The New Blood Sports - Cricket And War?

I went to the university, yesterday, to teach. I turned up but the students didn't. I asked another lecturer about this and he said not to expect any students at all.

"Why," I asked.

"Well, your students are all Indians and Bangladeshi, aren't they?" he asked, as if that was an explanation.

"And?" I asked, stupidly.

"India is playing Pakistan," he said, as if explaining to a child. I assumed this was a cricket match which was much more interesting than attending classes. I soon found my assumption was right and that Indian, Bangladeshi and English people hate Pakistani ones … well, all the English people at the university who followed cricket, did. The only other lecturer (apart from me) who had no interest in cricket also had no opinion of Pakistani people - just people like every other people, she mused.

I discovered, in these puzzling conversations, where people tried to make me like a pointless exercise of throwing and hitting an inanimate object about, that, several years ago, some Pakistani (or was it Indian? I forget now) players were killed by the opposition to reduce their chance of winning … a bit like the All Blacks being drugged in South Africa the last time they were at the Cape. Apparently, some losing cricket players have returned home to find their houses burned and their families beaten.

In 786 BC, for a country to be allowed to participate in the Olympic Games, it must not have been at war with any other country for a least a year before the event - the true and original spirit of the Peaceful Games.

I must be really stupid, really thick, to not understand that beating someone else is progress, is uplifting and worth killing for. We recently had the gory spectre of one of England's princes who came-of-age (not maturity) and the only useful thing he could think of doing was to rush off and kill a whole lot of people he didn't know. He was bereft, devastated, not to be in the middle of this killing spree and Britain mourned along with him.

It was only in 1967 that Aboriginals were recognized as Australians (as people) and could no longer be hunted and killed for sport.

We're not allowed to kill foxes (in England) or magpies (in Australia) but we're paid and praised well for killing people we don't know. The Peaceful Olympics are a distant, 2,771-year-old memory and our humanity to man seems to have been superseded by a great love of blood sports - cricket and war.

'Is this progress?' I wonder. I also wonder who is winning.

So, how are Arthur and Mary dealing with conflict? Read their story, continued from the previous blog ...

"Yeah, cheers to all the sad bastards of the world!" said Angus raising his glass and leaning over to clink it with hers. "Anyway, I'm here, I've broken out of me little cage, I have no idea where to now and I'm scared and excited but, in a way, I don't really care. Does that make sense?"

"Aye it does - sounds just like I felt when I first left home to come down here … and it all worked out. It's not perfect but I'm alive and reasonably sane, I think," said Mary, cheerfully.

 "Yeah, when I moaned about all the reasons not to do something different, Belinda said that the worst that could go wrong is that I could fail and what would that mean? I wouldn't get rabies, my bum wouldn't fall off and I'd still be alive and kicking," said Angus, laughing at the memory of that conversation. "I'll actually survive, no matter what I chose to do."

"Yeah, I guess we all do, don't we," said Mary, musing over the recent dangers she'd survived.

"Not guess, Mary. We absolutely do survive," said Angus with a determination she'd not seen before. "Whatever decision we make, as Belinda put it, we're all looked after so, really, nothing matters. So I did it - took leave from the job, left me home, left me mates and here I am. I can always go back if I want to."

"And what did Mum and Dad think of their rebel son, off on his adventures to unknown lands?" asked Mary.

"Well, Mum didn't say much, just grumbled as usual," said Angus. "Dad was dead against me going. Said I'd regret it and predicted all sorts of painful and immoral things. I actually think he'll be missing me but couldn't say so."

"You'll be right, Angus, for you've always been there," said Mary. "It'll be a wrench for them. And now I've finished me whisky, Angus, I really do need some sleep." She got up and pulled the bed clothes back. "We can talk more in the morning."

"Aye lass, lots more to talk about," said Angus, finishing his drink. "Good night, Mary."

An Inside Job
Tuesday, 13th March 2012, 4.33 p.m.
As the shadows of late afternoon stretched their darkening fingers across the expansive lawns and solid walls, the house was quiet. Unusually quiet. Deathly quiet.

Two men were unconscious and the plump bodyguard was standing over them, as if wondering what the heck to do next. He'd never actually hit anybody before and he wondered, in panic, if he'd gone too far. He stood and gazed at the prone figures, uncertainly.

In the kitchen the six had been stopped by the yelling, crashing, grunting and thumping in the corridor through the wall. They looked at one another and seemed to have the same confused mind. Do they rush out and help Arthur and be injured themselves? Do they creep out to find a band of thugs waiting for them? Do they continue through to the office and find the thugs there? The unknown, as always, posed a greater threat than the known and they didn't know much - where they were, who they were saving, why they were saving him/her/them and who was waiting round dark corners for them all.

"Time to move!" whispered Amanda decisively, taking out her pistol.

"Amanda! You can't go shooting people!" pleaded Martin in a hoarse whisper, his eyes nearly popping out.

"And your idea is?" Amanda asked quietly.

"Oh, ah, yes, I see …" said Martin. "But we can't have guns … they kill."

"And someone's not dead already?" whispered Amanda, pushing past Martin. "And who's going to be next?"

"Oh, gosh, but we can't just … let's talk about this," pleaded Martin, going quite pale.

"Dominik, you take the rest through to the office and around," whispered Amanda. "I'll go this way."

"But you can't just go … you know … shooting people," whispered Martin, grabbing Amanda's arm.

"So, you come with me, mate," said Amanda, shaking off his grip. "You can keep me from killing someone." She continued out the door to the corner.

"I'll come with you two," said Toby, launching himself out of indecision mode.

Joan held up her hands and smiled to Dottie as if to say, 'whatever we do, it's a mess'. Dottie nodded and smiled back, grimly, and they followed Dominik to the back of the kitchen, to a door that must have remained closed for many years. Dominik grimaced as the door creaked and groaned, despite his efforts to open it quietly. He opened it enough for them to slip through, one by one. The three found themselves in the dark, but for light sneaking through the half-opened door from the kitchen. The uneven cobbles and the cobwebs impaired their progress in the shoulder-width passage. They scrambled along sideways and it was soon obvious that Dominik had no idea where to find the door into the office.

"There's got to be a torch somewhere," said Joan, awkwardly squeezing herself back into the kitchen. Dottie followed her and they rummaged through drawers and cupboards as quietly as they could. In the corridor they heard a man's shout, Amanda's yell, a thud and then silence. Joan's instinct was to rush out to help Arthur but her logical mind told her to leave it to the professionals who would help him more than she could. Her prayers went out to him as she returned to their search for light. They found candles and an old box of matches.

Back in their dark, dank passage, they fumbled with matches, lit three candles and handed one to Dominik. It was good to see a little more till Joan spied a large spider, then another, then another and she desperately tried to hold back a rising bile as she saw this space between walls was overrun by insects of all kinds. She would have leant back against the wall to steady herself but realised she'd be leaning into nests of spiders and other unmentionable critters. It was only Dominik's sigh of relief - she hoped it was relief - as he was scratching around the wall, ahead of her. There was a rattle of metal - a chain? - and bumping on wood.

Forgiving Your Kidnappers

Yesterday Yusuf*, one of my students, told us a story he'd not told anyone except his parents and uncle. His father had been a powerful figure in the Bangladeshi government and Yusuf was kidnapped some five years ago, for over a month. During that time he was constantly tortured, drugged and kept on a starvation diet.

He showed us the burn marks on his hands and arms, from the torture, and the scars on the back of his hands from where he'd been continually stabbed with syringe needles to keep him drugged and unconscious. He does not remember how he escaped but he does remember waking up on the lap of his uncle, the Bangladeshi Chief of Police, with his father and others around him.

As he told his story and showed us his wounds, the silence in the room from the others listening was palpable. We could feel his deep pain and confusion and, at the end, he asked me a question:

"Please, Sir, should I take revenge? Should I be angry with my kidnappers?"

I was about to answer but my inner voice asked me for silence. As I stilled my readied tongue, another student spoke the sentiments I was going to, though in a stronger way than I would have done:

"Revenge is not for you; it is for God. What you must do is give it to God or it will destroy you. That is always your duty and your way to freedom."

The woman who answered is from India's Punjab state, a Hindu. I was surprised that her philosophy, her beliefs and her ways of dealing with life were identical to mine though my nationality and religion are quite different … I thought. I think I surprised her - she kept nodding and looking surprised - as I explained that, from my perspective, forgiveness undoes the pain and fear of the past and present and sets our futures free. Giving our anger and confusion over to that which is bigger than all of us, all of this, allows us to live into a future free of those things.

So you see, Horatio, there is nothing in heaven and earth that is new and, in the end, we are all the same, despite the labels - Hindu, New Zealander, teacher, student etc - we use to separate ourselves from one another. We are all one and we are all forgiven, if we but give ourselves permission to accept that … and that is one of the several lessons Arthur Bayly, hero of The Importance of Being Arthur, learns as he is hounded, beaten and thrown into a strange world of conspiracy and fear.

* Yusuf is not his real name.

 
You can read Arthur's continuing story, blog by blog, and here is the next exciting episode which continues from two blogs ago ...

If Arthur had been used to such activities and exertions, he would have been alert to the approach of the other man, sneaking up beside him. But he wasn't.

The Happy Brother
Tuesday, 13th March 2012, 11.46 p.m.

John had phoned ahead to Belinda and when they arrived another room had been booked. With simple efficiency John arranged that Halee and Mary take one room and Angus and Ahmed take the third. After introductions all round they took the lift and then John and Belinda excused themselves.

"Ah, young love," said Mary wistfully.

"Tired love, more like," said Belinda as John led her to their room. Ahmed pleaded fatigue and went into the adjoining room.

"Look Mary, it's been a long day but would ye be wantin' to share a wee dram a'fore bed?" asked Angus. "I've a bottle of best malted in me room."

"Oh aye, why not, Angus," said Mary, smoothing her furrowed brow. "But you'd better fetch it out of your room - Ahmed's Muslim and doesn't drink. Bring it to our room."

"Look, Miss Collins, I'm knackered," said Halee. "You two have some catching up to do so how about I sleep with Ahmed … oh, you know what I mean, in his room and you two share the other one. They're separate beds aren't they?"

"Yes, twin rooms," said Mary. They knocked on Ahmed's door and Halee suggested she sleep in the bed next to him while Angus and Mary shared the room next door. Ahmed's mouth opened and shut and a deep redness crept out from inside his swarthy face. Mary had never seen him lost for words before, this suave, gentle, dynamic man.

"Ahmed, I'm not sure what you're thinking," said Halee with a tired smile, "but I will do my best, my very best, to resist your gorgeous body. You should be safe."

"Oh, ah, yes, of course," said Ahmed finding his voice at last, though uncertainly. "We can dress in the bathroom, I suppose, if you're alright with that."

"Actually, Ahmed, right now all I want to do is collapse into bed," said Halee. "I don't care what I'm wearing and I don't care who sees whatever it is. Angus, get your stuff and be gone will ya. Let this girl get some sleep."

Angus grabbed his few possessions and left with Mary who saw Ahmed standing there, apparently unable to move.

 "So, little brother, what prompted you to come down here?" asked Mary as she sat on the bed with her whisky in hand. "First time to the big city, aye?"

"Dunno lass, it just sort of happened before I knew it was happening, if ye catch me drift," said Angus, sitting back in the only chair in the room. "John and Belinda turned up in town. Their car was gone and they had a contact at an insurance company in London and Mr Fordyce knew you were in insurance and so I was hauled in and, hell, I dunno. Those Kiwis just sorta' inspired me to do what I've never done before. And here I am."

"What did they say to you?" asked Mary, intrigued.

"Don't know if it's what they said or what they did," said Angus, smiling through his puzzled look. He took a large sip of his whiskey, closing his eyes and sighing deeply, as if it was the elixir of life.
"They just seem to have no ties, no obligations. They want to do something and they just do it. No explanations, no excuses, they just do it."

"Sounds a bit irresponsible," suggested Mary.

"Not irresponsible, really. They care for people and are as honest as a die," said Angus, looking at Mary for the first time. "But if they need to act they just do … ah, I dunno, I can't explain it. Anyway, lass, something about them got me thinking about me life and what I've achieved."

"But I thought you were happy doing what you've always done," said Mary. "I thought you'd be welding and drinking ales and watching football for the rest of your life."

"So did I, Mary lass, so did I," said Angus, sitting back, looking at the ceiling. He quickly looked back at Mary. "John asked me what I was born for. Ye know, what me purpose is in being here. I hadn't thought of that before and I got a bit shitty with him. But it got me thinkin' and I thought …. well, I suppose I've thought about it before, a million times and kinda' pretended it didn't matter - have another drink, tell another lie, another day of work - just get on with it, getting busy …"

"But you weren't really happy?" asked Mary, feeling his rising sadness.

"No Mary, not happy at all but never wanted to admit it," said Angus, wiping his eyes and taking another sip of whiskey. "Actually, to be brutally honest, I was a bit of a sad bastard and, as John suggested, my getting shitty at him was actually me getting shitty at myself for wasting my time. He stopped talking to wipe his eyes again with his big calloused hand.

"Oh little brother," said Mary standing up. She sat on his knee and hugged him. His tears burst forth and he let the cry out - the cry so long held back from years of denial and frustration.

Mary waited till his sobs died down. "So, here you are, little brother, in this big London town, crying in the arms of your big sister. What a pair we are!"

"What? You're not happy either?" asked Angus, looking surprised as Mary got off his knee and sat back on the bed. "The big flash job, the money, the poncy flat in the middle of town - I thought you had it all."

"Well, not really unhappy, Angus, as I have my work but love keeps avoiding me," said Mary. "It sneaks up when I'm not looking and then buggers off when it gets near."

"Ye and me both, Mary lass," said Angus, smiling again, brightening up the room. "What a sad, sorry mess we've got ourselves into."

"You might be right, Angus but I suspect we're not the only dysfunctional ones," said Mary, raising her glass to him.

The Shyest Boy In The World

For my first 40 years I was the World Champion Shy Person. There were no close contenders for the title; I was the shyest person ever there was. In fact, I was The Original Shy Person, the one whom everyone else learned their shyness from – I was terrified of people, terrified of speaking, terrified of disagreement, terrified of conflict, terrified of upsetting anyone, terrified of upstaging anyone, terrified of looking at people … terrified of the world, really.

I was afraid to speak so I’d mumble so people couldn’t understand me so they would ignore me so I would feel insignificant so my confidence shrank so I mumbled less coherently … a pathetic little viscious cycle.

I don’t know how or why epiphany moments happen but they do. Perhaps, with 40 years' terror stuffed down inside, there wasn’t room for any more and something had to give. Perhaps. I don’t really know. What I do know is that, somehow, I realised I’d let all this terror rule my life and, TA DA!, I was no longer a child and I didn’t to have obey it any more. I do remember walking shyly down the street, feeling terrified that people were looking at me giggling at my silliness. But giggle I did, at the folly I’d made of my life. That night I lay awake for hours, trying to think of ways to get myself over it. No ideas came, then but, in the morning, it hit me like a wet fish across the forehead – why not be a lecturer, standing in front of people all day, communicating verbally, incessantly, and I’d have to make myself be heard, be understood, be listened to.

Full of the fires of transformation, I marched into the local polytechnic and asked if they needed any accounting lecturers. The receptionist looked at me, silently, for a moment and then burst out laughing. I felt mortified, stupid. Then she explained that the previous lecturer had been fired the previous day and they were desperate for a replacement. She was laughing at the synchronicity of my arrival; not at me.

I met the Head of Department and after a chat, she gave me an A4 piece of paper with a course outline on it and told me to create a 17-week course from that. I was panicked but determined and, the following week, I started teaching. I was terrified for six months, every day and every night. As I stood outside the lecture room before each lesson, I had to wrestle my demons to the floor, walk over them and enter the room. I could so easily have walked away a hundred times.

Slowly, the fear subsided and I got it that I had something to contribute. My confidence grew and I started, also, running business courses at the Chamber of Commerce and personal development courses in New Zealand, South Africa and Australia. For a year I nagged a magazine publisher and, eventually, she gave in and published an article of mine. That article had so much feedback I ended up becoming a columnist for that magazine and several others for around ten years. I became the editor of that magazine and then my wife and I took over and published another one. I wrote and published several books, sang and acted on stage, was in two episodes of the TV serial, Xena, Warrior Princess, and I was interviewed on radio and TV.

I had broken out of my shell and there was no going back.

Then I came to the Land of the Shy People … well, I worked for organisations in England where the hottest topic was the weather and people who had worked with each other for 20 years had never visited each others’ homes. I was confused by this insularity, this inability to venture an opinion or a holiday to anywhere they’d not previously been. I’d returned to my closed-in childhood all over again!

I had trouble getting jobs in England and it was suggested that I tone down my exuberance … which I didn’t see as exuberance at all; I’m just me and others not like me are not-exuberant.

So I wrote a novel about it – The Importance of Being Arthur – a man who is all the closed-down men I ever commuted with on the train and tube to London and who I worked with. I’m sure most of them are itching to break out of their shells. In the novel Arthur breaks out but I wonder how many do in real life.

It’s a scary and exhilarating experience and neither Arthur nor I can go back – why would we want to?

Pulling A Song From A Sad Little Heart

There’s nothing like a touch of melancholy to drag out the inner poet. In 2001 I was recovering from PMT (or FOF)* in Southport on Australia’s Gold Coast, next door to Surfers Paradise – a more beautiful place to patch a leaking heart I cannot imagine.

My income, then, came from helping families recover from their seemingly insurmountable debt crises. It occurred to me, just this morning, that, as I helped them to repair their broken piggy banks, they helped me to repair my broken heart. There is nothing like service to others to take us up and out of our perceived misery.

I’m not sure how I got by on so little sleep but depression does that, I’m told. Though I just wanted to go to sleep and never wake again, never face another sad little day, shutting the eyes and hoping for sleep never worked – sleep seldom came.

So I’d get up, make a coffee and take my stuff out to the balcony and enjoy the 1.00 am or 2.00 am or 3.00 am or 4.00 am (or any other silly am time) view over the bay. Then I’d roll a smoke and start writing.

For some reason, I know this song came at 4.00 am – not sure why I remember that – and I guess it came out of a need to find peace in a distant childhood that knew little of peace. Well, that’s what my sad little heart thought on that Southport balcony at 4.00 in the morning as I sipped another coffee, rolled another cigarette and let the words fall from my pen.

There is a reference in the song to Jilly, which is what my father called my mother … because that was her name. So here it is, Heart of Nails:

Am                                      C

I am a fine carpenter, a hewer of wood,

G                                                    F

And my graceful creations in mansions have stood

Dm                                                    Am

They talk of the wonder and the peace that they feel,

                   G                                    F                   Am

When they see, they touch, they smell, my sculptures so real.

But I am just a man with a heart pierced with nails,

Against the beating and harsh words so ever it rails,

But my father knew nothing ‘bout gentle and kind,

And many nails in his heart, if you look there you’ll find.

You are a fine lass, oh Jilly my love,

Seein’ the beauty I make and we fit hand in glove,

But inside there’s a pain that’s never to go,

And a leaking from my nails my essence it flows.

You would be a good wife of that I’m so sure,

Oh, Jilly I want you forever and more,

But you wonder and look sad, in the moonlight we stand,

Why you can’t come closer and take me like a man.

I want to hug you and smile, it’s sweet and it’s pain,

I feel your kind heart but the nails press again,

I’d love a sweet house and a family to start,

But I don’t know how to not put nails in their heart.

So I carve another piece, graceful curves and how,

Not a nail in the wood would I ever allow,

Wishin’ I had a heart like my sculptures of wood,

Never a nail or a pain and I’d love you like I should.

Wishin’ I had a heart like my sculptures of wood,

Never a nail or a pain and I’d love you like I should.

 *PMT = Post Marriage Trauma or FOF, as a never-to-be-married-again friend called it – Fear Of Freedom.

English As She Is Spoke

Growing up in New Zealand, I was taught a language we called English. I assumed, then, that when I came to England (where English is from, if the rumours are true) they would speak the same language. They don't.

Some of the words are the same but the meanings of many of the words are different.

In New Zealand the most common greeting is hello or, colloquialy, g'day … or the longer version which is g'day mate.  In England, when people meet they usually say sorry, which is the most uttered word in Britain, where they're continually apologising for themselves. I'm not sure why as they're generally really nice people.

Another confusing word is free. If something is free in New Zealand it doesn't cost anything - zilch, nada, nuttin'. In England, free has several meanings.

At the National Health Service it means free as we Kiwis understand it - it costs nothing. I recently had an eye operation - the three consultations and the operation cost me zilch, nada and nuttin'.

Some businesses, however, have a different meaning for free - they have cruddy products they cannot sell and so they rename the cost bit and call it free. Let me explain: they may have a product priced at £15 and they cannot sell it, even with free freight. So what they do is make the product free, triple the usual freight charge of £5 and people think it's wonderful, suddenly! In this case, free means: "We think you're really quite stupid and will think you're getting a bargain by paying the same if we can blame the postal or courier service for their exorbitant charges."

As Richard Wilson, English actor (you may remember him as the grumpy old man in One Foot In The Grave) recently discovered, some rail companies advertise £8 fares but they're never actually available to anyone at any time. Airlines and hotels do the same - advertise ludicrously low prices that are available to nobody, nowhere, never.

I even came across a commercial printer down south (I think it was Bournemouth) who proudly announced on his website that I could get his advertising brochure completely free (there's that word again) … but the postage would be £5.49! He wanted me to pay him to send me his advertising bumph. I don't think so!

I'm currently lecturing at a university in Oxfordshire to Indian and Bangladeshi students. I have trouble with English as she is spoke in this fair isle - imagine the trouble they have!

So sorry, free and cheap have quite different meanings over here and it surprises me that English is becoming the lingua franca of the world. In fact, there are now more people who speak English as their second language than those who are native English speakers. This trend will, I suspect, make communication more difficult and confusing for the people of Mother Earth. Sorry!

So, how's Arthur's communication under duress? His story is continued from the previous blog ...

"I'll go last," said Arthur, feeling gallant and scared.

As the Fearsome Five (or is that the Fearful Five?) trundled up the corridor, going as fast as they could without bumping into antique dressers or each other, Arthur suddenly stopped. He fancied he heard a noise, somewhere. The fear was growing in his mind much faster, he knew, than it would have in the mind of Mr Bond. But knowing that didn't help one bit.

"Come on Arthur!" whispered Dottie urgently, motioning him on. "No time for wavering now!"

"Yes, yes," said Arthur, knowing her logic but, illogically, his body wanted to stay rooted to the spot to see who was coming. Was seeing the unknown person scarier than not knowing? He could not decide.

"Arthur!" demanded Dottie, grabbing his arm. "Get a grip. Come on!"

"Uh, yes, yes," said Arthur, forcing his legs to move again.

"Stop right there!" someone bellowed from round a corner, twenty feet away, just as Arthur was turning into the alcove leading to the kitchen. He froze at the corner and could see the others through the kitchen doorway, frantically motioning him in. He couldn't do it. Someone had nailed his feet to the floor. He just couldn't move.

"Where do you think you're going?" demanded the angry, gravelly voice, closer this time. The voice sounded strangely like his father's and memories flooded back. He knew his father would grab him by the collar, drag him into the scullery and give him yet another beating, from which it might take days for the pain to go. He whimpered and felt helpless, humiliated.

"Arthur, love, hurry up!" whispered Joan from the kitchen.

He didn't know if it was Joan's voice or the word love but his mind snapped out of the Newcastle coalminer's cottage of his childhood and returned to Lord Atkinson's stately home, forty years later. His feet became unstuck and he could have dived into the kitchen but the voice, which he now dared to look at, was only ten yards from him. He couldn't escape to the kitchen without endangering the others. He straightened his body and his mind.

"I, Sir, am here to help Lord Atkinson," said Arthur, in his best Bond voice. It all felt most unreal. "And thank you for alerting me to where you are holding him." He marched towards the man of the voice - slightly shorter than Arthur but twice as wide with a paunch, grey grizzly hair and thick grey eyebrows.

"Stop right there!" said the man, not lowering his voice. "You're not going anywhere."

"I am going to see Lord Atkinson right now," said Arthur, sounding more confident than he felt. He focused on his goal and took a bold step forward.

"Stop right there, schmuck!" said the man, hesitating, wrapping his eyebrows round his nose.

"I am sorry, sir, but I am here to do what I need to do, not what you tell me," said Arthur, feeling like a robot. The man put his palm against Arthur's chest, blocking his way. "Unhand me, whoever you are, or I shall be forced to call the others in." Arthur put his hand into his pocket as if fingering a dangerous device and not the mobile phone he felt.

"What others?" asked the man, his bellow having fallen to a menacing question.

"Force me to push this button and you shall find out soon enough," said Arthur, without expression. "Now let me pass." His phone beeped as he accidentally pushed one of the phone's buttons and both of them jumped.

"No, no, mate, let's just talk about this, huh?" suggested the rock of a man, recovering quicker than Arthur. "Who the hell are you and how did you get in here?"

"I should ask you that, sir," said Arthur, attempting to take a step forward. "But I don't actually care. We're here to help Lord Atkinson and that's what we shall do."

"We? Who's this we, mate?" Asked the man, his hand still on Arthur's chest but with less force now.

"If I push this button now you will soon discover who we are," suggested Arthur with more nerve than he felt. There was a crash in the kitchen, followed by a bugger and the man-rock stepped back a little. "Looks like they're on their way. Now let me pass."

"Like hell you do!" said the man, obviously making a decision. "I got you and we'll get the others one by one, later, huh." He grabbed Arthur by the collar and all those shaming memories of childhood flooded back. His body became as a small boy's, in the power of his ferocious father and he stumbled along behind the man as they headed down the corridor.
In the lives of most of us there is a moment (or several moments for the particularly brave ones) when we actually dare to do what we've always dreamed of doing, but have previously held ourselves back from. This was one of Arthur's moments.

During the many unexpected and painful times Arthur's father dragged him down the hall to the scullery to take his rage out on his son, Arthur fantasised about revenge. He imagined, most often, of tripping his father up and then either pouncing on him or running away … forever. This fantasy consumed much of his young life and, in his mind, he tried countless ways of foiling his father and, eventually, dreamed the perfect technique - one that required little strength and caused maximum mayhem. His fertile mind imagined great and simple success but he never had the nerve to try it. Till now.

As this rock of a man dragged him down the hall, stumbling to keep up, his mind flashed back to the countless times he berated himself for not getting back at his father and, as his anger rose, and his technique came to mind, he acted. As the man's right foot went forward, Arthur tapped his left foot to the right and the man fell flat on his face, taking a Grecian vase and an oak hat-stand down with him, with a noisy clatter of breaking pottery and timber. Arthur had always imagined his father letting go at this stage but the man didn't and Arthur fell too. The feelings from years of humiliation, long suppressed, now burst out and Arthur fell, purposely, heavily on top of the stone-man. He rammed his forearm into the brute's neck. The man let go to protect himself and Arthur leapt up and kicked him in the side with the strength that fifty years of pent-up rage could muster. He kicked and he kicked and he kicked till his strength ran out. He leaned back against the wall exhausted, strangely happy and quite disgusted with himself. The man lay still, with shards of pottery and furniture around him.

The Wychwood Badgers Run

Last week my friend, Peter, suggested it was time I wrote another song. An hour later The Wychwood Baders Run had poured from my pen. More of a poem, it makes me tell it in a west country accent. I'm now reciting it a the local Midsummer Woodland Music and Readings festival, as well as singing a few songs ... and wondering how it all happened so quickly.It will be the first time I've recited anything and the first time I've sung, alone, with my guitar! Eek! Us artists love to be noticed but when we are, it's scary!!

It's come out as a celebration of the chewy, crunchy, yummy words they use to call places round here in England's Cotswalds - just such a fascinating language to a foriegner from New Zealand. So, here it is ... 



The Wychwood Badgers Run
It’s a Hailey day with a paley sun
Sending softly beams from the greyly sky
On the moundy green and grassy dew
It’s a crispy morn for the waking cows
For a Cotswold land and shivering crow
And this is the time, my smiley friends
To breathe again in Witney town
For the badgers creep to their sets to sleep
 
 (You see) creeping down to Poffley End
On a night so still, you can hear the sun
As it sets itself, behind dark hill
It’s the time the Wychwood Badgers run
Stay awake, stay alert
Lest they smile through your pane
And scratch your dirt
It’s the time for the Wychwood badgers run

In Delly End and North Leigh town
They’re gentle folks who softly spokes
They rub their hands and breathe soft plumes
As the mist does rise and robins chirp
At Chilbrook Farm and Burford streets
The moss does sleep on slatey roofs
And cats do stretch with relief at dawn
For the badgers leave and prey no more

They say at night in whispering tones
Near Charlbury Road and Finstock Lane
The badgers come with eyes aflame
To wake the dead and shake their bones
From the Windrush Inn to the Ramsden Arms
Sneak dark stories with a twilight drink
Into brains that quake as thirsts are quenched
They may be true or may be not; just badgers know

So smile in your gentle fields and kitchen hearths
As the skylark sings the sun to shining
The day in Charlbury town and Rollright Stones
Is soft and cool and safe as pigeon’s coo
But don’t forget when the day is done
For Kidlington babes and Banbury youths
The shadows lengthen over badger deeds
Chipping Norton, Stow-on-Wold, you could be next
 
We know not how or when or why
Such stories are sent to steal our smile
Over woodland rise, through trickling stream
Make no mistake, gentle folks who do deny
The badgers truly doly do
Creep upon stone houses, over dry stone walls
Into children’s dreams and old folks recalls
You’re never safe from the Wychwood Badgers run

Generosity Unbounded - World Book Night 2011

Last week, at the fortnightly meeting of our writing group, Chris gave me a copy of the book, Cloud Atlas by David Mitchell … well, actually, I snatched it off the table before anyone else could have it ... mere details!

It’s a World Night Book 2011 book (WBN), something I’d never heard of. When I got it home, I read the instructions – something I’m not built for doing, generally – and it said … not, it didn’t say anything at all. So, on the back of the book it was written: “The book you’re holding is one of 40,000 copies printed of each of the 25 brilliant titles selected for World Book Night 2011. That’s 1,000,000 books to be read and enjoyed and then shared.”

So, this WBN organisation (www.worldbooknight.org), whoever they are, printed 1,000,000 books and gave them away just so you and I could have a jolly good read. Now, each of those books has to cost at least £2.50 to print and then someone has to pay distribution and a whole lot of other bills like wages, electricity, phones and so the whole account’s going to be something over £3,000,000 … just so you and I can enjoy ourselves.

Now, if that’s not generosity, I’m a badger masquerading as a human.

And, back to humans - let's see what Arthur and his unlikely troupe are up to, sneaking round Lord Atkinson's mansion, continuing from the previous blog ...

This second creaky slam and lock-sliding confirmed to the sweating security guards that they should investigate quickly. As one, their legs took them across the lawn to the source of the sound, their fine paunches wobbling gracefully ahead of them while, in some remote corner of their brains, arose the possibility that they were too late and would be in trouble. Footprints - many footprints - scarred the mossy floor of the alcove and the door would not budge.

Of course, as we all know, there is nothing in this world to fear except that which passes through our minds, kindly termed imagination. Had the guards known what a motley crew (and the small number of said motley crew) they were pursuing, they would have felt quite confident in themselves. However, since said motley crew existed only in their minds, they were very scared and very uncertain. Conjuring up a large group of savage killers, the guards then had to guess whether the consequences of confronting these viscious foes would be worse than the consequences would be from their guv'nor (as they called him) if he discovered their dereliction of duty and let intruders slip through their tight security …  not that big words like dereliction and consequences actually entered the frantic minds of these two men with growing fear and shrieking brains. Their thought processes probably went more along the lines of, "Oh bugger, do we scarper, save getting' our heads busted or do we tell the guv'nor we bin rumbled and then git our heads busted?"

A further thought may well have been that three weeks in the security industry was quite enough for two long-time supporters of the bar of South Norwood's Hogs Head pub. They weren't men of action but they needed to do something … anything. So, like homing pigeons in a quandary, they headed home to the front of the building, considerably slower than they had left said building frontage. They were, of course, possessed of mobile phones but were loathe to use them till they had fully weighed up the pros and cons of getting their heads busted as against scarpering to the nearest pub and then looking for a job with more certainty and safety. They finally plumped for sticking to their current job and, after a brief conversation in human terms (but long in Cro-Magnon terms) they decided to continue walking backwards and forwards in front of the big house as if they had not stopped doing it - flying stones and creaking doors had never happened and when (or if) the intruders were found inside, they'd fake surprise with such style they'd be forgiven … or even promoted. Hope is a wonderful thing.

Meanwhile, in the green, carpeted hall, with an intricately carved, plaster ceiling eighteen feet above, seven uncertain individuals took stock and wondered, in unison, just what drew them to be in such a position. With some different decisions made (or not made) only hours before, they could all be comfortably and safely doing what they'd always done, whatever that was. But, as we know, life turns on a tuppenny piece (or a dime if you're American, which none of them were) and here they were, about to attempt the saving of someone none of them knew well (some not at all) for a cause uncertain in a situation unimaginable from people with unknown intentions, abilities and armaments. The guards were probably outside the door and, by now, their employers inside would presumably know of the seven's presence. Going back was out of the question and, considering what their imaginations were creating about the events inside the mansion, going forward was also out … but probably less out then going back. They could rely on Dominik for knowing his way round the corridors but none of them knew which one led to the captive (they all presumed) Lord and Lady Atkinson.

All was silent; eerily silent for a house that employed a dozen serving people.

Arthur found himself the centre of attention as they huddled round him, obviously expecting an answer to their uncertainty.

"I guess the most obvious thought is that, whatever they're after, they'll imagine it's in the Lord's office," whispered Arthur as everyone nodded at his sage assessment of the situation though he wondered why a wild guess should be interpreted as a sage assessment.

"I know way to office," said Dominik, quietly. "But we must go past main drawing room and foyer at front. We be seen."

"We could be seen here, too," whispered Amanda urgently. "Where can we hide for a mo while we decide?"

"Ah yes, this way," whispered Dominik, moving off and waving them on with him. He slipped around the corner to the left and motioned them into a small room filled with shelves of gardening equipment, wall hooks groaning with coats and umbrellas and a floor littered with muddy boots of all kinds. "Dis the coat room. For servants," said Dominik, ducking his head under the low doorway. "Shut the door so no one hear us."

In their cone of silence, amid the smell of rubber, mud and wet leather, they looked at one another.

"So, the only way from here to the office is through the most public part of the house?" asked Amanda.

"Yes, that only way," said Dominik, emphatically.

"But these old places have all sorts of secret alleyways and hidden doors," said Martin. "Are you sure there's no secret way to get there?"

"Secret way … secret way," said Dominik as if savouring the words. Arthur was sure he could see the marbles moving round in the machinery of Dominik's mind as it churned over the idea. "Yes, I hear of secret way. I forgot."

"And it will take us to the office?" asked Martin hopefully.

"Not sure, maybe," said Dominik as another marble dropped into place. "I thinking what they say."

"So there might be a way in?" asked Toby, struggling to keep his strapped-up arm from touching people or the room, with little success, considering their confinement. "Perhaps it's into the back of the office."

"Ah yes, back office," said Dominik frowning and Arthur was sure the next marble could be seen, teetering on the edge, ready to drop.

"So what room backs onto the back of the office?" asked Toby, logically.

"Ah, let me think," said Dominik, drawing an imaginary picture with one finger on the other palm, as the marble hovered closer to the edge. Suddenly his face lit up. "Ah yes! It through kitchen so Lord can have affair with servant girls!"

"Good lord, not Lord Atkinson!" exclaimed Arthur, appalled.

"No, no, old Lords, hundreds years ago," said Dominik, laughing quietly. "We go out to passage, turn left then left again and we in kitchen."

 "So, how about you go first, alert the kitchen staff and make sure we're safe," suggested Joan, trying to be logical in a dangerous situation. Arthur could sense her discomfort and admired the way she was dealing with it all.

"It's okay Joan, I'll go with Dominik and clear the way," said Amanda, apparently relishing the danger more than Joan was. "You all wait one minute and then follow us."

The two left and the rest waited.

"Well, that's sixty seconds and no explosive or disturbing noises," said Arthur, unable to move as fear gripped him as never before.

"Come on Arthur," said Joan in her fascinatingly decisive way. "Let's go!"

"Oh, ah, yes, I suppose we should," said Arthur, still unable to move his leaden feet and churning stomach. He felt bile rising and wiped his sweaty forehead.

"It's okay Dad," said Martin, obviously noticing his father's discomfort. "We have an old man, two old women, a cripple and me. Perhaps I go first!" Arthur sensed Martin's bravado covered a deep fear, like his, and he was thankful to be led by his son, in this instance.

"Are you alright, Dottie?" asked Arthur, realising she had said nothing for a long time.

"Oh yes Arthur, it's just like going on night duty," said Dottie, matter-of-factly. "You never know what to expect and, whatever it is, you're on your own and you have to deal with it. Only, this time, there's seven of us. 'It's a doddle, Doctor,' as we used to say."

Everyone smiled and Arthur felt a little better, somehow.

They followed Martin, thankful to be out of the small, stuffy room but not thankful for where they might be heading to.

Superman Changes His World

I am truly amazed but no longer surprised, given the number of miracles I've experienced. "Amazed at what?" you may ask. At the power I have for changing my world.

"Yeah, right!" you may say if you're from Australasia. "You're in England and that place doesn't change. The banking, roading and education haven't changed in centuries, attitudes are rooted in an Empire long since dead and even new homes look old. The plumbing is archaic …" and on and on you might go. And, yes, if you look at any country - the whole world, even - nothing ever changes. We're still fighting and cheating, whoring and beating, loving and generous as ever we were. We just use different toys to do it all with now.

I haven't changed the world.

I've changed my world - a very different thing.

You see, Anna and I came to this unchanging England in April 2008 and, in many ways, we've had a horrendously difficult time. The credit crunch closely followed our arrival, I lost jobs in particularly callous ways, new jobs were hard to find, friends were hard to find and, though we got on and experienced everything we could in this strange and ancient land, it did us no favours.

Then we had one of those moments, those Aha! moments. Actually, it wasn't a short moment but, rather, a slowly dawning Aha! moment. You see, while Olde Blighty was being cruel to us, we realised we were being cruel to it; criticising and harshly judging everything and everyone we came across.

We decided to change our minds and that takes longer than changing your undies. To change our mind took constant, constant vigilance and an undoing of all we've been doing over our combined 110 years. We kept at it, recognising judgement, letting it go, seeing criticism arise within, letting it go … on and on.

As we changed our minds, so our (not the) world changed. We became more loving and accepting of the English and their ways and they became more loving and accepting of us. As we became more generous of them, they became more generous of us. We were even, eventually, invited into peoples' homes for dinners, a HUGE step of acceptance, we discovered, for the English.

As our judgement ceased, our love and acceptance kicked in and we kicked off into a whole new world of deliciously and delightfully enthusiastic and supporting English people, with the people of the Wychwood Project and the West Oxfordshire Writers (WOW) group among our amazing new acquaintances.

We knew all this in our heads but we had to throw ourselves into a foreign land and work it down into our hearts to see the miracles at work. The world we see is a perfect reflection of who we are and we're all shards of the ONE big mirror.

So, next time someone says to you, "I'll look into that," you know they're probably looking into their own mirror to change their world … and yours!

Now, how is Arthur's world changing? His story continues from the previous blog ...

"That's Amanda!" said Joan, leaping out in front of Amanda's car, waving her to where their cars were parked. Amanda was wearing civilian clothes under a heavy jacket. Arthur wondered whether she had any police equipment under the jacket as Joan explained to Amanda why the police had not been called.

As Dominik led them on a winding path and behind immaculately trimmed hedges, the maze and from tree to tree, it seemed eerily different, quieter than it had been that morning. Then he realised there were no gardeners around and no machinery noises. They must have stopped work early for some reason. The only sound, apart from his drumming heart and the panting around him, was the crunching of gravel as the two men sauntered to and fro in front of the colonnaded steps in front of the mansion.

"I think we need to go round the back, Dominik," whispered Arthur as he tapped Dominik on the back.

"I think this too, Mr Arthur," said Dominik, stopping to confer. Arthur bumped into him and then heard two more oofs as more bumping-into-others occurred down the line.

"Damn! My glasses!" said Martin, two people behind Arthur.

"Martin, do be quiet!" whispered Arthur urgently.

"But they're my Bolé glasses, bloody squashed!" said Martin, quieter now. "Sorry …"

"Amanda, can you please come up the front," whispered Arthur, waving her forward.

"Yes?" she asked as she crept forward.

"Perhaps you stay just behind Dominik; it might be important for you to identify those chaps over there," whispered Arthur, pointing to the two men in front of the mansion, apparently guarding it. He wondered why he suddenly thought of this. "They may relate to your investigation."

"Mmm, good thinking, Arthur," whispered Amanda, smiling. Arthur noticed her right hand went to her belt, under the left side of her jacket. He wondered even more about what she might have under that heavy jacket. He shuddered in the warm afternoon sunlight.

"Everyone else alright?" whispered Arthur, looking back down the line of the smiling, nodding people. Joan seemed to be a little out of breath, wiping sweat from her brow, but he knew about her determination when pushed into a corner. Toby was looking remarkably calm, almost meditative, seemingly untroubled by his trussed-up shoulder. What an interesting bunch of saboteurs, Arthur thought … The Magnificent Seven came to mind as a name. So did the Seven Swashbucklers.

"Right, Dominik, let's go," whispered Arthur with unaccustomed authority.

They started off and, just as quickly, stopped and Arthur realised they'd come to the end of the hedge and they were about to step into the open, with occasional trees dotting the expansive lawn.

"We need make running to side of house," whispered Dominik. "How we not be seen?"

"Everyone find stones," whispered Amanda to everyone. "The bigger the better."

Everyone looked puzzled but Toby and Martin set to picking out flint stones from the perfectly-weeded soil. They came up to her with a handful each.

"You keep your stones, Martin, and I'll take yours, aah …" whispered Amanda.

"I'm Toby," said Toby.

"Thanks Toby, I'm Amanda," whispered Amanda, smiling and taking his stones. "When I give the word, we'll throw them over there, past those guys, Martin, and then we'll make a dash for the side of the house. Right?"

Everyone nodded. Martin, a happy, glazed look in his eyes and Amanda, serious and composed, braced themselves.

"One at a time, quickly, and as far as you can," she whispered to Martin. "One, two, three!" A volley of stones flew over the other side of the park grounds and thudded to the ground. The two guards turned suddenly and rushed towards the sound as the Seven Swashbucklers dashed across the open space and crashed, one by one, against the tall plastered wall of the west side, bumping into each other, smiling and panting like a group of naughty school children.

Given that anyone with a modicum of common sense will realise that stones landing must have arrived from somewhere not in the sky, the guards quickly surmised which direction these mystery stones flew from. As this realisation took effect, fractionally slower for them than the average toddler, they turned, looked at each other quizzically, pointed in various directions, grunted intelligently and then ran back in the approximate direction from which said stones may have originated. They stopped at the front steps, like returning homing pigeons, uncertain whether to leave their accustomed nest or to venture on. This second option seemed like a good one so they took off again in the same approximate direction they were headed.

Thankfully, the Seven Swashbucklers had departed this particular spot, thirty seconds before, and they were now dashing along the west wall, trying not to bump into each other, not always with success. They all attempted to follow Dominik's lead, crouching below windows and dodging around topiary trees - again, not always with success as sharp shrubbery impacted with soft skin, bringing forth oomphs and aahs. Soon an alcove presented itself and they followed Dominik into its small, shaded sanctuary, just as the two guards reached the corner of the house. Difficult though it is to pant madly with no sound at all, they all managed it with moderate success as Dominik struggled with the solid oak door with its rusty, medieval ironmongery. Opening the door was relatively easy for a man of Dominik's strength. Opening it quietly was another matter as rust, unaccustomed to moving, screamed its discordance into the sunlit gardens.

The guards heard the graunch of metal and looked at each other as if to say, with one accord, "Well, do we run after that sound or, like the stones, realise it's a ruse and run the other way?" No immediate answer emanated from God, the gardens or any other source and so they faltered, unable, it seems, to consider the possibility of one remaining and the other investigating the sudden sound. Siamese twins had nothing on these two for synchronised movement.

These precious moments of indecision gave the alcove-huddlers just the time they needed to squeeze through the small opening Dominik was able to effect and to allow the door to be slammed shut and the inner bolt secured, barring further entry from outside.