Banks and Government Making Dishonesty Right

When people do something wrong – commit a crime, abuse a confidence, default on an agreement – they know they’re doing wrong. There is a higher intelligence in us all, an intelligence or knowing about basic rights and wrongs.

We know murder is wrong yet people commit it. We know fraud is wrong but people do it. We know these things yet people do them – against their higher knowing – all the time. And I wonder how …

Perhaps there’s a switch at the back of our brains that immobilises that higher knowing. Perhaps we make up some perfectly logical but insane story that it’s okay to scar the world in some way. I’m not sure how it works but there has to be some twisted way in which our minds make the grossly wrong to be perfectly right.

It’s like the Australian chap from The Secret who had defrauded people of hundreds of thousands of dollars and he has neither sympathy for those defrauded nor contrition for his acts. Somehow, in his mind, he has made it okay to take those peoples’ money under false pretences.

Two more examples of this, closer to my world, occurred this week.

For a foreign student to study at private university in England, they must have a student visa from the Immigration Department (ID).  These visas carry certain conditions – having at least £600 in their bank account every day they’re here, passing exams, class attendance and not working more than 20 hours a week. So, the ID and the student agree on the conditions, in writing, and both parties sign on the dotted line. Then, the ID realised it had erred and has now decided the students are not allowed to work. So, part-way through the contract – even though the students are diligently fulfilling their part of the agreement – the ID changes the rules, making it impossible for thousands of students to continue studying and they must return to their homelands.

One student had the £600 in her bank account every single day but one – the bank had taken the money from her account by mistake and had returned it the next day. Despite having an apology letter from the bank, admitting their mistake, the ID sent the student back to India, part-way through her studies.

We all know that reneging on an agreement, as the ID is doing with thousands of students, is wrong. So, is there something in the minds of the ID employees that makes this dishonesty okay for them? I don’t know how they do this, how they can live with their deceit, but they do.

Like the Australian, they seem to be having a conversation with themselves that sounds like, “Oh dear, I’ve stuffed up. That’s okay, I’ll make the vulnerable pay and all will be well.”

Then, mentioning banks, we recently received an overdraft fee from our bank, despite the fact that we had agreed to an overdraft facility with no fees. They tried to justify it by saying that we had been notified of the new charge (which we weren’t) but I pointed out (I had to do this several times) that we had a signed contract and if they wanted to change it, they needed our agreement, in writing. Eventually, the illegality of their action dawned on them and they became embarrassed and apologetic, to the extent of offering to reimburse me for the inconvenience of my trip to the bank. I suggested a bottle of wine and I look forward to a good New Zealand red in the mail soon.

The individual at the bank got it that her bank had tried to defraud us but those higher up the organisation haven’t got it – somewhere in their minds they’ve flicked a switch that makes it okay to go back on signed contracts. Likewise, the minds of the many thousands of meek and compliant customers of Lloyds bank have been similarly switched to illegal is okay mode. This compliance helps to conform to the Lloyd’s executives the rightness of their actions, I suppose.

I don’t know where these illegal is okay switches are so, if you find one, please tell me about it. I’m … aargh! As I’m writing this the courier arrived with a gift-wrapped box of wine and a card that says … wait for it … Sorry. Yes, the Lloyds bank has apologised for its error. I’m flabbergasted and impressed. I am now lost for words, which is a rare thing!

P.S. The two bottles of wines are French, not New Zealand, but that’s OK!

And now we'll return to the story of Arthur Bayly and Mary Collins in The Olympic Challenge, continued from the previous blog ...

“Ah, well, we’s got experience of getting’ stuff, you know,” said Hemi, looking sheepish. “Yeah, did a bit of time for it, of course, but got away with a lot of it. Anyway, they put us on a plane with maps and stuff of where it probably was and who might’a had it and we got here. Cor, big bloody plane, huh! Trouble was, me mate, Eru … well, silly bugger thought he’d make a bit of money on the side selling his weed – Māori j’wanna we call it! Yeah, marijuana. Well, I shoulda’ known he’d do something stupid but I’s just so excited about a trip to Ngati Wikitoria, Queen Victoria’s tribe, and to use my skills to honour my people. Anyway, he got caught. I managed to nick his stash off him before he got arrested and mighta’ saved him a few years in clink. So I’s on my own ‘cept for this lanky blonde fella’ I got talking to in the plane – yeah, the one out there now – and he seemed to know lot’a stuff and said the taonga was in this lord’s house so we … well he took me there and I got in and found nuttin’. Then he said there’s this insurance expert, aah, Mr Bayly, who knew where it was and then I’s told the boss of this insurance company, this, aah, Mr Lord … bloody lords everywhere an’ I got confused. Anyway, this blondy – said his name was Michael Summers but I heard some call him Brian so I’s not so sure – said he was after stuff, some plans stolen from someone important and we could help each other get our stuff. Actually, he said this at the start, on the big plane – sorry, getting’ the story arse about face here. So, yeah, we went after this Mr Lord, not the lord, Mr Lord …”

“Sam Lord?” asked Sam.

“Yeah, that’s him, Sam Lord,” said Hemi. “Don’t know what he looks like but he’s supposed to be big in the crime world, according to this Michael or Brian or whoever.”

“He looks like me,” said Sam, smiling.

“Looks like you?” asked Hemi, frowning.

“Because he is me,” said Sam. “I am Sam Lord, crime world boss, no less.” Sam leant forward to shake Hemi’s hand and realised it was tied behind his back. Sam sat back, looking embarrassed.

“You’re a crime boss?” asked Mary, swivelling round to face Sam.

“Well that’s what this Michael or Brian cove says,” said Sam. “However, that’s new information to me, I can tell you!” A relieved chuckle circulated the room.

“Yeah, well, I started having my doubts about this Michael fella but I had no other leads,” said Hemi. “You never know who you can trust, do you?”

“Yeah, not even burglars, Hemi,” said John, punching him playfully on the shoulder.

“Yeah, suppose so,” said Hemi, smiling broadly for the first time – bright, white teeth in a brown face, lighting up the room. “Anyway, you wanna’ know the story or not?”

“Yes, yes, Hemi, keep going, please,” said Belinda, sitting forward on her seat, hands clasped.

“Yeah, well, where to start,” said Hemi, looking up as if for inspiration. “Aah, I discovered – well, I think it’s right – this Michael fella’ is working for, or maybe with, a George Sanderson …”

“George Sanderson?” asked Sam, looking shocked. “The Assistant Commissioner, Special Operations, of the London Metropolitan Police? That George Sanderson?”

“Yeah, could be,” said Hemi. “He’s got something to do with security and police and stuff. Seems to have a lot of strings to pull.”

“You’re dashed right he does!” said Sam. “And he’s the sod who they were taking orders from where I was held!”

“And other things I found out,” said Hemi, warming to his tale. “I went through his stuff once or twice and it could be, not really sure, but this George Sanderson could be paid – paid bloody heaps if the stuff I read was correct – aah, paid by one of the power companies here or the petrol companies. Maybe they’re all the same. Y’know, owning one another …”

“Aha, it’s coming together now,” said Sam with a deep sigh. “God, why didn’t I see it all before? See, they captured me with the plans in my briefcase but, because the plans cannot be seen in artificial light, they thought they were useless pieces of paper. They promised to release me if I gave them the “proper” plans, which is why I got you, Mary, to bring another set of bogus plans, like the ones John and Belinda were carting around.”

“Ours were bogus?” asked John, looking astonished.

“Sorry, John, that was for your protection and I’ll explain it later,” said Sam looking embarrassed. “We need to focus on our immediate situation, I’d suggest.”

“Oh shit … sorry, yes!” said John, slapping his palm to his forehead. “So if you’re right, Hemi, the corporations pay the police to do their dirty work. And if it goes wrong, the government servants’ heads roll.”

“Well, heads are already rolling,” said Angus. “There was a something in yesterday’s paper, at home – someone up there tipped them off about the police holding John’s car without authority. There was even a hint the police may have actually stolen it – bit brash for the paper, really.”

“Oh hell, I did that!” said Mary, feeling flushed and faint.

“Hey, hey, just stop a mo’, guys,” said John. “We’re going to have the police knocking on our door so what do we do with Hemi? I gotta’ say I have a good feeling about him.”

“Look, I just want to get our stolen taonga back and get out of this bloody place,” said Hemi. “Enough rain here to sink a waka!”

“I think Hemi knows enough to help us and we might be able to help him,” said John, excitedly. “I vote we stick together with Hemi.”

“I do too, John,” said Sam. “What do you say, Hemi, old chap?”

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.

24 - A Puzzled Master Of My Universe

My crazy South African friend, John Doolan, would say that I'm being melancholy (shaped like a melon and looking like a collie) and he may well be right. However, I don't feel melancholy - just puzzled at how God/the universe works.

You see, we have studied The Secret and A Course in Miracles and they both tell us that whatever is in our lives is there because we called it up … sang it up, as the Aborigines would say. When I found all that out I was ecstatic, realising I was Master of My Universe (MOMU) and I could create any kind of life I wanted. What I don't understand is how I called up our current situation …

Since realising I'm MOMU, I do not, just do not, ever, remember waking up one morning, saying, "Woopee! I'm MOMU and what I now want is a dose of homelessness, unemployment, broken car and no income … yep, that's JUST what I want, thanks God. Give it to me now … all at once!"

I've got it and I really don't remember asking for it in any way that I'm conscious of. So my question to God, the universe or any other intelligent life-force, how did I attract this and how can I attract the opposite? The line is open and answers are readily welcomed … right now would be good, thanks.

Now we return to the story of Arthur Bayly and Mary Collins returns, after yesterday's blog ...

Martin and the children had popped in after school. It was most unusual but lovely to see them. And Martin seemed to be needing more contact with them at the moment.

The telephone cut across their conversation with its electronic insistence and the three adults looked at each other in mute surprise, as if insulted that the outside world should interrupt them … surprised, even, to be reminded that another world existed outside their several dramas. Children react quicker, in the moment, having less history to drag along with them and so Timothy found himself bounding, like a gazelle, out the door and into the dining room, to answer the phone.

"Hello, Timothy here," he said as he had been taught. He was soon back in the lounge, sipping on his drink.

"Timothy, who was that on the phone?" asked Martin, the first to arouse himself.

"Oh, it was a wrong number," said Timothy, importantly, "they wanted Arthur Bayly and so I said he didn't live here."

"Ah, Timothy," said Arthur, "I'm Arthur Bayly."

"But you're Grandad," said Timothy, confused.

"Timothy!" said Martin, in irritation, "you don't answer other peoples' phones. Haven't I told you that before! It's not your property so leave well alone."

Timothy began to sob and Joan picked him up and held him on her knee. "Would you like another piece of cake, dear? And Kate?" Timothy hopped down and he and his sister leaped upon the sponge cake with enthusiasm.
"Hey, you two!" said Martin, his voice steadily rising, "put that down, now, you know better than to scoff it down like yobbos!"

The children stopped, stunned, with cake and cream on their faces and hands, looking guilty and confused.

"Put it down, now!" yelled Martin, going quite red. "Now go and wash yourselves up. You know better than that, don't you!"

"Come on, dears," said Joan cheerfully, "let's get your faces sparkling clean, shall we?" The children followed meekly, furtively looking back at their father.

As they walked out the phone sounded again and Timothy leaped forward, unable to resist his instinctive fight or flight reaction to the phone.

"Timothy! Stop!" yelled Martin, leaping up. "I told you to leave the phone!"

"It's alright Martin," said Arthur, getting up and striding across the room and out to the phone. He patted Timothy on the head as he passed. "You'll make someone a grand secretary one day, won't you?" he said, smiling down at the boy.

Timothy went red and smiled, embarrassment mixed with gratitude all over his face, as Arthur picked up the phone.

"Good morning, Arthur speaking."

"Ah, Arthur, I thought I might have a wrong number," came the unmistakable voice of Mary Collins. AIL Insurance seemed such a long way off, now, almost off the new map his life was drawing.

"No, it was my grandson, Timothy ..."

"Yes, well, good to talk to you, Arthur," said Mary. "I heard you've had a bereavement. Are you OK?"

"Oh, yes, well, we've had a few things happen and ..."

"Yes, yes, OK, I'm sure it's been a particularly trying time, then," said Mary, bulldozing through the conversation as usual. "Now, Arthur, there has been … ah, a new development with that Atkinson case you were working on and we'd like, ah, we wondered if you'd like to give us a little more help with clearing up the loose ends. You've got such a lot of experience in that area."

"Oh, well, I thought I was off the case," said Arthur, tentatively, unsure of his position now.

"Yes, well, we just thought you might like to come in for a short while," said Mary with unaccustomed reserve, "just tidy up some things."

"But you said there were others who would be able to take over the Atkinson case ..."

"Well, yes, there could be," said Mary, "but with the reorganisation … and you do, of course, have such a lot of experience in this area."

"There's been a reorganisation since I left yesterday?" asked Arthur, trying to imagine what trauma had happened in one afternoon to leave them with no one to complete the Atkinson case. "There wasn't any great hurry for that case, was there?"

"No, there isn't … wasn't," said Mary. "But some new developments have occurred and, with your specialist knowledge, we thought it might be expedited with your valuable input." Arthur had never before heard so many compliments from Mary.

"So, has it become urgent, now?" asked Arthur, trying to understand what had happened in half a day.

"Look Arthur, we can explain it all when you get in here," said Mary, her voice rising a semitone. "If it's easier, we're happy for you to work from home."

"Well, I'm not sure, Mary, we've had a few upsets over the last little while and I'll need time to think about it - to talk about it with Joan." said Arthur.

"Look, Arthur, we can make a special reimbursement, a special rate for this assignment, we can put you on contract … whatever is best for you," said Mary, sweetening the incentive.

"Yes, yes, I appreciate that, thank you," said Arthur, trying to absorb and understand the new developments. "But things are quite … ah, quite tender here and I do need to talk to my wife about this. When would you like me to start?"

"Well, this afternoon would be great," said Mary, anticipating some progress. "We thought that £60 an hour would be a fair recompense."

"Gosh, that soon!" said Arthur, remembering that she'd said something about 'no problem at all' a minute ago and that £60 an hour was treble the wage he had previously been on. "Yes, well, I'll talk to my wife and ring you back."

"Well, please do, Arthur, yes, please do," said Mary, speaking as if she was unable to breathe. "Now do you have a pen and paper there, Arthur?"

"Ah, yes ..."