The New Pilot Inn

Looks empty doesn't it? The New Pilot Inn closed some time ago. I used to frequent it, and I still do, though these days in it's new incarnation as a refuge centre for the homeless and street people. They call it 'The Vaughn Centre ' now, and it does good work as the centre for the BRILLIANT Homeless Healthcare Team and GEAR, the Homeless charity that offers facilities for aforementioned fellow-citizens down on their luck.

My mum and dad used to play darts here. In my (very) late teens, I used to accompany them on match days, drink half a pint of cider and blackcurrant, and marvel at how my father could hit the bullseye and calculate what he needed to 'finish' in seconds. Mum, not so good at either, but a worthy member of the team anyway. I was never good enough to play in the team, but I could occasionally hit the board ...

Two weeks ago, I learned from my friend Tony Hipkins, who majors in holding Gloucestershire County Council to account for its provision for vulnerable people, emailed to say that GEAR has no funding to open the Vaughn Centre at Christmas this year. I shall find out why, in due course, to see if a fuss needs to be made about it, but in the meantime there is some cash to raise. £200, in fact.

Abigail and I went to church this morning. Not together, because she goes with with her mum and dad. When I arrived she was crying becauss she'd lobbed her pet dinosaur across the aisle and hit somebody. When mummy requested that she desist from such behaviour, Abigail took offence and started to howl. She's my granddaughter, and I love her to bits, but I know mummy is right, so Abs just has to get over it without sympathy from grandma.

Father Aidan gave me permission to make an appeal for a second collection for GEAR and Christmas, and I sit preoccupied through the Mass wondering what I am going to say, as the "Feed The World" angle has already been taken.

Abigail returns from Little Church, dinosaur trauma forgotten, with an activity book all about Advent. "Look grandma!" She announces, loudly, because that's her volume setting, and she reads, "No room at the inn!"

A light goes on in my brain:

"I'm not sure of what I'm going to say, because this is so close to my heart, (and here I tear up) but Abigail has just reminded me of when I was a teenager and used to go with my mum and dad to play darts at The New Pilot Inn in Gloucester, which is now a refuge for the homeless, and which can't open at Christmas this year because it has no money. Honestly, if the church can't open the inn door to the lonely and the lost at Christmas, we might just as well pack up and go home... "

Not sure how I ended up, but the result was a collection that raised far more than £200

That's Christmas sorted, now let's see what can be done for the new year ...

 

 

Awakening

My friend Alex finally has it taped. Full, as usual of his exuberant excitement, he announced, "These people don't receive bacause they don't give. There's this church in San Franscisco that has people following the 2,4,7,10 routine. Church twice a week, ( forget), (forget), and give10%! They get £144. (I'm pretty sure he forgot this is £144 every two weeks. Surely?) That's enough to live on, they just waste it ... " Mike stopped him, and brought the reflection time back on track. I had just spent a harrowing thirty minutes with a homeless alcoholic who'd arrived at this place after being forced to watch her son be tortured and raped. Sometimes, this work is just too hard. I had no words for her, I just held her, and let her sob. I wasn't paying much attention to Alex.

That was yesterday. Today I am warm and comfortable, and having done all I can to let Michelle's nughtmare pass, I am returning to Alex's formula for getting street people into church.

I see several rather obvious flaws in his argument. If it had been a matter of arithmetic, wouldn't Jesus have thought about it first?

"You are Peter, and upon this abacus I will build my church!" No. The whole point of the gospel is to wake people up to the wholeness and fullness of life that is the discovery of the Kingdom of God (heightened awareness, full consciousness) that is within us all. You don't get there by acquiring a set of religious brownie points. You open yourself up to your suffering and to the suffering of others and let it teach you what is true. This is the foolishness of the cross. This is the heart of Christian teaching.

I do try playing the numbers game, and I always lose. Pray every day, go to confession once a month, and, and - all the other musts and shoulds that afflict religious people. Such nonsense just brings failure with attendant guilt and feelings of unworthiness and hopelessnes. Which might be preferable, come to think of it, to the pride and superiority that would ensue from succeeding ... Jesus was tender towards we failures, but awful towards the proud. I have to think of some way of letting Alex know I think he's talking out of his arse. I will, perhaps, tell him a story:

"About a year ago I met a funny looking young man who bore an uncanny likeness to Matt Smith. 'He's gone to park the Tardis' I remember saying when someone commented on his disappearance one day. He was burning with this vision for street people. He carried a notebook with him everywhere, he was determined to discover what our people needed. He wrote down what they said. He was listening.

Then he discovered a church in San Fransico who found a magic formula. He wrote it in his notebook, and now he he is telling people what they need. He has stopped listening."

 

 

 

The Pink House

I have a special affinity for words that begin with "q" . "Quodlibet": light, frothy and insubstantial, usually, though  not always, of music. (It's of this blog, for starters.) Quidnunc: Gossip. Quotidian: Of the day. Routine. The purpose  of this blog is both to entertain myself - and anyone who drops by -   and to record for my family what it was like to be me. 

Here's the thing. We don't write letters or consign our thoughts longhand in spiral-bound journals anymore, or at least I don't,  and if my grandchildren are ever interested in what made me tick, they'd never know, and for reasons entirely to do with conceit, I want them to. Goodness knows how long I'll keep this nonsense up, but I've persevered for far longer than I anticipated, so the chances are I shall meander on for a while .

My daughter recently recorded her day on her blog, and I thought, "What an excellent idea" So I am about to do the same. I shall call it a "Wordshot" because a) I like ascribing new meanings to old words and q) it  sounds sexier than 'diary entry.' It will be a regular feature, unless I forget. So here goes:

WordShot Sunday 12th October 2014

8:00am Alarm

I lreally enjoy  those signs that say, "Warning This Door Is Alarmed", don't you? I love the thought of doors with feelings. I think there may have been a precedent with the lift in 'The Hitchhiker's Guide To The Galaxy' but I don't recall how that one felt, and am too idle to check it out. Anyway, I want to go up to the door and say, "I'm so sorry you're experiencing negative emotions associated with the anticipation of attack. Is there any thing I can do to make you feel better?" I don't of course, that would be silly. But I do carry stickers around with me that read, "This door is feeling a little under the weather." Keep your eyes peeled, you might spot one.

I time things to the minute. My friend Chris is picking me up today: at 8:45. So I'm in the bath, 8:40 and there's a knock at the door. Bugger. Chris later reports to Margareta, who was the other half of the lift to church, that the towel didn't cover all it should, but I think she was exaggerating for dramatic effect. "I will be ready at 8:45 Chris," I say, and to her amazement, I am.

Church is always uplifting. I have given up on the politics, and indeed, almost, on God, but nevertheless, this is my weekly dose of the numinous, which I think we should all have in our lives, and church is the least trouble (for me, anyway) and the cheapest source. I love doing the flowers, and singing the hymns. Father Tom from The Mission Field, an Irish ex-barman, gave the appeal on behalf of The Columbians, who are the sort of missionaries who build schools and tell people God loves them. I approve to the extent of slipping Fr Tom a fiver.

I enjoy time with Abigail who has to have a minder still, being only three. " I want to dance! "She shouts (Abs always shouts, it's her thing,) so her father plays another verse of the last hymn and she throws herself around with great enthusiasm, to the delight of those of us who haven't been able to do so for decades. 

10:30 

Chris and I have a long chat in the car. We exclaim at the awful shade of pink my house has been painted by a well-meaning but possibly colourblind workman. "He was aiming for terracota" I say by way of an explanation. "Here's irony," I say, about to make reference to my work with street people, "There's a good chance I'm going to be homeless in the next few months!" I was being overly-dramatic , because it was my turn:  Ray and I have three homes we could land on if necessary. ( Seriously, kids!) We'd never have a problem getting another tenancy either, but this cottage has been my home for eighteen years now, and throwing away the stuff we'd have to grt rid of in order to move, would be a wrench. A remarkable thing happens. Chris immediately launches into the bare bones of a plan to buy a house for us to rent! I am amazed and deeply touched. 

11:00 - 1300

Cooking. Ray's been away a lot this week couriering ( if that's a word) for Skibbly, our son-in-law Darren's film production company. He has landed his dream job, travelling around Europe collecting the master-tapes for UEFA matches. Admittedly, he doesn't get ro see to much of Stockholm or Helsinki, but he does get to see the footie. The point of this aside, is to explain why all the vegetables have to be converted into dishes today, before they go off, Ray not having been around to eat them! Which reminds me, Oh My God, the mushroom casserole is still going in the slow- cooker! Back in a minute.

Phew! Ray turned it off before going to bed. It looks OK but smells like a fen. 

Afternoon Nap. An essential part of a sexagenarian regime.

15:00

The wanderer returns with tales of a 1-1draw. I learn what the Fins call themselves, and what the Greeks call them too. No translation, fortunately, especially of the latter

Dinner. Chicken roasted in the clay oven (fabulous!) and plates piled high with assorted vegetables. 

1700: Till Later

Playing solitaire on this iPad, counting my calories on MyFitnessPal, going on Edex to find out my score for Assignment Two for "The Art Of Poetry" Course  - 11/12 YES!!! 

I had to compare and contrast Emily Dickinson's " Because I could not stop for death.. " with another poem. I spent DAYS trying to find a second poem, then, in desperation, used one of my own. This is very naughty, but because I could do it without getting caught, I did. Well, I say, in an attempt  at a justification for my behaviour, there is no rule that says I COULDN'T. 

20:00 Bed. Body clock still scewed by early- morning wake-up calls for European flights. 

22:00 Wide awake. Dr Who in the bath (Bless you, ipad). Thinks: What can I do now, given that I'm not sleepy?

Blog. Goodnight. Pink House Follows. 

Street Walking

Dennis, Alex and I took to the streets yeaterday with our trade-mark trolley of give-aways, and passed the time it takes to walk from the Mission to the Shelter for the Homeless, engaged in earnest conversation. Dennis is a bit disillusioned. I think if there was an OFSTED for Churches, and I'd quite like to start one, (GODSTED?)) he feels his would be in Special Measures. 

I pause for thought. We are very fortunate at GCM (Gloucester City Mission) because when Dennis and I joined, the hard work had been done, Missioners are accepted and respected on the streets, and we have a fun time being nice to people.  In the four years I've been dispensing loving-kindness in the shape of a sausage roll, I have never been insulted, assaulted, or treated in any way other than kindly. I am very grateful to the street-people for being so generous with their time and forbearance. I often wonder what they really think of us! 

Dennis thinks his church is too complacent. He was particularly wound up by the apparent lack of concern for the poor by the bankers in his midst. I am surprised. I had stereotyped Dennis' church as being low-brow evangelical and necessarily short on bankers: goes to show how misleading prejudice can be. 

"Dennis," I say, having come over all preachy, "Why don't you give the banker the same opportunity to open himself to you as you do Bill Jones?" (Bill is the  poster-tramp of the Mission, and proud of it.) Dennis looks at me in awe, and I am overcome with smugness. I am, you may spot this, taking him to Martin Buper's insight that, "All real  living is meeting." You can't know anything about anyone unless you make the effort to share your vulnerability with them.  Or just listen to them. Really. 

"You should be the pastor of a church. "Dennis says, and I stare at him in disbelief: several disqualifications immediately springing to mind. One of the best things about being a Catholic is that I'm NEVER going to be burdened with THAT. 

However, I did get to do some pastoring. The aforementioned Bill Jones was waiting for is in the porch outside the shelter. 

Bill greets me with enthusiasm. He doesn't so much flirt with me, as insist that we get married. "Over my husband's dead body,  Bill," I laugh, and he does too. It's our ritual, so don't get reading anything into it. 

"I'm barred," he says by way of explaining why he's outside the shelter, not  in it. He usually is. He's also usually drunk, which is more often than not, why he's barred. Bill is not a quiet drunk. 

He's been ejected from his room in a hostel for, allegedly, killing one of the other residents. I ask him about this, and he says, evasively, "You don't want to know." He's wrong, I DO want to know, but I'm not about to press him. 

"Where are you living now Bill?" 

"Here," he replies, pointing to the ground beneath his feet. Hey-ho Bill. Have a sausage roll. 

He then engages me with a brilliant stare and begins to gabble. Well, this is new. So I reply in tongues, make the sign of the cross on his head and say a blessing.

"I liked it when you did that. Do it again!" So I do. 

At this point. his social worker arrives essaying yet another attempt to get him to see sense on the housing issue. I hear him tell her he wants to go to Scotland. I get the feeling that she wants him to go to Scotland too, and really, I wouldn't blame her. 

Quotidian

Quotidian: Adjective
Of or occurring every day; daily.
Ordinary or everyday, esp. when mundane.

I LOVE words: especially, it would appear, words beginning with 'Q'. They are, as you can see, especially helpful when the urge to pudd-pudd across the iPad overtakes me when I have nothing remarkable to say.

M U N D A N E What a lovely word, almost onomatopoeic, it rolls off the tongue, it threatens to put you to sleep it sounds so beautifully, ecstatically O R D I N A R Y.

Yesterday was mundane. I tweeted on Sunday that it is more exciting to decide who you are going to be, than to decide what you're going to do. I like that thought. Let's ALL have a 'to be' list! On Monday I decided to be charitable, smiling and gracious. If you think I AM these things, you need to live with me for a while, then you would discover I AM indeed, but only sometimes... .

0800

A tiny alarm beeps on my iPhone reminding me to take my tablets. I am already awake, listening to KUOW Seattle. I do this to help my blood pressure. Twenty years of arguing with the 'Today ' programme on Radio 4, did not do my blood pressure any good. You never have to yell at KUOW Seattle. Justine Willis-Tomms with her gentle, honeyed voice is interviewing a woman on being a woman and forgiving everyone. What's to yell at? See? Try it.

I have already decided which emails to read, (None.)what to Tweet, (Nothing. I may have overdone it on Sunday. Sorry, Followers.) and what to wear.(Kate's left-over aubergine jeans, a toning check shirt bought in a charity shop in Stroud for £2, over a white long-sleeved T-shirt on account of the weather.)

Bath. Search for Bus Pass, Spectacles, Keys, ( now missing for four days), Shoes. Pack smart Salvation Army tabard. Ready, unusually, to leave the house at time agreed. Driven to Gloucester. Check in at the Salvation Army.

1015

Today is a good day to decide to be charitable, smiling and gracious because I am helping the Salvation Army serve lunches to the street community. Pie, mash and peas.

I tell you, I LOVE this work. I have been helping out for two years now, and the women I work with are beautiful, kindly, earthy, fantastic, saints. I play at being what they are, and they don't see it. That's part of the joy of being with them, they are giants upon the earth, and they don't know it.

So, Kathy. Jeanette, Sandra, Lynn and Major Iris, I take my hat off to you. You give without stinting, and I'm not talking about food. You make me laugh, and cry, you wrap me up in the warmth of your love, and I leave you feeling blessed.

1200

Doors open and our people come in. I serve the tea, which is where the smiling comes in particularly handy.

My earlier optimism on Bob's bed proves to be unfounded. He hasn't got one.

'Bob, I CAN'T send the forms in unless you make your outgoings a LOT more than your benefits.'

Bob needs his benefits. He has Huntington's disease, he is going to die slowly and horribly and he needs a bed. His outgoings are inflated by the painkillers he buys to cope. We both know we can NOT put this on the form.

I HAVE to sort this out before I go on holiday next Sunday, for six weeks. I'm thinking of making a home visit.

Andrew gives me the thumbs-up. The weather has been warmer so his arthritis is improved. He is a retired librarian and an accomplished linguist. I hope he hasn't remembered that he taught me how to say , 'Hello, how are you? ' In ... Can't even remember which of the Slav languages ... .

Patricia's looking poorly.

Pauline won't catch my eye. She hasn't spoken to me since I asked her if she had anywhere where she could take a shower before going for an interview... . Months ago. I have been advised this tack, whilst well-meaning, was a mistake. I see it was. I was only Trying To Help.

John is helping me with the teas. We have a new urn, which presents some problems. The drip tray falls off, we run out of hot water, we discuss his future. Yes, I think he should train to be a minister. Baptist is as good as any denomination, as far as I know, practically the only one I haven't joined and left. Neither of us believe in hell. Would this pose a problem for Baptists? I have a horrible feeling it will.

Another John, an addict, looks better than the last time I saw him, but that's not saying much. Nobody speaks about Flash any more. He's been dead a month. Memories are mercifully short on the streets.

Many of our people are Eastern Europeans. They are so grateful, so polite. We notice four new people today, and make them especially welcome.

So do the regulars. New people are told where food can be found, most days, where vouchers for the food bank can be had, advised to go and ask the Major for a clothing voucher, when the doctor holds a clinic at the Day Centre...

13:00

Clear up. Off then to catch the 1327 bus to Newent and home.

I feel like the queen. Not because of my regal bearing, but because I'm not carrying any money. No paper money, anyway, and I need to buy onions. I have decided to make French Onion With Oxtail Soup. The oxtail is defrosting, and I know I have no onions.

There's Gail, coming out of the chemist's shop. She crosses the High Street to meet me, and we discuss the War Over The Flowers. I'm not going to write about this in detail, it's one of those 'I did, then she did, and he did, and we're all at loggerheads,' things, that is now, thankfully, resolved. I hug Gail and pop into the green grocer's shop for onions.

98p a kilo. Good grief. What does a kilo look like? I reckon an onion weighs about four ounces. Already my brain is shutting down. 'Maths! Maths!' It shouts at me, 'Run!' But I persevere... Four ounces is about one hundred grammes, so that would be ten onions to a kilo... I look down at the handful of change I have and calculate... Four onions. Biggish ones...

Yes!!! Four biggish onions come in at 78p. I have 96p, so I'm well in.

1430

The afternoon and evening are spent propped up in front of the TV, and making soup, and cyber-loafing. A word I heard for the first time yesterday, and determined to use at least once! CYBER LOAFING. I said, 'At least... !'

The soup recipe I snitched from a pub called The Lazy Trout, Meerbrook, in Staffordshire. It's SO delicious that the chef who invented it deserves a plug. It's worth going to Staffordshire just for that soup. Or come here - I'll make it for you!

That's ALL I did.

Which is just as well, because this blog entry is already way too long. I will spare you the recipe for the soup. Sometimes I just can't help myself, and recipes pop up in the unlikeliest places, but not today.

21:30

Bed.