48 - Nothing to Say

Sometimes, just sometimes, I can't think of anything chatty to say. This is one of those times so I'll say nothing and continue with Arthur Bayly's story, continued from the previous blog …

"Problems?" asked Arthur, feeling a knot in his stomach begin to form.

"Yes, problems," said Lord Atkinson. "You see, in New Zealand as in many other countries, if the patent office can classify any patent application under a Military Use Clause. Such a classification means that inventors are prohibited from publishing details of their devices or promoting them in any manner of their invention is classified under this clause. In other words, their devices automatically become the sole property of the government and the inventors lose any rights to their inventions."

"But they invented the device …" said Arthur, astonished.

 "Absolutely!" said Lady Atkinson. "But the state has the last say - you either take the risk to get your invention patented (and lose it) or don't get a patent at all."

"And that's what our Mr Adams did, in his naivety - he applied for a patent for his free energy machine and lost it to the state," said Lord Atkinson. "Mr Adams survived an attempt on his life by an individual affiliated with the New Zealand Secret Intelligence Service (SIS) and the Central Intelligence Agency. He believed that the former Prime Minister of New Zealand, Robert Muldoon, suppressed his invention, and that the giant British electronics company, Lucas Industries, had a hand in the suppression."

"Oh, my God …" said Arthur, wondering how he'd got himself involved in such matters and where it all could lead.

"Yes, my God alright!" said Lord Atkinson. "Just not cricket, by Jove not!"

"However, the government or whoever was involved, did not reckon on the persistence of people like Mr Cathie and Mr Adams," said Lady Atkinson. "Though his invention was suppressed, under the Military Use Clause, for 20 years, Mr Adams, with help and encouragement from his friend Mr Cathie, continued to develop his motor and eventually decided that his life would be safer if he published his findings - publish and be damned, if you like! If the public knew then attempts on his life (and his wife's) would be pointless - the information would still be out there then. So, he published his findings in Nexus magazine in January 1993 and the death threats and constant surveillance stopped, much to his relief."

"My gosh!" said Arthur, enthralled by the story. Then, he quickly realised he was in a large drawing room in England, not in New Zealand, to investigate an insurance claim. "But, please excuse me, but what does this have to do with the burglary or your claim?"

"Ah, yes, good question," said Lord Atkinson. "This is where our son-in-law, John comes in."

"By this time, Arthur, Mr Cathie had written several books on flying saucers and other related things and he wanted his friend Mr Adams to write a book about his invention," said Lady Atkinson. "However, Mr Adams did not feel confident about such a project and so Mr Cathie sent our John along, in the hope that he could facilitate a book somehow … perhaps ghost-write or something."

"The problem was, however, Mr Adams' health," said Lord Atkinson. "The attempts on his life, the constant surveillance from New Zealand's SIS and his advanced years - he was over seventy by then - meant that he was becoming more frail. He did want to have his book written but didn't feel up to it at that time. He promised to keep in contact with John and the next thing John knew, Robert Adams had died."

"And so had his invention and all his writings," said Lady Atkinson dramatically. "Till they unexpectedly turned up with us."

"And so, Arthur old chap, you can probably see why you're here," said Lord Atkinson, smiling and leaning back in his chair as if everything was clear to all. "Would you like another cup of tea?"

"Uh, oh, yes … no …" said Arthur, unsure which to answer first.

"You probably mean you'd like another cup of tea and you don't have the faintest idea why you're here," suggested Lady Atkinson, ringing her little bell for the butler, who arrived immediately and poured Arthur another cup of tea to her instructions.

"Ah, thank you and, yes, Lady Atkinson," said Arthur. "I'm afraid you were rather reading my mind."

"She does that, you know," said Lord Atkinson, smiling at his wife. "It's all rather uncanny."

"Now, to cut a very long story short, Robert Adams' plans, and one of his motors, was couriered to John shortly after Mr Adam's death and John still has no idea who sent them," said Lady Atkinson. "John, in his … shall we say, interesting, philosophy, puts it down to some sort of destiny he must fulfil and so he kept them firmly hidden, under lock and key, and told no one, believing he would be given a sign of some kind when it was time for him to do something with them."

"Then he fell in love with this English girl, married her and, in the process, discovered her father was a member of the House of Lords and has a passion about the environment," said Lord Atkinson, smiling. "As soon as he met us, he felt he knew what to do with the plans."

"Oh, Gosh," said Arthur, none the wiser as to his part in all of this.

"Well, yes, he knew it was too dangerous to do anything with them in New Zealand, given the trouble Mr Adams had," said Lord Atkinson, "and when he found about my … er, our interest in stopping all this gashed pollution, and I'm in a position of some influence here, he approached me about them, eventually, wondering if there was anything I could do to get these devices, these motors, manufactured for developing countries."

"Oh gosh, I would have thought New Zealand would be safe from all kinds of interference, being so remote," said Arthur.

47 - Gratitude Gives Birth to Creativity

I had set a commitment to write 1,000 words a day and to publish them as a blog to ensure I would keep the commitment. My coach, Riana Avis (www.rianaavis.com) asked me this morning, "Where did that need for commitment come from?" Her question momentarily stunned me and then a flood of scenes from a time long since past flashed through my mind … of parents, siblings and my first wife berating me for changing jobs so often … of being unreliable, changeable, not consistent and all the other terrible things that didn't fit with their view of the perfect child, brother and husband who is one who gets a job and stays in it for life.

Riana's question crashed through my psyche like a Christchurch earthquake and I realised - though none of my family will ever read this blog - that I was trying to prove to them (or myself?) that I was "normal", in their definition of the world. Riana suggested that my changeability and sense of adventure may just be a part of who I am, what makes me me and it may be a good idea for me to make peace with that changeability that I am.

I then realised that I have never wavered from wanting to make a difference through teaching, writing and business - I have never changed in that aspiration. In fact, I reminded myself and Riana, I have actually completed the writing and publishing of nine books … eek, I AM a finisher when it comes to my one, consistent passion.

And, as I ruminate on these realisations and make peace with myself, I wonder just how many of our talents are buried beneath a pile of doubt, disgust and trying to fit in …

And so what's Arthur up to - continuing from the previous blog ...

Soon they were all settled round the friendly fire, with tea and cakes before them and with a small desk for Arthur's papers, at his side. He spread his papers out but, despite his lengthy preparation at home, was uncertain where to start. He kept shuffling his papers, hoping his brain would start.

"Now, Arthur, old chap, we have you here, ostensibly, for an insurance claim but, for us, that's incidental," said Lord Atkinson. Now that he was in his accustomed clothes, Arthur could see better that he was a tall, spare man with a good head of silver hair, as they say - a man who obviously took good care of his body and clothes, as did his wife. She was slightly shorter than his six foot, wore minimal makeup and looked immaculate. They were dressed in what might be called the casual estate collection - both were in checked shirts (hers with the collar pulled up and his with a school tie), fawn slacks and sturdy leather brogues. "We did lose some items in the burglary, and some had a reasonable value, but we'll be far from upset if we're turned down for the lot, old chap."

"Oh, you won't?" said Arthur, with relief and puzzlement. He wondered, in the split second that you can wonder something really big, why he'd had to spend so much time on this claim, considering it had so little import to the claimant. Squeezed into the same split second was a question mark, bigger than the drawing room in which they sat, over his real reason for being here - obviously not the reason he was led to believe.

"Of course, you'll probably want to approve a substantial portion of it so the FSA fellows don't become too suspicious," said Lord Atkinson.

"Look, let's not skirt around the woods," said Lady Atkinson. "We know your Sam Lord better than you think we might and he recommended that you're to be trusted in this matter."

"Yes, absolutely, dear," said Lord Atkinson. "You see, the police and the FSA are not necessarily to be trusted and I'm not sure which of my political colleagues can be relied on so it always comes back to Sam Lord. He's been a brick over the years, such …"

"Anyway, the crux of the matter, Arthur," said Lady Atkinson, interrupting again, "we have something that's disappeared and now Sam has, only a few weeks later. We think they might be related."

"Oh dear," said Arthur. "You think Mr Lord could have stolen off with this item?"

"Oh no, oh dear no," said Lady Atkinson, leaning forward earnestly. "It may be that Sam was close to finding this item for us that he has disappeared."

"Oh?" said Arthur, sensing that sensible questions were less embarrassing than sensible statements.

"We're sure there's a link - initially we were concerned about the plans but now we're more concerned about the safety of Sam," said Lord Atkinson. "They're serious, the people we could be dealing with, absolutely ruthless rotters …"

"So, the plans my husband mentioned," interrupted Lady Atkinson, getting back to the core of things again, "could mean the end of the petroleum and all other energy industries and that could be catastrophic for hundreds of thousands of workers and for the billions of profits of these companies."

"Oh?" said Arthur, finding it the only useful of the two million in the English language that he had any use for, right now.

"Yes, oh!" said Lord Atkinson, smiling grimly. "That's what we thought when all this was presented to us. You see, our son-in-law, John Maranui, is a publisher in New Zealand and, though his interests are a little … shall we say, off to the side, he's a jolly good man to our daughter and, as we've got to know him, full of integrity."

"Because of his … shall we say, interesting interests, as my husband said, he's been drawn into something we now feel as passionate about as him," said Lady Atkinson. "He met a man who wanted him to publish his book and it started from there. This Bruce Cathie, who had written his controversial story, had been a pilot for NAC, New Zealand's national airline, now called Air New Zealand. This Captain Cathie had first seen a flying saucer over the Manukau Harbour, Auckland, in 1952 and in discussions with other airline pilots discovered this wasn't uncommon. However, his bosses were not impressed that he was publicising his discoveries ."

"There's nothing so motivates a chap to do something as to tell him not to do it!" said Lord Atkinson, chuckling.

Arthur smiled and nodded, remembering how, a few hours earlier, he had almost wished Joan had objected to him coming on this trip - then he would have had cause to stand up for himself. Maybe there was a belligerent side to his nature, unrecognised till now, that was asserting itself. He shut off those uncomfortable thoughts to listen.

"So, our Captain Cathie felt impelled to know more about those flying saucers, and how they moved and powered themselves," said Lady Atkinson quickly, warming to the subject. "In the course of his investigations, he met a Robert Adams , a scientist with New Zealand's Department of Scientific Research. Robert had started working on a free energy motor and was impelled, by Bruce's enthusiasm, to carry on."

"Robert called his invention a monopolar motor and, after many attempts, developed a motor that was 137% efficient. That means that it produced more energy than it used," said Lord Atkinson interrupting, his enthusiasm equal to his wife's. And that's where Robert's problems started."

46 - Dissolving Demons of the Soul

Dark Night of the Soul - I'd heard about it and read about it and wondered if were real … was it just the feverish imaginings of weak-minded cretins wanting attention? I didn't know.

Well, I've been and gone and done it and I know just how real it is though, sitting here in my sun-drenched bed, enjoying breakfast next to my lovely wife while I write this, two days later, it all seems a distant dream.

Anna and I came to England declaring, first and foremost, this would be an experience of God; an experience of coming closer to God. As we knew, through Jesus' A Course in Miracles (ACIM), we cannot look for and find love (God); we can only look for and release the blocks to love. As we do, the love we are is revealed in all its glory. The spiritual journey is not, then, a jolly skipping through the sun-dappled woods with happy fairies and smiling trees to wave us on. No, it's hard work - the hardest work I've ever done. ACIM says it takes just a little willingness but Ken Wapnick, an ACIM teacher of 40+ years, suggests that Jesus was understating things a little. Ken's been doing it, daily, for over 40 years and Anna and I have been doing it daily for nearly six years. It has not been jolly skipping at all. In every moment we show a little willingness but every moment for six years adds up to a great willingness … and it's worth it!

As we journey into ourselves the blocks to love (peace, joy, freedom, abundance and everything else we desire deeply) reveal themselves. As I do this, my anger and addictions rear their ugly heads in monstrous form and I have no choice but to face them, acknowledge them and ask for help to release them. Sometimes this help seems a long time coming and, while it does, I realise just how much I enjoy being angry and judgemental and I don't like myself for that. So, then, I don't have just anger as a block, but it's joined by the blocks of love of anger and then the judgement of myself for the enjoyment of something dysfunctional. If the help had come any sooner, the last two blocks might not have been revealed.

When we started on this overseas trip we knew all this (mainly in theory) but actually thought it would be a jolly skipping around Europe and it hasn't been that at all. At times it's been sheer bloody hell. We've had an amazing time seeing things, meeting people and doing things we could never have done in New Zealand. But I cannot find a job, we've used all our money and we're living on credit cards and hope. With no government hand-outs available to us, we've been brought to our knees, financially, and the demons - guilt (past), sin (present) and fear (future) - have been growing steadily more grotesque and frightening by the day … well, at night, mainly.

Then, two nights ago, they threatened to devour me and I was lost in their dark thrashing madness, blaming myself for our past, dreading our future and perceiving the worst of myself in every moment of my life. I was an abject failure with nothing to redeem myself and my only possible future was one of deep shame and a beggarly existence.

These screaming, screeching demons tore at my ears with their viscious condemnation and played gruesome pictures of the unremitting poverty that was to be my lot. I tried to blot them out but the more I did, the louder they shrieked and the more lurid was the spectre of my future shown. I was exhausted but they wouldn't let up. And nor would I. I fought back with every fearful fibre of my soul but they persisted. For two nights we battled one another - little me against the hungry army of discontent.

Eventually, I could fight no more and collapsed back into the pillow and gave up … and smiled. As I gave up, gave in, they softened. I warily looked up, in my mind's eye, and their ferocity abated as little. I took in a breath of courage and faced them, open-eyed and defenceless. They melted a little more.

I acknowledged them, listen to them and agreed with them. I admitted I had a deep loathing of my self - of my dreaded shame, guilt and fear. I'm not sure why I did this but it came to me to ask each one to show itself. I chose each silly financial decision I'd ever made and asked each demon guardian to step forth. I went through each decision, each money-wasting event and, as the guilt for each was called forth, I waited. Suddenly nothing happened. It did happen suddenly and it was nothing that happened. As I faced each of my ever-so-real guilts and fears (past and future) they dissolved as phantoms in the morning light.

ACIM tells us this is what we must do - look for the blocks to love, face them, acknowledge them and ask for help to release them. I had tried it before but it had seemed theoretical - a good idea but not very real.

Well, the news of the day, ladies and gentlemen, is that it's as real as it gets and the more I resist looking inside, the worse it seems. Eventually it becomes so bad I've just got to face that screeching ugliness and, when I do, it quietly vanishes to leave me with an exhausted body and an empty, light-filled mind. From the cowering, terrified creature I was two days ago, I have been helped to become a defenceless and invulnerable wee happy chappie … and so light I could fly … aaahhh!

And now to Atrhur Bayly's story, continued from the previous blog ...

And so Arthur spent the next half hour explaining that as they seem to have been followed and as the Atkinson case was actually about the Immigration Minister, Mary had tried to arrange Arthur's interview with the Lord and Lady with the utmost secrecy.

"Oh my gosh, Arthur, I didn't realise it was that Atkinson," said Joan, clapping her hands gleefully. "You certainly do move in exalted circles." Any previous apprehension seemed to have been dissolved by immersion in excitement and intrigue. Arthur went upstairs and assembled all his papers - again and again - while Joan spoke to Dottie on the phone.

""Come on, Arthur!" called Joan from downstairs, "I've made you a nice cup of tea to calm your nerves."

"OK, OK," said Arthur, who felt he had done so well concealing his nerves.

As they were drinking their tea, with Joan assuring him he would be fine and safe, there was a knock at the door. Toby, in very efficient and assertive manner, had their clothes changed, Arthur's papers in his tool box and Arthur out the door and on the street before Arthur could draw breath. There was nothing else to do but get into the van so he strode over and opened the door … well, he tried but it was locked. Confused, he looked back at his house and saw Josh's hand, in front of the net curtain, waving frantically at him, pointing up the street. The penny dropped. Wrong van. He wandered nonchalantly up the street, in the direction of Josh's finger and tentatively tried the door of the next van. There was an older man, with a black woollen hat pulled low and overalls, in the passenger seat.

"Welcome Arthur, and I'm terribly sorry I can't help you with your bag - this arm's a bit useless at the moment," said the man, chuckling. Arthur noticed his right arm was in a sling. "Bit embarrassing but you're in the right van now!"

"Uh, yes," said Arthur, feeling quite stupid and knowing full well James Bond would never make such an error. Maybe he was not cut out for this kind of stuff. Though he didn't believe in omens, if he did he would have recognised it as a bad one.

"Right, my man, let's get this show on the road, as they say," said the man. "Dashed exciting, really, isn't it, my man. I've never done this sort of thing before - usually have my chauffeur drive me around. However, we should be able to find ourselves out of this place, eh what! Belt up and let's get moving, shall we?"

"Yes, yes, of course," said Arthur, thankful for some direction, since his brain had none at that moment. He belted up, started up and indicated that he was pulling out … except that the wipers went instead of the indicators.

"Oh!" said Arthur, his brain unable to formulate any more coherent words. However, they were soon underway with the man directing from a map on his lap. They did manage to find themselves at the same point on the Croydon overpass three times and they chuckled together, a brotherhood of errors. Eventually, they were soon headed south to Kings Wood.

"Right, Arthur Bayly, I should introduce myself properly, now we've negotiated the tricky part," said the man, taking off his hat. "I'm Lord Atkinson. Pleased to meet you, old chap and we'll have to dispense with the hand-shaking, obviously. Let's just take it that we've shaken, shall we?" He raised his plastered arm a little and Arthur nodded and smiled. Arthur had vaguely suspected it was the Lord but was afraid to confirm by asking. Arthur noted that he had been promoted from my good man to old chap.

"Now, old chap, our estate is just round the corner here," said Lord Atkinson. They turned left off the main road and were suddenly passing beneath a massive stone archway as the gates opened for them. The hundred-yard, gravel driveway wandered through manicured gardens and curved in front of a three-storey Georgian mansion. Arthur noticed two gardeners working away. A butler opened the door for Lord Atkinson and then came around to Arthur's side to suggest that he could park the vehicle for him, if he preferred.

"Oh, yes, of course," said Arthur, as if this happened every day of his life.

A second butler ushered them through ten-foot, oak doors, through a marble and oak reception area at the bottom of a curved stairway that led, it seemed to Arthur, to heaven. He had little chance for further inspection as he was then whisked into a cavernous drawing room that, despite its size, had been filled to overflowing with furniture, statues, ornaments, paintings, books and all manner of collectible things, leaving little room for the lady who was sitting on one of several circles around the stone fireplace. The fire crackled happily and she stood and smiled warmly as Lord Atkinson introduced Lady Atkinson to Arthur. She came up to him and he suddenly realised he was supposed to kiss her on both cheeks, something he'd seen on television. He managed it adequately.

The Lord suggested a cup of tea, to which Arthur assented, despite the three he had already had that morning. He really wanted to a toilet stop but was hesitant to ask. The Lord then excused himself to change his clothes and asked Arthur if he would like to refresh himself. With a flood of relief, Arthur was led by the butler into a bathroom the size of Arthur's dining room, all tiles and gold and with plumbing worse than he'd experienced. He did manage to get the toilet to flush, after much pumping, but was unsure if he did an adequate job of it.

41 - Being Open And Unknowing

For some reason, it's taken me nearly 50 years to realise just how bad at geography my religious teachers were. In a conversation last weekend I remembered the images we were presented with at Sunday School - a blonde, blue-eyed, white, radiant Jesus surrounded by ecstatically happy, ruddy-cheeked children on a verdant hillside with spreading oaks, beeches and willows and a stream (populated with trout and salmon) flowing past while a few Romney sheep contentedly grazed while their coats shone like newly-washed cotton wool.

At the time my infant mind couldn't believe the scene. I'd never been to Israel or England by then but something inside screamed "mismatch!" Now I know why - Jesus lived in Israel (mainly) and they don't have verdant hills, oaks, beeches, willow, trout, salmon or Romney sheep there … and Jesus sure as heck wouldn't have been blonde or blue-eyed.

What we've done, I realised, is made Jesus in our own image - the image of the painters of these religious scenes. In the same way, we've made God in our own image, not the other way round, as per the Bible. That's why there's no mystery about why there are so many different Gods - friendly ones, angry ones, spiteful ones, fatherly ones, loving ones, vengeful ones, forgiving ones - and why there's an equal number of versions of Jesus.

We see what we want to see, what we expect to see, what we've always seen. The only God (or Jesus) we can conjure up is the one from our past. It's like making up a picture of what a radio announcer looks like, from his voice. Then we meet him and he looks quite different. However, we cannot shake off the made-up version, despite the evidence of the real version.

If we've grown up with an angry God who then does something loving to or for us, do we notice? If we've grown up with a sullen God who then does something deliriously funny, do we notice?

Maybe, just maybe, if we decided, based on the lack of tangible evidence to date, that we haven't a clue what God could be like, would we be open to the grandest, most loving version of God that's possible? … and, by extension (if we are created in his image) the grandest, most loving version of ourselves?

Maybe, just maybe, being open and unknowing can lead us to where we could never have imagined going. Just a thought …

And where is Arthur Bayly going? His story continues from the previous blog ...

"Oh, yes, of course," said Arthur, relieved that he could talk to the Lord and a little intimidated that he was actually going to do it.

"Now, Arthur, the touchy bit, I'm afraid," said Mary, obviously faltering while she phrased the next bit. "Your situation is a little … a, interesting. There is a possibility, just a small one, that you could be followed at some time."

"I already am, Mary, by an Australian and his gang," said Arthur, smiling. That bit sounded quite exotic, quite … well, 007ish.

"You are?" asked Mary with evident surprise. "And we thought they … oh, he, was from New Zealand. Gosh … so you know you could be followed again?"

"Yes, I suppose I do," said Arthur, with the exotic label quickly fading while the fearsome one lit in bright neon lights. He wiped his brow.

"So, Arthur, we have a plan," said Mary, who loved plans, Arthur knew. "You're not planning on going anywhere today, are you?"

"No, no, I wasn't …"

"Good, so the plan is this," said Mary. "A tradesman's van will pull up outside your house at 10.30 this morning. He will knock on your door and you're to let him in. Understand?"

"Yes. Is that it?" asked Arthur.

"No, Arthur, I just want to make sure you understand every bit of the procedure," said Mary. "Now, you and the tradesman will exchange clothes and you can then go out and hop into his van. There will be a passenger who will give you driving directions. You can drive, can't you?"

"Uh yes, oh yes, I can drive though it has been a long time," said Arthur, wondering if it was all that much fun being James Bond.

"Now, the tradesman will be Toby McGuire, my secretary. He's younger but about your size," said Mary, obviously ticking things off a list as she conveyed them to him. "You'll be away for an hour or so, if your wife wouldn't mind plying him with cups of tea for that time … and please don't take your cell phone. It can be traced. Do you follow all that?"

"Ah, yes, I think so," said Arthur.

"Good," said Mary. "And good luck."

As Arthur put the phone down he realised his apprehension over meeting - and getting to meet - Lord Atkinson was not his only problem. He had another problem - Joan. How was he going to explain this strange turn of events, especially when she wasn't keen on him starting the project, anyway? As well as that, she'd asked little about the project and he'd told her little. And now, in forty minutes' time, a stranger was going to come through the door, exchange clothes with Arthur and stay in the house while Arthur drove off in his van to destination unknown. How much to tell and where to start? What a conundrum … and one that wasn't going away!

Oh well, gird the loins, take a deep breath (a very deep breath) and wing it - just say whatever comes to mind. 'Yes, one must do just that,' he thought. His brain froze, his body rose and he wondered how he'd got himself in this pickle - life was so regular, ordered and predictable two weeks ago and he'd disliked it. Now, well, yes, it was anything but regular and predictable and, yes, he had to admit it, it was just the tiniest bit exciting. And fearful.

Putting on his sternest face, he strode up the short hallway, turned down the stairs and called for Joan before he reached the bottom.

"Yes dear," said Joan, from the kitchen. "Can it just wait a minute? I was just about to ring Dottie and thank her for her help over the funeral."

"No Joan," said Arthur, frowning rather seriously to himself. "That will have to wait. I'd like to talk to you now, please."

"Oh Arthur, you do sound masterful!" said Joan appearing in the doorway of the lounge where he was standing, waiting. She was wiping her hands on her floral apron. "What is it that's come over you? You're diff …"

"Joan, I'm sorry, but I don't have a lot of time," said Arthur, indicating her chair.

"Right, yes, if you insist …" said Joan, unused to such direction from Arthur.

"Now, at ten thirty a young man I don't know will come to the door," he said, discovering his mouth (or was it his brain that was in charge?) was diving straight in. No preamble at all. "I will let him in, we'll exchange clothes, I will drive off in his van and he will stay here with you until I return. Probably about an hour."

"Right, yes," said Joan. "This stranger - he's quite safe, is he? He won't be torturing me or anything will he?"

"No, of course he won't," said Arthur, not sure if she was joking or being very logical. "He's Mary's secretary, a nice young man by all accounts."

"That's good," said Joan, smiling. "What else did you want to tell me, dear?"

"I … ah, well, that's what's going to happen," said Arthur, expecting objections that didn't eventuate. "I can tell you more if you want to know more."

"not really, if you don't have enough time, Arthur," said Joan. I'll have a whole hour with this charming young man so I can drill him, can't I?"

"Yes, yes, I suppose you can," said Arthur, now wishing she did want to know more so he could tell her. "It's about this Atkinson case, actually."

"Yes, I had guessed that," said Joan. "I'd like to know more about it some time but there's probably not the time now, is there?"

"Well, I could make a start," said Arthur, wondering where that bossy and demanding Joan had gone. A quite pleasant one had stepped into her body somehow, recently.

40 - Basket Case At The End Of The Money

Now that I've got to the end of my money and am now living from credit cards (with no certainty of any conceivable income) I'm having to take a long, hard look at what got me to this situation and, more importantly, what thinking patterns have created this scary predicament.

My conscious mind tells me, "There is no way I would have chosen this … even for my own worst enemies!" So, if I wouldn't choose it for my worst enemies, why did I choose it for myself? Am I my own really, really worst enemy of all time? Obviously, the logic says I must be my own worst enemy and so I must ask why I choose to live in such precarious situations - is there, at some level, a delight in the fearful, the unpredictable and the sleepless nights that go with it all? Maybe, in some bizarre way, I'm a thrill-seeker, a boundary stretcher and a basket case!! A basket case as I really do not like living this way … though, as my friend Nick says, the evidence does not lie - the facts of my life give undeniable testament to what my thinking has created. That's obviously right but I do wish I knew what (hidden) part of my thinking keeps me here.

Also, living with such stress is not a good recipe for creativity. I'm trying to write a fictional book and the best way to get the words to fall to the page is to be calm and open with oneself … a stance I'm finding very difficult at the moment!

I just wish I could have a wander round inside my head and have a good spring-clean of the all the dirty, negative thoughts there, so my life can be on a more sure footing ... how can I do that?

Arthur Bayly would also like to have a more sure footing on his investigation - his story continues from the previous blog ...

The fire brigade report confirmed fire and smoke damage as per the police report, and concluded the fire was started by a petrol-soaked rag which had been tossed through a broken window of the office, near the tyre marks on the lawn.

The report from the ambulance people confirmed the injuries and discomfort as per the police report and that they were ordered from the property by the second group of police. This, again, was most irregular and the ambulance driver and medical assistant both reported their concern, in writing and verbally, to their supervisor at the hospital. The Lord and Lady were later brought in to the hospital by persons unknown in a civilian car. Lord Atkinson's arm was put in a plaster and sling and his rib cage was bandaged. He was released and soon returned with his daughter and son-in-law, who all took turns to be with Lady Atkinson. Lady Atkinson was still suffering from lack of breath and was put on oxygen and was kept in hospital for 26 hours for observation.
A succinct report from MI5 confirmed that they were called to the house, found unqualified and unauthorised people attending the scene. These people were sent away and they then tried to obtain evidence from the Atkinsons as to why they would try to set fire to their own house and what were they trying to hide. The Atkinsons proved to be particularly uncooperative and were dispatched to the local hospital for attendance on their wounds. The report also briefly mentioned that the daughter and son-in-law (Melinda and John Maranui) had been taken to the Croydon office for questioning and no results of that were indicated.

What the MI5 report did not mention was that Melinda and John Maranui were questioned (interrogated?), separately, for four hours without break, in a military-like establishment on the outskirts of Croydon. They were asked about every moment of their lives for the past six years. They averred that they had nothing to hide but the relentlessness of the interrogation team suggested MI5 did not believe this. The guards on the gates kept everyone away until then and, though they were efficient in their duties, their presence awakened an unknowing press contingent that grew by the hour and made it impossible for the incident to remain secret. The more these authorities tried to batten down any information, the more the rumours and misinformation spread.

The report also omitted to mention that a Mr Brown (later presumed to be the lead character of the MI5 team) initially refused to allow Ahmed and his two assessors to enter the property. The insurance team was eventually allowed in, thanks to pressure from the persistent reporters, on the second morning. Ahmed and his team found no smashed windows or doors, but newly-repaired ones. The lawn near the corner of the burned library looked like it had been run over by a hundred different vehicles and no tyre treads could be traced in the remaining slush. Their discoveries differed from all other reports on evidential grounds. Ahmed had also added subjective, speculative notes, suspecting that the MI5 chaps had not found what they were looking for and had given up.

Lord and Lady Atkinson had written a statement, along with his insurance claim for property missing - none of it particularly valuable and all of it portable. Their statement confirmed that, at 10.30 pm, they were about to leave for Heathrow airport to pick up their daughter and son-in-law when they heard a crash downstairs and, shortly after, four men in black (including balaclavas) burst into their bedroom as they were putting on their jackets and tied them up. The four men, who could not be identified as they said nothing and their faces were covered, proceeded back down the stairs to ransack the office downstairs. A vehicle, probably a four-wheel-drive, by the sound of it, drove off at high speed and the smell of burning was soon detected.

Arthur felt that it was all quite clear but for the dissenting report from MI5, which could not be ignored. And, what were they doing at the scene, ordering everybody about? Lord Atkinson may have been a politician but a break-in was hardly cause for such tactics or such high-level investigation … unless they knew something no one else did. Surely such a high profile person as the Minister of Immigration wouldn't risk his reputation and position with silly misdeeds.

The uncomfortable truth - something he did not really want to admit to himself - was that he needed to meet with Lord Atkinson and hear his story. Arthur had the claim he and his wife had completed but there was something behind the facts, the bland objectivity of a list of items missing and actions taken, that Arthur needed to get to. In order to accept or reject part or whole of any claim, there had to be clear evidence (or lack of it) to substantiate his decision. With the FSA breathing down his neck, he could not take any chances or have any ambiguity. Somehow, he needed to talk to Lord Atkinson and/or his wife. As these unwelcome thoughts crowded his mind, his phone rang.

"Good morning, Arthur Bayly speaking," said Arthur.

"Arthur, how are you? How is it all going? Any progress?" asked a breathless Mary.

"Yes, yes, making progress …"

"Good, good, Arthur," said Mary, interrupting. "Now, I have a favour to ask and I know it would help. It would speed up your investigation."

"Oh?" said Arthur, thinking this was beginning to sound like a request he couldn't refuse.

"Now, I hope you don't mind, but Lord Atkinson wanted to know who was dealing with the case," said Mary, in full flight. "I gave him your name."

"Oh! Mary!" said Arthur. "Is that a good idea? Should we be talking to him directly?"

"Arthur, we're insurance investigators, not solicitors," said Mary, as if telling off a young child. "We're not acting for his prosecutors, we're assessing his insurance claim and we need all the facts we can get, from any source available."

39 - Loss, Lack and Let-Down

We went through the cost and hassle (and, boy, what a hassle!) of moving from Surrey to Oxfordshire as a university promised me a job and a particular income, in writing. Then, unbeknown to me, they couldn't get enough students and then cut the promised income to a quarter of the original sum … perhaps. The start date and many other aspects of the position became much more uncertain. In the end, I decided I needed to be treated with more respect and that we didn't need to be living in a swamp of uncertainty and indecision - I resigned the position and trusted in God that something else would come along … they will come!

Now, we could have felt anger, bitterness and unfairness about all of that - and what would that have done? Just got us feeling anger, bitterness and unfairness!

Actually it did - we were very angry, bitter and revengeful about them … and very fearful for our very uncertain future.

However, the university ain't gonna change. So, with the help of our friend, Nick, we realised we had LOSS, LACK and LET DOWN floating round in our minds and, out of that, we had created LOSS, LACK and LET DOWN in our lives! As Nick said, the evidence does not lie … the fact of our lives is irrefutable proof that LOSS, LACK and LET DOWN are inside us. How else could we manifest it?

So, having realised that, the three of us gave those three Ls, in prayer, to the Holy Spirit to undo and, after that, all the stress and all other negative thoughts went ... and then I got a call to have an interview. Since then, I've had another call - I obviously got the CEO's approval - and so we're off to Swindon for a 2nd interview, to see if the branch manager likes me too! They have come!

And now Arthur's ideas have come, with "three or more" gathered together to bring in the ideas. His story is continued from the previous blog ...

"Uh, we have search agents ... oh, my gosh, of course!" exclaimed Arthur. "It's what I've done for the past thirty years! How stupid of me! Why didn't I think of it before?"

"Because you needed your highly intelligent son to do it for you," said Martin, smiling. "Must be something in the air - we're all losing it! But that's OK, isn't it. Emily?"

"Absolutely," said Emily, looking very relieved, Arthur thought. Maybe the possible solution Martin proposed has given her hope. Maybe Martin has given her hope, somehow. Whatever the reason, Martin felt hugely grateful for his son and sweetly happy for Emily. The poignancy seemed to touch as a gentle silence filled the room and no one seemed to want to disturb it.

"Look, I've got some contacts who might be able to help," said Martin, eventually, his usual restlessness reasserting itself. "And you must have some, Dad. So why don't we get together in a few days' time to see where we're at and take it from there?"

"Excuse me, Mister, but could I go to the car races with you?" asked Chloe.

"Oh my God, I'm not going to get away with this am I!" said Martin. "Look, it's now Wednesday and Brands Hatch is this Saturday and I think my mate, Stuart the steward, could wangle some tickets for us. Why don't we all go for the day on Saturday - kids and all - and we can see what we've turned up about Chloe's grandad then."

"Emily, do you want to join us?" asked Joan.

"Oh, ah," said Emily as if rising from a trance. "Yes, that would be lovely. Absolutely lovely!"

"Look, I've got to go and pick up the kids from school, so let's swap cell phone numbers, Emily, and you can give me all the details I need later on tonight," said Martin, picking Chloe up and dumping her playfully back into his chair. She giggled and leapt up to grab his leg. "Sorry, kiddo, but the silly crying man has to go now."

Joan stood up to give Martin a hug goodbye and she held him for a long time, crying gently.

Arthur stood to shake Martin's hand but Martin grabbed him in a bear hug.

"Oh, oh ..." said Arthur, taken aback.

"Thank you so much, Dad," said Martin. "Just for being there. You don't know how much it means." Martin then shook Emily's hand, formally, awkwardly, ruffled Chloe's hair and sort of skipped from the room. "I'll be in touch with you all," he called as he went out the front door.
______________________

Arthur found it most difficult to concentrate on his work but he just had to get it done … and quickly. He'd yearned, just a little, for more excitement in his life and now he had that, along with fear and confusion … in spades as he'd heard them say.

Joan had helped him move the bed against the wall in their third bedroom and they'd set up the desk in front of the window. It was most fortunate that a builder, some forty years ago, had had the foresight to place both a power and a phone switch in that corner and he now has a lovely aspect, with his desk, computer and phone, looking over their small back yard, over to the St Mary Magdalene church, with the afternoon sun smiling in at him.

Yes, most pleasant had it not been for the unnerving situation he now found himself. He'd spread the files out on his bed, in vaguely logical order, and tried to reconcile them all. It seemed that Lord and Lady Atkinson had both been tied up while their house was being burgled and then burglars had set it alight as they left. Unfortunately, Lord Atkinson had resisted, most strongly, and his arm and rib had been broken in the struggle. Though their property, Darmley House, was large and unseen from the road, their daughter and son-in-law had just returned from New Zealand, wondered why they'd not been met at the airport and, sensing something wrong, immediately took a taxi from Heathrow to the property near Kings Wood in Surrey. That seemed quite clear to Arthur. The reports he had, however, weren't so clear.

The local police reported that they had been called by a John Maranui, the son-in-law, along with an ambulance and fire brigade. The bottom storey of one wing of the house - containing the office, mainly - had been extensively damaged while the rest of the house was untouched, except for smoke damage. Lady Atkinson was having difficulty breathing, with the shock and her asthma, and Lord Atkinson was in considerable pain but would not leave the house to have his arm and rib attended to at the hospital - the ambulance people treated him as best they could, with a temporary brace and sling. He insisted on helping the police inspection of his burned office and was looking for an item or items (undisclosed) quite frantically. Tyre marks were noticed across part of the lawn, near the office and Sergeant Tomlins felt it was most likely from a four-wheel-drive vehicle. He had no chance to confirm this. A half hour into their investigation, four more police turned up.

Initially, they were thought to be the finger-print experts who had been called but, it turned out, they were from a higher branch of the police, though they would give no clear details of who they were. The local police were ordered to leave the premises and were told not to report the incident. This was most irregular and the Sergeant Tomlins insisted on completing a report, on behalf of his team, and forwarding copies to both his supervisors and to the Atkinsons' insurance company, AIL.

38 - Of Change, Words and Low-Hanging Apples

It's been some time since I wrote my daily blog - 21 days, in fact! Hardly a daily blog, then!

Firstly, we were looking for a place to live and for a job to pay for the house to live in. We couldn't believe that one estate company could embody so much lying, inertia, incompetence and confusion. We tried to stay calm and God-like through the process but we still have a wee way to go in the Godliness stakes! Anyway, if you're looking to rent or buy a house in England, we can tell you which firm NOT to use!

So, we're now in our nice wee house and still trying to have a job/income happen - more promises and little action. There seems to be a love of telling you what they're going to do and of telling you what they've done … but no actual doing. Still trying to maintain that peaceful, Christ-like state … very trying!

Then, amid all the change process, I realised that I had several nearly-written books and so I decided to complete five of them and then get back to Arthur Bayly's story ... something about picking the low-hanging apples first. The five will be available on Amazon very soon, along with the other three already there.

So, that's my excuse for not writing any more of Arthur's story, which continues here from the previous blog on 7th September …

"Joan, JOAN!" said Arthur, unable to contain himself. "Just leave well alone and give Martin space to work himself out or whatever they say. He's a grown, intelligent man and I don't think he's about to sink into depression or alcoholism or anything ..."

"But," said Joan. "I just thought it would be so nice ..."
"It would be more nice if we stopped ordering others' lives around and let them be, Darling," said Arthur, patting her hand and smiling gently.

"Thanks Dad, thanks," said Martin, wiping tears from his cheek. Emily had not taken her hand from his knee and he looked at her, smiling softly.

"Oh, I suppose you're right, Arthur," said Joan sighing. "But you used to be such a dynamo, Martin, a bossy britches and now you've gone all gooey and soft. It's just not the Martin I know."

"Well, if it's goo he needs to be right now, then goo's fine," said Emily. "The goo will set in its own sweet time."

"Oh Emily," said Martin, his hand now on hers. "Thanks for that. I keep thinking I'm losing it. I really don't like myself at the moment but I can't seem to stop it. My mind just wanders off and doesn't come back and I'm so moody, up and down, roundabout. I'd hate to know what the kids think. He put his cup on the coffee table, sat back and sighed.

"What they think, Martin, is that you're there - with them, feeding them, putting them to bed, taking them to school," said Emily. "Yes, they may have a cranky father, at times, but at the moment you're there and they know that."

Martin collapsed back into the chair with both hands over his eyes, unable to stifle his sobbing.

"Oh Martin ..." said Joan, leaping up to comfort him.

"No Joan, let him cry," said Emily with quiet authority.

"But, my poor darling needs a hug," said Joan, standing there indecisively.

"No Joan, you need a hug as you feel uncomfortable," said Emily. "But your hug will stop his tears and he needs to let it all out. Wait till he stops."

"Oh, OK," said Joan sitting quietly, obviously caught between seeing her son's pain and thinking about this new idea of Emily's.

"Oh, Emily, you do understand!" said Martin. "I feel such a fool, such a failure, but I can't make it stop. But you say it will pass?"

"Yes Martin, it will if you don't try to stop all the sadness and anger and everything else bubbling up when they want to. It probably doesn't feel like it's getting better and then, one day, you'll realise that you've been quite coherent and normal for hours on end - maybe a whole day - and you start to feel like there's progress at last."

"Oh Martin," said Joan. "I know where you got your bossy britches from - me! Sorry to be so pushy but I just want to see you happy ..."

"Yes, I know, Mum," said Martin, wiping his eyes with a smile. "But if our resident psychologist here is right, you might have to see me not-happy off and on for a while yet. It's such a relief to know it's OK that I can be like this. Thank you Emily, thank you so much." His hands went to his face as another sob came up.

"Are you alright Mithter?" asked Chloe, standing beside him. Arthur had been unaware of her actually walking over there and wondered how she had just materialised beside his son.

"Yes thanks, young lass," said Martin, also surprised at her presence. "I'm going mad but your mummy said it's OK to do that." He chuckled and it infected the rest of the room. Everyone smiled with relief.

"Can I sit on your knee, Mister?" asked Chloe.

"What? With this blubbering old man?" said Martin, his humour returning. "Of course you can and before you get up can you get me one of those biscuits, please? This is all very draining."

Chloe fetched a biscuit and then snuggled up into Martin's solid frame and everyone settled back with a sigh.

"Well," said Arthur, after a minute of peaceful silence. "We were saying that the right thing or person always turns up when we ask for it. You remember saying that, Dear?"

"Oh yes I did," said Joan. "That feels like hours ago!"

"Well, we thought Martin was going to be the answer for Emily but it was the other way round, wasn't it!" said Arthur, smiling at his wisdom.

"You know what, Arthur? You're right!" said Joan. "We knew a solution was at hand but we were looking for the wrong one!"

"What's this all about questions and answers and solutions?" asked Martin, looking quite content, snuggled up with Chloe.

"Well, before you arrived ... actually the reason Emily is here, I think, is that her father has gone missing and no one knows where he is," said Arthur. "Not the police, not his work, not Emily. Quite a mystery."

"And I miss my grandad," said Chloe.

"Of course you do," said Martin, gently.

"So, we were trying to work out what to do next," said Joan. "We asked the universe for an answer and you turned up!"

"You asked the universe?" asked Martin.

"Don't worry about that," said Arthur, a little embarrassed. "Some silly new theory, I think. Anyway, Emily's father, Sam Lord, was just not at work last Thursday, didn't turn up and hasn't been seen since."

"Not the Sam Lord ... your boss?" asked Martin.

"Yes, my boss," said Martin.

"And the answer's not staring you in the face, Dad?" asked Martin, surprised.

"Well no, Martin, it isn't," said Arthur.

"Look Dad, what do you do when clients make a claim for missing property - cars, furniture or whatever ... even people?" asked Martin.