Saving The Planet

Diary of An Elderly English Woman:Day Two

“Apothecary”. What an evocative word! I was  mulling over  it awaiting my flu jab in the pharmacy in Ledbury yesterday. 

Imagine a wizened fellow of indeterminate age, distilling belladonna for the beautiful ladies, and extracting mercury for the gentlemen with the pox that had succumbed to more than their charms. I picture Merlin, only crazy, as a consequence of the mercury fumes. 

I came close to flirting with the handsome Nigerian pharmacist:: Twenty-third of October, 1950,” I purred as he inquired of my birthdate to fill in (out) the obligatory form.

“Yes! I know!I don’t look a day over thirty!” 

This was so ridiculous we both laughed. 

I enjoy making people laugh. 

In, jabbed, out. Walk up the hill to the Sue Ryder Shop ( Thrift Store) for an item I’d spotted on the way down.

“I’ll take this off your hands, “ I said, handing over a gaudy insulated picnic tote, on wheels,  to the volunteer womanning the till.

“£3 please,” she replies, handing over one of those second-generation cash machines that require a pin. Deja-vu kicked in with a moment of panic, but fortunately, this time, I remembered. 

I am now the triumphant owner of a vital piece of kit that is an essential tool in my new regime. 

Confused? I’ll explain. I am Doing My Bit ( as my grandparents would say during the Second World War) to Save the Planet. I am Walking To The Shops. 

This is no great sacrifice, per se, as the Co-op is less than half a mile away, but my Noble Purpose on arrival, is to collect a pre-ordered bag full of discounted food that had reached its use-by and was headed for the bin. It’s now headed for my newly acquired picnic tote on wheels for the drag up the Hartpury Rd and supper. 

Him Indoors and I are hooked. You don’t know what’s IN the bag until you open it, so every day it’s like winning the lottery! OK, so you might not, as a rule,  buy a plant-based Cornish Pasty, but it tasted good, as did the apple pie, and the parsnips, so no complaints. 

I got my steps in, fed us both for £3.39p AND according to the App, saved 1.7kg of CO2 :more if you count the walk. 

Win-win-win.

https://apps.apple.com/gb/app/too-good-to-go-end-food-waste/id1060683933

No Room At The Inn

UPDATE: Funding was withdrawn from this centre some time ago. The building is now integrated into an expensive facility for rich old people. The homeless are back on the streets.

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, and marvel at how my father could hit the bullseye and calculate any combination of the number 301 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 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 had 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 had requested 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 was preoccupied throughout Mass as I wondered what I was going to say: the "Feed The World" angle having already been taken.

Abigail returns from Little Church with an activity book all about Advent. "Look grandma!" She announces, loudly, because that's her volume setting, "There 's no room in 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 ...

 

 

Listening To A Trumper

 It’s rewarding work, turning up at the Mission, serving food to vulnerable adults who don’t mind listening to a few minutes of religion in exchange for a sausage roll, a bowl of soup, and some nice people to talk to for an hour or so.

 

I am full of existential guilt about it, because doing good makes me feel good, but I am reconciled to this since learning (EdX course ‘Science of Happiness’) that we are genetically programmed this way, and it helps species survival rates. So that’s OK then.

 

It was my turn to give the talk. It’s a tough gig. Most of the audience are appreciative, but I am very ambivalent about doing it. Anyway, I said I would, so I did.

 

Unfortunately, I spoke without notes, and close to the beginning of my ‘put your trust not in men’ homily, I accidentally called the President-Elect of the United States of America a narcissistic sociopath.

 

Michael got up and quietly informed me that if I was going to talk about Trump he was leaving. I kinda got the hint, and also the strong feeling that calling ANYONE a narcissistic sociopath wasn’t exactly Christlike, so I rowed back and galloped to the finish, sitting down absolutely determined never, ever, to do the talk again.

 

Michael hadn’t left, but I could see he was upset so I went over to him and let him tell me what a hypocrite I am ( I am, I am, it’s true.) and then to give me his reasons for supporting Trump. I listened and I listened good.

 

Trump offers hope to people like him. Michael feels his voice is finally being heard. After I sincerely apologised for upsetting him, we had a real conversation. At the end of it I was both enlightened and chastened.

 

Michael was given up for adoption at birth, but his mother changed her mind, and struggled on for two years before giving him up for good. A string of foster homes followed, then a boarding school. Then prison …

 

Michael, in his forties, is good-looking, and intelligent. As his story unfolded I offer up absolute respect for him: for having a completely shit life and not being totally crushed by it.

 

Yes, Michael gets that mysogyny and the racism don’t look good, but he believes that’s media hype, ” The media lies. He’s a good man with a family who wants to change the way the world is run … ”

 

Michael is sitting in a room with some very unhappy people with a food voucher in his hand looking for a job that’s being done by someone in China and he wants the world to change in a way that would give him a life more like mine.

 

I wouldn’t vote for Donald Trump in a million years, but after my conversation with Michael, I understand why people did.

 

I don’t think my little homilies ever achieve much, and I sweat blood over them, but today mine achieved something. I made a monumental error of judgement, but as a result, I made a real connection with a young man whose opinions I really needed to hear.

 

 

Understanding everything except the Language: Going To Mass

When I arrived fifteen minutes before La Misa began, a couple of dozen worshippers were already seated outside the church on the plaza. Things were not looking good for a ringside seat. 

This story begins last Sunday: I incomprehensibly turned up nine hours late for Mass. Duh! I know enough Spanish to read “Sabado 2100,” and know the service I was aiming for was the previous day, and I’m Catholic enough to realise a Vigil Mass is on a Saturday. But it was a beautiful walk and I put it down to experience and the sun. 

Fast forward six days. Kate is taking Darren and Frank on a boat trip in the morning, so I’m headed for theVigil Mass, at the appointed hour, quite excited  at this adventure. 

A few years back I attended Mass with my friend Ursula, in Klosters, of all places, reknowned in season for the skiing, and notable because every car is a Ferrari. No need, I assured her, to translate for me, I know what’s going on. I understood two words, “Gott” and “Kuchen”, which was offered with coffee after Mass, and lived up to expectations, as did God. 

It’s the same the world over you see, you know you’re being welcomed, making your confession, saying the Gloria listening to the Bible, and so on, until being sent out in peace to serve the Lord.,

There’s actually something rather spiritual in understanding everything but the words: my attention remained with Christ, in the priest and people in the Bible readings and the pinnacle of the experience, in the bread and wine. I looked forward to repeating the joy of it. 

And joy it was. I entered the church and was offered a foldaway seat between a monumentally gorgeous statue of Our Lady Queen of Heaven, and the electronic candle- thingy the name of which I know neither in English or Spanish. I was grateful for the seat. The singing was amazing, and spontaneous. No hymn sheets or overhead projections, everyone burst into song at the appropriate time, and once I grasped the tunes, I sang along in tongues, a feat I first performed in a pub in Dublin, but that is of course,  quite a different story. 

The church was rammed, and hot. Many women had the foresight to bring fans. Caught up in the moment, I waved my hat in front of my face until I realised it wasn’t achieving anything. 

I wished I’d brought my phone with the missal on it, because I found it rather difficult to remember the words of the prayers, when everyone around you is using different ones. 

My words yesterday were “Señor” Señora and “confiar”which I took to mean confess. 

Good enough to get me through. 

En el nombre del Padre y del Hijo y del Espíritu Santo amén