Asharif

A story from the book, The Royal Bank of Stories, available from Amazon.

In the boat with Asharif are three very wealthy and elegantly dressed people. The man has a grand hat and many layers of flowing robes, while the women are dressed in much lace and silk, with delicately embroidered parasols.

As Asharif rows, he doesn't think about the disparity between these sophisticated people, with their fine talk and smooth skin, and his own blunt manner and blistered hands. These people of high standing may be comparing their impeccably buckled shoes with his bare feet, their flowing garments with his tattered shirt and shorts, the large jewels on their fingers with his broken and dirty fingernails. Asharif could have looked at these outer differences if he'd chosen, but his interest was in that which lay beneath the human veneer. This is why these people chose his above all the other water taxis.

Some of the other water taxis were very beautiful craft, with brightly coloured paint in intricate patterns and scrolling words. Some gleamed in the bright sunlight and were decorated with streamers, bells and garlands of flowers. Many of the taxi-men wore what we might call uniforms - smart clothing of particular colours and patterns that matched their boats. Most of them were well groomed and, despite the hard physical work, kept themselves very clean. Many of them practised speeches and phrases and were able, after some time, to imitate the language, tone and gestures of their educated customers.

There was, it seemed, a common idea that the cleaner, smarter and more clever you were, the more customers you could get, enabling you to make enough money to sell your boat and live in a manner that more closely resembled your customers. It was not possible, of course, for taxi-men to ever become society-men, for the brand of their birth could never be erased or exchanged. However, a taxi-man could always, with foresight, perseverance and ingenuity, become a manservant or horseman - positions which meant less physical work and more contact with the "people of society". Somehow, the unspoken belief was that the more contact one had with people of society, the more likely one could become one - almost as if their wealth, silks, jewels and powders would rub off. It never did but all lived in hope.

For the society people, there was an unspoken belief that the less contact one had with the "lower elements of society", the less chance one had of becoming (at least fractionally) like them. Most society people, then, chose the more colourful craft and the most "cultured" taxi-men.

So why did this unkempt Asharif prosper so much? In a tidy-but-unpainted boat, in purely functional and slightly tattered clothes and with an accent and manner quite unchanged from birth, he should have been the poorest of the taxi-men. But he wasn't. Further, instead of actively engaging his customers in bright and enthusiastic conversation, he assiduously avoided saying anything unless asked to do so. Yes, he was polite, but it was as if he didn't care. And yet, through the layers of cosmetics, jewellery and clothing that surrounded and protected these society people, some particular ones among them felt that he actually cared more than anyone else they knew. While Asharif's outer appearance and behaviour belied his caring, it was plainly evident to a small number of them.

Obviously, most society people would choose not to travel with Asharif, the plain and sullen one and, initially, he sat at the wharf for hours while the more splendid craft plied their trade with vigour. This seemed not to bother Asharif, who simply sat and waited, as if knowing of some divine event on its way. Then, once in a while, a society-person or group, feeling a little adventurous, would deliberately choose the taxi that no one else would, perhaps hoping to have more to boast about than others of a more conservative nature.

Most of these adventurous passengers had a need of noise, hustle and bustle. Asharif's silence would unnerve them and they'd have to fill the space with chatter. Eventually they'd have to risk the taboo of talking to the lower people - they'd comment on the weather or some other irrelevancy and he would nod and, maybe, smile. If nothing needed to be said, he said nothing. In desperation they would (in their need to fill the silence with noise) ask a question which he would have to answer.

So, after deep thought (as deep as they were capable) they might ask a question about marriage and Asharif would tell them that the man they were about to marry was actually in love with another particular lady (who he'd name) and that their impending marriage would last 3½ years and end in bankruptcy and misery. Or they might ask something about politics and he'd tell them who the next Shamir (or Governor) would be, what he would do and what effect that would have in their businesses. Or they'd ask about health and he'd reassure them that their father's terrible illness would soon be gone and that full health would be restored in seven weeks, if they administered a particular herbal concoction to him.

Whatever subject they alluded to, he would know, somehow, of their personal concerns and future and, without discrimination, he'd simply give the facts. As time went by, they realised that he was never wrong. In time he came to be respected, though many first thought of him as a charlatan and felt bound to test him. He never faltered and his answers were equally caring, dispassionate and accurate for all questioners, no matter how cynical, aggrieved or wide-eyed they were.

Without looking, it was as if he could see into their hearts and know the real questions they were afraid to ask. Then, in the same way, he seemed able to look into their souls and their futures and give answers from the heart of one who was incapable of judgement. He seemed unable to judge people by their dress or behaviour, and unable to judge the impact of that which he told. As a messenger, he dispassionately delivered his messages with no thought of softening or "adjusting" them to the sensitivity of the listener.

And yet there came with these (sometimes) harsh messages, an overwhelming sense of caring and compassion. Even the most difficult-to-swallow pills were rendered sweetly edible. Though he volunteered no advice, if a wise questioner asked for advice around his or her future, the counsel was ever wise and reassuring.

By attraction rather than advertising, then, Asharif became a very busy man. Though he might have rowed all day, he always had time for another customer - his energy was boundless. Sometimes he would be spared that hard work as a customer, trying to get to the bottom of a major problem, would ask him to stop rowing and to simply advise. Often this plain craft could be seen quietly drifting with the tide while the more garish and noisy taxi-men ploughed through the water with great gusto and a little envy.

And, in the middle of the harbour, bobbing in the wake of other water traffic, large amounts of gold and jewels would be proffered in grateful thanks for the knotty problem solved. Asharif never refused these gifts, accepting them with the same simple "thank you" that accompanied the compliments for him. He did, however, turn down other offers. Sometimes he would be offered a position as an advisor for a nobleman and, always, he'd decline. It was as if he wanted to remain available to all, without discrimination - to be the exclusive property of one (no matter how wealthy) was not his way.

At times, an astute observer might see a thankful customer alight from the humble craft and know that changes were afoot. Within a week the people would be astounded at the brilliance of some political or business initiative, and all their lives would be enhanced a little. While the masses would shower this ingenious politician or businessman with their approval, two or three people would smile and nod to each other, knowing where the seed of the progressive changes really started. Asharif was never acknowledged for his part in any of the happenings and one suspects that's how he would have wanted it.

He plied his trade untiringly, provided his truth when asked, accepted that which his customers offered, offended no one and remained in the simple integrity of who he really was. A more innocuous man could not be imagined and all who knew him well, grew to love him.

For some reason, though, some were not happy with him. Many speculated on whether it was a jealous taxi-man, a jilted lover, a dishonest politician or a greedy businessman, but we'll never know the real culprit. An uproar ensued after his boat was found floating in the middle of the harbour. On closer inspection, his body was found face-up, with his arms and legs nailed to the wooden seats, while his craggy and serene face smiled at the peaceful sky above. Several official inquiries were instigated but no offenders were discovered, though two taxi-men and three politicians were found to have left the city abruptly.

There was a mass wailing for the loss of this simple man and different groups began to frantically create books from the words that had been remembered from his boat trips. There was, of course, bickering between these groups of Asharifts (as they called themselves) as to who was the authentic group and who had the most accurate accounts of his life. That bickering continues today and while they may focus on proving themselves the most righteous and the chosen ones, they forget that whatever version of the Asharif story is believed, it provides a profound understanding of life and it enables many confused, pained and anxious people to realize the power and beauty they have within.

Strangely, his death meant that he now lives eternally, forever carrying people across the harbour of their doubt and fear, to the safe harbour of their peace, joy and acceptance.

12 - Who's In Your Club?

Once upon a time there was a Great White Hunter, in pith hat and safari suit, exploring the jungles of Africa. Ahead of him were his jungle boys, slashing a path with their machetes and, behind were his porters, carrying all his necessary supplies. He had been exploring thus for many months - no white man had ever been so deep into the jungle - when, suddenly, they came upon a clearing. In the middle of this clearing was a massive bull elephant, lying on its side, recently killed. Beside it was a little native man, arms akimbo, one foot on the elephant, obviously proud of his kill.

"My gosh, did you kill this elephant?" asked the Great White Hunter, astonished.

"Yep," said the little native man, smiling hugely.

"But how did you do it?" asked the Great White Hunter, no less astonished.

"With my club," said the little native man.

"Might I see this club?" asked the Great White Hunter, intrigued.

"Oh, there's about twelve of us," said the little native man.

Nothing we ever achieve is done alone. No statesman, no Olympic athlete, no successful businessman, no great artist ever did it alone.

Most of us are waiting for that "moment", that flash of enlightenment that transforms our being, as occurred with Jesus after 40 days in the desert and with Buddha after 49 days under the Bodhi tree. However, that moment of enlightenment, that abiding peace of God, eludes us, no matter what we do - we become vegetarian, give up smoking and alcohol, meditate, think happy thoughts, do nice deeds, say positive affirmations and become as "good" as we can ever be. That moment still eludes us and we feel disappointed, let down, by an uncaring (spiteful, even) God.

However, as Jesus says, "I trust my brothers who are one with me."

It is not done, he would suggest, by being good but by being one … by realising our oneness and that none of us becomes enlightened alone. Only when we see the peace of God shining in every person we encounter, will we realise it in ourselves. Only when we see the peace (not spite) of God shining in God, will we realise it in ourselves. As Jesus says, every encounter with another is a holy encounter with ourselves.

So, as an exercise, perhaps we could start with seeing the Christ in Raoul Moat, the "Northumberland killer", and also seeing it in his parents, his victims, their families, the police and everyone else involved. When we see the holiness in everyone - perpetrator, victim, bystander, fixer - equally, we may just begin to realise it in ourselves.

Then we can make the exercise more difficult, more personal. We can attempt to see the Christ in everyone we meet - our lover, the postman, the boss who fires us, the hairdresser who makes us glamorous, the neighbour who runs over our cat, the other neighbour who saves our cat. We don't actually do anything - we just see them differently.

What we often forget is that none of it is about us (our smallness) but it's all about Us (our grandness) which is so because of our oneness, our connection with all that is. When we see our path to enlightenment (however we define enlightenment) as a path along which we help our fellow humans find their enlightenment (however they define theirs), we might just … unexpectedly, accidentally … have the moment we've been waiting for … seeing in others that which we wish to experience for ourselves.

And now Arthur Bayly's story continues from previous blogs ...

Arthur thought he was unfazed by the Australian incident, as he called it, but when the busyness stopped, that queezy, hollow feeling returned to his stomach. It just sat there mocking him while he worried about who might be watching them. He went over to the drawn curtains and peered out at the deepening gloom. 'Deepening gloom,' he thought to himself, 'it's everywhere - outside and right here inside.'

"Are you OK, Arthur?" asked Joan. "You look nervous."

"Oh, ah, yes, I'm fine dear," he said, unable to look her in the eye.

"Well, stop pacing - you look like you're being stalked," she said.

"Well, if you must know, that Australian chappie has me quite rattled," Arthur said. "I just can't shake the feeling of … of …"

"Of being followed," said Joan, finishing off.

"Yes, yes, of being followed," he said, not really wanting to say it but feeling fractionally better now that he had. "I don't know why and I don't know what it might mean for us. I mean, what is it, exactly, that we're not to do? I just don't understand," he said as a shudder coursed up his spine.

"Oh, Arthur, my dear," said Joan embracing him in a bear hug. "I'm worried too … no, I'm frightened, I'm frightened. Let's be honest about it. We're both frightened and we don't know what to do about it."

"Oh Joan," said Arthur, feeling the warmth of her body and lost for any more words. He didn't want to let her go, it felt so safe and comforting … like a little boy needing his mother's hugs. Quite pathetic, really, he surmised. He went to pull away.

"Don't go now, Arthur," said Joan quietly. "I feel like a little girl needing a really big hug from Daddy. Bit pathetic, really, but there you are."

Arthur smiled and relaxed into her again. Then an idea struck him. "You know, Joan, I daresay the more we stay in here, the more we'll feel trapped. You know, not seeing or facing the enemy," he said, pulling back a little and looking into her tear-stained face. "Why don't we go for a walk, face the rotten sods … I don't know, maybe just prove to ourselves we're safe and we can do normal things."

"Brilliant, Arthur, brilliant!" said Joan, brightening. "Let's do it now!" She strode off and returned with coats and keys.

-------------------

After the deepest sleep he could remember, his body woke him up with a jolt at his habitual time of 6.30 am. He struggled out of bed, feeling his usual oppression and sense of futility at a life less lived. As he opened his wardrobe to pick out one of his several grey suits, he stopped, embarrassed. Uncertainly. Smiling childishly to himself. A hazy glow of light began to penetrate his usual cloud of foreboding, evaporating it with a lightness he was unused to. His overwhelming sense of duty to march off to work, grim and stolid, evaporated with that shaft of gentle light. He plumped down on the edge of the bed.

If today had been any previous day, he would have obeyed the soldier's call, reluctantly. He would have wearily saluted that insanely barking sergeant-major - red-faced and veins swelling - in his head, and gone to war against an enemy that was not his own. His overriding sense of duty to that crazy and fearful man in the parade ground of his mind, bellowing at him to shoulder arms and march off to vanquish an invisible enemy for the sake of work and family.

Only now, work didn't care, he'd discovered, and family expected no pound of flesh at all … never had and never will. That monstrous and grotesque parade ground screamer slowly shrank before his mind's eye and became a silly little man, mouthing senseless nothings. Arthur realised that the soldiers of war and work killed no one but themselves as they pompously strutted their loyalty to a country or a company that cared not a jot. Afraid of being seen as weak, they bowed in mute compliance to the insane rantings of a stamping, storming authority that was more afraid of them … than him.

Such strange thoughts had never entered his mind before and he wondered where his inner poet had turned up from.

As he pondered a lifetime of obedience and fear, to such insane demands - illusory demands, even - he saw the silly side of his own drivenness, his own blindness and his plodding forever onward on a mission that could never be accomplished. He saw the whole futility of generations of dumb cattle being herded to the milking shed every day, rain or shine, in sickness or in health, for richer or for poorer, till death do us part. And, in these dark economic times, the death was usually of the employer rather than the employed, as in previous centuries. Chewing on their meagre cud, the doe-eyed cows knew that no amount of milk would ever be enough to satisfy the appetites of those who had more than they needed. As these bizarre thoughts zipped round his mind, he realised - without knowing how he knew this as he'd never tasted power or affluence - that the more he had, the more he had to fear … and that fear fuelled the desperate need for more power, money and toys. With surprising clarity he realised just how lucky he was, never having risen to the exalted position of fear of those beneath him - those who had nothing to lose but the odd night's sleep … those beneath him who he would have constantly pretended to be all-knowing while hiding the shame of his all-consuming fear and sense of separation.
He had become reunited with Joan, a person and a reason that felt more real than anything else he had known. As he felt himself plugging back into his marriage, that huge welded plug into his work began to melt and drop away.

He sat on the corner of their bed, not sure whether to laugh or cry and he found himself humming an old tune:
Ringa ringa rosy, a pocketful of posy
Atishoo, atishoo, we all fall down ...

"Darling, you're singing!" said Joan, smiling from under the bedclothes.

"Oh, I didn't know you were awake!" he said swinging around, startled out of his reverie.

"Oh, I've been watching you for some time," she said. "What's going through that busy head of yours?"

"Mmm," he said, not quite knowing where to start. "We just seem to go round and round and have nothing more to show for it than a pocketful of posies … then we all fall down … whatever that means!" He smiled at her and at his own nonsense.

"Gosh, that's a bit deep for this early!" Joan said. "You're not going to work are you?"

"No, no, I was just realising that I don't have to today and feeling a trifle odd about that," he said, "and I know I don't have to but I seem to be a bit guilty about it all. My duty, you know."

"Your duty?"

"Well, yes, I was just thinking that there are so many duties one is raised to honour," Arthur said hesitantly, "and I realised, for the first time, you are my first duty … my first concern and work just doesn't have the hold it had before. I'm not sure what's happened."

"So what is your momentous decision, dear?" she asked, "to flee or not to flee?"

"Not to flee it is," he said smiling, "although, if it wasn't today, the decision would have been different - I'd be off to work, unquestionably but, somehow, I've been unplugged from that ... not sure what's happened."

"Well, why don't you plug yourself back into bed, here, and I'll bring the master up some breakfast," said Joan, throwing back the bedclothes on his side.

"But, I ... I ... should, we should ..."

"We should be getting ready for the funeral on Thursday and doing all sorts of other things but it's not even seven o'clock," said Joan firmly, "so get into this maiden's bed and we could perhaps plug into each other, somehow ..."

"Oh, ah," said Arthur, feeling a tingle rising within. "Gosh yes, well, if you insist!" He gingerly crept back into bed feeling as if he was slightly to the side of himself, watching a strange little play he didn't know the script for ... yet he was also the writer, happily unsure of what to write next. As they snuggled together he had a deep and warm feeling of coming home.

"This, my dear ... why didn't we do this more often?" he asked, brushing a stray hair back from her face. "It's ... it's just, well, so comfortable."

"Comfortable? Comfortable!" said Joan in mock horror. "So you think I'm fat?"

"No, no dear, not at all," said Arthur trying to recover lost ground. "I didn't mean physical comfortable. It just feels, well, comfortable like, oh, I don't know. All I can say is it's like coming home. It just feels right, so right."

"Yes darling, I know what you mean," said Joan quietly as her free hand moved down his body.

10 - I Cannot Be Upset By A Fact

As Jesus said, we cannot be upset by a fact.

We are currently living in a rent free cottage, on a 2½- acre property, surrounded by trees (woods) which are surrounded by two golf courses in one of the most expensive parts of Britain - none of the houses here are valued at less than £2 million pounds. To many people, that sounds idyllic. Well, two days ago we were told that we had to move on as the owner has financial problems and she needs to rent the cottage out to generate some income.

The fact is that we must move and the other fact is that we had decided to move anyway - to Oxford, hopefully. Anyway, to the first fact - the part that could sound scary is the fear of what next … Where will we live? Can I find a job? Can I find a job that's both enjoyable and pays enough to keep us in the style we'd like to become accustomed to? It's a credit crunch and I'm a foreigner so will I get a job? On and on my monkey mind would chatter if I let it.

Interestingly, at the exact moment that we were being told that we must move on, I received an email from a university in Oxford, asking me to come up for a job interview!

So, again, there is a fact - tomorrow I am having a job interview. But just imagine what my monkey mind does with that fact. Yee hah! Back to teaching which I love. It's an international university so I'll probably be able to travel. It's good money and long holidays so we'll see lots of Europe … and on and on the crazy man inside chatters on, weaving beautiful fantasies of what could be … if I let him.

There is nothing to be afraid of except that which we weave within our tiny scull-spaces. There is nothing to be excited about except that which we weave within our tiny scull-spaces. In fact, there would be no arguments, war or pain if all we dealt with were facts … The Truth. If we simply sat with the facts of our lives, rather than flying off on the wondrous fantasies we weave, we would have nothing but the abiding and unconquerable peace of God. After all, isn't that what we're all looking for?

So, what are the facts of Arthur Bayly's story - continued from previous blogs ...

Amanda was around at their place in fifteen minutes, in civilian clothes. Arthur and Joan had another cup of tea and Amanda cradled an instant coffee, without enthusiasm. She listened to their story.

"Have your coffee before it gets cold," said Joan.

"Oh, ah, yes, I don't usually drink instant," said Amanda, looking embarrassed. She sipped at her coffee with little obvious relish.

There was a thump at the front door and Arthur leapt up and returned with the evening paper. At the bottom of the front page was a photo of the woman and her child. He read the story out and it was mainly the woman's point of view. He was surprised that she considered him a hero and wanted to thank him, if she could contact him to do so. Arthur felt quite uncomfortable. Joan leapt up and took the paper from him.

"Who's that behind her in the photo, Arthur?" asked Joan.

"No one ... oh, gosh, it's blurry but it could be that young man, the one who gave me my keys," said Arthur, wondering if it was really such fun being 007.

"Who took your keys from you in the first place," said Joan firmly.

"Yes, maybe he did ..." said Arthur.

"Look, it's not a good photo but it's something to go on," said Amanda, standing to leave. "I'll get another paper and start some inquiries."

"But we've got you from your home - why don't you stay for tea?" asked Joan.

"What, and deprive me of my reheated, malnourished, microwaved chicken and spud?" said Amanda, laughing as she ran her hands through her golden curls. "That would be lovely, thanks."

As they sat down to dinner, some time later, Joan insisted on saying grace.

"OK, help yourself to this," said Joan, pushing bowls of steaming food towards Amanda. "We don't usually say grace but I just wanted to thank my mother for her help. Maybe she can help us more from where she is now."

"Probably not yet," suggested Amanda. "Wait three days."

"Three days?" asked Joan.

"Well, most indigenous people think that it takes three days after death for spirit to assert itself," said Amanda.

"Assert itself?" asked Arthur, wondering how a perfectly ordinary English supper had so quickly turned into a ... a, um, talk on death and all that odd stuff.

"Yes, sort of get itself together," said Amanda. "Most of them believe that when we die, our spirit is given three days to decide whether it wants to stay in spirit or to return to earth. What a study in America found was that twenty five percent of bodies in morgues actually came back to life within three days."

"Oh my God, do they really?" asked Arthur, unable to continue spooning out peas from the bowl.

"Yes, it seems there's a sort of waiting period while we're given a choice about coming back or not and we can do so within those three days, even defying medical science," said Amanda.

"What a lovely subject for supper," said Joan, chuckling.

"Oh sorry," said Amanda, blushing.

"Oh, no, go on, this is fascinating," said Joan. "I want to know what happens."

"Well, I don't know that. I don't think anybody really does," said Amanda, warming to her subject. "But this three day wake up thing is why most traditions wait at least three days and why they have the body at home in an open casket - it allows the body to wake up and get up. Hiding a body in a drawer in a mortuary goes against all that."

"Oh, my gosh, I hadn't thought of that!" said Joan, gravy jug poised in mid-air. "Do you think we should have my mother at home with us, Arthur?"

"Oomph," said Arthur, surprised at such a question while his mouth was full of mashed potato.

"Look, I wasn't actually suggesting anything like that," said Amanda, smiling at Joan and probably wondering how long the gravy jug would remain suspended above Joan's food. "Did you want some gravy?"

"Oh, yes, sorry!" said Joan, pouring her gravy and passing it to Amanda.

"All I was suggesting, based on the indigenous people I've worked with, is that you may not get any help from your mother for at least three days."

"Looks like we're on our own, dear," said Arthur, relieved at the turn of conversation.

"On our own ... I don't think we're ever on our own, Arthur" said Joan, smiling. A worrying little spider began crawling about in Arthur's tummy - the conversation seemed to have turned itself back to the dark and shadowy places he did not want to venture into.

"You're right," said Amanda and Arthur studied his steak rather intently, hoping not to be noticed ... hoping it would all go away if he pretended he couldn't hear. "Even in my darkest of times, there was always help when I asked. I just had to want to listen."

"You mean you've had spirit speak to you, do things for you?" asked Joan with peas and steak on fork, aloft.

"I don't know if I'd call it spirit as I don't know what it was," said Amanda, trying to explain the unexplainable. "But I do know that when I've been in an impossible position, when I've needed help or answers, when I've stopped to listen, the impossible seemed to happen."

"What, like miracles?" asked Joan who realised her fork had not yet reached her mouth, then swallowed said peas and steak.

"Like I said, I can't put labels to these things - like spirit or miracle - but things just seem to happen, people seem to turn up unexpectedly, and you're set back on the path again," said Amanda. "Hey, this is the best meal I've had for ages, thanks, and these squishy peas are yummy!" She tucked in enthusiastically.

"Squishy peas? Oh you mean the mushy peas!" said Arthur, chuckling and relieved to be on solid ground again. "That's an English delicacy. We're very proud of our mushy peas. Without them we wouldn't have conquered the world, created the Empire or won the war ..."

"Arthur, you're being quite silly. I don't know what's got into you!" said Joan, smiling while shaking more salt over her potatoes and brussell sprouts. "But I want to know about all this help Amanda's talking about. Go on."

Arthur settled back to his dinner a little mollified to think that things like spirits and miracles had not been dispensed with yet. Like a gazelle at the water hole, he remained alert.

"Well, after my really dark time, when I started to come out of it ... did Arthur tell you?" asked Amanda.

"Yes, he told me a little of it," said Joan.

"So, I decided I needed a job but not one that was too taxing - my mind was a bit, you know, fragile," said Amanda. "So I ended up going for an interview at a government department, doing office work."

"And, by a miracle, you ended up here!" said Joan laughing.

"Well, sort of, but it took several interventions, shall we say," said Amanda. "I went to the interview and the office at that address was shut and so I went next door to the police station to ask where they'd moved to, met up with a friend I hadn't seen for ten years, had lunch with her and ended up joining the police!"

"So you ended up working for a government department!" said Arthur, deciding it was safe to join in again.

"Huh! I'd never thought of that!" said Amanda, helping herself to more boiled potatoes from the bowl. "Then, two years later ... I suppose you want to hear the end of this boring story?"

"It's not boring at all, Amanda," said Joan. "Go on!"

"I usually do - go on that is!" said Amanda. "So, after two years I found out about this exchange programme with Britain and I had always wanted to travel and, well, because I'd helped in a case in the Coromandel - a relatively remote part of New Zealand - where there'd been smuggling of drugs and other things going on and there'd seemed to be links with England, Scotland and America and it had seemed to have something to do with insurance scams - I'd worked in insurance before ..."

"You worked in insurance?" asked Arthur. "That's where I've always worked!"

"Who do you work for?" asked Amanda, about to spear a potato and stopping suddenly.

"I work for AIL," said Arthur, "up in London"
"AIL? Oh my God!" exclaimed Amanda, going quite red.

"Well, as I told you earlier, I don't work there any more, as of today," said Arthur, hoping to stop that creeping spider in his stomach from starting up again. Amanda's reaction did not help.

"Of course, of course, you're not there any more, are you," said Amanda in a vain attempt to act flippant.

"Is AIL involved in any of this?" asked Joan, asking the question Arthur wanted to but couldn't.

9 - Which Version Of Reality Is Yours?

Woman without her man is nothing. What do you feel about that statement - agree or disagree?

Now, let me put in some punctuation: Woman, without her man, is nothing. How do you feel now - agree or disagree?

OK, I'll change the punctuation: Woman: without her, man is nothing. How do you feel now - agree or disagree?

Isn't that what we do all the time - we see or hear the same thing but we each add in different "punctuation"? And then we wonder why we have trouble communicating with each other! You look at someone with admiration and they think you're being critical … and you haven't even said a word! Their "punctuation" comes from their past, from similar expressions of people from their long-ago and you become those people from their long-ago … not the person you really are.

And the same with the Bible - there are so many versions it's no wonder we cannot communicate with each other!

According to Jewish usage the twenty-four books of the Hebrew Scriptures fall into three divisions: the Law, the Prophets and the Writings. The Prophets are divided into the Former Prophets and the Latter Prophets. The books of Samuel, Kings, Chronicles, Ezra-Nehemiah were not divided by the Jews until the close of the Middle Ages. The twelve Minor Prophets are treated as one book. The two sub-divisions of the Prophets therefore contain four books each.

In Protestant editions of the Bible the Old Testament follow the Hebrew text as regards content, but the books in the second and third divisions are rearranged in sequence and several are divided, making a total of thirty-nine.

In Roman Catholic editions, the Old Testament contains the rearranged thirty-nine books of the Hebrew Scriptures plus seven others which are current in the official Latin Vulgate Bible and which Protestants include among the Apocrypha.

The Greek Orthodox Church, which uses the Greek Septuagint Version as its official text, has generally been accustomed to follow the longer canon of the Old Testament, including in this case also the 151st Psalm and 3 Maccabees.

And that's only four of the many religions which follow Christ! Just as there is no such thing as The Reality, there is no such thing as The Bible - there is no end to the variety of bibles to choose from and, like life, your reality is that which you choose rather than that which is.

Now, what is Arthur Bayly's current reality?

Walking back from the funeral parlour, several hours later and with the arrangements for Thursday made, Joan turned to Arthur, "You know, this might sound a bit strange, callous even, but I'm just not sad like I'm supposed to be."

"Perhaps it hasn't sunk in yet," he said.

"Hmm, I thought you might say that and you could be right, but I think you're not." Joan said, stopping on the pavement in front of him. "You know, love, something inside tells me I won't be sad ... well, not very sad at all."

"Are you sure?" asked Arthur, surprised ... even shocked.

"Yes, I am sure and I don't know why. It's a puzzle," said Joan, smiling up at her confused looking husband. "Look, I loved my mother - you know that."

"Well, yes ..."

"And, well yes, you and I did have our differences but she was a rock when things weren't going well for us," she said quietly. "You know, she never judged or criticised either of us - just listened and smiled. Offered me cups of tea and biscuits and smiled and listened. I guess she knew that I knew my own answers, even when I didn't think I did. Do you understand?"

"Yes, I think so," said Arthur, gingerly, "and she never said anything about me?"

"Nope! Not ever!" said Joan firmly. "And nothing bad about me either. She just smiled and might ask me, 'So, what can you do about that, dear?'"

"And did you know what to do?" asked Arthur, seeing another side of his mother-in-law.

"No, not usually!" said Joan, smiling at the memories. "I had no idea and felt really trapped and so would go on about my troubles, over and over, and she'd just smile, offer another cup of tea and say, 'Well dear, you know what to do about that, don't you?' Of course I didn't know what to do. Or, I didn't think I knew."

"Oh, sorry!" said Arthur as a pedestrian bumped him.

"Sorry mate," said an Australian voice as a young man rushed past.
"Look dear, I want to hear about your mother," said Arthur, "but don't you think we should move on. It's getting dark and a little cold."

"Yes, you're right."

"And I'll make you a cup of tea and you'll know what to do next!" said Arthur, trying to hide a sneaky smile.

"Arthur Bayly, you do have a sense of humour after all," said Joan as she took his arm and strode off up the street. "You know, Arthur," she said, stopping suddenly, "maybe we've been hiding our full selves from each other, do you think?"

"Absolutely dear," said Arthur, smiling, "and I never realised, before, that you can't talk and walk at the same time."

"Arthur!" said Joan, cuffing him gently on the arm. "OK, I won't stop again! It's just ... I don't know, it's just that we've started communicating again and I have so much to say to you. So much time seems to have been lost and I want to make it all up right now!"

"You impatient thing, you," said Arthur, smiling and pulling his wife to him. "But we can make it all up here in the cold and dark or we can do it in the comfort of our house ..."

"Oh, you practical thing, you!" she said as they started to move along again.

As they reached their door, Arthur reached into his pocket for his keys. They weren't there. He tried his left pocket. Not there either. He tried his right pocket again, as if there was somewhere in his small pocket that they could hide. Not there, still. He tried his jacket pockets. No keys.

"What's wrong, Arthur, can't you find your keys?" asked Joan, used to Arthur's fastidiousness of always putting things back 'where they belong,' as he would say.

"Ah, no, I seem to have misplaced them," he said. "Most unusual." He kept rattling round in his pockets as if they'd magically turn up if he kept at it.

"I'll use mine then," said Joan, fishing in her bag.

"Here they are mate," said a tallish young man with blonde, curly hair. "Don't say we never look after you!"

"Oh, oh, thanks," said Arthur, perplexed. "But how did you get hold of them?"

"Just let's say we're looking out for ya, mate!" said the young man in an obviously Australian accent. "And now we know where you live."

"But ... but ..." said Arthur, feeling the blood draining from his head and his stomach tighten uncomfortably.

"Look mate, just keep yourself clean, don't pry into our business again and you're sweet!" said the young man who then dashed off with a wave.
Joan unlocked the door as Arthur stood there, unable to move.

"Come in, love," said Joan. "You can tell me what you've been up to when you're safe inside."

"But ... but ..." said Arthur, struggling to find more useful words.

"Arthur, inside!" commanded Joan, taking his hand firmly.

"But ... but ..." said Arthur, like a cracked record.

Joan led him to his chair in the sitting room and he obediently sat.
"I'll get us a cup of tea, love," said Joan, looking concerned. "I'll be right back.

As she put the cups down on the small table, Arthur shook his head as if waking from a dream ... or a nightmare.

"So, my dear, what do you make of it all?" asked Joan. "My mother dies this morning, we arrange a funeral, a young man bumps into us, he returns our keys and acts curious ... suspicious."

"Oh yes, it was the same young man wasn't it - the Australian!" said Arthur, as if a light suddenly went on in his brain.

"Yes, I'm sure it was," said Joan. "So, my secret man, what have you been up to?"

"Ah, nothing, Joan, nothing at all," said Arthur pleadingly. "I lost my job this morning, I witnessed a police scuffle ..."

"Lost your job? Police scuffle?" asked Joan, wide-eyed.

"Well, I did mention my job but we were busy with your mother. I thought I should let it wait till later," said Arthur with a sigh.

"And a police scuffle?" asked Joan, repeating herself.

"Oh yes, I hadn't got round to mentioning it," said Arthur as the memory of it - so recent but so quickly gone from his mind - returned. "The police said he was a New Zealander, a black man. Would that be a Maori?"

"Ah yes, I suppose so ... who?" asked Joan, now totally confused.

"Ah, the man they caught ... and the other one who thanked me and it was all so quick ..." said Arthur as his mind went the speed of light and his mouth was stuck at 30 miles per hour.

"Arthur, Arthur, please stop there," said Joan, patting his hand. "Stop. Take a breath - a deep breath - and then tell me all about it.
It's obviously not only me who's had a harrowing day!"

So Arthur told her about it - everything he could remember.

"So that's it?" asked Joan, enthralled at the events surrounding her husband.

"Oh I don't know love," said Arthur, wiping his forehead. "I keep thinking there's something I've missed ... something I saw that I've forgotten ... something ..."

"Arthur, Arthur, stop, stop," said Joan, holding his hand. "Stop thinking and you'll remember. And have your tea."

"Oh yes, I'd quite forgotten!" he said, smiling wanly. "Stop thinking to remember ..." He found this mildly amusing, somehow.

"And, as far as you know, you don't know that young man, that Australian?" asked Joan, trying to put the jigsaw of Arthur's day together. "You haven't been investigating an insurance case he's in or something?"

"No, but he said we, as if there's a group," said Arthur as the lump in his stomach returned.

"Yes, it did sound a bit threatening," said Joan. "Now, why don't we call that police officer, that Amanda, and talk to her about it?"

"Oh Joan, what a good idea!" said Arthur, feeling less vulnerable, suddenly. "She gave me her mobile number. I hope she doesn't mind."

"If she does, she can say so," said Joan lifting the phone.

2 - Extracting Log From Eye

Yesterday - the first day of my commitment to publish 2,000 words a day - I was feeling great: mellow, poetic and centred. Today is only day two and already I'm feeling crappy: angry, scared and in pain. And that's just what this blog is about, I guess, for it's these little, daily upsets that stop us non-finishers from completing our projects.

I will not be stopped!

Yesterday, I discovered my part-time employer was saying less-than-nice things about me behind my back. I don't like lies and, if I lose this job, I'll lose the free house, power and a weekly allowance … angry and scared. This is not how my hero, Jesus would have felt. He would have forgiven and got on with the important stuff of life - he would have got over it and I still haven't.

The other thing that happened is that I got something in my eye and it felt like some twerp stabbed me in the eye with a needle and forgot to take it out again - it still hurts like hell. Hence the pain. Now, if I remember the words of my hero, I can only think of his saying something about taking the log out of my own eye before taking it out of my brother's. He reminds me that I must stop saying things about my employer behind her back, before I judge her for doing that. In fact, as I remember, everything I receive in this world is as a consequence of what I give to this world. I give lies and judgement and so I get it back. It is I who is the perpetuator here, not her. I am not a victim but a cause.

All of this I can change and I have spent the last half-day trying to be as my hero, forgiving, forgiving and forgiving again. And, the forgiving that Jesus talked about, is not the arrogance of saying, "You did me wrong but, as I'm superior to you, I'll be big-hearted and let you off your sin," but the forgiveness that says, "I realise I'm living in an illusion and nothing actually happened."

And, you know what? It's really, really hard to forgive. Really hard! But Jesus did it and, if I'm going to develop into any sort of half-decent human being, I'm going to do it too.

So nothing happened and my employer is a good person, doing her best with what she knows and she committed no sin - just an error.

So, on with another 2,000 words in the story of Arthur Bayly who could be about to get fired … who knows?

“Oh, um, ah, yes … no, not quite,” he said, returning to the real world with a bump and wondering what to do with the clean desk. Strangely, Mary seemed quite unconcerned about it.

“That’s alright, Arthur. I know it’s a confusing case and the burglary may not be all there is to it. I’m not really here about that, anyway,” said Mary, settling in the other chair in his office.

“There’s several things I’m still working on,” he said, a little too quickly. “I’ve got most of the reports and claims but some of them don’t quite tie up …”

“Arthur, Arthur, Arthur! It’s alright, really it is,” said Mary, trying to reassure him. “You’re jumpy today. Is everything okay with you?”

“Oh, it’s just my womenopause,” he said, attempting a little humour.

“Your what?”

“My womenopause. You know, menopause, womenopause …” he said. He sensed her mind glazing over, missing the joke. “Yes, I’m fine, just planning my day, you know, thinking ahead,” he said, trying to recover a little dignity.

“Right. Right. Good. Now I’ve forgotten why I’m here,” said Mary, leaning back, crossing her legs and adjusting her designer glasses. “Ah, yes, yes, could you come up to Mr Lord’s office – we’d like to have a wee chat with you.”

‘Oh, shit!’ was what he nearly said, hearing wee chat and the Mr Lord in the same sentence. A worm turned in his stomach. Thankfully, there was an infinitesimal space between thinking and speaking and he actually said, “Yes, no problem. What time, Mary?”

“Oh, how about ten – we’ll all need a coffee by then!” she said, trying to lighten the atmosphere, with little success.

“Yes, that’s fine, I’ll see you both then.” He said.

As she strode out, her solid figure and business suit created a small wind that rustled the leaves of his peace lily. He slumped back into his chair and felt anything but peaceful. A royal edict and attendance with the master executioner – what could it all mean? Redundancy? There’d been enough of them in this place and he was proud that he had hung in there, though precariously. Demotion? He wasn’t sure how a fifty two-year-old should feel with all those youngsters flying up the ranks – probably worse than redundancy, he thought. Promotion? Not likely. Transfer? He knew his wife wouldn’t leave the street she was born in. A reprimand? No, Sam Lord left the petty stuff to his subordinates, like Mary. His only real conclusion was redundancy – nothing else felt right. Though, as he thought wryly, that certainly didn’t feel very right at all!

My God, an hour to fret over it! Okay, old chap, remain calm, act busy and professional, smile, breathe, think, be logical. Oh God, redundancy! How humiliating, after all the years of service. People walked past his office looking in, smiling. What did they know? Probably deciding who would get his office this afternoon; smirking that it wasn’t them.

He turned his computer on, retrieved a few random files from his filing cabinet, tried to look busy and tried not to imagine the awful things Mary and Sam had probably said about him, were saying about him right now. He felt so little, so out of control, so sad that it had all come to this, that none of his dreams had eventuated, that he had retired, been retired and, well, just faded into the woodwork – unseen, without achievement, without purpose, without acclaim or even acknowledgement. Arthur … Arthur who? Exactly! Just a nobody gone nowhere.

His hands busied themselves as his mind went berserk, driving him deeper into depression by the minute. Why couldn’t they get it over now? Still forty minutes to go and on and on his thoughts stumbled, conjuring up the embarrassment of the “wee chat”, the humility of leaving in front of everyone else in the office, of explaining to Joan, his wife. He could imagine her hands running through her thick, greying hair, standing there looking stunned for a minute. And then there’d be the accusing looks he knew so well. And the quiet vile she was so good at, so practised at. Never shouting or getting agitated, she’d give her measured opinion  – his blandness, his lack of ambition, his lack of anything approaching exciting or passionate, his nothingness destined for nothing but nothingness. And on and on she’d go. As usual, he’d not have the words or the power to reply which would prick her ire even more and her flow of words would quicken and rise in volume, imperceptibly. Eventually, when she’d repeated herself often enough, she’d turn and walk out, head high, and commiserate with her mother, six houses up the street.

Oh my God! Still half an hour to go! He kept his hands busy, the papers moving, the mouse flitting about on the computer screen, his pen scribbling … all useless actions in an attempt to stave off the painful and humiliating thoughts that wouldn’t go away … that just kept gnawing at his soul.

Then he’d have to tell his son, Martin, if his wife didn’t first. Martin was always pleasant, polite and respectful with his father but Arthur knew there was disappointment, even shame, there. Martin was a partner in the law firm, Shaftsbury Burton, and could never understand his father sticking with the boring insurance job, with no hope or ambition for promotion. The unsaid disappointment of his father’s redundancy – let’s be honest, his father’s sacking – will probably be harder to bear than the studied wrath from his wife. At least there was something to argue against, with her, if he’d ever have the gall to do it.

Oh dear, five minutes to go! He quickly tidied his desk a little, trying to keep his trembling hands busy. With a deep breath he mentally girded his loins, stood up and purposefully strode from his office, slipping on a pen that Mary must have dropped. He lurched into the door frame. Nothing hurt except his pride. He looked left and right in acute embarrassment, composed himself as best he could and strode up the corridor towards the lift with a little more caution. Thankfully, in the lift, he had a sweet moment when no one was looking and he was safe. At the twelfth floor the doors opened and he emerged into the corridor which exuded the smell and feel of power and opulence, somehow. He walked the long walk to the receptionist’s desk. A young girl looked up and he announced himself. She put down her nail polish, asked him to take a seat and said she wouldn’t be a minute. She spoke into her intercom machine and then disappeared through double doors. She returned, seven and a half minutes later, and asked him to go in as Mr Lord was expecting him.

He stood up, adjusted tie, suit, brushed shoes on legs, sighed, breathed and marched off through the large doors that proved to be heavier than he expected. A trifle embarrassed in front of a slip of a girl, he heaved again and burst into the spacious office, looking around quickly for falling guillotines.

Leaving Work

Monday, 5^th March 2012, 10.07 a.m.

“Come on in, Arthur, take a seat,” said Mary, smiling.

Arthur faltered, trying to take in the rich expanse of the room, trying to reconcile it with his glass box five floors below, trying to assess whether she was actually as friendly as she looked.

“Yes, come on in, old chap,” said Sam in his booming voice, easing his ample frame a little out of his upholstered leather, behind his expansive and clean desk. “By jove, we aren’t going to eat you, you know. Take a seat here, Arthur.” Sam had never used his name before – a bit disconcerting, really. Sam was power-dressed in the typical business costume – dark, pin-stripe suit, white and blue checked shirt and white, black and red striped tie, an eye-straining combination that the aristocracy fondly think of as good fashion sense.

Arthur moved uncertainly over the deep carpet, determined not to trip up, and sat in the chair indicated. His head was now below Sam’s and he felt slightly, no, considerably intimidated by the big desk, big chair and big man before him. Mary sat in a similar chair to his and he felt a little comforted. Not much but a little.

“Now, would you like a coffee or a tea?” Sam asked, smiling.

“Oh, is there time? I mean, ah, yes please,” said Arthur, expecting a handshake, a few words and a ‘goodbye’.

“Which one old chap – coffee or tea?” asked Sam, chuckling.

“Oh, just a tea, thanks Sir,” said Arthur.

“Chinese, Japanese, Indian or good old English Breakfast tea, Arthur?”

“Oh, gosh, ah, Chinese thanks, Sir,” said Arthur suddenly realising it might be the first and last time he tried something exotic.

“A man after my own taste.” said Sam, “And your usual, Mary?”

“You know me well, Sir,” she said, attempting to mix friendliness with deference.

Sam spoke into his desk: “Two Chinese and Mary’s coffee, thanks Tanya.” Then he turned back to Arthur. “So, old chap, I suppose you’re wondering why you’re here, yeah?” asked Sam, leaning forward over his mahogany desk, unaware that he looked more threatening than reassuring.

‘Actually, no, I come here every day, you stupid irk,’ his brain cried, while his mouth said, “Well, yes Sir, I am.”

“Right, just so … er … Arthur,” said Sam, obviously keen to repeat Arthur’s name for some reason. “Now, you’ve been here some time and Mary has been keeping an eye on you …”

‘SOME TIME!’ his head screamed, ‘thirty monotonous years and no one’s ever noticed me! Not once!’

“… and now we need to review things,” he said, obviously expecting applause.

“Review, Sir?” asked Arthur, his brain in turmoil.

“Okay, Mary, you tell … er … Arthur,” said Sam, waving his hand at Mary, as if passing a theatrical cue.

Tanya interrupted with a tray of cups and silence ensued while sugar, milk and stirring were administered. Sam leaned back, sipping his tea with obvious delight while Arthur held his cup and saucer gingerly on his knee, desperate not to spill any.

“Pop your cup on there desk, here,” said Sam. Now Arthur’s cup was a shoulder height and more difficult to get at. Should he be rude and forget it or should he attempt to drink it? His cogitations were interrupted by Sam.

“Now, where were we? Ah, yes, Mary …”

“Oh, thank you Sam … Sir,” said Mary, uncrossing her legs, brushing her skirt and turning to look directly at Arthur. “Now, Arthur, you’ve been here a long time …”

‘I want NEW information and I want it NOW!’ screamed his brain.

“… You’re a brick, Arthur, a brick. So reliable. Others have come and gone and you’ve always been here,” said Mary, leaving a deliberate opening for him.

“Oh,” said Arthur, at a loss for words.

“But, as you know, nothing stays the same. The recent credit crunch has taken its toll and so have the new financial rules. We’re being watched much closer now,” said Mary.

“Have I done something wrong?” asked Arthur, inwardly cowering as they readied the guillotine.

“Well, no Arthur, not at all. Of course not,” said Mary, smiling bravely. “It’s just that some of our connections, some people we know, are coming under greater scrutiny. Now, I’m not quite sure how to say this without alarming you.”

“Oh?” Arthur said, alarmed.

“Yes, I’ll come out and say it bluntly, Arthur,” said Mary, fiddling with her black, cropped hair. “You’re working on the Atkinson case, right?”

“Aah, yes, yes I am,” said Arthur, wondering if it was a trick question.

“And, well …” said Mary, unusually reticent to speak. “Okay, I’ll say it – there is a small security matter …”

“But I’ve kept everything quite confidential …” said Arthur, feeling an accusation sneaking up on him.

“Yes, yes, of course you have, Arthur,” said Mary, smiling uneasily. “The security situation has come from outside and … and, well, we feel it’s best … oh gosh, it’s best you’re not in your office, not actually in the building for a time.”

“Oh,” said Arthur as the ground began to dissolve from under him.

“Would you like to work from home?” asked Mary.

“From home?” asked Arthur. “Would that make things safer?”