Where Our Words and Phrases Come From

There is an old Hotel/Pub in Marble Arch, London, which used to have a gallows adjacent to it. Prisoners were taken to the gallows (after a fair trial, of course) to be hung. The horse-drawn dray, carting the prisoner, was accompanied by an armed guard who would stop the dray outside the pub and ask the prisoner if he would like one last drink.  If he said yes, it was referred to as one for the road.  If he declined, that prisoner was on the wagon.

They used to use urine to tan animal skins, so families used to all pee in a pot and then once a day it was taken and sold to the tannery. If you had to do this to survive you were piss poor, but worse than that were the really poor folk, who couldn't even afford to buy a pot, they didn't have a pot to piss in and were the lowest of the low.

        

The next time you are washing your hands and complain the water temperature isn't just how you like it, think about how things used to be. Here are some facts about the 1500s: 

1. Most people got married in June, because they took their yearly bath in May and they still smelled pretty good by June. However, since they were starting to smell, brides carried a bouquet of flowers to hide the body odour. Hence the custom today of carrying a bouquet when getting married.

        

2. Baths consisted of a big tub filled with hot water. The man of the house had the privilege of the nice clean water, then all the other sons and men, then the women and finally the children. Last of all the babies. By then the water was so dirty you could actually lose someone in it. Hence the saying, don't throw the baby out with the bath water!

        

3. Houses had thatched roofs, thick straw piled high, with no wood underneath. It was the only place for animals to get warm, so all the cats and other small animals (mice, bugs and other critters) lived in the roof. When it rained it became slippery and sometimes the animals would slip and fall off the roof. Hence the saying it's raining cats and dogs. There was nothing to stop things from falling into the house. This posed a real problem in the bedroom, where bugs and other droppings could mess up your nice clean bed. Hence, a bed with big posts and a sheet hung over the top afforded some protection. That's how canopy beds came into existence.

         

4. Only the wealthy had something other than dirt floors. Hence the saying, dirt poor. The wealthy had slate floors that would get slippery in the winter when wet, so they spread thresh (straw) on floor to help keep their footing. As the winter wore on they added more thresh until, when you opened the door, it would all start slipping outside. A piece of wood was placed in the entrance-way. Hence a thresh hold.

      

5. In those old days, they cooked in the kitchen with a big kettle that always hung over the fire. Every day they lit the fire and added things to the pot. They ate mostly vegetables and did not get much meat. They would eat the stew for dinner, leaving leftovers in the pot to get cold overnight, then start over the next day. Sometimes stew had food in it that had been there for quite a while. Hence the rhyme: Peas porridge hot, peas porridge cold, peas porridge in the pot, nine days old'.  Sometimes they could obtain pork, which made them feel quite special ...

        

6. When visitors came over they would hang up their bacon, to show off. It was a sign of wealth that a man could, bring home the bacon. They would cut off a little to share with guests and would all sit around talking and chew the fat.

        

7. Those with money had plates made of pewter. Food with high acid content caused some of the lead to leach onto the food, causing lead poisoning and death. This happened most often with tomatoes, so for the next 400 years or so, tomatoes were considered poisonous.

         

8. Bread was divided according to status. Workers got the burnt bottom of the loaf, the family got the middle, and guests got the top, or the upper crust.

        

9. Lead cups were used to drink ale or whisky. The combination would sometimes knock the imbibers out for a couple of days. Someone walking along the road would take them for dead and prepare them for burial. They were laid out on the kitchen table for a couple of days and the family would gather around and eat and drink and wait and see if they would wake up. Hence the custom of holding a wake. 

        

10. England is old and small and the local folks started running out of places to bury people, so they would dig up coffins and would take the bones to a bone-house and reuse the grave. When reopening these coffins, 1 out of 25 coffins were found to have scratch marks on the inside and they realized they had been burying people alive. So they would tie a string on the wrist of the corpse, thread it through the coffin and up through the ground and tie it to a bell. Someone would have to sit out in the graveyard all night (the graveyard shift) to listen for the bell; thus someone could be, saved by the bell or was considered a dead ringer. 

So now you know ...

The Maori, the Orca Eye and the Miracle

Many years ago I took over a position of accountant from a man who had only been in the job for several weeks. I wanted to know why he’d been sacked. It seems he’d studied accounting at university for five years and had both a bachelors and a masters degree in business administration … but he did not know how to do the daily bankings. In fact, there was a great number of simple, practical, daily tasks he did not know about.

As A Course in Miracles tells us, words are but symbols of symbols. Words are not experience. Words are not knowing.

Having been both a student and a lecturer at universities, I have known some great intellects who have studied the words of the sages and have degrees in philosophy and theology. They can quote with ease from the Bhagavad Gītā, the  Koran, the Bible and many other sacred texts. They can tell me the genealogy of Moses, the eight limbs of Yoga and the story of Mohammed. Yet some of these learned men cannot tell me their experience of God.

Some of these men, of course, have had profound experiences of God – the deep, abiding peace, stillness and oneness that sweetens the soul and brings one home. But some have not.

I have also talked with Maori Kaumatua, Aboriginal Kadaiche men, South African Sangornas and Hopi elders who have read and written few words in their lives and, when asked about God, simply smile and become still. As they do, I feel their experience and realise there are no words for it.

Some time, in the long ago, I was staying in a hostel in Kununurra, in the north of Australia. One of the residents was a particularly obnoxious Maori chap who chain-smoked and swore loudly much of the time. He had a pot belly from too much beer and missing teeth from too many pub brawls.

One day, as I was sitting by the pool, Hone (his name) sat beside me and asked how I was. I braced myself, hoped he’d take his loud, nicotine-stained, beer-smelling self away soon and smiled as pleasantly as I could. He’d recognized me as a fellow Kiwi and wanted to talk about the homeland he’d not seen for too long.

Eventually, the conversation moved on to how this illiterate brawler had been a fisherman in the waters above Australia for nigh on twenty years. He explained how they’d drop one end of the net in the water with a crew member in the water to hold it. The boat would then run out the rest of the net for a mile or so and, eventually, return to the paddling man and trap the fish in the circle of the net.

One fine, calm day it was Hone’s turn and, as he paddled in the water, holding the net as the boat disappeared from his view, he prayed to a God he didn’t believe in for no sharks to appear. His non-existent God complied as no sharks appeared. However, what did appear was a killer whale, an orca. Panic-stricken, Hone’s body went rigid as the orca approached. It stopped side-on to him, it’s unblinking eye within arm’s reach.

As he told me this story, tears started down his cheeks for, as he said, he looked into the eye of God. He said this several times. As he looked into that orca’s eye he saw himself, he saw God. That’s the only way he could explain it and, in that moment, his heart and mine, his knowing and mine, connected. As two grown men shed tears and shared the experience of the Eye of God, no words were necessary. No words were possible. None at all.

When we recovered ourselves and others at the pool stopped staring at us, I asked him what had changed for him, since then. Nothing on the outside had changed – he still liked his beer and cigarettes – but something had changed inside him. As he’d looked into that orca eye, a lifetime’s anger and fear dropped away, never to return. He had hurt no one from that moment on and he even started experiencing more and more moments of peace – the smile on his face described that peace more eloquently than any words could. I’ll remember his cheeky and peaceful smile longer than I’ll remember any fine words. Thank you, Hone, for reminding me of God.

And now to Mary Collins' story, continued from the previous blog ...

"Don't move an inch! Stop, right there!" said Ahmed, evenly, stepping over the sprawled bodies. "Hands up! Now!" The tattooed man obeyed instantly. "Now, into the room here or I blow your knees off. Understood?" The man obeyed silently and walked timidly past Ahmed and into the room.

Angus rolled off the human pile and leapt across to pounce upon a pistol he just realised was lying by the felled man.

"Dangerous place, this London town," said Angus as he stood up with the pistol in hand, gingerly pointing it towards the prone man who groaned and leaked blood into the deep carpet. "Mary, can you call for an ambulance or something!" yelled Angus, recovering his composure and senses.

"Well, don't just stand there and stare!" shouted John, helping Sam and Mary up as curious heads appeared at doorways along the corridor. "Help this man here - he's been wounded. Tell the management, someone, and is there a doctor here?" Most heads quickly disappeared behind slammed doors and one man stepped forth.

"I'm a medical officer," he said as he knelt over the prone and groaning man at Angus' feet. Two uniformed hotel staff members appeared at the end of the corridor, with a first aid kit, as Angus left the medical experts to it and returned to the room, shutting the door behind him.

"Do we need the police as well?" asked Ahmed as he motioned the tattooed man to lie on the floor, face down.

"No, no police, believe me!" said Sam, tucking his grimy shirt in. "They could well be behind this … well, protecting those behind this."

"The police? Behind this?" asked Ahmed, alarmed, as he pulled the man's hands behind his back. "Has anyone got anything to tie these hands together, please?" Halee slipped off her tights and handed them to him. He smiled his thanks to her.

"Look, Sam," said Mary, straightening her suit, "I don't know what's going on with you and the police but we can't keep them out of it, can we?"

"Hardly!" said Belinda. "A gun's gone off, a man's lying in a pool of blood, people have been alerted and the ambulance is on its way."

"And what are they going to find when they come in here?" asked Halee. "A Kiwi tart, a Scottish woman dressed as a man, a Pakistani in costume, a scruffy pommy, a Scot and two M?ori guys. Questions might be asked, don't you think?" Everyone laughed at the strange spectacle they realised they would present.

"Well, we can run and keep running or we can stop and face it all, I suppose," said Sam, plonking himself down in a chair with a weary sigh. "Don't know about you lot but I'm quite fed up with running. Quite fed up, I must say."

"Well, my Da says ye can run but ye can never get away," said Angus, kneeling beside Ahmed as he tied the man's hands. "Yer sins will always follow ye."

"Our Da said that?" asked Mary, surprised. "I never knew he said anything wise in his life! But I have to agree - we're going to be surrounded soon and I don't know about you lot but I'm sick of pretending, sick of acting like I'm coping, sick of pushing against the damned wall, sick of, aah, I don't know, everything. I'm too tired to bother, actually." Sam stood to embrace her and she gave in to Sam's embrace. "But I'm not blooming well going to cry though," she said defiantly into Sam's chest.

"I committed a crime," said Ahmed. "I shot a man. I will not run from that. Never."

"But it was in self defence," said Belinda. "He was about to shoot Mary and Sam."

"Yes, Belinda, you may be correct," said Ahmed, smiling. "But I must let the law of this land decide that. Honesty and openness is peace of mind."

"You're absolutely right, Ahmed," said John. "Koia te kaupapa o te rangatiratanga, o te tika, me te maung?rongo o te ao. It is the foundation of freedom, justice, and peace in the world. So, it looks like we're staying so let's get this brother into a chair, a bit more comfortably because he's not going anywhere either!" John, Angus and Ahmed helped the stocky man roll over and get up into a chair. Sam and Mary sat side by side on one bed, Halee and Belinda on the other bed, Angus sat in the other chair while the two remaining men stood beside the seated man whose scared look was soon replaced by an embarrassed one.

"So what you all looking at?" he asked defiantly.

"Maybe you just tell us who you are and what you're doing here bro'," said John.

"Why should I do that? Who the hell …." said the man, who stopped as Ahmed took his pistol from his belt for the second time that morning.

"Perhaps you'd like to tell us exactly who you are and what you're doing here," suggested Ahmed evenly.

"Ah, yeah, I suppose it won't do no harm, pass the time of day," said the man, more nervous than defiant now. "Well, I'm Hemi Ropata and my tribe is Ngati Whakaue from Rotorua. That do?" Ahmed raised his pistol as if to examine it. "Oh yeah, you wanna' know te korero, the story, huh?"

"Yes we do, bro'," said John.

"Jeez, I could do with a smoke," said Hemi.

"Talk first, smoke second," said John.

"Yeah, right, te korero," said Hemi, squirming to make himself more comfortable. "Well, you see, these pakeha, these English people, stole some of our tapu taonga, our sacred pieces - three of them - and we wanted them back, see. We tried the government and the police and all that official shit … oh, sorry ladies, but they did nothing. Just a lot of excuses about, what they call it, official immunity or something."
"Diplomatic immunity," offered Sam.

"Yeah, that's it, diplomatic immunity," said Hemi, smiling at Sam. "So these diplomatic people took our taonga - pounamu, greenstone, from our tupuna, our ancestors - and the elders wanted to keep doing the stupid government thing but a group of us said, 'stuff that,' and so Eru and I, we's  volunteered to get the stuff."

"Why you two?" asked John, smiling knowingly.

Being Dog-matic, Human and Walking Our Talk

I recently applied for a job as editor for a magazine based round The Secret. Like most things, The Secret is not the whole answer on how to achieve our full potential with peace and joy. Nevertheless I felt that, through the medium of the magazine, I could help to inspire many, many people to realise and live the greatness that they are.

Then, two days before the interview, I discovered that the magazine’s owner, my potential employer, had been less than honest with many, many people. Living in a luxury home with a luxury car and a luxury lifestyle, he had taken other peoples’ money to invest on their behalf. That money seems to have disappeared without trace or explanation. Wages have remained unpaid for many years, as have a number of creditors.

We’re talking about large sums of money, very large sums, but the amounts, to my mind are irrelevant. Even the non-payment of wages and promises is not so bad, in the scale of things – we all make mistakes and, sometimes, people find themselves out of money for all sorts of reasons.

The difficulty I have with this person’s actions (and not with him) is that he denied that he had lost huge sums of money – despite the clear evidence – and there was no apology or contrition. Promises he made on national television were not kept and he would not take responsibility for making or breaking those promises.

This man is a devout Christian – something he boasts about on his website, his FaceBook and LinkedIn profiles and other public places. He’s very proud of his Christianity. I’m sure, however, that if Christ ever made a mistake – intentional or otherwise – he’d fess up, take responsibility and do his best to make amends.

Not so this Christian. This, of course, does not make Christianity wrong. It simply tells us that some Christians are not walking their talk.

While I was discovering these “interesting” facts about this man, this potential employer, I also discovered that one of the presenters in The Secret DVD had been arrested for manslaughter. Again, this does not make The Secret wrong – it just means that one of The Secret’s adherents, one of its faithful, was not walking his talk.

The lesson I take from this is – a lesson we all know but need reminding of, from time to time – is that no philosophy can save us or give us enlightenment, success, peace or whatever else we’re looking for. Whether it’s Christianity, The Secret, Buddhism, Hinduism or any other philosophy, they are all only part of the story.

“So, what’s the other part?” you may ask.

“The other part is us.”

When you point at something, a dog will look at your finger and a human will look at what you’re pointing at. If you want to be dog-matic, you’ll make your philosophy or religion your answer. If you want to grow as a human, you will look at what your religion is pointing at – God.

And, verily I say unto thee, God makes no demands and has no rules – he simply welcomes us back as prodigal sons. God does not force his/her prodigal sons to return home – we have to be willing to return. We have to be willing to practice being the Christ within us and walk the daily human walk – stumbling, forgiving, making amends and trying again.

Using the principle that’s common to The Secret and to Christianity, I know that if I want an employer who tries to walk his talk, then I must first do that.

And so, today, I’m walking. 

And now, how is Mary Collins walking? Her story is continued from the previous blog ...

"Maybe it's a ruse by Sam to put someone off his scent …" said Ahmed, interrupting.

"You mean he sent those people after you to save his skin?" asked John, incredulously. "He wouldn't do that, would he?"

"No, no, I've got a feeling … just a feeling, mind," said Angus as he lifted out paper after paper. "There's something here we missed last night. I'm sure of it."

"I wish you were right …" said Mary.

"Hey! I bloody am, Mary girl!" exclaimed Angus, holding a sheet up towards the window as the March sun tried faintly to shine through. "Look, look what's written …"

"But we've read all that stuff … well, skimmed through it, anyway," said Mary, interrupting him while peering at the upheld sheet and munching her last sausage.

"Nah, yah silly bird!" said Angus, chuckling. He shuffled closer to her, being careful not to spill the remaining breakfast from his lap. Everyone else moved closer. "Don't look at the words, the typed ones. Look at the … aah, I don't know what you call it … like a watermark or something."

"Yes, yes, I can see it, Angus," said Belinda. "It's faint but there's definitely words sort-of inside the paper. She grabbed more sheets from the briefcase and handed them round. "See if there's any more like it."
They all held sheets up to the light while carefully balancing plates of food and cups of tea and coffee on their knees. Then the phone screamed through their fervour and, immediately, everyone dashed into the fray, tossing breakfast remains and paper aside to plunder pockets and bags in search of mobile phones … all except Angus who reached over and picked up the hotel phone.

"Hello? Ah, I'm Angus. Who is this? Sam, Sam who? Sam …"

"Oh Sam, Sam!" said Mary, snatching the phone from Angus. "Where are you? I waited for your call …"

"Yes, yes my dear, I'm sorry I wasn't able to call as promised," said Sam, interrupting her. "But here I am! Would you mind awfully if I popped in now? I'm at your apartment so where are you from there?"

"Oh Sam, it's so nice to hear your voice," chirped Mary. "And you're out, you're free …"

"Mary, Mary, please tell me where you are. I may not have much time," said Sam quickly.

"Right, yes, sorry," said Mary who then gave him the name and whereabouts of the hotel, along with their room number. Sam hung up immediately while Mary held the phone to her ear still, cherishing the sound and though of him being free and near. Then the fears moved in - would he be interested in her, would he be a changed man, would he …
"Where's Sam, Mary?" asked Angus, interrupting her thoughts. "When will he be here?"

"Soon …" said Mary with the silent phone in her hand while her mind floated off in some other-worldly reverie.

"Soon? God, you bloody English are hopeless, aren't you!" said John, playfully punching Mary's arm. "Ask an Englishman 'how long' and he'll tell you 'not long'. Ask an Englishman 'how big?' and he'll tell you 'quite big'. Ask an Englishman 'when?' and he'll tell you 'soon'. Getting facts out of an Englishman is like extracting teeth from a beggar's bum!"

"John, you forget you're married to an English person," said Belinda, laughing. Awkward laughter from the others.

"I can't forget that love!" said John, putting his arm around Belinda. "Charm, politeness, culture, history - you've got it all. But looking for a fact in an Englishman … or English woman … is like looking for courtesy in a French driver." Abandoned laughter from the others.

John's tirade was interrupted by a knock at the door. The laughter stopped while everyone looked at each other. The chances of very good news and very bad news were equal and no one was prepared to open the Pandora's Box the door represented.

"Can I come in?" asked Sam and Mary flashed to the door with unaccustomed rapidity. She opened it to a haggard, slightly untidy and thinner Sam than she'd known before. She faltered, seeing the same Sam she saw last night, now in the clear light of morning.

"Yes, Mary, my dear, the full light of morning reveals all," said Sam, smiling lopsidedly while apparently reading her mind.

"Oh, Sam, do come in," said Mary, recovering but unsure whether to give into her urge to hug him or to behave a little more correctly in front of her Regional Director and other assorted people.

Sam wrapped himself around her but her body wouldn't move. Was this really happening, she wondered, after all this time? Was this the real Sam Lord, the friendly, affable, sophisticated, off-hand Sam Lord she'd known, wanted, desired?

"Am I being too forward, Mary?" asked Sam, releasing his hold a little. The loosening of his hold activated her arms, somehow, and she grabbed him with a ferocity she'd not known before.

"Not too forward, Mr Sam Lord, just too bloody backwards for words!" said Mary into his grimy shirt, smiling through her tears.

"I don't know why it takes a crisis for us to realise we don't live forever," said Sam, relaxing gently back into her. "There just may not be a tomorrow to do and say all those things we've always planned to … oh, Mary, I've been through a tiny bit of hell and I'm not going through anything else, hell or heaven, without telling you how much I … aah …" He stood back with his hands on her shoulders, looking into her eyes. "Okay, here it is, my dear, I need to say …"

"Watch out!" yelled Angus and John together as they dashed across the room with Ahmed in close pursuit. With a perfect All Black tackle, John felled Mary and Sam as Angus fell over the three and Ahmed's pistol boomed in the plush suite. A yell came from the corridor and a white man dropped and a tattooed, brown one, eyes wide and mouth open, faltered in indecision.

The Ab-Original Journey - Part II

This story is continued from the previous blog ...

Szuson and I didn't see each other on the overnight trip but, as we got out at the Alice Springs station, she asked me where I was staying. I had booked nothing, trusting in providence, so agreed to go to the hostel she'd booked into. It didn't feel right, somehow, so I went in search of different accommodation the next morning.

I was drawn to a hostel in the main street and walked past it several times. Each time I got a feeling of rightness, a warmth, as I approached. I booked in, still feeling uncertain about why I was in Alice Springs, in this hostel and even why I had been prompted to come to Australia at all. I was given my key, went to my room and froze. On the shelf was a huge, white coffee mug with one word in bold red writing - Philip! It was even spelt, unusually, with one "l" as my name is. I opened the top drawer and there was a new, unopened, tin of boot wax.

I cracked up laughing, knowing that I didn't know why I was here but knowing I was in the right place. I finally relaxed.

The next day I joined a group of young people on a guided trip round Uluru  and Kata Tjuta* . From the moment I saw Uluru, my right eye started streaming and it stopped abruptly as we left the area, three days later. Sitting in the noisy bus - loud music and constant chatter - I was presented with many visions as the red, dusty desert flew past my window. It was as if I was remembering a time, long ago, when I was an Aborigine and we hunted kangaroo in groups. We'd call to the spirit of kangaroo and we'd be guided to an animal that had volunteered to feed us. It was apparent, in these dreamy/visiony things I was having, we could all talk to each other in our minds over very long distances. In fact, distance was irrelevant - we could (and did) do it sitting next to each other or hundreds of miles apart. There was also the mystifying - then terrifying - spectacle of strange white people coming to our land and the land cried to us in pain.

Back in Alice again, I didn't know what to do so I hired a car and drove west - "go west, young man," the advertisement said! I stopped often, walking up most (maybe all) of the gorges on the route and, at one point, I sat on a mountain ledge and felt like I was talking to a circling eagle and to the spirit of rain. Black clouds formed and I just made it back to the car as the heavens bucketed down for half an hour. I later discovered that it had not rained there for the last six years.

At the end of the road was a resort that didn't feel right so I drove back towards Alice and slept beside my car on the side of the road. Later I was told that was lunacy on account of the poisonous snakes and spiders that abounded. Not knowing what I don't know is sometimes a good thing.

The next day I went east of Alice and, late afternoon, I ended up at Ross River, a very rustic, very basic, very Australian, tourist place. It felt right and, as I booked in, I asked about horse riding - I hadn't been on a horse for a long time and, seeing them in the yards, yearned to be back in the saddle again. As it happened, their monthly, two-day horse and camel trek was just starting. The receptionist dashed out to stop them from leaving without me while I threw my luggage into my room and changed into my boots and akubra.

Only two of us went on horses while the others (a party of ten Germans) went on camels. The other horse rider, Grub, worked at Ross River and, after racing each other over the rough and dusty terrain for over half an hour (so exhilarating!) we walked the horses to give them a rest.

The camel riders were miles away and, in that wide space, I asked Grub, half jokingly, if I could get a job working there. He said a barman had been given the sack the previous night and if I spoke to the manager, I was sure to get a job. I told him that I had never worked in a bar, at a tourist resort or in any kind of accommodation or waiting job. That, he said with a smile, would be no obstacle - ask and the job would be mine. My soul expanded as the landscape did and the two days went by too quickly - riding under the wide blue sky and sleeping under the star-lit heavens was awesome.

When we got back to the main buildings, I asked about a job and Grub was right - I started my first bar job a few hours later. And, in that isloated pub in the middle of Australia, is where the Aboriginal people came to me ... which I'll explain in the next blog.

*Uluru is Ayers Rock and Kata Tjuta is The Olgas.

In the meantime, enjoy a little more of Arthur Bayly's story, continued from the previous blog ...

"Did you feel that?" asked Amanda quietly.

"Yes I did," whispered Toby.

It seemed as if the mysterious and gentle zephyr had touched them as one rather than each of them individually. They both felt this, somehow, but might have found it hard to explain it to others … even to themselves. They knew what had happened and the shared experience - though brief and simple - touched them deeply, though they knew not why. Their hands sought each other out and, as their fingers intertwined, it seemed that the massive room and corridor in which they were standing filled itself with a presence - warm and caring, somehow - and they felt a deep safety, a quiet unconcern, for what was about to unfold. All their uncertainties, fears and questions were enfolded in this presence, this sense of deep and ancient caring and they needed to do nothing but smile and wait for further guidance from within.

Toby put his arm around Amanda's shoulders and she leaned into him with a sigh.

"So, what are you two doing? Snogging?" asked Dottie in a loud and commanding voice as she strode down the corridor. Amanda and Toby separated, looking shocked and embarrassed, confirming Dottie's suspicions.

A Head Job
Wednesday, 14th March 2012, 8.16 a.m.

Arthur, Arthur, came a sound, a whisper on a breeze, that slipped quietly through his dreams. Arthur, Arthur slid through gently, serenely and on those words he sat, gliding down a grassy slope in the warm afternoon sun, guided by a grace that was not his own. He was content to be led on a word that felt familiar, down a hill he'd never seen but knew intimately. As he glided on, one Arthur behind the other, he realised he could lie back if he chose. Sitting up pleased him as he could see the flitting swallows above, the parting grass before him and the sun glinting on the sea far below. He approached the sea and it seemed to come no nearer.

As he looked up he fancied he could see - or was it feel? - a thudding in the clouds behind him.

He became happily drowsy and lay back on the two Arthurs with no sensation of their touch. Looking up he saw not sky but a face; a face he knew well, he supposed. The face was close, blurred, and its lips were moving, saying something - saying, "Arthur, Arthur," the very words he was lying on, sliding on. His eyes saw the face but didn't look at it - he looked through it, wondering - how could that be there, not the sky.

The thudding in the sky seemed to be closing in. It was definitely a feeling now.

The face moved back and the mouth - a familiar mouth, somehow - was still moving, saying Arthur and other words. He could see the eyes now and, like the mouth, looked sad happy … mmm, sad happy? Yes, that's what they looked like. The face still filled his sky as he slipped gently down the grassy slope towards the sea. There was a light now, behind the face, shining through hair and around the edges. There might be, perhaps, other sounds, human sounds and the birds had stopped chirping.

The face moved closer and seemed comforting; warmly comforting and he was pleased it was there. His forehead was touched gently, caressingly, and he smiled.

And then the smell of the grass gave way to the scent of roses … mmm, not quite roses, but a scent he knew well, a scent he longed would remain. The scent, whatever it was, revived old chipped memories, fragments of events unconnected, parts of a life that felt familiar, parts of several lives, perhaps - child-times, adult-times, baby-times, teenage-times, all scattered about as confetti in the gentle breeze of his mind. This scent, so familiar, brought with it smiles, disappointment, sweetness, loss, fear, calm, hurrying, boredom and exquisite peace as after love-making.

As he looked at her emerging face he realised he wasn't seeing it as he usually saw faces, saw bodies, saw things. There was no distinct nose or mouth or eyes, no individual pieces, different from other pieces. It was like an unfolding picture in lights but not individual, twinkling lights … it was a picture in light, one light, bright and subtle. He imagined he was looking at a patch of water on a still lake, into which a small pebble had been dropped, a hundred yards away. The surface of the water before him might be moving. It might not be moving. He was not sure. The light, her light, might be moving. It might not be moving. He was not sure. He knew her light to be different from the background light and the light of other beings but he wasn't sure how he was distinguishing these differences.

In the gentle light he sensed a concern, a worry about the container, the capsule, labelled as Arthur. Ah, yes, his small capsule - that was what she feared for. He understood her fears and was, at the same time, bemused for he knew there was nothing to fear, to worry over. The small capsules, with all their different labels, were not what was really there.

He looked in and saw … no, not saw … knew his capsule was open - perhaps for the first time - and a larger essence had been released to encompass … well, everything, really. There were no boundaries, no limits, and it just sort-of flowed into other essences, slightly separate but not.

The capsule he'd known so well seemed to be closed and, inside, it held all its fears and concerns. He was touched and the formless light of his essence enfolded her capsule and she burst into tears - a flood of tears so long held back and now released with the relief of an ancient knowing that cleansed face and soul.

"Arthur, you're back, you're awake!" came her voice through the mist of his gentle perplexity. Unused to such a way of seeing things … of knowing things … he relaxed, unconcerned, and enjoyed the small blissful waves of light as they caressed him.

The Ab-Original Walkabout - Part I

In 1993 I had a strong drawing to go to the Aboriginal people in Australia so, when the school holidays started, my son and I flew to Melbourne. We had ten wonderful days, travelling 3,000 miles in our rental car. We returned the car to the airport and then I saw Cain off, to fly back to New Zealand. As he left, I realized how much I missed him and I cried my eyes out for the next few hours.

I had not organized anywhere to stay so told the taxi driver to take me to the nearest youth hostel. As I crashed onto my bed (I had a room all to myself, to my great relief), still thinking of Cain and with two questions chasing each other round in my head:

1) How do I get to see the Aborigine people? I wanted to spend time with them but didn’t know anyone who knew them, and

2) Where do I get boot wax? My boots were scuffed and I’d become a little obsessed with cleaning them up.

That night I did not sleep well, feeling sad about Cain and uncertain about my purpose in being in Australia. The next morning another man checked into my room and it transpired that he was Australia’s leading UFO investigator and one of his team had spent many years living with the Aborigine people. He immediately arranged for me to meet her in three days time.

I then spent several hours looking for boot wax but, in that huge city, none seemed to exist. The next day a friend took me to an Australian Rules game and then I eventually got to meet the lady who had lived with the Aborigines. She could give me no contacts or ways to meet them and told me that if I wanted to see them, I’d have to wait till they came to me. I left her house feeling disappointed.

The only thing I could think of doing was to go to Alice Springs so, the next day, I took the nine-hour train trip to Adelaide. There was a six-hour wait-over till the Ghan* left for Alice Springs. I sat in the railway café, with a coffee, to write letters to my two children in New Zealand. To get my writing gear out of my bag, I had had to get some other books our first, which I left on the table while I wrote. One of the books was a spiritual one, by Sanaya Ramon and, as I was writing, a lady stopped and stared at the book.

I looked up uncertainly.

“Are you into spiritual things?” she asked. She introduced herself as Szuson Wong, a Chinese American. I assured her I was very interested in such things and so she got a drink and food and then joined me at my table. We chatted animatedly and with great absorption in each other’s stories till the train left. Among many other things, she told me about a book called Mutant Message Down Under by a Marlo Morgan. In the book, Marlo, an American nurse, arrived, as a stranger, in an Aboriginal community and they greeted her with: “Bout time you come! We been waiting long time to see you!”

As Szuson told me this story, bolts of hot and cold lightening shot through me and I felt like I was levitating, somehow. For a split second that went on forever, I felt a disconnection, an other-worldliness, at hearing this. When I recovered my power of speech, my first words were: “Wow! Wouldn’t it be so amazing for that to happen!”

Two weeks later it did ... this will be continued and, in the meantime, you can follow Arthur Bayly's story, from the recently-written novel, The Importance of Being Arthur ...

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* The railway line from Adelaide, through Alice Springs and to Darwin was built (mainly) with Afghan labour. In their honour, the train that runs the track is called The Ghan.

"Oh, careful, that jars, you bully," said Toby, striding out, holding his sore arm gingerly. Amanda sneaked up to the corner of the corridor and waited. She heard a distant door open and shut and, soon after, someone was asking, "Where are you, mate?"

"Out in the passage," yelled the guard back.

Amanda could hear no footsteps on the thick carpet and made her move, based on gut feeling and guesswork, as to when the man would be over Toby. She reached the second guard just as he was about to kick an apparently oblivious Toby, kneeling beside the prone man. Amanda slipped one bag over the man's head and, as he faltered, struggling with an unexpected impediment, she grabbed his ankles and pulled them together, as good as any All Black tackler. He toppled and fell forward just as Toby rolled away and jumped up to plant his foot heavily between the man's shoulders, like a triumphant boxer. Amanda quickly tied his ankles together with a muslin bag and leapt upon his backside to claim his now-pinioned arms. Between them they managed to get his arms behind his back and tied up with another muslin bag.

It all happened so quickly there was hardly time for a sound, save the odd oomph and argh and the carpet and solid walls absorbed most of the sounds. They rolled the second, trussed-up guard off his guv'nor and let him lie there, panting surprised and embarrassed.

The man at the bottom of the little pile was stirred to life and started groaning. His hand went to his head, perhaps to feel for cuts, and Amanda knew she had to act.

"Quick, stop him moving!" commanded Amanda as she grabbed another muslin bag and trussed his wrists together behind his back, with a little help from Toby. She then did the same with his feet. "Right, we've got three we don't want moving and they can, while we've got one we want to move and he can't."

"Well, at least they won't move till the police get here," said Toby, smiling.

"The police are already here! If only you knew," said Amanda, looking at Toby and considering whether or not to say any more. "Look, I've just got to make a phone call. Can you keep an eye on these guys for a minute, please?" She went into the kitchen for privacy, dialled the number, spoke to Superintendent Hopkins at Scotland Yard and returned to the men.

As Amanda and Toby looked at each other, wondering what to do or say next, Arthur stirred and started to mumble. Amanda rushed over to him and knelt by his face. His lips were moving from time to time as if he was conversing with someone.

"Are you okay, Arthur?" asked Amanda quietly as she placed her hand gently on his forehead. "I'm listening."

"Maybe he's delusional, just raving …" said Toby.

"Sshhh!" said Amanda. "We're listening, Arthur."

"But he's just …" said Toby.

"Shut up will ya!" said Amanda. "Give him a chance."

"He's frightened," said Arthur faintly, with a gentle smile across his face.

"Who's frightened?" asked Amanda, not sure she heard him right.

"Toby is. Toby is frightened," said Arthur quietly. Amanda had to bend close to his face to hear him.

"Toby is frightened of what?" asked Amanda, caressing his forehead gently.

"I'm not frightened. He's just …" said Toby, stopping mid-sentence as Amanda's withering glare stopped him. He looked perturbed but he kept his mouth shut and shuffled a little closer to Amanda and Arthur as if daring himself to hear more.

"He's frightened of the love," said Arthur quietly, taking in a deliberate breath and his smile never leaving his face.

"The love?" asked Amanda, looking quizzically at Toby.

"The love he fears," whispered Arthur. "So he uses his own strength."

"His own strength?" asked Amanda, not sure whether she should look at Toby or not. Toby shuffled closer, intrigued and a little annoyed.

"His own strength … not letting the love through," said Arthur weakly with the steady smile still on his face.

"The love?" asked Toby, intrigued and now kneeling next to Amanda.

"The love is power, is knowledge," said Arthur, panting a little as if he was tiring but had words he needed to get out. "Listen to the love inside. Amanda can teach listening."

"Listen?" asked Toby, now more sure than ever that Arthur was raving. But something invisible pulled him into Arthur's words.

"Amanda knows the listening," said Arthur. "She listens often."

"Arthur's right, Toby," said Amanda. "I know what he means, totally."

"When she listens to the love, she's not frightened," said Arthur, panting a bit but no strain showed on his face. "When she does, the love speaks its power. Life flows."

"Yes, when I do, things do flow," said Amanda. "It's effortless but I keep forgetting."

"Not forgetting," said Arthur in his hoarse whisper. "Not forget but not believe you deserve the power."

"Oh," said Amanda, not sure what to say.

"Nothing to say, just listen," said Arthur. "Listen to each other. Much power there."

Amanda and Toby looked at each other uncertainly.

"I must go inside now," said Arthur, smiling uncertainly. "There is nothing to fear and I shall return." His lids slowly closed over his eyes and a deep and abiding silence filled their space.

As they stood up looking at Arthur, his closing eyes seemed to dim the light, a light they hadn't noticed before. There seemed to be nothing and everything to say and Arthur's peaceful face gave no clues. They stood there, daring to look at each other, with empty minds and stilled tongues. No one moved, not even the overweight guard who had been constantly fighting his awkward position - he stopped and his look of embarrassed annoyance was swept away by one of smiling benevolence, as if someone had just told him a beautiful and moving story. George Sanderson, too, stopped his twitching and his attempts to rouse his body to full consciousness. A warm and gentle breeze, a zephyr, touched their cheeks and Toby and Amanda looked at each other as if wondering if the other had brushed their cheeks. Neither had and it fell to their imagination to wonder at the zephyr inside a house with so many thick walls and massive doors. This zephyr, this softest of breezes, soon passed and they blinked as if waking from a sweet dream. Arthur seemed oblivious to it all, in peaceful repose.

The other two men started their fidgeting again, though tentatively as if waiting for permission to continue.

Confessions of a Magazine Writer

In July 1993, four days before his fortieth birthday, Sam Barton left his eighteen-year marriage. He left the woman he’d known for 25 years as his new life just didn’t fit into a relationship that allowed no room for growth. No room for change.

You see, a few years previously, he’d studied Rudolf Steiner and, more recently had come across meditation, The Secret, A Course in Miracles and the whole nine yards of the personal and spiritual / development movement. His world had suddenly exploded into a massive new, unseen world … an unseen world that was almost more real than the little tangible one he’d been standing on for thirty nine years.

Then he was introduced to the men’s movement and his growing world got bigger again.

Along with this exciting, confusing and endlessly fascinating world, he rediscovered his writing ability – an ability he’d had at school but which had take a back seat on his drive through qualifications, jobs, marriage, children and all the other trappings of getting ahead in this tangible world … no, it had not taken a back seat, it had been tossed out to languish in the dust of his dash to progress. Then the world became bigger and all that stuff that had been so important before, as a child, awoke, dusted itself off and confronted him with a huge smile of recognition.

Once the cork was off the bottle, there was no putting the genie back. Sam began to be woken at silly times like 5 am with words rattling round in his head. Words that would keep him awake till he wrote them down. Words that could keep him distracted and irritable for days. Words that were fully formed sentences, fully formed articles. The sooner he wrote them down the better. Only then was there peace.

His only choice was when he wrote them down – not what he wrote down. He’d write them as they came out of his head but, as he typed them up, he’d sometimes feel the need to change them. Then he’d read his typewritten words and always, always, always, need to go back and reinstate the originally presented words and phrases. These words were as persistent as he was.

And so this outpouring started and it had nowhere to go. Sam discovered he was not one of those writers who was content to write stuff and have it sit in the drawer for no one else to see. He just had to get it published somehow. He didn’t know how but started asking around. Then, mysteriously, three days after he started asking around, he found that the best inspirational magazine in New Zealand was published right there in his home town of Tauranga. With that discovery came the instant knowing that he would write for that magazine. He didn’t know how to do that, so asked again. A week later, at an expo, he was introduced to the editor of this magazine.

A normally shy person, he surprised himself when the words fell out of his mouth, telling this editor that all of the writers in her magazine were women and that it would expand her readership if she had a man writing for her. She was polite but not convinced. He took her contact details and said she would hear from him … and hear from him she did!

Every month, for the next year, he would either phone or email her with articles, article ideas and the benefits of having a male writer on board. Eventually, she succumbed to his relentlessness and accepted one article – an article that generated more letters to the editor than had all previous articles for the last five years. He was hired and wrote regularly for that magazine for many years. Then he became the editor. During that time, Sam sent his articles and ideas to magazines and became a regular writer for nine other magazines in New Zealand, Australia, South Africa and Czech Republic.

What Sam discovered was that the words were always there. If an editor wanted an article at short notice, he could rattle up 1,000 or 2,000 words within an hour … as long as it was on subjects he was passionate about – personal growth, spiritual growth, men’s issues and business. He was not an expert in any of those fields – a novice who dabbled, really – but when the words were needed, they always appeared in perfect formation. All he had to do was turn up at the page and let his pen loose. Usually, he had no idea of what was going to come out of the end of his pen and, as he wrote each article, he could never tell how it would end till it did. Mysteriously, the articles always ended at the right number of words – an editor would give him a word-count and the words would arrange themselves to fit that. It was intriguing but, somehow, it never surprised him.

One thing did surprise him, though: In his field of personal and spiritual development, there were no immutable laws, no fixed and immovable edicts to govern the field. Everything, absolutely everything, was opinion, based on what worked for one person or another. Timid, at first, at venturing his opinion, he discovered that the more outlandish, the more satirical, the more challenging were his articles, the more the readers liked them. He stopped being “nice” and became brave, venturing ideas and theories that went against the current thinking. People asked for more. People argued with him and told him he was wrong. People seemed to love it, whether they agreed with him or not. Perhaps, he surmised, people (like children) like or need something to hit against, need others to draw their lines in the sand for them. Perhaps that’s why readers need writers to write articles for them. Maybe. Maybe not.

And now those articles are scattered amongst several of the books he’s had published – Articles of Faith, Understanding Men, The Royal Bank of Stories and Conversations on Your Business.

[Sam Barton does not exist. Philip Bradbury does. This is my story.]

 Now, back to the story of Arthur Bayly and Mary Collins, continued from the previous blog ...

"I'll just get something to clean these guys up," said Amanda. "Can you just keep an eye on them … stop them doing gymnastics and stuff!" She dashed into the kitchen, filled a large bowl with warm water, grabbed a tea towel and two towels and returned to gently wash Arthur's bloody head. He showed no signs of waking but his pulse and breathing were steady, though weak. She then covered him with the two towels to help keep his body warmth up.

"You're a nurse and a cop!" said Toby with obvious admiration. "Anything I can do to help?"

"You could do the same with this other bloke here, if you like," said Amanda, pleased she had willing help. "Then I'll wash this stuff up when you get back. Best to have someone here all the time - you never know what's going to happen next!"

"Always one step ahead, aren't you," said Toby as he sauntered off to the kitchen. Amanda imagined that was a compliment and smiled for the first time that day. When Toby returned with a bowl of water and a rag, she took the bloody tea towel and water into the kitchen to clean up. As she returned, Toby was kneeling behind the solid hunk of a man, gingerly dabbing at the blood on his head and hand. She squatted in front of the man and discovered that his eyes were quivering and his body was twitching a little.

"This guy might be waking up," said Amanda, as the man groaned and moved his hand a little as Toby put it back down.

"Oh God!" she said, sitting back on her haunches. She looked at him closer and shook her head, disbelieving. She put her hand under his chin and gently lifted it a little, perhaps hoping the face would transform itself into one she hadn't seen before. It didn't. She lowered his chin slowly and squatted there on her haunches, indecisively. She looked across at Arthur, hoping there was something she could do for him … hoping to delay her decision. There was nothing she could do for Arthur, unfortunately. Yes, she'd have to do something with this solid, grizzled hunk of a man she knew - the Assistant Commissioner, Special Operations, of the London Metropolitan Police, George Sanderson. How could she arrest and detain someone many levels her senior? There was no question he had attacked Arthur, who had defended himself and been knocked unconscious … or had he? She hadn't witnessed anything and so her current story was nothing but assumption. Besides, she wasn't in uniform and couldn't arrest him, except under a citizen's arrest. Also, she was carrying a police gun and handcuffs, out of uniform, and she wasn't sure of the consequences of that.

"So, why are you here?" she demanded of the portly guard with his hands still hooked over the door handle. "Did this man get you to do this?"

"Uh, yeah," said the guard groggily and Amanda realised that, with his overweightness and the awkward position he was in, he might not be faring too well.

"Yeah what?" demanded Amanda, needing answers quickly. "Who is he to you?"

"He's the guv'nor, Ma'am," said the guard. "He paid us, like, to look after him, to look after this place while he got a few things."
"What things?"

"Dunno. Papers and stuff that this Lord fella' stole off 'a him," said the guard, squirming to make himself more comfortable, without success.

"And who knocked out that man? You?" asked Amanda, pointing to Arthur.

"Well, yeah, he attacked the guv'nor and I hear a crash an' I come in an' I thought the guv'nor was dead," said the guard candidly, perhaps eager to get it off his chest. "He's just knocked out … you know, alive, isn't he?"

"So you knocked him out?" asked Amanda, ignoring his question.

"Yeah, well, I panicked, like, coz I saw the guv'nor dead an' I thought this one here, he be brutal, like," said the guard, breathing heavily with sweat breaking out on his forehead.

"So you did him good, like, as you would say," said Amanda, finishing his sentence.

"Yeah, guess so. I jus' panicked and we knew we's in trouble coz we let those others get in. I knew we's in trouble already …" said the guard.
"We? You mean there's others here, working for this guv'nor?" asked Amanda, pointing at the prone, twitching body of the Assistant Commissioner.

"Yeah, jus' the two of us," said the guard. "The guv'nor said it'd be a quick an' easy job."

"Where's the other guard?" asked Amanda, looking around warily.

"Dunno. He stayed outside, I suppose," said the guard, wriggling and trying to adjust his arms.

"So this man pays you to protect him, does he?" asked Amanda.

"Ah, yeah, he said he needs extra help an' so he hires people for short-term jobs," said the guard. "Cash only. We do building security at nights so we got the uniform and he thinks that scares people … oh, hell, you won't tell my company will ya? We not allowed to do moonlighting." His pained face took on an alarmed look.

"I can't promise anything, fella'," said Amanda, knowing she'd have to immobilise the other guard before the area was safe. "Maybe I keep quiet about your moonlighting if you do what I say. Okay?"

"Yes ma'am," said the guard, his face lightening up a little.

"So, all you have to do is call out to your friend outside. You'll have to yell," said Amanda, standing up. "Get him in here to help us all out and I'll go get the others. Start yelling!"

The guard started yelling, "Rocky, Rocky, get in here! I need your help! Hurry up Rocky!"

Amanda touched Toby on the shoulder and nodded towards the kitchen, to which she ran. Toby followed.

"Find something to tie the next guy up with, will ya," said Amanda, rummaging through drawers and cupboards, not quite knowing what might work. She soon found muslin bags, usually used for keeping meat in. "These will do," said Amanda as an idea started to form in her mind. "Why don't you go and kneel over that guy … not Arthur, the other one and make sure he doesn't get away. I'll nab the other guard when he comes for you."

"So I'm the decoy?" asked Toby, smiling grimly as he ran his hand through his blonde hair. "You better not miss, young lady, or I'll have to beat you with whatever limbs I still have working!"

"It's a deal - I beat him or you beat me!" said Amanda, smiling and slapping Toby's good shoulder.