10 - I Cannot Be Upset By A Fact

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Three days?" asked Joan.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Oh sorry," said Amanda, blushing.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

9 - Which Version Of Reality Is Yours?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Now, what is Arthur Bayly's current reality?

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

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

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

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

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

"Well, yes ..."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Yes, you're right."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

8 - The Hurricane We Are

My pen seems to want to continue from day 5 ...

If we're looking for love, we're looking in the wrong direction. If we're looking for peace, we're looking the wrong direction. If we're looking for happiness, we're looking in the wrong direction.

There is nothing outside ourselves. All of these things - love, peace, happiness - are within. They are not what we have inside; they are what we are inside. There is nowhere to look.

The body is a storm, a hurricane. It thrashes about, spinning endlessly, causing harm and mayhem wherever it goes. There is nothing for which we can thank it for; it is a machine of war and is designed but to kill … us.

When we desire attributes for the body - houses, careers, relationships, muscles, locations, fame, fortune - we are on a warpath. Yes, we may get our car and be happy … for an instant. We may have that new relationship and be happy … for an instant. We may move to that new town and be happy … for an instant. But we know that if we make our body-desires our gods, these instants of happiness are fleeting and we're in a constant fight for another, then another and yet another. Love, peace and happiness are never beside a soldier of war, a frenzied, thirsting fighter who can only lay his weapons down for fleeting instants.

There is another way, if we want that which never rusts, rots or withers. This other way is that of the peace-maker who goes within and searches not but knows. All that is eternal is within and never leaves us. We need but remember our source.

In the centre of every hurricane is stillness and that stillness is what we are. That peace is what we are. That abiding happiness, unaffected by the body's (the world's) woes, is what we are, in the centre of the hurricane.

Outside the hurricane, the rest of the world (or the universe) is quite unaffected by the thrashing hurricane we create. We cause our tiny maelstroms but the world (or the universe) doesn't care … doesn't even know.

And, going within, we do not go without.

And is Arthur Bayly feeling any peace?

It was with a light and bouncy heart that he set off for home, preferring the ten-minute walk to being crammed in a tram - a far cry from the previous dread he'd felt about meeting his wife with the upsetting news. In fact, he wanted to skip like a child but, of course, that just wasn't done. Not for an adult. Not for Arthur Bayly. Not in his suit today. That didn't stop his mind skipping along inside a body that carried a battered leather brief case with proper business-like decorum. He couldn't get the silly smile off his face and he worried that other pedestrians might think him mad or, worse, being silly. However, in true London style, no one looked or even pretended to notice.

The short walk seemed even shorter than ever, this time, and as he was turning the corner into Tunstall Road, he came to an abrupt halt. A small crowd and an ambulance, with flashing light, was such a contrast to his light mood. He tried to take the unexpected scene into his mind. As he tried to imagine what could be happening, he realised the ambulance men were carrying a stretcher out of his mother-in-law's house. The covered body on it looked chillingly still. His mind froze. His body froze. It was as if he knew, subconsciously, what was happening, thought his logical mind struggled to put the pieces together. He inched forward, searching the crowd and, soon, his wife came out of the house, ashen-faced.

And then it happened. The massive and persistent hand of God - as he would later describe it - was at his back, pushing him forward. With no choice but to obey, he covered the thirty yards in no time imaginable and had enveloped his wife in an uncharacteristically warm and loving embrace. She resisted, at first, the sudden hug from a stranger but, for the first time ever, he did not yield to her attempt to break free. He stood his ground strongly, lovingly and she quietly gave into his embrace, such was her need and such was his insistence.

He was, of course, surprised at his decisive action and the warmth he felt inside. He was vaguely aware of other people fussing about him but he felt no concern for them. His only thoughts were for the woman in his arms - the woman, he realised, who he loved so much and who needed his love and nothing else in this moment. He surprised himself as these old feelings of affection arose and expressed themselves so strongly. His wife, usually the forceful one, melted into his arms and nothing needed to be said. As their envelope of silent togetherness gathered round them, the outside world disappeared and they knew each other better than they ever had before. It was as if all the millions of words over the years had - instead of explaining and uniting them - confused and separated them.

Reluctantly they separated, looking at each other, knowing they must allow the rest of the world to intrude.

"Oh, Arthur …" said Joan softly, wanting to express what could not be put into words.

"It's OK, love, I'm here," said Arthur, knowing this was more important than anything - his job, his future, their future. This moment. He knew he must savour it, cherish it, remember it.

"Ah, excuse me, Mrs Bayly," said an ambulance driver, coming as close as their envelope of silence would allow, "we'll take the, er, your mother now, ma'am. We will need you to come and complete the paper-work for us - today, if possible."

"Yes, yes," Joan said, unable to keep the crack out of her voice and the tears from flowing.

"Thank you young man," said Arthur, with unaccustomed authority, "I'll bring my wife down to the hospital …"

"No Sir, the funeral parlour, in Orchard Road," said the ambulance driver.

"Oh, ah, yes, to the funeral parlour, as soon as we can," said Arthur with his arm still around Joan's shoulders and a grip of fear around his gut with the mention of the word funeral. "We both need a little time to ourselves and then we'll walk over."

"Thank you, Sir," said the young man, "just when you can make it. There's no hurry, none at all."

"Thank you so much," said Arthur, thinking with remarkable clarity. "Now, Dear, I'll lock your mother's house and we'll pop home for a cup of tea and a sit."

"Mmm, yes," said Joan quietly, apparently happy to hand over control for a change.

As they settled in their favourite lounge chairs, Joan suddenly looked up at Arthur who was placing a cup of tea and a plate of biscuits on her side-table. "Arthur, I've just realised … what are you doing here, now?" she asked. "I got Dottie, our neighbour, to ring your office but that was only half an hour ago."

"Yes Dear, it's been quite a day hasn't it. Quite a day," said Arthur, sitting down with his cup of tea and wondering where to start and how much to say right now. "I, er, left work early today. I would have been on my way here when she rang, I suppose."

"But, Arthur, you've never left early before. Is something wrong?" asked Joan, realising she may not be the only one with problems.

"Well, yes, I'm afraid there is, my dear," said Arthur, still struggling with what details to reveal. "I was made redundant." He waited for her attack …

"Oh dear, oh dear," said Joan, not quite comprehending anything beyond her own shock and grief.

"It's OK, love, we can talk about it later," said Arthur, aware that she was unable to absorb much else at the moment. He was, also, quite relieved to have said the worst of it and avoided the terrible scene he had played out in his mind, several hours earlier at work. He was relieved, too, not to have to continue further explanations and tempt fate.

As he thought of his previous dread of this moment, it all seemed so far away - commuting, work, the interview, the shock - and it seemed to matter so little that he wondered how it could have mattered before.

"Do you want to tell me what happened?" asked Arthur.

"Oh, ah, well, I just went up there to see how she was - she hadn't called me," said Joan as her tears started again.

"Leave it for now if you like, Love," said Arthur tenderly.

"No, I want you to know … there's not much to tell, really," said Joan, wiping her eyes, determined to go on. "I knocked and there was no answer. That was unusual. I heard nothing inside, absolutely nothing. I had this horrible feeling in my stomach, that something was wrong …" she said as another sob interrupted her story. Her crying subsided; she wiped her eyes and sat upright. "I've just got to tell you now, Love. There's not much to say but it doesn't seem real, somehow. You know …"
"Yes dear, I do know," said Arthur, smiling a little as he recalled his own unreal experience that morning.

"Mmm, I think you do," said Joan with unaccustomed insight into her husband's thoughts. She blew her nose, sat up and started again. "I used my key, got in and found her on the floor of her lounge, beside her card table. You know, I always thought I'd scream or run away or do something dramatic when that happened. I always knew it would happen sometime, obviously … it just, I just stood there and looked and looked. I knew a big part of me was lost, gone forever. I felt sort-of empty, dead, but … but complete somehow, too. I can't explain it."

"Gosh," said Arthur, wanting to say something but not sure what. Some people just had the knack of saying the right things but he had never acquired it, he thought.

"But, you know, love," said Joan, dabbing her eyes, "it's not nice finding your mother, well, like that. Not nice at all but, well, yes, I was shocked and empty, somehow, but also … I can't quite explain it … I just felt fully complete, yes fully complete. That's all I can say. Strange really …"

"Quite, yes, fully complete," said Arthur, savouring the phrase as if it was a new food he was tasting for the first time. Perhaps that's how he felt after his news at work today - shocked, frightened, maybe even angry. A little bit angry. And, yes, if he had to admit it, a sense of completeness, even peace, seemed to pervade. It certainly wasn't logical but it was undeniable - completeness and peace - there were no other words for it.

"Arthur Dear, why are you smiling?" asked Joan with curiosity, not annoyance.

"Oh, I'm sorry dear," said Arthur, feeling a trifle embarrassed to be smiling at such an inopportune time. "I'm not quite sure but you said you felt a sense of completeness. It is so very illogical, at a time like this bit it does seem oddly right. I'm not sure how, but it does. I'm certainly not smiling at you dear."

"I know you're not, darling. I know that," said Joan as a smile sneaked onto her face. "I know I'm supposed to be sad and that I should be gnashing and wailing and making a scene but I don't feel like that now. I do feel sad and shocked - it was so unexpected - but I can't deny the completeness thing inside. I feel a weeny bit guilty for it. Maybe I'll feel the full impact later, when it all sinks in."

"Mmm, maybe you will; maybe we both will," said Arthur, feeling a complete empathy with his wife's explanation. "These things are supposed to make us feel the worst, have us behaving the worst but there is this odd sense of rightness to it all. You agree?"

"Absolutely, my Love, absolutely!" said Joan feeling less lonely in her unaccustomed feelings. "Oh, Arthur, can I have a hug please?"

"Oh, ah, yes Dear," said Arthur, wondering when he'd last heard those words - maybe during their honeymoon. As they stood and hugged, Arthur could feel the sense of completeness grow imperceptibly. He also felt something else grow a little - a nice but slightly embarrassing movement below his belt. But there were things to be attended to.

7 - Haircuts at McDonalds and dinners at the laundromat?

Would you consider going to a chemist shop (drug store) to buy a car? If you wanted some deodorant, would you look for it at a car dealership? Silly questions? Don't be surprised if, in, say, three years' time, these are not silly questions but very normal ones.

When we want to exchange money in New Zealand, we go to a bank for that's where we get the best rate. However, because the banks in England are so greedy, they're the worst places to exchange your money. If we're going for a holiday to, say, Crete, we buy our euros at Marks & Spence, which is not a bank but best known as a supermarket and clothing store.

My wife, Anna, needed a new computer yesterday and, initially, we did the logical thing and went to Curries, England's largest retailer of computers. Their best deal was around £420. We went to Argos which is a general warehouse selling all manner of household goods and their best price was £399. Then we ended up on my computer, ordering hers over the internet from Tescos - originally a food supermarket - and got the same computer for £299 … plus a rebate … plus Clubcard points … plus free delivery!

So, if someone tells you they're getting their hair cut at McDonalds or are dining out at the local laundromat, it may not be their dementia kicking in but the new way of shopping … getting what you want from the most unlikely place imaginable ... a bit like my hero finding finance companies at the temple, 2,000 years ago!

Such an upside down world! Anyway, back to Arthur Bayly's world, which is rapidly turning upside down for him …

"Mmm, that's good," said Arthur with his hope supported a little.

"And that's not all!" said Amanda. "That afternoon I received a call from one of my co-workers, Brian, to see how I was. I hadn't spoken to any of them since I'd left - I felt too embarrassed to do so. Anyway, it turned out that Brian, made redundant like me, had also being going through similar stress as me, for about three months and had recently found a new job, moved to a new flat and had met this amazing new girlfriend. Life was on the up and up for him. And, of course, I wanted what he had."

"But he helped you somehow?" asked Arthur.

"Yes. He got bossy, told me he was coming around to take me out for a coffee and a chat," said Amanda, chuckling at the memory. "I was too embarrassed to be seen like I was but he insisted he'd be round in half an hour. A girl's vanity is a great motivator, you know! I was off the couch, in the shower, dressed in my least creased and dirty clothes, vaguely made up and at my front door minutes before he arrived. I sure as hell wasn't going to let him see the state of my flat!"

"And you went for a coffee?" asked Arthur, checking that he was still with the story.

"Well, the coffee was an excuse to get me out and talking," said Amanda. "And, once I started, he couldn't stop me! Anyway, he listened to my moans and groans until I exhausted myself - I think he reordered coffee some way through my diatribe."

"You eventually stopped - was he sympathetic?" asked Arthur, feeling sympathetic.

"Sympathetic? Hell no!" said Amanda. "I expected him to show some sympathy or compassion or caring but no! When I stopped raving, he said, 'so, what are you going to do about it now?'"

"Gosh, that was a little harsh," said Arthur.

"Yes, that's what I thought at the time. I just started crying," said Amanda, a tear of remembrance slipping down her cheek.

"You cried … in front of him?"

"You betcha I did. I couldn't stop it!" said Amanda. "His reaction was such a shock. So he just asked me again, so coolly, what did I want to do about it. I guess I got a little angry and shouted at him to 'shut up, I've just had enough, I just want all this over!'"

"That must have been particularly upsetting," said Arthur, feeling very sorry for her.

"Upsetting. Hell, he just started laughing," said Amanda, chuckling at the memory. "I was so shocked I stopped blubbing and just stared at him. He said he was so thrilled I'd got angry as that was the start of the uphill run."

"The uphill run?"

"Yes, the way he explained it was that depression and anger had the same cause," said Amanda, "and, apparently, they're both from unmet expectation. The difference is in the behaviour to that disappointment. In depression we go inside - inside of ourselves and cut off from the world. We can't function. Then, when we change our behaviour to anger, we go out, lash out in some way. When we get to that stage, we're ready to actually do something about our situation - we're ready to fight back. I must say, I did feel quite empowered when I had my angry outburst. The best I'd felt in six months!"

"Ah, I hadn't thought of it that way," said Arthur, quietly. "I suppose I thought anger was particularly antisocial."

"Well, yes, it is if its misdirected against people and things," said Amanda, brightening up. "However, it's just energy and, used constructively, can be positively powerful. After all, Greenpeace, Amnesty International and CORSO were all started by anger - by a sense of injustice - directed constructively."

"I suppose you're right," said Arthur, trying to take in all these new ideas. "So how did he help you?"

"Several ways, really," said Amanda. "He gave me an exercise but, before that, tried to explain something to me that I didn't get at the time. You might not get it - might not want to get it - right now, but I'd like to try and explain it to you …"

"Yes?" said Arthur, on the edge of his seat, quite oblivious to the people in the café and passing by on the street.

"OK, well, here goes," said Amanda. "Let's use the word universe instead of God or whatever. It's just a word for something I don't quite know how to explain."

"Yes?"

"So, let's pretend you have a particular life path to walk," said Amanda. "I know this sounds a bit spooky, but it feels right to me. Do you understand?"

"No, not really," said Arthur as a warm feeling rose up his spine. Though the idea was new and a little peculiar, it had a feeling of rightness about it.

"OK, as I said, let's pretend that you have a particular life path. Certain things you need to do in this life," said Amanda, obviously choosing her words carefully. "Now, we don't necessarily know what that path is or even that it exists. You with me?"

"I'm not sure. I might be if you keep going."

"So we have certain things to do or achieve and, somehow, someone, something keeps us on the path," said Amanda. "Some people are able to feel that guidance, so to speak, and they stick to the path. Most of us, however, don't feel these things and, though the universe speaks to us in a multitude of ways we don't hear or feel, we plough on blindly ignorant."

"Mmm."

"So, if we're here for a particular purpose but don't know what it is, don't even know that it exists, how the heck are we supposed to carry out our sacred mission?" asked Amanda. "How do we get connected, how do we plug into the universe to get the right job done?"

"Mmm, a conundrum."

"Absolutely! It's such an illogical system, we might think - being given a job we don't know about and don't have any tools for," said Amanda. "We're all floundering in the dark."

"Sounds very confusing ..."

"It sounds like that but it's not," said Amanda, smiling. "It's actually very logical and very simple, really."

"Oh, is it?" said Arthur, surprised.

"Yep, it sure is," she said, chirpily. "We get out of our own way and we let the universe talk."

"Pardon?" said Arthur, returning to the edge of confusion's abyss.
"Exactly!" said Amanda, laughing. "You see, we all get so busy doing what we think we ought to be doing - with our oughtism - listening to the ideas and commands of others, the constant desire to look good, that we forget to feel good. Obeying the clamour of the world that clashes with our own spiritual calling, we live lives of desperate futility, bitter and frustrated."

"You mean that others feel like that … like me?" asked Arthur, with clouds of doubt dispersing again, albeit slowly, while he felt a strange sense of connection with this stranger who described his life so accurately.

"Very few people live life happily, peacefully and in accord with their true calling," said Amanda, her enthusiasm never waning. "And yet we all hold the key but choose not to unlock the door of our self-constructed prison. Silly, really!"

"So how do we get out of this prison, then?" asked Arthur, sensing light beginning to dawn on his life.

"You've started the process already, though you don't know it, just like I didn't till Brian turned up," she said. "Now that you've said Enough! and I've turned up. Stay open and the rest will unfold itself."
"Unfold?"

"Things will start to happen," she said, "unusual, unexpected things ..."

"Like unusual redundancies, unexpected criminals?" asked Arthur, smiling grimly.

"All things will pass,"

"Somebody else told me that today!"

"You see - unusual and unexpected!" said Amanda. "Seemingly unrelated things will start to fit together. All I can say is stay open and remember that all this will definitely pass - nothing actually matters. Now, can I get your details for my report, please?"

Arthur dutifully gave her the details she needed, while anxious to know more.

"Now, I really must go," said Amanda, looking at her watch, "but here's my mobile number if you want to know where to deliver the Maserati to." She scribbled her number on a serviette and handed it to him.

"The Maserati?" asked Arthur, trying to catch up with her.

"My consulting fee! Just joking, ninny," said Amanda, patting his shoulder. "If you want to know more or just want a chat, call and invite me round. Bye!"

'My gosh, invite me round,' thought Arthur as Amanda skipped out of the café, 'these Kiwis are very forward.' That thought didn't last long as there were other, more pressing matters to consider and they wouldn't all fit into his brain - it was quite full for now, thank you very much!

He knew he would normally feel quite self-conscious, sitting in a café with an empty cup, no paper to pretend to read and nothing to do. Today he didn't. Despite all he had to think about, his mind went blank, quite empty, and he sat staring happily out the window at everything and nothing.

Blissfully unaware of the time, his mind slowly woke as a cat stretching after a nap. He looked around and was surprised the world hadn't changed during his absence. He picked himself up and wafted out the door with an inane smile on his face.

6 - Numb Knees, Carfluted Ears and Spare Zs

This morning I leapt out of bed to find my knees were numb. It was just a surprise, not a problem, as they de-numbed themselves within a minute - it just hadn't happened before and felt weird.

Now, numb knees sounds medically poetic and so is sure to become the next pandemic … Black Plague, Influenza, Bird Flu, Carfluted Ears, Numb Knees. It fits the pattern and I can just see drug company executives wildly leaping up, commanding their advertisers to concoct yet another million-dollar campaign; this time to scare the bejeezers out of us all and have us pouring in to buy their new magic elixir to save us from Carfluted Ears and Numb Knees (consequence horrendous and unproved, as usual), thereby giving them 1,000% return on their advertising investment. They would, of course, have to provide holidays and other goodies to the doctors who would, then, prescribe the new anti-carfluted-ears and anti-numb-knees snake oil.

I mean, just how many sneezing birds did you ever see? The bird flu was an expensive and profitable hoax, as was the meningitis scare. Though the consequences of meningitis are dire, the cure is simple - good old vitamin C.

We used to have "a cold going round". Then we had epidemics. Now they're all pandemics. What will we have next - cerbademics?

And, talking of knees, who was the great irk, the narfled wallop, who put Ks in front of the N-starting words - knuckle, knife, know and so on? Such an ink- and time-wasting exercise.

Thinking about that as carfluted ears and numb knees beset my body, I realised that we use so few Zs that there must be a huge pile of unused ones, lying about somewhere. In the spirit of drug company entrepreneurism, I hereby pronounce that all C-starting words must now start with a Z. I have zcollected all the billions of Zs and now have them for sale, for a ZChristian profit. You, as a zconsumer, need to pay me zcash in order to zcorrectly spell any word zcommencing with C. The zconsequences of not using Zs and Cs zcorrectly will be a zcerbademic of zcarfluted ears and numb knees. "Zcor blimey," I hear you zcomment, "I must zcanter off to the zchemist to stock up on Zs!" To which I zcallously, zcheekily and zcryptically say, "Zcarry on!"

Meanwhile, back at the ranch … actually, back in Croydon … Arthur Bayly's story continues …

She plonked herself on the seat, beside him, with a sigh and a smile, and he wondered how she'd got there without him noticing.

"Now, Sir," she said, looking directly into his eyes, which he found a little disconcerting, "how are you feeling? A little less shaky?"

"Ah, yes, a little steadier, thank you Constable," he said, examining his shoes.

"Amanda, please call me Amanda. Now, a question that might seem a little strange," she said in an accent he suddenly realised was definitely not an English one and was one he'd heard before, quite recently. "Why do you think you attracted this series of upsetting events to you?"

"I beg your pardon?" he asked, not quite understanding the question.

"I thought you'd find it strange. While you're pondering it, why don't we pop over to my favourite café and we'll reflect on life," she said, "and I'll take your statement."

"Well, yes, that sounds good."

"Unless you have a favourite café?" she asked.

"Well, actually, I've never been inside a café till this morning."

"What, you haven't? Your education is sadly lacking, Arthur. Let me treat you!" she said, bounding up and taking his hand to help him rise.

"Gosh, how very gallant of you," he said, bowing, "how can I refuse such an offer!"

She tripped along, her golden curls bouncing in the sunlight and he had trouble keeping up. She ordered their coffees and they sat at a bench seat looking through the window onto the street.

"Good. Now, as I said, I was made redundant three years ago," said Amanda. "I'd worked for them, the shipping firm, since I left university - ten years I was there. I was shocked, I was depressed and I lost it."

"Lost it?" asked Arthur.

"Yes, lost it," said Amanda. "The shipping business was in a downturn and they had to put people off - I was one of the lucky ones!"

"But it wasn't your fault, Amanda," said Arthur. "My situation's different - it's definitely personal and they see me as incompetent, not just surplus."

"Arthur, whether it's your fault or not, it still feels like your fault," said Amanda. "Besides, whether it's your fault or not, it doesn't matter. The fact is, you're out of a job and you feel like crap … oh, sorry, you feel horrible."

Arthur laughed. "Yes, I do feel like crap, though I dare say I've never used that word before."

"Ok, crap it is," said Amanda chuckling. "And that crap immobilized me. I suppose I became depressed, though depression's what you do, not what you are."

"What you do?" asked Arthur, confused.

"Yes, depression's what you do and I'll explain that in a minute," said Amanda, talking faster and faster as if she had so many words to get out in a limited time. "I just became unable to function. I couldn't bring myself to look for another job, to apply for an unemployment benefit, to see my friends, to tell my family … sometimes I just couldn't get myself out of bed for days, except to eat and pee. At times I wanted it all to end but I couldn't be bothered doing anything to end my life ... I couldn't even do that properly!"

"Goodness, that's … terrible," said Arthur.

"Yes, it was terrible, oppressing and debilitating." said Amanda quietly. "It was also the best thing that ever happened to me."

"The best …"

"Yep, the best thing ever," said Amanda, brightening again. "You see, Arthur, as I lay in my bed or lounged in my apartment that was getting grubbier and grubbier, I saw myself as totally useless, no point to being here and I cried and cried and yelled at God, the world and everything else. I fumed, I bellowed, I cried and I went down screaming, sobbing. Eventually I stopped fighting. I was just too exhausted. That was when I wanted it to end."

"You mean … suicide?" asked Arthur, shocked.

"Suicide, earthquake, bombing … I didn't care how it ended, I just wanted it to," said Amanda fiercely. "Of course, with no income, I'd used up all my savings and I had to do something - my parents lived nearby, in New Zealand, but I couldn't ask them for help. I couldn't tell them or anyone else about how useless I was. I was so ashamed …"

"You poor thing, Amanda."

"You might say that! I thought it - 'you poor thing, Amanda' - and, after six months of all this pity for poor Amanda, I finally gave up. I gave in. I said to whoever was listening - God, the universe, Buddha, Mother Mary, Jesus, anyone - Enough, I've had enough! I was just sick of it all and desperately wanted something to change … anything to change. I cried so hard my skin hurt ... all over. Then, pffttt, it was all over!"

"Pffttt?" asked Arthur, bemused.

"Yes, pffttt," said Amanda, giggling at the thought. "Pffttt, it was all over. Like a small ray of sunshine piercing the clouds, I woke from my bad dream and didn't want this misery any more."

"But you didn't want misery anyway!" said Arthur, feeling the abyss of confusion drawing him down again.

"No, I wouldn't have thought so at the time," said Amanda, wiping her eyes. "But the reality is that I was sad, miserable, crying and every other stupid thing because I wanted to be. It suited some silly need in me to wallow in self-pity. So I wallowed and then, for some reason when the pain was too much or I was bored with it, I'd had enough. Pffttt!"

"Oh! Oh dear, I hadn't thought of it like that," said Arthur, seeing his own sunlight through a cloudy mind.

"And when I'd had my pffttt moment, when I said "Enough!" to the Universe, my mind changed from one of pity to one of recovery - how can I get out of this?" said Amanda. "Then Brian turned up. Amazing timing, really. But, as I learned, there's no such thing as a coincidence - there's just you and me and everybody else asking for what we want and then, pffttt, getting it!"

"Oh dear," said Arthur, seeing his ray of sunshine lighting a piece of reality. "So you're saying I actually asked to be made redundant ... I actually wanted this to happen ... and the accident with that criminal ..."

"You probably won't want to hear this but yep!" said Amanda. "Maybe you've had enough of your job, for whatever reason, and you're looking for some adventure, some excitement, something exotic ..."

"Well, I do seem to be thinking of Australia ... or is it New Zealand, I'm not sure," said Arthur, feeling strangely uncomfortable, in a world that didn't quite fit any more.

"And so you bump into a Kiwi - me!"

"A Kiwi?"

"A New Zealander, Arthur, we call ourselves Kiwis," said Amanda.

"Oh I see," said Arthur, absorbing yet another new fact. "Actually, you're the second New ... Kiwi I've met today. Two lovely young ladies and both so helpful!"

"Aah, helpful," said Amanda, savouring the word and clapping her hands gleefully. "You see, the universe really does want you to realise that all the help you want is there. It's trying to let you know help's available - just ask."

"Just ask?" said Arthur. "Ask who?"

"Ask the universe, silly," said Amanda punching his arm playfully. "In your head, out loud, in prayer. It doesn't matter, just ask. You've already got two helpful Kiwis without consciously asking so think what you'll get if you do ask."

"Oh, ah, yes," said Arthur, feeling as if the swamp through which he had been trudging his whole life was, finally, starting to release his feet.

"So what did you do next?" asked Arthur, becoming very concerned, while remembering that the person telling this dreadful story was a fully functioning policewoman now.

"Well, actually Arthur, I did nothing at all - I just said Enough with a passion I'd never felt before and the universe took over," said Amanda, smiling at the memory.

"The universe?" asked Arthur, starting to feel lost.

"Universe, God, Buddha, spirit guides, Aunty Mavis … whatever you like to call whatever you believe in … whatever you feel that it is that's bigger than any of us," said Amanda, trying to slow down for a concerned-looking Arthur. "I don't know how it happened, really, but it did."

"What did, Amanda?"

"The magic, Arthur, the magic," said Amanda.

"The magic?" asked Arthur, feeling totally lost and wondering if this girl wasn't a bit insane.

"Sounds a bit insane, doesn't it?" asked Amanda. All Arthur could manage was a silly smile. "You see, Arthur, I called for help, with passion, and it turned up," said Amanda. "I yelled, in my head, in my bed, so no one could hear: Enough. Enough. I've had enough! And things started to happen."

"Things?" asked Arthur, feeling things returning to normal a little.

"Yes, things," said Amanda. The next morning I received a letter from Her Majesty's very kind Tax Department, suggesting that if I had been made redundant or if my income was under a certain level, I might be in for a refund. You have no idea how something that simple can lift a person's spirits - especially someone who has lost all faith in everything. Suddenly, without effort on my part, I was being offered help."

"Did you get the refund?" asked Arthur, feeling some hope for himself.

"Ever-practical Arthur," said Amanda, laughing. "I didn't have the energy, at the time, to do anything about it. I just felt a little better, a little supported. That was all that mattered then. And, yes, I did get a refund and I badly needed it then!"

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.