Have you ever wondered why you don't look quite the same in photographs as you do in the mirror?
It's a bit annoying isn't it? It's because the mirror has flipped your face around and given you a view of you that only you can see, with everything switched so that left is right, and right is left. When you hold up your right hand to a mirror, the person in the mirror holds up what would be their left.
Oh to be symmetrical! But most of us this side of Hollywood aren't - our faces are subtly and beautifully wonky: teeth, noses, blemishes, eyes, ear-sizes and angles - and it all adds up to a picture that's less familiar in photos, than our personal, bathroom-sink version of us.
I'm mentioning it because I've seen a few things online recently where people don't look quite like themselves and I've wondered what's been going on.
I think I know though:
It turns out that Zoom, Teams, Face Time, whatever else... have all been showing us the mirror image of ourselves, while displaying the camera image to everybody else. It's built in to the way these algorithms work. Hold up some text or sit in front of a poster with words on and it'll become obvious that you're seeing what you would see in a mirror. But the image of you on your screen is not the image everyone else is seeing.
Also in those devices is the ability to record, and when we video ourselves, the algorithm knows what we're doing and automatically flips the image to the camera image - that's the image everyone else would see if they were facing us. It's an alien way of seeing ourselves - all back to front - but it's also the only way anyone else ever sees us.
Sorry if that's troubling. The truth can be difficult sometimes, but honestly, Zoom has been fooling us.
So there's a temptation then to manually flip back the recording to mirror image isn't there, whenever we play back our videos! It's such a relief to us to see that familiar old face.
Well. I'd resist that temptation if I were you. As weird as you look to you round the wrong way, the mirror image of you will look just as peculiar to everyone else when they play your video back. Your reflection is a hugely personal thing.
All of that being said, it's given me a little glimpse of something I would invent for the future - a digital mirror. It looks like a regular mirror; you hang it the same way as you would hang a glass one, but it's essentially a camera that's filming you and flipping the image round from mirror to camera image - showing you the you everyone else sees.
Sure, it'll take some getting used to: brushing your teeth will be a nightmare of co-ordination at first, but I reckon as humans we're pretty adaptable. And maybe there'd be a button that lets you flip the image round for that kind of thing anyway.
Will it be a thing? Who knows? Meanwhile, don't be afraid of the camera version of you. That's really how the world sees you, after all.
Thursday, 30 April 2020
ROBINSON CRUSOE IN A FUNK
I'm in a bit of a funk today. I don't mean I've been doing jazz moves round the kitchen. I mean I've been gloomy - all day.
I dislike it. I have to lock myself away, just to stop snapping at people for no reason - and at the best of times, the isolation of that moment doesn't do me much good. When I'm already marooned, up here like a sort of nerdy Robinson Crusoe, in the middle of the pandemic ocean, the situation is a lot worse.
To make matters... funnier, today someone asked me today whether I'd do a short talk on 'coping with insecurity'. Of all the people to ask: the neurotic, over-sensitive, constant comparator who feels out of place in his own home! I laughed, but I also said I'd do it, pledging to talk about my own struggles with that particular thing, how it trips me up and how I deal with that. It's all on Zoom; it'll be grand.
It's raining again. It's a kind of late-night downpour, spattering against the windows and wobbling the lamplight.
You know, at the end of the story, Robinson Crusoe trades places with some mutineers and sails back to England, to a normal life. I know this funk won't last forever, even if I can't quite figure out what caused it.
I dislike it. I have to lock myself away, just to stop snapping at people for no reason - and at the best of times, the isolation of that moment doesn't do me much good. When I'm already marooned, up here like a sort of nerdy Robinson Crusoe, in the middle of the pandemic ocean, the situation is a lot worse.
To make matters... funnier, today someone asked me today whether I'd do a short talk on 'coping with insecurity'. Of all the people to ask: the neurotic, over-sensitive, constant comparator who feels out of place in his own home! I laughed, but I also said I'd do it, pledging to talk about my own struggles with that particular thing, how it trips me up and how I deal with that. It's all on Zoom; it'll be grand.
It's raining again. It's a kind of late-night downpour, spattering against the windows and wobbling the lamplight.
You know, at the end of the story, Robinson Crusoe trades places with some mutineers and sails back to England, to a normal life. I know this funk won't last forever, even if I can't quite figure out what caused it.
Wednesday, 29 April 2020
ISOLATION DIARIES PART 25: WAITING
Rain today. For most of the day, actually - the kind of day when even if it's not raining, the air is damp enough for it not to matter.
I went shopping, and for the first time during the lockdown, I felt a bit uncomfortable with it. There was no queue today. It looked as though the supermarket might just be letting everybody in. Also gone was the friendly car park attendant wiping down trolleys with disinfectant. I grabbed a trolley without thinking, just as I would have done in the year 1PC. I didn't realise until I was inside.
The store was definitely busier than last week. It was much more stressful to navigate around the aisles and corners with a 2m gap between us all. And I don't think I was the only one struggling with it; I saw quite a few worried eyes bulging over the top of face-masks as customers wheeled past the sauces and condiments.
I was quick anyway. And I tried hard not to touch anything other than the things that went into my trolley plus the trolley itself. Although thanks to not having seen it being wiped down, the rattling cage of infection felt like a sort of virus-cart the whole way round, into which I was inserting a number of things I'd eventually be unwrapping and putting into my mouth.
I wasn't going to think like that though. It was a necessity; I was there for food, and so that was my aim. I kept reminding myself of that. I can only hope in good faith that there were no undeserved curses lurking in the shop today. Certainly the shop didn't seem to think it likely.
I don't want to keep going on about it but it worries me a bit that we're all getting so loose. There's no vaccine for this, and all the graphs are still up-and-to-the-right. The mood in the nation seems to be one of relentless optimism that if we push on and get closer to back to normal, everyone will do it, and eventually we'll all be alright. Surely that, or even getting it (people must be secretly thinking) has to be better than these incessant, mind-numbingly awful days indoors?
Well I disagree. Thankfully though, I don't have to go shopping again for ten days - a time period during which I don't intend to touch anything at all that's currently not inside my house, other than tree branches, grass, a field of buttercups, and any post that gets pushed through my letterbox.
And while it's difficult, there is something good about being positive. On rainy, gloomy days like today, I guess it's nice to remember that brighter days are ahead, just as the Queen said several weeks ago. I'll happily wait for that, however long it takes.
I went shopping, and for the first time during the lockdown, I felt a bit uncomfortable with it. There was no queue today. It looked as though the supermarket might just be letting everybody in. Also gone was the friendly car park attendant wiping down trolleys with disinfectant. I grabbed a trolley without thinking, just as I would have done in the year 1PC. I didn't realise until I was inside.
The store was definitely busier than last week. It was much more stressful to navigate around the aisles and corners with a 2m gap between us all. And I don't think I was the only one struggling with it; I saw quite a few worried eyes bulging over the top of face-masks as customers wheeled past the sauces and condiments.
I was quick anyway. And I tried hard not to touch anything other than the things that went into my trolley plus the trolley itself. Although thanks to not having seen it being wiped down, the rattling cage of infection felt like a sort of virus-cart the whole way round, into which I was inserting a number of things I'd eventually be unwrapping and putting into my mouth.
I wasn't going to think like that though. It was a necessity; I was there for food, and so that was my aim. I kept reminding myself of that. I can only hope in good faith that there were no undeserved curses lurking in the shop today. Certainly the shop didn't seem to think it likely.
I don't want to keep going on about it but it worries me a bit that we're all getting so loose. There's no vaccine for this, and all the graphs are still up-and-to-the-right. The mood in the nation seems to be one of relentless optimism that if we push on and get closer to back to normal, everyone will do it, and eventually we'll all be alright. Surely that, or even getting it (people must be secretly thinking) has to be better than these incessant, mind-numbingly awful days indoors?
Well I disagree. Thankfully though, I don't have to go shopping again for ten days - a time period during which I don't intend to touch anything at all that's currently not inside my house, other than tree branches, grass, a field of buttercups, and any post that gets pushed through my letterbox.
And while it's difficult, there is something good about being positive. On rainy, gloomy days like today, I guess it's nice to remember that brighter days are ahead, just as the Queen said several weeks ago. I'll happily wait for that, however long it takes.
Monday, 27 April 2020
ISOLATION DIARIES PART 24: CLIMBING TREES
I've taken to climbing trees. I know; it's a bit childish, and maybe irresponsible, but I'll come back to that in a minute.
When I told my Mum, she was startled - not because I might fall out - but just because she didn't know I could climb trees at all.
"What about the pear tree?" I asked, "The one in the back garden; we used to climb that all the time, and then clamber out onto the garage roof!"
"Did you indeed?" she said. I imagined a raised eyebrow, but it's hard to tell on the phone. I hadn't computed that she didn't know that.
Anyway, I reassured her that I'd be quite safe. Though of course, my own safety isn't really the best reason not to climb trees at the moment - probably more that we should all be doing everything we can to stay out of hospital, and climbing trees could easily be one branch-snap away from a sprained ankle. But I reasoned that the little twinges of joy outweighed the risk, and I was very careful. I'm never more than five-feet from the ground, and it's all felt comfortable so far.
So far. Today I scrambled up a new one and sat nestled in the branches. The sun twinkled through the green leaves, the wind rustled, and birds sang through the wood. I was snuggled, with the angles meaning I had my knees up and my feet wedged into a nook. And so there I stayed for ages: texting, listening, thinking, composing a long reply about something not very interesting, playing games on my phone. It was all very pleasant until I realised I couldn't feel my feet.
Pins and needles. I've got poor circulation anyway, but the angle I was squashed into the tree had sent my legs and my feet to sleep. I was unable to move at all, let alone clamber out of the tree the way I came.
"What would Bear Grylls do?" I asked myself, not for the first (and it won't be the last) time. What would he do if he got pins and needles up a tree and couldn't get down?
Now normally, you'd stretch out your legs to get the circulation flowing. I was conscious that that might mean upsetting my centre of gravity and I could have tumbled out like a coconut. One thing I do know is that Bear wouldn't have panicked. If you're in a safe situation that might become dangerous, you at least have a little time to make a plan. I felt sure that was the kind of thing he'd say - stay where you are, don't get in a flap, make a plan.
So I stayed where I was for a while, hunched up in the branches, making a plan. I could call someone who lives down the road and tell them I've got ‘pins and needles and can't get out of a tree’. Hmm.
I could call my Mum. Well she'd probably tell me off for climbing trees when I didn't have much practice or experience. We've been over this, Mum. Or, I could just let gravity take its course and try artfully scrambling with two dead legs.
In the end, I gripped a branch very tightly and did some (remarkably) graceful stretching - one leg horizontal at a time - arabesque style. If the Cirque du Soleil people had been watching, they'd have signed me up there and then. It was elegant, to the say the least! A few moments later, with toes wiggling inside my trainers and the blood spindling through my calf-muscles, I switched my clumpy, lifeless feet onto a low, twisty branch and managed to lower myself back on to the terra firma, the dry mulch that so often surrounds trees in copses.
It felt a bit like I’d imagined storm-battered sailors to feel when their tattered ship reaches the harbour. Dry land! Soft mulch! Freedom! Made it!
I walked home. Maybe it is a little irresponsible to climb trees at the moment.
When I told my Mum, she was startled - not because I might fall out - but just because she didn't know I could climb trees at all.
"What about the pear tree?" I asked, "The one in the back garden; we used to climb that all the time, and then clamber out onto the garage roof!"
"Did you indeed?" she said. I imagined a raised eyebrow, but it's hard to tell on the phone. I hadn't computed that she didn't know that.
Anyway, I reassured her that I'd be quite safe. Though of course, my own safety isn't really the best reason not to climb trees at the moment - probably more that we should all be doing everything we can to stay out of hospital, and climbing trees could easily be one branch-snap away from a sprained ankle. But I reasoned that the little twinges of joy outweighed the risk, and I was very careful. I'm never more than five-feet from the ground, and it's all felt comfortable so far.
So far. Today I scrambled up a new one and sat nestled in the branches. The sun twinkled through the green leaves, the wind rustled, and birds sang through the wood. I was snuggled, with the angles meaning I had my knees up and my feet wedged into a nook. And so there I stayed for ages: texting, listening, thinking, composing a long reply about something not very interesting, playing games on my phone. It was all very pleasant until I realised I couldn't feel my feet.
Pins and needles. I've got poor circulation anyway, but the angle I was squashed into the tree had sent my legs and my feet to sleep. I was unable to move at all, let alone clamber out of the tree the way I came.
"What would Bear Grylls do?" I asked myself, not for the first (and it won't be the last) time. What would he do if he got pins and needles up a tree and couldn't get down?
Now normally, you'd stretch out your legs to get the circulation flowing. I was conscious that that might mean upsetting my centre of gravity and I could have tumbled out like a coconut. One thing I do know is that Bear wouldn't have panicked. If you're in a safe situation that might become dangerous, you at least have a little time to make a plan. I felt sure that was the kind of thing he'd say - stay where you are, don't get in a flap, make a plan.
So I stayed where I was for a while, hunched up in the branches, making a plan. I could call someone who lives down the road and tell them I've got ‘pins and needles and can't get out of a tree’. Hmm.
I could call my Mum. Well she'd probably tell me off for climbing trees when I didn't have much practice or experience. We've been over this, Mum. Or, I could just let gravity take its course and try artfully scrambling with two dead legs.
In the end, I gripped a branch very tightly and did some (remarkably) graceful stretching - one leg horizontal at a time - arabesque style. If the Cirque du Soleil people had been watching, they'd have signed me up there and then. It was elegant, to the say the least! A few moments later, with toes wiggling inside my trainers and the blood spindling through my calf-muscles, I switched my clumpy, lifeless feet onto a low, twisty branch and managed to lower myself back on to the terra firma, the dry mulch that so often surrounds trees in copses.
It felt a bit like I’d imagined storm-battered sailors to feel when their tattered ship reaches the harbour. Dry land! Soft mulch! Freedom! Made it!
I walked home. Maybe it is a little irresponsible to climb trees at the moment.
Sunday, 26 April 2020
ISOLATION DIARIES PART 23: DOWN BY THE RIVER
For my long walk today, I decided to go to the river. It's not far to the Thames from where I live, maybe 30 minutes' walk, and the weather was, once again, exquisite.
I was thinking on the way, about how my manager (in Minnesota) always asks me how my weekend was on our Monday catch-up. It's a nice thing - but also nice to be able to say I went to The Thames. That must sound grand to people on the other side of the world - a bit like popping down to the Amazon or the Yangtze for the afternoon. But when you live there, it's just part of your world isn't it?
So I looked up whether there were any major rivers running through Minneapolis. Most of you will know of course, that there is one hefty river flowing through Minneapolis Saint Paul - it's the Mississippi.
That can't be right! I thought to myself. I'm pretty sure the Mississippi empties into the Gulf of Mexico way down in Louisiana - and that's literally at the opposite end of the country!
But it is. The Mississippi is thousands of miles long - thousands! Who knew?
Well - pretty much every one in America - after all, you either live to the West or East of it. And now me (extremely East of it). So that's at least something to talk about tomorrow, I guess. In comparison to the Mississippi, the Thames, our own grand river, is a bit of a trickle really. But today, it looked lovely.
I forgot a couple of things though. Firstly, the path along the river from where I live, is only wide enough for one person - which makes it difficult to socially distance yourself from the bikes and buggies and walkers who want to overtake you. There were a few moments when I had to decide whether I'd rather risk getting stung by nettles, ripped up by barbed wire, or lean over the riverbank to attempt a two-metre gap with passers-by.
I was on the phone (wireless headphones in) for most of the way too, which made it all a bit more awkward.
"Cheers!"
"What?"
"Oh no, I was talking to... oh no, not you, sorry. Thanks. No I just had to get out of the way of... sorry."
Well, anyway, awkwardness abounds.
The second thing I should have realised is that that same single-track path takes you all the way to the Thames Promenade: a classic Sunday afternoon venue for walkers and football-throwers and sun-lovers alike, on the best of days. Being on the phone still, I found myself striding out onto the plush green grass of the Prom... along with thousands of other people.
Oh. And were they socially-distancing? They were not. Were they exercising? Not unless you count sitting on a bench in a cloud of smoke, having a picnic on a tartan blanket, lying around a stereo, strolling carelessly along the bank, or threatening to chuck your screaming mate into the river by picking him up between you like a bag of potatoes, and then rushing towards the riverbank with him.
I sat under a tree for a while and watched the opposite bank with its fancy boathouses and tall elms and willows. One tall tree was caught in the wind and its leaves blew inside out making it ripple with silver. Many of the others were luscious greens and yellows, lit by the sweet gold of the afternoon sun. The river itself, flowing as it always does, a sort of rich, brown colour, was strangely quiet too - but of course, nobody's taking boats out.
Well it's something to talk about, isnt it. It ain't the grand ol' Mississippi; it's Old Father Thames, coursing his way past us in his quaint old way, onwards to London and the ocean. I was glad to be there - and even gladder that I'm way beyond the stage of friendships where my pals might ignore the government rules about social distancing in order to pick me up and throw me in. I remain thankful.
I was thinking on the way, about how my manager (in Minnesota) always asks me how my weekend was on our Monday catch-up. It's a nice thing - but also nice to be able to say I went to The Thames. That must sound grand to people on the other side of the world - a bit like popping down to the Amazon or the Yangtze for the afternoon. But when you live there, it's just part of your world isn't it?
So I looked up whether there were any major rivers running through Minneapolis. Most of you will know of course, that there is one hefty river flowing through Minneapolis Saint Paul - it's the Mississippi.
That can't be right! I thought to myself. I'm pretty sure the Mississippi empties into the Gulf of Mexico way down in Louisiana - and that's literally at the opposite end of the country!
But it is. The Mississippi is thousands of miles long - thousands! Who knew?
Well - pretty much every one in America - after all, you either live to the West or East of it. And now me (extremely East of it). So that's at least something to talk about tomorrow, I guess. In comparison to the Mississippi, the Thames, our own grand river, is a bit of a trickle really. But today, it looked lovely.
I forgot a couple of things though. Firstly, the path along the river from where I live, is only wide enough for one person - which makes it difficult to socially distance yourself from the bikes and buggies and walkers who want to overtake you. There were a few moments when I had to decide whether I'd rather risk getting stung by nettles, ripped up by barbed wire, or lean over the riverbank to attempt a two-metre gap with passers-by.
I was on the phone (wireless headphones in) for most of the way too, which made it all a bit more awkward.
"Cheers!"
"What?"
"Oh no, I was talking to... oh no, not you, sorry. Thanks. No I just had to get out of the way of... sorry."
Well, anyway, awkwardness abounds.
The second thing I should have realised is that that same single-track path takes you all the way to the Thames Promenade: a classic Sunday afternoon venue for walkers and football-throwers and sun-lovers alike, on the best of days. Being on the phone still, I found myself striding out onto the plush green grass of the Prom... along with thousands of other people.
Oh. And were they socially-distancing? They were not. Were they exercising? Not unless you count sitting on a bench in a cloud of smoke, having a picnic on a tartan blanket, lying around a stereo, strolling carelessly along the bank, or threatening to chuck your screaming mate into the river by picking him up between you like a bag of potatoes, and then rushing towards the riverbank with him.
I sat under a tree for a while and watched the opposite bank with its fancy boathouses and tall elms and willows. One tall tree was caught in the wind and its leaves blew inside out making it ripple with silver. Many of the others were luscious greens and yellows, lit by the sweet gold of the afternoon sun. The river itself, flowing as it always does, a sort of rich, brown colour, was strangely quiet too - but of course, nobody's taking boats out.
Well it's something to talk about, isnt it. It ain't the grand ol' Mississippi; it's Old Father Thames, coursing his way past us in his quaint old way, onwards to London and the ocean. I was glad to be there - and even gladder that I'm way beyond the stage of friendships where my pals might ignore the government rules about social distancing in order to pick me up and throw me in. I remain thankful.
Saturday, 25 April 2020
ISOLATION DIARIES PART 22: LAX
I went out to the park today for my walk. You know, I think people are starting to get a bit relaxed about the social distancing rules. I saw loads of people chatting and sitting and socialising - many of them less than two metres apart, many of them out for what looked like a very normal Saturday afternoon.
A part of me doesn't blame them. The longer this goes on the harder it gets: people missing the pub, the party, the cafe, the restaurant, the shops and the movies. It's difficult, and it's getting more difficult with time and better weather.
But also, the infection and fatality numbers aren't particularly going down. I don't want to dwell on the stats, other than to say that today we passed a few milestones that have had politicians sweating and journalists frothing. We're all fed up with it, yes. But also... this stuff still matters as much as it did at the end of March. We must stay at home.
I'm not sure I like watching the triangular relationship between the public, the politicians and the media. Some say the government have acted reprehensibly; others poke fingers at the journalists for stirring up negative feeling. Some say the Prime Minister (still recovering) should step back in to the fray and take charge, others want nothing more than to see him fail. Some applaud the news for bravely reporting the truth and asking difficult questions: others accuse them of scaremongering when what we all need is positivity. It's a weird time to know who to trust.
Well we do need positivity. And perhaps that's why some of us, now desperate for what we used to call normality, are getting lax about the rules, five weeks in - it's a subconscious forcing of the old life at the one time we feel we need it.
I realised today that I need a holiday. It seems a ridiculous idea, but it's also a beautiful thought - to drive off somewhere for a week, to fly over mountains and lakes to far away cities - to feel so far away from home but also so relaxed. That would be lovely. And the good news is that in the second half of the year, I'll have a lot more annual leave to use up, so perhaps I'll get to do some big travelling.
Well. That is if this situation changes any time between now and then - which it will I believe, so long as we're not lax about it.
A part of me doesn't blame them. The longer this goes on the harder it gets: people missing the pub, the party, the cafe, the restaurant, the shops and the movies. It's difficult, and it's getting more difficult with time and better weather.
But also, the infection and fatality numbers aren't particularly going down. I don't want to dwell on the stats, other than to say that today we passed a few milestones that have had politicians sweating and journalists frothing. We're all fed up with it, yes. But also... this stuff still matters as much as it did at the end of March. We must stay at home.
I'm not sure I like watching the triangular relationship between the public, the politicians and the media. Some say the government have acted reprehensibly; others poke fingers at the journalists for stirring up negative feeling. Some say the Prime Minister (still recovering) should step back in to the fray and take charge, others want nothing more than to see him fail. Some applaud the news for bravely reporting the truth and asking difficult questions: others accuse them of scaremongering when what we all need is positivity. It's a weird time to know who to trust.
Well we do need positivity. And perhaps that's why some of us, now desperate for what we used to call normality, are getting lax about the rules, five weeks in - it's a subconscious forcing of the old life at the one time we feel we need it.
I realised today that I need a holiday. It seems a ridiculous idea, but it's also a beautiful thought - to drive off somewhere for a week, to fly over mountains and lakes to far away cities - to feel so far away from home but also so relaxed. That would be lovely. And the good news is that in the second half of the year, I'll have a lot more annual leave to use up, so perhaps I'll get to do some big travelling.
Well. That is if this situation changes any time between now and then - which it will I believe, so long as we're not lax about it.
Thursday, 23 April 2020
ISOLATION DIARIES PART 21: CONVERSATION LOOP
I seem to be having the same conversation with people on a loop. It could start with either of us, but let's for the sake of it, imagine the other person kicks it off, just after they've rung me, or face-timed, or zoomed, or whatever.
"Hey, how are you doing?"
I gaze out of the window at the houses opposite. The sky is blue - bright blue if it's morning, azure with golden tones if afternoon. The street is still, but packed with cars, just as it was yesterday, and the day before.
"Ah not too bad," I sigh. It occurs to me how very British it is to respond to a question about what is, with an answer that is what isn't: 'can't complain', we say, 'not bad', 'just about getting there', 'muddling through' - classic understatement. But I am genuinely at least, 'not too bad' - implying of course, that I'm good - but only just.
All of that flashes through my mind in less than a second before I flick through the subconscious politeness-box and pull out the next card:
"How about you?"
This is where the conversation twists a little, but not unpredictably, at least not for a loop. This is common:
"Pretty fed up actually."
Twist. Respond. Flex and...
"Aw yeah, me too."
"Still at least the weather's nice." Phew.
The weather is like a pack of conversational crayons. It's our convenient mindfulness go-to. We reach inside the packet (it's always the same selection) and take out the appropriate colour for filling in the next few minutes. At the moment, lockdown weather has been magnificent, so there's no need for the usual purple and grey for rainclouds and disappointment. We're into the thick blues and greens and yellows.
"Yeah, glorious! The wind's a bit nippy (chilly) though. But it's so nice to see the trees and hear the birds. And just you know, to get out of the house for a bit..."
"I know what you mean. I'm going a bit mad being stuck indoors all the time."
"Still, it's all for a good reason."
"Sure."
How can I shake up this repeatingly predictable conversation? I think I have this twice a day. And that's not even when I've stumbled into fantasy-background-land! And of course, everyone has to talk about that as well on the bigger calls.
I'm not sure there's any way out the loop, you know. I might just have to ride it. The other day in the 'virtual coffee break' someone had their background set to a picture of their own cars (yup, one of those guys). That led to talks of driveways and pavements, and then on into "I live opposite a vicar who lets me park on his drive so long as I bring him gin."
I listened intently. It's a whole other blog, but suffice to say the conversation died with one of those super-awkward moments - the gin-provider told us all that the vicar had tried to 'convert him' on the doorstep and invite him to mass. The online conversation ground to a silence while nobody could read the room and figure out what to say next without offending people.
That's why I'm not sure there's any real way out of the looped conversation - it's our little safety net of routine at the moment, and we know where we are with it, just about, in this brave new world. Interrupting it with non-sequiturs and random stuff, is a bit like pushing someone out of the hammock.
So maybe it's back to the crayons and the fed-upness and the talking about it but not talking about it. See? Loopy. Ah. It'll be alright. I'll just keep colouring in.
"Hey, how are you doing?"
I gaze out of the window at the houses opposite. The sky is blue - bright blue if it's morning, azure with golden tones if afternoon. The street is still, but packed with cars, just as it was yesterday, and the day before.
"Ah not too bad," I sigh. It occurs to me how very British it is to respond to a question about what is, with an answer that is what isn't: 'can't complain', we say, 'not bad', 'just about getting there', 'muddling through' - classic understatement. But I am genuinely at least, 'not too bad' - implying of course, that I'm good - but only just.
All of that flashes through my mind in less than a second before I flick through the subconscious politeness-box and pull out the next card:
"How about you?"
This is where the conversation twists a little, but not unpredictably, at least not for a loop. This is common:
"Pretty fed up actually."
Twist. Respond. Flex and...
"Aw yeah, me too."
"Still at least the weather's nice." Phew.
The weather is like a pack of conversational crayons. It's our convenient mindfulness go-to. We reach inside the packet (it's always the same selection) and take out the appropriate colour for filling in the next few minutes. At the moment, lockdown weather has been magnificent, so there's no need for the usual purple and grey for rainclouds and disappointment. We're into the thick blues and greens and yellows.
"Yeah, glorious! The wind's a bit nippy (chilly) though. But it's so nice to see the trees and hear the birds. And just you know, to get out of the house for a bit..."
"I know what you mean. I'm going a bit mad being stuck indoors all the time."
"Still, it's all for a good reason."
"Sure."
How can I shake up this repeatingly predictable conversation? I think I have this twice a day. And that's not even when I've stumbled into fantasy-background-land! And of course, everyone has to talk about that as well on the bigger calls.
I'm not sure there's any way out the loop, you know. I might just have to ride it. The other day in the 'virtual coffee break' someone had their background set to a picture of their own cars (yup, one of those guys). That led to talks of driveways and pavements, and then on into "I live opposite a vicar who lets me park on his drive so long as I bring him gin."
I listened intently. It's a whole other blog, but suffice to say the conversation died with one of those super-awkward moments - the gin-provider told us all that the vicar had tried to 'convert him' on the doorstep and invite him to mass. The online conversation ground to a silence while nobody could read the room and figure out what to say next without offending people.
That's why I'm not sure there's any real way out of the looped conversation - it's our little safety net of routine at the moment, and we know where we are with it, just about, in this brave new world. Interrupting it with non-sequiturs and random stuff, is a bit like pushing someone out of the hammock.
So maybe it's back to the crayons and the fed-upness and the talking about it but not talking about it. See? Loopy. Ah. It'll be alright. I'll just keep colouring in.
RASPBERRIES
So this morning I saw a clip of another super-wealthy prosperity preacher casting out the 'coronavirus demon'.
"COVID-19?" he bellows, looking straight down the lens of the camera. The roomful of off-screen followers dutifully repeat after him with a Southern drawl. He pauses for a moment, then, in what would have been a master-stroke of comedy timing, the suited preacher leans forward... and blows a raspberry at the virus.
I laughed out loud. I shouldn't have, I know. Sincerely held belief must be respected. But it could so easily have been a snippet from a sketch show.
'Yeah that'll do it,' I thought, sarcastically, shaking my head.
But then I started to wonder...
Jesus did some wacky things too. He once rubbed saliva into somebody's face; he shouted into a grave; instead of preaching he sometimes told riddles and then sat down without explaining them; he touched people who just 'shouldn't be touched'; he said that bread was his body and wine his blood; he drew sand pictures to end one argument, and told someone else to catch a fish to end another. He called faith leaders 'painted gravestones', while hanging out with the very people they pretended not to hate, and once even, he made a whip and used it to chase people out of the temple. You can't say that Jesus didn't provoke a reaction.
So, what would he do now? Would he be visiting hospitals and praying for people, while being shamed for breaking social-distancing rules? Would he be sewing scrubs and gluing PPE together for hospital workers? Would he be on flumpbook, telling stories about the Kingdom of Heaven? Would he be watching our live-streamed sermons?
I know. Normally, I don't much care for this kind of question; the world we live in has been absolutely shaped by his impact anyway, so it feels redundant. For example, we have hospitals in our cities because Christianity changed the way the Roman Empire looked after its people. Also, Jesus lived at exactly the God-appointed time, with exactly the conditions in place for faith to be spread across the planet, not to mention the thousands of Messianic prophecies that could only have been fulfilled one way, by one person, at one time. Anyway, that isn't really my point today. I'm asking the WWJD question today because what I can't imagine... is Jesus appearing on TV, blowing raspberries.
But here's my next point: whether you liked it or not, the wackiness did work for Jesus.
The man who had spittle and mud in his face walked away with brand new eyes. Lazarus actually did come stumbling out of that tomb. Jesus' parables are memorable ways to explain the Father's heart. Lepers and sinners went home healed and forgiven, and the communion of bread and wine has become one of the most powerful ways for us to celebrate our connection with him. What's more, the woman who committed adultery survived her judgment, there was a coin in the fish's mouth, and Jesus called out the hypocrisy of religious people everywhere he went.
I'm out on a limb when I'm up against a millionaire televangelist in a suit, but I do know that his hero (and mine) told us that talent and wealth ought to be used, not hoarded. And if he wants to be wacky, that is okay, so long as it's in the will of the Father - I laughed, but I'm not criticising. If the death rate drops to zero tomorrow, who am I to scoff?
But there are other ways to help aren't there? And once again, someone that comfortable could probably find a million different ways to be more like Jesus in the current situation, and get down into the mud and the dust and really look after people who are suffering.
...which pushes me to a really good question.
What am I doing?
"COVID-19?" he bellows, looking straight down the lens of the camera. The roomful of off-screen followers dutifully repeat after him with a Southern drawl. He pauses for a moment, then, in what would have been a master-stroke of comedy timing, the suited preacher leans forward... and blows a raspberry at the virus.
I laughed out loud. I shouldn't have, I know. Sincerely held belief must be respected. But it could so easily have been a snippet from a sketch show.
'Yeah that'll do it,' I thought, sarcastically, shaking my head.
But then I started to wonder...
Jesus did some wacky things too. He once rubbed saliva into somebody's face; he shouted into a grave; instead of preaching he sometimes told riddles and then sat down without explaining them; he touched people who just 'shouldn't be touched'; he said that bread was his body and wine his blood; he drew sand pictures to end one argument, and told someone else to catch a fish to end another. He called faith leaders 'painted gravestones', while hanging out with the very people they pretended not to hate, and once even, he made a whip and used it to chase people out of the temple. You can't say that Jesus didn't provoke a reaction.
So, what would he do now? Would he be visiting hospitals and praying for people, while being shamed for breaking social-distancing rules? Would he be sewing scrubs and gluing PPE together for hospital workers? Would he be on flumpbook, telling stories about the Kingdom of Heaven? Would he be watching our live-streamed sermons?
I know. Normally, I don't much care for this kind of question; the world we live in has been absolutely shaped by his impact anyway, so it feels redundant. For example, we have hospitals in our cities because Christianity changed the way the Roman Empire looked after its people. Also, Jesus lived at exactly the God-appointed time, with exactly the conditions in place for faith to be spread across the planet, not to mention the thousands of Messianic prophecies that could only have been fulfilled one way, by one person, at one time. Anyway, that isn't really my point today. I'm asking the WWJD question today because what I can't imagine... is Jesus appearing on TV, blowing raspberries.
But here's my next point: whether you liked it or not, the wackiness did work for Jesus.
The man who had spittle and mud in his face walked away with brand new eyes. Lazarus actually did come stumbling out of that tomb. Jesus' parables are memorable ways to explain the Father's heart. Lepers and sinners went home healed and forgiven, and the communion of bread and wine has become one of the most powerful ways for us to celebrate our connection with him. What's more, the woman who committed adultery survived her judgment, there was a coin in the fish's mouth, and Jesus called out the hypocrisy of religious people everywhere he went.
I'm out on a limb when I'm up against a millionaire televangelist in a suit, but I do know that his hero (and mine) told us that talent and wealth ought to be used, not hoarded. And if he wants to be wacky, that is okay, so long as it's in the will of the Father - I laughed, but I'm not criticising. If the death rate drops to zero tomorrow, who am I to scoff?
But there are other ways to help aren't there? And once again, someone that comfortable could probably find a million different ways to be more like Jesus in the current situation, and get down into the mud and the dust and really look after people who are suffering.
...which pushes me to a really good question.
What am I doing?
Wednesday, 22 April 2020
ROBOT DUCKS
"If it looks like a duck, if it walks like a duck, if it quacks like a duck..."
I get it. If a thing demonstrates all the necessary characteristics of another thing, it is one of those other things - whether those characteristics are appearance based, or more scientifically tested.*
Bit of a kicker though for all those people out there making robot ducks.
I don't know how I'd make a robot duck.
- throw a spanner at its head.
Very good. But if I were tasked with building an aquatic android, I think I'd definitely want it to resemble a real duck. The first part of the duck-test only specifies that a duck has to 'look like a duck' after all.
Secondly, I reckon it would be easier to make it swim than build it to walk. I'd probably fit it with some sort of propeller at the back. But if you did want to build a walking duck, I still don't see why that can't be done - that company made those terrifying robotic dogs a while ago - remember those? They definitely moved like dogs!
The third check box is easy to tick as well. Sample a real duck's quack, record it and play it through a tiny speaker hidden inside the robot duck's neck - time it to coincide with the beak opening, and boom-I mean quack.
There it is - one duck that passes the test but is not really a duck!
I guess the duck test is another extension of what's called Occam's Razor - the principle that 'the simplest explanation is probably the truth'. To be honest, there probably aren't that many robot ducks about, waddling along with the other biological ducks in the duckpond, so if you see one, it's more than likely to be a bona fide anatidae.
But here's another thought: who says my robotic duck is not a duck? I mean it is - it's just a different type of duck; a different species put together by a less competent creator. It can't replicate, nourish itself, excrete, or breathe - so it's not 'alive' like a God-constructed duck - but it is, to all intents and purpose, a duck. Isn't it?
Unless it shoots lasers or has extendible legs, I suppose. But I don't know why anyone would build one of those. Don't think about that - that would be terrifying.
By the way, when I looked up 'anatidae' three paragraphs ago, I found out that neither grebes (you know, the ones with the crested head) nor coots (black with a white stripe) are actually ducks. Which just goes to show something, doesn't it.
*Reminds me of the world's most infuriating quiz question: "What's the world's largest desert?" - not really a place for ducks whatever you think the answer might be.
I get it. If a thing demonstrates all the necessary characteristics of another thing, it is one of those other things - whether those characteristics are appearance based, or more scientifically tested.*
Bit of a kicker though for all those people out there making robot ducks.
I don't know how I'd make a robot duck.
- throw a spanner at its head.
Very good. But if I were tasked with building an aquatic android, I think I'd definitely want it to resemble a real duck. The first part of the duck-test only specifies that a duck has to 'look like a duck' after all.
Secondly, I reckon it would be easier to make it swim than build it to walk. I'd probably fit it with some sort of propeller at the back. But if you did want to build a walking duck, I still don't see why that can't be done - that company made those terrifying robotic dogs a while ago - remember those? They definitely moved like dogs!
The third check box is easy to tick as well. Sample a real duck's quack, record it and play it through a tiny speaker hidden inside the robot duck's neck - time it to coincide with the beak opening, and boom-I mean quack.
There it is - one duck that passes the test but is not really a duck!
I guess the duck test is another extension of what's called Occam's Razor - the principle that 'the simplest explanation is probably the truth'. To be honest, there probably aren't that many robot ducks about, waddling along with the other biological ducks in the duckpond, so if you see one, it's more than likely to be a bona fide anatidae.
But here's another thought: who says my robotic duck is not a duck? I mean it is - it's just a different type of duck; a different species put together by a less competent creator. It can't replicate, nourish itself, excrete, or breathe - so it's not 'alive' like a God-constructed duck - but it is, to all intents and purpose, a duck. Isn't it?
Unless it shoots lasers or has extendible legs, I suppose. But I don't know why anyone would build one of those. Don't think about that - that would be terrifying.
By the way, when I looked up 'anatidae' three paragraphs ago, I found out that neither grebes (you know, the ones with the crested head) nor coots (black with a white stripe) are actually ducks. Which just goes to show something, doesn't it.
*Reminds me of the world's most infuriating quiz question: "What's the world's largest desert?" - not really a place for ducks whatever you think the answer might be.
Tuesday, 21 April 2020
BEAUTIFUL SEASONS
I don’t particularly want to keep going on about isolation and the virus all the time. All of us who are living through this now, know all of it too well. It affects every aspect of all of our lives, and while each day morphs into the next, we muddle through at home where there’s not a great deal to write about.
I could talk about multiple remote databases in a high availability cluster! No? What about word-wrapping rules at the end of a line of justified text?
Nope. I see.
It had better be bluebells then.
Yesterday, I went for a sunlit walk through the woods. There in the green afternoon sun, bursting through the tall trees, was a carpet of bluebells. They’re so delicious there in the shade, with bees and butterflies circling, and the gentle hum of Spring in the air.
There was something in the light too that made them look very photogenic, although my Dad was fond of telling us that they come out purple in photos - and although he wasn’t there in the woods obviously, his voice was yet in my head. I expect I’ll be an old man one Spring in the future, and my Dad’s voice will still be telling me it’s ‘illegal to pick them, impossible to photograph them, and ill-advised to eat them.’
Anyway, there they were - free to admire nonetheless, arching from the grass with their long stems and fairy hoods. There was nobody around in the woods; I felt very special.
It was a beautiful afternoon, actually. When the trees are so vivid and green, and so full of life, the contrast with the bright blue sky is spectacular!
It wasn’t roasting hot, just warm enough for shirt sleeves, but absolutely not sweaty - cool, pleasant, warm, fresh. This time of year rivals September for me in the quest for 'best season' - though of course we’re a little limited as to how much we can enjoy it. I wandered poetically through the wood, which felt like exactly the thing to be doing on such an afternoon.
There’s more than one kind of bluebell. Apparently there’s a Spanish type that bees prefer, so wherever it grows it pollenates a little better - leaving the bluer, native, English Bluebell to dwindle. I couldn’t really tell the difference; I just think they look so majestic and lovely. Though of course I think it’s a bit rich the Spanish bluebells “coming over here, taking our shade and our bumblebees.”
There were butterflies too - or flutterbys as I sometimes call them, circling in pairs in what Morgan Freeman or David Attenborough would call ‘a dance as old as time’. I do love life in all its forms. I smiled as I walked and remembered.
It’s incredible how a thing that’s too small to even see has brought the planet to its knees. And yet, somehow here, it feels like it’s also brought back a whole lot of forgotten things that we never used to seem to have had time to do. A walk in the woods, a show of the finest carpet of bluebells, and the dancers taking to the stage with their soft wings between the trees, and their delicate flutter of Spring.
Sometimes it takes the toughest times to realise the most beautiful seasons.
Sunday, 19 April 2020
ISOLATION DIARIES PART 20: ZOOMED OUT
In the interest of being authentic, I felt like telling everyone that I'm thoroughly 'zoomed-out'.
Funny - a couple of months ago that would probably have meant that you could see all of me, and probably my house and street too, like a sort of Google Earth camera lens; but I bet you know exactly what I mean by 'zoomed out' today.
It's exhausting in a different way to holding real-world meetings; there's a lot more effort required somehow, and yes, while you can switch your camera off, mute yourself, listen and go and make a cup of tea with your wireless headphones on, what you can't do - and you really can't - is flow with the social dynamics of the room. A zoom meeting is literally all the mechanics, and none of the atmosphere.
I know. I've gone on about this before. I can't help it.
The effort goes in to listening harder, being patient, trying to read an atmosphere that isn't there to read, while watching faces on a screen who are all trying to do the same thing.
Calculating the dynamics, even subconsciously, is draining - and after around 40 minutes I feel like I have absolutely had enough of that and want to figure out a way to leave without it looking rude or unprofessional. It's nothing personal; just that I'm zoomed-out, and likely to get an attitude about it. And I'd rather not.
Having said all of that (in the interests of authenticity), I do still think it's brilliant. Had the virus struck 10 years ago, we might not have been quite so collected or connected - a something, however hard to read, is a lot better than nothing, and I'm thankful for the something, even if it's so difficult to process the whole picture through the tiny windows we have online in our houses.
It'd be so nice to pinch the screen and see it all - all the subtle nuances of a room, the air and the atmosphere that are so helpful. But here we are. Brighter days must be ahead. Meanwhile, forgive me if I look a little distracted, but there's a high possibility that I might have already zoomed-out.
Funny - a couple of months ago that would probably have meant that you could see all of me, and probably my house and street too, like a sort of Google Earth camera lens; but I bet you know exactly what I mean by 'zoomed out' today.
It's exhausting in a different way to holding real-world meetings; there's a lot more effort required somehow, and yes, while you can switch your camera off, mute yourself, listen and go and make a cup of tea with your wireless headphones on, what you can't do - and you really can't - is flow with the social dynamics of the room. A zoom meeting is literally all the mechanics, and none of the atmosphere.
I know. I've gone on about this before. I can't help it.
The effort goes in to listening harder, being patient, trying to read an atmosphere that isn't there to read, while watching faces on a screen who are all trying to do the same thing.
Calculating the dynamics, even subconsciously, is draining - and after around 40 minutes I feel like I have absolutely had enough of that and want to figure out a way to leave without it looking rude or unprofessional. It's nothing personal; just that I'm zoomed-out, and likely to get an attitude about it. And I'd rather not.
Having said all of that (in the interests of authenticity), I do still think it's brilliant. Had the virus struck 10 years ago, we might not have been quite so collected or connected - a something, however hard to read, is a lot better than nothing, and I'm thankful for the something, even if it's so difficult to process the whole picture through the tiny windows we have online in our houses.
It'd be so nice to pinch the screen and see it all - all the subtle nuances of a room, the air and the atmosphere that are so helpful. But here we are. Brighter days must be ahead. Meanwhile, forgive me if I look a little distracted, but there's a high possibility that I might have already zoomed-out.
ISOLATION DIARIES PART 19: STRAGGLERS
I’ve not blogged for a few days. Part of me thinks there’s just nothing to write about in this monotonous world we all now live in.
I wanted to write about how normal the rain felt the other day. That was the first rain we’d seen since lockdown began, and the puddles and spattered windows, the shimmering roof slates and the dribbling gutters all felt weirdly comforting. I think I was feeling the joy of a different (but old, familiar) reason to stay indoors. Yes, protect the NHS, but also... I don’t want to get drenched.
As Week 5 morphs into Week 6 then, I think we’re all just a bit fed up with it all. Officially there are three more weeks - so say the government - and then maybe, just maybe, we’ll be phased back in, one age group at a time. In the meantime the endurance race for all of us continues.
And like an endurance race, some of us are straggling and some of us are trying to find the pace of it - the speed we need to stay at to keep happy and positive. Today, I think I’m a straggler, limping quietly at the back. I’ve felt quite low.
I also wanted to write about two specific fears I think I have, but this might not be the right moment. I’m not afraid of what might happen to me, not really; I am afraid though of irrelevance. I don’t know where that came from, but I do know I’m not alone: one quick scan through social media shows a torrent of that fear, rumbling and cascading through every timeline and newsfeed. We all have a lot to say, and even the other side of this season, a lot more will be written. But I’m opinioned out; I don’t want to hear it really.
So I feel like isolating myself from the flow. And you see the problem. The more we isolate, the more we need relevance to someone, at least someone, out there. But we’re all so splurgy; on transmit all the time.
Well hopefully not all of us. If you’re a straggler like me, who’s had enough of long zoom meetings and pontificating flakebook posts... if the news is depressing you every day and it feels as though the rude wind has blown through our humanity like an arctic blast through an empty house... well, you’re not alone.
We’ve got some way to go through the Red Sea, and Moses is two million steps ahead - but that doesn’t mean we can’t help each other through, at the back. Switch off the computer. Mute the telly. Phone someone you adore. Talk about something, talk about nothing. Put music on. Wash and change into clean clothes, whatever it takes to remind yourself how amazing you are, and how blessed the world is to have you. We can make it.
Tuesday, 14 April 2020
ISOLATION DIARIES PART 18: IMAGINARY BACKGROUND
So all the cool kids have changed their backgrounds to weird sci-fi scenes. One of them's on the moon, one's just sort of floating between purple nebulae, and another's in a sort of frozen game of Halo.
I think it's Halo; it might be Call of Duty. It says something that I can't tell the difference, but it's definitely that kind of thing, even though that kind of thing isn't really my field. Meanwhile, Davide is working from the beach.
I'm not a cool kid. But I have got my hoodie up, and right now my background displays the ethereal combination of 'freezer, wall, circular clock and doorway' which at least is real. The irony is that an alien background would probably suit me today: with my isolation beard and hood, I look a little like a Jedi in exile on the planet Maisonette - Or Mayzon-Et if you feel like Star-Warsifying it.
You can do all sorts of weird things with Microsoft Teams apparently. There was a story last week of a boss who accidentally made herself look like a potato (you can do that) and didn't realise. She gave an entire sales presentation to a chuckling audience and had no idea why.
There'd be a backstory to how 'Mubbs Windu' ended up on Mayzon-Et. Perhaps he's hiding from the dark side: a fierce battle with Darth Skypus and Emperor Jira. Perhaps he's looking for his droids VP-N and Slackbot... or maybe he's just in quarantine from the great plague of Covidia that devastated the old republic and spread fear throughout the galaxy...
You can take these things too far though, can't you.
I think it's Halo; it might be Call of Duty. It says something that I can't tell the difference, but it's definitely that kind of thing, even though that kind of thing isn't really my field. Meanwhile, Davide is working from the beach.
I'm not a cool kid. But I have got my hoodie up, and right now my background displays the ethereal combination of 'freezer, wall, circular clock and doorway' which at least is real. The irony is that an alien background would probably suit me today: with my isolation beard and hood, I look a little like a Jedi in exile on the planet Maisonette - Or Mayzon-Et if you feel like Star-Warsifying it.
You can do all sorts of weird things with Microsoft Teams apparently. There was a story last week of a boss who accidentally made herself look like a potato (you can do that) and didn't realise. She gave an entire sales presentation to a chuckling audience and had no idea why.
There'd be a backstory to how 'Mubbs Windu' ended up on Mayzon-Et. Perhaps he's hiding from the dark side: a fierce battle with Darth Skypus and Emperor Jira. Perhaps he's looking for his droids VP-N and Slackbot... or maybe he's just in quarantine from the great plague of Covidia that devastated the old republic and spread fear throughout the galaxy...
You can take these things too far though, can't you.
ISOLATION DIARIES PART 17: UNDER THE OAK TREE
I'd say we've done our best to make it as normal an Easter as it could've been, under lockdown.
On Easter Sunday afternoon, I sat under the shade of the oak tree, the dappled shade flickering over me as the wind moved the leaves through the sunlight. There was a thump of a football and a dog barking way off in the distance, but not many people around in the park.
I phoned my parents. They were in the garden, not really doing much other than aching for everyone. I had to reassure my Mum that all the things we're missing are just delayed for brighter times. The lamb dinner and family parties will be back - we just have to hold tight.
In the end, my friend Sarah had brought me over an Easter egg. That was such a nice thing, and it really did help. Plus there had been church - which, strange as it is online (and it is strange), was weirdly connecting on such a bright but lonesome Easter Day.
My Aunty too, sent me a text promising Easter biscuits when the time is right. She included a photo of them, wrapped in a bag ready, next to a cup of tea in my usual spot in their house.
And perhaps more than ever, there was time this Easter - time to reflect; time to sit under trees and think...
A warm February evening swam into my mind, when myself and Paul had been the last visitors to the garden tomb in Jerusalem. Dusk was falling, the sun just barely twinkling through the olive branches when we walked around that gentle place, imagining an ancient story.
There were twisting and ancient trees, crumbling Roman columns, flowers bobbing in the evening air and birds singing themselves to sleep. There was a deep inset winepress, and small water fountains that trickled in the flower beds. And there was the tomb itself, its open doorway glowing with candlelight. Rough hewn stones lined the track where the stone would once have rolled, and Paul and I, with beating hearts, bent low and shuffled inside.
Whether you believe it or not, it's hard not to argue that the Resurrection changed everything. It became the foundation stone of a movement that would shape and define the world - the terrified and broken became the courageous and whole; the disillusioned failures were suddenly the fathers and the mothers of faith itself, and those who came in sorrow to the garden would leave with inexpressible joy. Every tear was wiped away.
And that thought gave me at least a little bit of hope, once again, under the oak tree.
Somebody, somewhere, had decided that the day to celebrate these things was the first Sunday after the first full moon after the Spring Equinox... but that doesn't matter this year - we're in lockdown! It doesn't matter any year actually; it's an arbitrary point in time, and the Resurrection is for all of us, every day. So one day in the summer, at the WATIO point (When All This Is Over) it will be Easter again, and I'll see my parents and hug my nieces and nephews in floods of tears - knowing it for real.
Weeping may endure for the night, but if Easter taught us anything, it's that joy always comes in the morning. Heaven is for real.
I smiled to myself under the oak tree as my Mum clicked off the phone. A cool breeze whipped round, rippling the translucent green leaves and shuffling the shadows on the grass. It is lovely to have things to look forward to.
On Easter Sunday afternoon, I sat under the shade of the oak tree, the dappled shade flickering over me as the wind moved the leaves through the sunlight. There was a thump of a football and a dog barking way off in the distance, but not many people around in the park.
I phoned my parents. They were in the garden, not really doing much other than aching for everyone. I had to reassure my Mum that all the things we're missing are just delayed for brighter times. The lamb dinner and family parties will be back - we just have to hold tight.
In the end, my friend Sarah had brought me over an Easter egg. That was such a nice thing, and it really did help. Plus there had been church - which, strange as it is online (and it is strange), was weirdly connecting on such a bright but lonesome Easter Day.
My Aunty too, sent me a text promising Easter biscuits when the time is right. She included a photo of them, wrapped in a bag ready, next to a cup of tea in my usual spot in their house.
And perhaps more than ever, there was time this Easter - time to reflect; time to sit under trees and think...
A warm February evening swam into my mind, when myself and Paul had been the last visitors to the garden tomb in Jerusalem. Dusk was falling, the sun just barely twinkling through the olive branches when we walked around that gentle place, imagining an ancient story.
There were twisting and ancient trees, crumbling Roman columns, flowers bobbing in the evening air and birds singing themselves to sleep. There was a deep inset winepress, and small water fountains that trickled in the flower beds. And there was the tomb itself, its open doorway glowing with candlelight. Rough hewn stones lined the track where the stone would once have rolled, and Paul and I, with beating hearts, bent low and shuffled inside.
Whether you believe it or not, it's hard not to argue that the Resurrection changed everything. It became the foundation stone of a movement that would shape and define the world - the terrified and broken became the courageous and whole; the disillusioned failures were suddenly the fathers and the mothers of faith itself, and those who came in sorrow to the garden would leave with inexpressible joy. Every tear was wiped away.
And that thought gave me at least a little bit of hope, once again, under the oak tree.
Somebody, somewhere, had decided that the day to celebrate these things was the first Sunday after the first full moon after the Spring Equinox... but that doesn't matter this year - we're in lockdown! It doesn't matter any year actually; it's an arbitrary point in time, and the Resurrection is for all of us, every day. So one day in the summer, at the WATIO point (When All This Is Over) it will be Easter again, and I'll see my parents and hug my nieces and nephews in floods of tears - knowing it for real.
Weeping may endure for the night, but if Easter taught us anything, it's that joy always comes in the morning. Heaven is for real.
I smiled to myself under the oak tree as my Mum clicked off the phone. A cool breeze whipped round, rippling the translucent green leaves and shuffling the shadows on the grass. It is lovely to have things to look forward to.
Sunday, 12 April 2020
TEA AT MOLESWORTH MANOR
I was thinking today about the day I had afternoon tea with a world-famous preacher. Alright, it wasn’t just me; there were a few of us working on a conference that he was the guest-speaker at, and we’d been invited back to his hotel for a get-together. I was young, twenty-something, and not too confident about social situations with impressive people.
And he was impressive.
In his time he’d preached to millions of people, in person and across the airwaves. He had had such wisdom and truth, with a keen eye for intellectual debate and apologetics. His books are still used today in Bible schools and colleges all over the world. He was rooted to the Scriptures in a way that had made him stand out for decades, and he had been unwavering in his declaration of the promises of the Bible. Impressive he was and impressed we were.
So impressed in fact, that none of us could talk to him.
You might find that strange: all the things you could ask, the questions you had and the discussions that he could help you unpick in person - and everyone just mingled with each other, nervously making conversation, circling, while this old man sat quietly with a china cup in a comfortable chair in the corner.
I remember feeling astounded. Had I been older or more confident, I would have asked him how he was and said thank you to him, but I was waiting for a cue and there was none to follow. For some reason, none of us star-struck youngsters could do it. And I felt sad about it; sad enough to remember that feeling twenty years later.
And the reason is that I don’t think it matters how big a name you are, how clever or talented you might be, how highly regarded, you still need friends.
That truth mattered more that day at Molesworth Manor than all of that man’s clever preaching. Right then at that exact moment, on that precise afternoon, he needed a friend, rather than a crowd of reluctant groupies. And I feel a little sad that that happened.
I thought about it today because over the last few days I’ve listened to a lot of messages, all from people saying pretty much the same things. After a while, watching them on screen, I started looking at their backdrops - what books did they have behind them? Was that a real plant or a fake one? Who painted that? And isn’t that a beautiful kitchen? What does that tell us about the real person?
And I found myself wondering whether I’m focusing on the right thing by looking for the personal, the informal, the life behind the preacher? Shouldn’t I be more focused on the message than the messenger?
But that was exactly the thing that had led me to awkward silence over afternoon tea all those years ago at the manor. I’d been pinned on the words and not the person. And I think the best communicators are those who show you both.
So, don’t let me lecture you. I have ideas and the notion that I should bleat on about them. But I’m like the preacher in the corner too. I need friends. And sometimes, that means just being really very normal - which is hard these days.
Friday, 10 April 2020
ISOLATION DIARIES PART 16: BRIGHT EASTER
I got my parents some Easter treats today and left them on their doorstep. That’s the system we have now when any of us go shopping; if they need anything, we leave it on their doorstep for them.
I don’t know whether it was helpful to see them, or whether I miss them even more now. I have to keep reminding myself of how awful a thing this virus is, and why we’re doing this.
I arrived home and unpacked the rest of the supplies I’d bought. I’d got everything I thought I needed - but I hadn’t bought any Easter eggs for myself; it didn’t seem right really, like buying your own Christmas presents. And it hit me hard, there and then: I’m going to be alone the whole weekend.
I don’t say this for sympathy. I just think it’s going to be difficult, and of course not just for me. Easter was always hot cross buns and mini eggs in nests, my Aunty’s famous Easter biscuits, then chocolate eggs on Sunday, which you’d break apart with a happy snap, and then eat slightly faster than you believed you could. It was chocolate rabbits that my sister loved too much to unwrap, and candles and Lindt and cups of tea and creme eggs hidden around the garden. And it was always family. It was always people.
There’s a lot to miss this time. I wished I’d bought myself even just a small chocolate egg, just to gain the semblance of normal. But I hadn’t, and the whole process of going to the shop is now so long and complex, I doubt I’ll go back.
Which leaves me with a question. What am I going to do? Tomorrow, Good Friday, there’s no march or band at Forbury bandstand. There are no hot cross buns or mini eggs in nests. Then Sunday: no rousing chorus, no celebratory church or happy lamb dinner to have. No chocolate. Nothing. I’m going to have to figure this out for myself, by myself. And that sucks.
Well. Here’s what I’ll do, I think. I’ll call as many people as I can. I’ll face-time, I’ll zoom, I’ll WhatsApp and I’ll fb message. I’ll cook boiled eggs and pancakes, I’ll pray and I’ll take communion. I’ll sing and play and dance, and I’ll go to the park and be thankful for the sun. I’ll roll down the grassy hill if it’ll make me feel any better, and I’ll do my level best to make it the best it can be, chocolate or not. And you know, this time of year is all about God turning an awful defeat into an incredible victory. There is no darkness that doesn’t flee from light. So let’s make it as bright as it can be, and maybe He’ll surprise us all.
Thursday, 9 April 2020
LUDDITES AND ROBOT BUTLERS
For a while today, I thought I’d been locked out of my laptop. Ordinarily, back in the ‘office’ days, I sigh, stroll over to IT and ask them to take a look.
It’s harder when the whole nation is working from home. I couldn’t log on so I couldn’t email or chat or raise a service desk ticket. So I closed my laptop lid and went to make tea and toast, shortly before remembering I could use my phone to contact Tom The IT Whizz via the Slack app.
Tom was puzzled. I wasn’t showing up as locked, and yet every attempt I made was returning ‘User name and password not recognised’.
What can you do? It was a weird one for sure. Tom was about to talk me through how to check network connectivity, when I realised that it might... I mean just might...have had more to do with me trying to enter my password with the wrong keys.
“Hang on,” I texted. “I think I’m in...”
I didn’t know how to tell him I’d just been typing it wrong.
-
When I did get back in to the system I managed to join the “Virtual Tea Break” just in time for them all to start talking about their elderly neighbours and relatives and what to do with them.
“Mine are real luddites,” said someone sipping a mug of tea in front of some flock wallpaper, “We’re thinking of just installing the Internet for them and letting them get on with it.”
I didn’t say anything but I did think that was a terrible idea. If I came home one day and found the whippersnappers next door had bought me a robot butler, I’d be mortified and terrified, regardless of how good Melchester-3000 might be at washing the dishes or making an apple crumble.
I also don’t think he’d understood what a Luddite was. In the early days of the industrial revolution, the Luddites smashed up and sabotaged the new textiles machines because they thought the mechanisation would do them out of a job. They were sort of right too, even if their cause was flawed. Luddites weren’t just late adopters or stubborn sticklers for a golden age; they were men with hammers and picks, splintering stocking machines and looms across the North of England.
But then, aren’t there always late adopters of software and tech? Do you know anyone without a smartphone? I do. Seems unfair to call them luddites when they’re just trying to cling on to a familiar world in the midst of what must be a hugely confusing one. What they need are small steps - an iPad with face-time, a TV that you can talk to your grandchildren on, or an e-reader stocked with infinite bookshelves. There’s nothing to be afraid of, and nothing you need to take a screwdriver to. The modern world is a flexible window of opportunity to be embraced and used.
Unless of course you’re incapable of typing your password in properly.
Hmm. Maybe Melchester can start with learning how to do that for me?
Actually no, that’s a terrible idea.
Tuesday, 7 April 2020
ISOLATION DIARIES PART 15: SKYLARK
Well it's Week 4 of isolation. Initially they said two - though none of us really believed it at the time. Officially that was extended to a month, but honestly? This is just the beginning.
So, I did a smart but kind of obvious thing this morning. You'd have thought of it a lot earlier, I have no doubt. The sun was warm and happy-looking, the sky, blue with gentle white clouds. I sat down at my desk with my cup of Assam tea, opened my laptop for work, and then opened the window.
A glorious fresh breeze filled the room. I could hear the birds too! Spring is such a lovely season, and if I were to pick a season for this lockdown to have happened, I think I'd have chosen Spring - it's so delightful to watch winter melt and thaw and for the world to come alive, even if it's mostly from indoors. It's not freezing and depressed, and it's not baking hot and sultry: it's really very pleasant. And hope is in the air.
I put on Vivaldi's 'La Primavera' - Spring in the Four Seasons - just to hear the violins sing like the birds do. It was a beautiful moment of synchronicity, though five hundred years or so apart. I loved it. Then I put on Vaughn Williams' The Lark Ascending - a piece which captures a soaring kind of hope and freedom. I can't recommend that piece enough - even if you don't like classical music, The Lark Ascending will speak to you about where we are. I closed my eyes and let the notes soar and swoop over me.
We need that kind of thing. Tonight, the Prime Minister, who stood in that mahogany room when this all began, was taken into intensive care, having been infected with the virus, and now suffering from persistent symptoms. I don't know why that made this war feel all the more real, but it did. It really did. I felt a wave of fear and sadness when I heard that news.
But we should expect the turbulence - this is a fight, where our resolve is being tested with the twisting turns of every day. As The Queen said yesterday, so courageously and so warmly:
"... in the years to come everyone will be able to take pride in how they responded to this challenge. And those who come after us will say the Britons of this generation were as strong as any. That the attributes of self-discipline, of quiet good-humoured resolve and of fellow-feeling still characterise this country. The pride in who we are is not a part of our past, it defines our present and our future."
As believers, our job is to pray, certainly (and I'm still shocked that the left-leaning politicos are simply too angry to do this) for our leaders.
It's a very serious situation we face, and there will be days when the lark ascends above Vivaldi's golden trees, just as there will be days of darkness when those we love are taken. There will be thermals and pockets of air, and this is far from a simple flight to freedom. However, I'm certain that the Queen is right - win, we will, and with the 'quiet, good-humoured resolve' of our race and people.
I believe in The Lark Ascending.
So, I did a smart but kind of obvious thing this morning. You'd have thought of it a lot earlier, I have no doubt. The sun was warm and happy-looking, the sky, blue with gentle white clouds. I sat down at my desk with my cup of Assam tea, opened my laptop for work, and then opened the window.
A glorious fresh breeze filled the room. I could hear the birds too! Spring is such a lovely season, and if I were to pick a season for this lockdown to have happened, I think I'd have chosen Spring - it's so delightful to watch winter melt and thaw and for the world to come alive, even if it's mostly from indoors. It's not freezing and depressed, and it's not baking hot and sultry: it's really very pleasant. And hope is in the air.
I put on Vivaldi's 'La Primavera' - Spring in the Four Seasons - just to hear the violins sing like the birds do. It was a beautiful moment of synchronicity, though five hundred years or so apart. I loved it. Then I put on Vaughn Williams' The Lark Ascending - a piece which captures a soaring kind of hope and freedom. I can't recommend that piece enough - even if you don't like classical music, The Lark Ascending will speak to you about where we are. I closed my eyes and let the notes soar and swoop over me.
We need that kind of thing. Tonight, the Prime Minister, who stood in that mahogany room when this all began, was taken into intensive care, having been infected with the virus, and now suffering from persistent symptoms. I don't know why that made this war feel all the more real, but it did. It really did. I felt a wave of fear and sadness when I heard that news.
But we should expect the turbulence - this is a fight, where our resolve is being tested with the twisting turns of every day. As The Queen said yesterday, so courageously and so warmly:
"... in the years to come everyone will be able to take pride in how they responded to this challenge. And those who come after us will say the Britons of this generation were as strong as any. That the attributes of self-discipline, of quiet good-humoured resolve and of fellow-feeling still characterise this country. The pride in who we are is not a part of our past, it defines our present and our future."
As believers, our job is to pray, certainly (and I'm still shocked that the left-leaning politicos are simply too angry to do this) for our leaders.
It's a very serious situation we face, and there will be days when the lark ascends above Vivaldi's golden trees, just as there will be days of darkness when those we love are taken. There will be thermals and pockets of air, and this is far from a simple flight to freedom. However, I'm certain that the Queen is right - win, we will, and with the 'quiet, good-humoured resolve' of our race and people.
I believe in The Lark Ascending.
Monday, 6 April 2020
ISOLATION DIARIES PART 14: UNIQUE ANOINTING
It’s felt recently as though the world has been flooded with talk about this situation and what it all means. Everyone’s a preacher, everyone’s a political analyst, everyone’s a megaphone. When I said the other day that I thought there was ‘a lot of noise’, this is what I meant. And I’ve gone on about it too.
But there is one person in our society, who carries such gravity and strength - but also most certainly knows the power of not commenting. The Queen, with her unique anointing, has been able to reign silently and majestically for almost seven decades, and not once has she put a foot or a word wrong.
Tonight, in the unprecedented wake of the virus, The Queen gave a short address to the nation, and by extension, the Commonwealth. It was wonderful.
I had never fully appreciated the impact of royalty when the nation went through the war. Faced with bombs raining on London, King George VI stayed in Buckingham Palace, and he too addressed the nation. And it stirred something up in us in a way that nobody else could have achieved.
That’s why I call this a ‘unique anointing’ - there’s something so protective and fierce and tender and strong about a king or queen bringing the nation together, setting the tone, inspiring us to be who we are.
And there she was tonight, a 93 year old lady, daughter of King George, looking down the lens of a camera in an empty room of her castle, reminding us all that ‘better days will return: we will be with our friends again; we will be with our families again; we will meet again.’
And it was truly stirring. To be honest, I can do without the running commentary from everybody. I’ll leave the long sermons behind, and with time I’ll long forget the flumpbook preachers and whatever their latest angle might be! What I needed today was a grandma, a warrior, a leader of nations and families, to reassure and comfort, to bind, heal and inspire.
There’s lots of noise out there. But a long time ago in Westminster Abbey, God anointed a quiet young woman to step into a role, knowing this moment was coming, just as many others have come. And in quietness and confidence, she’s been the strongest of all us today, as people with unique anointings often are. Thank you Ma’am.
Saturday, 4 April 2020
ISOLATION DIARIES PART 13: RULES
“I know it’s a bit naughty,” said a colleague on the phone, “But I’m driving to see my girlfriend this weekend.”
My heart sank a little bit. Earlier I’d been at the the park entrance, standing in front of a big new government poster. It proclaimed that:
“The only reasons to leave home are:
(/) to shop for basic necessities or pick up medicine
(/) to travel to work when you absolutely cannot work from home
(/) to exercise once a day, alone or with members of your household
(x) do not meet others, even friends or family”
I miss my family. I miss everyone. I miss glinting eyes and warm hands, smiles and handshakes. I miss the way my nephews throw themselves at me when I arrive at my parents’ house. I miss restaurants and laughter and church and hugs. I miss feeling loved in a heartbeat, and the playful tap on the shoulder or the soft punch of the arm. I even miss the way Tim used to stand up behind the partition like a meerkat and take the mickey out of me. I miss people terribly. But especially my family. Especially my friends. And I’m very much alone.
“What would Boris say?” I asked cheekily, hiding my surprised annoyance.
“I know, I know,” he said, “But I’ve got my line sorted if I get stopped.”
Love really is blind then! But why should the rules only apply to some of us? Why is it okay to risk other people’s lives for the sake of ... a romance? I don’t want to die because someone else couldn’t resist a kiss. And neither should anyone have to! But if this is going on around the country, then what hope is there? The more I thought about it the more upset I was getting. Now, I don’t want to be upset with my friend - he’d probably say (and I didn’t push it far enough to find out) - “Ah Matt, you’d feel differently if it were you...” though I’d hope not. The point is that it isn’t me. And if it were, and he were me, I think he’d be pointing out how selfish it is to me anyway.
Well. For a fleeting moment, I felt tempted to throw in the towel, break the rules and go and see my parents. But I’m not going to - because that’s exactly how this virus survives - transmitted person to person, the fear of missing out, the dreadful thought of loneliness, the implanted idea that we are all alone, pulling us together where it can spread. I don’t wish to be infected by resentment down a phone line, any more than I wish to be affected by the real virus.
And neither should you be, so for every reason I can think of, please, please stay at home. And if you need me, you’ll know where I’ll be.
Friday, 3 April 2020
TURNING TREES
I hadn't been out of the house for a while, so today, in a burst of spring sunshine, I went to the park. I wondered for a while whether I should take a coat, decided against it, then realised it was exactly the kind of day when you need it, but sort of don't. The wind was chilly, the sun was warm.
Well. Anyway. The virus can't stop nature.
All the trees were stretching spindly arms towards the bright blue sky, their roots nestled comfortably in the soft, green grass. I found one tree, barely just beyond a sapling that had the tiniest buds gently sprouting from its fingers. Another sprang somehow from both the soil and a small circular plaque, dedicated to a man who died in 2005 and had been 72: 'always kind, always patient'. I found myself wishing I'd got this far in my life with either of those accolades.
There was one particular tree that caught my eye though. I don't know what kind of tree it is, but it's the kind of twisting tree that spreads in all directions, a tangled nest of old branches and roots; one that never understood the convention for trees to grow upwards, and wouldn't have cared much for it if it had. This tree, in a joyful chaos, was wild, and sort of happily furious, a bulb of shoots and roots, bursting over the grass.
But it wasn't that unkempt glory that made me notice it today. No, today, I stopped because this tree was only half in blossom.
What I mean is, the side facing the sun was bursting with raucous life - white flowers bobbing in the light as though they'd just been woken from a great long sleep. But the other side, the side of the tree in the shade, was still dark and green. I could see the old wintry branches through the leaves. I was struck by the comparison of the two sides - one tree, half in and half out.
I took a photograph and added it to Instagram, and as I often seem to do these days, sat down to write a throwaway poem to go with it. It felt to me as though that tree was telling a story, perhaps one about winter and spring and summer - perhaps one about us, perhaps one about what happens when we turn to the sun.
So this is it. This is the poem about the 'turning trees', only half-in-blossom, that I saw on a day when the sun was warm and the wind was still bitterly cold, all at the same time.
Turning Trees
Half in blossom
Half in breeze
Half in winter
Are the turning trees
Warm as summer
Blue and bright
Cold wind ripples
From winter bite
Full in leaf where
Flowers grow
Buds of spring
Like fall of snow
Half in blossom
Half in freeze
Halfway home
Are the turning trees
Well. Anyway. The virus can't stop nature.
All the trees were stretching spindly arms towards the bright blue sky, their roots nestled comfortably in the soft, green grass. I found one tree, barely just beyond a sapling that had the tiniest buds gently sprouting from its fingers. Another sprang somehow from both the soil and a small circular plaque, dedicated to a man who died in 2005 and had been 72: 'always kind, always patient'. I found myself wishing I'd got this far in my life with either of those accolades.
There was one particular tree that caught my eye though. I don't know what kind of tree it is, but it's the kind of twisting tree that spreads in all directions, a tangled nest of old branches and roots; one that never understood the convention for trees to grow upwards, and wouldn't have cared much for it if it had. This tree, in a joyful chaos, was wild, and sort of happily furious, a bulb of shoots and roots, bursting over the grass.
But it wasn't that unkempt glory that made me notice it today. No, today, I stopped because this tree was only half in blossom.
What I mean is, the side facing the sun was bursting with raucous life - white flowers bobbing in the light as though they'd just been woken from a great long sleep. But the other side, the side of the tree in the shade, was still dark and green. I could see the old wintry branches through the leaves. I was struck by the comparison of the two sides - one tree, half in and half out.
I took a photograph and added it to Instagram, and as I often seem to do these days, sat down to write a throwaway poem to go with it. It felt to me as though that tree was telling a story, perhaps one about winter and spring and summer - perhaps one about us, perhaps one about what happens when we turn to the sun.
So this is it. This is the poem about the 'turning trees', only half-in-blossom, that I saw on a day when the sun was warm and the wind was still bitterly cold, all at the same time.
Turning Trees
Half in blossom
Half in breeze
Half in winter
Are the turning trees
Warm as summer
Blue and bright
Cold wind ripples
From winter bite
Full in leaf where
Flowers grow
Buds of spring
Like fall of snow
Half in blossom
Half in freeze
Halfway home
Are the turning trees
Wednesday, 1 April 2020
ISOLATION DIARIES PART 12: FLAT BATTERY
It started because I couldn't open the boot. It was slightly ajar, but not much, just enough so you could wiggle it up and down. But it wouldn't click shut, and it wouldn't open either.
Then I tried the key-fob again. Nothing. No little clicky-click, no light-flash. The car was silent. The battery, I knew, was flat.
I unlocked the driver side door with a key and flung my rucksack in the back, realising that I would probably not be going essentials-shopping today. I tried the ignition out of a forlorn hope. The dashboard was blank, and all I could hear was birdsong.
What had happened was that last time I used the car (Saturday, I think) I'd just forgotten to shut the boot properly and the alarm lamp that comes on when you do that had drained the battery, the car being parked outside my house for three days. And in a lockdown, I wasn't exactly sure what you're supposed to do.
So I adopted my classic coping mechanism by going back inside and making a cup of tea. Assam it was, taken with a dash of milk in one of my Scrabble mugs. I had a macaroon with it. I'm nothing if not proactive, me,
An hour or so later, my friend persuaded me (by text) to call the AA. So I did that, and within an hour, James - a very different kind of mechanic to last time - was outside my house, with the bonnet open, telling me about all the flat batteries he's had to deal with this week.
James didn't know that he was an answer to prayer. Neither did I at first, but as those chilly thirty minutes elapsed, I started to realise that I was really enjoying the conversation, even though James and I stayed the regulation two metres apart throughout. He was young, kind of funny and cheerful - the kind of young man who has a very likeable, affable manner - and I did find myself liking his straightforward style.
My prayer has been that I would see a real person every other day during the lockdown - not just a supermarket worker or a jogger in the street; I mean a friendly person to talk to. Last week, God sent two different friends - one waving at me from the park across my neighbour's garden, the other beautifully dropping supplies off at my front door while I leaned out of the window. Those tiny, awesome moments have become the highlights of my days, and this week, I suddenly was in a friendly chat with James, testing the capacitance of my battery on a cold, March afternoon. The miracles continue.
I don't think it's wrong to celebrate small miracles by the way, even when bigger ones are needed. Atheists raise an eyebrow at it - after all, why wouldn't God sweep in and eradicate the virus? Well, that's a much bigger question than I can handle. I don't know, but I do know that one of the things I asked for was to see friendly faces every other day. Why he's answering that is as much a mystery to me as the fact that today he used my flat battery to do it. I'm thankful though.
Then I tried the key-fob again. Nothing. No little clicky-click, no light-flash. The car was silent. The battery, I knew, was flat.
I unlocked the driver side door with a key and flung my rucksack in the back, realising that I would probably not be going essentials-shopping today. I tried the ignition out of a forlorn hope. The dashboard was blank, and all I could hear was birdsong.
What had happened was that last time I used the car (Saturday, I think) I'd just forgotten to shut the boot properly and the alarm lamp that comes on when you do that had drained the battery, the car being parked outside my house for three days. And in a lockdown, I wasn't exactly sure what you're supposed to do.
So I adopted my classic coping mechanism by going back inside and making a cup of tea. Assam it was, taken with a dash of milk in one of my Scrabble mugs. I had a macaroon with it. I'm nothing if not proactive, me,
An hour or so later, my friend persuaded me (by text) to call the AA. So I did that, and within an hour, James - a very different kind of mechanic to last time - was outside my house, with the bonnet open, telling me about all the flat batteries he's had to deal with this week.
James didn't know that he was an answer to prayer. Neither did I at first, but as those chilly thirty minutes elapsed, I started to realise that I was really enjoying the conversation, even though James and I stayed the regulation two metres apart throughout. He was young, kind of funny and cheerful - the kind of young man who has a very likeable, affable manner - and I did find myself liking his straightforward style.
My prayer has been that I would see a real person every other day during the lockdown - not just a supermarket worker or a jogger in the street; I mean a friendly person to talk to. Last week, God sent two different friends - one waving at me from the park across my neighbour's garden, the other beautifully dropping supplies off at my front door while I leaned out of the window. Those tiny, awesome moments have become the highlights of my days, and this week, I suddenly was in a friendly chat with James, testing the capacitance of my battery on a cold, March afternoon. The miracles continue.
I don't think it's wrong to celebrate small miracles by the way, even when bigger ones are needed. Atheists raise an eyebrow at it - after all, why wouldn't God sweep in and eradicate the virus? Well, that's a much bigger question than I can handle. I don't know, but I do know that one of the things I asked for was to see friendly faces every other day. Why he's answering that is as much a mystery to me as the fact that today he used my flat battery to do it. I'm thankful though.
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