We are going away for a week as of some time today. Erratic service will be resumed at some time after that.
I once knew someone who habitually used the word 'somewhen'. It's a useful workaround for 'some time' which I always spell as two words, unlike 'sometimes' which is one word. Did she make it up? She said she didn't. Anyone else ever heard that?
They were small, round, dark and irregular. They were our contribution to the school end of term party. Though technically chocolate fairy cakes they resembled dog turds rather too closely to vie for anyone's appetite, especially at half past seven of a morning. Mel had baked them for good but they had turned out evil.
She surveyed the wreck as a sweet steam rose from the baking tray, a visible mist of expiring dreams.
"What shall I do with these," she asked plaintively, turning to Jake whose face was a study in baffle.
"Put them in a bag marked Toxic," replied Jake, who had his reputation to think of.
"They'll be all right," I said, my face bright, helpful, optimistic. My small audience remained unswayed. "Perhaps you could leave them here. They'll taste fine," I continued, trusting that adult bullishness would carry the day. "You could have them for tea."
"Me?" rejoined Jake, loudly and rapidly, his syllable a study in outrage. "I am the future of this family," he declared. And so the matter was settled. He took a packet of chocolate digestives and a megabag of Twix.
That was last Friday. The weekend slipped by. Potter 6 was bought on Saturday morning and finished by Zoe this afternoon. She is sworn to secrecy about which major character dies. The lack of school gives real hope that we can get through without untimely revelations. Meanwhile we snaily plodders who are reading it en famille are on Chapter 5. It seems much better than Potter the Fifth to me, tenser and more lively. The adverb count is quite low and the book itself is physically manoeuvrable, both welcome improvements on 5.
Mel has been at work for the last two days, which means she has had to re-approach the London transport network for the first time since the bombs. She wasn’t keen but she felt she should go, wishing to show defiance and earn some money in about equal measures. In the end the defiance turned into a mixture of avoidance and lateral thinking; she ended up deciding to go by bike.
This is good for both her heart and the planet, and highly likely to keep her journey safe from demonic, irresponsible killers armed with bombs. Unfortunately it offers scant protection from demonic, irresponsible killers armed with cars.
I thought she had got a job mending roads when she showed off her new orange flourescent jacket, the armour she dons to do battle on her way to the Temple. Hot work, well wrapped. Apparently she arrived looking like a beetroot and carrot salad.
It looks like the spike is finally over and a kind of normality seems to have returned. Extraordinary levels of traffic here by my parochial standards: big event in my small world, miniscule event in the world of hard, moving objects. Back to just thee an’ me sitting outside the pavement café then, now that the parade has passed.
Not the first spike here but all things considered I would like it to be the last. I'd rather not have a talent for reacting to tragedy. Meaning I'd rather not have the tragedies to react to.
All in all it was a narrow point but fancifully put. Thank you to those who saw merit in it. If it helped anyone I would be pleased. I didn't imagine for a moment that the people who really need to read it would ever do so and as it turns out they were dead by the time it was written. We have abolished the death penalty in this country. It seems to have been reintroduced for listening to the wrong holy men.
The debate will move on. Sadly the written webword is infinitely quieter than even the softest human voice, never mind the sound of inflamed ignorance, shouting slogans. Already I have read pages of webdrivel about what 'Muslims' think, or rather what Muslims 'really' think. I imagine the BNP will have a field day and demagogues across Europe will build fantasies of murderous dark-skinned madmen bombing and outbreeding us, subsuming our civilised world. Hating is sometimes easier than thinking. Will Le Pen prove mightier than Persaud? I hope not.
Mel and Zoe went to the Hampton Court Flower Show. We boys did not. We did boy stuff which meant I did the net and Jake watched cartoons. After lunch we did even boyer stuff and stepped into a galaxy long, long ago where the foot soldiers fought with rayguns but the real toffs fought with swords. Yes, we did the Sith and entered that world where a constant stream of spacecraft zoom past the windows of fashionable city dwellers, in a riot of lane indiscipline.
Throughout the film the backgrounds were stunning. Cityscapes and planet views were incredibly real, vast, with ever-changing weather, beautiful colours and shapes. There was a funeral set in a tableau worthy of Canaletto (but with less water). There were sunsets and clouds worthy of Turner (but less blobby). We were taken to a volcanic moon throbbing with visions of hellish, boiling lava that set a perfect mood for the bad tempered showdown at the end.
For truly this is a film in which all the interest is in the background. The instant we move to close up all lost is. The lava produced a great deal more emotion than Obi Wan and Anakin could manage, even at the film’s notional high point as the forces of Good and Evil came face to beard. There again the lava did have better lines throughout, ‘Blub blub fft’ being particularly commendable.
Interesting dialogue was in noticeably short supply but still the plot unfolded, taking hairpin turns at dizzying speed. My interest was sustained by Yoda, who a fascinating pattern of speech has, that clearly from an English dictionary and a German grammar learned been have only can. And he’s hard as nails so respect due is.
My favourite line was delivered by the pregnant Padme as the evil Whatnot bamboozled the Senate into agreeing that the Republic was now an Empire. "So this is how liberty ends, in a storm of thunderous applause," she said, in a moment of genuine insight. I recalled how Augustus and Napoleon had each stroked their Senates to death and I leaned forward anticipating more of this nutritious fare. Sadly we then reverted to goodies saying things like "He’s gone bad. I’m sorry" and baddies saying things like "NOOOOOOOOO!"
The hours passed. Ewan MacGregor's acting disappeared bit by bit till the only sign of emotional life within him was signalled by stroking of the beard. The rest of the time he looked less like a hero with mystical powers and more like a well-intentioned English teacher with a penchant for fell-walking.
I sat on doggedly.
As we entered the third hour I began to recognise that Lucas had succeeded in wringing every last drop of emotion from the script. Not from me, just from the script.
I learned more about Jedi philosophy though, and I must say I admire its stoicism and selfless tenor. I was especially struck by the bit about how "losing things must not you afraid of be". I know someone who has no such fears and I now have new insight into Mel's relationship with her car keys.
Silver lining.
"Excuse me, sir..."
There was a respectful pause as the Senior Prayer Officer waited for the Almighty to give him his attention.
"What is it?" God was weary and downcast, burdened with sorrow for the suffering on the Earth. It was the children’s prayers that always upset him most. It had been a very bad day. Not the worst by any means, but it was the sheer obstinate persistence that affected him. He felt like a teacher whose class simply couldn’t get to grips with the most basic addition.
"There’s someone on the line and I think you should take it personally."
"Very well," he replied, turning to face the SPO. "Who is it?"
"It’s a young man from London, sir."
God furrowed his brow. "I know there’s a lot of activity over there tonight. Why this one? You know how grief exhausts me."
"This one isn’t grieving, sir. He’s happy. In fact he’s exultant."
"Very well." said God. "Put him through." Destruction and happiness did not usually go together. Anomalous pattern. Investigate, he thought.
An excited voice filled the room.
"It was a marvellous thing...such great deeds...a historic victory. A blessed day!"
"Explain yourself," interrupted God, who had heard all too much of this sort of thing down the years.
The young, assured voice stopped. "Is that you, God?" it asked.
"Yes it is. Explain yourself. Start with that word ‘blessed’, please."
"Well, we - my friends and I - have blown up a great number of people. A triumph for holiness, a glorious victory for the Word of God. We have struck a massive blow for righteousness!"
"By blowing up complete strangers in a tunnel? How does this help anyone?"
"We magnify your greatness."
"And how exactly does that magnify me? I mean, how much more than the evident beauty of what I have created, which you have just seen fit to destroy?"
"We are the good, the devout. We have read your book."
"Which book? I’ve written lots of books, you know. I changed some of the details but the basic message was always pretty much the same. You have plenty to choose from."
"We read your last one."
"Did you read it all the way through?"
"Yes, but we were rather taken with the sections about struggle."
"Why is it that people like you always read those bits and then quote me out of context? I am the Bringer of Peace."
"Well, we thought we had it right. Anyway we were able to identify our enemies with absolute certainty."
"Who are they exactly?"
"People who don’t obey you."
God considered for a moment but then resisted the temptation to make a devastating and rather obvious point. He had learned that irony was generally wasted on the over-serious.
"So you wished to bring these people back to obedience, did you?"
"Yes."
"That would be when they were dead then, would it?"
"Er, yes. But we were also punishing them for their wickedness."
God leaned forward a little. "What wickedness is this? Which among them? What exactly had they done?"
"Well, we weren’t absolutely clear on every detail - but we were clear on the overall principle. Er, it wasn’t really practical to ask them. Um...they had turned their backs on your ways, so death was not undeserved."
The tone of God's voice became suddenly stern. "I am also named the Merciful and the Compassionate One. Perhaps you skipped that bit. And how do you know these people were so bad? It is I that carry the name of the All-Knowing, not you. And bad enough to die? Am I not also named the Judge, and indeed the Taker of Life? Will you rival me in all these things?"
"They had to be made to listen. And now they will listen, for we have struck fear into the hearts of their families and friends."
"And how can this please me? I put it to you that the fear you bring to them is fear of yourself. I wish for no extra distance between me and those I have made. You have more use for fear than I."
No reply came.
"Do you understand the idea of justice?" continued God. "It’s important. It goes with the exercise of any kind of power. It makes the difference between a ruler and a despot."
"They were infidels."
"I am also The Giver of Faith. This is beginning to annoy me."
He sighed. All the books, all the prophets, all in vain.
"In the end I left it up to the rich and powerful on your planet to define forms of orderly worship and agreed interpretations of my words. That has worked pretty well over the years, especially recently. Now you seem to have some new ideas. Your desire to run the world doesn’t concern me directly, although I would observe in passing that you seem more than a little intemperate, but you’ll have to explain to me, slowly, exactly how killing anybody helps you in any way to achieve any of my revealed purposes. If you read any of my books I think you’ll find quite a lot about not killing in there. That's one of the powers I thought best to reserve to myself."
The unvarying repetitiveness of human folly had ingrained a sad resignation within the Almighty. But still he would give them more time.
"I am beginning to think that you are after my job. Frankly it's a lot harder making worlds than it is making bombs. You say you’re working for me but I have no need of my omniscience to see that you are very definitely on your own side, for you have shrunk me to the size of your own hatreds, hatreds I would be ashamed to nurture. I am all colours and yet you see only red. You preach submission but you dream of power. I have power but it comes with responsibility, for all things in all places. Power is not a solution in itself: it is a test. I can do many things and yet I choose to do little. That is a part of my wisdom that remains hidden from those of coarser intellect. I understand the connections in your world. You, plainly, do not."
He paused, looking even older than his infinite years. He had not spoken so much for long ages and now he felt tired. The sorrow flooded back.
"I've had this trouble before. I knew Lucifer, you know, and let me tell you young man, you are no Lucifer." He spoke sadly, as if he meant to finish, but another wave of anger took him.
"I wish you would stop remaking me in your image. I'll give you ninety nine names and we’ll see how long you stay on the line. Warped, merciless, ignorant, self-serving, arrogant, callous, ambitious, bitter, narrow, angry, small-minded, murderous, fanatical, indiscriminate, xenophobic, rigid, violent..."
"I think he's gone, sir."