Letters From London

Why birdsong?

2012-01-24T06:04:00.001Z

I wonder, were you awake at four o'clock this morning?

It's a time when I'm usually asleep, but this morning something woke me . . . something very loud and persistent . . . a sound that seemed to be coming from directly outside the window. It took a few moments for me to rouse myself and recognise what it was that I was hearing.

Not the traffic that you'd expect to hear in Central London, not the drone of low-flying aircraft . . . in complete contrast, it was the dawn chorus, the soaring notes of birdsong.

To my bemused mind it was as though all the birds in London, augmented by an influx of vociferous relatives from the suburbs, had congregated in our communal garden to give of their best. I didn't make this recording, but it will give you some idea of the amazing sound I heard.

I'm sure there's a good, biological reason why birds sing so loudly in the dark of a January morning. I'm sure there's an equally good reason why they should be singing with such abandonment three hours before sunrise. But, in this instance, I'd rather remain ignorant, so please don't tell me.

Let's stay with the questions . . . does it take one bird to start the chorus? Is it the same bird each morning . . . the early riser? And the others, snoozing peacefully on their branches, are they reluctantly summoned from sleep to participate?

What is so remarkable is that every different variety co-operates in this morning burst of song. They may well be establishing territorial claims, I don't know, but the actual song is one of unrestrained, joyful co-operation.

Quite apart from the question as to why birds sing in the early morning, why do they sing at all? Other species don't need to make music to attract a mate, warn off a rival, or sound an alarm. And, whilst we're asking questions, why do cats purr? To the best of my knowledge, no other mammal makes such evident sounds of pleasure.

Finally, why do we laugh? In the terms of the evolution of the human species there is not the slightest need for laughter. Yet we've been blessed with this wonderful, infectious ability that deflates pomposity and enriches our lives.

The memory of this morning's dawn chorus is still with me. It didn't just brighten the four o'clock darkness, it brightened the day. In these darkened times, we need a song in the darkness . . . a positive note to offset the headlines in the morning paper. We need birdsong . . . and purring . . . and laughter. And, as with the birds in the garden this morning, it needs to be communal to be fully effective.

"First there was birdsong," so the saying goes, "then birds were created to sing."

We can't let them sing on their own.

Let's challenge the darkness and join them . . . !

A Tale of Two Candles

2012-01-16T06:31:00.002Z

I think that the New Year could do with a heart-warming story, don't you?

Last Wednesday I had reason to visit Piccadilly. Whenever I find myself in Piccadilly I try to allow time to spend a few minutes sitting quietly in St.James's church.

Part of Wren's magnificent legacy to London, St. James's is far more than a beautiful building. In the words of its current statement of purpose, it is called, amongst other things:

* to create a space where people of any faith or none can question and discover the sacred in life through openness, struggle and laughter and prayer

* to a common commitment to be in solidarity with poor and marginalised people and to cherish creation.

If you wander in, as I did last Wednesday, you can be certain to encounter a wonderful cross-section of visitors. After settling myself in a pew at the back of the church, I looked around.

The middle-aged couple holding hands, what had drawn them to St. James's? Were they celebrating good news, or marking a wedding anniversary? As I watched, they crossed to the metal candle-stand, carefully lit two candles and, smiling happily at each other, placed a donation in the box as they made their way out of the door.

Several people were sitting quietly in the pews, some were curled up asleep. A tramp, with his meagre cluster of possessions beside him, rose to his feet as the couple departed. He, too, was drawn to the candle-stand. After facing the flickering lights for a few moments, he bent down, took two candles out of the box, lit them carefully, placed them in a prime position and then, after a moment of quiet reflection, returned to his pew.

I had an appointment, it was time for me to go. However, I needed to say 'thank you' before leaving. Rising, I crossed to the stand where eight candles were now burning brightly.

Candles are surprisingly powerful. How often in our daily life can we create a living light? How often can we leave a tangible, lasting memory of our departed presence in a place that we value?

But my intention was thwarted. The only candles were those already burning, the candle-box was empty. It was foolish, I told myself, to feel so disappointed. There was nothing to prevent me from leaving a donation without actually lighting a candle.

I was about to turn away when I realised that someone was standing at my shoulder. It was the tramp. Reaching forward, he removed the two candles he had placed in position only a few moments previously. He then blew them out and ran his grimy fingers down the wicks to quell the smoke. When this operation was complete, he carefully returned the two candles to the box. After giving me an engaging, conspiratorial grin, he made his way back to his pew.

The candles were still warm as I retrieved them. Carefully, I relit the wicks and returned the candles to their previous places on the stand. Was it my heightened imagination, or did they shine even more brightly on this second occasion?

I made my donation as I left . . . a totally inadequate recompense for the gift that St. James's had given me.

Who's sleeping in my bed?

2012-01-10T06:09:00.001Z

Tell me, do you sleep well on holidays?

I used to think that my holiday sleep was fitful . . . an unfamiliar bed . . . an unfamiliar room . . . an over-excited cat for company. Last week's experience has made me think again.

Chloe and I were having a short break in Surrey. A wonderful time during which Chloe, in addition to some serious tree-climbing, became completely addicted to the joys of hotel life.

But, after three days, it was time to respond to the needs of the New Year. Albeit reluctantly, we had to go home.

Was it Chloe who woke me that last morning? I'm not sure. But I came out of sleep a little befuddled. Although the curtains were thick and the room dark, a shaft of light between the curtains indicated morning. Where, I wondered sleepily, was Chloe?

Turning my head I could just make out a shape on the adjoining pillow. I was puzzled, it seemed too large for Chloe, too large and too pale . . . cautiously, I stretched out an enquiring hand.

My fingers met with a sizeable, material-covered frame. Thoroughly startled, I peered into the shadows at what appeared to be a large lampshade.

A lampshade? What had Chloe been up to . . . for surely no-one else had been in the bedroom during the night?

The only lamp in which I could recall her expressing any interest had been the one in the hotel lounge.

By now, I was waking up fast and, as I did so, I realised that it wasn't just the lampshade on the pillow, there was something else sharing the bed. Instead of Chloe's familiar body curled into mine, stretched out beside me I could feel a long and heavy intruder.

Again, I extended an apprehensive hand to investigate. This time my groping fingers encountered the cold surface of polished glass.

Memory flooded in. Hadn't there been a tall lamp on the bedside table? As though to endorse this conclusion, my new sleeping partner gave off a series of alarming sparks and a low fizz!

Hurriedly jumping out of bed, I crossed to the window and pulled back the curtains. Light flooded the room revealing all too clearly that, lying alongside where I'd been sleeping was a substantial, glass table-lamp, its detached lampshade positioned neatly on the pillow.

How one small cat had managed to 'fell' a large table lamp, far less move such a cumbersome trophy across the bed, was beyond my comprehension. Even more astonishing was how I'd continued to slumber peacefully during the noise and upheaval.

With the utmost care, I lifted the heavy lamp, re-positioned it on the beside table, and replaced the shade. Cautiously, I switched it on . . . and discovered to my relief that it was still working!

Chloe, who had been monitoring my activities from the safety of the window-sill, registered pleasure when the bedroom furnishings were back to normal.

"Time to go home!" I told her sternly.

Even if her gaze turned wistfully towards the Surrey countryside, she knew in her heart of hearts that this was no time to argue . . . all good things, she was fast learning, eventually came to an end!

Happy New Year!

2011-12-31T09:05:00.000Z

I wonder if your feelings on New Year's Eve are similar to mine? As the old year creeps and creaks its way to an exhausted conclusion, I find myself awaiting the new version with a sense of hope and relief.

By the end of December I'm badly in need of a new year. Three hundred and sixty-five days are as much as I can cope with in one session.

I suppose it's illogical to have this concept of a new beginning. After all, what is a New Year? Nothing more than a date on a calendar, a man-made invention.

True, the cycle of the year is dictated by the movement of our solar system, but, other than the summer and winter solstices indicating a pause for reflection, there is nothing to indicate when a new year should start.

It is characteristic of English caution in such matters that we were late in joining the January 1st enthusiasts. Early in the sixteenth century, Venice, Sweden and The Holy Roman Empire were the first to opt for January 1st as their choice for New Year's Day. They were soon to be followed by Holland, France and Norway, whilst Scotland joined the club fifty years later. The English, who preferred to start their year on March 25th, stuck to their chosen date for a further two centuries. Only in 1752 did we come in from the cold and join the majority of Europe in their New Year celebrations.

In our globalised world, it's hard to imagine anything other than uniformity over the date of the New Year. Fiscal and educational reasons alone make it imperative. But, as I see it, the emotional need outweighs all others.

To be given a whole new year . . . twelve unblemished months . . . an empty book with three hundred and sixty-five blank pages . . . it's a priceless gift.

Not only that, it's a chance to draw a line under the difficulties and worries of the year that has come to a close. It's a time to take stock, to make resolutions . . . all right, I know we don't necessarily keep them, but the act of considering and making a resolution is a valuable exercise in itself. A New Year, a new chance, a new opportunity, a new beginning.

From every point of view, social, economic and environmental, 2011 was a roller-coaster of a journey. What is 2012 waiting to teach us? Time alone will tell. But, as of this moment, it's virgin territory with unlimited potential . . . who could ask for more?

So, let's take a deep breath . . . hold hands . . . trust in the cosmic, evolutionary plan . . . and, as pioneers, step forward into the unknown.

Happy New Year!

Should auld acquaintances . . . ?

2011-12-26T06:57:00.008Z

Do you understand the complex etiquette of Christmas cards?

I wish I did.

Over the years my Christmas card list has steadily grown longer and longer. First come the cards I exchange with friends and family. Then come the cards exchanged with acquaintances from the past, people whom it's good to hear from once a year.

But, looking at my list last month, I realised that it included a considerable number of recipients whom I only ever hear from at Christmas and now barely know. At what point, I wondered, is it right for auld acquaintances to be quietly forgotten?

I'm sure you know what I mean. There's that pleasant couple that you met on holiday and exchanged cards with the following Christmas, how long should they stay on the list? Or, as in my case, there's the old school friend whom I haven't met since our schooldays. We weren't close friends in our teens, does she still want to keep in touch? Most illogical of all is the card I receive annually from my mother's cleaning-lady's daughter.

During my childhood in Kent, my mother had a cleaning-lady. Over the years they became good friends and, when we moved to Somerset, they continued to exchange cards at Christmas. When my mother died, the cleaning-lady maintained the tradition by

sending Christmas cards to me. It was when the cleaning-lady died that things became convoluted. Her daughter, whom I'd only met once (she was eight and I was ten) clearly felt obliged to maintain her mother's Christmas card list. For several years now I've been receiving an annual card from my mother's cleaning-lady's daughter, about whom I know absolutely nothing!

Heartened by the conviction that these people, and several others, would be relieved to strike my name off their Christmas card lists, I came to a decision. After careful selection, I made a list of seventeen cards that I would only send if the potential recipient acted first.

What happened? You've guessed it! All those cards that I never expected to receive came flocking through the letter-box. Even more surprising, for the first time for years many carried not just a signature, but a personal message and an enquiry. Not having posted their cards in advance, I was able to respond to these enquiries and forge new links with old friends.

Did I hear from my mother's cleaning-lady's daughter? Much to my surprise, hers was the first card to arrive! But it wasn't until I opened it that I realised how I value this link with the past.

No matter that we wouldn't recognise each other, that we know nothing of each other's lives . . we meet across the years, re-establishing memories through the exchange of cards.

Is it so very fanciful to liken Christmas cards to that first Christmas star? Like the star, they act as heralds to the Christmas story . . . and. in the manner of that first star, they shine their welcome light in the most unexpected places!

A Deaf Musician

2011-12-20T06:40:00.001Z

As though a deaf musician, I am part

Of some great orchestra I cannot hear.

The only notes that fall upon my ear

Are those which rise unbidden from the heart

And offer teasing glimpses of the art

Of harmony. Yet have I heard, in clear,

Still moments of perception, what appear

As distant drum-beats; pulses that impart

A rhythm to the cosmic melody.

Then, with a quick'ning joy, I see that I

Am moving to creation's symphony.

As birds that wheel and dart across the sky

To secret music, so it seems that we

Can sometimes see the patterns as we fly.

A Hot-Water Squirrel

2011-12-12T06:32:00.008Z

As always, Shakespeare puts it perfectly:

"How easy," says Theseus, in 'A Midsummer Night's Dream', "is a bush supposed a bear".

Does that sound familiar? It does to me. It brings back times when, hurrying home on a dark night, shadows can take on unexpected forms. Times when a rustle, unnoticed by daylight, is suddenly menacing.

Nor is this tendency for self-delusion limited to foolish humans. Chloe, my cat, has started to display an over-active imagination . . . and it's causing problems.

In her case, it's not a simple question of confusing bushes with bears, more a troubling case of mistaking an innocent hot-water bottle for a squirrel.

None of my previous cats had this problem. On the contrary, diverse as their characters were in many ways, they all appreciated a hot-water bottle for the comfort it offered.

But Chloe, influenced, perhaps, by the daily thrill of chasing squirrels in the garden, sees things very differently!

Is it, I wonder, the warmth of the hot-water bottle . . . the flexibility of the rubber . . . the gurgle of the water inside . . . the furriness of the cover? I wish I knew. All that can be said with certainty is that, to Chloe, the sight of a hot-water bottle is every bit as potent as the proverbial red rag to a bull.

My inoffensive bottle was minding its own business at the bottom of the bed when Chloe first became conscious of the warmth. She then detected the bulge. With all the enthusiasm and fighting spirit of her tiger ancestors, she dragged this intruder from between the sheets and went straight for its jugular. When I finally managed to rescue her mauled victim, it seemed best to bury it beneath a cushion on the bedroom chair.

I'd reckoned without Chloe's tenacity. Within minutes, she'd unearthed her prey and was dragging it triumphantly around the flat. For its own safety, and to prevent it from being punctured, the long-suffering hot-water bottle had to be confined to a drawer.

I was left with a problem: how to warm the bed in the depths of winter?

A cunning plan is now in force. An hour before I go to bed the bottle is placed between the sheets, the door to the bedroom is then firmly closed. On going to bed, the hot-water bottle is discretely removed and secreted from the room without a keen-eyed Chloe catching sight of these operational tactics. The bottle then spends the night hidden deep beneath a pile of towels in the bathroom.

It's true that Chloe's warm body, curled up beside me under the covers, acts every bit as efficiently for my middle regions as the missing hot-water bottle . . . although this doesn't solve the problem of chilly feet.

I'm sorry, forget that I mentioned my cold feet . . . it's not a thought to leave you with at Christmas.

Instead, let's follow Chloe's example and go in search of angels. Contrary to appearances, this beautiful, seasonal angel is completely safe. Whilst anyone might be forgiven for mistaking a bush for a bear, not even Chloe's wishful thinking could mistake a crystal angel for a squirrel!

"Climb Every Clothes-Horse"

2011-11-29T06:38:00.001Z

Please, don't get me wrong. I love sharing my life with a cat. But the winter months, particularly when the cat is a highly-energetic two-year-old, pose problems. It is a time when my abilities to provide sufficient stimulus and entertainment are put to the test.

With the dawn delaying its arrival until breakfast, and the lights

needing to be switched on for afternoon tea, Chloe's three daily squirrel hunts in the garden are becoming concertinaed into an ever-shortening time span. At times it feels as though it's barely worth removing my coat. It also means that there's a very long evening during which a lively young cat needs to amuse herself.

Boxes are a never-failing source of entertainment, but they can hardly be called demanding, and this autumn, with the arrival of the long evenings, Chloe felt in need of a challenge.

I think I told you of my beechwood clothes-horse whose huge delivery box was promptly claimed for games of hide-and-seek. All went well so long as she restricted herself to the box. But what enterprising cat could be content with a mere box once they've discovered a clothes-horse? Not Chloe!

This wonderful and unexpected edifice in the bathroom provided her with the challenges she had yearned for. It was tall . . . it was tricky to climb . . . and when, wobbling slightly, your paws finally gained the top rung, there was an undoubted sense of achievement.

Chloe took triumphant possession of the clothes-horse!

What happens to my wet clothes?

It's a good question. Chloe comes in from the garden and, en route to her favourite perch, happily initials each item of wet clothing with large, muddy paw prints!

I think that this picture speaks for itself.

Knowing Chloe's disposition, she could well be singing:

"Climb Every Clothes-Horse"!

The Caterpillar's Story

2011-11-20T06:43:00.004Z

Let me tell you a story.

It's a tale of transformation, a story about change. It could, perhaps, be said to be a story about us.

But let's call it what it is . . . a story about a caterpillar. The history of every caterpillar.

Every caterpillar, once it has gorged its way through all the tasty leaves in its vicinity, arrives at a predetermined destination. It becomes a larvae.

Cocooned in this new form, it rests its bloated body and starts to mutate.

However, a disturbing thing is about to happen . . . disturbing, that is, from the point of view of the caterpillar.

There takes place what can only be called in internal invasion.

Within the cocoon what are known as imaginal cells start to take form. The caterpillar sees these small cells as an alien invasion and, much as our bodies would respond to a viral infection, fights the invaders by means of its immune system.

Initially, some of the imaginal cells are destroyed, but, such is the determination of these new arrivals, such is the rapidity of their proliferation, that, within a short period, they have multiplied sufficiently to take over the host body. The caterpillar surrenders and the conquering cells emerge from the cocoon in the form that destiny has chosen for them, they emerge as a butterfly.

That is an accurate, biological account of nature's skilful means of converting a rapacious, earthbound caterpillar into a dazzling, airborne butterfly . . . a creature that lives lightly on the land it embellishes.

I won't insult your intelligence by driving home any morals to the story But I would just suggest, very gently, that those imaginal cells knew what they were doing. They knew where they were going. They could picture the wings that awaited them, the scented air where they would hover.

If caterpillars want to remain rapacious and earthbound in the face of such inspirational determination, well . . . however voraciously they may have gorged in the past, they don't really have a chance . . . do they . . .

A Bright Yellow Angel

2011-11-15T06:22:00.000Z

What would we do without our Guardian Angels? But have you heard of a Guardian Angel that took the guise of a bright yellow van? No, nor had I until last week.

If you've a moment to spare, I'll tell you the story.

There's a building site adjacent to where I live. Every day an incessant convoy of lorries streams past our front door. Recently the components of this convoy have changed to allow for a new stage in the development. In addition to the lorries there are

now cement-mixers.

Understandably, everything in the vicinity has been receiving a regular dusting of cement. It penetrates the windows fronting the street, and each day I dust it off my car.

Rain would have helped to lay the dust and wash it away, but for many weeks prior to my trip to Somerset there had been no rain.

I travelled down a dry and dusty M4 motorway and, whilst I was away, the sun continued to shine from a cloudless sky. It wasn't until the day of my return that the long overdue rain was forecast for the south-west.

It was evident that rain was approaching as I started for home, and the lowering clouds grew heavier as I approached Bath. Soon it was necessary to put on the headlights . . . then the rain arrived. Not a gentle shower, but a torrential downpour that had clearly come to make its mark.

For the first time for many weeks, the windscreen wipers had to be brought into action. But, as they moved up and across the screen, they drew with them a thick, white veil. In shocked disbelief, I struggled to see through the veil to the rain-drenched road beyond.

What had happened? It was only then I realised. Unbeknown to me, the cement that I had regularly dusted off the screen had become lodged behind the windscreen wipers. Now, mixing with the falling rain, it was doing what cement dust is supposed to do . . . it was turning into cement!

The car was now approaching the M4 motorway with heavy traffic on all sides. It was barely possible to see ahead, it was equally impossible to stop. The rain grew heavier, the oncoming headlights flared off the cement on the windscreen . . . the journey was fast becoming a nightmare.

Once on the motorway I was spared the oncoming headlights. Instead, I could dimly make out a very bright yellow van travelling ahead of me in the near lane. Even through the veil of cement, the yellow van was unmistakeable. Thankfully, I tucked myself in behind this gleaming vehicle and prayed that it would lead me all the way to London.

It took nearly fifty miles for the last of the cement to finally wash away from the windscreen. As clarity of vision was restored I realised that we were approaching a junction. The yellow van signalled that it was leaving the motorway and sped off to the left, leaving me, for the first time, able to focus through the windscreen to the rainswept road ahead. The clouds were lifting. I switched off the headlights.

Thanks entirely to my bright yellow Guardian Angel, I reached London safely.

As for cement mixers . . . I'll be looking at them very differently in the future!

Mountains laid low?

2011-11-08T06:41:00.002Z

I am, perhaps, taking on a Goliath with a very small pebble. Nonetheless, it must be said that, on one point at least, I don't agree with the prophet Isaiah.

"Let every valley be lifted up . . . " he declares, " . . . and every mountain and hill be made low . . . "

Why . . . ? Surely we need valleys? Every bit as great is the need for

mountains.

Without a mountain how can you hope to get the unparalleled view from the mountain top, the sense of perspective that this view provides, the satisfaction of the climb and the humbling of the personal ego?

Without a valley where can the rivers run, the lush vegetation proliferate and people and animals find relaxation, food and shelter?

For three days last week, Chloe and I enjoyed a holiday in Somerset.

The unfamiliar, country environment proved intoxicating to my urban cat.

Why had no-one ever told her about the excitement afforded by dry-stone-walls, and the heady smells of the country? She was determined to make up for lost time immediately on arrival!

But, for me, the highlight came the following morning. On pulling back the curtains I looked out of our south-facing window.

Spread out before me was a panoramic view of the gentle, Somerset countryside. The sun was rising behind the trees, the mist was rolling up the valley . . . and the effect?

There's only one word for it, it was breathtaking . . . totally breathtaking.

Without the hills, without the valleys . . . would there have been that incredible connection with the numinous?

Surely we need hills and valleys, both physical and metaphorical, not only to provide a challenge, but also to offer the blessings of awe and wonder?

To take this argument further, wouldn't you agree that human beings also have need of light and shade?

The brilliant sunlight, glistening and gleaming on the ivy leaves in this photo, needs the deep shade. It offers contrast and enhances its brilliance. By the same token, the shade itself would lack its velvety depths were it not thrown into relief by the intensity of the sunshine.

Ours is a world of contrast, wonderful contrast. Day and night . . . hot and cold . . . height and depth . . . each extreme sharpening our appreciation of its opposite.

Mountains and hills laid low . . . ? I'm sorry, Isaiah, but in this instance I beg to differ!

Alarm Bells Ringing!

2011-10-30T14:05:00.000Z

It was such a kind thought . . . it guaranteed that never again would I lose my keys . . . but . . .

Let me start at the beginning. A month ago, very foolishly, I lost the only set of keys to my car. In consequence I was stranded. Not only was it impossible to move the car, it was equally impossible to open the car door and get inside. Only after producing the log-book, my passport, proof of residence and a large cheque, could I apply for a new one.

As I'm sure you'll understand, when the new key finally arrived it was very precious.

A kind friend, anxious to support me and ensure that no key was ever lost again, came up with the perfect solution . . . a key-ring that let you know when it was missing.

A key-ring that flashed its eyes, miaowed loudly, and took the form of a small, black cat.

Needless to say, Chloe was totally intrigued . . . and more than a little disconcerted by the dazzling eyes and ear-splitting yowl of this newcomer!

This was a cat who wouldn't be easy to lose!

I fastened the helpful black cat to my bundle of keys, and felt reassured that they would never be lost again.

True, it was a little startling to hear a loud wail when I fumbled in my handbag and squeezed the small cat by mistake, but it was all in a very good cause.

Keys have a tough life. Pushed in and out of pockets, dropped into copious handbags, they are constantly on the move, constantly under pressure. Not surprisingly, the small chain connecting the black cat to the key-ring became broken.

But this posed no problem. There was a small loop in the middle of the cat's back which enabled it to be connected directly to the main body of keys. If anything, my keys were even safer than before.

It was the day after the small black cat had been attached in its new position (in close proximity to the car key-fob) that I needed to use the car.

Don't ask me what the small black cat said to the key-fob, but the key-fob's response was instantaneous!

As I turned the key in the ignition the car burst into life and sped off down the road to the strident accompaniment of the alarm siren screaming at full blast! It was as though I'd been kidnapped by a demented police car.

Desperately, I looked for some means, any means, of switching off the alarm . . . with no success. Passers-by stopped to stare, other vehicles pulled over and braked in surprise. I felt like a highly conspicuous car thief in full flight, but no pressure on the key-fob, or on the small black cat, would silence the cacophony.

Chloe, initially stunned by the outburst, raised her voice in strenuous protest, which only added to the clamour. There was only one thing to do. The day's plans abandoned, I headed for home, peace and sanctuary.

Once outside the house I switched off the engine and, instantly, the blaring horn and Chloe's squeals came to an abrupt and welcome end.

Thoroughly shaken, we went indoors to recover.

It was with sadness that I detached the small black cat from the key-ring. After all, it had only been doing, on a grander scale, what it had been asked to do in the first place.

As an aspirational small cat, it probably wondered why it should limit itself to protecting my keys when it was perfectly capable of protecting my car?

But the little cat has a new role. No longer a protector of keys, no longer protecting my car, it now sits on the shelf and proudly protects my flat.

Surely such a fierce blue eyes would curb any burglar's enthusiasm?

But I do miss the small, feline (occasionally noisy) bump that used to nestle in my pocket . . .

The Right Approach

2011-10-25T06:58:00.000+01:00

Do you recall that tiger at the zoo?

We tried so hard to make him look our way.

You whistled; but I said, "It doesn't do

To whistle at a tiger. You should pay

Him more respect!" Do you remember that

He moved one furry ear a fraction when

I called out, "Hello, Tiger . . . ", as a cat

Will grant remote acknowledgement to men

Who recognise their place, "You're beautiful,"

I breathed, " . . . so beautiful . . ." his massive head

Turned slowly and two regal eyes blinked full

Agreement straight at mine. It could be said

That he was captive and that we were free,

But I was captured when he looked at me.

One of the family . . .

2011-10-19T06:31:00.000+01:00

You probably know this, most people probably know this, but it came as a shock to me when I discovered recently that, in thinking of the founder of the Christian faith as having the name 'Jesus', I was mistaken.

To my surprise, I learned that, to his family, friends and followers the man I'd always known as 'Jesus' was, in fact, known by the Hebrew name of 'Yeshua'.

Does it make any difference to his teaching or to our faith?

I know that it shouldn't, but a name conveys a vivid image. My mental picture of a 'Yeshua' is very different from my mental picture of a 'Jesus'.

Try it for yourself. Say 'Yeshua', and then say 'Jesus'. Does an identical figure come to mind?

My 'Yeshua' is mature, substantial and quietly spoken. My 'Jesus' is young, passionate and slight of build.

Names shouldn't matter. But they do. Why else would parents devote so much time and thought to selecting the names for their children?

Nor is it just a question of the subjective reaction to a name. In changing the name of 'Yeshua' to that of 'Jesus', the early church was establishing its European base. 'Jesus' is a name still common in Mediterranean countries, you won't find it on the West Bank.

Historically, we've done this down the ages, changing names to make them more acceptable to the English ear. We insist on calling 'Firenze' 'Florence', 'Roma' has become 'Rome', and in Anglicizing the pronunciation of 'Paris' we've stripped it of all its Gallic zest. But when it comes to the name of 'Jesus', with all the significance that the name conveys, such a fundamental change feels different.

All right, when compared to the strength and universality of the teachings, it may seem a trivial quibble, and nothing that I say is likely to make the slightest difference to centuries of worship, not to mention Biblical tradition, hymns and prayers.

Nonetheless, in discovering 'Yeshua', I somehow feel a little closer to the original teacher's message . . . more one of the family.

"Where's Chloe . . . ?"

2011-10-11T06:38:00.001+01:00

It was my fault, I willingly admit to the fact. But, when ordering a rather elegant, beechwood, clothes-horse, I little foresaw the consequences.

The clothes-horse duly arrived, carefully packed in a very large cardboard box.

Chloe took one look at the empty box . . . and it was love at first sight. With an enthusiastic leap, she dived straight in. She has continued to dive joyfully in and out ever since.

Not that this would pose a problem were it

not linked to her love of the game of hide-and-seek.

Prior to the arrival of the inviting box, we had played regular games of hide-and-seek in which Chloe would hide beneath the sofa covering or under the bureau. I would then make a great show of looking for her, and she would finally emerge, the winner of the contest, very proud of her ability to outwit me.

However, with the arrival of the box the game's format changed . . . from my point of view, it was not a change for the better!

Let me explain. First of all, Chloe dashes into her chosen hiding-place. Here she crouches, quivering with expectation, waiting for me to find her. I then search the living-room, constantly repeating the mantra, "Where is Chloe . . . I wonder where Chloe is . . .?" at the same time carefully avoiding treading on a protruding tail!

Chloe's excitement and expectancy build up to such a pitch that finally, unable to contain herself any longer, she comes shooting out. Like a bolt of lightning, she rushes into the bedroom and dives head-first into the large cardboard box.

My role, that of the short-sighted seeker, remains the same.

Still reciting the "Where is Chloe . . .?" mantra, I slowly advance on the large cardboard box.

As my head finally peers over the top, Chloe, doing an inspired impersonation of a jack-in-the-box, leaps up and biffs me on the nose!

Guess where she goes next?

That's right, back into hiding . . . and the whole ritual starts up all over again!

Should you have a spare moment, might it appeal to you to be an occasional understudy for the demanding role of 'short-sighted seeker'?

As one who plays this role at least three times each day, I can assure you that it takes a long time for an eager and enthusiastic young cat to reach the stage of happy exhaustion depicted in this picture!

Building a Symphony

2011-10-03T11:05:00.000+01:00

Did I tell you how I once sang a solo at The Albert Hall?

All right, I'll come clean and add that it wasn't an intentional solo. I was part of a group of enthusiastic amateur singers who had come together to sing Faure's 'Requiem'.

Over-awed by the splendour of the building, the privilege of participating, and the general excitement, I got carried away and came in a bar early in the 'Sanctus'.

Fortunately, my solo performance was short . . . very few people heard me.

This incident came to mind last Saturday when I was invited to a concert at The Albert Hall. It wasn't until we arrived that I learned where we'd be sitting. Not in the main body of the auditorium, but in the seats alongside the back row of the orchestra. There we were, behind the strings, facing the wooodwind, and cheek by jowl with the percussion.

In this position you were not so much a member of the audience as a silent component of the orchestra itself.

My view of the conductor was the one shared by those he was conducting. I was able to observe the intense concentration on the faces of the players - their periods of relative rest, the times of extreme activity, the page turning and the pauses - and to study their instruments in close detail.

Did you know that a drummer has at his disposal at least three different sets of drumsticks?

More than anything, it was fascinating to witness each individual contribution to the build-up of sound. Each note - however small, however seemingly insignificant - a perfectly positioned stitch in the formation of the musical tapestry.

We were halfway through the featured symphony of the evening when, to the left of me, a man rose to his feet. He had an air of purposeful concentration. On a stand in front of him was a small, metal triangle suspended on a frame. The man took a matching hammer in his hand and, with his eye on the conductor, stood . . . waiting. A few bars later his moment arrived. With quick precision, he brought the hammer down on the triangle.

Unlike my impromptu solo in the 'Sanctus', it arrived at precisely the right moment, the clear note blending smoothly with those rising from the other instruments in the orchestra. The man returned to his seat.

Had anyone noticed triangle's moment of glory? I doubt it. But, as an integral part of that moment in the music, it had made its mark. The concert lasted two hours, the triangle player lifted his hammer five times.

There's a story (you probably know it) of Sir Christopher Wren visiting the construction site for St. Paul's Cathedral. Three stone masons were working on the site and Sir Christopher stopped to speak to each one. He asked them, in turn, what they were doing.

The first mason explained that he was carving a piece of stone. The second replied that he was making the base for a pillar. But the third one looked up with an expression of pride, "I'm building a cathedral," he said.

For the percussionist at The Albert Hall I'm sure that the stone mason's conviction would ring true.

He wasn't playing a triangle . . . he was building a symphony.

Anything you can do . . .

2011-09-26T10:53:00.000+01:00

I wonder, do you remember the American musical, "Annie Get Your Gun"? If you do, you can't have forgotten a song which sums up the star's feisty attitude to life.

"Anything you can do," Annie proclaims trenchantly, "I can do better. I can do anything better than you!"

Would you like to give yourself the treat of hearing it again? Then click here.

The reverse was true in the case of hurricane 'Katia'. Having vented the full force of her exuberance on the east coast of the Unites States, she arrived here in chastened mood. Nonetheless, she retained enough vitality to cause considerable damage, and was still whipping through the trees last week when I took Chloe for a walk.

Our communal garden is blessed with eight magnificent horse-chestnuts. At this time of the year they normally produce a modest harvest of small conkers, treasure for the children and food for the squirrels.

As we made our way down the windswept path, we were amazed to find ourselves literally bombarded with flying missiles . . . large and potent flying missiles!

Whipped from the branches by the strength of the gale, the conkers were hurtling out of the trees . . . outsize conkers, the like and size of which I'd never seen before.

Luckily, neither Chloe nor I suffered a direct hit, but it was a near thing. If you look at this photo you'll see Chloe anxiously anticipating yet another bombardment from these newly hostile trees!

But the chestnuts aren't alone in behaving strangely. The other day a friend told me of the unexpected behaviour of her climbing rose, an Albertine. Normally this species flowers once a year in June. This August, to my friend's surprise, her rose had a totally unexpected second flowering.

"Albertines don't do that," she protested, more in perplexity than pleasure.

In our man-made world everything is getting bigger and moving faster. The only thing that seems to be shrinking is our patience.

Forgetting the pleasures of anticipation, we want everything now. Why wait until the summer for the strawberries? We want them for Christmas!

Could the natural world have been infected by our greed and impatience? Last week I had a shock. There, nestling amongst the fallen leaves was something I had never expected to see in September . . . a large clump of primroses in full flower.

"Anything you can do," sang Annie, "I can do better . . . "

Please, beloved planet, don't emulate the bad example of the bloated and competitive human race.

I, for one, don't crave a mid-summer snowdrop!

The other end of heaven

2011-09-20T06:04:00.000+01:00

How can true knowledge fade and disappear?

Where does it go? Only the other day

My fingers touched the stars; and yet today

Known formulations blur, to re-appear

As dusty platitudes at which I peer

Uncomprehendingly. It slipped away -

My recognition of the gods at play,

The shaft of light that showed me why I'm here.

But has it really gone, or does it lie

Below the surface of the clouded mind -

A reservoir of truth whose rich supply

Can never be depleted by mankind.

Light will not fail, but we who occupy

The other end of heaven can be blind.

Two Little Girls

2011-09-13T06:45:00.004+01:00

This is a story of an encounter, an encounter between two little girls. It's a story that needs the minimum words as the pictures speak for themselves.

Four-year-old Abigail, although devoted to the cats in her picture books, had rarely came face to face with the more substantial and unpredictable variety.

Chloe, although familiar with small humans at a distance, had never received a more rapturous reception.

First reactions were loud and highly vocal on both sides!

A little overwhelmed, and in definite need of a more tranquil environment, Chloe headed for the garden . . .

. . . but Abigail held fast to her lead . . . and to her new friend's tail!

Without wishing to be rude, Chloe felt that it was time to plan a line of escape . . .

. . . and found it, a flight of steps from which she could safely survey this persistent admirer.

The advantage gained by the raised step offered a new perspective on the situation.

Contrary to first impressions (and now that she had stopped squeaking) the small human might be fun.

Chloe began to relax.

And so a truce was reached . . . harmony restored . . . plans for mutual mischief hatched . . . and two little girls became friends!

Home Sweet Home

2011-09-06T06:50:00.003+01:00

It isn't fair to share grumbles with you, the purpose of these letters is to give you a laugh. But even if, strictly speaking, this isn't a laughing matter, may I download a growing concern, a sense of sadness?

I don't know whether you've noticed, but no-one has a 'house' any more, they own a 'property'. In much the same way, the concept of 'home' seems to have been downgraded (or upgraded, dependent on how you look at it) from a place of personal space and security to a place with a commercial value.

What has crystallised these niggling anxieties so that I'm now forcing them on you?

It's the fate of a neighbouring house, one that I see every day. A large, Victorian building, it recently changed hands for what must have been a considerable sum. Since it was sold it has never been free of an army of workmen. The building has been gutted, the windows have been replaced, the interior (clearly visible through the enlarged windows) has been modernised.

Yesterday, as I walked past, I noticed that the room overlooking the street was now a kitchen. It was full of the latest in kitchen furnishings. But what really caught my eye was the bevy of young women, all dressed smartly in white coats and rubber gloves, who were carefully unpacking a towering pile of very large cardboard boxes. Out of these boxes came china . . . and cutlery . . . and saucepans . . . and jugs . . . and glasses . . . everything that a household could possibly need. Quickly and efficiently, the young women were stowing these goods away in the newly-constructed cupboards and drawers. Within a matter of hours a fully-equipped kitchen, complete in all that any household could desire, would be ready for occupation.

Not once, as I've passed the house, have I seen anyone who might have been construed as the new owner. Not once have I noticed anyone other than workmen or, in this instance, workwomen. Has the purchaser, who presumably paid a vast amount of money for his London home, no interest in what is going on? Has he, or she, no desire to see, far less select, the china and kitchenware that they will be using? Seemingly not, for the very reason that it isn't looked upon as a home. It is a property, a highly-desirable property that is now worth even more than the amount paid for it just a short while ago.

I have an unfashionable, comfortable and cluttered flat. It wasn't designed, it grew. I look around me at the possessions acquired over the years . . . at the fading Persian carpet, given to my parents as a wedding present; at the stool that I sat on as a child when visiting my aunt; at the attractive grandmother clock - it decided to stop working when I was ten, but is still accurate twice a day!

I look at the bookshelves, at the treasured books accumulated not just in my lifetime, but also in that of my parents. I look at the ornaments, mostly from friends, each with its own story. I look at the house-plants, some inherited, some received as gifts, many over twenty years old, all cherished. What are these possessions worth in monetary terms? I should imagine, very little. But that is not the point. It is home . . . and I love it.

All of which leaves me with a nagging question, have we, as a civilisation, reached a stage where we now feel compelled to put a commercial tag on anything and everything before we can give it worth? Where we readily recognise price, but find it hard to assess value?

There, it's cost me nothing to get that off my chest. On the other hand, the value I place on your patience in listening to me, and in sharing these anxieties, is absolutely priceless!

The Rise of the Pound

2011-08-30T12:50:00.000+01:00

Might this be a solution to the current financial difficulties? Not being an economist, or even someone who is savvy about her own finances, I rather doubt it.

Nonetheless, let me tell you the story of a very personal rise in the pound.

My much-loved computer, after serving me faithfully for many years, finally succumbed to old age. A new computer was ordered and duly arrived to take its place. Although I felt disloyal to my old friend in even admiring this newcomer, it had to be admitted that it was very beautiful.

Not only that, it had the amazing facility of allowing its operational parts to be completely detached - it was, literally, wire-less.

The keyboard that I am typing on at this moment has no connection to its parent body, the 'mouse' is equally free to roam at will and responds to being gently stroked on the back.

How does everything operate under these conditions?

I've no idea . . . but I'm suitably awed and impressed.

The one thing that was reassuringly familiar was the layout of the keyboard. Here, if nowhere else on my modern marvel, I felt at home. Letters, numerals, signs and symbols, all were positioned as they always had been . . . or so I thought. Only when I had the need to use the pound symbol did I realise that something was different. There, on my new keyboard, was the dollar sharing a key with number 4, the pound sharing a key with number 3, and the euro sharing the 'at' symbol on a rather crowded number 2. The three major western society currencies were all there.

However, when I attempted to type the pound symbol all I could get was an unexpected and unwanted 'hash'. The dollar was working perfectly, but not the pound.

What had happened? I knew the economy was in dire straits, but I didn't realise that the pound had sunk without trace.

But what if the problem was more subtle than that? What if my American-designed AppleMac, mindful of its country of origin and of America's colonial past, had felt slighted by my wish to use the pound symbol before using the dollar? What if the detached keyboard had decided that other links could be severed, and had done so by removing the pound and establishing a fiscal Declaration of Independence?

I phoned the helpful technician who had installed my new marvel. By means of gentle tweaking, raising a flag here, lowering a flag there, yet maintaining an entente cordiale throughout, we managed to restore the pound whilst retaining the dollar. The 'special relationship' had been re-established!

My new computer can now, free of any national allegiance offer the pound, the dollar or the euro to anyone in need.

I wonder, might this same technique help our economic crisis? A little gentle tweaking, a recognition of flags and priorities, an acknowledgement that some things are beyond our understanding and that, ultimately, we are all here to help each other?

It might be worth a try.

The Gift

2011-08-21T18:06:00.000+01:00

It's funny, isn't it, how long it sometimes takes before we realise the obvious. May I tell you about one such discovery that I made the other day?

Chloe, as you know, is a registered Pets As Therapy cat, we visit a local nursing home each week. This discovery relates to the nursing home, and to something I've never heard mentioned when people speak of the therapeutic benefit of animals.

Just think about it for a moment.

What is the sound that you never hear in a nursing home?

You are aware of the ubiquitous background noise of the vacuum cleaner, the squeak of wheel chairs in motion, nurses' quick feet hurrying down the passages, water running in the basins, the occasional voice . . . but you rarely, if ever, hear the sound of laughter.

This is the gift that Chloe, in her innocence and exuberance, brings to the nursing home on every visit.

Each time she enters a resident's room the tired, unfocussed eyes of the occupant light up with sudden interest.

"May Chloe come and visit you?" I ask . . . and the welcoming face grows pink with pleasure.

The chuckles start as she begins her enthusiastic examination of the room and its contents . . . the books on the bookshelf . . . flowers on a table . . . the view from the window. An unexpected pigeon in the garden below can be a cause for general excitement!

Each resident's room, so familiar to the occupant as to have become

invisible, is transformed, through Chloe's eyes, into a veritable Aladdin's cave of unexpected treasures.

Confident in her role as a welcome visitor, Chloe is perfectly happy to let the residents take her by the lead and fondle her.

"When I'm better, may I take her for a walk?" asked a frail, dementia sufferer the other day.

"Of course," I agreed.

What did it matter that the walk would never take place. With Chloe lying happily at her feet, we planned all the details . . . an imaginary walk to the accompaniment of much laughter.

Only an animal could achieve this miracle. Sympathy, kindness and consideration don't evoke laughter. But an animal, unquestioningly accepting the situation for what it is, brings into a sterile atmosphere the heady ingredients of vitality, curiosity . . . and fun.

Which, as I'm sure you'd agree, is a source of stimulus more powerful and effective than any medicine.

Think of us at the nursing home this week. Picture the happy chuckles that will doubtless mark Chloe's enthusiastic progress from room to room.

I couldn't produce this effect . . . Chloe can!

United We Stand

2011-08-15T06:33:00.006+01:00

Let me pose a rhetorical question. If you weren't there, who would I be writing to? Would I be writing at all? Would I be sharing my thoughts, or would they remain sterile and unvoiced inside my mind?

Without all the people in my life, would I, in the fullest sense, really exist at all?

I'm sorry, one rhetorical question proliferated! But those ideas fascinate me . . . have you a moment to explore them a little further?

As I'm sure you know, the words 'the survival of the fittest' were not used by Darwin. It was a phrase coined by a colleague. Nonetheless, what is considered to be his phrase has become a bed-rock of our western society. From City bankers to school leavers, we all believe in the basically competitive nature of life.

But competition is growing hotter, and inequality would seem to be increasing, as we watch this happening more and more people are questioning the theory's validity.

Think about it for a moment. There's precious little security for those balancing precariously at the top of the pile. What if the pile they are standing on crumbles? The high-flyers might survive, they might be fit . . . but they will find themselves on their own, ankle-deep in rubble, with no-one willing to help them and nowhere to go.

Surely we are truly strong not when we compete, and push the weakest out of the way, but when we stand on level ground, pool our abilities and talents, and work together?

One and one is not two . . . it is something much greater.

Perhaps this is an alien sentiment at a time when the London Olympics grows ever closer. But even here we are deluded. The word 'compete', stemming from the Ancient Greek, means 'striving together'. There is no suggestion that any one should gain success over another. It is our interpretation that puts one of the group in the front, and then awards him honours for that position.

Nonetheless, even in our modern Olympics the original concept remains valid. Granted the top step of the winners' podium can accommodate only one occupant. But did he or she climb to those heights unaided? What of the trainer . . . the support team . . . loving family members . . . not to mention a cheering nation? Isn't that a beautiful example of 'striving together'?

At heart we are communal creatures, our multiple, individual abilities and talents are there to be shared. Kindness, compassion and integration bring strength, not weakness, to society. In isolation, detached and competitive, we are not strong. Far from it, we are incomplete, anxious and vulnerable.

If we are, indeed, all parts of a whole, how vital that our individual contributions should have the integrity of those of our fellow components . . . we all depend on each other.

May I ask you to try a short experiment?

Place your hand on your heart, then breathe in gently and say these words . . .

control . . . intimidate . . . dominate . . . fight

- did you feel your heart beat faster and your body grow tense?

Let's try it again, but this time say the words . . .

nurture . . . support . . . trust . . . love

- that time did you feel your heart expand and your body relax?

"United we stand, divided we fall", wrote Aesop, many centuries before the birth of Darwin.

I rest my case!

The Simple Art

2011-08-09T06:50:00.000+01:00

Sometimes I wonder, Lord, just what you plan

For me. It isn't power, or great success,

Or tranquil and domestic happiness

That flows from motherhood; and though I can

Do several things a little better than

One might expect, I really must confess

To no outstanding gift. Yet, nonetheless

I have a sense that since my life began

It has been planned by you. What might appear

An accident, or Fate's perversity,

Is seen, when my objections disappear,

To be your act of generosity.

I wonder, Lord, perhaps you put me here

To learn the simple art of being me.

A Calendar Girl!

2011-08-02T06:31:00.001+01:00

Here's a news item I never expected to be sharing with you . . . we've a Calendar Girl in the family!

Let me explain . . .

Jackie, my cousin, kindly gave me a Bengal Cat Club Calendar last Christmas. Knowing nothing about the Bengal Cat Club, far less its calendar, I was very impressed.

Throughout 2011, as each new month has arrived, so a different, and equally beautiful, Bengal Cat has been revealed. But (and I fully admit to prejudice in the matter) to my preferential eye, none have been more beautiful than Chloe.

I had no wish to enter her into competition at a Cat Show (woe betide any judge who found fault with her!) but, on thinking about it, entering her photo for a calendar seemed a little different . . . and far less stressful for Chloe.

Through making enquiries, I discovered that up to three photos of any one cat could be submitted for the calendar. The winners were selected by popular vote at the Bengal Cat Club Show.

I studied the calendar again. The January cat was splendid . . . the February and March cats equally fine examples of the breed . . . Chloe might well have oodles of charm and big blue eyes, but, when it came to the finer points of the Bengal Cat, was she really as beautiful as I (and all her admirers) thought she was?

It was mid-June, the Cat Show was to be held at the end of July. After careful thought, I selected three photos (what had I got to lose?) and sent them off. Chloe would never know if she was rejected, and that was all that mattered.

"She won't get anywhere," I said to a friend, "she's wearing her harness in all the photos. They won't choose a cat with a harness."

And my friend agreed.

The phone call came late in the evening on the final day of the show. Having overlooked the date, I was taken completely by surprise. Additional surprises came thick and fast. Not only had Chloe won a place in the 2012 Calendar, but her chosen photo had come top with the voters!

"The one with the bluebells?" I asked.

"No," said the representative of the Bengal Cat Club, "the one with the bluebells was popular, but it was the entry with the white flowers that won."

It was Chloe, as a kitten, amongst the syringa blossoms that had swept the board.

I was asked to provide more details . . . Chloe's pedigree name . . . the name of her breeder . . . this was beginning to feel serious.

She was registered as 'Arcatia Chloe', I told them, and she'd been bred by Joolz Scarlett in Reading.

Was Chloe listening to all this? Had she been absorbing the import of my discussion? It's the only explanation I can give for her behaviour the following morning.

Wild with exuberance, she charged around the flat like a cat possessed . . . dropping her long-suffering toy monkey from the cat tree, balancing precariously atop the bookshelf and, finally, with paw raised, threatening to send a collection of fragile glass ornaments crashing to the floor!

There was only one thing to do, Calendar Girl or no Calendar Girl, she was banished to the bedroom to reflect on the folly of an over-inflated ego!

I wonder . . . are the Women's Institute planning another calendar in the near future? If so, I have an enthusiastic volunteer who would be more than willing to bare all (less some tasteful syringa blossom) on their behalf . . . and burn off some surplus energy in the process!

Anne's Story

2011-07-26T06:03:00.003+01:00

I'm sorry, this isn't a happy story, but it needs to be told . . . may I share it with you?

It's the story of Anne. Anne is not her real name, but in her new world, which lacks

almost all privacy, it's the one form of privacy that I can give to her.

Once upon a time there was an intelligent young woman. Her name was Anne. She was happily married and lived in an affluent part of London. She and her husband had three children, to whom they were devoted.

The years passed. Anne's children grew up and married, her husband died. Anne became a grandmother and continued to live in the house that

had been her home throughout her married life. She loved her home. She loved the succession of dogs and cats who shared her home with her. Although now on her own, Anne played an active part in the community,

enjoyed the visits of her children and grandchildren, and felt that her life had purpose.

However, such were the rising property values in Anne's part of London that her home, which had been moderately-priced when originally purchased, was now worth a considerable sum. Anne's children looked on this pot of gold with frustration. As they saw it, were Anne to die whilst still living in the house a large proportion of their inheritance would go in death duties. Only if the house were to be sold well in advance of her death would they be able to claim what they felt was rightfully theirs.

It was not good, they said to each other, for one woman to live alone in a large house. Their mother was in her early eighties, she needed company, she also needed to be looked after.

True she was physically fit and active, true she had suffered no deterioration of her mental faculties, but a nursing-home, they argued, would provide all that she needed. To buy her a small house or flat would, they contended, be no more than a short-term solution. What was more, if the money from the sale of the house was made available to them now it could be used to pay for their children's schooling. Why wait until it was too late?

By dint of powerful persuasion, Anne, too, became convinced that she should sell her home and move. Sorrowfully, she parted with all but a few of the possessions that carried so many memories of her happy life. Sorrowfully, she accepted that she would no longer be able to have any pets. With resignation, she moved into a nursing-home.

Anne's room in the nursing-home was half the size of the smallest bedroom in her original home. A bed, one chair, a cramped cupboard, a small chest-of-drawers and a very small table occupied all the available space. The window faced north, which meant that the sun never shone in to lighten the shadows.

To be fair to the nursing-home, it was a perfectly worthy establishment. Dementia patients were housed on the second floor, the bedridden were on the first floor, whilst the ground floor provided rooms for those who were able to walk and possibly enjoy the garden. The nursing assistance was good, the rooms were kept scrupulously clean, as were the patients. But the patients were totally subservient to the daily routine of the home and had little or no individual say in their own lives.

Had Anne not been blessed with a lively intelligence and a keen sense of humour her life would have become intolerable. She maintained her spirits by successfully completing her daily crossword - 'Collins' Dictionary' and 'Roget's Thesaurus' having accompanied her to the home. She also took a keen interest in what was going on around her, and, to amuse herself, secretly gave nicknames to the nurses and residents - names carefully recorded in her note-book which was kept hidden out of sight! Her children paid occasional duty calls, but, as she remarked ruefully to a friend, they only came when they had something to be signed.

As for her grandchildren, no longer could they help their Grandmother bake biscuits in her kitchen, gather raspberries in her garden, or help her exercise the dog. Their visits to the cramped room were infrequent and stressful for all concerned.

But what Anne missed most of all was the ability to contribute to the world around her. Her life had been one of giving, of sharing and of service. A life where she was deprived of any ability to act for herself or work for others had shrunk to a meaningless, timeless non-event.

Why am I telling you this story? Because Anne is not the only person in this situation. Soaring house prices have encouraged many families to move elderly parents out of their homes. Elderly people who have contributed much to the communities in which they've lived have been stripped of their dignity and self-esteem and seen their lives shrink to little more than an enclosed, purposeless existence - further degraded by a daily scrub from a well-meaning stranger.

The Native American Indians and the Aboriginal people of Australia share a common wisdom - they hold the Earth sacred and believe that no-one should own land.

It is this competition for finite land that has forced up prices, caused us to grow greedy, and deprived the Annes of this world of their homes. Until we have the wisdom to recognise where we've gone wrong, what can we do?

I don't know. But if there are any Annes in your life, please visit them . . . help them to laugh . . . and, best of all, do your utmost to prevent them from being incarcerated in the first place.

Anne and her contemporaries provided generous support to the the society in which they lived long before The Big Society was thought of - we can't afford to ignore them and the legacy they gave to us.

A Green Dragon

2011-07-18T06:02:00.000+01:00

"To every thing there is a season," wrote Ecclesiastes. But what I hadn't realised until this week was that these seasons apply to the minutia of life every bit as much as to the broad picture.

A time to be born and a time to die . . . ? Undoubtedly. But a time to read a book . . . ?

Fifteen years ago I was given "The Universe is a Green Dragon" by Brian Swim me. Somehow, it became delegated to a place on the book shelf where it has sat ever since, forgotten and unread.

Last week, hearing unexpected mention of the title, I was reminded of the gift . . . and went in search.

Where cosmology is concerned, it has taken time for my personal peck of stardust to shine with anything resembling comprehension. But, spurred on by the recent BBC television series on the formation of the Universe, the time for this discarded book had arrived. As Ecclesiastes would say, this was its season.

I took it down from the shelf . . . started to read . . . and was fired with an upsurge of excitement. An excitement which, if you don't mind, I've every intention of sharing with you.

Do you view the subject of evolution as I did, something to be viewed in historical terms? In my mind, whilst fully accepting that we all come from stardust, I also looked upon this topic as history. After all, the Big Bang took place billions of years ago.

What this book has achieved is to open my eyes to the realisation that the story of evolution isn't something to be relegated to the past. Whilst guided by the past, it is continuing in the present, it is shaping the future . . . it is happening now.

Writing as a mathematical cosmologist, Brian Swimme describes how the human race evolved as an integral part of the living body of the Universe. A body which, for billions of years, had been unaware of itself, unable to comprehend the miracle of its own divine being.

With the evolution of mankind the Universe finally provided itself with the gift of self-reflection, the power to recognise its own consciousness.

With our arrival it gained the ability to wonder, to marvel, to cogitate, to be absorbed in awe, and to experience the cathartic joy of laughter.

We were the mirror within which the Universe could finally recognise its own beauty . . . its own magnificence.

Just consider for a moment what this means in personal terms. Your small toe can't think for itself, it's your mind that performs this function on the toe's behalf. Your hand can't consume the food it handles, eating is the function of the mouth and the digestive system. In Universal terms, you and I, through our self-awareness, give a mind to the mountains, a heart to the oceans, and a song to the stars.

Nor is this all, with recent developments in technology and physics, we, as a living Universe, can for the first time understand the history of our own development and the amazing way we function. Only in the past few decades have we been able to recognise that the same atoms, our atoms, constitute a snowdrops or a meteor, a butterfly or a poet. With this leap forward we have become no less than the Universe reflecting upon its own incredible design.

As if all that isn't amazing enough, Brian Swimme demonstrates how the various components of our Universe integrate and support each other - how we are prevented from flying apart and losing coherence. Science has given this quality many names, amongst them are 'gravity', 'attraction' and 'cosmic allurement' . . . to humans it is known as 'love'.

I've only touched on a few facets of this thought-provoking book, but, to finish, let me repeat something that I said at the beginning.

Divine inspiration fired the Big Bang and we are still evolving. We have never stopped evolving. But our future is unknown.

What will we evolve into . . . ? What will this Universe become . . . ?

That is up to the conscious mind of the Universe . . . in other words, it is up to us.

It took fifteen years for me to rediscover the 'green dragon' on my bookshelf. For the sake of our Universal future, may I recommend that you read it now?

Later

Tell me, have you ever wanted to leap up crying "Eureka!"? That's just how I feel at the moment. Let me explain.

What, asks Brian Swimme, holds the Universe together? What maintains form? What holds the stars in their configuration and prevents them scattering out into space?

In human beings, he argues, this cohesion is illustrated by the need to share.

Surely this letter is a clear demonstration of the Universal need for unity? In reaching out to each other with words, you and I are collaborating with gravity, attraction and cosmic allurement . . . we are one with the binding, unifying power of love.

Q.E.D!

A Good Little Girl

2011-07-12T06:55:00.001+01:00

I ought to let Chloe tell you this story, but, if I did, it might encourage her to feel even more smug than she does already.

Instead, let me tell you how proud I am of my good little girl . . . and we won't let her read what I say!

It was the day of the annual Animal Service, and it was definitely going to be a big occasion for Chloe. She knew, from having attended the service last year, that on such occasions both cats and dogs are honour-bound to behave impeccably . . . such was her firm intention.

Settling herself happily in the pew beside our friend Sally, she was a model of good behaviour. True, there was the occasional glance over the top of the pew, just to investigate the new arrivals, but, all in all, she remained quiet, unobtrusive and very good.

The dogs in the adjoining pews were equally well-behaved. In fact, the only intrusive voice, one that arose at regular intervals throughout the service, came from a cat basket at the rear of the church. After registering surprise that such bad manners should be displayed by one of her own species, Chloe decided to ignore this ill-behaviour.

It was only when the service was over, and the pets and their owners converged in the aisles, that it became apparent who had been making her presence felt so forcibly. Standing determinedly astride her pew, freed from the restrictions of the cat-basket and now out on a lead, was a young relative of Chloe . . . another Bengal cat.

Back arched, ears back and eyes blazing, it was quite clear that she had no intention of curbing her feelings now that the service was over. On the contrary, her new freedom enabled her to dominate the proceedings as forcibly as she wished.

She hissed at the startled dogs, looked fiercely at Chloe and told everyone within earshot that she was not a girl to be trifled with.

Cautiously backing away, the docile dogs eyed this small-scale virago with surprise and respect.

According to Chloe's philosophy, little girls achieve all that they want simply by widening their large, blue eyes and weaving themselves sinuously around the ankles of their devoted admirers. It has always worked for her!

She gazed in shock and disbelief at this modern miss, a cat who, in Chloe's eyes, was sacrificing the long-proven strategy of feminine wiles in favour of feminist militancy.

Watching this conflict of views, I felt a little anxious. What if Chloe admired the newcomer's tactics? What if she, too, decided that stridency was preferable to feminine guile?

But I need not have worried.

"What a good cat," said members of the congregation admiringly, as they paused to give Chloe a stroke.

Chloe's guileless blue eyes widened appreciatively at these compliments.

"A very good girl!" I confirmed with relief.

Chloe may not be modern-minded, but she knows the tactics that suit her . . . and she plays them to perfection.

She also has the feline wisdom to recognise that a loving heart (combined with steely determination) gets a good little girl just what she wants!

Did I mention that she can be a thorough pickle at home?

No . . . I don't think we'll go into that!

Homes or Gardens?

2011-07-05T06:52:00.002+01:00

I'm sure they would be happier outside;

You're sure they would give greater joy indoors.

I'm certain they would take far greater pride

In brightening the earth; you plead the cause

Of wards in hospitals, and brides' bouquets,

And city churches where the weary go,

And drab bed-sitters that knew better days . . .

Until, defeated, I - who help them grow,

And marvel as each shoot breaks through the soil,

And plan the borders with green-fingered care

That every specimen should be a foil

To best display the others growing there -

Am silenced. Cut them if you must, but take

Your scissors gently, for the garden's sake.

Good news is no news

2011-06-28T06:47:00.013+01:00

There's a question that troubles me, and I don't know whether you can offer an answer. Why is it, I ask myself, that we are all seduced by bad news?

I worked for a short while in the News Room at the BBC. Here it was all too evident that it was bad news that mattered, preferably bad news that had happened to someone notable. On one occasion, I remember, a correspondent informed us that a Bank Manager had been stabbed. This was definitely newsworthy, and the item was immediately selected for the next bulletin. Great was the disappointment when it transpired that it was the caretaker, not the Bank Manger, who had been attacked. The story was dropped.

Bad news, preferably celebrity-based and local, grabs an audience and sells newspapers . . . or so we are given to believe. But does this mean that good news, local and international, should be studiously avoided?

Sometimes, when bad news is in short supply, we're offered a smattering of good news from other English-speaking corners of the world. Occasionally we may even get a snippet of good news from Europe. But good news from Bolivia . . . ?

Let me illustrate this point. Tell me, have you heard about The Law of Mother Earth, the revolutionary new law that was passed by the Bolivian Government a few weeks ago?

Such was my ignorance and insularity, that - apart from knowing that Bolivia was in South America - I wasn't even certain just where in South America it was. This left me doubly ashamed when I heard of its Government's incredible achievement.

There was no mention of it in my paper, no reference to it on the radio or television. It was only by chance that I heard a friend speak about it.

However, it wasn't completely ignored. I've since found it featured by Sean Dagan Wood in 'Positive News' (a life-affirming periodical that bucks the trend), and by John Vidal, in 'The Guardian'.

Let me atone for my ignorance by quoting the opening of John Vidal's article:

Bolivia is set to pass the world's first laws granting all nature equal rights to humans. The Law of Mother Earth, now agreed by politicians and grassroots social groups, redefines the country's rich mineral deposits as "blessings" and is expected to lead to radical new conservation and social measures to reduce pollution and control industry.

The country . . . will establish eleven new rights for nature. They include: the right to life and to exist; the right to continue vital cycles and processes free from human alteration; the right to pure water and clean air; the right to balance; the right not to be polluted; and the right to not have cellular structure modified or genetically altered . . . "

As Bolivia's Vice-President, Alavro Garcia Linera, said proudly, his country was 'making world history'.

And so it was . . . it was aiming at something revolutionary . . . something wholly desirable . . . something that should have set the rest of the world celebrating . . . something that we should all be aiming to emulate.

But were we paying attention . . . ? Not on your life!

Do you see what I mean? Did you realise that world history was being made last month? I certainly didn't.

Whilst most of us were looking for bad news in other directions, Bolivia was openly expressing its reverence for the Earth. As a nation, it was recognising our total inter-dependence with all life on Earth . . . or, as they would say in Bolivia, the Pachamama.

The current environmental crisis had been their spur. Far from wringing their hands, turning the other way, or becoming distracted by worries as to whether their new policy was economically viable or politically expedient, the Bolivian Government had acted. They had acted not out of a wish to dominate other life-forms, not by man taking control, but by man relinquishing control. They had acknowledged our obligation to step out of the driver's seat (a vainglorious misconception in the first place!) and to grant equal rights to all life on the planet. In so doing they were recognising the Earth as a divine eco-system of which mankind was an integral part.

By what one might call divine coincidence, and as though to demonstrate this underlying unity of all life, an email arrived just as I was typing those words. It was from an environmental charity.

Would I contact my MEP, they asked. A vote would shortly take place on whether to toughen the EU's carbon emissions reduction target, this vote was vitally important in order to prevent catastrophic climate change.

So I've sent an email to my MEP along the lines they suggested.

Who knows, if enough of us write to our MEPs the EU might take a very small step towards emulating the great stride taken by Bolivia.

And, if we do, will the mass media take note . . . ?

Most likely not. But don't let's be discouraged. Instead, let's give the last word to Thomas Berry, an American Catholic monk:

"The Universe is not a collection of objects," he wrote, "it is a communion of subjects."

How's that for an item of good news?

Two Deluded Ducks

2011-06-21T06:44:00.002+01:00

Oh dear, I wonder if I can seek your help in solving a slight problem?

We all know about identification in the animal world. How duped birds unwittingly rear a young cuckoo in the nest, and look upon this outsize nestling as their own. How good-natured dogs will suckle orphaned fox cubs along with their own puppies - cubs who then go on to believe that they, too, are dogs.

But this story is a little more problematic.,

Have you ever heard of ducks believing that duck food comes from cats?

It's all my fault. When a pair of mallard ducks started to visit our garden I was overjoyed. It was a delight to see ducks swimming happily on the pond, and it provided a wonderful diversion for my cat, Chloe.

To ensure that the ducks felt welcome and appreciated, I decided to buy them some food.

But what did ducks like? I had no idea. A chocolate-based breakfast cereal seemed a good indication of our pleasure at their arrival . . . I bought a large packet.

Each day Chloe and I would visit the garden and take food for the ducks. As the days passed, so the ducks' appreciation of 'choco-pops' increased.

Immediately on sighting our arrival, the ducks (the female always to the fore, the drake taking up the rear) would scramble out of the pond and waddle enthusiastically to meet us. They would then wait happily beside the seat as I prepared to scatter their breakfast.

There was not the slightest doubt that 'choco-pops' were popular. I even began to grow a little worried about the possibility of chocolate addiction.

What I hadn't appreciated was that not only did the ducks associate me with food . . . they also identified Chloe. My cat, in their eyes, was a kindly and benevolent 'duck food transporter'!

Which brings us to the other day when, to my surprise, I caught sight of the ducks not by the pond but on the lawn. Not only were they far from the safety of the water, but, with happy, if ill-placed, confidence, they were waddling in a determined fashion towards an excited Chloe. Written clearly in their beady eyes was the shining conviction that this cat was the bearer of their favourite 'choco-pops'!

Hastily scooping Chloe off the lawn, I held her firmly on my lap as I proceeded to feed the hungry ducks.

But how to disabuse them of their conviction? What if they were to meet another cat on their travels, and were to approach it in the same confident expectation of food?

I'm sure you understand my slight problem . . . please, have you any idea as to how one can alter the mind-set of two chocolate-addicted, cat-attracted ducks?

"I love you . . . "

2011-06-14T06:14:00.005+01:00

You had a long letter last week, this week's offering will be brief. Not that I want to denigrate this story. It may be brief . . . but it's good.

I can say that because, strictly speaking, it isn't my story at all. It was told to me by my friend, Mary, who lives in Ohio and I'm certain you'll be as moved by it as I was.

It appears that, during the closing chapter of her life, Mary's mother lived at a nursing home. Illness had deprived her not only of mobility, but also of most of her speech. During those final months all she could manage were three words.

All that Mary's mother could say was, "I love you . . . "

However, far from limiting her contact with those caring for her, those three words opened up a floodgate of shared affection.

"I love you . . . " Mary's mother would say to the cleaners who daily tended her room . . . and, for the busy cleaners, all at once their task seemed strangely lighter.

"I love you . . . " she would tell the handy-man when he came to change the

light bulb or adjust her chair . . . and the handy-man would go away more erect, more confident, with a smile on his face.

"I love you . . . " she said repeatedly to the nurses who washed her, dressed her, and helped to feed her . . . and they all loved her in return.

"I love you . . . " it was all that Mary's mother could say, but it was the most powerful thing she could have said.

Because they are so powerful, wouldn't you agree that those three small words scare us? We have developed the idea that to speak them, or to write them, is to declare our vulnerability, our dependency . . . in effect, to weaken us.

But what if it were quite the opposite? What if they were to give us energy and abundance, power and joy?

I'm willing to take the risk if you are.

Let's try it . . . it wouldn't be the end of the world . . . it could be the start of world peace . . .

Are you ready . . . ?

Lost for words . . .

2011-06-07T06:32:00.010+01:00

I wonder . . . have you noticed the bad habit that I've developed?

Time and again I start these letters with a polite enquiry, "If you've time . . . " I say, or "Have you a spare moment . . . ?"

The unwritten inference being that if you haven't the time, or the spare moment, that's not going to deter me . . . I'll keep going!

I'm writing . . . you're expected to do the reading.

About to start this letter with a similar expression, the thought occurred to me that, as a habit, it could be far more pernicious than I'd realised.

I really do hope you have a spare moment as I'd love to share the outcome of my pondering.

I'm sure you'd agree that we live in a social climate which fosters self-expression. A climate in which we are encouraged to air our views, share our ideas and discard our inhibitions. The stiff upper lip has become tremulous and we have all become confessional. Have you noticed how television and radio programmes constantly urge us to participate? What's more, when it comes to passing judgement, we are the ones, not the experts, who are expected to cast the final vote.

So, where has this all led? To what would seem an intoxicating sense of individual empowerment. We put our videos on YouTube, develop personal websites and blogs, express our views forcibly on Facebook and Twitter, and keep our opinions endlessly circulating by means of emails and mobile phones.

But, I wonder, do you share my nagging doubts about the one-sided nature of this rush to self-expression?

Are we, perhaps, too busy talking to listen? In our efforts to express ourselves, have we become too busy writing to read?

To make matters worse, we find ourselves in competition with a rampant and often hysterical media. Each day more television channels come on air, more radio stations fight for listeners, more advertisers compete for our market, more and more books are published and newspapers compete with each other in terms of sheer bulk. In this battle for attention, we're all in there . . . fighting to hold our positions on the front line!

Words pile up on each other, confuse each other, drown each other.

"Have you seen . . . ? Have you read . . . ? Have you heard . . . ?" how can we

possibly cope with the plethora?

Let's pause for a moment. Surely the need is not for more 'filling' but for more space?

Sitting here a moment ago, looking out of the window, I experienced a welcome sense of space and, out of that space, a thought rose up that left me ashamed.

I realised all too clearly that I was being ungrateful . . . I was being shockingly ungrateful.

We are part of the whole . . . not participants in a competition. What of all those people who have helped me immeasurably? What of the many speakers and writers who with perceptive words . . . insightful words . . . words of wisdom . . . have inspired and guided me? And what of online seminars, such as Beyond Awakening, whose speakers gently but firmly put life in perspective? Not to mention organisations, such as Cygnus, who make available the books that feed this inner hunger.

Please forgive me, all of you . . . I owe you not my criticism, but my deepest, humblest gratitude.

Nonetheless, one thing remains true. It is true that words can only take us so far, after that we are on our own. In the meantime we will doubtless go on using words . . . struggling with words . . . inventing words . . . all in an effort to reach that unifying point which is beyond the limitations of language.

"I can't tell you how happy I felt!" said a friend today.

I knew exactly what she meant!

Before I go, let me tell you of someone else who has no difficulty in expressing her feelings! My life is shared with the living proof that words can be totally unnecessary.

By means of a loving heart, perceptive listening, captivating blue eyes, and not the slightest need for modern technology, Chloe forges an instant friendship with everyone she meets . . . and achieves everything she desires!

Could there be a moral there somewhere . . . ?

Thank you, Chloe!

The Poppy Field

2011-05-31T06:48:00.000+01:00

A sea of living crimson caught my eye

Of oriental splendour, out of place

Beneath the pastel of an English sky

Where soft-toned pastures etch the tranquil face

Of Summertime. A silken, poppied sea

That shimmered in the early morning sun,

And with true beauty's generosity

Held out its cup of joy to everyone.

The sober hedgerows glowed a richer hue,

The willow-herb a dainty blush revealed,

And I have never seen a sky as blue

As that which smiled upon the poppy field.

Sweet flowers that bring men sleep, you brought to me

A wakened joy that lives in memory.

Here and Now

2011-05-24T06:54:00.001+01:00

No-one will ever convince me that a sense of humour isn't one of the greatest attributes of divinity. If not, how is it that we are so often jolted out of our everyday stupor by delightful absurdities?

May I share one such instance?

The other day, on Monday to be precise, I had several letters to post. On reaching the post-box I pushed the envelopes through the opening. As I did so, my eye was caught by the small metal tag giving details of the next collection. I was somewhat startled to read that the next collection was to take place NOW. It took me a moment to realise what must have happened. The postman, probably a little behind schedule on his rounds, had been clumsy in handling the small metal tag and had inserted it upside down. What should have read MON, instead read NOW.

The experience pulled me up sharply and gave the moment a wonderful sense of immediacy. I was brought into the 'now' with a vengence! And, of course, the small metal tag was perfectly correct, at whatever moment the postman chose to arrive it would undoubtedly be NOW.

I don't know about you, but I find it hard to stay in the 'now'. The temptation for me is always to slip back into an edited version of a remembered 'then', or to reach out towards an imagined 'when'.

To be honest, I think I'm a little scared of 'now'. Anything can happen in 'now'. It's new and totally unpredictable. There are no sign-posts, no landmarks.

It has been said that we spend at least ninety-per cent of our time not in the 'now', but cruising on auto-pilot. Our physical functions need no attention from us. Our breathing and digestive systems are automatic, our hearts are programmed to beat. It all works far better without our interference. Even the thoughts and reactions, which occupy us and colour the present, are largely products distilled from the past.

The past may not be ideal, but it's familiar.

Heaven knows (quite literally!) what we'd find in the 'now' if we were rash enough to investigate!

Reflecting on the postman's unintended message, I was struck by the thought that everything is contained in the 'now'. Quite apart from there being no past and no future, there are no memories, hopes or anxieties. It is total, self-contained and perfect. There is no way that your interfering thoughts can improve on 'now'. It is also, as I realised to my surprise, somewhere where the colours are brighter, the sounds are sharper and where, suddenly, the world, of which we are all an integral part, seems fully and vibrantly alive.

So . . . where am I in time when I'm writing this to you?

It's a sobering answer: finding words from the past to express memories of last Monday!

But, let's learn from last Monday.

Let's switch off the computer and go out into the garden . . . who knows, the impact of a rose could prove every bit as powerful as that of a clumsy postman!

A flaw in the carpet . . .

2011-05-18T06:41:00.001+01:00

I remember, when I was a child, being told a beautiful Islamic story. I loved it then and it has never ceased to please me.

May I share it with you?

The story goes that, woven into the fabric of every one of those magnificent, traditional Persian carpets, there is an intentional flaw.

Why? Because, so it is said, man cannot create perfection. Only Allah is perfect.

Isn't it a lovely story? It allows us the freedom to acknowledge our flaws and shortcomings, and to accept that perfection is the prerogative of the divine. True, we are a part of that divine substance, but we have, individually and as a species, accrued quite a few flaws - intentional and unintentional - along the way.

What reminded me of the Persian carpet? Well, a friend of mine is working on her first novel. She is enjoying herself enormously, but the further she progresses into her book, the more she

realises the need to adjust and improve the early chapters. When she wrote these early chapters she barely knew the characters she was creating, now that she has grown to know them she needs to go back and make adjustments.

I tease her that she'll never finish and, as a counter to perfectionism, tell her both the story of the Persian carpet and a recollection of my own.

If you're a perfectionist this could help you, too!

Several years ago, when I was a proof-reader for a publishing house, I was asked to proof-read a new edition of Shakespeare's 'Sonnets'. What made this new edition special was the fact that it was to be written in calligraphy. Not only that, The Royal Shakespeare Theatre had agreed to give it their endorsement. The skilled calligrapher chosen for this task was Fred Marns. Taking up his pen and ink, he set to with a will.

The first few sonnets penned by Fred were truly beautiful. However, the next few were even more exquisite. By the time he had reached Sonnet Fifteen such was the standard reached that Fred insisted he should go back and improve his early efforts. By the time he was halfway through the book the calligraphy, that had originally seemed incapable of improvement, had attained such a degree of artistry that, once again, he needed to return to and rewrite the earlier sonnets.

I began to grow a little worried, would he ever finish? There was a dead-line for publication day and it seemed as though Fred, through this estimable search for perfection, would never reach the end!

It was not so much, "Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?" as "Shall I compare thee to the sonnet I wrote last week?"

Finally, Fred and I acknowledged that we had to do what every good Muslim has to do . . . to accept that only Allah is perfect!

Fred stopped re-writing . . . the book was published . . . and the Royal Shakespeare Theatre was delighted with this new edition. Only Fred and I knew that there some sonnets that were even more beautiful than the others!

There are flaws in this letter . . . flaws in the argument . . . possibly flaws in the grammar . . . but, there you are, it comes with my love, and only Allah is perfect!

Going up . . . ?

2011-05-10T06:19:00.006+01:00

May I ask you a question?

Tell me, is your hair growing more quickly than it did, say, a year ago?

I know that sounds a rather odd question, but I had a strange experience this week. Finding that my hair needed cutting sooner than I had anticipated, I went to my hairdresser for a trim. On making the comment that my hair seemed to be growing more quickly than normal, I was surprised to learn that I was not alone. All her clients, my hairdresser told me, irrespective of their age or state of health, were experiencing the same thing.

Why? She had no idea. As the scissors snipped we pondered on the possibility that it could be something in our food . . . something in the water . . . in the air . . . a side-effect of climate change . . . but we were doing no more than guessing. In truth, we were both completely flummoxed.

Is this phenomenon (beneficial to hairdressers, but expensive for the rest of us) restricted to Londoners? Is it general throughout the UK . . . throughout the world? And is it no more than yet another aspect of the speeding-up

process that we are all experiencing in every aspect of life?

Although it would seem contrary to logic, time does appear to be speeding up. How can this be when it should be the most constant and steadfast of our guiding forces? A process governed by the spinning of our planet and its rotation around the sun. Nonetheless, scientists agree that time has elasticity, and haven't we have all experienced some moments that seem to last for ever, whilst other hours have disappeared unnoticed?

If time is speeding up, then so, it appears, is our way of life. Before we have fully grasped their complexity, today's technical marvels will be relegated to tomorrow's scrap-heap. As for today's dramatic headlines, they will be chased away by tomorrow's dramas. What happened to those people who were suffering so badly on yesterday's front pages . . . ? Who knows . . . they've vanished along with the rest of yesterday's news.

Surely there must be a limit to time's apparent acceleration, an acceleration that could take us spinning into free-fall? On the other hand, could this very impetus, this increase in energy, be carrying us in a direction which many, far wiser than me, have named our metamorphosis?

If this increase in tempo in all areas of life is part of a build-up, a build-up to raise the energy frequency of existence . . . if, as many believe, we have reached a point which offers us the potential to make the so-called shift from ego to essence, to emerge from the state of rapacious caterpillars into liberated butterflies . . . then this time of rapid change that we are living through is critical.

The musician and teacher, Mark Romero, expresses it beautifully. The butterfly, he says, struggles painfully in its efforts to break free from its clinging chrysalis. Yet, were an observer to give assistance, the butterfly would die. That very struggle is essential in order to test the butterfly's developing wings and give it the strength to fly.

So, if we are finding it hard to lift our consciousness in the face of all the current challenges. If time, in its rapid acceleration is putting pressure on our lives - not only on our hair. Might it not be worth the stress and the struggle, if, like fledgling butterflies, we are in the process gaining the wisdom and strength that will eventually mean liberation and flight?

There is a story about two caterpillars munching on a leaf. A butterfly flutters past and captures their attention.

"You wouldn't catch me going up in one of those!" one of the caterpillars mutters with conviction.

Little did he know what the future held in store!

A Truly Rural Royal Wedding

2011-05-03T06:59:00.003+01:00

Now . . . let me ask you a riddle. What is the link between a Royal wedding and a pregnant pony?

Give up . . . ?

I'll tell you the answer . . . cow parsley!

If that sounds a little unlikely, let me tell you a story.

Two days before the Royal Wedding I was in Central London. With half-an-hour to spare, I decided to walk through Green Park and take a look at the growing preparations.

Large flags were flying proudly in The Mall, excited visitors thronged outside the palace, whilst a positive encampment of international media had claimed squatting rights in the park.

But what brought me up short, and held me entranced, was something far less predictable.

I looked down in amazement. Had I been transported to a rural idyll . . . to a wildflower meadow?

Improbable as it sounds, the wide, grassy area that runs behind the pathway flanking The Mall was carpeted knee-deep in cow parsley!

Cow parsley . . . ? In Central London . . . ? Along the route of the Royal Wedding . . . ?

It was wonderfully incongruous, and quite ethereally beautiful.

With cow parsley in The Mall and an avenue of maple trees in the Abbey . . . this, it seemed, was going to be a truly rural Royal Wedding!

The sea of white blossom transported me back to a time when I lived in Somerset.

It was late spring and my pony, Jennie, was about to give birth to her first foal. During the latter stages of her pregnancy, she surprised us all by developing an enthusiasm for something that had never interested her before . . . Jennie had a pregnant passion for cow parsley.

In April the Somerset hedgerows are lush with cow parsley. Each day I would gather armfuls of frothy white blossom and take them to my demanding pony . . . who obligingly produced a beautiful foal to reward me for my efforts.

Yes, I know. It's a strange combination of images . . . a pregnant pony and a Royal Wedding.

It would have little to say to the majority of happy onlookers who lined the route, attended street parties or were captured by the events unfolding on the television screen. It would, in all probability, mean little to the bridal couple.

But, who knows, it might have a certain quixotic appeal to the horse-loving, country-loving Royal Grandmother!

Bus Therapy

2011-04-26T06:17:00.001+01:00

Have you a moment to join with me in praise of the much-celebrated London bus?

Not for its iconic status (remember its appearance at the Beijing Olympics?), nor for its comprehensive coverage of the city, not even for its reliable service.

No, I want to praise the London bus for something quite different . . . for its therapeutic value.

I'm sure you'd agree that, unlike the tube, the bus seems to foster old fashioned qualities such as consideration and curiosity. People speak to each other on the bus. Seated side-by-side with a stranger, your attention captured by the activity outside the window, there is a curious sense of intimacy. Strictly speaking, I don't know whether the word 'intimate' could be applied to this story. But it certainly demonstrates the power of bus therapy.

I was feeling tired, slightly irritable and rather frazzled. It had been a demanding week. I'd not the slightest desire to travel to the City, and a profusion of roadworks meant that the journey would take longer than usual. With considerable reluctance, I scrambled aboard the bus and lowered myself into the first available seat.

My mind was far away until it was penetrated by a distinctive aroma. Taking a cautious look sideways, I saw, seated beside me, a small, elderly tramp . . . a very hairy and somewhat aromatic tramp!

Did I look as though I was in need of some conversation?

Perhaps. My fellow traveller, who clearly knew all about bus therapy, was willing to rise to the occasion.

"Do you like buses?" he demanded.

I was a little taken aback. Nonetheless, civility being part of the ethos of bus travel, I assured him that I did.

This reply gave my companion the green light to wax lyrical on a favourite topic. There was little he didn't know about the London bus. He could identify every model and, with one marked exception, thought highly of them all.

The solitary exception was the new Roadmaster, not yet launched on the public, but in the process of being heavily promoted by the Mayor . . . and

clearly well scrutinised by my new friend.

"There's going to be a strike in a fortnight," said the tramp firmly.

I was startled, I'd no idea that a bus strike was in the offing.

"A bus strike?" I queried.

"Not a bus strike," said the tramp dismissively, "I'm going on strike."

I tried not to look surprised.

"I'm going on strike," he continued, "to get rid of the Mayor. Can't stand the fellow. A strike should do the trick."

It didn't seem the moment to enquire how a solitary striking tramp could remove Boris Johnson from office. Instead, I plumped for looking supportive.

A few moments later, arriving at a bus stop, my new-found friend caught sight of another vehicle on a route that he needed to follow.

"That's my bus!" he exclaimed, leaping to his feet.

And, with a jaunty wave, he had gone, leaving nothing behind but an unforgetable memory . . . and a distinctive aroma!

As for me, no longer irritable or frazzled, I sat there chuckling quietly for the rest of the journey.

Do you see what I mean?

As an ideal form of therapy to counter any stress or anxiety, may I recommend the reliable prescription of one London bus per day?

The Drought

2011-04-19T06:43:00.000+01:00

Have we forgotten how it is to weep,

And taught the very clouds to curb their rain?

Have we anaesthetised all joy and pain

And trapped creation in this arid sleep,

Where dreams are mean and dry-eyed spectres creep

With begging-bowls? If we could weep again,

Could care sufficiently to break the chain

That binds our hearts and offer what we keep

Imprisoned there, would earth recuperate

The mercy in our tears? Would fields that slept

Awake; would fruit and flowers proliferate

And streams make music from the sobs we kept

Held tight in burning throats? Tears consecrate:

Christ looked upon Jerusalem and wept.

Scraping off the greasepaint

2011-04-12T06:07:00.000+01:00

Do you suffer from an affliction that troubles me? I only realised it recently, but I seem to have a compulsive need to share.

Is there a medical term for this, I wonder? Compulsive-passing-on disorder? Must-share-with-others addiction? Either would fit the bill. Given a memorable story, helpful advice, or just a good joke, my first impulse is to pass it on.

Yes . . . you can guess what's coming. I heard a thought-provoking analogy the other day and it's crying out to be shared.

Have you a spare moment . . . ?

We seem to be living through a time of fast-moving, dramatic change. There are natural disasters, political upheavals, economic stresses . . . I don't think we need to add over-population, climate change and a shortage of

resources, the first three provide more than enough material to occupy our fevered minds. What's more the topic grabbing the day's headlines changes so rapidly that it's hard to discover an up-date on the drama that gripped us yesterday . . . this has now been relegated to the back pages.

Into this foetid atmosphere came the gift of a wonderful analogy. It was offered by Leonard Jacobson, and it most definitely needs to be circulated as widely as possible.

Imagine, we were told, that a film is being made of your life. Imagine that this film is being shown at your local cinema, and that you can wander in and take a seat in the audience. Imagine that you are looking up at the screen and watching all those daily drams being enacted there in front of you. Now, take a step back. Leave that person sitting in the stalls watching the film, and imagine that you are yet another person entering the cinema. You are sitting behind the original 'you' and you are now watching a member of the audience watching the enactment of a story on the screen.

Has this exercise enabled you to step back? Each time we realise that we are observing our lives, we also realise that we cannot be that role. How can you possibly be something or someone that you are watching? How can you be something or someone that you can evaluate and consider? And when the second observer then watches the first observer . . . well, how beautiful detached is that viewpoint? Detached, but not uncaring. In fact, it could be that we can only truly care when we are doing so dispassionately. Involvement provokes opinion . . . emotion . . . taking sides . . . but if you're sitting there in the cinema there are no sides to take. There is a play, a beautifully-written and gripping play, there are also fine actors and a masterly director. But it's a play. The onlooker can step back and occupy another dimension.

Yes, I know. It's all very well to pass on a fine analogy, but am I, personally, capable of putting this advice into practice?

I wish that I were. Nonetheless, there are moments, every now and then . . . when captured, perhaps, by the beauty of a flower, or the song of a bird . . . or when I momentarily pause, forget the past, stop imagining a future, and take a deep breath . . . then I can see the play for what it is, my role for what it is, and, just for a moment, relax in my cinema seat, look around me, and scrape off a little of the accumulated grease-paint!

How about you . . . ?

Who needs ducks!

2011-04-05T06:18:00.002+01:00

Please . . . don't tell Chloe that I've told you this story. It's one of those confusing and embarrassing stories that happen to cats every now and then. Stories which, from the point of view of the cat, should be discreetly and permanently forgotten.

However, as I know you'd enjoy hearing this tale of an intrepid cat and a pair of even more intrepid ducks . . . very quietly, whilst Chloe is sleeping . . . here goes!

Every spring our garden pond is visited by a pair of mallard ducks. They arrive in the morning, enjoy a peaceful day, and leave in the early evening. This daily routine is repeated for several months until the ducks finally depart, not to be seen again until the following spring.

The other morning Chloe and I were sitting peacefully by the pond when, with a flurry of feathers and a chorus of quacks, the ducks flew down and joined us. Chloe, who had never seen ducks before, couldn't believe her eyes . . . or her good fortune!

Two ducks . . . ? On her pond . . . ?

Deep inside her something stirred. It was the genes of her ancestors, the hunting instincts of the Bengal Tiger.

What was she supposed to do?

She knew perfectly well what she was supposed to do, it was imprinted on her DNA. Under such exciting circumstances, Bengal Cats went hunting! First, her instincts told her, they went into stalking mode, keeping well hidden so as not to startle their prey. Slowly, by these cautious means they got closer and closer, only coming out into the open at the very last moment for the chase . . . and then the attack!

Oh yes, Chloe knew perfectly well what Bengal Cats were supposed to do.

However, as she quickly discovered, it was not quite as simple as her Bengal Tiger ancestors were intent on telling her. The initial problem was the question of actually sighting your prey.

If the cover you chose to hide behind was too bulky . . . well, the ducks could not be seen. If, on the other hand, the cover was too thin . . . then perhaps the ducks could see you . . .?

It was all very baffling for a youthful cat. After several abortive attempts, Chloe decided to forego the initial strategies and move straight to the end-game. After all, it was the end-game that mattered. Crouching down, she wriggled her way to the edge of the pond in full view of the alert and interested ducks.

Poor Chloe, even this plan was foiled.

Perhaps the ducks had a more ancient gene pool? Perhaps their ancestors went back to the benevolent days of The Garden of Eden? Whatever the reason, in reponse to the sight of the advancing Chloe, the ducks lifted their heads in pleasure and started to swim towards her in greeting!

Chloe was dumbfounded. This, she was certain, was not what ducks were supposed to do. Should she join in this general amnesty and reach out for a friendly sniff . . . nose to beak . . . or would her Bengal Tiger ancestors rise up in unison, never to forgive her?

Ancestry proved stronger than amnesty! Studiously looking in every direction other than that of the approaching ducks, a disconcerted Chloe pretended she hadn't seen them.

Ducks . . . what ducks . . . ? She hadn't come into the garden in search of ducks. Backing away from the pond, she made an ignominious retreat and rejoined me, in very chastened mood, on the garden seat.

Perhaps her ancestors had got it wrong . . . perhaps cats and ducks were supposed to be friends . . ? Chloe had only one answer to these baffling questions.

Her Tiger ancestors had lived in a different, more violent era. Why hunt when you had no need to hunt? Far wiser to go indoors for the guaranteed satisfaction of a roast chicken lunch followed by a snooze on the carpet.

A 'thought bubble' above her contented stomach would surely read: "Ducks . . . ? Who needs ducks . . . !"

The Phoenix Needs The Ashes

2011-03-31T06:28:00.000+01:00

An organism crumbles from the core

And we, who dance on the circumference,

Stick paper on the cracks in the pretence

That they will disappear if we ignore

The stench of death. It all took place before,

Man's empires come to pass and no defence

Of the perimeter can check the sense

Of creeping rot within. What lies in store

Is lawful and deserved; we should not mourn,

Or curse the fading light, lest inner eyes

Grow dim and fail to see a seed is borne

In rotting fruit, a seed that never dies.

In Winter's discontent is Spring re-born,

The phoenix needs the ashes to arise.

Stardust to stardust . . .

2011-03-22T06:24:00.006Z

May I share some thoughts about stardust? About stardust . . . and earthquakes . . . and trying to make sense of it all?

Perhaps the words stardust and earthquakes sit uneasily together in one sentence. Stardust has associations with magic and fantasy, it is an ingredient that adds sparkle to our lives.

As for earthquakes . . . ?

At the moment we're witnessing all too graphically the grief and misery that earthquakes are capable of inflicting. What's more, we're all sharing this grief and misery. It is global suffering that reaches out to touch everyone, even those who know nothing of the source.

But last night, still numbed by the intensity of the earth's potential for self-destruction, I watched Brian Cox's television series on the origins of the universe. Did you see it? There are times, and this was one of them, when I'm truly grateful that my education never included chemistry or physics. Now I have the thrill of coming upon an amazing story at a time when its scope, fascination, and incredible implications mean all the more for never having encountered it before. After spinning in space with the Global Coherence Initiative this was another mind-blowing lesson to absorb . . . whether I fully comprehend what I'm learning is quite another matter!

Let's start at the beginning.

I didn't know, did you, that we really are made of stardust? That it isn't just a fanciful expression. If I may, I'll attempt to give you a layman's version of an amazing story.

Over thirteen billion years ago . . . long before 'once upon a time' . . . all that there was in the universe, the newly-born universe, was formless potential. Then the element hydrogen fused into helium to form stars . . . brilliant stars shining alone in the impenetrable blackness. But these stars were subject to something that we know only too well, they were subject to time. One by one, the stars grew older. New stars arrived, but the existing ones aged.

However, unlike some of the human beings who were to come into existence way ahead in the future, the stars had no intention of fading away, they believed in going out with a dramatic bang. As the stars ran out of hydrogen and their end drew near, far from retiring into themselves, they grew steadily brighter and brighter. In a battle between energy pushing out and gravity pulling in, they burned ever more fiercely.

But time cannot be defeated. The final explosion was followed by a collapse and, in the process of collapsing, the stars produced components that had never existed before. In their fiery death throes they produced carbon and oxygen and all the ingredients of life. These, the vital building blocks for everything in the universe, including ourselves, were spewed out by dying stars.

Yes, I know, that is only half the story. It is only the physical component. What about the intelligence given to that mixture of carbon and oxygen . . . what about consciousness? This is where the story becomes mind-blowing, the divine intelligence, of which we are a part, used stardust to fashion an earthworm . . . a snowdrop . . . birdsong . . . not to mention a curious creature that walks on its hind-legs, finds words to express its ideas, and can, of itself, invent, amongst many other things, the computer that I'm working on.

Stardust with consciousness? That more or less sums us up.

Thinking along these lines doesn't diminish the shock, the grief, or the apprehension of the present moment . . . but it does give one a sense of the vastness of the picture. Somehow the words 'dust to dust, ashes to ashes' carry more poignancy and more relevance when seen in relation to our origins and our physical destination.

I wonder, I just wonder . . . could this be the source of the story of the Phoenix? Could it be that the fire of love and compassion, arising in the wake of a natural disaster, releases the Phoenix from the ashes and gives birth to the new?
Could it be that we need these ashes every so often? That a fierce explosion is beneficial, an explosion that breaks down old and rigid structures and eliminates out-dated ideas?

Could this be such a time . . . ?

It's just a thought . . .

May I kiss it?

2011-03-15T06:36:00.006Z

Oh dear . . . attention-seeking creatures that they are, I'm afraid my cats are constantly weaving their way into our correspondence! But when I tell you that this story is about another venture into the world of Pet Therapy . . . well, I'm sure you won't mind.

You'll remember Rupert, my much-loved Burmese who died last year. Did I tell you that he made regular visits to the Special Needs Department of our local school?

Let me share something that happened after one of these visits. We were leaving the school when a small boy came walking towards us. As it's a secondary school he can't have been less than eleven, but he seemed very small for his age. Catching sight of Rupert, who was riding on my shoulder, the boy came to a halt. I waited to see if there was anything he wanted to say.

There followed what seemed a long silence, during which the boy stood gazing up at Rupert with rapt attention . . . finally, he spoke.

"May I kiss it?" he said.

I was startled. This was not what I'd expected!

"Of course," I replied, confident of Rupert's total reliability.

By crouching down I enabled the small boy to reach up and place a firm kiss carefully on the top of Rupert's head.

There was another long pause, during which Rupert and the boy studied each other. Then, with a faraway look in his eyes, and a smile of total satisfaction on his face, the small boy continued on his way into the school.

I'm telling you that story because, during the past few weeks, I've been wondering whether Chloe might be able to affect a similar transformation. She is very tolerant and children love her.

Her weekly visits to the nursing-home are a treat for us all . . . but could there, I wondered, be some way that we could extend her therapy to include children?

Looking through the addresses provided by Pets As Therapy, I found a care-home for mentally disturbed children less than a mile from where I live. An exchange of emails established that they would be happy for their children to meet Chloe, and a first meeting was arranged for last Monday.

It was during the days leading up to this encounter that my doubts began to creep in. Not only did they creep in, they established themselves, took root and flourished. Was I being unfair to Chloe? Could children with mental difficulties be relied upon not to scream? What if they wanted to pull her tail . . . or poke their fingers in her eyes? Was I about to subject her to an ordeal, rather than a pleasure? And, if everything went seriously wrong, how could such a hazardous encounter be of any possible benefit to the children?

My anxieties increased as the day drew near. Before leaving home, in order to reduce her energy level, I took Chloe for an energetic walk in the garden. We didn't have to stay with the children for long, I reassured myself. She could be whisked back to the car the moment there was any trouble. But, as I parked at the day-centre, my mood was definitely one of apprehension rather than happy anticipation.

The smiles on the faces of the welcoming care-staff raised my spirits a little. They didn't appear to harbour any misgivings . . . nor did Chloe.

Would I like to give a talk to the group, the supervisor enquired as we walked down the passage? I said that I would rather sit down in a quiet corner, and let the children approach as they wished.

The door ahead of us was opened . . . with Chloe in my arms and my heart in my mouth, I walked in.

Awaiting us was a room full of smiling, expectant small children . . . welcoming, happy children. The sense of loving care was palpable. Not only care, it was evident that this was a place of support and purpose and much kindness. No-one could have doubted that the children were happy. My last uncalled-for misgiving fled . . . and didn't return.

After introducing Chloe to each of the children in wheel-chairs, I settled us both on a sofa whilst the others clustered round excitedly. A forest of small hands reached out towards us.

"What's its name . . .?" they wanted to know.

I told them.

"Can we stroke her . . .?" they crowded in, their fingers eager, but very gentle. It seemed that the only danger posed to Chloe was one of asphyxiation, asphyxiation brought on by an overdose of love!

"Isn't she soft . . . !"

"How old is she . . . ?"

Beneath my restraining hands I could feel Chloe's tense body slowly relax.

There came an unexpected tug at my sleeve. Looking up, I saw a young girl standing close beside me.

"Please . . . " she said earnestly, "may I kiss her . . . ?"

Yes, I know . . . you're thinking what I'm thinking!

From his vantage point in cat heaven, surely Rupert was looking down with benign approval on Chloe, his worthy successor?

R U there?

2011-03-08T06:18:00.008Z

This is going to sound a very silly question, but, please bear with me. It's nowhere near as stupid as it sounds.

Have you ever looked at yourself in a mirror? Not a critical appraisal, to mark the onset of the first wrinkle or a depressing glimpse of another grey hair, but a real encounter . . . have you met the person behind your own eyes?

The reason for that question is something I heard the other day. We meet God, it was said, both in the eyes of other people, and in our own eyes when we look into the mirror.

Curious to put this statement to the test, I went into the bathroom and cautiously made eye contact with my reflection. It was a surprising experience . . . unsettling, vaguely intrusive and strangely disturbing. Absurdly, I felt a little shy of myself.

Was I really looking into the eyes of the divine source? Even more to the point, did I really want to look into the eyes of the divine source? Had I the courage? Wasn't I perfectly happy as I was? Might not too much closeness, too much revelation, take me somewhere I wasn't prepared to go? Well . . . not yet anyway.

Tomorrow, perhaps . . . but not today. Give me time, I told myself, backing away . . . let me think about it.

But it's not easy to wriggle out of such an encounter . . . and hard to deny what your own eyes are telling you. Held captive in the moment, I stayed where I was and let the questioning slowly die away. I also began to ponder on the wider implications of this experience . . . the fact that it isn't just the eyes that link us in this profound intimacy to the ground of our being, it's all of our senses.

Think about if for a moment. The touch of a hand, the loving tone of a voice, the warmth of an embrace . . . in their different ways, each one of these imparts a depth and subtlety of contact that takes the concept of communication to a completely different level.

I was struck by something else. What does 'communication' mean to us? We usually think of it in connection with words. But this form of contact, this contact from the heart, has nothing to do with words.

I use words a great deal . . . I love words. But, without the voice to give them interpretation, without the eyes to give them life, words can be sterile . . . or, even worse, ambiguous. You don't agree? Then look at the way that two actors, given the same play, the same words and the same plot, manage to create two distinctly different characters.

And let's go back to that exercise in the mirror. When we meet each other, face to face, words are often superfluous. Could it be that we are losing more than we realise in placing so much reliance not only on words, but, specifically on electronic communication?

How can a text message convey the underlying sub-text that is carried by the voice . . . or an email transport the infectious joy of laughter? Are we impoverished, even stultified, by our growing reliance on the latest scientific technique?

Wait a minute . . . forgive me if I pause to enjoy a quiet chuckle! Surely this letter is, in itself, proof of what I'm trying to say? Here I am, struggling with mere words to convey, by electronic means, something that is way beyond the power of words.

Nonetheless, as I can't look into your eyes to recognise our common source and render words redundant . . . well . . . I'm afraid that, for the moment, this is the best we can manage!

Growing Up

2011-03-01T06:44:00.001Z

The day I could no longer walk with ease

Beneath the table, made it clear to me

That I was growing. Soon my parents' knees

Were way below my eye-line. I could see

Above the window-sill and out, far out,

Into a world where adults knew it all

And children yearned to grow and be about

Such fascinating business. To be tall

Held out a promise greater than mere size.

When I achieved full stature I would know

Those peaks of knowledge conquered by the wise -

All that remained for me to do was grow.

Yet wisdom gained shows wisdom still ahead;

Grown up, I find I'm growing down instead.

A Divine Disinfectant

2011-02-22T06:29:00.006Z

Do you know what it is that we all need in these grey, damp February days?

No, I'm not thinking of sunshine, I'm thinking of what was once called 'that divine disinfectant' . . . I'm thinking of laughter.

Surely laughter is the most unlikely and inspired gift from God? Who else would have thought of it? There's not the slightest practical necessity.

We don't need to laugh in order to function perfectly well physically. An appreciation of the ridiculous is no requisite for efficient hunting, gathering or procreation . . . although a sense of humour can enhance all of those occupations!

No . . . the stomach-wrenching act of laughter, the cacophony of mirth, is a useless, senseless, inexplicable stroke of sheer genius! It's a wholly beneficial blessing . . . one that enhances our health, lifts our spirits and restores our humanity.

I defy you to listen to this laughter and not smile in response.

But, wait a moment, in saying that laughter is useless I could well be completely wrong. A disinfectant is far from useless, it fulfills a very important function. What if laughter is man's inbuilt survival mechanism . . . a final, fail-safe way to prevent us from destroying each other?

Tell me, have you been able to retain a sense of anger or animosity after sharing a laugh? I haven't.

An old Yiddish proverb puts it perfectly:

"What soap is to the body, laughter is to the soul."

So . . . I'm game if you are. Let's defy those grey skies with a laugh.

And, although the pictures I've chosen to illustrate this letter would suggest otherwise, laughter is by no means monopolized by the young.

"You don't stop laughing because you grow old," a wise man said, "You grow old because you stop laughing."

"Yes . . . yes . . . yes . . . "

2011-02-15T06:11:00.006Z

Have you a moment to spare?

There's something which I really want to tell you . . . something which, I know, you'll want to share . . . the story of Chloe's first assignment as a Pets As Therapy Cat.

When we'd both recovered from the excitement of receiving our official badges, I discovered amongst the literature a list of possible places to visit. Were there any in our area? I was delighted to find a nursing-home less than half-a-mile away.

Five days later, having established that we would like to make a regular weekly visit, Chloe and I (one of us a little apprehensive, the other more than a little excited - I leave you to

guess which was which!) arrived at the nursing-home and presented ourselves at the Reception Desk.

There was no doubting the warmth of the welcome, a welcome which emanated from the enthusiastic organiser of our visit, quickly spread to the Receptionists and the nurses, and went on to attract a large number of helpers. After everyone had stroked a now highly-excited, wriggling Chloe, it was necessary to sign the appropriate forms and then, in exchange, receive a list of the residents who had voiced an interest in meeting a visiting cat. Finally, thronged by this group of eager escorts, we embarked on our first tour. Confidently leading the way, Chloe galloped happily up the stairs . . . determined that she wasn't going to explore the building on her own, I held firmly to her lead!

We moved quite quickly from room to room. This was only a brief, introductory visit, I couldn't keep my escorts waiting so didn't want to linger.

"Chloe will be back next Thursday . . ." was my constantly repeated message as I dragged her away from yet another new admirer.

But my eagerness to share this story with you stems from one particular encounter. It took place in a room in the dementia ward, near to the end of our visit.

A figure sat slumped in a chair by the window. It was a man of no more than sixty-five, but dementia had robbed him of all but the most basic forms of communication. As we stood in the doorway, the nurse accompanying us called out to him that we were there, and his head slowly turned in our direction. At first his unfocussed gaze failed to notice Chloe. Then, as I stepped forward and placed her beside him on a chair, he realised what she was. His body stiffened, his eyes shone with recognition, and on his previously impassive face dawned an expression of pure delight.

"Yes . . . yes . . . yes . . . " he burst out excitedly, " . . . yes . . . yes . . . yes . . . "

I moved Chloe's chair a little closer.

"Would you like to stroke her?"

"Yes . . . yes . . . yes . . . " but he made no movement.

"It will take a little time," said the nurse.

I prayed that Chloe would remain still on the chair until the man was ready.

"Yes . . . yes . . . yes . . . " he repeated and, as I held my breath, his hand reached out, at first unsteadily and then with growing certainty, until it rested firmly on Chloe's head.

"Yes . . . yes . . . yes . . . " the voice rang with pleasure and satisfaction as he started to stroke the soft fur.

Shortly afterwards it was time to leave.

"No . . . no . . . no!" cried Chloe's new friend in distress.

I assured him that we'd be returning the following week, that Chloe would be back.

We had one more visit to make, to a woman so frail, so feeble that she couldn't even lift her arm from the sheets. Taking Chloe's paw, I used it to gently stroke the wasted hand . . . a shadow of a smile crossed the shrunken face on the pillow.

It is impossible to foresee how beneficial Chloe's encounters will be. All I can say with certainty is that my life was enriched by that visit.

As for Chloe, after sleeping off all the excitement, will she want to return?

I can anticipate her answer to that question . . . an enthusiastic, "Yes . . . yes . . . yes . . . !"

Turkish Delight

2011-02-08T06:26:00.006Z

Have you a moment to share a delightful, but very surprising, story?

Don't ask me how the internet works, don't ask me how anything is done in cyberspace (to me the whole system is a profound mystery). But, even if I'm totally incapable of understanding the 'hows' and the 'wherefores', I can muddle my way around in a very elementary fashion. I can even go online and find out how many people are reading this 'letter', where they come from, and whether, having read one instalment, they stayed to explore further. It can make interesting reading. Which is where we come to the delightful, but very surprising, story.

I paid a memorable visit to Turkey many years ago, a visit that mainly focussed on Istanbul - a city that was captivating, exotic, and profoundly different from London. Sad to say, I've been unable to return and, to the best of my knowledge, know no-one living there.

And yet . . . yes you've guessed what I'm about to tell you . . . the number of people in Turkey who read these 'letters' grows daily.

It's wonderful, it's humbling, it's very surprising . . . but it presents me with a quandary. Whereas these idle thoughts might have a certain insular appeal in the British Isles (particularly to those who have cats, or even to those who have found orbs in their photographs) much as I could wish it were otherwise, I cannot see what appeal they would hold for anyone living in Istanbul, Ankara or on the shores of the Black Sea.

So . . . if you should happen to be reading these words in Turkey, this is the only means I have of telling you that I am touched, delighted, and deeply moved that my very English ramblings should strike a chord with a people who were civilised and cultured long before we were, and who straddle Europe and Asia with such ease.

There is a poem by James Elroy Flecker which I learned as a child, it is called 'To A Poet A Thousand Years Hence'.

The closing lines would seem perfect for this occasion.

Dear, distant, unknown friends . . .

'Though I shall never see your face,

Nor reach to take you by the hand,

I send my words though time and space

To greet you . . . you will understand.'

Without taking thought . . .

2011-02-01T06:13:00.006Z

I wonder . . . when you were young, did you do what I did? Did you keep a Quotations Book?

Between the ages of thirteen and twenty-seven, I accumulated a succession of these journals. Into them, in handwriting far more legible than my handwriting today, I carefully transcribed page after page of what had moved me, inspired me, amused me . . . passages from plays,

from biographies and autobiographies, from poems and novels. I still have them.

More surprising, I find that I can still quote many of the passages from memory.These notebooks set a bedrock of beliefs and aspirations that, surprising as it seems, has barely changed down the intervening years. Encountering my teenage self in the browning pages I'm impressed and humbled.

Could it be that I peaked at fifteen and have been going downhill ever since?

No . . . we won't even consider that one!

What made me think of my Quotations Books? It was one particular passage from the autobiography of Victor Gollancz, carefully transcribed by me in my late teens, "Love is not love," he wrote, "unless you can love, without taking thought, the unloving. Tolerance is not tolerance unless you can tolerate, without taking thought, intolerance . . ."

It was the 'without taking thought' that I found so difficult all those years ago, and, this week, it was those words that came shining out of the past to unexpectedly illuminate the present.

I'm sure you know of the TED Prize. In the words of the organisers, ' it is awarded annually to an exceptional individual who receives $100,000 and, much more important, "One Wish to Change the World."'

The assurance is also given that TED will do their best to make this wish come true.

In 2007, following in the footsteps of other 'exceptional individuals' such as Bill Clinton and Jamie Oliver, the award was given to the writer Karen Armstrong. And her wish to TED, the wish that would change the world?

"I wish," she said, "that you would help with the creation, launch and propagation of a Charter for Compassion . . ."

It sounds wonderful, doesn't it. Wonderful, that is, until you get down to the nitty gritty and come to Gollancz's 'without taking thought' aspect of the Charter.

Compassion for all of those undergoing the trials of persecution and deprivation . . . ?

Oh yes, I can manage that.

But compassion for the persecutors . . . and those causing the deprivation . . . ?

Aye, there's the rub.

Compassion for those suffering from prejudice and bigotry . . . ?

No problem.

But compassion for the prejudiced and the bigots . . . ?

You see my difficulty?

But, as Karen Armstrong explains so cogently, compassion is not compassion unless it embraces everyone . . . every concept . . . every belief. Unless it gets down to the common ground that underpins all of us, the common humanity, the divine life-force, it is not true compassion, merely selective support.

So . . . with Victor Gollancz and my teenage self urging me on, I've signed the Charter.

Please, will you join me . . . ?

You could help to prevent me from 'taking thought'!

Waiting for our badges . . .

2011-01-25T06:11:00.003Z

We're waiting for our badges . . . Chloe and I greet the post each morning with heightened expectation. But badges, or, to be precise, ID tags, take time to make. They will come . . . and, when they do, Chloe and I will be ready!

Why do we want these tags? Let me explain.

It was Susan's idea. Quite soon after Chloe's arrival, Susan sent me a website address.

"This might interest you," she wrote.

The website was for a national charity called 'Pets As Therapy'. Pets as therapy? It was an idea that I knew, but a charity that I hadn't heard of.

Intrigued, I investigated further . . .

'Pets as Therapy,' I read 'is a national charity founded in 1983. It is unique in that it provides therapeutic visits to hospitals, hospices, nursing and care homes, special needs schools and a variety of other venues by volunteers with their own friendly, temperament tested and vaccinated dogs and cats.

Today there are currently over 4,500 active P.A.T. dogs and 108 P.A.T. cats at work in the UK. Every week these calm, friendly P.A.T. cats and dogs give more than 130,000 people, both young and old, the pleasure and chance to cuddle and talk to them. The bedsides that are visited each year number a staggering 6.75million.'

I turned to look at Chloe . . . Chloe looked at me . . . I recalled her sociable nature, her love of playing with children, her sunny temperament.

"Chloe," I told her firmly, "you're going to be a P.A.T. cat!"

But Chloe, who believes in living in the moment, was far more concerned with the prospects for her supper.

Understandably, these things take time, we have had to curb our impatience and wait. No cat or dog is even considered until it is nine-months old.

Finally, she was ready. She walked well on the lead, enjoyed visiting friends, and was very happy travelling in the car. Just before Christmas she had reached the stage where she was ready to be assessed by a P.A.T. examiner.

For obvious reasons, this assessment cannot take place in the animal's own home. I invited the examiner to accompany Chloe and me to lunch at our local pub. Where better, I thought, than the bustling activity of a London pub for a cat to pass her suitability test?

With hindsight, it might have been better had it not been Christmas! But even the most socially-responsible cat can be forgiven for trying, surreptitiously, to dismantle the Christmas decorations!

The examiner generously overlooked this understandable lapse in Chloe's otherwise exemplary behaviour.

Yes . . . you've guessed, she passed! When the form had been completed, all the questions answered and all the boxes ticked, it turned out that she'd passed with flying colours.

I was overwhelmed with relief and pride. Chloe, totally unfazed by her achievement, was beginning to think wistfully of the chicken lunch awaiting her at home.

A few days later, in celebration of this notable success, our good friend, Shelagh, designed and presented Chloe with a splendid certificate!

So now you know why we're waiting for our badges. Each P.A.T. cat, and each owner, needs an ID Badge. Without these badges we would be denied access to the hospitals, care-homes, or hospices. Ours, we are told, are under way.

And if you think that you're going to be spared every detail of the expeditions that Chloe is dreaming about . . . well, you can think again!

I can't wait to tell you all about them . . . nor can Chloe, who is now officially: P.A.T. Cat No: 109.

Watch this space . . . !

A question for today

2011-01-18T06:00:00.008Z

May I share a question?

It's always helpful to share questions, it enables them to grow. Not only do they grow, they often produce bigger and better questions. Which can only be good.

I heard two very interesting interviews this week and, in a beautiful instance of synchronicity, each of those being interviewed stressed the value of questioning.

The first recommended keeping a journal in which, each morning, you wrote down a question to focus on during the day.

The second, Gary Douglas, warned of the dangers of answers. Answers, he maintained, discouraged you from searching further.

Both implied that an answer was a dead-end, a full-stop. Questions, on the other hand, lit up the mind, excited the interest and encouraged further searching.

Why is it, I wondered afterwards, that modern eduction seems to concentrate on ticking boxes and answering questions? How did we foster the prevailing belief that the ability to supply an answer, even if this consists of no more than ticking a box, provides a student with the tools needed to move forward into adult life? What if (heretical thought for a school governor!) students were given the answers and asked to provide the questions?

I played with this idea. Say that the answer provided on one occasion was the word 'spade'. How many hidden layers of subtlety linger around that word? Christopher Fry summed it up perfectly when he wrote, 'a spade is never as merely a spade as the name spade would imply'.

Again, if the answer given was 'a rose', this could produce some fascinating questions. Might it even re-ignite Shakespeare's wisdom and enable the students to discover for themselves that it isn't the name that provides the beauty, structure, and scent?

This line of conjecture was getting interesting. I decided to stretch the net further and turned my thoughts to games for the mind. Surely this would be a certain place to find unquestioned answers?

But, no. As one who is addicted to her daily Su Doku, I know that the whole time the game remains a question it is both challenging and entertaining. However, I also know that the moment every square is filled, the moment it is a complete answer . . . well, the only value remaining to that scrap of scribbled newspaper is as a contribution to the recycling bag.

Could Maths and Science be the stumbling block to this revolution in thinking? Not, it seems, if we take basic arithmetic.

One and one makes two, we say . . . but two what? No two things are identical, and once you have two you have created a relationship, it isn't simply two. The combined talents, wisdom and efforts of two far outweigh that of simply doubling the talents, wisdom and effort of one. And if, instead of accepting the answer as 'two' you question what you've achieved and add a further one, you have a far more complex situation than that of merely creating three. Look beyond the simple answer 'three' and see that you now have a triangle. You have inter-connectedness on both sides of each component, you have a circling flow of communication. And communication of any kind is always a question, never an answer.

A final thought to take into consideration is the fact that answers aren't always as clear-cut and obvious as they seem.

To the question: 'What are thirty thousand pieces of carved stone added to fifty thousand pieces of carved stone?', the answer isn't necessarily 'eighty thousand pieces of carved stone'.

It could be, 'St Paul's Cathedral'.

Oh dear, this will never do. I seem to be concluding with the very thing I've been avoiding: an answer!

Would you be so kind as to take over from here and see where this line of questioning takes you . . . ?

Thank you!

The Squeak-well

2011-01-11T06:45:00.003Z

Could you do with a chuckle to start the New Year?

If so, would you like to hear the sequel (possibly I should call it a 'squeak-well') to the story of Chloe's voice-activated, Christmas mouse?

You would . . . then sit back and enjoy this tale of chaos in the book-room!

By any understanding of the term, Chloe had a good Christmas. It started with her first glimpse of the snow . . . followed by walks in the snowdrifts . . . followed by Christmas morning and the excitement of opening her presents . . . the climax arriving with the discovery of her voice-activated mouse.

If Chloe had a good Christmas, mine was equally enjoyable . . . but somewhat exhausting!

With the over-active mouse safely relegated to a high shelf in the book-room (securely contained in a carrier-bag and well out of the way of prying paws or loud noises) I could finally sit back and relax.

I don't know whether you were able to watch, but shortly after

Christmas there was a ninety-minute television programme designed to the celebrate the eightieth birthday of the entertainer, Rolf Harris.

Many years ago I worked for the theatrical agency who represented Rolf. He was frequently in the office. In addition, I would visit him and his family at their home by the Thames, and looked upon them as my friends.

To refresh these memories, I wanted to see the programme.

On the evening in question, all was calm and peaceful in the book-room. I was seated on the sofa, Chloe was asleep in her cradle, and Rolf

smiled happily from the television screen. It would, I'm certain, have remained peaceful indefinitely had Rolf not reached out for his didgeridoo.

Don't ask me what it is about the bass notes of the didgeridoo that has an appeal to a battery-operated mouse. But suddenly, and alarmingly, the mouse responded!

High on the shelf, the carrier-bag began to tremble and shake . . . from deep inside came a series of loud, high-pitched squeaks and whistles . . . from the cradle by the radiator leaped a fully awake and thoroughly excited cat . . . chaos took over in the book-room!

I'm sure that the programme ended with a fine tribute to all Rolf's work . . . I'll never know! Chloe, the mouse, and I were far too concerned with the drama of the present moment to pay deserved attention to Rolf's eighty years of achievement.

Finally, calm was restored. Another resting-place was found for the now-dormant

mouse, and Chloe and I settled down to recover from the excitement.

But that experience made me wonder . . . just why did the early

Aborigines design and play their didgeridoos? Could there, perhaps, have been a problem with the indigenous Hopping Mouse in the Australian Outback?

Like an Australian Pied Piper, did an ancient Aborigine once lure the Hopping Mice away from the encampments to the strains of the didgeridoo?

Alas . . . we'll never know!

Cosmic Come Dancing!

2011-01-01T06:42:00.015Z

Before the New Year swallows up memories of 2010, may I share something with you?

It was a moving experience and it took place on December 21st. Not only was this day very close to Christmas, but it also marked the Winter Solstice and, this year, a Lunar Eclipse. Quite a lot of heavy significance for one day to carry!

To start, let me put you in the picture. Have I told you that I regularly participate in an online project called The Global Coherence Initiative?

I think it's best if I let the organisers describe their revolutionary concept for themselves . . .

" . . . (it is) a science-based, co-creative project . . . to facilitate the shift in global consciousness from instability and discord to balance, cooperation and enduring peace."

As you can see, it's a substantial aim! And what does this involve? Quite simply, you log in whenever you can (or visit one of their three daily, communal sessions), and spend up to a quarter-of-an-hour united with others from around the world in a heart-based relationship with the Earth. The words 'love', 'gratitude' and 'care' are keynotes of the exercise.

It is a simple yet profound practice, but, as the organisers say, "simplicity is powerful and effective when the heart is sincere".

Being such a significant day, December 21st attracted many to the website. I joined the session which started in London at mid-day. As you participate, so you move from the Waiting Room to the Global Care Room and, at this point, a large representation of our planet appears on the screen. You can control the planet - zoom in or rotate it as you wish - and, as you zoom in, bright lights identify by name and location all those participating at that particular moment. A spoken introduction leads you into the session.

Tentatively at first, I gently rotated the familiar outline of the Earth and zoomed in. Amongst the myriad of small, bright lights were participants from Warsaw, from Budapest, from Nairobi, from Athens, not to mention Paris, London and widely across the United States. In festive abundance, the small, bright lights were shining everywhere.

Using my mouse, I explored this twinkling globe, and suddenly realised that I was moving it off its normal north/south axis. You've no idea how strange this seemed. It made me feel absurdly giddy and unsure of myself to see the British Isles come into view lying on its side, with the North Pole and South Pole on a horizontal alignment. Seconds later, an upside-down Australia topped the globe and I found London to be unexpectedly and confusingly 'down under'.

It was uncomfortable, it felt wrong. Yet, what came home to me very forcibly was that this was the reality of our solar system.

Our planet is not stationary in space, it is constantly rotating on its axis whilst simultaneously revolving round the sun. The reassuring illusion of stable, north/south security is totally fictional.

At that moment, so I realised, all of us in the Global Care Room, together with every other creature on the planet, were part of what could only be called a complex and beautiful stellar dance.

Johan in Brussels, Pedro in Madrid, Kevin in North Carolina, and many, many more of us, were spinning through the vastness of the cosmos as we participated together in a profound, heart-focussed blessing.

The session over, I allowed the planet on the screen to return to its secure north/south axis. The illusion of stability returned and gravity held sway.

I'm sure you can understand why I wanted to share this with you. It's a powerful memory. The recollection of how so many people, linked together in love and care, revolved and rotated to the Last Waltz of an expiring year.

And if you want to know what The Royal Society of Arts say about all this, just click HERE!

Will you Come Dancing with me into the future? Not Strictly, but Cosmically . . . please say 'yes'!

Happy New Year!

Everything but an OFF switch!

2010-12-28T06:57:00.008Z

Have you a moment to share a laugh?

Chloe's first Christmas produced a deluge of generous presents. Each one was greeted with wide-eyed enthusiasm and a thorough investigation of its potential. Amongst a wonderful variety of catnip toys and other gifts was a totally unexpected novelty - a battery-operated mouse.

Never having come across a battery-operated mouse, I studied the instruction sheet carefully. This was no simple rodent, it needed to be opened with a screwdriver in order to insert the batteries. I went in search of a screwdriver.

The base removed . . . the batteries inserted . . . and the base screwed firmly back into place . . . Chloe's mouse was ready for action.

What form would this action take? We soon found out!

Having woken from its trance, the activated mouse was not only mobile, it was also highly vocal! What was more, far from restricting itself to muted squeaks, it had aspirations to be a veritable diva.

As Chloe and I watched in startled amazement, it darted across the carpet to a lively accompaniment of high-pitched squeaks, purrs and chirrups! Yelling with excitement, Chloe dived after it! Sitting back on my heels on the floor, I burst out laughing.

Ten minutes later, with Chloe now thoroughly over-excited, it seemed the moment to switch off the noisy newcomer and let the situation calm down. Too late I discovered that the mouse had everything but an OFF switch!

Turning in desperation to the instruction sheet, I made a discovery. The mouse, I found to my surprise, was voice-activated . . . it was Chloe's enthusiastic miaows and my laughter that were keeping it on the move!

Have you ever found yourself in animated communication with a mechanical mouse? Believe you me, it's enough to get any human laughing, and any cat over-excited!

In search of a moment's peace, I plunged the toy deep inside one of the festive carrier-bags. Peace? From the noises coming through the silver paper, it seemed that there was nothing wrong with this mouse's ears!

Meanwhile, Chloe, upset by the disappearance of her new plaything, succeeded in turning it round inside the bag. With a loud, triumphant squeak, the mouse came rushing out again!

At this point I was laughing so helplessly that I could barely hold the camera.

There was only one thing left to do. An indignant, wriggling Chloe was put to rest in the bedroom and, as silently as I could, I carried the mouse (still in its bag) into the book-room. Here, I placed it on a top shelf and crept quietly away.

It will be invited to come down to play at regular intervals in the future, but, for the moment, the more peaceful catnip toys have come into their own.

What worries me a little is how loud the volume of sound would need to be to rouse the sleeping mouse into strident life?

Perhaps I'd better keep the radio and television at low volume . . . just in case!

Below Stairs

2010-12-24T06:19:00.001Z

At times it feels as though I'm trapped below

The slatted floor of heaven. Fleetingly,

I glimpse an angel's foot, or what might be

The shadow of a trailing wing, and know

There's something overhead. And yet, although

I'd love to join their distant company,

The dust and darkness of captivity

Enfeeble ears and eyes and overthrow

The will. Unaided, I can't penetrate

Their realm. But, neither can I comprehend

The puzzling clues which seem to indicate

That loving angels constantly descend

To join me in my cramped and dusty state,

And light the stairs that lead to journey's end.

In touch for Christmas

2010-12-14T06:41:00.005Z

Have you a moment to spare for a little cogitation?

These thoughts were triggered by what I'm doing at the moment, sitting here typing to you - keeping in touch. I've also been sorting through Christmas cards. One of the many blessings of this season is the fact that, through cards and gifts, Christmas encourages us to keep in touch with friends and family.

Now, did you notice which common phrase was repeated in that last paragraph? Yes, that's right, the concept of keeping in touch.

I was thinking about this the other day, and also thinking how, out of all our five senses, the sense of touch is probably the one given the least thought and appreciation.

We are inclined to take our hands for granted. More often than not we look upon them as being purely functional . . . good for typing, gardening, engineering, what you will . . . but surely it is our hands that keep us in touch?

After all, it is my fingers that are talking to you now. When words are hard to come by it's the touch of an outstretched hand that can often speak more volubly and truthfully than any words.

By holding hands we communicate affection, by the touch of a hand we can offer solace or support. Feelings flow freely from the hand direct to the heart, without any confusing interruptions from the questioning mind.

And there is another important factor relating to hands. I'm no physicist, but I fully believe it to be true that, in essence, our physical bodies are composed of massed, vibrating energy. With our five senses we can acknowledge all other forms that vibrate at the same frequency, anything vibrating outside our range is unknown to us - a great blessing when you consider the number of mobile phone conversations that are swirling through the ether at any given moment, but a pity when it comes to the angels!

By what means does our individual energy communicate with the outside world? Through our presence, through our voices, and through the palms of our hands.

Don't take my word for this. Instead, may I suggest you try a simple experiment. Place your hands loosely in your lap, palms upwards, fingers gently outstretched. Pay attention to your palms . . . give it time . . . do you feel a tingling sensation? Now, close your fingers over your palms . . . has the tingling disappeared? Open your fingers . . . and I think you will find that the tingling sensation returns. The whole time your palms are open and receptive, so that tingling energy is noticeable.

What is it? I don't know. Call it the life-force, call it what you will. But it's as though our hands are transmitters . . . it is powerful . . . it is healing . . . it is good.

Do we sense this, I wonder, when we automatically stretch out our hands to someone in distress, or hold up our hands in praise?

Which brings us back to Christmas, the season of praise.

In every sense of the word, let's keep in touch this Christmas.

Wishing for a backbone

2010-12-07T06:41:00.007Z

Have you a moment to mull over a statement I heard the other day?

It was made by Caroline Myss, the powerful writer and teacher:

"Today, in the Western world," she said, "we don't have backbones, we have wish-bones."

That phrase has stuck in my mind. Why? Because the truth of it hit me forcibly. How has our culture become so confused that all we can think of is not our blessings in the present, but what we wish for in the future - all those possessions or situations that we convince ourselves we need, the things that we tell ourselves we are entitled to?

Surely we have never been more privileged? For the majority, the necessities of daily life have never been more abundant. But where is our backbone on those isolated occasions when things go wrong? Rather than accepting some minor accident with stoicism, we look to see whom it is that we can sue for this totally undeserved mishap. We wish for compensation. Life, we feel, owes us a smooth passage.

A backbone offers support. It is strong, but flexible, the vital channel for information up and down the body. Like a tree it can bend with unexpected pressures, similarly it can right itself when these pressures are removed. It can stiffen to provide courage, and curl itself lovingly around those in need of protection. It draws in information from the toes and fingertips, and responds as the situation demands.

But a wish-bone? In order to activate a wish-bone it needs to be broken. What sort of support is that? And whilst we are concentrating on all that wishing, surely we are ignoring what we have already?

We would be so happy, we tell ourselves, if only we had a larger car . . . or that special holiday . . . or an extra bonus.

But what about the car that is already serving us so well? Or the picnic that we enjoyed the other day? And has there ever been a bonus that can actually buy happiness?

I'm reminded of the old saying, 'Be careful what you wish for in case you get it.'

Just think about it for a moment: are all those objects and situations that we think we need really worth the sacrifice of Western society's spinal column?

But there could be a solution.

This Christmas let's wish for the return of our backbone . . . and we don't need any outside help to make this wish comes true.

Once upon a time . . .

2010-11-30T06:48:00.001Z

Would you like an old-fashioned story? A story of friendship . . . loss . . . grief . . . and, finally, a happy reunion?

You would . . .? Then off we go . . .

Throughout her short life, Chloe has been the recipient of my kind friends' generosity.

Toys have been showered upon her. When she was a kitten, it was the small mice that she loved. Now that she is a young cat, her favourites are correspondingly larger.

She has two favourites, her elongated leopard and her pink teddy-bear. Forced to choose between her favourites, I suspect that she would opt for the teddy.

The teddy (or should it be 'tedette', you only have to examine her long, winsome eyelashes to know that she is a girl) is the larger, the more resilient, and definitely the more cuddlesome.

Every night, the bear and Chloe play strenuous games around the flat. Every morning I go in search of the bear's new hiding-place. After a night of being kissed and kicked, and lovingly dragged from room to room, she is slightly dirtier, but really none the worse. I return her to the toy basket to enjoy a well-earned rest before the next bout of excitement.

Such was the regular pattern of our life until the other morning . . . when Teddy was nowhere to be found.

I searched . . . Chloe searched. We searched the living-room . . . the bedroom . . . the hall. We looked behind the chairs . . . down the back of the sofa . . . under the bed. Chloe even opted for the aerial view from the cat tree . . . but no bear could we find.

The elongated leopard had to deputise as Chloe's friend and confidante, but it wasn't the same. As Chloe and I both recognised, the small, pink bear was sorely missed.

Come the evening, I was getting supper in the kitchen when, all at once, I heard an unexpected rustle from behind the door. It came from the corner where I keep a stack of reusable carrier bags.

Carrier bags . . . ? Chloe, I remembered, loved playing with carrier bags. What if . . . ?

I pulled back the door to discover a burrowing Chloe deep inside a bag. And in the bag with her?

Yes . . . there, in a place where I would never have thought of looking, was her missing teddy bear!

By what reasoning, I wondered, had she reckoned that her favourite toy would like to be abandoned in an empty carrier bag behind the kitchen door?

No matter . . . the ecstatic reunion was a joy to behold!

We will remember them

2010-11-23T06:37:00.002Z

This isn't really a letter, it's more an accompanying line to a photograph. To try to provide any words of explanation would be beyond me.

Suffice to say that my camera captured this picture shortly after the two-minute silence on Remembrance Sunday, ten days ago. Throughout the service I felt that orbs were present. This photo confirmed it.

Why do orbs respond to my camera?

The simple answer is that I don't know. I can only believe that they come in order to be shared. Which is why, rather like the Ancient Mariner, I am left with this compelling need to show the photos to you.

All I would ask is that you let your gaze linger for a few moments on the extraordinary profusion, intensity and size of orbs in this photo . . . remembering the day and time that it was taken.

I wouldn't presume to speak for the orbs . . . they will do that for themselves . . .

The View

2010-11-16T06:51:00.002Z

"We'll take you up to see the view," they said.

And so we journeyed through the Autumn rain,

The children wishing they had played instead;

Their weary parents trying to explain,

With fraying patience, how they ought to show

Their aunt the countryside. Five people, set

Apart by irritation, huddled low

Within the car. We got out on the wet

Sweet grass a very fractious cavalcade;

'Til, over-awed by space, dissension died,

And clouded eyes awoke to see displayed

The patient glory of the countryside.

As mortals changed, we stood in silence there;

And five were one, and one was everywhere.

Lest we forget

2010-11-09T06:59:00.008Z

Have you bought your poppy? I'm sure you have.

My annual poppy-selling session took place last Saturday. I don't know how you feel, but I always find it deeply moving to witness the commitment of people of all ages towards buying a poppy. It is as though, at some unconscious level, we are all stirred by the sight of these small,

red emblems.

Memories - our own, or inherited - urge us to participate in this annual ritual.

I did my best to pin each poppy firmly to the buyer's coat or jacket, poppies (the man-made variety) are notorious for working loose from their anchorage. As I did so, I couldn't help wondering just what it is that gives this small, red, flower such potency, such appeal?

Were the emblem a national flag, would it sell in the same numbers?

I rather doubt it. After all, which flag would we choose? It is the universality and innocence of the poppy, the picture it conjures up of fragile survival on muddy, worn-torn fields that gives it its potency. The blood-red poppy reminds us of sacrifice, it also speaks of our common ground . . . of hope, resilience, and basic unity. When we buy our poppy we aren't celebrating war, we are giving gratitude for the survival of hope.

Talking of common ground, I was privileged recently to hear James O'Dea, a former director of Amnesty International, give a thought-provoking talk on the subject of reconciliation.

"We are supposed to move beyond the horrors of the Holocaust, the terrors of Ruwanda and all the conflicts," he said, "and move to an integrated future . . . the most profound results stem from a small step towards reconciliation and forgiveness, towards our common ground that we share."

It's a powerful message, one that was echoed by a ninety-one-year-old war veteran who visited our local comprehensive school. His visit was intended to bring the Second World War alive to the students. It did.

The talk was moving . . . the students were transfixed.

At the end, when questions were invited, an eager hand shot up.

"What happened to the German soldier who tried to shoot you in the desert?" a young boy wanted to know.

"I hope he returned home to live a long and happy life," said the speaker.

Is it too fanciful to imagine that, with each poppy sold, there is sold a seed? A poppy seed of love, compassion, reconciliation, forgiveness and hope. A seed that will germinate and take root, and whose flowers will never know the crushing boots of greed and aggression.

Will these poppies flourish?

For the sake of those who died, and for the sake of those who mourn . . . we must ensure that they do.

"Amen!" said Chloe

2010-11-02T06:45:00.003Z

Please forgive me. After going on at great length about the importance of 'fun', what do I do? Send you two rather bleak 'letters', one after the other.

This one may not make you laugh, but I think it can be guaranteed to make you smile . . . and you're certain to like the photos!

Ever since she was a small kitten, Chloe's love of children, from toddlers to teenagers, has been one of her many endearing characteristics.

Nor is this one-sided, children are equally drawn to her. When I take her for a walk in Holland Park she becomes a veritable Pied Piper.

With this thought in mind, I felt sure she would enjoy following in Rupert's footsteps and attending an Animal Service.

The local Animal Service was an annual treat for Rupert, who always behaved impeccably and invariably proved to be the only cat amongst thirty or more equally well-behaved dogs.

The service this year was to start at eleven, It might be wise, I thought, to arrive early. At a quarter-to-eleven there was still plenty of room on offer and we found ourselves an empty pew near the front of the church. Rising to the spirit of the occasion, Chloe curbed her natural exuberance and seated herself demurely in the corner, a prime position from which she could peer down the aisle and witness each exciting new arrival.

We hadn't been seated for long when a small girl, with eyes only for Chloe, wriggled her way into the pew beside us. Her mother, so she told me, was further back in the church. They had no animal to bring to the service, so could she come and sit beside Chloe?

I assured her that, if her mother was happy with the arrangement, she certainly could.

Chloe, who clearly thought this an excellent idea, moved to a position between the two of us and curled up happily beside this new friend.

"Would you like to hold the lead?" I asked the small girl.

Confidently, she took control . . . everyone was happy.

We stood for the hymns, we knelt for the prayers, we sat and listened to the readings. Throughout this unfamiliar ceremonial, Chloe remained motionless and wide-eyed in the pew.

It was time for the sermon. Chloe, her gaze fixed on the pulpit, sat listening.

As he reached the end the preacher paused for a moment, then, "Amen!" he declared emphatically.

"Miaow!" replied Chloe with equal vehemence!

Heads, both human and canine, turned in surprise to look at this unexpectedly prayerful small cat!

When the service was over, the children gathered to bid Chloe farewell. Beyond any doubt, her baptism into the rites of the church had been an unqualified success.

My only worry? That Chloe may be planning to preach the sermon herself next year!

First there was bird-song . . .

2010-10-26T06:56:00.002+01:00

From choice, I would write to you about the stories that make me smile, incidents to make you laugh. But there is only sadness in this story.

Why share it? Because I think it's important.

"First there was birdsong,"wrote the sage, "then birds were created to sing."

It's a beautiful and thought-provoking statement, but, as of this moment, it is also incredibly poignant.

Birds have formed an integral part of my life. From my country childhood, to work with the BBC Natural History Unit, right up until the present day, when fat-balls and peanut-holders dangle outside the third-floor windows of my London flat. There have always been birds.

But, in our fast-changing world, there is nothing you can take for granted. I say that because I've been talking to a friend who recently returned from a holiday in Italy. He and his wife chose to visit a peaceful, rural area well away from the tourist traffic, an area known only for its agriculture and extensive forests. My friend is a keen photographer. He takes his camera on holidays for the purpose of recording the wildlife, in particular the birds.

On this recent holiday to Italy, apart from the ubiquitous pigeons and seagulls, it appeared that they saw - and heard - no birds. No birds in the peaceful forests, no birds flying low over the vineyards, no birds roosting in the eaves of the sun-baked houses. No birds. The countryside around them had been silent.

Where had the birds gone? My friend made enquiries of the villagers, but met only with resigned confirmation that the birds

were no longer to be seen.

Such things happen so gradually, so imperceptibly. As in the case of the missing Italian song-birds, it isn't until a seemingly indestructible and vital part of the eco-system has disappeared completely that we realise what we've lost, how silent the world has become.

Did you catch a glimpse of any butterflies this year? When did you last see a hedgehog? And what about those clouds of starlings that once patterned the evening sky . . . have you seen them recently?

On a more practical note, did you know that in parts of China the farm workers are having to pollinate the fruit trees by hand? Indiscriminate and excessive use of powerful pesticides has caused the mass extinction of the once prolific pollinating insects.

No living species should become extinct on account of our heavy footprint on the earth. In our blinkered self-obsession, have we failed to see that we need the birdsong, we need the birds?

Not for our selfish enjoyment, not even out of respect for the myriad forms of creation, of which we are but one. Quite simply, because, in a totally inter-dependent eco-system, without the birds, the bees and the butterflies there will be no human beings.

By a beautiful irony, we have become the cuckoo in the nest, the over-sized cuckoo who is throwing out all rivals in our greedy, short-sighted demand for the earth's dwindling and finite food supply.

And wait a moment . . . just think about it . . . when did you last hear a cuckoo?

We can't eat money

2010-10-19T06:57:00.001+01:00

Have you come across this Cree proverb?

I never thought I'd say this, but may we muse for a moment on the thorny topic of money?

After all, what is money? What is the true nature of this commodity that we value so disproportionately? It isn't a growing part of the created world. On the contrary, it is entirely man-made, a substitute for the reality it represents . . . a shadow . . . an illusion . . . a mirage. Yet we all know that the craving for money is addictive, and those who set their sights on accumulating a vast fortune never reach a point of satisfaction.

So why does money exert such a hold on all of us? Is it beautiful in its own right? Hardly, whatever form it takes, be it metal, paper or plastic, its beauty lies entirely in the eyes and mind of the beholder.

How, then, have our values become so distorted that the possession of money, vast amounts of money, is now considered a positive virtue, whilst those sitting atop the largest piles are automatically elevated to unquestioned positions of eminence in society?

It's as though we've become bewitched by our own invention . . . seduced by the substitute that we once devised for the simple purpose of barter.

This obsession isn't logical. It isn't reasonable. Can the grubby fistfull of paper and coins that we hand over in exchange for a concert ticket offer the joy of music? Can a plastic credit card, however large the bank balance it represents, offer warmth and shelter? I suppose that pound notes, if accumulated and ignited, could provide some temporary warmth. However, it would be a very short-lived and ineffectual blaze.

Our current financial system, as an American economist wrote recently, is 'a money game in which the players use money to make money for people who have money, without producing anything of value'.

But, even as I sit here typing this letter to you, a thought has struck me. This stuff that dominates our lives does have one redeeming feature. In fact, I would even suggest that this fact alone raises our dubious invention from the ranks of 'curse' to that of 'blessing'.

Money is good for one thing . . . you can give it away!

It has, after all, a similar quality to water. Left standing and confined money stagnates . . . allowed to flow free it is beneficial to everything it passes. A steady trickle from the over-stocked reservoirs of the West could bring life and hope to the arid deserts and parched plains in the rest of the world.

The Cree Indians are right. Money of itself won't nourish the trees, restore life to hunted animals, clean the polluted waters, or purify the air . . . but, if we give it away, freely and willingly, in pursuit of these aims, who knows, we may yet save our beleaguered planet.

Calling all orbs!

2010-10-12T06:43:00.008+01:00

What is it about a good book that instantly converts its reader into an evangelist?

A book that's fired me is the one I've just finished, "Countdown to Coherence" by Hazel Courteney.

I say that I've finished it, but that's not strictly accurate. I may have reached the final page, but this is by no means the end. This book is, in itself, a launch-pad . . . a launch-pad to a continuing spiritual journey.

Hazel Courteney takes her reader on an intriguing scientific and spiritual quest, during which she travels worldwide in search of luminaries in the many fields that she investigates. All the interviews are absorbing, much that she covered was totally new to me, but, after my own experience with orbs, it was her enquiry into this phenomenon that particularly captured my attention.

Amongst many other things, I learned that orbs appear eager not only to make contact, but also to respond to our requests for their presence.

This statement made me sit up in my seat . . . it perfectly mirrored my own experiences.

Do you remember what happened at the Tyburn Convent? After repeated photographs had revealed no orbs, I pleaded under my breath for them to show up on the camera . . . and, to my amazed delight, they did.

But let's bring the orb story up-to-date. Last month (two years and over three hundred orb photos later) a friend kindly bought tickets for us to attend the Monteverdi "Vespers" at the Albert Hall. It was to be the penultimate concert of the 2010 Proms season. However, a week before the event, her husband was taken into hospital and she urged me to offer her ticket to someone else. Sadly, I agreed . . . promising that I'd take my camera.

If she couldn't be there, I told her, I would photograph the orbs for her to enjoy afterwards.

It was a rash promise . . . a stupid promise. After making it I could have kicked myself.

How could I possibly guarantee orbs at the Albert Hall? My friend didn't deserve to be disappointed on top of all her anxiety.

But, as you can see, the orbs overlooked my stupidity and collaborated. Whether it was in response to my plea, or to the transcendent beauty of the music, they made an appearance and joined the audience in the final rapturous applause.

Orbs, so Hazel Courteney was told, make themselves apparent on digital cameras in response to the photographer's request. It may be hard to believe, but my experience encourages me to believe that this is true.

Last week I was invited to take Chloe to an Animal Blessing at our local church.

"I wonder if there'll be any orbs?" said Shelagh, a friend who has recently photographed some beautiful orbs in France.

"I'll be far too busy keeping Chloe in check to even think of orbs!" I retorted.

But Chloe was on her very best behaviour and, remembering Shelagh's remark, I turned my camera towards the altar and . . . yes . . . in response to my hopeful plea, there were this beautiful orb.

Relationships never stay the same, they grow and deepen or they diminish. My relationship with orbs has grown from initial amazement and disbelief to a stage of profound gratitude and confidence. A confidence that these incredible, radiant presences (what else can I call them?) will respond. A confidence that they are every bit as much aware of me as I am of them.

I say that, and it is true . . . but, nonetheless, it is impossible to be anything other than deeply moved and incredulous each time an orb appears . . . and, surely, that is how it should be?

Wouldn't you agree that to make contact, albeit momentarily, with an invisible body of consciousness is something beyond words . . . something that I can only call an awesome blessing?

Six in a bed!

2010-10-05T06:08:00.002+01:00

Have you time for another story about my exuberant young cat? It won't take long to read and I think you'll enjoy it.

It amazes me what I can sleep through. Not only am I undisturbed by Chloe getting in and out of bed during the night, but I wake up most mornings to find the flat strewn with toys, the furniture askew, the mats out of place, and happy mayhem in the bathroom. All of which has taken place whilst I've been sleeping peacefully.

But I've met my Nemesis . . . toy mice!

Look at this photo carefully . . . it's Chloe with a packet of toys bestowed on her the other week by a loving admirer. It's a packet of toy mice. Did you happen to notice something significant about those toy mice? Were you studying them closely enough to see the small silver blobs on the end of their tails?

This is significant, very significant. Those silver blobs are bells and although by daylight the tinkling is barely discernible, come three o'clock in the morning, come the same mice with the same tails arriving in your bed . . . believe me the raucous tinkling of those bells is enough to waken the dead!

Chloe has a warm and spontaneous nature. In the middle of the

night she is intent only on giving me pleasure. In her mind, as she goes to her toy-basket and ferrets around, she is generously finding me a present. She arrives back in the bedroom purring with satisfaction, the tinkling mouse in her mouth, and pushes it affectionately into my sleeping cheek. I thank her blearily and, after a short game (very half-hearted on my part), manage to tuck the mouse discreetly under the pillow.

Chloe, who thinks that I've lost her gift, is in no way discouraged. Within minutes she has appeared with another which she wedges firmly into my chest before snuggling down beside me.

In due course I am forced to welcome a third . . . and then a fourth . . . if we both stay very still, I wonder wearily, will this stop the hidden bells from tinkling and might we get some badly needed sleep?

Finally . . . we do!

You wouldn't, I suppose, like to offer a sleep-over to a very endearing small cat, just to give me a night's untroubled rest?

No, I didn't think you would!

Not noodles . . . !

2010-09-28T06:01:00.007+01:00

Laughter is good for us. Would you like a laugh at my expense on the subject of noodles?

I'm sure you would!

A few weeks ago I was one of a small group invited to represent our local residents' association at a Supper Party, a party that was being given by the Mayor at the Town Hall.

Such an event had never happened before, it was an unexpected and generous idea. On the invitation was a request to notify the Mayor's office if you had any dietary requirements. I duly 'phoned to say that I was a vegetarian, and thought little more about it.

The evening of the Supper arrived and we all made my way to the Town Hall, curious as to what lay ahead.

If this was the Mayor's definition of a supper, I thought, as we were greeted with champagne in an ante-room, what could possibly classify as a dinner?

My suppers, often enjoyed from a tray on my lap, were in a totally different league to what was on offer at the Town Hall. But I wasn't complaining!

After quaffing champagne and meeting our fellow guests, we were escorted to the dining hall. Here we were shown to allocated seats at the elegant, candle-lit tables.

As a vegetarian, the first course presented me with no problems. For the main course there was duck. This was duly served to everyone else together with roast potatoes and runner beans.

What, you are wondering, was I given?

You can imagine my dismay as the waitress placed before me a plate piled high with the longest, thinnest, most slippery noodles I've ever encountered!

Can you think of anything more difficult to tackle at an elegant civic reception than a plate of wriggling noodles?

The ones that actually reached my mouth were delicious. But, try as I might, the others slipped from my fork, evaded my knife, and even fell into my lap. To make matters worse, I had been provided with a knife and fork, but no spoon. How can you twirl your noodles around your fork without the aid of a spoon?

Everyone else munched their way happily and delicately through the duck and roast potatoes. I alone, unhappy and self-conscious, struggled to cope!

Finally, despairing of ever coming to terms with the willful and slippery noodles, I abandoned my futile efforts . . . and accepted defeat.

Turning to a fellow guest, I tried to make light of my predicament.

"The sort of meal," I said sadly, "that should be eaten in private with a towel on your lap and no-one to watch!"

The Mayor had done his residents proud . . . the setting was memorable . . . the guests impressive . . . it was just the greatest pity about the noodles!

Under The Skin

2010-09-22T06:38:00.000+01:00

Come, meet me in the dark with outstretched hands,

I would not know your colour or your kind;

And do not speak, in case my biased mind

Forms judgement long before it understands

The words you use. Conceal from me the lands

You've travelled through, the culture that's entwined

In all your thoughts, the politics you find

Acceptable, the ground where your faith stands.

If I could come as nakedly as you,

Abandoning my way of life and creed,

Forgetting those ideas I'm closest to

And recognising what I really need;

Could we, for just a moment, see right through

Our diverse layers to our common seed?

Going Up . . . !

2010-09-14T06:45:00.001+01:00

Would you like to hear about the latest accomplishment of my wonderfully supportive cat? I knew you would!

Little did I appreciate, when Chloe first shinned up her cat tree and went on to target the trees in Holland Park, that I would be the beneficiary of her love of climbing.

When you live, as I do, in a third-floor flat, you need a lift. Or such had been my reasoning for twenty-five years. The antique lift, that had regularly and reliably transported me and my baggage, had become a valued friend. How else to carry up the shopping? What other means for moving weighty cat-litter and heavy parcels? Then, a few months ago, we learned with a shock that our much-loved lift was not just antique, it had become obsolete. No longer was it possible to obtain spare parts. The entire lift would need to be replaced.

How long does it take to replace a lift? Believe it or not . . . three months!

With three months of disruption inevitable, it was decided that the public parts of the building would be rewired at the same time. Those of us who live in the building would have three months of filthy chaos.

But, or so we were promised, it would all be worth our suffering. At the end of those three months there would be a sleek, modern lift, state-of-the-art wiring, beautiful new carpets . . . all we had to do was to patiently endure the chaos and await the promised Golden Age.

What wasn't mentioned was that those of us who lived at the top of the building would also need to develop muscles of steel to cope with three months of climbing . . . but Managing Agents like to gloss over such minor details.

My concern was not just for myself, but also for Chloe. What chemicals were being used by the workmen? If these chemicals got onto her paws, would they do her any harm? Best, I decided, to carry her. This aim was achieved on the first journey down, but Chloe was having none of it on the way back upstairs.

Frantic wriggling resulted in her leaping from my arms and charging triumphantly up the dusty staircase.

She charged . . . she pulled . . . and, towed in her determined wake, I followed!

When you are past your first youth a little help is not to be scorned. This, I decided, was an excellent idea. With a damp cloth waiting inside the door to clean her paws on arrival, Chloe now happily pulls me up the seventy-two stairs on a regular basis!

I wouldn't dream of suggesting that you're in need of similar help, but . . . should that time ever arrive . . . well, you might consider taking advantage of Chloe's generous towing services!

Which marmalade . . . ?

2010-09-07T06:31:00.001+01:00

I feel a little guilty at raising this subject, it's one of the sacred cows of modern society and no-one is more respectful of cows than I am. But do you mind if we give a moment's thought to the subject of choice?

I'm not sure whether or not you like marmalade, but it was on my shopping list this week. Have you any idea how many varieties of marmalade there are available to the casual shopper? I didn't actually stop to count, I was too bemused. Instead my wandering gaze strayed from coarse-cut orange marmalade to fine-cut lemon marmalade, to ruby grape-fruit marmalade, to mandarin marmalade, to marmalade with a dash of honey, to marmalade consisting of no other fruit than lime . . . to every variety of marmalade that a pernickety shopper could possibly be expected to fancy.

And, at the end, when I'd finally put a pot of marmalade in my shopping trolley, was I satisfied? Did I feel that I was purchasing what

I truly wanted? Far from it! Having entered the shop with a simple, uncomplicated desire for marmalade, I was now wondering whether my choice had been the right one. Mightn't the coarse-cut orange marmalade have been tastier? And what of the lime? I had never tried lime. Such a wide choice hadn't made me any happier, quite the reverse. It had merely made me question the wisdom of my choice.

I could be wrong, but isn't this problem inherent in the very context of choice? It leaves a nagging sense of uncertainty . . . what if your choice has been the wrong one?

And there's another aspect to choice . . . this doesn't apply to marmalade, but it does apply to oranges and many other fruit. If there were less choice in the range of perishable goods - food that is often imported from halfway round the world - would it mean that less would be thrown away on reaching its 'sell-by date'?

To travel across continents only to end up producing methane gas in a distant landfill site . . . well, it does seem a little absurd.

In my childhood I was told each Christmas how lucky I was to be going to the pantomime. Convinced of my good fortune, I couldn't wait to enjoy this annual treat.

Would I have anticipated this event with such a sense of excitement and privilege had I been invited to choose between the pantomime and the circus? Or would I have ended up slightly dissatisfied with the one whilst feeling slightly deprived of the other?

Now, as an adult, I wonder whether a myriad television channels (each devoting more and more time to future promotion in order to capture and keep their viewers) are going to offer a more satisfying evening's entertainment than the previous four or five?

In much the same way, had I less books on my shelves to choose from, might I value them more?

For an undisciplined, impressionable person, such as myself, choice and confusion frequently go hand in hand.

There is, perhaps, only one area where I would unreservedly support the need for choice . . . the choice to share my thoughts with you . . . the choice to study what I will . . . the choice to make my own mistakes and to follow my own path.

But when it comes to cosmetics . . . or soap powder . . . or marmalade . . . ?

Choice . . . ?

You can keep it!

Undoubtedly DIM!

2010-08-26T06:49:00.000+01:00

Smugness is never an attractive characteristic. I know that. But would you forgive me if, just for this one letter, I indulge in a bout of joyful, unmitigated, self-satisfaction?
Thank you . . . I knew you would!

Over the past few months, my much-loved ergonomic typing chair has been slowly disintegrating beneath me. Alright, I know you don't feel comfortable perching on it, but it has suited me perfectly. The first sign of trouble was when the seat came loose. The screw holes having worn away, it needed to be tied on with string. Then the padding went, leaving me with somewhat sore knees. I had had the seat for over twenty years, it had been a kind gift from a friend . . . but everything is mortal, and it was becoming very clear that the end was in sight for my chair.

Where on earth, I asked myself, would I find another such chair? Then inspiration struck. I put 'typing chair' into Google and up came a beautiful ergonomic chair that was manufactured by Furniture@work in Glasgow. I clicked . . . and typed . . . and clicked again . . . and, within minutes, an email had arrived telling me that my chair would be with me shortly.
It was . . . it arrived the following morning!

Only I didn't receive a chair. What I received was a very large cardboard box containing a myriad bits and pieces - plus a sheet of paper identifying what the bits and pieces were. Sadly, for someone as ignorant as myself, there was no diagram plotting me through the stages of construction. There was not even an indication as to where a total amateur would begin. I closed the box. This, I realised, after my experience with the air cooler, needed time, courage and application . . . and I felt in very short supply of all three!

A week later, sick of stumbling over the large box in the hall, I opened it once again. Somewhat fearful of finding myself left with the myriad components, not well-wrapped in the box but scattered at random over my flat, I started, very cautiously, to investigate.
There were two, large pieces of polished wood . . . two stout wooden tubes with a brass core . . . screws . . . rods . . . washers . . . a padded seat and a knee rest . . . four castors . . . a spanner . . . and a curious black rod with a bent end.

D.I.Y has never been my natural bent and, looking at this miscellany on the carpet, I felt convinced that it never would be.
BUT . . . just look at this photo . . .
. . . a definite case of Did-It-Myself!
I won't give you the acronym as it's hardly flattering!

And the curious black rod with the bent end? This, I learned was an Allen Key (who, I wonder, was Allen?) which skilfully enabled me to fix the brass ends into the rods.

There are no unidentified pieces left over, the chair moves sweetly on its castors, it is comfort personified to sit on, and I am thrilled to bits!

And look what a wonderful resting place it provides for Chloe!

Smug . . . ? Me . . . ? Never . . . !

A weighty question

2010-08-19T06:46:00.002+01:00

It's just a thought, and possibly a very naive thought, but do you think that we, as a civilisation, are getting too heavy for our own good?

I don't mean obesity, although it's true that we all seem to be considerably larger than our grandparents, what concerns me is

the fabricated world that we're creating to accommodate the ever-increasing size of our world population.

I was on a bus in the City yesterday, all around me new buildings were rearing up behind safety hoardings. When completed they threaten to overwhelm the existing shops and offices and create an entirely new skyline that will be much closer to the sky than anything previously witnessed.

They are large, they are imposing . . . and they are incredibly heavy.

Nor is just the buildings that weigh heavily on the London streets. The buses, particularly the tourist-carrying coaches, are larger and heavier . . . the lorries have doubled in size and number over the past twenty years . . . cumbersome, weighty cars have difficulty in manoeuvring the narrow streets.

Added to all this, there are more of us . . . many, many more of us. We are larger . . . we are heavier . . . and we are everywhere.

This rapid growth can be experienced worldwide. Think about it for a moment, where does all the material come from that's needed to fabricate the growing number of homes and offices from Washington to Beijing? Where do we find the fuel to power our accelerating number of vehicles?

It all comes from beneath our feet, from under the ground.

We dig down for oil, for minerals, for clay, for coal. Cities such as Bath were created by the excavation of stone from the surrounding hillsides, leaving dangerously hollow hills that are only now being made safe.

But what of the overall health of our planet that is being drained of oil, emptied of coal and minerals, and made fragile by the miles of sewers and underground piping?

Is it so very simplistic to think that, in excavating the substance from beneath our feet and piling it on the surface, we might be affecting the integrity of the planet itself? Was our fragile globe designed to lose vast quantities of its sub-strata and then be asked to bear so much extra weight? Were the shifting, tectonic plates that underpin our massive structures designed to accept such stress?

An egg, with its content intact, is amazingly strong. An empty egg-shell is incredibly fragile.

Do you see my point?

I wish I could see a happy ending to these musings, but I'm left with the disturbing mental picture of our depleted planet being squeezed of its life to satisfy the demands of our rapacious species.

Tell me, how do we walk more lightly on the earth?

We need to, if the vital source of our sustenance and well being is to continue to support us.

Focus on Chloe

2010-08-12T06:05:00.003+01:00

Would you like a quick laugh . . . a laugh at my expense?

As you know, I wear glasses. They have become so much a part of me that I would feel strange without them. They are the first thing I put on in the morning, and the last thing I remove before getting into bed. At night they sit on the dressing-table, ready to give focus to the new day from the moment I get up.

That is the intention. That is how life has been until this morning. This morning I was awoken, as usual, by Chloe kissing my nose. I would like to think that this abrasive and enthusiastic gesture arises purely out of affection. I suspect that it is also a cunning way of rousing me from sleep in order to prepare her breakfast!

She kissed my nose . . . I kissed her nose . . . everything was happy and equable until I swung my legs out of the bed and groped for my glasses. My searching hand covered the entire surface of the dressing-table . . . it went to the chair (just in case, in an absent-minded moment, I had put them there) . . . it went to the table that held the radio. It was no good, grope as I might,

there were nothing to reward my outstretched fingers. The glasses were not there and the only possible culprit was Chloe.

I have grown quite capable of sleeping through her night-time frolics. Could she, I wondered, have discovered my glasses in the early hours and seen their potential as a new toy? It was more than probable that she had, but the situation left me in a quandary.

How could I, without the aid of my glasses, find my glasses?

I looked at Chloe, now resting in the chair. She rolled onto her back, gazed at me from guileless blue eyes and vocally proclaimed her innocence.

Not that I believed a word of it.

Down on my knees, I peered myopically under the bed, no discernible glasses. I looked under the cupboard . . . it was all a bit of a blur, but no part of the blur looked familiar. Chloe, entering into the spirit of this new game, got down from the chair and did her best to be helpful . . . which only added to the difficulty!

It was then that I remembered. Several years previously, when I'd purchased my current glasses, I'd put the old ones away for safe keeping.

Blurry-eyed, but determined, I fumbled through drawers and cupboards and (Eureka!) finally tracked them down. With my old glasses firmly in place, it took no time to discover the lost ones wedged tightly beneath a chair where Chloe had abandoned them. One pair of glasses . . . slightly cat-chewed but perfectly functional.

Where will my glasses spend the nights in future?

That's right . . . well away from probing paws, safely in a drawer!

As for Chloe, well . . . if she misses her chewable new toy she can always enjoy midnight antics in the bathroom!

Pebbles

2010-08-05T06:03:00.002+01:00

A photograph of pebbles on the shore;

Smooth, basking pebbles, polished by the sea

To form a subtle, blue-grey tapestry -

An image of the scene the camera saw.

But when the shutter closed it captured more

Than sun-lit stones; with equal clarity

The picture has revealed the mind of he

Who took the photograph. There lies before

Me his delight in basic truth, his feel

For law and symmetry. I see a man

Of gentleness, an artist with a reel

Of film who amply carried out his plan

For showing how the sea-shore can reveal,

In its simplicity, the cosmic span.

Saving Fun

2010-07-29T06:30:00.006+01:00

Have you a moment to cogitate on the subject of language?

No . . . let's be precise . . . have you a moment to cogitate on the subject of words?

Language, I know, is organic. Every day new words come into being whilst others - words that have fallen into neglect - are relinquished. 'Cogitate' is a word in point. It's a beautiful word, but how often do you hear it used? It's almost as though words, like insects, plants and animals, first become scarce, then become endangered, and finally disappear altogether.

A word that I would like to see saved before it follows this path to oblivion is the word

'fun'.

Think about it for a moment, when did you last use the word 'fun'? It's almost as though the word is too innocent, too naive for our complex and sophisticated world.

But if we lose fun we will have lost far more than just a word, we will have lost our capacity for spontaneous pleasure, our lightness of spirit. We will also have lost our trust in the basic goodness of life.

Wouldn't you agree that this is what fun is all about . . . spontaneity and trust? You can't organise fun. You can't fabricate fun or schedule it into your diary. Nor, like 'love', can it be analysed. What's more, fun never takes itself seriously. Like a translucent bubble, it sparkles on the surface of life and makes us smile.

What is fun? Ask a hundred people and you'll get a hundred different answers. But, if we can't describe it, we certainly recognise it when we see it. With equal certainty, we know when it is absent!

Probably the most important aspect of fun is that it is something in which we participate, it cannot exist on its own. A situation and a person combine to create fun.

Nor is this joyful state the exclusive preserve of human beings. Animals, often wiser than we are, revel in a highly-developed sense of fun.

So . . . what can we do to make our world more environmentally friendly to fun?

We can allow more free time for spontaneous events to occur. We can switch off our anxieties for just a moment, leaving the space for fun to creep in. We can stop being sensible and encourage lightheartedness. We can get down on the floor to play with the children . . . empty cardboard boxes have an unfailing capacity to produce fun. We can dare to be silly . . . or foolish . . . or childlike . . . or just a bit crazy.

Above all, we can trust a little more in the basic goodness of life. Could that be a definition of fun . . . simple goodness enlivened by an infusion of the absurd?

And this is where you come in . . . or I hope you will.

Along with butterflies, bees and the Asian elephant . . . what about having fun saving 'fun'?

Not-So-Silent Afternoon

2010-07-22T06:44:00.008+01:00

I like incongruous stories . . . you like incongruous stories.

Have you a spare moment, because I think you'll enjoy this one?

It has been so hot lately, so overwhelmingly hot. On account of this Chloe and I have only visited the garden in the early morning and late afternoon. At both these periods, when the sun is low in the sky, the shady places are welcoming and the scent of the flowers can be fully appreciated.

As the shadows lengthened the other afternoon, we went down to visit the garden. After Chloe had enjoyed an enthusiastic fly-hunt on the lawn, we settled by the pond. Sitting there, cooled by a slight breeze and with no sound but the gentle patter of the fountain, it was blissfully tranquil.

Well . . . tranquil, that is, if you take into account Chloe's devious efforts to jump into the water, each of which I luckily managed to thwart!

Relaxed and happy, I was startled to hear some unexpected music.

Was I imagining it . . . ? No, it was the unmistakable and surprising sound of someone singing.

Floating down from one of the open windows above, and clearly discernible to anyone

in the garden below, came an unaccompanied male voice . . . a pleasing and melodic voice. The singer himself was hidden in the shadows of the room, but his voice joined me by the pond.

And what had this hidden vocalist chosen to sing on a hot, midsummer afternoon?

You'll never believe it . . . I couldn't believe it. . . but there was no mistaking the familiar words and music of 'Silent Night'!

Can you think of anything more bizarre, more incongruous, yet at the same time more delightful, than sitting in a garden in a July heat-wave charmed and refreshed by the melodious strains of 'Silent Night'?

The unknown singer gave his all. He sang the carol with care and feeling from beginning to end . . . then, after a slight pause, went back to the beginning and sang it again!

And why not, I was beginning to ask myself, lulled and seduced by the singing? There are silent nights in the middle of summer, and this unexpected music only enhanced what was, in essence, a deeply tranquil late afternoon.

One of the many delightful things about this story is that it leaves so many unanswered questions. Who was singing . . . why was he singing . . . could this unknown singer have had a crowded autumn schedule and been anxious to fit in a rehearsal, a very early rehearsal, for a Christmas concert?

None of that matters. What does matter is that, intentionally or unintentionally, he bestowed on anyone listening a moment of pure delight.

So, come mid-winter, when there's carol-singing round the crib, I'll give you no prize for guessing where my mind will travel.

That's right . . . I'll be down by the pond on a hot, July afternoon, magically restored and refreshed by the unforgetable strains of 'Silent Night'!

Have car, will travel

2010-07-15T06:36:00.002+01:00

Have we become an over-cautious society? You may not agree with me, but I'm beginning to think that we have. Let me give you an example: the simple case of cats in cars.

Throughout my life, the cat of the moment has been free to move about in the car as it wished. First Sue . . . then Sophie . . . then Rupert . . . all trained as kittens not to interfere with the driver's feet, nor to settle on the driver's lap. All were sensible, intelligent cats who subsequently travelled, happily and safely, for thousands of miles.

With the arrival of Chloe I was shocked to learn that the law had changed. No longer would she be allowed to sit freely on the passenger seat beside me. Either she travelled in a cat-carrier, was tethered, or endured solitary confinement in the back.

With great reluctance, I started with the tether. Seated in her travelling bed, Chloe was tethered to both sides of the passenger seat. For five minutes it proved a novelty . . . at the six-minute point she had wriggled with sufficient vigour to have completely snapped one of the restraining leads. For the remainder of the short, hair-raising journey I drove one-handed, clutching Chloe with my left-hand, terrified that she'd strangle herself with the remaining tether!

From that moment, tethering was abandoned!

The next alternative was to give her freedom in the back. Very carefully, I created a partition which effectively cutoff the back of the car from the front. The only problem was the need to keep a small space between the two front seats, thus enabling me to use my driving mirror. But Chloe, I was sure, would never notice that.

Within less time than it took to start the engine a triumphant small cat had joined me in the front of the car!

So . . . finally . . . it had to be captivity.

Cat-carriers are small and restrictive, they allow the travelling cat very little view of the passing scenery. I settled for a small cage and secured it to the passenger seat by the seat-belt. Chloe was then squeezed inside. Her initial reaction, as you can see, was hardly approving . . . but, when we reached our destination . . . well, she had reason to change her mind.

First of all there was the unexpected excitement of a totally new animal species . . .

large ponies to be viewed very cautiously from a distance . . .

. . . then came another exciting novelty, a wood to explore . . . a wood with inviting paths . . . mysterious smells . . . and a plethora of small flying insects . . .

. . . at the far end of the wood there was yet another surprise. A wooden gate beyond which a wildflower meadow beckoned enticingly. It was a meadow that most definitely needed a very thorough investigation . . .

. . . and, best of all, there were the trees, hundreds of trees.

A gleam entered Chloe's eye . . . this, she recognised gleefully, was what Bengal Cats were born to do . . . to shin up tall trees just as fast and as high as a helpful, extendable lead will allow!

It's possible that Sue, Sophie and Rupert will be viewing Chloe's restrictive cage with sympathy.

But, if it takes a cage to get to Heaven . . . well, Chloe isn't complaining!

Addicted to oil

2010-07-08T06:31:00.006+01:00

Knowledge is an uncomfortable companion . . . or at least, it can be.

Do you find, as I do, that once your eyes have been opened to some fact, some truth, it is almost impossible to return to your former state of happy ignorance?

It was like that thirty years ago when I became a vegetarian. Every year I'd taken pleasure in watching the lambs frolicking in the fields. Then one spring morning, for no known reason, I found myself linking the lamb I was watching to the lamb chops that regularly appeared on my plate. There was no going back. Up until then I'd been a happy meat-eater, well able to keep the two topics

segregated . . . once brought together the only option was to become a vegetarian.

I blame Lynne McTaggart for a new, inescapable item of uncomfortable truth. Since listening to her memorable contribution to an online discussion on the oil spill in The Gulf of Mexico my eyes have been opened. Despite my best efforts to ignore it, all I can see is a vast expanse of oil.

Tell me, do you think, as I once did, that oil is basically the fuel that powers our cars, our planes and our heating systems? Think again! Over the past hundred years oil has seeped into practically everything. It is not only in our engines, but also our living-rooms, our bath-rooms, and in almost every commodity we possess - and I'm not just referring to the ubiquitous plastic-bag. How is it that, without realising it, we've allowed ourselves to become so totally dependent on oil?

I'm typing to you on an oil-based keyboard, looking at an oil-based computer screen. Before sitting down to write I had my breakfast, boiling the water in an oil-based kettle, making toast in an oil-based toaster, not forgetting to take my daily vitamin capsule in its oil-based coating.

Nor is Chloe blameless. She squats on an oil-based litter-tray, eats from oil-based bowls, and her favourite, oil-based toy even looks a little like an oil-well!

Do I escape this oily environment when I leave home? Far from it! I shall shortly be going down to the car which not only drinks oil, but has a large percentage of oil in its structure. I shall drive along roads coated with oil-based tarmac, passing shops and houses bright with oil-based paint, and only when I reach the woods, where I plan to take Chloe for a walk, will I be free of this oily surfeit.

As a repentant gas-guzzler, I am as guilty as anyone else on the planet.

So . . . away with the plastic bags . . . and in with the shopping basket.

Out with the selotape . . . and in with the string.

Out with . . . no! I can't do it!

I can't be expected to scrap this computer . . . my camera . . . my fridge?

Is there, I wonder, an 'Oil Addicts Anonymous'?

If not, let's form a branch. We're going to need all the support we can get!

The risk of a shower . . .?

2010-07-02T06:51:00.000+01:00

I don't want to sound curmudgeonly . . . well, perhaps I do, just a little . . . but wouldn't you agree with me that weather forecasters could be a little less biased when it comes to the crucial subject they talk about?

A few moments ago I was watching the forecast on television.

"There is a slight risk of showers in the south-east," said the presenter.

He said it apologetically, as though holding himself responsible for any absence of sunshine.

"But," he continued on a more buoyant note, "some of you may be lucky and see no rain at all."

Since when, I wanted to ask, was it lucky to be hot and arid?

Are we so conditioned to the favoured concept of wall-to-wall sunshine that we can no longer recognise the benefits of a shower?

It's true that, every now and then, a forecaster makes casual mention of "you gardeners, who want rain for your gardens". But what about the farmers needing rain for the crops, vital food crops that sustain the population? What about the rivers needing rain to give them health and vitality . . . the woods and forests needing rain to seep down to the thirsty roots of the trees . . . the parched fields and hedgerows, crying out for the restoration of their green patina?

Closer to home, what about the rain that finally wends its way to the reservoirs and makes possible our regular water supply? What about the smooth running of our sewage systems and the unquestioning availability of our daily showers?

Chloe, for one, is never happier than when resting in the basin, in close proximity to a dribbling tap!

What's more, this rain that we bemoan knows no limit to its generosity. It is rain that refreshes the air . . . rain that clears away our man-made dust and debris . . . rain that, as a glass of water, quenches our thirst more effectively than any other form of liquid and tops up the vital water component in our bodies.

And spare a moment to reflect on the beauty, sound and fragrance

of this vital resource . . . the droplets that cluster like pearls on cobwebs. . . the streams that, replenished by the rain, gurgle their way down from the hills. . . the heady scent of the garden after a restorative drenching.

Tell me, when you were young, did you keep a commonplace book? I did, and I still have it. What's more, it shows that my appreciation of rain goes back a long way.

At the age of sixteen I recorded a passage from "The Great Ship", by Eric Linklater.

May I share it with you?

"Did you ever see Edinburgh when the wind's in the east, and the sky black with cloud, and the whole town's drunkit with rain, and every gutter running like a burn in spate? All the cassie stones shining-wet, and waterfalls coming down the Castle Rock, and the roofs of the houses dancing for joy, and the wind howling for more. It's a grand sight,

Edinburgh in the rain . . . "

The risk of a shower . . . ? No, surely not! Let's be grateful for the unquestionable benefits of a shower.

And, just think about it for a moment, how could we have the promise of the rainbow without the blessing of the rain?