20 – Praying To Change Me, Not To Change God

Eek, our employer has run out of money and so the job's finished and so has the free house that goes with it. So, we could be jobless and homeless by 3rd September. This is definitely a time for TRUST!!

And so I pray for many things – job, house, money, security, certainty, trust and for God to be here with me. I don’t pray to change God – I pray as it changes me.

And here’s the next instalment of Mary’s story, continued from yesterday …

"The self same lesson, lassie," said James, patting her hand. "You can't force folks to accept your way o' things. If they're not ready for change, you've got to be the one to change. Fair or not, that's just how the world works."

"So you think I should be nice and sweet and agreeable all the time, just to suit them?" asked Mary grimly.

James opened his mouth to speak when Isobel put her hand gently on Mary's and asked, "How many buns have you sold since you've been up here this time?"

"How many buns?" asked Mary.

"Yes dear, how many buns have you sold?" asked Isobel, smiling. "How many moments of true peace and happiness? How many moments of what you might call a breakthrough, a success, have you had?"

"Uh, none!" said Mary, grinning sheepishly. "I don't suppose I've sold a single bun!"

"And how many buns would you like to sell on this trip?" asked Isobel.
"Well, even one sale would be an improvement!" said Mary, sighing. "But why do I have to do all the work, all the bending and compromise?"

"Because you can, lass," said James. "Because you can. You're blessed with a little willingness to make a difference; they're not. They're happy in their misery and may never change. That's how my customers were ... still are. That's how your customers - family and everyone else you meet - are. Some will change , some will be as you'd like them to be but most are happy in their misery."

"But it's still unfair!" said Mary sitting back running her fingers through her hair.

"You sound just like a young baker I once had a chat with!" said Isobel. "Would you rather be them - happy in their misery, unwilling and unable to communicate effectively, frightened."

"Frightened" asked Mary.

"Yes, frightened. I was," said James. "Anger comes from unmet expectations - the world owes me this and I'm not getting it - and then there's fear in not being able to control the world. Yes, anyone who is angry is frightened."

"Oh, I hadn't thought about it like that," said Mary, sitting forward again. She looked at her watch. "Gosh, it's late and I'm keeping you from your dinner, aren't I?"

"Aye and you're welcome to join us," said Isobel. "But I suspect ye'll be wantin' to go home and sell a few buns."

Outside her parent's house she stopped and listened. The only sound was the television. She wondered if they ever really talked with each other and realised, sadly, that it may never change and that it wasn't her job to try and change it. She immediately felt lighter and skipped up the steps and into the kitchen for a glass of cordial.

"Why're ye looking so happy with yeself, lass?" asked he mother, without turning as she mashed potatoes.

"Not sure really," said Mary. "I guess I'm just happy to be home."

"You wouldn't be so happy if you had to do the work to feed another mouth, would ye!" said her mother gruffly.

"Would you like some help there, ma?" asked Mary.

"Aye no, I've done it on my own for all these years and I suppose I'll be doin' it this way till I die," said her mother, spooning mashed potato into a bowl.

Mary went through and watched television with the men, in silence, watching the thoughts going through her mind. Actually, there weren't many at all where, before, her mind would have been a whirl of anxiety, trying to anticipate problems and solve them before they happened.

Dinner was held in silence, upon laps in front of television. Mary actually enjoyed the silence and the company - she needed nothing of anyone. They continued their silent dance while they each got themselves dessert and then cups of tea and Mary began to see the comedy of it all - three people in one house, doing practical things around each other and actually living in their own separate worlds. She had as much companionship living on her own!

Eventually, the television was turned off and her father, getting up from his chair, said, "Aye, Mary, this London may be a wondrous place but I ken you're needing to come back home, time to time, for a dose of sanity!"

Mary detected a wee smile and appreciated that she had, at last, been acknowledged. And, maybe, in his own way, he was seeing the insanity of his household but had not the skills to make it sane. Maybe.

Angus, who now felt he had permission to address his sister, said, "Aye Mary, it is grand to see ye lass. Will ye be stayin' a few days?"

"Yes, a few days," said Mary. "Do you want me to bring your lunch down to your work, tomorrow?"

"Och aye ... ah ... I suppose," said Angus, caught between gratitude and embarrassment of having his sister at work. "Aye, I suppose you could if you wanted to."

'Whoopee!' thought Mary. 'I've passed the first test - being allowed into the men's domain. I think I've sold two buns tonight ... well, one and a half anyway.' As the men left she stood up and bumped into her mother and then realised her mother had come over to hug her. 'This is a first,' thought Mary, uncertainly. But she wasn't going to miss the moment. She hugged her mother back, easing into it gently, softly. It felt so warm and good. Then she heard her mother sniffing over her shoulder. Her mother pulled back and retrieved a handkerchief from her sleeve.

"Aye it's a chill place, this. I have a wee sniffle," her mother said. "Aye lass, I ... ah ... you used to push us away all the time but yer ... ah ... nicer this time." Her mother fled and Mary dabbed at her own tears and smiled dreamily.

'Whew!' she thought. 'Maybe I've sold three buns tonight. A world record in the Collins household!'

She sat back down while the others shuffled around upstairs, going to bed, and wondered if everyone was so lonely, so separate, as those in her family ... as so many people she'd met. As she pondered while the upstairs became quiet, a deep peace overcame her and she had the strong impression, somehow, of everyone in the world, desperate to feel connected, desperate not to feel alone but not knowing how to ... in fact, most not believing that they could ever feel connected and at one with anyone else. A sadness came to her and she realised that's how she'd felt all her life - alone, separate and yet yearning for the opposite - to be connected with someone, something, anything ... but knowing that it was never possible. And, as that thought of separation became more personal, more about her, she realised that she could feel connected - did feel connected, even just a little, to her family when she'd stopped grasping for it. The years of isolation, feeling like she was different, didn't belong ... all of it washed past her as debris in a swollen river. She watched the dirty water and broken logs of her discontentment flood past and the raging river eventually slowed to become a gentle brook - clear, sparkling and alive. Yes, so alive and content with itself. She had a clear sense, somehow, of being enveloped in loving arms - warm and caring - and they stayed around her as she climbed the stairs to her bed and fell into a deep dreamless sleep.

The rest of the week passed rather amicably. More amicably than she'd ever known. Mary didn't learn anything - no hidden secrets, no unfulfilled dreams, no deep wisdom - but she did feel something ... a fullness in her heart.

Of course she did pop back into her old behaviour from time to time - whining, demanding, asking questions - and, eventually, she'd catch herself asking, "Will I sell any buns doing what I'm doing now?" That question would bring her back to surrendering to the moment, to giving up, giving in and feeling that now-familiar peace envelop her. Even when she stuffed up, they seemed happy that she'd apologise - something she'd not really done before.

Staying out of her mother's kitchen, that sacred space, she bought food and took it round to the Fordyces, several times. Amid their protests that she shouldn't, they enjoyed convivial chats and they reminded her, often, what a quick learner she was - even quicker than James had been! This pleased her immensely.

Her brother, Angus, promised to visit her sometime in "that London town". She knew he wouldn't but his attempt at connection was touching.

Her father had obviously spent some time ferreting around in the attic and gave her three photos of her childhood and two of him as a child. He'd explained the photos with obvious and badly concealed emotion. On the last evening her mother had asked Mary if she'd help with the dinner and, though much of what she did was the wrong way 'o doin' it, she knew it was an honour never bestowed on anyone else before.

She left for London with an empty head and a full heart, quite oblivious that the universe had hatched plans to test her new-found sense of deep peace.

16 - Pink Cars And Experts

What would England be if everyone had a pink car? A pink car-nation! The joke is less important than your reaction ...

1. If you groaned at it, that it means that you have an inferiority complex about your intellect - low self-esteem. Get some assertiveness training as you're probably quite depressing to be around.

2. If you giggled inwardly or a little, it means you are well balanced within yourself and are peaceful and/or uplifting to be around.

3. If you laughed out loud, you're probably quite an unbearable bore - get some social skills.

Actually, I just made all that up, just this minute. However, does it sound any less convincing, when you first read it, than any of the hundreds of personal assessment questionnaires around? It's so easy to become an expert today: put something in writing (anything!) and someone will believe you.

As a writer I get asked to do writing projects for people and organisations and I find that most of them go right against my sense of integrity. Companies wanting to advertise their products or services - without it looking like advertising - ask writers to find other writers' articles on topics to do with their industry. These rewriters, as they're called, are then asked to rewrite these "expert" articles in such a way that at least 20% (or some stated percentage) of the article does not resemble the original one. The article is then published in magazines websites and blogs, parading as some expert, impartial and amazed writer's reactions to their employer's "amazing" products/services.

There are 3 things here:
1. Advertising parading as something else,
2. Blatant plagiarism with no acknowledgement of the original and expert writer, and
3. An amateur (non-expert) parading as an expert, for a fee.

These are not isolated articles - there are hundreds of thousands of such articles done every day and there has arisen a whole new rewriting industry - thousands of writers doing it for a living, computer programs are created to calculate how much (as a percentage) alike the copy is to the original and huge amounts of money changes hands every day.

I'm not sure about you but I just cannot feel right about such dishonesty … or am I being picky? Let me know your thoughts.

And now to a brilliant and original piece of writing - Arthur Bayly's story, continued from yesterday's blog ... less words today as we start Mary's story tomorrow and then their indivudual stories mesh together at some later time. Can't tell you when as I don't know!

"A lottery where cronies of the government, with inside connections, favours and knowledge of available contracts, can take advantage of, like our Lord Atkinson," said Arthur, suddenly understanding much about the insurance claim that he didn't before.

"Well, yes, we need to be careful of who we're accusing of what, just yet," said Martin in solicitor mode, "but it seems there's intense competition for these contracts - hand out a million or so, with little checking how you spend it - quite a gift for someone with profit in mind!"

"And anyone giving out millions of British pounds to poorer people would gain a lot of friends and favours from those poorer people!" said Arthur, grimly.

"My God, Dad, you should have been a detective!"

"Just my cynical insurance mind in overdrive," said Arthur.

"So, we have the perfect scenario for tossing around government money - many governments' money - to great benefit to the wrong people," said Martin, smiling at his father with unaccustomed admiration. "And the governments themselves are into it too. For example, the European Union, the EU, aid programme provides huge amounts of funds to UE governments to provide aid and the checking at the EU is as shoddy as in here in England. Some of these governments - the Spanish and Italian ones are apparently the worst offenders - just don't get around to spending all the UE funds they receive and it's a great source of revenue for them - helps their balance of payments deficits considerably!"

"But that's OUR money, Martin! Don't they care about that?" asked Joan, astounded.

"Why should they?" asked Martin. "It's not their money and it's free to them!"

"Well, you look after other peoples' money, other peoples' interests ..."

"Yes, Mum, most people do but when you've got access to large amounts of power and money, those thoughts of others just seem to slip out the window, somehow. When you create a house with lots of holes and lots of cheese on the floor, the rats turn up!"

"Oh dear, so what should I do about this job offer back at AIL then?" asked Arthur.

"And what's happened that they suddenly want you back when they were so laid-back before?" asked Martin.

"Yes, it all sounds a bit desperate, a bit … well, dangerous, if you ask me!" said Joan.

"It also sounds like a lot of fun!" said Martin, rubbing his hands together with glee.

"Insurance has never been exciting before, for me," said Arthur, feeling a tingle of adventure in his veins. "And, maybe, I could help get some of your money back from these scoundrels."

"Yes Darling, maybe you could, but I don't like the sound of it at all," said Joan, "and we were just starting to get along and we've got mother's funeral and Martin needs help and you now want to go back to work?"

"Well, I could do much of it at home," said Arthur, seeing opportunities everywhere. "I don't need to be at the office or to work eight hours a day. I could fit the work in between our family needs."
"I don't know Arthur ..."

"Look Mum, Dad needs some excitement in his life," said Martin, standing forward for his father for the first time ever. "This could be his chance for that and a chance to really do some good."

"Yes Dear, I would rather relish a challenge like this - you never know where it could lead to!" said Arthur, wondering why he was talking about other unknown opportunities, while he took her hands and looked into her eyes earnestly.

"Oh, I don't know ..."

"Look Dear, let's you and I sit down later and work out what we need to do for each other, for the funeral, for Martin and then I can put a proposal to Mary about what I'm prepared to do for them and any other conditions we can set. They seem keen to have me at any cost."

"Yes, but why?" asked Joan, still concerned.

"And if it doesn't work out, I can simply stop doing the work and hand it back," said Arthur.

"I don't know about the work but I do know I've never seen you so fired up about anything before," said Joan, still looking concerned. "Maybe it is your chance to do something really special … I don't know ..."

"Look, you two," said Martin, "the world won't stop spinning if you do nothing for a day. Leave it till tomorrow and call AIL then. If they want an answer before then, just tell them they can't have one - you'll let them know tomorrow at, say, three o'clock. This is your decision, not theirs."

15 - The Real Problem With Our Problems

The real problem with our problems is that they're too small, too mundane and too boring.

Look at the people who've had the biggest problems - Nelson Mandela, Jesus Christ, Joan of Arc, Barak Obama, Mother Teresa, Gandhi - and we'll see that they've also got the biggest lives. The news of the day, ladies and gentlemen, is that no one has no problems. Problems are part of being human and they'll never not be there. Whether we deal with them, avoid them, give them to others or try to minimise them, we'll always be with them … and they with us. If we get rid of one, another will turn up … and another and another. They're like flies - kill one and the whole family comes to the funeral!

So, if we're stuck with them, no matter what we do about them, what to do? Make them bigger!

If we have a problem of not finding work, why not expand the problem to be one of helping hundreds of people to find work?

If you do not like being abused (in your relationship, at work or wherever) why not create the problem of helping thousands of others to deal with abuse?

Whatever we do, the problems won't go but our lives will grow. After all, how has what you've been doing to date, to get rid of problems, been working? So, in the interests of sanity, why not try doing something different … just an idea!

And here is the continuing story of Arthur Bayly's problems, continued from previous blogs ...

"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 ..."

"Good, then call me back on 0208 656 3900 - that's my direct dial number. Save you going through the reception. Much quicker," said Mary, quickly.

"Right, yes, I'll do that," said Arthur, surprised that direct numbers existed in his old firm.

"You'll ring me right back, yeah?" asked Mary, begging.

"Yes, yes, I will Mary," said Arthur, still trying to absorb the rising sense of urgency coming at him. As he put the phone down and pondered, the children rushed past him to the lounge.

"So what was that all about?" asked Joan, coming up to him. "You look a little shaky."

"Do I? Yes, well, it seems they want me back at work," he said, more to himself than to her, shaking his head.

"You look like you need a hug, too," she said, throwing her arms around him.

"That's the only thing that's normal or understandable, isn't it?" he said with a sheepish smile.

"What is?"

"Well, hugs and you and our family," he said into her shoulder.

"Nothing else makes any sense any more."

"Mmm."

"I don't know, life used to be regular, stable, predictable," Arthur said as tears filled his eyes. "I keep doing what I've always done and it suddenly isn't good enough any more … and then it is and they want to pay me treble for it! I sit on a park bench, minding my own business and become a hero. Your mother dies and we're supposed to be bereft but it's brought us closer together. And then there's Martin's situation … and there's all these Australians and New Zealanders popping up ..."

"Well, dear, you have to admit that every insane thing you've mentioned has brought us closer," she said, standing back a little and looking into his eyes. "Not just my mother's death but everything has reconnected us. Maybe that's what it's all about, do you think?"

"Actually, my love, I just don't know what to think!"

As they returned to the lounge, Arthur explained to Martin what the call had been about.

"So, Dad, what's so important about this job that they want you back onto it?" asked Martin.

"The Atkinson case?" said Arthur.

"Huh, it's not the Lord Atkinson case, is it?" asked Martin, laughing.
"Well, he is a lord, actually ..." said Arthur, looking quizzical and feeling a chill in his bones.

"Oh my God!" said Martin, the laugh quickly falling from his face. "Not the one with the hunting lodge in Ludlow, the apartment in Kensington and the resort in Jamaica? The one with the race horses?"

"Exactly the one," said Arthur, incredulously. "How did you know?"

"Oh, one of my partners has been working for one of Lord Atkinson's larger claimants, the Colonial Agents Bank, the CAB. You know, the development bank that used to be a crown agent - an agent for the crown, supplying everything from railways to cutlery for the ambassadors."

"Yes, yes, I know the bank," said Arthur quickly. "They're claiming money for some project in Nigeria ..."

"Absolutely, that's the one," said Martin, excitedly. "After the bank was privatised in 1998, it really got into funding in developing countries, using aid money from, mainly, the English, Japanese and Swedish governments."

"So what's the project in Nigeria?" asked Joan.

"I'm not sure but what I do know is that the CAB has been having a few slip-ups, lately," said Martin. "You see, it's over 150 years old and, for most of that time, was a government department, dispensing help to colonial governments around the world."

"What sort of slip-ups? Large ones?" asked Arthur.

"All sorts, really - big and small," said Martin, warming to his favourite subject, commercial intrigue. "Since the British colonies have dwindled over the last 100 years, they needed to diversify to keep all the jobs for the boys and girls there. So, they privatised the bank, sort-of, and became an agent for many governments, beside the British one … and the United Nations aid programme."

"Sounds like a good cause to me," said Joan.

"Yes, and that's the problem," said Martin. "When people are dealing with what seems like benevolent work, others are loathe to question or audit that work. For example, the British government's aid department, Department for International Development, or DfID, runs no aid programmes but just gives CAB money to dispense as per its requirements."

"But the DfID must audit or check that spending," suggested Arthur.

"Well, yes it does, but only superficially, not wanting to take away any jobs from people in the government 'club' and afraid of interrupting 'benevolent' acts of helping people in developing countries," said Martin. "So, the two-yearly audit is simply a matter of visiting friends at the CAB's London head office, enjoying drinkies and food and listening to two or three inspiring talks on the great works of CAB and watching a CAB video of their amazing success."

"But they must be doing a lot of good helping these poorer nations, surely?" asked Joan.

"Oh, absolutely," said Martin, "much of the money does go in the right direction but no one knows how much … not even CAB! No one in government - or from anywhere else, for that matter - traces each pound … or even a million pounds. They pay the money to CAB, see a result and assume they're linked!"

"So where does our Lord Atkinson come into this," asked Arthur.

"A good question and no one's quite sure, yet," said Martin. "But Simon Cruickshank, the partner I mentioned, knows that Atkinson is great friends with many in the current government and he has, over the years, provided large sums of money to both Labour and Conservative administrations."

"You're talking about bribery! Surely not!" said Joan, astounded.

"Not sure. However, what we're very sure about is that the privatisation and the change in direction has created some holes in the organisation," said Martin. "Instead of employing experts in international development, they've favoured existing staff and moving them sideways, some to their levels of incompetence, one might say. So, when they're able to admit that they can't do something, they do the quick-fix thing by bringing in a short-term consultant … who never remains short-term. Because they know little of the function they're hiring the consultant for, they don't know whether they're getting valuable consultants or charlatans - it's a bit of a lottery, really."

5 - Mystery Words

For my birthday, yesterday, Anna had bought me (among other goodies) a beautiful writing book. I opened it and started writing. This is what my pen said:

We are the ones we have been waiting for. We have heard this many, many times and the words landed and slid right off our minds. Why? Because we did not want to know the Truth of us, the Truth of who we are, the Truth we denied for another truth, a little truth, that has lessened us.

We are now too weary to go on; tired, dusty and thirsty. Our little truth, our little journey, has lost all its appeal and, though we wish it over, we continue dragging our feet in the direction of our defeat.

"Enough! Enough!" we cry as we continue to walk from the light, seeing only shadows before us. Why does it never occur to us to stop, to sit a while, to ease the pain of trudging the waterless wastes? We know we feel more alone. We know we are in more pain. We know we are feeling more lost. Each step takes us further from where we want to be and yet it never occurs to us to stop, turn around and go the other way. Why?

Maybe we think we're bad people, that we deserve all this misery, all this uncertainty, all these tears. Maybe somebody told us that we were born bad and that we'll stay bad forever … and that the destiny of bad people is to live with the chains of grief, trapped between depression and rage with scorpions at our feet and vultures at our eyes. Maybe somebody told us this was our destiny, slaves to the badness given us by our bad mothers in the womb, by our bad fathers at conception. Maybe these people, whoever they were - good or bad - told us that that this badness is at the core of us and will never change.

Perhaps you see that your hair grows and then falls out. Perhaps you see your fingers grow strong and then wrinkly. Perhaps you experience your mind learning more, changing opinions and letting things go. You see and experience every part of you changing, improving and adapting … every part of you but the badness with which you're born. That one thing you're stuck with is bad, bad, bad and can never be any other way while the rest of you changes easily. Perhaps you paint your lips, dye your hair, exercise your muscles or learn new things. You change so many parts of your body and your mind, by your deliberate efforts, and yet this one part, this bad part, is the only part you think you cannot change.

Perhaps other people told you this. Perhaps you told you this.

It doesn't matter where your belief in the unchangeability of your badness comes - you believe it and so you now berate yourself for it, you whip yourself for it and drip acid into the wounds, perhaps feeling this is the way to feed, to assuage, that starving badness of which you're made.

The news of the day, ladies and gentlemen, is that you're not bad - you're mad.

I'm not sure what all this means - perhaps you do. Anyway, onto the fifth episode of Arthur Bayly's story …

“Uh, yes, I think so,” said Arthur, again. He put his glasses on and the wider world came into view again. He looked around a little giddily and saw that the previously-prone man had been handcuffed, rolled over and eased into a sitting position, like him.

“You weazley little bastard!” said the handcuffed man, less than an arm’s length away. Arthur’s panic returned and he tried to leap up, failing miserably as he wobbled and fell like a newborn foal.

“That’s enough of that!” yelled the previously-kind voice, now in authoritative tone. “Hold him right there, Constable, till we get these people safely away.”

“Yes, Sergeant,” answered the constable who pushed rather vigorously down on the wretched man’s shoulders, pinning him back to the ground while the other two police stood menacingly by.

“Now, Sir, let’s see if you’re OK to stand,” said the sergeant. “Take it easy, Sir. You’re a hero but a very shaky one!” he said, attempting to inject humour in the situation.

Arthur managed a weak smile but little else.

“Are you OK to stand, Sir?” asked the sergeant.

“Uh, yes, I think so,” said Arthur, sounding like a stuck record. The sergeant’s comforting arms were around his shoulders, easing him up. He stood, still in the security of those uniformed arms and realised the mother and girl were still on the park bench, both rigid.

“Come over and sit down here,” said the sergeant, easing him back to his former seat. As he plumped down, a little giddiness returned and he nearly fell forward and off. “Oops, just sit back a little, Sir,” said the sergeant.

“Uh, yes, I think so,” said Arthur, yet again.

The sergeant moved over to the mother and girl, where the female constable was tending them. “Now, how are you two, yea?”

“Alright, I think,” said the mother, cuddling her daughter while wiping ice cream from her face.

“Right, just stay here for a minute, please, while we take this man away to be processed.” He said, indicating the cuff linked man who was being bodily lifted up and marched off, with a definite limp.

“You’ve got quite a hero here, haven’t you?” said the sergeant, looking over at Arthur. “Saved you from a trampling and then tackles a thief – one of them, anyway.” It took Arthur a moment to realise he was the subject of this praise.

He looked over at the young woman and her child. They both looked like dolls – stunned dolls – with blonde hair, pale skin and pale blue eyes. A young police woman was crouched in front of them, getting details and reassuring them they were safe now.

The woman looked over at Arthur and smiled a grateful smile. Embarrassment caught at his throat and he had no words but nodded and smiled back. He felt he should offer support or something but his body was in no mood for action. He looked away and wondered what a normal man would do.

“Now, if you’re feeling better, we’d like you to come to the station,” said the sergeant.

“Pardon?” said Arthur, not quite comprehending the request.

“Just to get a statement from you,” said the sergeant, “if you’re OK to come with us now ...”

“Look, I’m very sorry, Sir, but I’ve had rather a bad day,” pleaded Arthur. “Could I do this another day. It’s all been a bit much, really.”

“I understand, Sir, this incident has shaken you badly,” said the sergeant, “but we do need to know what happened …”

“This incident, I’m afraid, was nothing at all,” said Arthur, trying to explain. “It was this morning that was unsettling, quite unsettling.”

“Excuse me, Sir, perhaps you’d like me to look after this man while you take these ladies to the station and see to the prisoner,” came a female voice behind the sergeant.

“Oh, well, if you’re sure, I’d be much obliged, constable,” said the sergeant leading the woman and her little girl away. The constable sat down next to him.

“I hope you don’t think I’m intruding,” she said, “but you said you had had a bad morning. Do you want to tell me about it?”

“Ah, um, yes, I suppose I could, thank you,” said Arthur, wondering where to begin and why she might be interested.

“I’m Constable Cousins – Amanda Cousins,” she said. “Call me Amanda if you like.”

“Ah, yes, Amanda. Hmm, I’m Arthur Bayly – that little detail I do know!” said Arthur attempting a small joke.

“Well, you haven’t lost your sense of humour yet. That’s a good start,” said the constable, smiling at him. “And your morning was pretty bad, was it?”

“Yes it was, my dear … Amanda,” said Arthur. “I’ve been working for the firm for twenty six years – all my life – and, today, I’ve been made redundant.”

“Oh!” said Amanda.

“Yes, oh is about all I can think of at the moment,” said Arthur, smiling sheepishly.

“And you’ve got a good employment lawyer?” said Amanda.

“Oh dear, I hadn’t thought of that,” said Arthur. “Now I feel a little worse, if that’s possible!”

“Ok,” said Amanda, becoming more animated, “I’m not a lawyer or anything but I’d suggest you need some good employment law advice … soon!”

“Yes, gosh, I hadn’t thought of that,” said Arthur, feeling a small sense of progress, of despair evaporating a little.

“And, secondly, I may be able to help in another way,” said Amanda. “I was made redundant, three years ago, quite suddenly. Would you like to hear a little of my story – it might help.”

“Why, yes, Amanda, if you have the time,” said Arthur. “I’m sure you’re very busy.”

“Arthur, I am very busy but, you know what? This is one of my favourite jobs, helping people through what I’ve been through. It’s not really police work but I’d like to help in any way I can,” said Amanda.

“Looks like my lucky day!” said Arthur, forcing a smile as the heaviness in his stomach lifted a little, “after my unlucky day!”

“Right,” said Amanda, “I get off work at one o’clock, in ten minutes. How about I go back to the station, sign out and come back and we can go and have a coffee together?”

“Gosh, that’s the second invitation I’ve had from a nice young lady today,” said Arthur, feeling his humour returning a little. “That sounds like a lovely idea, thanks.”

“I’ll bring my paperwork back and tell the sarge I’m taking your statement. That’ll save you having to come in,” she said, getting up. “I’ll only be a mo’.”

And so Arthur sat and quietly waited. He could have felt uneasy being still there, considering what had just happened, but he just couldn’t be bothered feeling much at all. Besides, he told himself logically, it’s unlikely another scuffle would happen at the same spot in a matter of ten minutes. At that moment, the sun came out from behind a huge cloudbank, as if to confirm that all was well with the world and he smiled. He wondered what people might think he looked like – a suited, middle-aged man sitting on a park bench by himself, smiling at nothing in particular. It occurred to him that he’d never sat in his own town, on a park bench by himself but he comforted himself with the thought that lots of other people probably did it anyway. And those who did were probably jealous that he was able to find the time to sit and enjoy the sunshine – on any other working day, he’d be ensconced in his little glass cage, creating busyness and boredom. And, of course, that little thought led him to be wondering what in the world would he find un-boring. What would he really love to do that would stir his passions and raise his spirits. Sadly, he had trouble thinking of anything logical – all his mind could come up with was writing a book and climbing Ayers Rock. He hadn’t thought of ever doing those things before and he wondered where those thoughts came from. However, he wasn’t likely to be doing either in the next year or two and so he tried to think of other interesting things to do – things he had never done before. Nothing presented itself and he began to wonder if his wife was right in labelling him a man without passion and ambition. He also began to wonder why, for the first time ever, he was wondering what he could do that would stir his blood and give him excitement. He just hadn’t thought about such things before and he wondered if he was creeping or rushing into dementia.

Then he remembered a quote he’d read from Somerset Maugham: “They told me that when I got old I’d lose my mind. What they didn’t tell me was that I wouldn’t miss it much!” He sat with these random thoughts rushing round his head, accompanied by the overriding question of whether any of really mattered in the end, anyway. Somehow, the time slipped by without his noticing it.

4 - Birthday Connection With Holy Self

Today’s my birthday and perhaps I should be pondering what, to date, I’ve done in my life, what I haven’t and what to do with the rest of it … you know, all those deep and searching questions one asks when another year slips by. Strangely, I’m not thinking about myself at all.

I’m actually thinking of my son, Cain, who has his birthday in five days’ time. I’m in England and he’s in Australia and I miss him. I really miss him. I’m not bothered with what he’s done or hasn’t done or is going to do or is not going to do – I’m just thinking about who he is and that I miss his effervescent and peaceful charm, his intelligence and his humanity. All this (and more) I miss of him and I don’t know how to unmiss him – the yearning is still there, while I’m not physically able to be there with him. He won’t get to read this – he’s not too keen on computers – so this is not going to embarrass him. That, I would never do. All I can do, I suspect, is send my gratitude for him being in my life, over the emails and phone calls, and hope my attempts at connection assuage some of my deep desire to be with him. I love you Cain.

Every one of us is looking for connection and, as Jesus (my hero) says, it’s all a front, if you like, for the ONE BIG yearning to reconnect with God. We connect, he says, with each other in order to reach through to God. If we can see the God in each other, we can see both God and we can see who we really are. If I see beauty in you, I see my own beauty … and vice versa.

So why do we all try to find the worst in each other? We aren’t going to find God there – he’s in the other direction! God is only in the direction of peace, grace and gratitude … for each other. And so, as Jesus says, every encounter with another human is an encounter with my Holy Self … not quite sure how I got onto this subject and it’s funny where the mind goes when it’s let loose!

So, Philip, happy birthday and to Cain, my Holy self, happy birthday in five days’ time!

And so here is the fourth episode in the life of Arthur Bayly and if you can think of a good name for this book, please let me know. Happy reading!

"Look Sir, you seem shaken," she said, standing back and looking in his eyes. "Do you want to go over there and have a coffee?"

"Actually, I've just had one, thanks," he said, disappointed the hug was over, despite it feeling uneasy in a busy street.

"Well, I meant, do you want to talk about it?" she asked. He could feel her warm breath on his face and realised she was still holding his limp arms.

"That's very kind, Halee, very kind indeed," he said, feeling the tears welling up in his eyes and an odd sense of closeness with someone he had never met before, someone from the other side of the world, someone who actually seemed to care. "However, I really should go," he said, feeling conflicted between the warm feeling of a caring human and the awkwardness of hugging and talking to a young lady.

"OK Arthur, if you're sure, I won't intrude," she said, looking at him with concern. "But you know where I live, so to speak, so you just tell me if you want to bend my taringas."

"Your what?"

"My taringa, ears - if you want to talk. It's a great medicine," she said, letting his arms go. "And remember, this too shall pass." She turned and walked off, her bright red top and iridescent blue skirt contrasting sharply with the black of the herd she disappeared into. He stood there, trying to remember where he had been going. He turned about and headed for the underground station with a warm glow and a melancholy heart inside. Then, as he turned right into the all-too-familiar station, the customary dread returned, the tears stopped, his jaw tightened and his eyes became those of everyone else here - looking through and not at anything in particular. Down the steps, along the tiled corridor and down another wide flight of stairs and he was amazed - without showing it - at how few people were waiting on the platform; only about fifty or so. And so, in automaton mode he took his regular course back - four tube stops, get out, along the corridor, up more steps, through the turnstiles, above ground now, across the piazza of the crowded train station, through the turn stiles and into the train that took him home, only minutes after he found a seat. In fact, he saw many empty seats and realised it was probably the first time he had ever sat in the train at midday - just so different without the rush-hour crowds.

At the second stop, twenty minutes later at East Croydon, he alighted, walked up the wide concrete ramp, through the turnstiles and out into the air again. His first impulse was to turn left along Addiscombe Road, towards home, when he realised he needed some time to prepare himself before meeting his wife with the news. He turned right, instead, crossed the dual carriageway with tramlines embedded and pedestrian island between, turned left over George Street and headed for the park he knew was there as he had seen it many times in passing on his way to the library, of many a weekend.

He walked down the steps to the sunken garden. As he sat on the park bench he noticed there were three other people in the park - an older chap reading his newspaper with his dog beside him and a young woman eating an ice cream with her little girl. His bench was some distance from the others and he felt comfort in his aloneness, as well as a vague sense of shared ownership, with the other three, of this soothing green paradise. He looked around at the mown lawns, interspersed with gardens and trees, with ivy growing up the walls to the road, interrupted only by the steps down which he had come and, at the other end, a tiled tunnel that, presumably, went under the road to some other part of town.

He sat and smiled, though the tears threatened to well up and burst out again. The mask of commuter isolation began to melt away and he looked at the other people. Really looked. They all smiled back, one by one, and the warm glow and melancholy returned together.

As he sat back on the park bench he looked up and realised, with mild surprise, that England does, indeed, have blue skies, at times. Maybe he'd never looked up before … maybe people don't look to the skies … and so the myth of continually cloudy skies persists as no one actually looks up to check. And, as his mind soared up into the open blue skies, delighting in the freedom and simplicity, the beautiful nothingness, he realised it was actually a busy place up there. As he looked, totally present to the blue, he discovered there was never a moment when there wasn't a plane flying through it - it was full of them. He supposed he had heard them before, probably constantly, but never actually listened or looked. Quite obvious, really, considering he was sitting somewhere between Heathrow and Gatwick airports! He knew Heathrow was the busiest airport in the world - one aeroplane landing and another taking off every single minute of every day of every year, he remembered reading somewhere, and three hundred and fifty people on an average flight. He had spent his life among the seething masses of humans and had never considered where any of the might be going. As he tried to calculate how many might travel across the skies from Heathrow each year, he wondered where they all might be going. And then there was Gatwick, Stanstead and hundreds - maybe thousands - of other airports around the world and there could be millions in the air on any day, all going somewhere. So many people, so many places to go and, with a jolt, he saw his own life as a complete nothingness, a grey unmoving speck amid the colourful movement all about him. He'd done nothing but go to work every day, tend his small garden, read books of others' adventures and watch others' dramas on television. Where were his adventures, his dramas … his life?

He couldn't stop the tears as they began to ease out and he knew he couldn't hide them. And nor did he care. He simply sat, allowing the disappointment and bitterness leak from his soul, the sobs of pain to shake his body. Just a useless little man in a useless little job in a stupid useless world. He was powerless to live a bigger life, he was powerless to make a visible and lasting contribution and he was powerless to stop his body reacting to it all. For once, he didn't care what anyone else thought - he was a crying man and they could look the other way.

"Chloe! Chloe! Come back!" yelled the mother from across the park, jolting him back. He looked over to see the little girl - in her little blue boiler suit and with blond curls bobbing - trotting over to him with her half-eaten ice cream extended in front of her.

"Are you sad?" she asked, standing in front of him, her large blue eyes full of concern.

"Yes I am," he said, trying to smile as he leaned forward.

"Would you like my ice cweam, make you feel better."

"Th … thank you so much, dear," he said, as the tears flowed again.

"Here," she said with her dribbling ice cream nearly in his face.
"Oh, no, that's very kind but you have it all," he said, gingerly sitting back a little. "I'll feel fine by and by."

"But you're sad, Mister."

"Yes I am, Sweetie, but you finish it. It looks yummy."

"Chloe, dear, don't bother the man," said the mother. Arthur was unaware that she had walked over to them and had her hand on her daughter's shoulder. "I'm really sorry, Sir."

"That's no trouble, Madam, she's a very kind little girl," he said.

Suddenly he heard the sound of footsteps in the tunnel to his left - many footsteps, loud footsteps - coming his way. As he started to register and analyse these sounds, a thin, dark, wild-haired man rushed out of the tunnel towards them, looking back frequently, with fear in his eyes. Arthur had no idea how he did it but, in the moment, the instinctive and protective father within him reached out and scooped the two females off the path and, a little untidily, onto the bench beside him, just as the runner, looking back yet again, dashed towards them, running unsteadily.

No sooner had he reacted to this, than he saw a second runner, dark skinned, short curly hair, tattooed and solid, come racing behind the first man. The front-runner faltered, unsure what to do as the large brick wall loomed before him, quite unaware he was about to run into Arthur and his two charges. He looked back, momentarily, saw the three on the park bench and went to swerve away, had Arthur's instincts not cut in again. Someone - it certainly wasn't his own conscious thoughts - shot his foot out, tripped the man, who went sprawling along the tar-seal path beside them. The large runner behind took immediate advantage and tossed himself headlong through the air, crashing on top of the scrawny one.

"Oomph," came from both of them and, as the smaller one lay still, perhaps unconscious, the larger one on top rose to his knees and started rifling through the other's pockets with reckless disregard for the apparently lifeless form he was frisking. He quickly found what he was looking for after tearing the man's denim jacket open, popping a brass button off and yanking out two small plastic bags with what looked like, to Arthur, washings powder, inside. The black man leapt up and went to make off with his prize when he stopped. He turned to Arthur, panting and with a huge smile. Arthur's fearless instincts vanished and he was back in very conscious fear. He drew the stunned mother and girl closer for protection.

"Cher bro', you're the man!" said the large tattooed man in an accent Arthur hadn't heard before. The man extended his hand and instinct shot Arthur's hand out, to be engulfed in a huge brown paw that shook his vigorously. "That was choice, bro'. Kia ora Matua!"

The man turned and - whether it was some trick of the light or a malfunction in Arthur's brain - just disappeared … just, well, wasn't there. Still staring into the space where the brown man had been, he realised more, many more, footsteps were racing up the tunnel towards them. As the panic gripped him again, he leapt up, stumbled and fell over the still-prone man who was beginning to moan and move. Arthur looked back from ground level, fearing the worst and saw several police rushing towards him. 'So now I'm embroiled in something terribly criminal,' his mind said, reverting, as always, to the worst possible thought for the moment.

Uncertain about what to do in this possibly comic, definitely embarrassing predicament, he rolled off the man and lay there, as before, staring at the sky with both body and mind in neutral.

"Grab that man!" yelled one of the police and Arthur winced in anticipation of being grabbed. But nothing happened and then he saw two policemen pounce on the now-reviving body beside him.

"Umph!" the man said again as two policemen pinned him down. Arthur heard a definite 'crack' and wondered which bone had broken. Not one of his he realised, thankfully.

Still unable to move or think, a face suddenly loomed into his, a blue peaked hat slightly askew.

"Are you OK, Sir?" asked a still-panting but kind voice.

"Uh, yes, I think so," said Arthur, suddenly wondering where his glasses were. Hands grasped his and he was gently hauled up to a sitting position.

"Are these yours, Sir?" asked the same kind voice as his glasses came into view.

3 - The Insanity of Writing

In the USA, I'm told, 500 books are published each month. Now, you know and I know that statistics are just a group of numbers looking for a fight, which means that this 500 figure could be way out. However, let's just suppose that it is right and so, my maths tell me (yes, I used to be an accountant), there are around 6,000 books published a year in the USA. Then add in every other country - Venezuela, New Zealand, England, Poland, Canada, France, Brazil, Nigeria and all the rest - and you have a really big number of books published each year … something approaching a zagillion - that's a word I made up for a really big number.

Then think of how long books have been published so far … the earliest dated printed book known is the Diamond Sutra, printed in China in 868 CE. In 1041, movable clay type was first invented in China. Johannes Gutenberg, a goldsmith and businessman from the mining town of Mainz in southern Germany, borrowed money to invent the printing press with replaceable/moveable wooden or metal letters in 1436 (completed by 1440).

So, given the length of time printing has been going on and how many books a year are printed, the number of books out there must be nearly a fraptillion - that's a word I made up for a really, really big number.

That then begs the obvious question - why would anyone want to add to that massive pile of ever-increasing books? After all, mustn't everything have already been said with all the kruzatillion words in all those fraptillion books? What else can one say that hasn't already been said? And, the logic tells us (me, anyway!) that if you want to stand out and make a difference in some endeavour, why choose yet another little book in this unimaginably HUGE paper mountain? Surely you're better doing something that few others have done - starting a snail reform school, creating waterproof matches for underwater fires, creating an economy based on chocolate and/or coffee rather than money … stuff like that - to stand out and be heard. Writing another wee book has got to be the most insane waste of effort imaginable to man … and woman. Not sure which man and/or woman so take your pick.

Anyway, given the odds of not being found in this boundaryless paper jungle and the massive likelihood that what you've got to say has already been said, why would anyone choose to be a writer? The answer's obvious. Only an insane person - a certifiably insane person - would choose to write a book. And a totally, manically insane person would choose to write another book and another book. So, what do you call someone who wants to make a career of writing books, one after another, just adding more stuff to an already huge pile of stuff.

There is no word to describe how inordinately insane a person has to be to want to earn a living as a writer - even a wordsmith like me cannot find such a word. The word does not exist … perhaps I need to write a book about that missing word … aahhh! There I go again, wanting to write more and more stuff and, yes, I plead unimaginable insanity because I just want to write and write and write, just like the heptacrullions of other people who also want to write, which just proves that logic has no place in this world of ours - we all do what we want to do just because we want to do it … perhaps I could write another book about the death (or absence) of logic … oops, there I go again!

Anyway, along with every other writer, I plead insanity, illogical insanity, and here followeth the third lot of 2,000 words, telling of Arthur Bayly's adventures - let me know what you think thus far …

“Safer? Aah, yes safer, much safer,” said Mary, looking hopeful and a little relieved.

“How would my home be safer than this building?” asked Arthur as a logical thought popped in. “We have no alarms and things like we do here.”

“No you don’t, Arthur,” said Sam, leaning forward, over his desk. “But the security risk would be gone when you’re … aah, not here,” said Sam, starting to lose his air of mastery.

“So I work from home and everyone’s safe?” asked Arthur while finding it difficult to make things add up.

“Exactly!” said Sam, sitting back, smiling. Arthur felt none of Sam’s evident satisfaction.

“Look, Arthur, we’re not able to go into details at the moment and it’s a big decision,” said Mary, letting out a big breath. “Would you like to go home, discuss it with your wife and come back to us on it?”

“And if we feel I can’t do that?” asked Arthur, plucking up courage.

“Ooh, aah, we hope you don’t come to that conclusion,” said Sam, smiling awkwardly.

“Oh,” said Arthur, feeling the word redundancy hovering somewhere close by. “And how long would this be for – days, weeks, what?”

“Look Arthur, we wish we could tell you more but we just can’t, at this time,” said Mary, looking at Sam as if for support.

“Right, yes, aah, I should go and talk about this to my wife, then?” suggested Arthur as his mind went in and out of focus. He knew he should do something here like stand up, shake hands and walk out but his body wasn’t well connected to his thinking and wouldn’t budge.

“Yes, that’s a grand idea, Arthur,” said Sam, looking relieved. “Go and talk about it with your wife.”

“Right, yes, I can do that,” said Arthur, feeling as if he’d failed somehow.

“Great!” said Sam, standing and extending his hand. “Nice to chat, what!”

Arthur’s body finally responded and got him shakily to his feet. His hand disappeared into Sam’s corpulent fist and was thoroughly shaken and stirred – like his brain, really. “Right, Sir, of course,” said Arthur, following Mary brusquely out of the office and back down to his own desk. He expected Mary to go somewhere else but she plumped herself down on his slightly tatty vinyl swivel chair, while he seated himself behind his desk, feeling less secure by the minute. He looked around and wondered if the Russian spy was not in his imagination but real after all.

“Look, Arthur, I know there’s a lot to absorb,” said Mary in an earnest attempt to be friendly. “Why don’t we just find all the parts of this Atkinson file you’re working on and you take the rest of the day off. Go home. There’s no need to tackle anything else after we’ve seen to the Atkinson file.”

Arthur showed her where all the Atkinson papers and computer files were. Mary said goodbye, shook his hand awkwardly and disappeared up the corridor.

And so Arthur sat. He didn’t quite know what to do next and, if he did, he imagined that his shaky legs would not have been up to the job. He sat. Even his brain was silent, for a change. ‘Right, I said I’d just go,’ said his brain, weakly, after an interminable silence. ‘Perhaps I’d better just do it. Just go.’ No bodily response. Several people looked as they passed. Oddly, Arthur didn’t care what they thought, for the first time in his life. However, he did have to pick himself up, tidy his office, remember all his things and take them and himself from the building in a proper and stately way. Not too much to ask, one would have thought. So he sat for another minute and planned all he was going to do – turn off computer, put files away, put pens and calculator away, stand up, put coat on, ensure he had everything with him and then just go, which he did, as quietly as he’d entered.

Then, he was outside his office, on the street, at eleven thirty in the morning and he had never been here at that time before. He turned towards the underground station and started for home, as he had on at least eight thousand other occasions. He was about to enter the grimy station but looked down the concrete steps and found he couldn’t move.

‘What am I doing?’ his brain asked his mind. ‘I have the rest of the day off and nothing to do.’ He was reminded that other people frequented coffee bars and decided, on the spot, to do that … if, indeed, one can frequent a café just once. As he sat at the tiny table, squished against other chairs, with a coffee and pastry before him, he dropped his head in his hands and felt like crying. It took all the force of his will to stop the tears. He now wished he had been made redundant as there would, at least, have been some certainty, some safety.

Raising his head with a forced smile, he surveyed the passing parade of humanity. The KGB spy wasn’t to be seen but the uncertainty was on his tail. He’d never actually looked at people before and had just assumed that, unlike him, they were all happy and coping with their lives. However, from behind his watery eyes, he fancied he saw the same fear, uncertainty and lostness he felt. Despite the tears, a wry smile persisted. ‘Have I got it so wrong all this time? Am I not the only one who feels lost and alone? Do others feel like me?’

The pastry was adequate to boring but the coffee was actually delicious – the first he had ever had. With a smile, he remembered that he’d made, and not drunk, his first coffee this morning and it was probably still sitting somewhere in his office, a testament to unfinished business … or, he thought giddily, a testament to starting new business, maybe. When the food and drink were finished, he felt too embarrassed to just sit and do nothing, as some people seemed to be doing, and so he did what he did well – he went home.