ms Collins, sirs?" asked Halee, apparently unable to hear their wish to see Arthur.
"No, no appointment. We just here to see Arthur Bayly and get the Atkinson file, thank you young lady," said the blonde one, losing his smile.
"Yes Ms Collins, they're here at reception now ... no, they don't seem to have any warrant or authority to take any client files ..." said Halee into her phone piece. Arthur was sure she had not dialled anyone or that anyone was at the other end of the line. However, the two men stepped back a little. "The police? You think I should call the police, Ma'am?" said Halee into her phone.
Arthur suddenly found himself suspended and being carried towards his office.
"Yours is the second on the left, here, isn't it?" said the shorter one, the stench of his bad breath mingling discordantly with his strong deodorant.
"Ah, yes, just here," said Arthur, wondering how he knew.
"Right, so where's the Atkinson file, buddy?" demanded the blonde one.
"Ah, the Atkinson file," muttered Arthur, trying to remember his activities five minutes prior to this. He gulped as he realised the Atkinson file was in two places and neither was in his office. "The Atkinson file," he said again, deciding to act dumb. Though, as he smiled to himself, it wasn't acting at all, really. "It should be in this filing cabinet. I just need to unlock it," he said, fumbling in his pocket for the office keys. They weren't there. Mary had them. "Look, I most awfully sorry, I don't have the keys."
The shorter man dashed to the filing cabinet, knocking Arthur aside, and yanked on the handle, several times. The cabinet tipped towards him, spilling a pile of paper onto the floor. By now Arthur had noticed a growing number of people passing his office, looking in while pretending not to. The two men noticed this, too, and Arthur could tell they were not happy.
"Yes," said Arthur, "it's locked and so I'll just go up and get the keys for you."
"You're not bloody goin' nowhere, buddy," said the blonde chap sharply. "Just open this willya!"
"I … I don't have the key," said Arthur, trying to sound calm and helpful. "I need to get the keys. They're not here, sir."
"Don't sir me, just open the cabinet," said the shorter man, grabbing Arthur by the coat collar and pushing him towards the cabinet. "We haven't got time to piss around. Now open that damned cabinet!"
"I'm very sorry, sir, I don't have the keys," said Arthur turning his pockets out, quickly, to show that he was carrying nothing but a white handkerchief.
"Good morning, gentleman!" said Mary breezily behind him. "What is it you're looking for?"
"The bloody key ..." said the blonde man.
"Ah, the Atkinson file, Ma'am," said the shorter one, frowning at his colleague. "We just need to get the Atkinson file."
"Of course," said Mary happily, walking up to him. "I'm Mary Collins, Regional Director. And we don't keep keys for confidential files down here on this floor. You'll have to come with me."
The two men looked at each other uncertainly. Their quarry was right there - do they risk leaving it?
I knew what God was, for we often had chats and I learned a lot. Then they told me God was an old, bearded man, sitting on a cloud, checking credentials. I had got it all wrong.
I knew that I had been born with a particular purpose in this lifetime. Then they told me it was my duty to get a respectable, well-paying job and to obey the rules. I had got it wrong again.
I knew that trees, the sea, mountains and all other natural beings were intelligent as I had often spoken to them and found them to be unerringly correct. Then, at school, I was told that humans were the only intelligent life force and that all other things were either dumb or without any feelings or thoughts at all. I had got it wrong yet again.
Now that I'm really old - nearly as old as the trees, the sea, the mountains - I am regaining my intelligence and having some amazing chats with God ... and, no, it's not my Alzheimer's kicking in*! And how do I know it's God? Because, as Jesus tells us, there is the abiding sense of peace as I listen to the Voice for God. Whenever any decision needs to be made, I listen or feel for that abiding sense of peace … and it's always right.
*Somerset Maugham said, "They told me that when I got old, I would lose my mind. What they didn't tell me was that I wouldn't miss it much."
Now, how much peace is Arthur feeling? His story is continued from the previous blog ...
"They're investigating us?"
"Well, sort of. Their investigation hasn't started but we've been warned, from above, that the Atkinson case could be looked into," said Mary, returning to her harried look. "So, we've got to be very careful to have it completed before they turn up - we want to show how efficient we are to stop the investigation spreading anywhere else. We don't want any questions unanswered. You understand?"
"Yes, I think I do," said Arthur, feeling a heaviness settle around him. This project was supposed to be exciting but there now seemed to be a serious edge to it. Perhaps Joan was right after all …
"So, you see that it's not possible to have anything leave the office and we need it done as quickly as possible."
"Another alternative, Mary, is for me to take all the files home ..." said Arthur, feeling stuck and over his head in this stupid scenario while his brain started firing as never before.
"No, Arthur! I just said you can't!" said Mary leaping up. Arthur had never seen her look so florid or nervous.
"Mary, please let me finish. I have an idea," said Arthur, quietly. Mary sat, shaking her head. "If I have them at home till it's all settled, then there's no possibility of the FSA seeing anything half complete. You can say the matter is in the hands of your expert consultant and can delay giving them anything till I've answered all your questions. If the worst comes to the worst, you can delay till then, blame me and they can't see the job till it's all plastered, wallpapered and looking ready for sale, so to speak."
Mary sat and smiled at this undeniable logic. "Arthur Bayly," she said, eventually, "you're a bit of a dark horse, aren't you!"
"I have my moments."
"Right, perfect solution," said Mary, standing again and coming round to Arthur's side of the desk, with her hand out. "If I was one of those New Agers, I'd give you a hug, but I'm not!" She shook his hand strongly and did what she was good at - giving orders: "I'll get my PA to photocopy all the files, you get two computer sticks, copy all you have in your computer onto them. You keep one stick and the original files. I'll lock all the copies away from anyone's view, in case the worst happens. I'll organise you a laptop, be on your way with the original files, a laptop and computer stick and you can download a copy when you get home. OK?"
"Uh, yes, fine, thanks Mary."
"And we'll keep in phone and email contact each day. I'll need to know what's happening all the time," said Mary, smiling. "Upstairs will want to know that good progress is being made. And don't forget to ask for any resources you need - money is no object, as they say!"
______________
Arthur felt a little like James Bond with a rising sense of excitement - even danger - he'd never felt before. Every moment he feared an earnest band of pin-striped inspectors confronting him perverting - well, temporarily skirting - the course of justice and being hauled off for incarceration in the Tower of London … his mind went wild with the awful consequences it created, one upon the other. What he was very sure of was that James Bond would not trip up on shadows on the carpet, drop his computer stick behind his drawer and spend five sweaty minutes extracting said drawer and said computer stick, dropping a bundle of files in the corridor and spend a few more precious minutes gathering them up. No, James Bond would be in his office for four and a half minutes and out the door before anyone noticed.
"So, Mr Bond, how are we going? Mission completed?" asked Mary as she strode back with the original files he'd previously dropped.
All Arthur could offer in reply was a sort of grunty, giggly refrain as he stood staring at his computer screen, wondering whether to scream or cry.
"Is everything alright, Arthur?" asked Mary, her smile turning to concern.
"I'm afraid this Mr Bond just isn't up to it today, Mary … ah, Miss Moneypenny," said Arthur, staring intently at the screen. "I turned it on and it just downloaded an upgrade of some sort and it's shut down and restarting - too dashed clever for itself, I'd say. I'm sure this never happens to our Mr Bond … I say, how did you know I was thinking of him when you came in?"
"I didn't, it just came out," said Mary. "So you were thinking how James Bond would be doing this?"
"Well, yes I was, actually," said Arthur. "Dashed interesting, really." He rushed to his chair, suddenly, downloaded his Atkinson file onto the two sticks, gave one to Mary, took the files from her and packed it all in the bag she gave him.
"Gosh, what's the rush?" asked Mary, surprised at his speed. "They won't be here today, Arthur."
"I must be nervous. I'm sorry," he said, sheepishly. "I really should be going, anyway, to help Joan with the funeral arrangements." His eyes wouldn't stop darting to the door and the reception area - you never know with these investigation types, he thought.
"OK, well, please keep me informed each day - I know you'll have it completed in no time," said Mary as she shook his hand and disappeared up the corridor to the lift.
Arthur walked out with more speed than grace and bumped into two large men in black suits at the reception area. He immediately sensed who these two strangers were and he felt a most uncomfortable prickly heat in his face and it seemed to be spreading over his head. He supposed that he must be sweating, something he was not prone to do. These tense moments looked all very exciting on television and in the James Bond movies and he'd always wondered what it was like in real life. Now he knew and he didn't like it. His mind became strangely focussed, rather strongly, on several things at once.
Many years ago science - based on the need to prove that God lived on Earth - proved that everything went round the earth. It was only when Galileo questioned the whole rationale, that it was discovered that science was wrong.
For many years, scientists proved that it was impossible for a human being to run a mile in under four minutes. Then, in 1954, Roger Bannister ran the mile in 3 minutes and 59.4 seconds. In the last 50 years the mile record has been lowered by almost 17 seconds.
Science is currently proving that our naughty emissions are causing global warming and all sorts of terrible climate change effects. At the same time, Mars has developed two rivers (that were never there before) and is undergoing massive climate change. I guess we either:
1. Need to tell the Martians to stop using aerosol sprays and burning petrol, or
2. Realise that it's not all about us (as Galileo suggested) and that there are forces far greater than us controlling things.
I'm just waiting for science to prove that science doesn't exist and they got it all wrong … most of the time. I could be waiting for a long time, though!
Now, will Arthur believe what Mary has to tell him? Their story is continued from the previous blog ...
"Oh," said Arthur, wondering why he should be privy to this information. The feeling about that was not good.
"However, what the man in the street didn't twig to was that the people at the Bank of England who were supposed to be looking after his interests were the same people employed at the FSA," said Mary, obviously keen to tell the entire story. "You see, the government is quite happy for 1,600 honest, industrious steel workers to lose their jobs in Redcar, in the north of England, but it's unwilling to let millionaire bankers lose their luxurious lifestyles - lifestyles they put in jeopardy by their own gross negligence and greed."
"Gosh," said Arthur, feeling increasingly uneasy. He sat forward as if to rise, hoping to staunch Mary's verbal flow.
"No Arthur, it's important you know this," said Mary. "Now, as you now know, the bank that committed the worst of these financial excesses - blind avarice at its worst - comes from my own fair Scotland. And they have their own employee in power and when Mr Brown makes a big enough fool of himself, they'll appoint another Scot - probably a McDougal, McIntyre or some other Scottish name - to the post. God forbid that an Englishman should rule England!"
"But our politicians are voted in, not appointed!" exclaimed Arthur, appalled at Mary's story.
"OK, Arthur, which bank got the biggest payout from the British government?" asked Mary.
"Ah, the Royal Bank of Scotland, I think," said Arthur.
"And which bank had committed the greatest of the financial atrocities?" asked Mary.
"The RBS?" Arthur asked, tentatively.
"Exactly!" said Mary. "The Scots own the best bank in Britain so there's no need to act responsibly or professionally. The executives can continue to pay themselves their millions, annually, and throw away billions on bad investments, knowing they can always milk the cow that never dries up - the government coffers which they control!"
"And I thought the English beat the Scots!" said Arthur, chuckling and feeling more than a little queezy at these startling disclosures.
"Yes they did, Arthur," said Mary. "The English beat the Scots with their guns and then built their mansions and huge estates from the huge incomes they made from the land they stole from us. But we beat them with our money - our loyal British government has ensured that few of those huge, wealthy estates are now financially viable. So, do you know who now owns most of these defunct estates - who has obtained the finance from Her Majesty's Most Loyal government to finance the purchase of them at bargain prices and now make huge profits from showing them to the millions of gawping tourists?"
"The National Trust?" suggested Arthur.
"And who actually owns the National trust?" asked Mary.
"Not the Scots, surely?" asked Arthur, incredulous.
"I'll leave you to do your own research on that," said Mary, smiling.
"It's just the same in the US. After Pearl Harbour, the Americans beat the Japanese with their guns and now the Japanese - well, the Asians, generally - own America. They've disassembled the American car industry and taken it over and, at the moment the US owes China $900 billion and Japan $770 billion. They're the biggest lenders to the US, owning around 44% of it, and so they're the pipers who call the tune, so to speak. America is insolvent and will never be able to repay the debt, just as England is insolvent and will never be able to repay Scotland's debt. The bankers, the lenders are in charge! Anyway, we digress - back to our little problem with Lord Atkinson."
"But all the politicians and, well, everyone else, seem to be such good people. Such believable people. Surely this doesn't happen in our civilised society?" asked Arthur, wondering how he'd missed all this and what else was out there, lurking … waiting for him to stumble over.
"Yes, we would all like to think so," said Mary, smiling sadly. "However, when you move in the financial circles Sam Lord and others do, you'll see the reality is that the banks have their silk-gloved gauntlets firmly found the throats of every senior politician - all very gentlemanly and proper but if any makes a wrong move, says the wrong thing, that steel gauntlet closes and our protective police department can be relied on to create all sorts of havoc in a man's life!"
"No, Mary, not the police too!" said Arthur in disbelief.
"Look at the facts, Arthur," said Mary, leaning forward. "Every time a politician looks like stepping over that invisible line, there's a police investigation … a messy police investigation and no conclusion or resolution. No one's brought to trial. The poor man just has his property invaded, turned upside down, his name put to question and he quickly falls back into line or disappears like the homosexual magician."
"Homosexual magician?"
"He disappeared with a poof!" said Mary, chuckling, while Arthur realised it was a joke he didn't quite get. "Anyway, without going into any more detail just now, Arthur, you need to understand why we're treating this whole case so seriously."
"The Atkinson case?"
"Just so," said Mary. "Those who are supposed to be there to protect us just may not be on our side when the chips are down. I just ask that you be careful who you speak to about this."
"Oh," said Arthur, with real words failing him and a sense of foreboding descending on him and his world.
"So, anyway, enough of that!" said Mary, sitting back a little. "The fact is, Arthur, one of our politicians seems to have upset one of our banks - or maybe a few - and the FSA, doing its real job, is out to put a stop to his shenanigans."
"Which politician is this?"
"We don't know yet, or what he's done," said Mary, shaking her head. "I suppose we will, in time and, ten years later, we'll all hear the real story … ah, enough of my cynicism. To the matter at hand."
The word dither comes from Shakespearean times when they used what they called a dither-board to help make decisions. Like a chess-board, the dither-board had sage advice (do nought for two days, consult thy mother, listen to thy dreams, speake thy minde this day and so on) on each square and the "ditherer" would toss a stone or favourite piece of jewellery on the board to see what they had to do.
Now, how many of you believed that? It's actually nonsense as I just made it up! It's interesting that, when something has been written down, it assumes the mantle of TRUTH - we believe it. So, what else do we all believe that's complete fabrication? Scary thought! Not sure why I should bring this up today but it's just something to ponder.
Now, how much does Arthur believe Mary? Their story continues from yesterday's blog ...
"Mary, I do see that you are in a quandary and have rather a lot on your plate. It can't be easy for you," he said. "However, I don't know where I heard this but they say it's best to ride the horse in the direction it's going."
"What, ride a horse?"
"Oh dear," said Arthur, realising his helpful epithet went straight over her head. "Gosh, ah, what appears to me, Mary, is that you need a job done and there's no one here to do it. You're between an immovable object and an unstoppable force, as Newton might have said."
"Newton who?"
"Newton the scientist … discovered gravity ..." said Arthur, feeling his fingers slipping from yet another cliff edge. "Look Mary, Joan and I have discussed this at length and what I can offer you is four days a week - one in the office and the rest at home."
"At home? At HOME?" asked Mary, her voice rising with each syllable. "You just cannot do this at home."
"But you offered that to me …" said Arthur, confused.
"Oh, yes, I did," said Mary, going quite red. "But it's become quite urgent."
"Can I not just take the files and a laptop and then we'll have email and phone ..."
"You cannot take the files home, Arthur," said Mary, standing again. "What would the inspectors ..."
"Inspectors?"
"Ah, oh, damn it, I've said it now haven't I!" said Mary, rubbing her brow. She sat down and was silent for a moment. "Look, Arthur, you need to keep this under your hat."
"Hat?"
"Keep it confidential - I know I can trust you on that," said Mary with a hopeful smile. "There's been an investigation mooted by the Financial Services Authority, the FSA, who are supposed to control banks and other financial institutions."
"Yes, yes, I know of them," said Arthur, "but I've had no involvement with them - they've never been here before."
"No, they've never really been anywhere before," said Mary, brightening a little. "The reality is, of course, that they were never intended to actually do anything, but just make the public think they were protected from the large financial institutions. These banking institutions actually control the politicians - look how they've been able to wheedle billions from the government when no other industry has."
"Oh dear, I'd never really thought about it ..."
"Absolutely, they don't want anyone to think about it," said Mary, warming to one of her favourite subjects. "As we continue to believe the illusion of the FSA protecting us all, we'll keep depositing our money with the banks and repaying our mortgages and credit cards - like dumb milking cows, every day."
"Oh yes," said Arthur at a loss for words but poignantly reminded of his own imagined references to cows going to work every morning.
"Just as the American treasury is owned and run by privately-run banks - not by the US government - so it is with our Bank of England," said Mary, warming to her subject. "The Old Lady of Threadneedle Street, the B of E, was supposed to be the public's watchdog but when it failed to avert a series of scandals in the 1990s culminating in the collapse of Barings Bank, the Financial Services Authority was created to give the public the impression that all was independent and professional, at last ."
Last night I had a long and complicated dream and, in a memorable part of it, I was giving my brother, Geoff, good brotherly advice. I was telling him that he had not been the success he'd wished as he'd kept his nose to the ground, doing manual work and never looking up to greater things. I also told him that, because he had always tried to be a big fish in a small pond, he'd continued to have a small life … and that to have a bigger life he needed to stop thinking about himself and serve others.
If, as I suspect, all the characters in our dreams are us, then I was talking to me*, not an unusual occurrence. So, taking my own advice, I have committed to serving God and any of his creations … you! If there is anyone out there who wants my help, just ask and I'll do what I can. I have many talents and abilities and I'm sure there is some way I can assist you in any way you need - just ask and I'm here.
*Talking to yourself is not a sign of madness and nor is answering back. Also, arguing with yourself is not a sign of madness; it's only when you lose the argument that you're mad!
And now Mary Collins asks Arthur Bayly to serve. Will he? Story continues from yesterday ...
"A lottery where cronies of the government, with inside connections, favours and knowledge of available contracts, can take advantage of, like our Lord Atkinson," said Arthur, suddenly understanding much about the insurance claim that he didn't before.
"Well, yes, we need to be careful of who we're accusing of what, just yet," said Martin in solicitor mode, "but it seems there's intense competition for these contracts - hand out a million or so, with little checking how you spend it - quite a gift for someone with profit in mind!"
"And anyone giving out millions of British pounds to poorer people would gain a lot of friends and favours from those poorer people!" said Arthur, grimly.
"My God, Dad, you should have been a detective!"
"Just my cynical insurance mind in overdrive," said Arthur.
"So, we have the perfect scenario for tossing around government money - many governments' money - to great benefit to the wrong people," said Martin, smiling at his father with unaccustomed admiration. "And the governments themselves are into it too. For example, the European Union, the EU, aid programme provides huge amounts of funds to UE governments to provide aid and the checking at the EU is as shoddy as in here in England. Some of these governments - the Spanish and Italian ones are apparently the worst offenders - just don't get around to spending all the UE funds they receive and it's a great source of revenue for them - helps their balance of payments deficits considerably!"
"But that's OUR money, Martin! Don't they care about that?" asked Joan, astounded.
"Why should they?" asked Martin. "It's not their money and it's free to them!"
"Well, you look after other peoples' money, other peoples' interests ..."
"Yes, Mum, most people do but when you've got access to large amounts of power and money, those thoughts of others just seem to slip out the window, somehow. When you create a house with lots of holes and lots of cheese on the floor, the rats turn up!"
"Oh dear, so what should I do about this job offer back at AIL then?" asked Arthur.
"And what's happened that they suddenly want you back when they were so laid-back before?" asked Martin.
"Yes, it all sounds a bit desperate, a bit … well, dangerous, if you ask me!" said Joan.
"It also sounds like a lot of fun!" said Martin, rubbing his hands together with glee.
"Insurance has never been exciting before, for me," said Arthur, feeling a tingle of adventure in his veins. "And, maybe, I could help get some of your money back from these scoundrels."
"Yes Darling, maybe you could, but I don't like the sound of it at all," said Joan, "and we were just starting to get along and we're just over mother's funeral and Martin needs help and you now want to go back to work?"
"Well, I could do much of it at home," said Arthur, seeing opportunities everywhere. "I don't need to be at the office or to work eight hours a day. I could fit the work in between our family needs."
"I don't know Arthur ..."
"Look Mum, Dad needs some excitement in his life," said Martin, standing forward for his father for the first time ever. "This could be his chance for that and a chance to really do some good."
"Yes dear, I would rather relish a challenge like this - you never know where it could lead to!" said Arthur, wondering why he was talking about other unknown opportunities, while he took her hands and looked into her eyes earnestly.
"Oh, I don't know ..."
"Look dear, let's you and I sit down later and work out what we need to do for each other, for Martin and then I can put a proposal to Mary about what I'm prepared to do for them and any other conditions we can set. They seem keen to have me at any cost."
"Yes, but why?" asked Joan, still concerned.
"And if it doesn't work out, I can simply stop doing the work and hand it back," said Arthur.
"I don't know about the work but I do know I've never seen you so fired up about anything before," said Joan, still looking concerned. "Maybe it is your chance to do something really special … I don't know ..."
"Look, you two," said Martin, "the world won't stop spinning if you do nothing today. Leave it till Monday and call AIL then. If they want an answer before then, just tell them they can't have one - you'll let them know Monday at, say, ten o'clock. This is your decision, not theirs."
Monday, 14th March 2012
So it was that Arthur Bayly found himself back on the old map of his life, in Mary's office. He was having trouble getting her to see that what she wanted she might not get. Or, as Halee, the elfin receptionist from New Zealand said, "They'll get what they need but not in the way they think."
Arthur grinned at that in a way he'd become rather used to lately - hearing something he didn't understand, quite, but knowing he would soon.
However, understanding was not something Mary was achieving at all. She was under some pressure, Arthur assumed, and needed the job done soon … immediately. Arthur could see that there were far fewer minions in the large office and he was most surprised - shocked, indeed - to hear that even Sam had gone. Mary was, effectively, in charge of the Kensington office and, though there were over a hundred thousand clients, this Atkinson one seemed to be her sole concern. She had run out of words to convince Arthur to start full-time in the office and had gone quiet.
Arthur waited a moment for her to stop pacing and to sit down.
Jesus tells us not to call ourselves sinners - it's not humility but arrogance to say that we judge God's creations as imperfect. Who are we to judge God? Rather, Jesus suggests, we should assume that God is perfect and so are his creations.
So, in the interests of the grandness in which I find myself - as yet another perfect creation of God - I came upon an interesting thing. Of course, I have no idea whether I'm right or wrong but, I assume I'm always right as God, my creator, is.
Years ago I had choices and I took all of them. I had many, many different jobs as a qualified accountant had no trouble finding work. I had many interests, including yachting, photography, public speaking, motor bikes, rugby, snow skiing, water skiing, drinking, smoking, partying, tramping, horse riding, riding in rodeos, renovating houses, writing and playing my saxophone or guitar. The things I chose to do were endless and, at times, endlessly dysfunctional. None do I regret.
Now we find ourselves in the situation where there are few … actually, one … choice left to us. We need to move very soon and I only have one job opportunity and I feel weird about that - I always used to have lots of opportunities to choose from. So, what does that tell me?
What I chose that it tell me is that I'm realising my dream of becoming closer to God every day. Though my ego might rebel at the thought of having less choices, my spirit rejoices that there is one choice -my soul's choice. When I am disconnected from God, I can wander in the jungles of "the world" endlessly, going nowhere. However, when I'm listening to the voice for God, there is one direction to take and that is the only direction there is … all others are an illusion of direction.
So, this freedom-lover is finally free to take the only path that exists, the path I have always been on but just forgot. The endlessly dysfunctional paths exist no more and simplicity has snuck up on me … at last!
So now Arthur Bayly has some choices to make ... continued from yesterday's blog."Good, then call me back on this number - that's my direct dial number. Save you going through the reception. Much quicker," said Mary, quickly.
"Right, yes, I'll do that," said Arthur, surprised that direct numbers existed in his old firm.
"You'll ring me right back, yeah?" asked Mary, begging.
"Yes, yes, I will Mary," said Arthur, still trying to absorb the rising sense of urgency coming at him. As he put the phone down and pondered, the children rushed past him to the lounge.
"So what was that all about?" asked Joan, coming up to him. "You look a little shaky."
"Do I? Yes, well, it seems they want me back at work," he said, more to himself than to her, shaking his head.
"You look like you need a hug, too," she said, throwing her arms around him.
"That's the only thing that's normal or understandable, isn't it?" he said with a sheepish smile.
"What is?"
"Well, hugs and you and our family," he said into her shoulder.
"Nothing else makes any sense any more."
"Mmm."
"I don't know, life used to be regular, stable, predictable," Arthur said as tears filled his eyes. "I keep doing what I've always done and it suddenly isn't good enough any more … and then it is and they want to pay me treble for it! I sit on a park bench, minding my own business and become a hero. Your mother dies and we're supposed to be bereft but it's brought us closer together. And then there's Martin's situation … and there's all these Australians and New Zealanders popping up ..."
"Well, dear, you have to admit that every insane thing you've mentioned has brought us closer," she said, standing back a little and looking into his eyes. "Not just my mother's death but everything has reconnected us. Maybe that's what it's all about, do you think?"
"Actually, my love, I just don't know what to think!"
As they returned to the lounge, Arthur explained to Martin what the call had been about.
"So, Dad, what's so important about this job that they want you back onto it?" asked Martin.
"The Atkinson case?" said Arthur.
"Huh, it's not the Lord Atkinson case, is it?" asked Martin, laughing.
"Well, he is a lord, actually ..." said Arthur, looking quizzical and feeling a chill in his bones.
"Oh my God!" said Martin, the laugh quickly falling from his face. "Not the one with the hunting lodge in Ludlow, the apartment in Kensington and the resort in Jamaica? The one with the race horses?"
"Exactly the one," said Arthur, incredulously. "How did you know?"
"Oh, one of my partners has been working for one of Lord Atkinson's larger claimants, the Colonial Agents Bank, the CAB. You know, the development bank that used to be a crown agent - an agent for the crown, supplying everything from railways to cutlery for the ambassadors."
"Yes, yes, I know the bank," said Arthur quickly. "They're claiming money for some project in Nigeria ..."
"Absolutely, that's the one," said Martin, excitedly. "After the bank was privatised in 1998, it really got into funding in developing countries, using aid money from, mainly, the English, Japanese and Swedish governments."
"So what's the project in Nigeria?" asked Joan.
"I'm not sure but what I do know is that the CAB has been having a few slip-ups, lately," said Martin. "You see, it's over 150 years old and, for most of that time, was a government department, dispensing help to colonial governments around the world."
"What sort of slip-ups? Large ones?" asked Arthur.
"All sorts, really - big and small," said Martin, warming to his favourite subject, commercial intrigue. "Since the British colonies have dwindled over the last 100 years, they needed to diversify to keep all the jobs for the boys and girls there. So, they privatised the bank, sort-of, and became an agent for many governments, beside the British one … and the United Nations aid programme."
"Sounds like a good cause to me," said Joan.
"Yes, and that's the problem," said Martin. "When people are dealing with what seems like benevolent work, others are loathe to question or audit that work. For example, the British government's aid department, Department for International Development, or DfID, runs no aid programmes but just gives CAB money to dispense as per its requirements."
"But the DfID must audit or check that spending," suggested Arthur.
"Well, yes it does, but only superficially, not wanting to take away any jobs from people in the government 'club' and afraid of interrupting 'benevolent' acts of helping people in developing countries," said Martin. "So, the two-yearly audit is simply a matter of visiting friends at the CAB's London head office, enjoying drinkies and food and listening to two or three inspiring talks on the great works of CAB and watching a CAB video of their amazing success."
"But they must be doing a lot of good helping these poorer nations, surely?" asked Joan.
"Oh, absolutely," said Martin, "much of the money does go in the right direction but no one knows how much … not even CAB! No one in government - or from anywhere else, for that matter - traces each pound … or even a million pounds. They pay the money to CAB, see a result and assume they're linked!"
"So where does our Lord Atkinson come into this," asked Arthur.
"A good question and no one's quite sure, yet," said Martin. "But Simon Cruickshank, the partner I mentioned, knows that Atkinson is great friends with many in the current government and he has, over the years, provided large sums of money to both Labour and Conservative administrations."
"You're talking about bribery! Surely not!" said Joan, astounded.
"Not sure. However, what we're very sure about is that the privatisation and the change in direction has created some holes in the organisation," said Martin. "Instead of employing experts in international development, they've favoured existing staff and moving them sideways, some to their levels of incompetence, one might say. So, when they're able to admit that they can't do something, they do the quick-fix thing by bringing in a short-term consultant … who never remains short-term. Because they know little of the function they're hiring the consultant for, they don't know whether they're getting valuable consultants or charlatans - it's a bit of a lottery, really."
My crazy South African friend, John Doolan, would say that I'm being melancholy (shaped like a melon and looking like a collie) and he may well be right. However, I don't feel melancholy - just puzzled at how God/the universe works.
You see, we have studied The Secret and A Course in Miracles and they both tell us that whatever is in our lives is there because we called it up … sang it up, as the Aborigines would say. When I found all that out I was ecstatic, realising I was Master of My Universe (MOMU) and I could create any kind of life I wanted. What I don't understand is how I called up our current situation …
Since realising I'm MOMU, I do not, just do not, ever, remember waking up one morning, saying, "Woopee! I'm MOMU and what I now want is a dose of homelessness, unemployment, broken car and no income … yep, that's JUST what I want, thanks God. Give it to me now … all at once!"
I've got it and I really don't remember asking for it in any way that I'm conscious of. So my question to God, the universe or any other intelligent life-force, how did I attract this and how can I attract the opposite? The line is open and answers are readily welcomed … right now would be good, thanks.
Now we return to the story of Arthur Bayly and Mary Collins returns, after yesterday's blog ...
Martin and the children had popped in after school. It was most unusual but lovely to see them. And Martin seemed to be needing more contact with them at the moment.
The telephone cut across their conversation with its electronic insistence and the three adults looked at each other in mute surprise, as if insulted that the outside world should interrupt them … surprised, even, to be reminded that another world existed outside their several dramas. Children react quicker, in the moment, having less history to drag along with them and so Timothy found himself bounding, like a gazelle, out the door and into the dining room, to answer the phone.
"Hello, Timothy here," he said as he had been taught. He was soon back in the lounge, sipping on his drink.
"Timothy, who was that on the phone?" asked Martin, the first to arouse himself.
"Oh, it was a wrong number," said Timothy, importantly, "they wanted Arthur Bayly and so I said he didn't live here."
"Ah, Timothy," said Arthur, "I'm Arthur Bayly."
"But you're Grandad," said Timothy, confused.
"Timothy!" said Martin, in irritation, "you don't answer other peoples' phones. Haven't I told you that before! It's not your property so leave well alone."
Timothy began to sob and Joan picked him up and held him on her knee. "Would you like another piece of cake, dear? And Kate?" Timothy hopped down and he and his sister leaped upon the sponge cake with enthusiasm.
"Hey, you two!" said Martin, his voice steadily rising, "put that down, now, you know better than to scoff it down like yobbos!"
The children stopped, stunned, with cake and cream on their faces and hands, looking guilty and confused.
"Put it down, now!" yelled Martin, going quite red. "Now go and wash yourselves up. You know better than that, don't you!"
"Come on, dears," said Joan cheerfully, "let's get your faces sparkling clean, shall we?" The children followed meekly, furtively looking back at their father.
As they walked out the phone sounded again and Timothy leaped forward, unable to resist his instinctive fight or flight reaction to the phone.
"Timothy! Stop!" yelled Martin, leaping up. "I told you to leave the phone!"
"It's alright Martin," said Arthur, getting up and striding across the room and out to the phone. He patted Timothy on the head as he passed. "You'll make someone a grand secretary one day, won't you?" he said, smiling down at the boy.
Timothy went red and smiled, embarrassment mixed with gratitude all over his face, as Arthur picked up the phone.
"Good morning, Arthur speaking."
"Ah, Arthur, I thought I might have a wrong number," came the unmistakable voice of Mary Collins. AIL Insurance seemed such a long way off, now, almost off the new map his life was drawing.
"No, it was my grandson, Timothy ..."
"Yes, well, good to talk to you, Arthur," said Mary. "I heard you've had a bereavement. Are you OK?"
"Oh, yes, well, we've had a few things happen and ..."
"Yes, yes, OK, I'm sure it's been a particularly trying time, then," said Mary, bulldozing through the conversation as usual. "Now, Arthur, there has been … ah, a new development with that Atkinson case you were working on and we'd like, ah, we wondered if you'd like to give us a little more help with clearing up the loose ends. You've got such a lot of experience in that area."
"Oh, well, I thought I was off the case," said Arthur, tentatively, unsure of his position now.
"Yes, well, we just thought you might like to come in for a short while," said Mary with unaccustomed reserve, "just tidy up some things."
"But you said there were others who would be able to take over the Atkinson case ..."
"Well, yes, there could be," said Mary, "but with the reorganisation … and you do, of course, have such a lot of experience in this area."
"There's been a reorganisation since I left yesterday?" asked Arthur, trying to imagine what trauma had happened in one afternoon to leave them with no one to complete the Atkinson case. "There wasn't any great hurry for that case, was there?"
"No, there isn't … wasn't," said Mary. "But some new developments have occurred and, with your specialist knowledge, we thought it might be expedited with your valuable input." Arthur had never before heard so many compliments from Mary.
"So, has it become urgent, now?" asked Arthur, trying to understand what had happened in half a day.
"Look Arthur, we can explain it all when you get in here," said Mary, her voice rising a semitone. "If it's easier, we're happy for you to work from home."
"Well, I'm not sure, Mary, we've had a few upsets over the last little while and I'll need time to think about it - to talk about it with Joan." said Arthur.
"Look, Arthur, we can make a special reimbursement, a special rate for this assignment, we can put you on contract … whatever is best for you," said Mary, sweetening the incentive.
"Yes, yes, I appreciate that, thank you," said Arthur, trying to absorb and understand the new developments. "But things are quite … ah, quite tender here and I do need to talk to my wife about this. When would you like me to start?"
"Well, this afternoon would be great," said Mary, anticipating some progress. "We thought that £60 an hour would be a fair recompense."
"Gosh, that soon!" said Arthur, remembering that she'd said something about 'no problem at all' a minute ago and that £60 an hour was treble the wage he had previously been on. "Yes, well, I'll talk to my wife and ring you back."
"Well, please do, Arthur, yes, please do," said Mary, speaking as if she was unable to breathe. "Now do you have a pen and paper there, Arthur?"
"Ah, yes ..."
