The Chimney-Sweep And The Pig

As part of my New Year Makeover, I'm going to devote more time to one of my passions: story-telling. 

So there! It's out, and I have  done something about it!  I've enrolled in a course: "Storytelling For Social Change."  It's available from the University of Michigan, for free, on the EdX platform. 

Storytelling For Social Change

"I Daniel Blake' a BAFTA-winning film about the use of  'social murder'  * as state policy, aired on the BBC last night, so this course couldn't be more timely.  This amazing exemplar of it's genre has been dismissed as, "A work of fiction by a socialist director .. " by every right-wing politician with a Twitter account. Laughable. As if they'd never wept through,"Schindler's List"! 

Here's my first, 'Assignment' "To tell a story from your own experience in 250 words or less ..." 

The Tale of The Chimney-Sweep And The Pig

My Dad was a Special Constable. (Community Police Volunteer) This is way back in the 1960's and I am ten. Even the regular policemen ride bicycles to patrol the estate where I lived, it was THAT long ago.

This particular Saturday, my dad was called to Farmer Peacey's pig sty. One of his pigs was missing. It was not going to be too difficult to apprehend the villain, because he'd left his spectacle case behind - I imagine it had dropped out of the thief's pocket in the tussle with the pig. 

So Dad and Fred walk up to the Green's house -the one on the corner of Beacon Road.

Yards away, you can hear that pig squeal, and it was, by all accounts leading the Greens a merry dance.

Fred knocks on the door. Something of a hush falls on the place. Fred knocks again. 

Slowly the door opens and a small frightened face peers, wide-eyed, through the smallest gap. 

"You'd better  let us in, Betty." My dad says, not unkindly. 

Betty nods, and opens the door to reveal a scene of the utmost carnage. Mr Green was a competent chimney sweep, but a pig-sticker, he was not. The drab hallway was festooned with high arcs of rapidly drying blood. As was a flustered Mr Green.

Dad holds out the glasses case, and hands it over. 

"Lionel," he says, "That'd better be the remains of a pig lying on your kitchen table, or you're in real trouble ... " 

There will be more. I'll keep you posted. 

*

Austerity is, 'social murder'

Yep! That's Another Year Over!

I've twisted my own arm to get started on this post - I put.the address on some of my Christmas Cards, in lieu of a Round Robin.  

I celebrated my 68th birthday in October with a trip with the whole family to the Dean Forest Railway, where my father's signal box found a home long after he ceased to need it. That was great fun - bringing the generations together, telling the family stories, creating memories. I think this is what grandparents are for!

Ray keeps the Chapions League afloat by traversing Europe with high quality recordings of the games. He's been to everywhere beginning with 'Li' recently; Lisbon, Lithuania, Lichtenstein ... (I may be making Lichtenstein up, I shall have to ask him. ) I accompanied him to Cyprus once, but spent the whole weekend throwing up in a hotel room, and have not been tempted to go since. Oporto in Portugal is lined up in March, Brussels and Amsterdam, Vilnius and Vienna already ticked off. 

He  was stopped by a zealous border guard on one occasion, who suspected he might be couriering something more contraband than a football match ... 

We had a wonderful break (August) in North American, riding the Rocky Mountaineer with Darlene and Steve. Drank gin, took photos of lakes and forests (sadly wreathed in smoke) and actually got to touch the bob sleigh that was used in the film, "Cool Runnings", near Calgary. Interesting side-bar:I hear  Calgary is 'in the running' for the next Winter Olympics. Lovely town. 

The grandchildren are growing up, and doing splendidly. they range on age from 11 years to 8 months, and I'm happy to announce, a seventh is due early next year. 

From top left (clockwise) Ray and I, Frank, Alfie, Finley, Abigail , Rosie and Sam. 

Among my accomplishments this year has been being elected to chair both the local branch of the Labour Party, AND the Parish Council. There! That says everything you need to know about my passions. 

Our thanks to all of you who remembered us this Christmas. You WILL receive a reply, but I hear there's a five-day backlog at the local sorting office, and we missed today's post! 

Ive stolen my my friend Jean's  Christmas Card for this post. Guess which camp she's in! 

You gotta laugh ... 

And finally, especially for Caroline and Kelvin: A plaque that has been on my wall in several homes since 1988:

Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year, to you all, wherever you are! 

Something I Can Believe In

In an inspired moment, faced with two ten year old boys engaged in an "It wasn't me, it was him!" explanation for their latest fight, I sighed deeply and sent them out into the cloakroom to, "Work on a story I can believe in, then come back and tell HIS side of it ...! " I tell you, I'm good.

The number of fights dropped significantly, because my genius way of dealing them, was just too tedious to repeat.

Happy New Year! Yes, really, it's the beginning of the Church's liturgical year: the beautiful season of Advent. I NEED Advent: the rush of the secular pre-Chritmas with it's intense activity and expectation of being jovial to strangers, is intensely stressful to we introverts. I revel instead, in drawing inwards to the place of quiet, to reflect deeply on the mystery of incarnation.

Do I believe the story of the Babe In The Manger? I believe in the possibility, but without a birth certificate and selfies posted on Facebook, it's impossible to be sure. (.Although, when Barack Obama showed his birth certificate, the people who really didn't want to believe him, still didn't ... Soooo...)

Putting the manger, shepherds and Kings to one side for a moment, there is a truth that I hold very dear:

"God became man and dwelt amongst us"

As a baby in Bethlehem, possibly, yes, but also as every loving word spoken, and every compassionate act undertaken,  by every incarnate soul, that ever lived. Me. You. Everyone.

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Reflection On The Centenary of The Ending Of The Great War

"Ghost Soldiers" Slimbridge, Glos.

I cry. Every year during the ritual two minutes silence, and the solemn recitation: ''We will remember them ...'' The sorrow, the waste. What is there to do, but weep?

I watched the official ceremony around the Cenotaph in Whitehall with my usual mix of immense gratitude for the men and women who died, and disdain for the political leaders who will send more men and women to their deaths, for, what? WE become Terror to subjugate Terror. How's that working out?

We're currently complicit in the slaughter of  civilians in Syria, and Yemen. It's as though, mindful of the political cost of the mass-slaughter of armies, political  leaders have switched to slaying women and children instead. The faceless operator of a drone has replaced the Tommy with his gun.

My war-hero is Harry Patch, who died just a few years ago at 111, the last British survivor of the First World War. He held politicians in even greater disdain than I do. Harry and his four closest comrades made a pact not to kill anyone: they shot to maim. So here's the irony: the political leaders who fawned over Harry every year on Armistace Day, would have shot him as a traitor. Yes, refusing to kill was treason. Probably still is. God help us all.

''Thou shalt not kill..''

Harry Patch Anti-War Hero