Nothing particularly interesting to say about myself other than after 27 years working as a GP, I was delighted, at the start of December 2023, to start work as the South West Regional Representative of the Slavic Gospel Association (SGA). You can read about what they do at sga.org.uk.
I am also an avid Somerset County Cricket Club supporter and a poor example of a Christian who likes to put finger to keyboard from time to time and who is foolish enough to think that someone out there might be interested enough to read what I've written.
Some of these blogs have grown over time and some portions of earlier blogs reappear in slightly different forms in later blogs. I apologise for the repetition.
If you are involved in a church in the southwest of England and would like to hear more of SGA’s work, do get in touch. I’d love to come and talk a little, or even a lot, about what they get up to!.
The leaders of the two main parties were shocked today as news broke that a Black Labrador was hoping to become the next MP for Taunton Deane.
Today, at a packed press conference, Hector announced his intention to run for parliament adding that, with the country having gone to the dogs, it was only right that he should be unleashed and given a chance to lead the nation. Unveiling his canine manifesto, he promised to address environmental concerns by introducing a ‘walkies to work’ policy within days of his being elected.
Asked who would make up his cabinet in the event of his becoming Prime Minster, Hector explained that such decisions would be made based on the past performance of those in his party – as such he’d be looking to see who has the waggiest tail, who has the most appealing eyes, and who, going forward, has the best fiscal policy for economic growth.
Refusing to be drawn on ‘Tomatogate’, and sidestepping questions regarding allegations of historic garden vandalism, Hector sought instead to reassure voters regarding his plans for national security. Insisting that Cuddles the Cockapoo continued to have his full support, he dismissed as unfounded claims that the prospective Defence Secretary once allowed his home to be burgled when the intruder offered him a sausage.
Finally, in a move that is likely to be popular with voters in marginal seats, Hector promised to legislate for all dogs to be allowed on the furniture and to introduce heavy fines for disreputable owners caught breaking dog treats in half.
‘This appalling behaviour has been increasing under successive administrations’, he claimed. ‘For far too long the dogs of this country have been badly let down by both the Conservatives and the Labour Party. But now at last we have a chance to bring about real change. It’s an op-paw-tunity we must not fail to take and so, on July 4th, I urge you to vote neither red nor blue. Instead: Vote Black! Vote Labrador! Vote Hector!’
*****
STOP PRESS – 3rd July 2024
Despite trying to garner support for his campaign by bungee jumping off the Clifton suspension bridge, I regret to have to inform you that Hector today has had to withdraw from tomorrow’s General Election.
This was after it emerged that he had placed a bet on himself NOT winning ‘Most obedient Labrador’ in Nempnett Thrubwell’s upcoming novelty dog show. And this after I told him he had no chance!
Furthermore, his announcement yesterday that, if elected, he’d not be available to work on Friday evenings has drawn additional criticism. Whilst nobody has used his decision to cast doubt on his all too apparent commitment to the cause, some have questioned how his stated desire to dedicate that time to devouring the trees in his back garden, fits in with his manifesto pledge to champion green issues.
Hector appreciates how disappointing this news will be to the huge number of supporters who have been backing him to become the UK’s first canine Prime Minister and asks for both their understanding and the privacy he and his family need at this difficult time.
It is rumoured that he is now considering running to become the next President of the United States, a role for which neither his past misdemeanours, nor his oftentimes bizarre behaviour, should in any way prove a disadvantage.
Here then is the requisite picture of Hector at the Polling Station – the only problem being that, just as I took this snap, he realised he’d forgotten his photo ID and nipped back home to fetch it.
Mind you, in the unlikely event of him actually retrieving it, and it being in one piece by the time he returns, I doubt he’ll allow it to be removed from his mouth in order for it to be inspected.
So perhaps it’s best to simply put him down as a ‘Don’t know’!
The story of Hector’s incredible rise to power is told in an unauthorised biography that has been published today. Read the unexpurgated account by clicking the link here.
This week I was in the room where it happened. By which I mean the auditorium of the Bristol Hippodrome where on Wednesday evening I went to see the touring production of Hamilton. It was a good evening, not least because it was able to see something live rather than through a screen.
Similarly, yesterday evening, I was in the cricket ground where it happened. On that occasion I was able to enjoy watching Somerset defeat Essex in their opening fixture of this year’s T20 competition. Again, being there in person to see a dozen Somerset 6’s was so much better than watching the game via the livestream, notwithstanding how fantastic the Somerset livestream is.
Many today are living increasingly remote lives. Which is sad because being physically present is vastly better than the virtual contact which doesn’t come anywhere close to the real thing.
When life is difficult, it’s good to know that someone is thinking about you – but it is better still to have someone physically with you, someone who is, quite literally, there for you. Because. as well as showing that you care, being there also allows you to care.
More than that, it causes you to care too*.
Similarly, whilst lovers who are separated may draw comfort from the letters that they send each other – so much more precious, on account of their tangibility, than emails – bits of paper nonetheless remain a poor substitute for being together in person. In order for relationships to be all that they are supposed to be, there needs to be physical contact. That is, after all, why we kiss. More than just a sign of the love shared between two people, a kiss is a physical act of love, one that, since it cannot be undertaken whilst apart, is so much more precious than an ‘x’ added to the end of a text message.
Time then spent in each other’s company is important. Without it, we are diminished as much every bit as much as the lives we consequently lead.
It is sometimes said that what is of prime importance is not so much how much time we spend with those we care about, but the quality of that time. But whilst there may be some truth in this, we make a mistake if we think that the two are independent of one another. Relationships, like a fine wine, take time to mature and quality time doesn’t spontaneously arise aside from a significant quantity of time being spent to allow friendships to develop.
Something else that is often taken as self evident is the idea that on line meetings are better than no meeting at all. Again, there may be some truth in such an assertion, but I can’t help thinking that this is only the case in situations where no physical meeting is possible and the enforced suboptimal interaction is only seen as temporary. In other situations however, where face to face meetings have been replaced by supposedly more convenient virtual encounters, I wonder if they might actually be doing real harm – on account of the increasing isolation that results from their favouring of friendships that are only ever superficial at best.
When meeting up is impossible, be that due to distance, disease or diktats such as were in place during the pandemic, then our absence from one another should, as the saying goes, make our hearts grow fonder. As a result, it should leave us yearning all the more for the time when we will be reunited once more. But when we fail to spend time with one another simply because we can’t be bothered to make the effort, then surely there is something very wrong with our relationships be they with our friends, our family or our work colleagues.
No wonder then that there is a verse in the Bible which warns us not to neglect meeting together [Hebrews 10:25]. Here, of course, the context is in relation to our gathering in church and encouraging one another there, but it remains the case that no virtual relationship can offer the support that friendship maintained in person can since they are, quite frankly, no less artificial than the intelligence that we have lately been hearing so much about.
There are both as equally fake.
Because the truth is we were created to be in physical relationship with one another. Which is surely why we feel such a depth of grief when death separates us from those we love
How much more then should we now spend quantity time with those we care about. And how much more must we ensure that we are there, in the room, where it happens.
*See ‘On not remotely caring’, a link to which can be found below.
I’d parked in the Cannon Street car park, And wondered how much I should pay, ‘Cos the game could be over by lunchtime, And yet it might last the whole day.
Josh Davey, his bug having settled, From the river end, he trotted in, The runs, as he bowled, they weren’t flowing And his wickets they set up the win.
When Kent were all out they had set us, A run chase that we’d not decline, For Somerset, 54 overs Remained to score one eighty nine.
For Lammers the runs they came briskly, For Renshaw, the same it was true. At tea the runs scored, they were sixty, And the wickets lost, they numbered two.
Then Umeed, he came to the wicket, He wielded his bat with aplomb, One shot that I’ll always remember, Was the one he hit over mid on.
When Renners, he made it to fifty So warm was the round of applause, No less a Somerset favourite, For hailing from far away shores.
Umeed, he too made it to fifty An innings of power and poise, The partnership now worth a hundred, ‘Well done’ to those Somerset boys.
From there it was all rather easy, From there it was never in doubt As Somerset reached the set target, With Renshaw and Umeed not out.
I’d parked in the Cannon Street car park, Nine-twenty I’d chosen to pay, A sum that was worth every penny, To see such a fine day of play.
Other cricket related blogs:
To read ‘A Purr-fect day at the cricket’, click here
To read ‘Is Cricket Amusing Itself to Death’, click here
To read ‘Safe and Sound at the County Ground, Taunton’, click here
It is now over forty years since I put down my pen at the end of my French O’Level and ended my five year flirtation with the Gallic tongue. Quite why the above expression remains so firmly fixed in my memory I could not say, but if one day I were to find myself in Cannes having to announce that a famous actress has gone missing, at least my years of study would not have been entirely wasted.
Languages then were not my forte at school. French was not my raison d’être, when it came to German I was something of a Dumnkopf, and my approach to Latin was always somewhat ad hoc.
Which is perhaps a shame, for had I lent more towards linguistics, life may have been somewhat simply. Take for example the time I spent in the Northwest Frontier Province of Pakistan, back when I was a medical student. Living alongside a mix of Urdu and Pashto speakers, had I been able to discern who was speaking what language, there may have been less instances of me saying ‘paKhtu Khabaree’ [I don’t speak Pashto] to people who only spoke Urdu and ‘mujhe Urdu nhi ata’ [I don’t speak Urdu] to people who only spoke Pashto!
Furthermore, in recent months I might have communicated rather more effectively with the new friends I’ve made across Eastern Europe, many of whom seem to speak a different language to the one spoken in the county in which they live. And so I know Moldovans who principally speak Russian, Romanians who generally speak Ukrainian, and Serbians whose first language is Hungarian.
It has all been rather confusing.
Which is, of course, the way it’s meant to be, every since, that is, the days of Genesis Chapter 11 when mankind sought to build the Tower of Babel as a symbol of human autonomy, it’s height intended to act as a proud boast by the people of that city that they had no need of God. In so doing, rather than honouring God as they ought, the people wanted instead to make a name for themselves.
It seems though that their plans were somewhat optimistic since, despite planning a tower that they hoped would reach as high as the heavens, God still had to ‘come down’ to see what it was that they were up to. And having done so God then proceeded to frustrate the plans of the people, first by confusing their language, so that they would not understand one another’s speech, and secondly, by dispersing them over the face of the whole earth.
Even so, there would come a time when God would reverse the judgment that fell on Babel, a time when he would come down again, in the outpouring of the Holy Spirit at Pentecost.
For as the disciples, empowered by the Spirit, boldly proclaimed the gospel, not only was the confusion of languages overturned, as ‘each heard the disciples speaking to them in their own language’, but so too did the dispersion start to be reversed, as the task of gathering a family of believers from all four corners of the earth began in earnest.
There has, over the years, been much debate about the phenomenon by which the disciples that day were able ‘to speak in other tongues as the Spirit gave them utterance’. But what we can be sure of is the fact that what the disciples said was more important than precisely how they said it.
Because what they shared was the gospel – the good news, not only that Jesus has died for our sins, bearing on the cross the punishment that we deserved, but also that, on the third day, he was raised from the dead, proving that God’s justice had been fully satisfied and we, having been declared ‘Not Guilty’ can now stand before God, no longer fearful of his righteous anger, but rather as those who have been lovingly adopted into his family.
All of which fits with what, some weeks previously, Jesus himself had said to the disciples when he described the Holy Spirit as the ‘Spirit of truth’, the one who would guide them, and indeed ourselves, into all truth whilst simultaneously convicting the world concerning sin and righteousness.
Far then from glorifying himself, the job of Holy Spirit is to glorify Christ and, having revealed to us our need of salvation, so enable us to see in the gospel how that salvation is brought about. Which is why, in churches in which the Holy Spirit is most active, you will hear far less about the Spirit himself, but a great deal more about Jesus and the forgiveness secured by Him through his substitutionary death on the cross. Little wonder then that on that first Pentecost Sunday, the apostle Peter was moved to stand up and preach a Christ-centred sermon, the upshot of which was that about three thousand people came to faith in Jesus.
And that’s why today, Pentecost Sunday, is considered by many as the church’s birthday. But whilst Pentecost is certainly of great significance, I prefer to think of it as the day when the church came of age, when it was, if you like, given the key to the door. Why? Well because the church itself dates back further than the special outpouring of the Holy Spirit that took place that day.
Much further back, in fact.
Further back than the Old Testament prophets, further back than King David, further back, even, than when God chose the nation of Israel to be his special people. Because, since the church is made up of those who put their faith in Christ, be that the Christ of history or the selfsame Christ of prophecy, it follows that Old Testament believers are every bit as much a part of the church as both believers in the New Testament and those who have come to faith over the subsequent 2000 years.
And so it was that Adam and Eve constituted the first Christian church when, back in the Garden of Eden, they believed God’s promise that a Saviour would one day be born.
From those earliest days the church has grown, and all the more so since the day of Pentecost. Today, with the a Bible being translated into ever more languages, and the gospel being taken to the very ends of the earth, the word of God continues to increase. And as it does so, the number of believers multiples greatly and the church grows ever larger. Oftentimes it has been through trials and persecution, but the gates of hell have not prevailed against her – and nor will they ever.
In his great hymn, Charles Wesley wrote these words:
‘O for a thousand tongues to sing my great Redeemer’s praise, the glories of my God and King, the triumphs of his grace!’
Most of us though, whilst we might long for more, have but a single language that we are able to speak fluently. Even so, we can use that one tongue to share the gospel with others.
And as we do, the church will continue to grow, until that time when Jesus returns and stands before a vast multitude of believers, made up of those from every tribe, every people group and every language.
But then, what was foreshadowed at Pentecost, will, I believe, have become a present reality and my inability to speak other languages will no longer matter. No more will I have to struggle to discern Urdu from Pashto, and no more will friends from one country speak the tongue of another, for then we will all, with one voice, be singing God’s praises together.
Because the big star may have disappeared – but the church never will!
Related blogs:
To read ‘An Advent Calendar – Twenty Five Reflections for Christmas’, click here
To read ‘What becomes of the broken hearted? Sorrowful yet always rejoicing on Palm Sunday’, click here
To read ‘Why do bad things happen to good people? Sorrowful yet always rejoicing on Good Friday’, click here
To read ‘Was it not necessary that the Christ should suffer these things? Rejoicing, though temporarily sorrowful, on Easter Day’, click here.
To read ‘The Resurrection – is it just rhubarb?’, click here
There’s something particularly satisfying about watching cricket sat on a park bench that is positioned on the long leg boundary – even if the white picket fence you’re sat behind is plastic rather than wooden.
From there you’ve a fine view of the scoreboard as it somewhat lackadaisically attempts to keep up with the score. But this is cricket, and the relaxed atmosphere engendered by the clear blue skies and warm sunshine means that it doesn’t much matter exactly what the score is, it’s enough to simply enjoy the runs being scored. And besides there’s a chap a few seats away keeping a tally of each dot ball and every firmly struck boundary and, if asked, he’ll happily tell you how many the pair in the middle have put on since the fall of the last wicket.
Eventually though the scoreboard catches up and receives sympathetic applause from the healthy crowd who have helped make Somerset the third best supported county in the country this season.
As play began this morning the bells of St James Church were ringing out, perhaps in celebration that Jack Leach was back in the Somerset team. But with Somerset batting first the Somerset faithful would have to wait a while before they could welcome him to the field of play.
Not everything in life is straightforward. Imagine, for example, having to decide between having your root canal filled or spending an hour listening to someone who thinks there’s too much county cricket. OK, bad example, even when undertaken by the most sadistic of dental practitioners, the former is considerably less painful.
Even so, if Daniel Bell-Drummond had asked me at 10.30 whether, having the won the toss, he should have been batted or bowled first, I would not have been able to advise him. But if the jury was still out at lunch when Somerset were 133-3, there’s little doubt that by tea, with the score now 265-4, that some would have considered the Kent skipper guilty of a tactical error.
Credit to the Kent team though, for bowling in such a way that the days allocated overs always looked likely to be completed more or less within the scheduled hours of play – which is something of a novelty these days. But if the over rate was healthy, so too was the run rate, with runs being consistently being scored at more than four an over.
Matt Renashaw, Tom Lammonby and Andy Umeed all made healthy contributions, but the highlight of the day has to be the fifth wicket partnership between the two wicket-keeper batsmen, Tom Banton and James Rew. Both hit sixes into the aforementioned area which continued to afford me a fine view of proceedings, Banton’s being struck, perhaps, in response to the one by Rew that had helped the youngster briefly pass his traditionally faster scoring partner – despite him having had a 36 run head start.
Banton, though, reached his hundred first, hitting his 150th ball back over the bowler’s head for four. 18 balls later he raced on such that he had made his highest score in first class cricket, passing his previous best of 126. The two hundred partnership soon followed, coming off just over 42 overs and then, with the very next delivery, Rew reached his hundred, made form just 128 deliveries.
All good things though come to an end. Banton was eventually out for 133 and Rew fell for 114 with just six and a half overs left in the day. Both were fine, fine innings, the like of which we’re all well away they’re capable of and which will hopefully serve to build their confidence.
Craig Overton was out in the penultimate over after scoring a brisk 23, after which Louis Gregory and Migael Pretorius saw out the eight remaining deliveries. At close of play, with still no sign of Jack Leach, and maximum batting points just 10 runs away, the score was a very healthy 440-7
And if a highly enjoyable day of cricket wasn’t enough in itself, there were, as is so often the case at county championship matches, opportunities to meet new people and talk cricket, including today, the elderly gentleman who pondered why left handers always seemed to have more time to play their shots than right handers, the venerable editor of a cricket magazine, who tirelessly campaigns for the survival of the county game, and a certain club cat who, not surprisingly, felt the day had been nothing short of purr-fect!
Brian – Somerset’s much loved club cat.
Other cricket related blogs:
To read ‘Is Cricket Amusing Itself to Death’, click here
To read ‘Safe and Sound at the County Ground, Taunton’, click here
In the preface to his book critiquing the effect of television on our culture, Neil Postman compares the concerns of George Orwell in ‘1984’ with those of Aldous Huxley in ‘Brave New World’. He writes:
‘What Orwell feared were those who would ban books. What Huxley feared was that there would be no reason to ban a book, for there would be no one who wanted to read one. Orwell feared those who would deprive us of information. Huxley feared those who would give us so much that we would be reduced to passivity and egoism. Orwell feared the truth would be concealed from us. Huxley feared the truth would be drowned in a sea of irrelevance. Orwell feared we would become a captive culture. Huxley feared we would become a trivial culture’
What is particularly astonishing is the fact that Postman’s book was written in 1985, long before the exponential rise in the number of TV channels and the dawn of Social Media which together have served to confirm Postman’s view that Huxley, not Orwell, was right. It is not religion, as Marx asserted in 1843, that has become the opium of the masses, but rather it is entertainment that numbs us to what is real and valuable.
It was then for good reason that Postman’s book was entitled, ‘Amusing ourselves to Death’.
Recently I heard a view being expressed that the changes being made to cricket seemed to be designed to appeal to those who had no interest in the game. Whether, as was being suggested, that is the expressed intent of those who are making the changes is up for debate, but one can’t help thinking that Postman would have recognised in the dumbing down of cricket for the benefit of a hitherto disinterested audience the same tendency towards trivialisation that he had documented so cogently in his book. Indeed, if Postman’s book was ever revised and updated, one can’t help wondering if room would be made for a chapter on how the proliferation of the shorter formats of the game will, left unchecked, ultimately reduce cricket to just one more meaningless pursuit, one barely distinguishable from the myriad others that seek to do nothing other than distract us from ever having an original thought ourselves.
Because, to be rendered ‘absent of thought’ is, after all, what ‘to be amused’ means.
It is of interest to me as one who walks in ecclesiastical circles, that some churches have in recent years made the same mistake that cricket is making today. Indeed, Postman rightly criticised how the church in his day was already becoming obsessed with entertaining the congregation – or should that be audience – by prioritising ‘fun’ over faithfulness to its core message. Now don’t get me wrong, the motivation for such a change of emphasis may have been well intended, but the problem is, whilst it may have swelled numbers attending services for a time, such superficial treatment of what, for many, are considered matters of deep significance, not only failed to maintain the interest of those they were designed to attract, but also alienated those who had been churchgoers for years and who longed for something of substance on a Sunday morning.
Might not the trivialising nature of an excess of T20 games and, more recently ‘The Hundred’, have a similar effect on cricket?
But, you might be thinking, going to church and watching cricket are totally different pursuits. And I would, of course, agree with you. Even so there are perhaps some comparisons that might be usefully made.
As cricket races to find more ways to entertain the crowds it hopes to attract, how often do those methods provide evidence that those employing them have lost confidence in the game itself by suggesting that simply being a spectator is not a sufficiently enjoyable way to spend one’s leisure time. Because it now seems that not even reducing the number of deliveries in what was once called an over in a patronising attempt to make it easier for those who it’s presumably believed can’t count to six, is enough to guarantee that your target audience have a good time. For that, it would appear, it’s now necessary to have a merchandising T-shirt thrown in their face and the opportunity to gurn mindlessly in front of one of the TV cameras that are forever being pointed at them rather than the game itself.
Andy Warhol was wrong – it’s not that everyone will one day have their fifteen minutes of fame, now a mere fifteen seconds of infamy would appear to be enough.
It’s been said elsewhere that whatever it is that you use to draw your audience, you’ll need to continue to provide if you want that audience to remain. And so I believe that if cricket wants to survive it needs to captivate people with cricket – it needs to entice people in by displaying the games intrinsic beauty and not detracting from it glories with those superficial and ubiquitous fripperies that, whilst briefly amusing to some, will inevitably fail to ensure the game’s long term survival. And that’s the problem with ‘The Hundred’ – ‘It’s cricket Jim’, as Bones might say to a bemused Captain James T, Kirk, ‘but not as we know it’. As such it will never protect the future of the game we know and love.
Last year holidayed in the Yorkshire Dales. It’s a beautiful part of the world which is made even more so by the many village cricket grounds that dot the landscape. But whilst I’ve taken great pleasure from walking through countryside protected by the National Trust and visiting buildings preserved by English Heritage, I’m sure that both those organisation would say that their endeavours are not merely to maximise my enjoyment. More than that there is something inherently important about these places that needs to be held on to.
Wouldn’t it be great if there was an organisation that sought to similarly preserve cricket for the good of the nation because, whilst one would like to think that there was such a body in place already, some of those in positions of power seem to be behaving like whoever it was who thought it was a good idea to build a set of tacky entertainments at Land’s End. Such amusements may have their place, but it’s not where they detract from the splendour of such a wonderful part of the British coastline.
And it’s not at Lord’s or the Oval either. Still less at the County Ground in Taunton!
One afternoon whilst away, I found myself in the Wharfdale village of Hubberholm. There I took the opportunity to visit the church of St Michael’s and All Angels in the graveyard of which the ashes of J.P. Priestly were once scattered. I was reminded of some words he wrote about the Grand Canyon. He said
‘It is all Beethoven’s Nine Symphonies in stone and magic light. Even to remember it is still there lifts the heart’
For me something similar could be said about the game of cricket. Because come close of play, cricket isn’t just about being entertained. It’s far more than that. Because even when you’re not watching it yourself, and despite your team losing to your arch rival to the tune of 198 runs, it’s somehow reassuring to know that the game is still being played.
And if one day it’s not, if one day the game dies, I for one will not be in the least bit amused. Because I can cope with Somerset losing, but not with losing Somerset.
This week I was asked if I was giving up on county cricket. my answer was a resounding ‘No’ – but I am concerned. Because at the end of the day, those who are prepared to wait for pleasure are a dying breed in a world where gratification must increasingly be instant.
And as the Proclaimers once sang, ‘What do you do when minority means you?’
And whilst we ponder the answer to that question, like the foolish man who built his house on sand, the rock solid foundation of county championship cricket is being rejected in favour of the instant thrills and quick financial returns offered by the shorter formats of the game.
One day though, when it’s target audience inevitably becomes bored of an excess of one dimensional games and looks elsewhere instead for the immediate satisfaction that it craves, the whole thing will come crashing down
By which time, I fear county cricket will no longer be there to offer the antidote to the trivial superficiality that will have become our day to day existence.
This is an updated version of a blog first posted last year.
Other cricket related blogs:
To read ‘A Tale of Two Tons’, – blog contrasting two centuries, one in ‘The Hundred’, the other in a one Day cup game, click here
To read ‘The Somerset Cricket Emporium – 2023’, of how the One Day Cup has been devalued by a certain short format competition, click here
To read ‘Safe and Sound at the County Ground, Taunton’, click here
It may have been that I was still too excited by Somerset’s weekend win over Essex, but I didn’t notice much attention being given to the fact that the Monday just gone was the first anniversary of the coronation of King Charles III.
But be that as it may, today is another day when an even more significant event in the life of a King is likely to be similarly overlooked by many.
Because today is Ascension Day – the day when Christians traditionally remember how, forty days after his resurrection, Jesus ascended into heaven.
But it’s not just unbelievers who fail to notice that today is Ascension Day – frequently it passes unrecognised by Christians too.
It doesn’t help, of course, that it always falls on a Thursday, with no associated public holiday, but it is nonetheless odd that Ascension day is marked by so few. After all, Jesus himself said to the disciples who loved him so much, that his leaving them would be for their good, [John 16:7] – something which they seemingly understood given how, contrary to what might have been expected, his departure resulted in them returning to Jerusalem with ‘great joy’ [Luke 24:52]
So what is it about Jesus’ ascension that, today, should fill us with great joy too?
Well, simply this. Jesus’ ascension, as well as paving the way for way for the promised Holy Spirit, was not just to heaven. More than that it was to a throne – a throne on which Jesus still sits.
As such, no matter our current circumstances, we can be sure that the one who rules over us now is one who will do so, not only for all eternity [Isaiah 9:7] but with both ‘understanding and knowledge’ too. [Proverbs 28:2]. And he is one to whom we can gladly submit, confident that his rule is characterised by both justice and perfect righteousness.
And if that wasn’t enough to cheer us on our way, Jesus is also now kneeling before the Father, interceding for us as our great high priest. As such, as well as any prayers we may have offered up ourselves, if we are Christians, we can be sure that today Jesus is praying for us too.
Furthermore whilst we may not always know what to pray for, Jesus always does. And though our prayers are frequently weak his are always strong. For if the prayers of a righteous person have great power, [James 5:16], how much more power have the prayers of the perfectly righteous son of God.
In short, the prayers that Jesus prays for us are the most perfect prayers possible.
Therefore, because of Ascension Day, we have in heaven one who is both a King who wisely rules over us and a Priest who lovingly prays for us.
And that, to me at least, is something immensely reassuring and, therefore, something hugely worth remembering, and celebrating , too.
And that, to me at least, is something immensely reassuring and, therefore, something hugely worth remembering, and celebrating , too.
Even on a working Thursday!
Related posts/
To read ‘Was it not necessary that the Christ should suffer these things? Rejoicing, though temporarily sorrowful, on Easter Day’, click here.
To read ‘Why do bad things happen to good people? Sorrowful yet always rejoicing on Good Friday’, click here
To read ‘What becomes of the broken hearted? Sorrowful yet always rejoicing on Palm Sunday’, click here
To read ‘An Advent Calendar – Complete’, click here
Back in my student days, I used to live in the St Paul’s area of Bristol, a part of the city that, back in the 1980’s at least, was not without its problems. Even so, despite living there for the best part of a year and frequently walking the streets close to City Road nor far from where I rented a flat, I was never, unlike my flatmate, offered any illegal substance. Now don’t get me wrong, I would, of course, have declined all kind offers made to me by any business partner of a South American drugs baron, but it would, I think, have been nice to have been asked!
Perhaps it’s because I had an innocent face that I was never considered as someone who was likely to make a habit of consuming poppy based relaxants. And maybe it’s because I still have a look of youthful innocence that my recent visits to the county ground in Taunton to watch championship cricket, have been occasions when those charged with checking my bag for unauthorised items have taken a very relaxed approach to match day security.
Or maybe it’s because there is a tacit acknowledgment that a polite enquiry as to whether ‘Sir’ has anything dodgy in his bag, is more than sufficient to root out ne’er do wells and thus ensure the safety of those already seated comfortably around the boundary edge.
Now whilst it would be nice to think I still have the appearance of one who in his early twenties, in truth I hope it is the latter explanation that is behind the cursory inquiry into what I carried into the ground today.
Because we need to believe that there at least some places where we can go without being concerned for our safety.
And surely there can be few places on earth less perilous to spend one’s day than a venue where four day cricket is being played – a place where the only thing threatened is a players batting average, the only thing that’s risky is running on a misfield, and the only one in danger is the poor soul forced to field at silly point.
T20 games are, however, a little different. Here, where the applause thunders, rather than ripples, around the ground, security is, of course, of paramount importance. And not only because of the, let’s call them scallywags, who sometimes enjoy, a little too enthusiastically the apple based intoxicant so beloved by many in this orchard rich part of the country.
Because then the far greater concern is the risk posed by the likes of my octogenarian mother who once had a small fruit knife confiscated from her as she made her way into the ground. Her protestations that her teeth, still her own but no longer as lethal as they were in former years, necessitated the use of the bladed utensil to help her devour the apple she had brought for her tea, fell on deaf ears. Which was probably just as well as I can personally vouch for the violence she was capable of inflicting with a pair of scissors on any of her sons that she deemed to be in need of a haircut.
But, be all that as it may, today was a day to enjoy the less hazardous surroundings of the CACG, the setting for the second day of Somerset’s game against Essex in the LV County Championship.
Less hazardous that is for all save the Essex batsmen who were all out for 138, the last four wickets falling with only a single run being added to the scoreboard. Some particularly fine bowling from Josh Davey and consistenty excellent wicket keeping from James Rew, resulting in Somerset being set just (?!) 167 runs to win.
To be honest, despite Winviz being 93% confident of a Somerset victory, I was a little anxious as the Somerset innings began, so much so that my blood pressure may have risen a tad, though not, ironically, as much as that which would have resulted from the somewhat irritating scoreboard announcement seeking to educate me about the dangers of undiagnosed hypertension.
But I needn’t have worried as Matt Renshaw and Sean Dixon put on 28 in the first seven overs, twice that of the game’s previous best opening partnership. And by tea the score stood at 45 without loss, the pair having shared the highest partnership of the match thus far.
Soon after tea, Sean Dickson, a player I so want to see do well, brought up the 50 partnership with a four through mid off and then, from the very next ball, hit an imperious six over mid on. Two more boundaries from the bat of Sean Dickson followed and, before you knew it, with the opening pair still at the crease, the runs required for a Somerset victory were less than a hundred.
Renshaw eventually fell, lbw for 35, but with the score now 75 and the in form Tom Lammonby walking to the crease, I remained sufficiently confident of a win such that, even when Dickson fell for a fine 42 from 40 deliveries, I still saw no need to seek out anti-hypertensive medication.
Progress slowed for a while with Lammonby, uncharacteristically out for a 24 ball duck, with the total now on 99, Andy Umeed having scored 16 at roughly a run a ball at the other end. Umeed, looking as comfortable as he had in the first innings, then took the Somerset total past 100 with a finely struck boundary and I was left wondering about the mathematical prowess of the Essex player who shouted ‘half way there lads’ when Somerset had, in fact, knocked of 65% of the required runs whilst losing only 30% of their wickets!
Umeed, comfortably the top scorer in the game, was eventually out for 34 but by now less than 50 runs were required. Miguel Pretorius joined Tom Banton in the middle, the latter, causing hearts to flutter with a mistimed attempt at a reverse sweep before reverting everyone to sinus rhythm once more with two rather more orthodox, and vastly more successful, shots for four.
Pretorius scored just two, and James Rew just six, but when Louis Gregory came out to join Banton, just 15 more runs were needed. If any nerves remained, they were soon calmed when the captain hit two deliveries back past the bowler for four leaving just four more needed when the days allocated overs were completed.
With a result in sight, additional overs were permitted, the first seeing Banton caught in the slips having contributed a crucial 29 runs. That left Craig Overton to join Gregory and hit the winning runs in a game which leaves Somerset, temporarily at least, second in the table.
And so a classic game of championship cricket was over – the Somerset win the icing on the cake of a day which, even without the victory, would still have been a thoroughly enjoyable one.
Such are days, the like of which, we all need more of, not less – which is, I hope, something that won’t go unnoticed by those with influence in the cricketing world.
Other cricket related blogs:
To read ‘Is Cricket Amusing Itself to Death’, click here
Whether you’ve arrived here, by bicycle or car, Whether you are local, or have travelled from afar, The fact remains the same, dear friend, you’ll end up in a pickle, If you don’t stop to chat awhile, and give my dog a tickle!
Now you may be a neighbour, or a postie with a letter, Either way, do as I say, it really would be better, And please take note, all ne’er do wells, with intentions not good, If you ignore his pleading eyes, he’ll wake the neighbourhood!
And if you are a GP, who is visiting the sick, Best bring some sanitiser, for your hands he’s sure to lick, But have no fear, though he’s enclosed, within a garden gated, He’ll not pass on canine disease, he’s fully vaccinated!
This week, MPs backed a plan to ban anyone born after 2009 from ever buying cigarettes, a move that effectively ensures that the proposal will one day become law. Whilst the bill passed comfortably, there were those who opposed it and it’s not hard to understand their motives for doing so.
Because there are, of course, two sides to every argument, and opinions can differ as to what is for the best.
The fact that smoking is both injurious to one’s health and highly addictive is not, however, in question. And equally certain is that there are less unhealthy ways to deal with personal stress than relying on the calming effects that some folk gain from the inhalation of nicotine. And so it is not a denial of the harmful effects of smoking that prompted those who opposed the bill to vote against it, but rather concerns regarding restrictions being placed on an individual’s freedom to act in whatever way they chose.
And this concern is, of course, one that is well worth considering – since it is in fact a concern that is shared by those on both sides of the debate.
Because those who opposed the bill will not unreasonably want to ask those in favour of it whether they would also support a ban on buying alcohol, participating in dangerous pastimes or spending too much time sat watching television when it would be far more healthy to be engaging in some form of exercise.
Similarly, those in favour of the bill will, equally reasonably, want to ask those who want to preserve one’s right to choose whether or not to smoke, if such individuals are equally liberal in wanting people to be free to snort cocaine, participate in satanic rituals involving human sacrifice, or promote methods of how to commit suicide to vulnerable individuals on social media platforms.
It seems then that we all have a line which divides the acceptable from the unacceptable, the only thing that we differ on is where that line should be drawn.
All of us know more or less where we would place it – and that, inevitably, will be where we think the line between right and wrong lies. The problem then becomes that what we consider to be right and wrong will, to a greater or lesser extent, differ from what is thought by each of the other eight billion people currently living on planet Earth.
Having then tacitly acknowledged the existence of right and wrong and, unless we are psychopaths, recognising the need to act accordingly, we need to decide who gets to be the final arbiter of what is and is not acceptable.
For the arrogant amongst us, the answer is that it should be they themselves, those who, confident that they are supreme judge of such matters, would happily enforce their will on others, and, given power to do so, would oppress others as the head of a military dictatorship.
At the other end of the spectrum are those who, unwilling to impose any restrictions on anyone, are effectively endorsing anarchy, with everyone free to do precisely what they want.
A balance then needs to be struck, which is, of course, what democracy seeks to do by way of consensus and thus making decisions on what should and should not be legislated. Which is all very well apart from the fact that, despite the no doubt largely good intentions of those who sit in parliament, they too are flawed. Inevitably then not all their decisions are good ones and the question then that The Proclaimers once sang about then arises, namely, ‘what do you do if minority means you’.
No wonder then that Winston Churchill once said that,
‘democracy is the worst form Government except for all those other forms that have been tried from time to time’
But what if there was such a thing as a benevolent dictator, a leader who, rather than being one who acted solely for their own benefit, ruled instead for the benefit of their people? What if there was one who truly knew the difference between right and wrong and, fully appreciating what was best for those under their authority, legislated accordingly. What if we had a leader whose judgments could be trusted and who could be relied upon to always do what was right?
Well I believe there is such a one – namely the judge of the whole earth who only does what is just. [Genesis 18:25].
Because as well as being the one whose unchanging word is both life giving and strengthening, not to mention illuminating and inspiring, He is also the one whose statutes are trustworthy, a source of hope and ones in which we can take genuine delight [Psalm 119:89, 25,28, 130, 161, 42, 43, 16]. Because not only are his commands good, they are good for us to.
And in addition to all this, He is the one that, when we err, remains merciful and gracious, the one who does not treat us as our sins deserve [Psalm 103:8,10], the one who, because of Christ’s substitutionary death on the cross for us, forgives us for all our foolish law breaking.
And so it is the case that, for me at least, God is the one who, in contrast to both myself and politicians, I am content to put my trust. And in this year of worldwide elections He is the one who has my vote of confidence.
And irrespective of your politics, I would suggest that He warrants your vote of confidence as well.
That cricket and wine have a lot in common is something that is not often appreciated.
But to me at least, the similarities are striking. Because whether we’re talking cricket balls or grapes on the vine, my preference is always for red over white, and both these two pleasures are, to my mind, ones that, rather than being rushed, ought instead to be savoured over time.
Furthermore, just as I know very little about what goes into producing a vintage of distinction and am liable therefore to rely on how much I’m taken by the label before selecting the bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon on which it is attached, so too my choice of cricket team tends to depend on whether or not the players’ shirts have emblazoned upon them, a maroon coloured dragon that identifies as a wyvern!
And, just as every bottle of wine need not be a Romanée-Conti 1945 in order for it to be relished, not every day at the cricket needs to include a sumptuous Tom Lammonby century, or a full bodied ‘fifer’ from Kasey Aldridge, before it can be a day that one can truly delight in.
But whilst it’s been a long, long time since I overindulged on the red stuff, it remains the case that I am not infrequently intoxicated by cricket!
It was Charles Baudelaire (1821 – 1867) who once wrote:
“You have to be always drunk. That’s all there is to it – it’s the only way. So as not to feel the horrible burden of time that breaks your back and bends you to the earth, you have to be continually drunk.
But on what? Wine, poetry or virtue, as you wish. But be drunk”
I know this because, some years ago, a particularly cultured patient of mine who played Jazz professionally and once performed with Acker Bilk, quoted the above to me in the original French! Which you have to admit is pretty cool!
Baudelaire’s poem goes on:
And if sometimes, on the steps of a palace or the green grass of a ditch, in the mournful solitude of your room, you wake again, drunkenness already diminishing or gone, ask the wind, the wave, the star, the bird, the clock, everything that is flying, everything that is groaning, everything that is rolling, everything that is singing, everything that is speaking. . .ask what time it is and wind, wave, star, bird, clock will answer you: “It is time to be drunk! So as not to be the martyred slaves of time, be drunk, be continually drunk! On wine, on poetry or on virtue as you wish.”
I suspect many of us will know what it is to have woken this week, ‘in the mournful solitude’ that comes as a consequence of having had the cold water of world events thrown in our face once more.
Baudelaire suggests to us that to avoid being the ‘martyred slaves of time’ the only way is to be intoxicated by something good that consumes us.
And whilst it is not by a long way the most important thing in my life, comforted as I am by greater truths that continue to endure under even the darkest clouds, cricket is, for me, something with which I like to fill my metaphorical hip flask, before proceeding to sip from it regularly throughout the summer months.
And so it was that I arrived at the county ground in Taunton this morning, giddy with excitement at the prospect of what was my first day of live cricket this year.
In much the same way that a bottle of wine ought to be opened a while before one intends to drink it, I like to arrive at the ground early and walk a few times around the ground, just as one might swirl the contents of a glass before imbibing. And then, just as a connoisseur takes a little time to revel in the wine’s colour and aroma, delaying gratification until, at last taking that much anticipated initial sip, so too, as the players stroll on to the field, I try and take full advantage of those few precious moments before the game finally gets underway, to absorb the sights and sounds that surround me.
Here then is a taste of what I drank in today:
The opening delivery, served up, perhaps, at a temperature slightly below that which might be considered optimal. A satisfying dot ball.
Craig Overton’s removing the Nottinghamshire opening batsmen half way through the opening over. Can a batsmen be decanted back to the pavillion? If so, then that’s what happened to Haseed Hameed – clean bowled for nought.
The opening over at Taunton. Somerset v Nottinghamshire April 19th 2024
Fluffy white clouds, scudding across bright blue skies as they pass behind the tower of St James’ Church.
The background noise of conversation in the well populated James Hildreth Stand as acquaintances are renewed after the long and wet winter break.
Having been generously gifted a season’s membership when I left my previous job last November, the view from the seat that has been designated to me for the T20 games that will be played later in the season – a seat that, coincidentally enough, has the same number as the room in the Hall of Residence in which I spent my first year at university.
James Rew’s jubilant appeal having taken the catch to dismiss Ben Slater off the bowling of Louis Gregory. 49-2.
The enormous white sheet that, draped between the Lord Ian Botham Stand and the pavillion named after the less exalted Colin Atkinson, billows in the wind as it serves as a makeshift sight-screen
Louis G extending his back as the umpire’s finger gives Will Young out lbw. 52-3.
Sean Dickson with his characteristically upturned collar offering precious little protection from the stiff breeze at the ground today.
Craig O racing in from the Marcus Trescothick Pavilion end and, having completed a sharp piece of fielding off his own bowling, lying sprawled headlong between the wickets.
Black trousered and fedora hatted umpires walking slowly to their positions between overs, each in turn relieving the bowlers of their jumpers before reuniting one with the other once more.
The covers, strangely white this year, never once straying from their rightful place – comfortably beyond the boundary edge.
An opportunity to read Brian Carpenter’s excellent tribute to Derek Underwood*, the first, not so slow, left armer I recall watching on TV as a boy.
A black Labrador, not mine, being fussed over by Tom Banton during the lunch break, an encounter that took place only a few yards from Brian the club cat’s summer residence.
Somerset returning to the field after lunch
Shoaib Bashir bowling. He seems every bit as tall as everyone says and certainly too long in the trunk to find a shirt of sufficient length to tuck into his trousers! Even so, after being hit by him for six in his first over, Bash has the last laugh when, he takes the wicket of Clarke. Tom Banton takes the catch and it’s 118-4.
Tractor, back for another season, offering his customary vocal encouragement, alongside that of the players’ themselves.
Watching a few overs whilst standing at the square leg boundary, as Josh Davey and the umpire engage in good humoured conversation between deliveries.
A near faultless performance from a seemingly in form scoreboard!
Matt Renshaw who, judging by the smile on his face, is enjoying his cricket as much as ever. He also finds time to help the individual on the players bench who is struggling to complete a crossword. It seems he not only knows the capital of Egypt, but knows how to spell it too.
Three quick wickets falling, the first off the bowling of Josh Davey and then two more for Craig Overton – all three caught behind the stumps by Rew, Lammonby and Gregory as, with the dismissal of Haynes, Montgomery and Harrison, 139-4 becomes 153-7.
Enjoying the overs before tea from the vantage point of the elevated seating in the Marcus Trescothick Pavilion. It seems I don’t have acrophobia and there is no recurrence of those vertiginous symptoms with which I entered the ground.
The view from the not so giddy heights
Ironic applause at the announcement, just before tea, that all pies and pasties are now selling at half price! An offer which I choose not to take advantage of!
Migael Pretorius getting his first wicket for Somerset at the CACG. Lyndon James lbw for 18. 183-8
Committed fielding by Somerset throughout the day, which is amply rewarded when a direct hit by Lewis Goldsworthy sees Hutton run out for 20 and the score at 185-9.
Rew’s third catch behind the stumps as Pretorious claims Fletcher as his second wicket of the day. And Notts are all out for 193 as tea is taken.
Sean Dickson reaching double figures with a fine square cut that sees the ball speeding across the beautifully green outfield all the way to the boundary.
Successive boundaries from the bat of Matt Renshaw, the first a majestic straight drive, the second an equally impressive shot through the covers.
I linger at the boundary edge for a couple of deliveries hoping for a brace of boundaries to take us past 50 but circumstances dictate that I have to leave the ground with Somerset on a very satisfactory 43 without loss with a good few overs of the day yet to bowl. But it’s been a terrific opening two and a half sessions of my summer of watching Somerset.
The full day of work that awaits me in the morning has enabled me to attend the game today, but it means I’ll not be able to see any play tomorrow. But hopefully I’ll be back again on Sunday afternoon, perhaps with my own black Labrador in tow. And who knows, with a bit of luck Tom Banton will be on hand to give him a tickle!
Addendum:
The day ended with Somerset on 116-1 with Dickson on a particularly pleasing 70 not out. Enough to warm any Somerset supporter’s heart – just as any fine wine would!
*To read Brian Carpenter’s excellent piece, ‘On Derek Underwood’, by clicking here
‘Rather than having always to pick yourself up, it’s better to be carried by somebody strong’
Last week I watched the second series of the excellent BBC Drama, ‘Time’. Whereas the first series followed the inmates of a men’s prison, this second series moves the action to a woman’s prison and seeks to relate something of what it might be like to spend time in such an institution.
It is testimony to both the superb writing by Jimmy McGovern and Helen Black, and the brilliant acting of Jodie Whittaker, Tamara Lawrence and Bella Ramsey, that one is left feeling sympathy for those who find themselves imprisoned. And that sympathy is not confined to those whose crimes seem relatively minor. For as well as those for whom a custodial sentence seems a huge overreaction, you find yourself shedding tears for those who have committed truly awful crimes, crimes that you can’t help feeling that, were your circumstances the same as those who perpetrated them, you too may have found yourself facing a prolonged period of detention for having committed them too.
Furthermore, despite the harsh and sometimes brutal environment, the prison is also shown as a setting where genuine compassion is in evidence. And not only from the kindly prison chaplain and the understanding and supportive prison officer. Real care and concern is also shown by many of the prisoners themselves.
Which is, of course, not all that surprising, for aren’t we all a complex mix of the good and the bad? Aren’t we all capable of performing acts of genuine kindness one minute, only to behave appallingly towards one another the next?
I know I am.
Ultimately then, perhaps more so than the equally excellent series that proceeded it, this second series of ‘Time’ portrays the penal system as not without some merit. And not only because, in a society that we all so long to be just, sometimes crimes really do need to be punished.
For whilst it is acknowledged that prison life can sometimes encourage individuals further into a life of crime, and that more creative ways to deal with bad behaviour than merely incarcerating those who act in such a way, need to be found, the drama also suggests that there is potential for time in prison to be genuinely redemptive, by which I mean that, appropriately supported, individuals can and sometimes do benefit from temporarily having their freedoms denied.
And perhaps it is similarly true for we who, whilst not doing time in jail, nonetheless find that difficult circumstances can sometimes be for our good too.
But what no amount of time in prison can deal with, and what no amount of suffering can resolve, is that all too real sense of guilt that we all inevitably sometimes feel.
And I don’t mean here those inappropriate feelings of guilt that we sometimes experience for things that really weren’t our fault – nor indeed that sense of failure that comes across us when we compare ourselves unfavourably with others who appear to be achieving so much more than we are. On the contrary, such pseudo guilt can generally be dealt with by a decent chat with someone who cares about us, or at the very most, a few sessions with a therapist who can help us think straight about what we are, and what we aren’t, responsible for.
No, what I’m talking about here is real guilt. Real guilt for real wrongdoing, such as was done by one of the characters in ‘Time’. At one point she was asked by the chaplain what she would ask for, were she to be granted a single wish. ‘I’d like to be able to grieve’, she answered, before adding, ‘but how do you grieve the death of a child when you’re the one responsible for it?’
How indeed?
Because grieving is more than simply feeling an appropriate intensity of sorrow, it’s a process one goes through by which one at least partially comes to terms with the cause of one’s tears. It’s a process that enables you to at last begin to make those first tentative steps that mark the beginning of you being able to carry on. And how can you possibly come to terms with what you have done, when what you have done, can never be come to terms with?
Likewise, how can you be forgiven for something that was, no matter the mitigating factors, wholly the result of something you did? And how can you be forgiven, when the one you have hurt is no longer alive to forgive you?
I remember being asked that question by a patient who once consulted me with a huge sense of guilt for her actions towards another. Actions that had irrevocably harmed the person in question such that they ultimately lost their life.
The patient had tried blaming others for what had taken place. She’d tried to rationalise what she’d done as something that, at the time, had been for the best. But neither of these two strategies had worked for her. And this was simply because she knew her actions were objectively wrong and that she was the one on whom the responsibility for her bad behaviour ultimately lay.
So what did I say to this individual who was genuinely guilty, this individual who longed for forgiveness but feared that it would never be hers to experience?
Well I’ll tell you what I didn’t say. I didn’t say that what she’d done wasn’t really all that bad. And I didn’t say that what she’d done was now like so much water under the bridge that it no longer mattered. And neither did I say that it was time now for her to simply forgive herself. Firstly because she knew that, however well-meant such foolish advice might be, the giving of it would fail to resolve the deep seated sense of guilt that she knew it was appropriate for her to feel. And secondly, how can one possibly forgive yourself when you are not the person injured by your actions?
So what than can be said to those whose guilt is real, to those whose guilt is not that whinny manifestation of something that is really no more than a dislike of how their guilt makes them feel? What can be said to those whose guilt is an honest recognition of the seriousness of their actions and which, rather than trying to rationalise it away, accepts the full responsibility for what it is that has been done?
Well there is hope for we who know how this all feels. But the solution is neither to punish ourselves by living a life of perpetual self-loathing. Nor is it to try to chalk up enough good works, in the forlorn hope that our good deeds will ultimately outweigh the wrong that we have done.
Instead then of looking within ourselves, we need to look outside of ourselves – specifically to a green hill far away on which a man was crucified.
For this man was one who willingly suffered and died in the place of guilty sinners. He took the responsibility for all that rightly causes them to feel guilty, bearing their punishment for them, the punishment that justice rightly demands.
And just as it’s better to be carried by somebody strong, than trying always to pick yourself up, it’s better to be forgiven by the one who has the authority to do so, than vainly attempting to forgive yourself.
For those who know what it is to feel guilty, this is good news – the best news possible. And so it is hard to understand why anyone would not want to hear it, especially as the circumstances of Jesus death and subsequent resurrection, far from being just a lovely story, are in fact rooted in history and confirmed as real events by the overwhelming evidence of the empty tomb, credible eyewitness testimony of those who saw Jesus after he was raised from the dead, and the authoritative word of the one who spoke the universe into existent.
Perhaps Christianity is unpopular because it acknowledges that there is such a thing as right and wrong and is offensive enough to say that our guilty feelings are therefore, wholly appropriate. But since guilt is something that, however much we might pretend otherwise, we all still experience, something that, despite our attempts to cover up, deny or make peace with, still leaves us feeling its reality, might not Christianity, with all it’s claims of an objective solution to our objective problem be something worth considering.
Recently I heard of somebody who had no idea that Easter had anything to do with Jesus. Which leaves me wondering if there is a generation or two out there that is made up of those who, if they have rejected Christianity at all, have done so without any real idea of what it is they have rejected.
Which as well as being a terrible indictment on folk like me who have failed to effectively communicate the gospel, is also a tragedy, since many are the guilty who have had to continue to live in shame without ever knowing the joy of having been forgiven.
For which of us wouldn’t want to know the good news that there really is an answer to that gnawing sense of failure, who wouldn’t want to know that even now, there is ‘no condemnation for those who are in Christ’ [Romans 8:1].
And whilst it is true that the effects of the wrong things we’ve done may continue, for ourselves as well as for those we’ve harmed, it remains the case that the one who can deal with our guilt has also promised to deal with the consequences of our misdeeds.
Because as well as promising us forgiveness, God has promised that a day is coming when every tear will be washed away and death will be no more [Revelation 21:4].
There is, therefore, hope – not only for us but also for those who we have hurt so badly.
Christianity claims to be objectively true. Surely then, everyone ought, at least once in their life, objectively consider its claims.
And for those imprisoned by guilt, for those who long to be free, perhaps the time for doing just that is right now!
[‘Time’ is available to view on the BBC iPlayer – and is very well worth a watch]
If, like me, you spent your teenage years listening to 80’s pop music, you may be familiar with these song lyrics.
‘A good heart these days is hard to find, True love, the lasting kind. A good heart these days is hard to find So please be gentle with this heart of mine’
So sang Fergal Sharkey, former lead vocalist of the Undertones in his 1985 solo hit ‘A good heart’. Though they aren’t likely to earn Sharkey the Nobel Prize for Literature, the words are none the less ones we can relate to as don’t we all desire to be loved with a perfect and everlasting love, all the while conscious of the frailties of our own heart? The only problem is, though, that a good heart, one able to love like that, is indeed hard to find.
The problem is not a new one, not one that is unique to ‘these days’. The Bible tells us in no uncertain terms that ‘the heart is deceitful above all things and desperately sick’ [Jeremiah 17:9] so anyone looking for a good heart is going to have their work cut out. And the problem that we face is all the greater for God. We may be fooled by our looking on the outward appearance but God looks on the heart [1 Samuel 16:7] – he sees us as we really are. He has searched us and known us, discerned our thoughts from afar and is aquatinted with all our ways [Psalm 139:1-3]. And his verdict is that ‘none is righteous, no not one’ [Romans 3:10].
A good heart then, really is hard to find.
The problem becomes all the more pressing when we consider Psalm 24. ‘Who shall ascend the hill of the Lord and who shall stand in his holy place?’ asks David, the writer of the Psalm. Who is the one worthy to be the ‘King of Glory’ – to be God’s chosen King. The psalmist answers his own question: ‘He who has clean hands and a pure heart, who does not lift up his soul to what is false and does not swear deceitfully.’
And with these words King David rules himself out of the running for the job. He is not fit to be the King. His hands are not clean. He heart is not pure. Like everybody else, David’s heart was deceitful above all things and desperately sick. His was a heart capable of adultery and murder, something God was all too aware of even as He selected him to be King of Israel in 1 Samuel 16.
A better King than David is therefore needed. Who might that be? Who might God chose? The prophecy of Isaiah gives us a clue when in Chapter 42 we find the first of the so called Servant Songs in which Isaiah speaks of one who was yet to appear on the scene.
‘Behold my servant, whom I uphold, my chosen, in whom my soul delights; I have put my Spirit upon him; he will bring forth justice to the nations. He will not cry aloud or lift up his voice, or make it heard in the street; a bruised reed he will not break, and a faintly burning wick he will not quench; he will faithfully bring forth justice. He will not grow faint or be discouraged till he has established justice in the earth; and the coastlands wait for his law.’
Here then is somebody who is qualified for the role of King of Kings and Lord of Lords. Here is one in whom God truly delights.
Well we know who this is don’t we? This is Jesus, the light of the world, who gave sight to the blind and who set the captives free just as the first of Isaiah’s Servant Songs went on to prophecy. This is Jesus, of whom God spoke at his baptism ‘This is my beloved Son, with whom I am well pleased’
Only Jesus has a good heart – his is the only good heart we will ever find. But, we must ask, will he be gentle with these hearts of ours?
The prophecy of Isaiah tells us that he will since it assures us that ‘a bruised reed he will not break, and a faintly burning wick he will not quench’. Our frail hearts are indeed safe in Jesus’ hands. Our hearts are not good but God loves us nonetheless. He loves us, not because we are lovely, but because he is loving.
‘In this is love, not that we have loved God but that he loved us and sent his son to be the propitiation for our sins’ [1 John 4:10];
‘…but God shows his love for us in that while we were still sinners, Christ died for us.’ [Romans 5:8]
God does not save us because of our good hearts – he saves us so that our hearts might become good.
So what should our hearts be like now? Growing in goodness certainly. Justification, our once and for all being declared righteous by God on account of our sin being dealt with by Christ’s substitutionary death on the cross, together with Christ’s righteousness being counted as ours, is only the beginning. Because what begins with justification continues with sanctification, the gradual and ongoing transformation of our character such that we are transformed into the likeness of Christ, a transformation that will only fully be realised on the day of Jesus’ return.
But there is at least one characteristic that our hearts should display now. In Psalm 51, all too conscious of his adultery with Bathsheba and his having her husband Uriah killed, David asks of God,
‘Wash me thoroughly from my iniquity, and cleanse me from my sin! For I know my transgressions, and my sin is ever before me.’ [Psalm 51:2-3].
David acknowledges his sin and expresses repentance and then, in verse 17, he asserts
‘The sacrifices of God are a broken spirit; a broken and contrite heart, O God, you will not despise.’
Contrition. Perhaps that is what God saw in David when he identified him as the one Samuel should anoint. Perhaps that is what singled David out as a man after God’s own heart. One who humbly acknowledged his weakness and was prepared to plead, ‘Create in me a clean heart, O God, and renew a right spirit within me’ [Psalm 51:10] for ‘God opposes the proud, but gives grace to the humble.’ [James 4:6].
Here then is comfort for the contrite heart. Contrition is the quality that God is looking for our hearts to possess. It is the contrite heart to which salvation comes.
‘For thus says the One who is high and lifted up, who inhabits eternity, whose name is Holy: “I dwell in the high and holy place, and also with him who is of a contrite and lowly spirit, to revive the spirit of the lowly, and to revive the heart of the contrite.’ [Isaiah 57:15]
This is a truth echoed by Jesus in the sermon on the mount
‘Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven. Blessed are those who mourn, for they shall be comforted.’ [Matthew 5:3-4].
A good heart these days is hard to find, but whilst we do not find one in ourselves, we do find one in Jesus. His is a true love of the lasting kind. A good heart these days is hard to find, but Jesus, King Jesus, is one who will be gentle with these contrite hearts of ours.
Recently I have begun watching the new Netflix series ‘One Day’. I’ve not finished it yet but, having read the book on which it is based, I kind of know what happens. It’s receiving good reviews and proving hugely popular, not least, I suspect, amongst those of my own age who, having left university at around the same time as the principal protagonists, can relate particularly well to some of what they experienced back then when mobile phones were a novelty.
The drama revolves around Emma Moreley and Dexter Matthew, their lives being recounted through the events that take place on a single day, July 15th, of each successive year. There is some bad language and some other less than wholesome scenes but despite these I am enjoying it and can easily see why ‘One Day’ is currently among the most watched television shows in the U.K.
It begins in 1988 when the two first meet on their graduation day, a time when their lives are relatively straightforward and their futures seem full of hope and opportunity, a time which those watching can’t help but remember fondly themselves, recalling how their own lives once seemingly stretched out in front of them, similarly full of promise and opportunity.
Furthermore, Em and Dex are hugely likeable and, because of the quality of both the writing and the acting, this remain the case even when their behaviour, perhaps also like our own, is often unpleasant and sometimes obnoxious. Over the years, their lives, like all of ours, become more complex, complicated by circumstances and their own, in some cases, catastrophic mistakes.
But despite all this you’re still left wanting the very best for them, hoping that one day they’ll be as genuinely happy as they hoped they would be when first they met.
Whether the series stays true to the book, for me at least, remains to be seen, but suffice to say that, given the honesty with which the characters are portrayed, it is far from guaranteed that eventually they will live happily ever after.
Because, as Abraham Lincoln once wrote
‘In this sad world of ours, sorrow comes to all; and, to the young, it comes with bitterest agony, because it takes them unawares. The older have learned to ever expect it.’
These may not have been the former US President’s cheeriest words, but I do think that there is some truth in them. Few of us get very far in our lives before problems bring with them a degree of unhappiness.
Even so, our inherent desire for a happy ending remains. And this longing for those we care about to experience joy is not just confined to characters in a fictional TV drama, it extends to those we love in real life too, and, indeed, to we ourselves.
But, as is the case for Em and Dex, real life isn’t always like that. When I worked as a GP, I was all too well aware of the struggles experienced by many of my patients, the sadness felt by those who, in some cases, had suffered for years. And now, working for a missionary organisation, I continue to hear of folk in far off countries whose stories are nothing short of heartbreaking. And just as was the case when I was a doctor, my best efforts now still seem wholly inadequate, unable to ease the very real pain of those who, though I may never actually meet them, are nonetheless people I find myself caring about, people for whom I also want a happy ending.
The problem of suffering, seems then to be ubiquitous. Even so, there is, I believe, a solution.
C.S.Lewis, the one time Oxbridge academic and author of ‘The Chronicles of Narnia’, once wrote of how our longing for something, implies its reality, that though we may not experience it in this life, it remains the case that such a thing must, necessarily, still exist. He said…
‘If we find ourselves with a desire that nothing in this world can satisfy, the most probable explanation is that we were made for another world.’
And so I will keep hoping for that other, better, world, one that I consider I have good cause to believe in. Because if good can come out of a man suffering and dying on a cross, then the suffering I see around me, and sometimes, in some small measure, experience myself, is not necessarily without meaning.
And so I believe that the words written by the apostle Paul some 2000 years ago remain true today, that the sufferings of this present time are light and momentary in comparison to the weight of glory that is being produced for us and will will one day be revealed. As such our suffering isn’t meaningless, on the contrary it’s doing something for us as we look, not to the things that are seen but to things that are unseen. [Romans 8:18, 2 Corinthians 4:17-18]
All of which explains why those dear folk I alluded to earlier, those living thousands of miles away in Ukraine and Far East Russia, are such an inspiration to me. For theirs is a genuine faith, one that does not deny the current darkness but keeps on trusting God despite the ongoing difficulties. Confident that the light one one day dawn, they know that all is well, even when it isn’t, they know that despite their unimaginable hardship, the God of love is no less for them, and whilst, for the time being at least, he may choose not to remove all that currently causes them such distress, they know that one day he will make everything as it should be because that is what he has promised to do.
Because that man who suffered and died on a cross, didn’t stay dead. Three days after dying in our place and atoning for our own catastrophic mistakes, he rose from the grave and thus defeated death. ‘Swallowed up in victory’, death has therefore lost its sting. [1 Corinthians 15:54-55].
And so, though the tears may yet flow, we have a sure and certain hope that the God who raises the dead [2 Corinthians 1:9] will one day resurrect us, a hope that sustains us through even our greatest pain and deepest sorrow as we draw comfort from the promise of Revelation 21:4 that:
One day – there will be no more mourning, no more crying and no more pain. One day – all our tears will be wiped away and One day – death will be no more.
And so we need not fear the future but can look forward instead to living happily ever after, together with God.
With so much that is so wrong with the world, many are understandably wondering how it will all end. As for me, despite all the genuine horror of the war in Ukraine, the terror currently being inflicted in the Middle East and the violence that increasingly exists on our own streets, I remain convinced that, in the end, all will be well.
And considering the future to be that certain, there is, I believe, a sense in which it can be said that all is well now.
Have a read of 2 Kings 4:18-27 – a reading from the Old Testament that tells of a woman whose son has died. I’ve suggested, surprisingly perhaps, to stop reading at verse 27, at a point when the women’s distress remains unresolved. But I do so quite deliberately, because that is where we sometimes find ourselves – with our distress unresolved.
So what can we learn from this passage?
Well a boy has died. Without telling anyone why, his mother sets off to visit Elisha, the man of God. As she does so she tells her puzzled husband, who hasn’t yet learned that his son’s headache has had fatal consequences, that ‘all is well’. [2 Kings 4: 23].
Later when she reaches the home of the man of God and is asked if all is well, asked specifically even, if all is well her son, the woman insists that it is. ‘All is well’, she says [2 Kings 4:26]
What is going on here? How can she say that ‘all is well’ when it so self evidently is not? In her distress has the dead child’s mother lost her mind?
Far from it. In her distress she has done the most rational thing possible. She has turned in faith to God and has continued to believe that the Judge of the whole earth will do what is just. [Genesis 18:25]
Where God is sovereign, all is well, because all is well where God is sovereign.
Or at least it will be.
Weeping may tarry for the night time but joy comes with the morning. [Psalm 30:5] The current distress is real but the prospect of a bright tomorrow is so certain that, no matter how dark the night is, or how far off the day may still seem, we can still say that all is well. With God in control, we can be sure that the sun will eventually rise.
Because God has promised a day when all our tears will be wiped away, a day when death will be no more [Revelation 21:4], there is a sense in which ‘all is well‘ even as our tears continue to flow and daily we are surrounded by death and disease.
When the woman reached the man of God she took hold of his feet. The man of God’s servant tried to push her away, but the man of God was content to let her come to him in her distress. [2 Kings 4:27].
And so it will be for us. No matter the difficulties we currently face, no matter the sadness that daily fills our lives, we can be sure, that God is in control. As the psalmist reminds us, God has promised that if we call upon him in the day of trouble, he will deliver us. [Psalm 50:15].
It’s as certain as that!
Because of the cross our sins are atoned for. Because of the cross we are reconciled to God. Because of the cross nothing can separate us from the love of Christ.
And when I say nothing, like the apostle Paul, I mean nothing. Not tribulation, or distress, or persecution, or famine, or nakedness, or danger, or sword. [Romans 8:35]. Furthermore we can be sure that, for those who love God, and are called according to his purpose, all things work together for good. [Romans 8:28]
Because the Son has risen, we can be sure that God is for us. And if God is for us then ‘all is well’.
Even when it isn’t.
But perhaps you can’t see it.
It is sometimes said that seeing is believing, but for a Christian, this isn’t true. Because for a Christian, it is hearing that is believing. Faith, we are tolad, comes by hearing and hearing by the word of Christ. [Romans 10:17] Faith then is seeing what’s there, when what’s there, isn’t there to be seen, As the writer to the Hebrews says, faith is the assurance of things hoped for, the conviction of things not seen. [Hebrews 11:1].
It takes great faith, therefore, to see the things that are most hidden.
His is often held up as an example of a simple faith but surely the faith of the penitent second thief is a remarkable one.
Here is a man who is about to die the most painful of deaths, somebody who is totally undeserving of salvation. But not only does he still ask to be remembered by Jesus, he does so whilst the one he is asking is hanging on a cross and about to die too. He says:
‘Jesus, remember me when you come into your kingdom’ [Luke 23:42].
Unlike the religious rulers, the Roman soldiers and the other thief who was being crucified that day, the second thief didn’t see Jesus’ death as a sign of defeat. He continued to speak of Jesus as one who was coming into his kingdom. For him, Jesus’ death didn’t mean an end to all the kingdom and salvation talk. In stark contrast to those who mocked Jesus, those who were looking to Jesus for a salvation FROM death, the second thief saw that the salvation Jesus was bringing about was one that was brought about THROUGH death.
He saw that Jesus’ death was not the end of Christ’s kingdom, but rather its beginning.
This is a profound truth – one that we would do well to try and grasp.
Far then from simple, the second thief’s faith was one that was truly remarkable. And we should not be surprised therefore when, as a result, Jesus responds to his request with the words:
‘Truly, I say to you, today you will be with me in paradise’ [Luke 23:43].
Jesus saw in the second thief somebody who got it! Somebody who trusted the power of God despite seeing what, to unspiritual eyes, was nothing but weakness. Somebody who saw victory where most saw only defeat. Somebody who understood the paradox of Good Friday.
That suffering is not irredeemable, That sorrow is not incompatible with joy and That even the darkest night can be followed by the brightest day.
Oh that we would all be granted a faith like that of the penitent thief who was assured of things hoped for and convinced of things not seen. [Hebrews 11.1] Oh that in the sadness of the nighttime we would all be able to look forward to the joy that comes with the morning. [Psalm 30:5] And oh that we would all believe that, irrespective of how things currently seem, God is doing all things well [Mark 7:37] and will surely see to it that the day eventually comes when everything is as it should be.
Because one day, all really will be well,
Related blogs:
To read ‘T.S. Eliot, Jesus and the Paradox of the Christian Life’, click here
To read “Luther and the global pandemic – on becoming a theologian of the cross”, click here
When we talk of love, more often than not we tend to focus our thinking on the one who is being loved rather than on the one who is doing the loving. That is, when we say that somebody is well loved, we tend to be making a comment about how wonderful that person is perceived to be, rather than how wonderful it is that such an individual is shown love in the way that they are by another.
This is largely because we live in a world where love and acceptance have to be earned and, as a result, too many of us feel burdened with a need to promote ourselves in an attempt to be constantly admired by all. Furthermore, feeling that we must be loved by everyone, too many of us find it hard when such universal admiration is not forthcoming, a state of affairs that, as anyone who has seen the excellent film ‘Judy’ will know, can have tragic consequences.
The truth is that, in a world where there are far too many who do not know what it is to be genuinely loved at all, none of us need to be universally adored. Neither are we happier, or healthier, by constantly having to strive for the love of those we need to constantly persuade that we are worthy of receiving it.
We, or at least I, need to learn that, rather than being admired by strangers on account of my striving to be somebody I’m not, it is better to be loved by somebody who knows who I really am and who continues to love me just the same. Though the former may have some temporary appeal, the constant demand to perform beyond my capabilities will eventually be my downfall.
This is in contrast to those who, knowing what it is to be loved unconditionally, experience the security out of which they can grow to become a little better than they might otherwise have been.
For me at least, getting this wrong and continuing along the road of expressive individualism, portraying myself as more important than I actually am, gets in the way of anything that is genuinely worthy. In particular it gets in the way of the unconditional love that I suspect I am not alone in longing for.
Contrary then to how the world sees things, to truly be loved speaks more about the merits of the one who loves, rather than the merits of the one who is loved. Expending too much energy on trying to make ourselves worthy of love results in us, not only being left with the burden of constantly striving to remain loveable, but also deprives us of the joy of knowing true love and acceptance because a love that is conditional on performance is not real love at all.
For us to be truly loved, therefore, we need someone who is truly loving, one who will enable us to become more lovely as a result of their love for us.
We do not improve by being constantly criticised for what we fail to achieve, and having acceptance denied until we perform better is not the basis of a good relationship. On the contrary, ultimately we are paralysed by such pressure to be perfect , crushed under a fear of failure. Genuine progress comes only as a result of the motivation that flows out of being accepted – only then are we free to flourish, only then can we truly grow into the human beings we all so long to be.
We, and those with whom we live alongside, need to be kinder to one another, acknowledging our humanness. We need to stop insisting that we must be more than we actually are. In short, we all need to be a lot more loving, if we are all going to be a lot more loved.
But whilst we can all strive to be more loving, it is, of course, easier said than done since, just as it is hard for others to love us when we sometimes let them down, so too is it hard for us to love those who sometimes let us down. I’m not sure that any of us are up to the task of giving unconditional love – I know for sure, that I am not.
If then we can not find such a love in ourselves, where might we find it? 1 Corinthians 13, a passage frequently read at weddings, gives us some pointers:
‘Love is patient and kind; love does not envy or boast; it is not arrogant or rude. It does not insist on its own way; it is not irritable or resentful; it does not rejoice at wrongdoing, but rejoices with the truth. Love bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things.’ [1 Corinthians 13:4-7]
True love, then, is patient towards those whose behaviour requires patience to be shown and is kind towards those who do not deserve kindness. Love bears what is uncomfortable to carry, hopes for what is not currently present, and endures what has to be endured.
It even endures the cross. [Hebrews 12:2]
As somebody who is far from perfect, this is the kind of love I need. I believe that God loves me, not because I am lovely but rather because he is loving. I believe the glorious truth that, in Christ, I am accepted by God and, as a result of the indwelling Holy Spirit, consider that there is hope that I might yet become the person that I am called to be, someone who is a lot more like Jesus than I currently am. Only then will I be fully able to love as God loves.
Because, whilst it is true that we all, created as we are in the image of God, have some capacity to love as God does, I, on account of my fallen nature, am not able to love as fully as I ought. My selfishness and pride invariably creep in and spoil anything of merit that I may achieve. I am grateful, therefore, to be married to a wife who graciously puts up with me the way she does.
I believe that, just as a good Father is pleased with his child’s efforts to please him, so God also delights in my efforts to try to please him. Furthermore, as that good father I consider him to be, I believe he withholds none of his love when my efforts fall short of the mark.
Even so, I also believe that I ought to be more loving than I am.
But if I am to have a perfect love for anyone else, a love that is not in the least dependent on the merits of the one I show love towards, a love that bears, hopes and endures as God has had to bear, hope and endure with me, then it will require that love to originate from outside of myself. It will need to originate from the source of all love, from God, for it is God himself who is love. [1 John 4:16].
Because, as the scriptures remind us, ‘In this is love, not that we have loved God but that he loved us and sent his Son to be the propitiation for our sins.’ [1 John 4:10-11]. That is, Christ died for me, not because of my merits but because of my need, not because of his obligation but because of his kindness. Only by understanding this and realising my dependence on the one who was perfect for me, and who died in my place for my imperfections, can I hope to show genuine love towards others.
Even so, I ought to love, because, as the scriptures go on to say, ‘beloved, if God so loved us, we also ought to love one another’. [1 John 4:10-11]. Not in order that I might be loved, but rather on account of my being loved already. This is, of course, something that I sadly still fail to do the way I should but, even so the promise remains, there in Philippians 1:6, ‘that he who began a good work in [me] will bring it to completion at the day of Jesus Christ’.
How then can we love others more? By first resting in the love that God has shown to us. Just as those who realise how much God has forgiven them, know what it is to love him more, [Luke 7:47], so too those who begin to realise the depths to which God has loved them, can begin to know what it is to love others, not on account of their merits, but on account of their need, a need we all share, for unconditional love.
So I am grateful therefore that God’s love is patient and kind, that his love does not envy or boast. I am thankful that his love bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, and endures all things.
And above all, I am thankful that God’s love never ends. [1 Corinthians 13:8].
To read, ‘Professor Ian Aird – a time to die?’ and the possible tragic consequences of a constant need to achieve, click here
To read some reflections on the film ‘Judy’ on the dangers of constantly staving for love, click here
Last weekend I became a granddad for a second time. I won’t pretend there weren’t anxious moments on the way and yes, sleep was lost as we waited for the news to finally come through. Even so, the wait was most certainly worth it – Eliza Ann is a beautiful baby girl. Born weighing a healthy 8lbs and 11oz, she has already enjoyed a good night sleep in the crib that five generations of my family have slept in before her. As well as my grandmother and mother, the 26 others who have slept in that crib includes my own children, my other grandchild, and, indeed, myself.
In the coming months though my granddaughter will grow bigger and soon she will have to leave the crib to the next member of the family who, even now, is being knitted together in her mother’s womb. [Psalm 139:13]. But still, Eliza will need to sleep. My hope for her is that she will always know what it is to sleep well, but of course there are likely to be times when life for her will make that difficult. And when it does, I pray that she might find Psalm 3 as helpful as her Grandad does. It goes like this.
O LORD, how many are my foes! Many are rising against me; many are saying of my soul, “There is no salvation for him in God.” But you, O LORD, are a shield about me, my glory, and the lifter of my head. I cried aloud to the LORD, and he answered me from his holy hill. I lay down and slept; I woke again, for the LORD sustained me. I will not be afraid of many thousands of people who have set themselves against me all around. Arise, O LORD! Save me, O my God! For you strike all my enemies on the cheek; you break the teeth of the wicked. Salvation belongs to the LORD; your blessing be on your people!
It’s common for those who are anxious, or under stress to find it difficult to get a good night’s sleep, so it’s no surprise that some of us find it sometimes difficult to awake refreshed after a full eight hours. After all, life is sometimes difficult, there are times when we all are unsettled by things that are changing around us, and we are uncertain of what the future might hold. And there are those who tonight will even fear for their lives as missiles threaten to take their life before morning comes. For some the nights have indeed been long.
In Psalm 3, David is under stress. His son Absalom has led an uprising against him and has even plotted to have him killed. David has had to flee and, as he has done so, he has had to listen to the taunts of those who oppose him, taunts which suggest that God is no longer for him. David however knows better. He knows God is his shield, the lifter of his head. Knowing that God will protect him and knowing he will not be put to shame, David therefore cries out to God.
And God answers.
And as a result, despite all his difficulties, David can sleep – knowing that it is God who sustains him as he does so.
Because of the protection he is confident God will give, David will not fear his enemies. He doesn’t doubt that God will deal with them, that he will both shame them and disarm them. As such, David knows salvation belongs to the Lord.
And so it is with us. Daily we face difficulties. We may feel overwhelmed by them and struggle as others look on and question how we can still trust in a God who, from their point of view, seems to have abandoned us. But we know different. Because, as we too cry out to God, he answers us in the promises he has made, the promises we find in the Bible. And so, with the shield of faith, we can extinguish all the flaming darts of the evil one [Ephesians 6:16].
Because the truth is that, no matter what our circumstances might be, God is for us. And ‘if God is for us, who can be against us? He who did not spare his own Son but gave him up for us all, how will he not also, with him, graciously give us all things?’ [Romans 8:31-32]
So then, we can be absolutely confident ‘that neither death nor life, nor angels nor rulers, nor things present nor things to come, nor powers, nor height nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus our Lord. [Romans 8:38-39]
Knowing these things will help us, like David, to sleep at night. Like him, we can be sure that God will sustain us too.
But whilst Psalm 3 is a ‘Psalm of David’, written ‘when he fled from Absalom his son’, it is, at the same time, a psalm about another, greater, king.
Like David, King Jesus was rejected by his own people and was taunted by those who saw him as one who was beyond salvation. As Jesus hung on the cross, he was derided by those who passed by ‘wagging their heads and saying, “Aha! You who would destroy the temple and rebuild it in three days, save yourself, and come down from the cross!” [Mark 15:29-30].
Unlike David however, Jesus was not spared death – even so, death could not hold him. Though he laid down and died, God did not let his ‘holy one see corruption’ [Psalm 16:10]. God sustained Jesus too – even in death. And on the third day he rose again.
And the same will be true for us.
Because whilst we will all one day die, as the verses above remind us, it remains the case that not even death can separate us from the love of God. On occasions in the New Testament Jesus describes those who are dead as merely sleeping. And no wonder. For when we do die, we can be confident that it will be no more difficult for Jesus to raise us as it would be for him to wake us from sleep. And so, just as he did with the dead daughter of the ruler in Matthew 9, he will take our hand or, perhaps, just as he did with the four days dead Lazarus of John 11, he will call our name. And when he does, we too will be raised.
God will sustain us, even in death.
And so, just as he did with David’s enemy, God has shamed and disarmed our enemies – the last enemy needing to be destroyed being death itself. [1 Corinthians 15:26]. And because of the cross, ‘death has been swallowed up in victory’ [1 Corinthians 15:54]. We who were dead in our sin, God has made alive. He has forgiven us all our trespasses, cancelling the record of debt that stood against us, setting it aside by nailing it to the cross.
Jesus’s death paid the penalty for our sins and, in so doing, God disarmed the rulers and authorities, triumphing over them and putting them to open shame, [Colossians 2:13-15]. With sin dealt with, death then has lost its sting. It has been disarmed and rendered utterly powerless. Now and forever.
This is good news indeed.
For reasons I won’t go into, we did not hear of the birth of our new grandchild for several hours after she was actually born. Though she was delivered just before midnight on Saturday evening, we did not know of her arrival until a little after six on the Sunday morning. And I was reminded once again that good news is only truly good once it is told, that what is true can only be rejoiced over, once it’s been made known.
Which is why I sometimes write as I do. Because the good news of Jesus’ victory over sin and death needs to be spoken about if others are to know the joy that comes from receiving it.
For those who do, they is every reason to sleep soundly at night – irrespective of their circumstances. Because the God who keeps them safe is one who neither slumbers nor sleeps [Psalm 121:2-3]. And when at last their time comes to die, they will be able to ‘rest in peace’ as those who ‘rely, not on [themselves], but on the God who raises the dead’. [2 Corinthians 1:9].
Because salvation really does belong to the LORD, and his blessing really is on his people.
And so I hope that it’s not just little Eliza that will sleep like a baby tonight. Rather it is my earnest hope that all who read this might know what it is to sleep well too.
Sweet dreams!
To read ‘We went to the animal fair – the diary of a novice grandparent’, click here
This week I’ve been watching ‘Mr Bates vs The Post Office’.
I don’t suppose there are many reading this who are unaware of what this superb ITV drama is all about but, for those who have not seen it, or the headlines that it has created, it charts the story of hundreds of honest sub-postmasters and mistresses who, due to errors in a computer system, were accused by the Post Office of false accounting and theft. Many were financially ruined, some received criminal convictions and others, despite their complete innocence, were served custodial sentences and thus spent time in prison.
Furthermore, they were all lied to by the Post Office who repeatedly told them that nobody else was reporting any difficulties with the computerised system that had, in fact, been the cause of all their problems. Each and every one was told, ‘You’re the only one.’
It is an account of a catastrophic miscarriage of justice made all the more tragic by the fact that some of those who were so publicly humiliated took their own lives.
As well as a being a reminder of the dangers of our being over reliant on technology, several other themes emerge over the four part series. Given that we live in a country where even the most trustworthy people can be falsely convicted, the first is simply that sometimes there really is smoke without fire. A second is that the truth is the truth, however many lies are told by those who seek to conceal it. And a third is that justice is important, and worth fighting for, irrespective of long the battle for it to be won might be.
But perhaps the most important thing that we need to recognise having watched this important television drama, is that irrespective of how impossible life might be for us, we are never the only one who is finding it difficult.
Even when, we very much feel that we are.
Because when we feel we’re totally inadequate, when we feel overwhelmingly sad, and when we feel that life is all too much – it helps to know that we’re not the only one.
Of course, recognising that there are others who are struggling just as we are won’t, in and of itself, make our problems disappear. But knowing that there are others like us, it might help us to stop imagining that all our problems are down to we ourselves having some unique inability to cope. And if we do, we might then be able to stop blaming ourselves for being unable to bear the unbearable.
Because, no matter how often you’ve been told the opposite, the truth is that none of us are awesome. And the reason you don’t currently feel that you are awesome, is simply because we’re all more average than some people like to insist that we are.
Furthermore, we all of us need an Alan Bates in our life, someone who can come to our rescue, not only by being awesome for us, but by bringing us quietly ordinary folk together in order that, together, we can be quietly, and contentedly, ordinary.
The problem of course is that for this to have any chance of actually happening, more of us are going to have to stop pretending that we are anything other than ordinary ourselves. Which in a world that encourages us to boast of all that we can do, will not be easy. Living contrary to cultural norms never is.
Even so, it will be worth it.
Firstly we will we be able to at last lay down the burden of always having to be awesome, one that is far too heavy for any of us to bear. And secondly, rather than having to always go it alone, we will know the joy that comes from not being too proud to receive the help of someone else.
And who knows, by acknowledging our weakness, we may find ourselves strong enough to expose the lies of those who, imagining themselves to be strong, cannot see just how weak they really are. Furthermore, in so doing, we might even help them to joyfully accept their own inherent weakness too.
Related posts:
To read ‘Machines – enough to drive you berserk’, click here
It was perhaps inevitable that I’d hear them said whilst watching the ‘The Repair Shop’ this week. The two little words were spoken by a lady who had just had returned to her what once had seemed an irreparable clay poppy, one that was, for her, a precious reminder of her now deceased dad. It had been handed back to her by ceramics expert Kirsten Ramsey who had somehow managed to make it as good as new once more.
Expressed so genuinely, I was struck by just how significant, how beautiful even, a ‘thank you’ can be.
For the person saying those words, it is an appreciation of the help that has been received, a humble acknowledgement of the need of others, a recognition that in this life we can not make it through alone.
And to the one to whom it is said, it is a confirmation that the assistance given was all they hoped it would be, it completes the joy that is inherent in aiding others, a reassurance that all that had been hoped for has finally been achieved.
But here’s the thing, genuine acts of kindness don’t indebt the one to whom that kindness was shown. For if it did it would not have been an act of kindness at all. Kirsten Ramsey is not now sat at her workbench waiting to be repaid, like some curmudgeonly relative who at Christmas, not having received a thank you letter by Boxing Day afternoon, is all affronted for not being lauded in the way they had expected for the oh so generous gift of a pair of black socks. Not at all, Kirsten Ramsey is, I’m sure, thrilled to have been able to help, the delight on the face of the one she was able to assist, reward enough for her endeavours.
And what is true on the horizontal plane is, I believe, true in the vertical direction too. What is true between we who live and breath on earth is equally true between we and the one one dwells above.
Helpless in the face of our wrongdoing, we need someone to come to our rescue, to repair a broken relationship that we can do nothing about. And recognising the restoration that has been brought about through the death of Jesus on our behalf, we too express our heartfelt appreciation, a ‘thank you’ that, though not demanded is, nonetheless, delighted in.
Because Jesus’ dying in a cross for us does not create a debt – it pays one. The one that we could never pay, so great is our wrongdoing.
So, like the owner of that now repaired clay poppy who has, no doubt, spoken to many of her acquaintances of Kirsten’s amazing restoration, our gratitude to God will similarly overflow in our excitedly telling others of all that he has done.
It is not Jesus then, who needs our praise, it is we who need to express it. For Jesus delights in our salvation and it was for the joy that was set before him that Jesus endured the cross. [Hebrews 12:2].
And we delight to praise Him, for in so doing is the pinnacle of our joy.
As C.S. Lewis once said:
‘I think we delight to praise what we enjoy because the praise not merely expresses but completes the enjoyment; it is its appointed consummation.’
Other ‘The Repair Shop’ related posts:
To read ‘The Repair Shop at the end of the year’, click here
A dog, as we all know, is for life, not just for an August Bank Holiday Monday when no county cricket is being played. Even so, finding myself with a Monday without gainful employment I took the opportunity afforded me to pick up our new puppy.
Meet Hector!
Here are some things you need to know about Hector.
1. The son of King Priam and Queen Hecuba, he was, apparently, the least annoying of all Greek heroes and the greatest of all the Trojan warriors. He was eventually killed by Achilles. In Greek mythology he was famous for wearing a particular sturdy helmet, so he shouldn’t be fazed by any short pitched bowling should Somerset, or any other team significantly depleted by The Hundred, ever come calling.
Butter wouldn’t melt…
2. His middle name is ‘Watching the gathering crowds’ – a reference to Debden Jubilee, the erstwhile news reporter from ‘On The Hour’, that wonderful radio comedy of the early 1990s. Though the moniker is, perhaps, a bit of a mouthful, it is still considerably shorter than that of our last dog, Barney, whose middle name was ‘Don’t drive that Rhino up a tree, it’s fallen death will shame your people’. Chris Morris, Steve Coogan and Armando Iannucci have a lot to answer for!
It may be a flowerbed, but that’s no flower asleep in it!
3. He’s the third dog that we’ve owned since getting married, and he thus fulfils the promise strangely omitted from our marriage vows that stated that we would have a dog for every child that was born to us. Our son, the youngest of our three children is now 25, so it’s taken a bit of time to make good on that particular pledge!
In the correct bed – well very nearly!
4. 14 months on from when we said ‘a farewell to Barns’, Hector has very big paws to fill – even so, as the newest member of our family, we think he’ll be every bit as lovely.
The always smiling Barney.
August 29th
So far Hector has settled in extremely well. True he needs to be reminded not to help when it comes to picking the flowers in the garden, and does, when excited, have the occasional accident – but hey isn’t that true for all of us as we get a little older!
He has also been the much needed incentive to kickstart the decluttering of our home given how adept he is at commandeering sundry items that we’ve left lying on the floor – items that he finds strangely more effective than the toys we’ve specifically bought him, at some considerable expense, to cope with his teething issues.
I’ve heard of read, learn and inwardly digest, but this is taking things too far!
For all that though he’s a happy, playful soul who is great company and a joy to have around.
Another ‘jolly old Hector’ – this one from the children’s TV series of the 1960s ‘Hector’s House’ though I recently discovered that the original was in French and called ‘La Maison de Toutou’
August 30th
I shall enjoy taking him to watch Somerset play. Sadly he won’t be fully vaccinated in time for their final game of the season against Kent next month – but, having already mastered the rudiments of the game, at least he’ll be able to watch the match via the livestream on YouTube!
Already expressing a preference for red ball cricket!
August 31st
Strange things have been taking place in the town where I live. Crime has plummeted this past week with reports coming in that a caped vigilante has been seen patrolling the mean streets of Wellington throughout the hours of darkness. Furthermore, contrary to our expectations, our sleep has NOT been disturbed by the sound of a puppy crying because he has been left alone in the kitchen overnight. It’s like he’s not even there.
Coincidence? I think not.
By day, the mild mannered Hector, by night… Batdog™ !
Hanging upside down – as every good Batdog™ should!
September 2nd
The problem with black Labradors is that they don’t show up terribly well in the dark. That’s why we’ve supplied Hector with these rather natty occular accoutrements. Not only can we now see him at reduced lighting levels but he’s also in with a chance of winning ‘The dog with the most appealing eyes’.
September 3rd
And then, looking down at the sinister creature that she had once again been forced to drag from the very much out of bounds settee, Little Red Riding Hood said:
‘Oh what wild staring eyes you have Hector!’
‘All the better to strike fear into the hearts of those upon whom I fix my gaze, my dear’
‘Oh what inky black fur you have Hector!
‘All the better for lurking in the shadows, my nefarious deeds to pursue unnoticed, my dear’
‘And oh what tiny sharp teeth you have Hector!’
‘All the better to rip the flesh from your invitingly exposed upper limbs, my dear’.
Little Red Riding Hood paused a moment to reappraise her feelings on the issue of canine couch convention and then, having plumped up the two soft cushions of the aforementioned three seated sofa, proceeded to invite the hound to make himself comfortable.
And that, she knew, as she curled up in the long since abandoned dog basket in the corner of the room, was the beginning of…
THE END.
September 4th
He said he wouldn’t steal a piece of fake coal from the fireplace.
He lied!
September 17th
Three o’clock in the morning and it looks like it’s going to be another sleepless night – so some advice please…
I have recently taken on a new patient whose behaviour is proving something of a problem.
The underlying issue is simply one of nocturia but it is the impact that this is having on the rest of his family that is the principle cause for concern.
Though far from being an elderly patient, the individual in question is insisting on drawing attention to his nocturnal need to micturate by waking the whole household in the wee small hours – pun absolutely intended – and then insisting he be accompanied outside, this being his preferred place for answering his seemingly pressing call of nature. Furthermore, if ignored, he has taken to urinating in the corner of his bedroom and refusing to clear up after him when daylight eventually comes.
So my question is: should I
a) insist that the members of his family put up with disturbed sleep and the associated daytime somnolence until such time as the patient sees the error of his ways and starts acting more responsibly,
b) ask the district nursing team to catheterise the individual and live with the risk of the patient using his bare teeth to shred the urethral appliance to pieces in a manner similar to the technique he has employed with other plasticised items in recent weeks,
c) refer to the CMHT with a view to them employing a cognitive-behavioural approach in which, given his predilection for chicken flavoured comestibles, some form of poultry based reward is offered him when the shenanigans described above are absent,
or
d) attempt to overcome the patient’s refusal to swallow tablets and covertly administer an alpha blocker by secreting it in his evening meal. If so, does anyone know where I can find a dosage regime for the use of tamsulosin in juvenile delinquents of this type?
September 20th
What with work and life getting in the way, I’ve not seen much county championship cricket this season so I was looking forward to spending my day off watching Somerset v Kent.
But with the weather forecast for Taunton being what it was I decided instead to stay at home and spend the time explaining to Hector the intricacies of how you can be out LBW? After all, he seemed keen to learn, not least because he’d be vulnerable to a ball pitching in the ‘ruff’!
Furthermore, given that he still lacks full understanding of the command ‘Wait’, I suspect he may be liable to getting himself run out.
Even more concerning though is his long tail – something else which could one day also prove a problem!
September 22nd
Today I told Hector of Tom Lammonby’s century yesterday for Somerset. Given his response it seems likely he’ll be asking I buy him club membership next year.
But he is a little apprehensive about the current prospects for play…
September 24th
Last night we watched ‘A Quiet Place 2’. For those unfamiliar with the film’s premise it involves ferocious alien creatures who cannot see you but are liable to rip you to shreds if they hear you.
As I tiptoed silently across the landing last night I reflected on how life sometimes mirrors art!
Yes, Hector does still has those very sharp puppy teeth!
September 27th
Still, for the time being at least, a frontline healthcare worker, today I had my Covid booster. But it wasn’t just me who was jabbed this morning as Hector was due a vaccination too.
But whereas the vet plied her patient with tasty liver paste and various other canine treats, all I got from the person sticking a needle in me was her reassurance that I didn’t yet look 65, something which, given I’m a good few years off that particular landmark, I would like to think was obvious!
That a dog should be shown such favouritism doesn’t seem right to me but at least I came away with a sharps box which should enable the safe disposal of Hector’s baby teeth when they at last start falling out!
October 3rd
With tomorrow being the first day he’s allowed out, Hector has spent the day planning where he’d like to go for his first walk.
Sadly though, since he’s only allowed short excursions for a while, I’m going to have to tell him that his choice of a 10 mile hike taking in the Steart Marshes and Bridgwater Bay will have to wait ‘till he’s older.
October 4th
When in life you’re faced with a dilemma and you don’t know quite what course to take, do as I do and ask yourself this simple question:
WWHD – What would Hector do?
The answer will invariably be ‘Chew it’!
Hector would however like it to be known that he was absolutely NOT scared of the hoover this morning, it’s just that sometimes he likes being under the kitchen table.
He did enjoy his first walk up the field though.
October 5th
Hector enjoyed his interpretive dance class today. Asked by his instructor to convey the confining nature of the womb, he made imaginative use of his legs to represent the three blood vessels of the umbilical chord.
6th October
Next up in The Repair Shop is a man who has travelled up from Somerset with a rather ropey looking duck toy that has been in his family for literally minutes.
But it has now seen better days due to the way its been treated by the most recent arrival in his household.
‘It’ll take a lot of work to restore it’ says Jay Blades eyeing the item in a concerned fashion, ‘and frankly I’m not sure it’s worth the effort. If, that is, you’re going to keep the dog?’
The Somerset man indicates his understanding before sloping sadly away muttering as he does so something about how a dog is for life, and not just for September.
It seems that some jobs are too big for even a dream team of master craftspeople.
October 11th
At puppy training this week Hector learned the difference between ‘Wait’ and ‘Leave’.
‘Wait’ is the command given for something he can have after a short delay, whilst leave is the command for something he can never have.
So, for example, he should ‘wait’ for a treat but ‘leave’ a friends very expensive leather bag.
Pity he didn’t learn that a day earlier!
October 25th
The dogtor will see you now!
We were delighted to have Hector locuming for us today at East Quay Medical Centre and proving that Dr Phil Hammond was right when he said that for 90% of symptoms you’re better off with a dog than a doctor. He further pointed out that, as well as being an antidote to loneliness and a great incentive to exercise, our canine friends are always willing to give encouraging licks – something which most GPs are reluctant to do!
And as well as providing excellent care, Hector’s fee for the day, consisting as it did of just a handful of treats and a copious number of tickles, was highly competitive when compared against the going rate.
My only criticism would be that he did, perhaps, order too many Lab tests!
November 5th
Today I watch Planet Earth 3 and I am now looking forward to David Attenborough narrating an episode on this strange creature whose diet today has consisted of the sofa, earth from the garden and a Welsh cake. Carry on like that and he may well find himself on the endangered list!
I wouldn’t mind but he’s not even Welsh!
November 15th
Recently our back door has taken on a strange brown colour and we haven’t for the life of us been able to work out what might have caused it. Today though I think I might have caught the culprit…not red handed perhaps, but certainly muddy pawed!
November 21st
Whilst walking Hector in ‘The Peaks’, the rain it pitter-pattered, But to our canny canine friend, in truth it hardly mattered, For though a stream he’d not ‘ere seen, he showed no hesitation, And so got wet without the need of cloud precipitation.
Along the sodden paths he sniffed, his tail he held up high, And when the mud we bid him ‘Leave’, he could not fathom why, ‘Cos self respecting Labradors, will of their own volition, Stop to devour, all they see fit, for speedy deglutition*!
*Apologies for the use of the fancy medical term for swallowing but old habits die hard and it was kind of necessary for the rhyme to work. I will try to be less magniloquent in future!
November 22nd
‘I spy, with my little eye, something beginning with S’, said Hector, demonstrating to everyone how good he now is at spelling. But his direction of gaze did somewhat give the game away!
November 23rd
Disappointed by suggestions that his spelling ability was imagined rather than real, Hector challenged me today to a game of Scrabble. He won of course – establishing an unassailable lead with an impressive opening score of 106, I never stood a chance!
November 25th
Pausing to avail myself of the flask of hot coffee with which I’d had the good sense to set out this morning, Hector took the opportunity to seat himself on a rocky ledge positioned a little higher than the patch of grass where I myself had chosen to take my ease.
Exaggerating the degree of fortification that his present surroundings provided, he then announced himself to be the ‘King of the Castle’, before having the temerity to add that he considered me to be a ‘rascal’, and a not particularly clean one at that. All this despite the fact that it was he, not I, who had spent much of our ramble consuming what most would consider unfit for canine, let alone human, consumption.
‘A rapscallion I may be’, I countered, ‘but at least I don’t eat the egested material of a hundred hillside herbivores’. The pleasure afforded me by my alliterative put down lasted only a moment however, as, adopting a supercilious air, he fixed me with his deep dark eyes and suggested that now might be a good time for me to polish his crown.
Chastened, I rummaged through my rucksack and pulled out the tin of Brasso that I always carry with for just such an occurrence as this. And so, dutifully submitting to the task in hand, I became the ever so humble servant of King Hector the Halitotic.
November 28th
Family birthday today – good to have extra help with the unwrapping!
December 4th
Can anyone translate – I’m not quite sure what he’s trying to say but it might have something to do with his having been taken out in the pouring rain. For anyone who can speak Labrador, I apologise for any bad language that this clip might contain!
December 6th
Once a Prime Minister has completed their first 100 days in office, it is not unusual for political commentators to review what that new premier has achieved in that time.
Well today marks the 100th day since Hector darkened our doors with his jet black fur. And so I thought that I’d reflect a little on what he has managed to achieved since joining us.
So far he has:
Destroyed a significant proportion of the plant life in our garden and left an unsightly hole in the already dismal looking lawn.
Devoured two and half very large sacks of puppy food and produced a seemingly greater amount of material that has had to be deposited in the conveniently positioned red bin situated at the end of our road
Disturbed over 90% of our nights with his nocturnal requests to have just one more moonlit stroll around the now barren flower beds.
Driven us to ever higher degrees of vigilance in a vain attempt to avoid a repeat of those occasions when he chewed up an unguarded paperback book or the straps of a dear friend’s rather expensive leather bag.
Covered the kitchen floor with his muddy paw prints such that our constant cleaning seems more futile than that of Sisyphus and his oversized boulder which, had he been there to ‘help’ Hector would probably have crunched into a thousand tiny pieces before leaving them strewn across the King of Ephyra’s courtyard.
Lain awkwardly across his bed in such a way that, with his airway partially obstructed, he snores so loudly and so persistently through the most tense moments of TV dramas that we can barely follow what’s going on.
And that’s just about it really – other than one last thing that he’s managed to do, namely to so endear himself to us that we wouldn’t want to ever be without him.
Which, when you think about it, is really rather odd!
December 11th
Dear Canine Behavioural Psychotherapist,
Judging by the holes that he has started digging in our back garden, my black Labrador puppy appears to believe himself to be part of the Leporidae family.
Should I
a) start feeding him carrots and have him vaccinated against myxomatosis
b) send him off to the circus in the hope that he can make a living in a freak show as the world’s only Rabbit Dog, or
c) concrete over the lawn and accept the fact that I was never going to win anything at the Chelsea flower show anyway.
Yours ever so sincerely but perhaps now just the teensiest bit exasperated…
December 12th
Dear Canine Behavioural Psychotherapist,
I’m sorry to bother you again but since our last communication, my allegedly intelligent black Labrador puppy seems to have taken, a little too literally, my assertion yesterday that he didn’t have a leg to stand on for his injudicious digging up of our back garden.
I say this as it would appear that he has now resolved, in his all too tiny mind, to try and eat his way through his own hindquarters. Having not come across such autocannabalistic endeavours before, I was wondering, should I:
a) allow him to continue unabated and reduce his daily food allowance accordingly,
b) check Amazon for a suitable prosthesis and, given his obvious enthusiasm for the task in hand, hope that it is available for next day delivery or
c) dig out my sons long discarded skateboard with a view to it forming the basis of a device upon which, when the inevitable happens, he can propel himself using only the power of his inherent determination to always move in the direction of food irrespective of how putrid the imagined tasty morsel might be?
Thank you in anticipation of having to correspond with you yet again in the not too far distant future.
Yours ever so sincerely…
December 16th
‘Sanctuary’ – for the dog who rolls in fox poo.
December 21st
Hector gets ready for his staring role in the local Nativity Play.
December 24th
‘Twas the night before Christmas and, at 4pm, when it had only just got dark, Hector got himself ready for bed evidently looking forward to what his stocking would contain in the morning!
He wasn’t, however, very good job at pretending to be asleep!
December 25th
Hector was pleased with his Christmas present – so much so he promptly destroyed it. Still I suppose it saves him having to write a thank you note!
January 1st
It’s early days but, so far at least, Hector’s New Year’s resolution, to always wipe his paws thoroughly after coming in from the garden, seems to be going pretty well!
But don’t be fooled by his innocent looking face, he’s only gone and eaten the bloomin’ Christmas tree!
Ah well, it was time we bought some new decorations anyway!
January 6th
When you’re a big dog but think you’re a small cat
January 7th
Dressed all in black it was perhaps inevitable that Hector would one day try his paw at football refereeing. Seems like he intends to come down hard on any wayward tackles!
January 21st
Our Hector is a Labrador He’s not a smelly rat, And so it is my earnest hope That he’s now clear on that.
‘Cos poison meant for vermin, Is food unfit for dogs, Still Hector thought he’d try some but… …he hasn’t popped his clogs!
We took him to our local vets, Their treatment it succeeded, But it ain’t like the NHS Free at the point it’s needed.
The moral of this costly tale Is dogs, ‘Eat poison less’ And to avoid high healthcare bills, Fight for the NHS.
January 30th
In a desperate attempt to claw back some of the expense of his recent trip to the vet, we’ve decided that Hector now needs to get himself a job so as to be able to contribute to the household finances.
And so today he started work as a plumber’s assistant. It was a bit of wrench to see him leave home this morning, but who knows what as yet untapped talents he may possess!
Feel free to add your own plumbing related puns below – but please, don’t force it!
9th February
What a difference a dog makes, Twenty four little weeks Lost the sun and the flowers Now there’s nothing but…
…well take a look for yourself! Our garden, before and after Hector!
BeforeAfter
17th February
I’d like to say that this is a photograph of Hector helping me clear away the vast quantity of sticks and other assorted plant life, that he had previously distributed across our back lawn.
However, it’s not.
On the contrary, having spent a considerable while on the solitary task of completely filling a green wheely bin with the detritus resulting from his clumsy attempts at gardening, it should have come as no surprise to me that he would take the first opportunity afforded him to begin the enthralling task of trying to empty it all back out again.
This then, dear reader, is what is pictured here.
21st February
Suprised to find that we’d had a tree down overnight – I mean it wasn’t that windy. But then, what other explanation could there possibly be for this branch to appear in the middle of our lawn?
Oh, the Hec-tor, has such teeth, dear And he shows them pearly white…
Well at least he apparars to have enjoyed his breakfast, given how he’s licking his lips!
The branch that mysteriously appeared in our back garden this morningHector’s pearly white teethYum Yum!
25th February
Always nice to have someone waiting to welcome you back home…
Surely that can’t be comfortable!
2nd March
We have a Moldovan Pastor staying with us at the moment. The question is, will he survive his time with us. Because the toast he was about to enjoy for breakfast didn’t, not with Hector prowling around the dining table! Happily though, his fingers all remain intact!
Don’t be fooled by his innocent face!
March 31st – Easter Day
I’m sorry folks, but I’m afraid I have some rather tragic news to report.
After his mistress failed to share with him her Easter egg, Hector decided to take things into his own hands or, somewhat more precisely, he chose to take her arm into his mouth.
Things then spiralled out of control and what began as a harmless bit of fun, took a somewhat darker turn as he skipped about in front of me with the former Mrs Aird’s severed limb now dangling from his slavering jaws.
Regrettably, the tiny dog treat that I held out to my increasingly excited canine friend was not sufficient to persuade him to give up his ill gotten gains and I was, alas, unable to prevent him from stripping the scapula, humerus and ulna of and every ounce of flesh
And so it was, as I looked on helplessly, that I found myself wondering if I should have proffered one of my own chocolatey comestibles by way of distraction instead.
Which, of course, I would have done had the seasonal confectionery in question not been both a particular favourite of mine and wholly unsuited to a Labrador’s gastrointestinal system.
Still, you live and learn.
And even though I’ll miss the one to whom I was, until very recently, betrothed, I do at least have this photograph to remember her by!
April 3rd
Things you’d prefer your dog not to find washed up on the beach: No. 238
Oh Hector!
I mean it’s not as though his breath didn’t stink already!
April 4th
For Labradors of jet black hue, a walk it ain’t complete, If nothing dead and putrid is available to eat, But though today, the one thing in his mouth was long and pink, he Still has breath, take it from me, that’s really rather stinky!
10th April
‘So,’ said Hector, after I explained to him, yet again, the behaviour we expected of him should we ever be foolish enough to leave him at home alone again, ‘let me see if I’ve got this right. I CAN empty the contents of the kong toy you left me with – but NOT that of my overpriced padded blanket’
‘That’s it in a nutshell’, I replied, my fractured mind, the consequence of nine long months in the presence of this Labradorian menace, seemingly unperturbed by the fact that I was now conversing with an apparently talking dog.
At which point I swear the canine creature’s facial features contorted into the barely perceptible, yet unmistakable grin of one who knew he was now the undisputed leader of the pack.
April 18th
Sometimes it’s good to paws for thought and consider the most important questions in life. Such as, what would we do without our canine friends?
Well a lot less hoovering for a start!
April 21st
Popped into the County Ground in Taunton for the afternoon session of Somerset v Nottinghamshire to give Hector his first taste of championship cricket.
Initially he was keen to see all that was going on but enthusiasm did wain just before tea after what hadn’t, perhaps, been the most enthralling couple of hours play.
As you can see below though, he did make two appearances on the livestream with Vic Marks, a childhood hero of mine describing his antics!
As the Test Match Special commentator said, ‘I think you’ll find that when there’s a hungry dog on the screen, not much is happening out in the middle!
View from the Pavilion – Gimblett HillCatching every possible glimpse
Hector on the livestream
April 23rd
Whether you’ve arrived here, by bicycle or car Whether you are local or have travelled from afar The fact remains the same, dear friend, you’ll end up in a pickle If you don’t stop to chat awhile and give this chap a tickle!
Now you may be a neighbour, or a postie with a letter Either way, do as I say, it really would be better And please take note all ne’er do wells with intentions not good If you ignore his pleading eyes he’ll wake the neighbourhood!
And if you are a GP who is visiting the sick, Best bring some sanitiser, for your hands he’s sure to lick, But have no fear, though he’s enclosed, within a garden gated, He’ll not pass on canine disease, he’s fully vaccinated!
April 24th
In Stella Gibbon’s book, ‘Cold Comfort Farm’, the characters frequently refer to there being something nasty in the woodshed.
What exactly it is is never fully explained, but we’re left in no doubt that it’s something sinister that is best kept hidden from the world at large.
Well today I went to my tool shed – and found there something equally dark and inexplicable!
April 28th
When you know you shouldn’t have, did anyway, and fear now that you’ve been found out!
May 4th
May 5th
No, not a still from a canine remake of ‘The Great Escape’, but an attempt by Hector to reach the sandwich that someone had discarded on the other side of the fence.
As for the aforementioned film, Hector did audition for the Steve McQueen role but wasn’t successful – not because of an inability to ride a motorbike you understand, but due to his insufficiently blue eyes.
To be fair though, he’d probably have been better casted as an S.S. Officer. That, or for a part which involved more actual digging!
May 6th
Bluebells, and breath that smells, Slobbering jowls, Black hairs, and chewed up chairs, Erratic bowels, Vice like jaws, and muddy paws, Bags full of poo, All kinds of everything, remind me of you.
May 9th
After discovering that the lower branches of my little apple tree have been largely destroyed by a creature or creatures unknown, I have begun researching whether or not there is a breed of miniature giraffe that might, perhaps, be indigenous to the British Isles.
If, however, my quest for such an animal proves fruitless* then I suppose I will have to come up with some more obvious explanation.
*much as I expect my apple tree to be this summer
Hector though, might just have given himself away with this attempt of his to help me prune the roses!
May 10th
At the end of a week that had me, on more than one occasion, telling Hector to stop ripping branches from the plant life that surrounds our garden, today I spent the morning wielding a hedge trimmer almost as indiscriminately at Hector does his sharp white teeth.
Inevitably Hector joined me to help with the clear up operation, and as he did so I a swear I heard him mutter ‘Hypocrite!’
It was either that or ‘After you with the power tool!’
Apparently, I missed a bit!
13th May
‘No, it’s the middle of the night and you can’t stay out any longer in the hope of seeing the aureola borealis’
May 21st
Now I know he lives in Somerset, and that the Wurzels are, inevitably, his favourite band, but I do wish Hector wouldn’t rewrite the lyrics of their songs and then pose for a promotional picture in the hope of piquing the interest of a hot shot record producer!
Now some dogs like to boast about how fast that they can run, And others of how many best in show rosettes they’ve won, But Hector, he’s not like that, as he’d rather spend an hour, Taking pride in what he finds that he can then devour
Hi, ho, fiddle-iddle-o, from Chard to Cirencester Hi, ho, the folks all know, he’s the world’s best dung digester
May 25th
The black Labrador Lies in the sunny garden And whittles away.
Why do you do it, Hector, dog of ill repute. Why, O why, O why?
May 31st
25th May31st May
SPOT THE DIFFERENCE!
Six young tomato plants, lined up in a row, Six young tomato plants, lined up in a row, And if one black Labrador, should misunderstand ‘No!’, There’ll be five young tomato plants, lined up in a row!
I expect those that remain to suffer a similar fate and thus fail, unlike a certain lettuce, to survive long enough to see who will be the next Prime Minister!
June 2nd
BREAKING NEWS
The leaders of the two main parties were shocked today as news broke that a Black Labrador was hoping to become the next MP for Taunton Deane.
Today, at a packed press conference, Hector announced his intention to run for parliament adding that, with the country having gone to the dogs, it was only right that he should be unleashed and given a chance to lead the nation. Unveiling his canine manifesto, he promised to address environmental concerns by introducing a ‘walkies to work’ policy within days of his being elected.
Asked who would make up his cabinet in the event of his becoming Prime Minster, Hector explained that such decisions would be made based on the past performance of those in his party – as such he’d be looking to see who has the waggiest tail, who has the most appealing eyes, and who has the best fiscal policy for economic growth.
Refusing to be drawn on ‘Tomatogate’, and sidestepping questions regarding allegations of historic garden vandalism, Hector sought instead to reassure voters regarding his plans for national security. Insisting that Cuddles the Cockapoo continued to have his full support, he dismissed as unfounded claims that the prospective Defence Secretary once allowed his home to be burgled when the intruder offered him a sausage.
Finally, in a move that is likely to be popular with voters in marginal seats, Hector promised to legislate for all dogs to be allowed on the furniture and to introduce heavy fines for disreputable owners caught breaking dog treats in half.
‘This appalling behaviour has been increasing under successive administrations’, he claimed. ‘For far too long the dogs of this country have been badly let down by both the Conservatives and the Labour Party. But now at last we have a chance to bring about real change. It’s an op-paw-tunity we must not fail to take and so, on July 4th, I urge you to vote neither red nor blue. Instead: Vote Black! Vote Labrador! Vote Hector!’
June 7th
Things seen only when your baby granddaughter comes to stay – No: 325
And things seen only when your grandson comes to stay…and it is felt by someone that he needs a little help with watering the garden. No: 164
June 12th
Hector’s bucket list:
Eat the bucket.
…
June 12th
Actually, I think I do know who this dog is…and why he is banned from the park. And it’s got nothing to do with ball games being prohibited!
June 15th
He’s just playing, his piano…
June 18th
I suppose it’s kind of fitting – unable to control our dog, we now can’t control the TV!
Oh Hector!
June 28th
Of Hector this year, I’ve shared quite a lot, Of how he does things that he really should not, So now it’s the case from Belgrade to Bridgwater, Folk know he seldom behaves as he oughta.
He’s chewed through a table leg, chewed through a tree. He’s chewed through a Bible, to Acts Chapter three He’s chewed in a manner, worthy of a goat, He’s chewed through the case of our TV remote.
He prowls round the garden, digs holes in the grass, At pulling up rhubarb, he’s top of the class, And as for those tasty, tall, tomato plants, With Hector about, well they haven’t a chance.
A gooseberry crumble with custard is nice, The thought of one now though, will have to suffice. Cos he’s eaten the bush, and the fruit – which ain’t cool, And so he’s made himself the gooseberry fool!
When asking to enter, he muddies the door, And after he’s fed, he leaves drool on the floor, And as for his movements, we know where he’s been, For that’s where a coating of dog hair is seen.
When walking in woodland, oh what a delight If Hector, when summoned, should hove into sight, But not if our noses, to us then suggest, He’s gone and rolled in something foxes egest!
The nights, they are short, in both June and July, When Hector wakes up in them – I ask him ‘Why?’ He tells me that whilst I might long for my bed, He’d rather play in the garden instead!
That he can be friendly though can’t be denied, Cos sometimes he’ll sidle up close by your side, But don’t be misled as you’ll still need protection, For he’ll often attack after shows of affection.
With Hector a one year old, it’s now my wish, He’d stop combing beaches for rotting dead fish, But I have my doubts that he’ll ever mature, Or give up his fondness for eating manure!
But despite all his foibles, his faux pas, and faults, Despite all his fearsome, full frontal assaults, Despite all he mangles that we’ll never mend, I’d not be without my fine four-footed friend!
July 3rd
STOP PRESS
Despite trying to garner support for his campaign by bungee jumping off the Clifton suspension bridge, I regret to have to inform you that Hector today has had to withdraw from tomorrow’s General Election.
This was after it emerged that he had placed a bet on himself NOT winning ‘Most obedient Labrador’ in Nempnett Thrubwell’s upcoming novelty dog show. And this after I told him he had no chance!
Furthermore, his announcement yesterday that, if elected, he’d not be available to work on Friday evenings has drawn additional criticism. Whilst nobody has used his decision to cast doubt on his all too apparent commitment to the cause, some have questioned how his stated desire to dedicate that time to devouring the trees in his back garden, fits in with his manifesto pledge to champion green issues.
Hector appreciates how disappointing this news will be to the huge number of supporters who have been backing him to become the UK’s first canine Prime Minister and asks for both their understanding and the privacy he and his family need at this difficult time.
It is rumoured that he is now considering running to become the next President of the United States, a role for which neither his past misdemeanours, nor his oftentimes bizarre behaviour, should in any way prove a disadvantage.
July 4th
Requisite picture of Hector at the Polling Station – the only problem being that, as I took this snap, he realised he’d forgotten his photo ID and so nipped back home to fetch it.
Mind you, in the unlikely event of him actually retrieving it, and it being in one piece by the time he gets back, I doubt he’ll allow it to be removed from his mouth so as to be inspected. Perhaps it’s best just to put him down as a ‘Don’t know’!
July 11th
‘Isn’t he sweet’ said the lady who saw him waiting outside the supermarket. If she only knew!
July 14th
We’re on our way from Somerset to Essex, ahead of the young master’s marriage next weekend. Hector’s very excited about the upcoming nuptials, but at some point I’m going to have to break it to him that, despite him being man’s best friend, he’s been passed over for the role of his friend’s best man. Which is a shame, as the speech he’s written is really rather good!
July 15th
Hector particularly enjoyed his walk today which just happened to pass by Flatford Mill, the place where Constable once famously painted ‘The Haywain’.
This despite his personal preference for the work of Caravaggio who, he maintains, paved the way for the austere realism of Neoclassicism through the Italian master’s own bold use of chiaroscuro.
And who am I to disagree with a black Labrador who claims to have an MA in the History of Art – something that, hitherto, he’s curiously never mentioned!
July 18th
Selected to represent Great Britain in the only open swimming event at this year’s Olympics, Hector grabbed this opportunity at Frinton-on Sea for some additional training.
Remarkably, he claims also to be hopeful of reaching the final in the Men’s Synchronised 3m Springboard competition.
July 21st
It’s little wonder that Hector was so exhausted after yesterday’s celebrations that he felt the need to sleep on today’s long car journey back home to Somerset.
For, having stunned fellow wedding guests by appearing on the dance floor stylishly dressed in a Hugo Boss tuxedo, he then proceeded to dance the night away with a range of moves that drew incredulous gasps from those gazing on in amazement.
Asked to comment on the marriage itself, Hector said that he could not be more delighted adding that he considered himself, not to have lost a young master, but rather to have gained a young mistress.
July 28th
No longer welcome poolside, after distracting two Australian athletes during their final dive in the Women’s synchronised 3m springboard, Hector will today go for gold in the Men’s Tree Felling and Whittling Competition! Training has been going well.
30th July
Irrespective of how desperate he is to take part in this year’s Paris Olympics, Hector’s bid to act as a ballboy in Andy Murray’s next match still looks doomed to failure!
July 31st
…and the same to you too!
August 1st
HECTOR’S FABLES No: 32 THE DOG AND THE TORTOISE
Once upon a time there was a Black Labrador who loved to play and stay out late – even on a school night. One day he met a wise and respected tortoise who told him he should behave more responsibly.
But the Labrador just laughed at such a fanciful idea and chose instead to skip gleefully around the garden with the tortoise now gripped firmly between his jaws.
And what an entertaining time he had.
The End.
Moral: A tortoise in the mouth only adds to the fun!
NB: For those who may be worried about the tortoise…it’s an ornamental one!
August 8th
They say that the guilty always return to the scene of the crime. And so it seems to be.
But, credit where credit is due. When I asked a certain rapscallion who was responsible for the carnage that caught my eye as I looked, bleary eyed, out of the kitchen window this morning, Hector answered, like the revered first U.S. president before him, ‘I cannot tell a lie – it was I who wrenched another three branches off the arboreal wonder that you’d hoped this year would provide the core ingredient for a fruit based pastry encased dessert.
Mind you, he could hardly deny it – not with the photographic evidence available that, along with the all too apparent destruction, shows the obvious relish with which it was accomplished. By which I mean Hector’s enthusiasm for his nefarious actions, not the Tomato and Zucchini Chutney that he’d taken into the garden but, sadly for him, the lid of which he hadn’t been able to unscrew!
Ah well – looking on the bright side – at least I’ll no longer need to urge the current Mrs A not to sit under the apple tree with anyone else but me, because it won’t be long before such shelter no longer remains for her to rest beneath – with me or anybody else!
J’accuse!
August 9th
This week a chap knocked at my door collecting for ‘The Dogs Trust’. He kept on and on about how the charity had never put a healthy dog down.
So in the end I took pity on him…and I gave him Hector!
July 15th
I’ve just finished rewatching the classic 1979 horror film ‘Alien’. For those unfamiliar with the plot, it tells the story of how a non-human life form invades the living space of a small number of individuals and proceeds to terrorise them as, concealed in the shadows, it prowls around the place, leaving in its wake a trail of both death and destruction.
I don’t know though, perhaps it’s because of one who now dwells within my household, but it didn’t seem quite as terrifying it did previously.
Below are two photographs. One shows an organism whose ‘structural perfection is matched only by its hostility’, a creature ‘unclouded by conscience, remorse, or delusions of morality’. The other is taken from a poster used to advertise the movie.
August 18th
Yesterday, Hector leapt into a river – one that he later discovered he was unable to leap back out of. And, given the anxious look on his face as he tried, and failed, to scramble onto the bank, I imagined he was grateful that I had been on hand to eventually haul him out of the water.
And so, I began to wonder, how he would be affected by such an alarming near death experience. Would he
a) consider himself forever in my debt and therefore look to reform himself into the exemplary canine companion that I’d always hoped he’d be,
or,
b) recognise how brief life can sometimes be and therefore embark upon a lifetime of determinedly hedonistic disobedience?
Regrettably, early indicators would suggest the latter!
August 22nd
Good that he’s finally grown out of that ridiculous way he used to sleep as a puppy.
ThenNow
August 23rd
Having gone just about as far as his teeth will take him, it seems Hector’s ready to take things to the next level.
August 24th
This evening, on his evening stroll, Hector made a new friend. I think it might be love! Perhaps the beast has finally been tamed.
August 28th
Though it seems like we’ve had him forever, it’s a year today that we first brought Hector home. Twelve months on he’s older and wiser – well he’s certainly older – and despite discovering yesterday he suffers with skatzochoirophobia we wouldn’t be without him…generally speaking at least!
August 29th
Having been mentioned on a national radio program, Hector asks Alexia to yet again play the bit where he gets a name check!
September 3rd
Having been caught digging a hole in the garden, it seems there are at least three ways one can respond – blind panic, deep remorse or bored indifference!
September 9th
Today we walked the Cornish Coast Path to Port Isaac. And what excitement we had as Hector auditioned to become the latest member of The Fisherman’s Friends.
There on the slipway, he sang his littlheart out. Never has ‘No Hopers, Jokers and Rogues’ been sung with such gusto – nor by one so qualified to sing it.
We await the inevitable phone call and the ensuing worldwide fame!
September 10th
After yesterday’s shock news that he was joining ‘The Fisherman’s Friends’, the music world was rocked further today when Hector announced that he was now leaving the band in order to pursue a solo career. Citing ‘artistic differences’ as the reason for the split, the black Labrador added that he wanted to be unleashed so as to be able to wander off in a totally different direction to the rest of the group.
At a hastily arranged press conference, the social media influencer released a couple of stills and a few tantalising seconds of the promotional video that will accompany his debut single. He then assured his many followers that ‘Blackberry Hill’ would be available for digital download in early December.
A Christmas Number One now seems inevitable.
I found my thrill, On Blackberry Hill, Where I ate my fill Of fruit so sweet
It’s now my will, To linger there still, On Blackberry Hill, More fruit to eat.
My master he said to me ‘Hector, please come quick, Can’t you see what I can see? You’ll make yourself sick!’
I’ll not refute, I’d just eat until, I made myself ill, On Blackberry Hill.
September 11th
You know that thing you sometimes see in films – when the somewhat shady character’s eyes, momentarily glow a menacing alternative colour and thus reveal their inherent evilness?
Only I saw
September 13th
Just a few photos to show that, despite what I sometimes say abHector is just a regular Labrador who likes nothing more than a long walk – especially one that follows the narrow Cornish coast path that passes just inches away from a precipitous drop into the Atlantic Ocean.
But despite the obvious potential for disaster, on this occasion at least, Hector was exceptional company on a day when his behaviour was exemplary – save, that is, for nearly dislocating my shoulder as his extendable lead abruptly reached its limit, his ungentlemanly snatching of one of our tuna sandwiches at lunchtime, and his copious consumption of the Cornish cow pats that came pre-warmed in the late summer sunshine.
Dogs – who’d have ‘em?!
September 16th
The view from my study window this afternoon – my attention being drawn by a strange noise that sounded a bit like a tree being felled. That and someone, or something, shouting ‘Tim-ber!’
Yes Hector, you were spotted! And your attempts at looking innocent are fooling nobody!
September 25th
More talented than that dog on ‘That’s Life’, Hector the Ventriloquist has some news for the Prime Minister!
September 28th
Today Hector helped mow the lawn…
October 1st
It was those in his family who knew he had a problem first.
But when ‘H’ started waking in the night and rousing the whole household with his incessant barking, when he found himself staring anxiously into the back garden, convinced he’d heard something snuffling beneath the gooseberry bush, he knew he had to do something about it.
Are you similarly afflicted? If so, call 04 – the sake of all things prickly.
Skatzochoirophobics Anonymous We’re here to help.
October 6th
When the top shelf where the tennis balls are kept proves to be just out of reach…
October 7th
I may look gormless, but I know how to look at you adoringly. And sooner or later you will do exactly what I want you to. Because I have the power to make you tickle me!
October 14th
Today, whilst strolling the Herefordshire countryside, I learnt something about myself that I hadn’t previously recognised…that I am now the proud owner of not only a tennis elbow and a housemaid’s knee, but also a policeman’s heel! It seems, therefore, only inevitable that I will soon complete the set, and be furnished with the only eponymous body part actually appropriate to my current employment – a Black Labrador Walker’s shoulder.
I guess it’s all down to old age. Which presumably also accounts for the plethora of adverts for ‘Pure Cremation’ that have, rather alarmingly, been popping up on my Facebook feed of late.
The attached photo is of Hector looking suitably funereal whilst sat outside the church where we’d stopped to refuel. It was taken just moments after he’d purloined the ham and mustard sandwich that was supposed to have made up the greater part of our meagre picnic lunch. Regrettably, this was a misdemeanour for which he showed less repentance than I would have liked – especially given the consecrated ground on which the theft took place!
October 15th
Not having a dishwasher at home, it’s a treat for Hector to have one when on holiday!
October 16th
It’s been a disappointing day for Hector.
Given the grey skies, and accompanying, less than optimistic forecast, we curtailed our morning walk and decided instead to enter Hector into the conveniently scheduled Hope Mansell Annual Squirrel Chase – the premier event of Herefordshire’s burgeoning sporting calendar made up of competitive small mammal pursuits.
But despite appearing as ‘The Black Beast of the Blackdown Byways’, Hector’s impressively alliterative though less than succinct sobriquet, the poor dog barely stood a chance. Already suffering from a severe lack of confidence following an embarrassing home defeat against an oversized hedgehog with a positively prickly personality, Hector was further disadvantaged by not having access to his revolutionary wet weather paws. And to cap it all, on the rare occasions when he did come close to catching his quarry, those scurrilous Sciuridae all, rather unsportingly I felt, took to darting up trees in order to avoid capture.
The photograph below was taken by the ‘pup-arazzi’ who, following his humiliating defeat, saw fit to ‘hound’ him down and compound his misery by recording it for the dubious entertainment of readers of ‘Woof!’ Magaz. It shows a bedraggled Hector in somewhat pensive mood – as trophy-less as his ‘nil points’ deserved.
Ah well Hector, better luck next year!
October 17th
Advice please.
What is the appropriate course of action after noticing something unaccountably different about one half of the not inexpensive pair of gloves that had once acted as a precious birthday gift to one’s nearest and dearest?
Should one…
a) act as if nothing had happened, reward the likely culprit by first feeding him his normal breakfast and then taking him for an all day walk in the mercifully warm sunshine, making sure that, before you head off, along with your own picnic, you’ve included something more appropriate for him to eat for his lunch too,
b) engage Trustpilot’s highest rated home security company with a view to them installing all of their advanced safety measures in order to ensure the future preservation of one’s few remaining, as yet undamaged, treasured possessions, or
c) suggest to it’s once proud owner that she proffer to the still insatiably ravenous jaws the same hand that was once proffered to you in marriage, in the confident expectation that, with the corresponding finger similarly removed, the glove would once again be rendered fully functional?
Asking for a friend!
October 18th
If you can run in woods all day, and not come once when called, If you can eat the kinds of things that leave owners appalled, If you can leave your fur in places that you’ve never been, And be to blame for countless crimes which you commit unseen, If you can chomp your masters things into a thousand bits, And still ensure he feeds you first when for his lunch he sits If you can pester picnickers that you’ve not met before And be a pain whilst fast asleep as noisily you snore, And if, e’en so, you’re loved by those that you drive round the bend, It’s plain to see, for folks like me, you’ll be a Lab my friend!
October 22nd
There was a time when, engaged in a spot of gardening, I’d be accompanied by a dainty little Robin. Not any more though.
November 3rd
Last night Hector was expecting to appear at the conclusion of the second day of SGA’s annual conference. But despite rehearsals having gone well, on learning that he would be attempting to juggle flaming torches whilst riding a unicycle, the hotel manager prohibited his performance on account of their somewhat restrictive health and safety policy.
And neither, it seems, were they insured for canine magicians to perform tricks involving the sawing in half of those resident in the hotel. I did suggest to staff that Hector could ask one of their day visitors to act as his assistant, but they were having none of it.
Hector was understandably disappointed!
Perhaps next year!
November 7th
The vet will see you now…even if you try hiding under her chair!
For a moment I thought Hector might be anti-vaccination, but he was soon won round by a couple of tasty dog treats!
November 12th
Usually, after forking out the hefty veterinary fee commensurate with the removal, under anaesthetic, of a stick from a dog’s throat, you at least have the consolation of the aforementioned hound looking ridiculous as it staggers around the house still drunk from the drugs that continue to affect a nervous system so rudimentary that it hasn’t yet learnt that a diet made up of nothing but pointy bits of an erstwhile hedge is wholly inappropriate!
But not Hector – oh no! A canine companion who didn’t even afford this simple pleasure managing instead nothing but a few amusingly plaintive whimpers to cheer me on my way.
One would like to think he’d live and learn – but I rather suspect I’ll have to settle for the former of those two aspirations!
And the first person who comments something along the lines of ‘poor Hector’, hereby agrees to contribute 10% of the cost of his latest misadventure!
November 27th
Saw this book in Waterstones today – but I don’t think I need it. I was in a school in Romania last week, helping in some English lessons, and the first question the children asked me was, ‘How’s Hector?’!
November 30th
With tomorrow marking the beginning of Advent, Hector is already looking forward to Christmas. He says:
‘Having been exceptionally good all year, I can’t wait to open all the gifts Santa will surely leave me when he pops down my chimney this Christmas Eve.’
Little does he know that this week I’ve had a letter from old St Nicholas himself, informing me that, having carried out a thorough risk assessment, he will not be visiting any household within a three mile radius of any home where Hector resides.
I can only apologise to the children of Wellington, Somerset!
November 30th
Given the effect Kryptonite has on Superman, I guess I shouldn’t have been surprised by what these did to Hector!
December 6th
So the National Emergency Alert sounds and immediately I find myself asking two questions – ‘Where is he?’ and ‘What has he done now?’
December 14th
When it’s cold outside, and the boiler’s on the blink, it’s good to lay claim to a hot water bottle for your own exclusive use – especially when it’s been left unattended on the sofa by somebody else!
December 18th
With December 25th just a week away, there are now only, and this is a conservative estimate, 35 more sleeps for Hector before the big day. No wonder he’s getting into the Christmas spirit!
So, before he goes and hangs up his stocking, I suppose I ought to tell him about the correspondence I had recently regarding Santa’s imminent non-arrival. The only thing is, if I do, and Hector has another one of his ‘moments’, what chance is there that the tree, already non ‘non-drop’, will last untill the New Year?
December 20th
With our guests starting to arrive tomorrow, it is, of course, good to know that Hector is infestation free. But can anyone tell me if it’s acceptable to spend more on your dog’s flea and tick treatment than on your wife’s Christmas present?
Asking for a friend!
December 24th
I say, I say, I say. Why is a traditional Christmas tree like a Black Labrador?
Because, however much you hoover, you can never completely eradicate evidence of their having once been in your front room!
And with that example of his unique brand of observational canine humour that he hopes will wow audiences at next years Edinburgh fringe, Hector would like to take this opportunity to wish you all a very Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year.
December 25th
Having left Hector in the kitchen whilst we went to church this morning, we returned to find him stretched out in front of the oven.
Having established that the motionless hound hadn’t had a stroke, we naturally assumed that he was simply enjoying the warmth emanating from the temporary additional heat source.
Until, that is, we realised that he was actually trying to stop us from looking inside the oven and seeing what he’d done to the turkey!
December 26th
Having posted yesterday about what is rapidly becoming known as ‘Turkeygate’, I received a letter this morning from a firm of solicitors based in Barking, the contents of which I now reproduce to alert others to the perils of sharing about their pet dog online.
Dear Sir,
We write on behalf of our client, Hector ‘Watching the gathering crowds’ Aird, who is seeking legal representation regarding what he claims are a series of scurrilous stories that you have reported on social media platforms which have had little, if any, basis in truth. By suggesting that his behaviour is not always that which would be expected of his breed, he considers that as well as causing irreparable damage to his own reputation, you have brought shame on all black Labradors in general.
In particular, he asks that you make it clear to those you are associated with that, despite you having used photographs to suggest otherwise, he has never acted as a caped vigilante in a small market town in southwest England, he has never attended interpretive dance classes or held an MA in the History of Art, and he has never sought high political office, either here or in the U.S., or bungee jumped off the Clifton Suspension Bridge in Bristol. Furthermore he has never worked as a plumber, auditioned for a part in ‘The Great Escape’ or represented Team GB in any Olympic event. And most specifically of all, he has never physically removed a turkey from a hot oven only to replace it half eaten. This last fabrication is perhaps the one that our client finds most upsetting of all since no self respecting lab would ever devour less than the complete contents of any roasting tin placed in front of them.
We look forward to your prompt retraction of all these false allegations as well as the many others we have noticed you have made in a blog entitled ‘The Chronicles of Hector.’
Failure to do so will result in legal proceedings being taken against you,
Yours sincerely…
Obviously this letter has come as something of a shock to me but, given how Hector destroyed large quantities of wrapping paper yesterday, something that I do have indisputable evidence for, I thought it best to treat it with the same contempt he did when I passed it to him for comment!
December 27th
Having had the grandchildren staying for a few days, Hector has has been busy this Christmas doing what Labradors do best – hovering expectantly around the youngest’s high chair and expertly hoovering up the food that unaccountably ends up on the floor beneath it.
No wonder then that, with his guests having now left, all he wants to do is to chill out to the cool sounds of Chet Baker.
NB – the authenticity of this story has been fact checked by BBC Verify and found to be largely true. Though there was no reason to doubt that he enjoyed the experience, it could not be established quite how much pleasure Hector was afforded by the Jazz trumpeteer, as his preference is usually for the cornet playing Bix Beiderbecke.
January 3rd
With the new year just three days old, how are you getting on keeping the resolutions you made earlier this week. Better than Hector I’d wager. Here’s how he’s faring…
I will not insist on being walked in the pouring rain ❌ Neither will I insist on being walked in the freezing cold ❌ I will come promptly every time I’m called ❌ I will show genuine appreciation to the one who feeds me and never bite his hand ❌ And I will definitely not ever eat anything so disgusting that sheep poo subsequently serves as an effective breath freshener ❌
January 7th
THE SOUND OF HECTOR – HIS FAVOURITE THINGS
Biting the hand, even those that might feed me, Following not where my master might lead me, Never retrieving the ball that he flings, These are a few of my favourite things.
Lying on sofas that I’m not supposed to, Wrecking all plant life that I’ve been exposed to, Rolling in fox poo – it’s scent to me clings, These are a few of my favourite things.
Spending all day having my tummy tickled, Consuming food if it’s not yet been pickled, Barking whenever the doorbell it rings, These are a few of my favourite things.
My dirty paw prints all over the kitchen, Using my hind leg to scratch what is itchin’, Being attended to as should all kings, These are a few of my favourite things.
Zooming round gardens as if I’m delirious, Staring at folk with a look supercilious, Making a mess of what the postman brings, These are a few of my favourite things,
Whining when ignored, when I won’t be muted, Eating what’s smelly, what’s rotten and putrid, Crazily jumping as if I’m on springs, These are a few of my favourite things,
When I’m all wet, Or at the vet, And the days are tough, I simply remember my favourite things And then I don’t feel so ruff!
January 18th
And there was I thinking Hector was a pedigree – turns out he’s half lemur!
February 10th
The world is a safer place this evening with Hector the canine criminal facing his first night behind bars.
Charged with offences too numerous to mention, the heinous hound heard the jury deliver their guilty verdict whilst sprawled out in the dock and seemingly showing stark disregard to the judge who, handing down a custodial sentence, urged the lamentable Lab to forget any plans to dig, or chew, his way out of prison, and instead spend his time there learning how to ‘stay’ and ‘wait’.
Dragged defiantly from the court by the German Shepherd to whom he was paw-cuffed, Hector vowed that his beagle team would appeal what he claimed was his unlawful detention.
February 14th
My love he is a black, black Lab, Despite how he’s forgotten, That eating dead things found on walks, Is why his breath smells rotten.
I love him though he advocates For canine orthodoxy, And like all self respecting hounds, He rolls in poo that’s foxy.
When muddy pawed he walks across, Clean kitchen floors he shouldn’t, His big brown eyes, apologise So love him not, I couldn’t.
Still on those days, when for his crimes, I somehow take the blame, And in the dog house I reside, I love him just the same.
And though, ‘tis true, he tends to drool, ‘Ere breakfast, lunch and tea, And belches once he’s had his fill, He’s still the one for me.
If he’s not paid attention too, He’ll whimper and he’ll whine, He is then quite high maintenance, But he’s my Valentine!
February 19th
Today Hector has been going undercover. So is the bed occupied?!
20th February
Today I’ve been trying to teach Hector how to play Mancala. But I don’t thinks he quite grasped the rules of the game yet!
February 26th
BREAKING NEWS:
Hector has been chosen as the face of the new advertising campaign for Marmite.
Contrary to some reports, this is due to his silky black fur and natty yellow hat, and not because people either love him or hate him.
February 28th
In springtime, a young dog’s fancy turns to thoughts…probably as inconsequential as those he harbours the rest of the year!
March 14th
Few are the folk who’d accept-a Church with a dog as its rector, So please take care lest he, Appears in your vestry, Claiming to be the Rev Hector!
Introducing the new Bishop of Bark and Smells.
March 20th
Spring is here, sp-ring is here Life ‘twill be cricket, the season is near, I think the loveliest time of the year is the spring, I do. Don’t you? Course you do!
But there’s one thing that makes spring complete for me, That makes every Thursday a treat for me…
All the world seems in tune on a spring afternoon, As we lie on the lawn with a Lab, Every Thursday you’ll see, my sweetheart and me, As we lie on the lawn with a Lab
When he sees us coming, he’ll greet us delightedly, And then he’ll attack us and oh so excitedly.
The sun’s shining bright, Everything seems all right, When we lie on the lawn with a Lab
He’s gained notoriety, And caused insobriety, And untold anxiety, With his larks. And polite society, Insists that he quietly, Behaves with propriety whenever he barks.
But no one says that we should all pay a fine, For wanting to rest with a…canine.
So if Thursday you’re free, Why don’t you come with me, And we’ll lay on the lawn with a Lab. And maybe we’ll chew up a big stick or two, As we lay on the lawn with a Lab,
You’ll see how we love him right up to the minute he Releases an odour into our vicinity.
Our bodies we’ll stretch em out, As his lunch he retches out, And whilst yawning lazily, Forlornly and crazily, We’ll lay on the lawn with a Lab
[with apologies to Tom Lehrer]
March 25th
Never having fully understood the command, Hector couldn’t understand why Rose would ever want to!
And so, in store tonight…Black Labrador!
Only with him already eyeing up the loose carrots, I didn’t have time to take a photo!
March 28th
He’s a bit bigger I suppose, but not a lot else has changed!
April 10th
Dear canine agony aunt…or uncle.
In recent months I have made it my habit to consume three times my body weight in the form of bits of wood that I come across on my daily walk. This is easily accomplished when I am exercised in woodland but no less possible when strolling around more suburban areas as it is amazing how much one can find there to munch on if one puts one’s half a mind to it.
As a result of my endeavours, I now find that what I egest is generally entirely suitable for disposal in the garden waste, something that is, I would have thought, a good thing since it should surely mean that it saves my owner the inconvenience and, let’s face it, humiliation of carrying it to the nearest of those generally red bins that are scattered around all our neighbourhoods these days.
But despite the obvious benefits, he seems less than grateful for my gargantuan ‘efforts’ and keeps on at me to change what, given its high fibre content, is undoubtedly an extremely healthy diet.
I would be grateful for your advice on how I should manage what is becoming an increasingly thorny problem – in more ways than one.
Yours faithfully,
Hector.
April 17th
Your breath smells liyesterday’s kippers You walk like an ungainly frog, You eat all the things that you shouldn’t, And you say you know Deputy Dawg – yes you do. Your paw prints you leave on the carpet, And you don’t come no matter who calls, You steal what’s not yours from the cupboards, In fact your behaviour appalls, yes it does, ha, ha, ha.
But where do you go to, my lovely, When you’re are cold in your bed? Tell me the thoughts that surround you, I want to look inside your head, yes, I do.
You’ve munched your way through half our garden, The lawn’s in a terrible state, And whilst you maintain you’re not guilty, That’s something that’s up for debate, yes it is Our hoover it struggles to cope with, The hair that you leave on the floor, And daily you seem to endeavour, To leave your mark on the back door, yes you do.
But I know where you go to, my lovely When you’re too cold in your bed – You seek out a windowsill sunny. Where nowt goes on inside your head!
With apologies to Peter Sarstedt
April 21st
Flowers safely planted – for the time being at least…
April 25th
SPOT THE DIFFERENCE:
One is mercilessly violent, not great on stairs and best viewed whilst hiding behind the settee – and the other is a Dalek.
April 29th
The CAGE questionnaire is used to assess whether someone has a problem with substance misuse? Well today I asked Hector its four, highly pertinent questions.
C: Have you ever felt you should Cut down on the number of sticks you eat?
No.
A: Have people Annoyed you by criticizing your stick eating?
No.
G: Have you ever felt bad or Guilty about eating sticks?
Definitely not!
E: Have you ever, as an Eye-opener, had a stick first thing in the morning to steady your nerves.
Almost every day.
So Hector scores 1 – meaning we needn’t be concerned.
May 1st
He told the vet that he’s trying to give them up – that he only ever chews outside, and even then, never in front of the children.
Liar!
Mind you, he’d tell you of a dog he once knew who chewed six bones a day…and how he lived to 15!
May 2nd
I know he’s not a chocolate Lab, but there’s something of the Green and Black’s about Hector today!
What’s more, I think he’s beginning to melt!
May 3rd
Well would you credit it?
Shortly after this photo was taken, Hector made a dash for it and pulled the sword of Arthurian legend from the stone thus proving himself to be the once and future King of Britain.
Which is nice!
May 5th
Dyfed-Powys police were inundated today by reports of a black, dog-like creature that had been seen terrorising the local neighbourhood.
So it was a little surprising that, despite being in the general vicinity of the supposed sightings, we did not witness the so called Beast of Brecon ourselves.
Meanwhile, as Hector prowled the banks of the beautiful River Usk, several sticks threw themselves despairingly into the water in the vain hope of avoiding his nefarious canine machinations.
But to no avail, as the big hearted hound endeavoured to save every one of them from their aqueous end by diving in to rescue them.
Which was nice.
May 6th
A rhino with a Labrador, You surely would not cross Cos if you did, you’d end up with A fierce Hectoseros
May 7th
I have long believed that Hector would make a useless guard dog – but now I know it for sure.
Because yesterday, having been employed as one by the Brecon Mountain Railway, as well as failing to check my ticket, he insisted that, according to his supposedly extensive knowledge of the 1993 Railways Act, my apparent crime of rewarding him with only half a dog treat, left him with no other option but to call the British Transport Police and have me thrown off the train.
My protestations fell on deaf ears as the train pulled out of the station and I was left with a two hour hike back to where we’d left the car.
I managed to console myself however with the knowledge that, unbeknownst to Hector, I had the car keys – until that is, on reaching the now vacated parking space, I remembered he had his own set!
I’m glad he found it funny!
May 10th
So it seems that you can spend too long in a bookshop after all!
May 14th
Does he like butter? Yes of course he does! And as it turns out, he likes buttercups too!
May 23rd
I’m not saying he’s stupid but…
Every morning when I walk Hector, I open the garden gate and allow him to walk off the lead to the back of the car where he waits patiently for me to open the boot.
But the morning after the night before, when I parked the car the other way round, he showed me just how intelligent he really is by walking to the front of the car and waiting patiently for me to open the bonnet!
Doh!
May 24
Sometimes I worry about myself.
These days it takes me longer to clean the kitchen floor than it once did. Because now, as well as it getting somehow dirtier than it used to, when I’m on my hands and knees, and attending to the filthy surface, I am invariably accosted by a big black hairy thing that seems to think his clambering all over me will prove helpful.
Which it doesn’t.
And then there are the unaccountable, and not infrequent, disappearances of the scrubbing brush.
And therein lies the principle cause of my concern – because this weekend, it wasn’t until I’d searched for it in countless other places, that I eventually found it where I should obviously have looked first!
May 26th
Problems encountered when the grandchildren come to stay – Number 275
GWR* services were temporarily disrupted today on account of what Network Rail blamed on ‘the wrong kind of Labrador’
*Great Wellington Railway
May 31st
At the summit of Crook Peak, an aptly named hill to find himself atop, Hector is alarmed to discover that his tongue has outgrown his mouth!
June 5th
Nearly two years on, the Batdog™ returns – only with bigger teeth!
June 13th
Sisyphus had it easy. He only had to roll a huge boulder endlessly up a steep hill, whereas I’m tasked with getting a tennis ball out of a black Labrador’s mouth!
Here my attempt
June 16th
When you’ve forgotten what ‘get in the car’ means…
June 22nd
As you can see, Hector’s pretty excited.
That’s because today, at the start of the South West Coast Path in Minehead, the salty old sea dog had a brilliant idea – to walk the 630 mile route to Poole, write a best selling account of his exploits, and then sell the film rights to the highest bidder.
He says he can’t understand why somebody hasn’t thought to do it before!
ne 28th
He celebrates a birthday, Today he’s two years old, That big, black, beast called Hector, Who won’t do what he’s told. So will he now, I wonder, A grown up dog, play ball, Desist from doing what he does, And come each time I call.
Or will he still continue, As I suspect he might, To do the things he’s prone to, That cause him such delight? Consuming what he shouldn’t, And drooling ere he feeds, Whilst plotting as he does so, Dim dark disturbing deeds.
The gooseberries he’s gobbled, Rhubarb remains at risk, Like Pavlov’s dogs, he can’t resist, His reflexes are brisk. But in the scorching sunshine, This canine cat keeps cool, With jam packed gut he ruminates, On fruity, flavoured, fool.
A furry, fiendish fellow, He daily causes grief, Some ask me why I love him, It beggars their belief. But though he is a monster, With very little brain, His driving me around the bend, Is all that keeps me sane!
‘Cos as we walk together, Along life’s shady paths, Each day it’s surely safe to say, He brings me lots of laughs. So Happy Birthday Hector, You goofy, gorgeous, goon, I hope you have a smashing time, This twenty-eighth of June!
June 30th
Confirming the truth of what the great philosopher Noel Coward once said – that it’s not just Englishman who go out in the midday sun!
2nd July
Being the excitable fellow he is, I have often had cause to tell Hector that he doesn’t know when to stop.
It seems, however, that I was wrong.
Because today, having familiarised himself with the time it takes for a vehicle to become stationary, when its brakes are applied at varying speeds and in differing weather conditions, he has finally passed his theory test and is now insisting that I give him driving lessons!
July 3rd
He’s stuck on 8 Across: Trojan hero heard to criticise verbally(6)
Any ideas anyone?
July 4th
Today Hector starred in an advert for an exciting new shampoo that promises to invigorate even the most lacklustre head of hair.
So if as you’re showering, you too find yourself longing for a scalp covering as thick and luxuriant as his, do as Hector does, and never settle for anything less than this l-absolutely fabulous product.
Because it’s not called Hairy Beast™ for nothing.
July 7th
Less cumbersome than those employed by the world’s first flying elephant, Hector today donned his own, self-styled, state of the art, micro-auricular, flight enablers and took off from Foel Wryr for a spectacular airborne tour of the Preseli Hills.
Said one stunned observer of Hector’s ariel adventure, ‘I’ve been, done, seen about everything, now I’ve seen a Labrador fly!’
July 8th
THE PINCH OF SALT PATH
Today, I thought I’d write an account of the life affirming walk I took along the Pembrokeshire Coast Path – one that is every bit as true as the plethora of similar narratives that are so in vogue at present.
But before I do, you need to understand the circumstances under which I embarked on my trek. Firstly I was somewhat strapped for cash, the state of my finances all the more perilous for want of the 40p I was charged to use the public conveniences, and secondly, I’d just been diagnosed with terminal hay fever.
But desperate though my plight was, these were challenges that prompted me to don my walking boots and start my epic journey – one that I very much hoped would result in my finding myself.
Which I did, not long after, in Saundersfoot, the town where I’d decided to commence my hike.
But no sooner had I alighted from the bus that had taken me there, I suffered one of my blackouts. For what other explanation could there be, for why one second I was biting into an individually wrapped biscotti covered caramel flavoured sponge cake, and the next I was staring at the floor where Hector was devouring what little now remained of it?
After which, things went from bad to worse when I and my canine companion were accosted by an octogenarian member of the Pontypool Women’s Institute, who forced us to give up the bench which we’d just been about to vacate, by fiendishly appearing to be a thoroughly delightful individual who wished only to engage us in friendly conversation.
Despite such an unsettling start to the day, we nonetheless made our way to the seafront and started along the coastal path to Tenby. Soon we were strolling along, high above the beach and I noticed a black Labrador, not dissimilar in appearance to Hector, splashing happily in the waves. Eager to point out the fun his double was having, I looked around to see where Hector was – only to realise that it was he who was now wreaking havoc two hundred yards away to my left. Amazingly though, having called the hapless hound, he responded immediately, and made his way back to me, choosing a route that involved him clambering over rocks and leaping off one that must have been at least eight feet high.
Unscathed he rejoined me on the footpath and we continued on our way. After walking what seemed like days, but was in fact just an hour and a quarter, we stumbled upon a private beach where, mistaken for John Noakes and Shep, we were invited to join the celebrities who were relaxing there. And so we spent a pleasant hour playing French cricket with Bryn Terfel, the Andrews Sisters, and the Marquis de Carabas.
After experiencing such a high, it was perhaps inevitable that I would soon come crashing back to earth. And so it was, at the foot of an exceptional steep hill which seemed to stretch endlessly up to the heavens, I began to ask myself life’s biggest questions – the greatest of all being why so many passers-by seemed drawn to comment on how handsome Hector was, whilst so few seemed inclined to comment similarly regarding my own facial appearance.
Managing somehow to put such concerns to one side, we managed to struggle on until eventually Ye Olde Vape Shop came into view, the establishment famously frequented by Henry VII when he visited Tenby back in the 1400s, marking the end of our walk
And so we reached our journey’s end – tired but somehow better for what, man and dog, we’d experienced together.
And amazingly, I’d not sneezed once.
July 9th
Continuing our Welsh adventure, today we set off early for Whitesands Bay only to find that the authorities had got wind of Hector’s arrival and imposed a blanket ban on all dogs from setting foot on the beach. But no matter, we went for a walk around St David’s head and Hector enjoyed frolicking in the waves at Porthmelgan
The afternoon saw us in St David’s hoping to see the world’s first Welsh Bible that is currently on display in the cathedral there. Sadly, despite desperately wanting to see the ancient tome himself, Hector wasn’t allowed into the building and, when we asked why, we were simply told that ‘that would be an ecumenical matter!’
We ended the day at Newgale where, unlike those who pay good money to swim with dolphins, I got to swim with a Labrador for free.
I know that you’ll be disappointed that no footage exists of me striding across the beach in my wetsuit, complete with ‘Atom’ emblazoned across my chest like some modern day superhero…but unfortunately I’d left my camera in the car.
So you’ll have to make do with Hector belly flopping/swimming yesterday at Tenby instead!
July 28th
Given how disappointed he was not to have travelled to Poland with me these past 10 days, it was sweet of Hector to spend our time apart learning the language so as to be able to greet me on my return today with an immaculately pronounced ‘Cześć’
So it’s a pity I forgot the Pierogi Ruskie I had promised to bring back for him.
‘Przepraszam Hectorze!’
July 30th
But, lo! What lies on yonder grassy bank? It is the beast, and Hector is his name. Arise, fair hound, and crunch thy heinous stick. That is already sick and pale with grief, That thou its foe art far more dark than it. He is my canine, O, he is my dog! O, that he knew he were! He barks, yet he says nothing: what of that? His tail keeps wagging, I will answer it. But disregarding me he goes his way, And careth not the things I daily say. See how he lies his back upon the ground His legs each one now stretching all around O that he would come when bidest I And never deign to ask the reason why.
August 1st
Once a hardened corn on the cob addict, Hector had done well to give up his twenty a day habit. But this afternoon, whilst walking through a field of maize, the temptation proved too much!
TO BE CONTINUED… probably!
August 20th
Before and after the Valium…
Other dog related blogs:
Now that this post appears too long to make further additions, to read ‘Hector’s Year – 2025’, click here
To read ‘A Farewell to Barns’, with an exclusive performance of Barney’s recently discovered Christmas hit, click here
Part 4 of what is rapidly becoming ‘The Chronicles of Hector’. Here are some festive incidents from the life of Hector- now 6 months old.
November 28th
Family birthday today – good to have extra help with the unwrapping!
December 4th
Can anyone translate – I’m not quite sure what he’s trying to say but it might have something to do with his having been taken out in the pouring rain. For anyone who can speak Labrador, I apologise for any bad language that this clip might contain!
December 6th
Once a Prime Minister has completed their first 100 days in office, it is not unusual for political commentators to review what that new premier has achieved in that time.
Well today marks the 100th day since Hector darkened our doors with his jet black fur. And so I thought that I’d reflect a little on what he has managed to achieved since joining us.
So far he has:
Destroyed a significant proportion of the plant life in our garden and left an unsightly hole in the already dismal looking lawn.
Devoured two and half very large sacks of puppy food and produced a seemingly greater amount of material that has had to be deposited in the conveniently positioned red bin situated at the end of our road
Disturbed over 90% of our nights with his nocturnal requests to have just one more moonlit stroll around the now barren flower beds.
Driven us to ever higher degrees of vigilance in a vain attempt to avoid a repeat of those occasions when he chewed up an unguarded paperback book or the straps of a dear friend’s rather expensive leather bag.
Covered the kitchen floor with his muddy paw prints such that our constant cleaning seems more futile than that of Sisyphus and his oversized boulder which, had he been there to ‘help’ Hector would probably have crunched into a thousand tiny pieces before leaving them strewn across the King of Ephyra’s courtyard.
Lain awkwardly across his bed in such a way that, with his airway partially obstructed, he snores so loudly and so persistently through the most tense moments of TV dramas that we can barely follow what’s going on.
And that’s just about it really – other than one last thing that he’s managed to do, namely to so endear himself to us that we wouldn’t want to ever be without him.
Which, when you think about it, is really rather odd!
December 11th
Dear Canine Behavioural Psychotherapist,
Judging by the holes that he has started digging in our back garden, my black Labrador puppy appears to believe himself to be part of the Leporidae family.
Should I
a) start feeding him carrots and have him vaccinated against myxomatosis
b) send him off to the circus in the hope that he can make a living in a freak show as the world’s only Rabbit Dog, or
c) concrete over the lawn and accept the fact that I was never going to win anything at the Chelsea flower show anyway.
Yours ever so sincerely but perhaps now just the teensiest bit exasperated…
December 12th
Dear Canine Behavioural Psychotherapist,
I’m sorry to bother you again but since our last communication, my allegedly intelligent black Labrador puppy seems to have taken, a little too literally, my assertion yesterday that he didn’t have a leg to stand on for his injudicious digging up of our back garden.
I say this as it would appear that he has now resolved, in his all too tiny mind, to try and eat his way through his own hindquarters. Having not come across such autocannabalistic endeavours before, I was wondering, should I:
a) allow him to continue unabated and reduce his daily food allowance accordingly,
b) check Amazon for a suitable prosthesis and, given his obvious enthusiasm for the task in hand, hope that it is available for next day delivery or
c) dig out my sons long discarded skateboard with a view to it forming the basis of a device upon which, when the inevitable happens, he can propel himself using only the power of his inherent determination to always move in the direction of food irrespective of how putrid the imagined tasty morsel might be?
Thank you in anticipation of having to correspond with you yet again in the not too far distant future.
Yours ever so sincerely…
December 16th
‘Sanctuary’ – for the dog who rolls in fox poo.
December 21st
Hector gets ready for his staring role in the local Nativity Play.
December 24th
‘Twas the night before Christmas and, at 4pm, when it had only just got dark, Hector got himself ready for bed evidently looking forward to what his stocking would contain in the morning!
He wasn’t, however, very good job at pretending to be asleep!
December 25th
Hector was pleased with his Christmas present – so much so he promptly destroyed it. Still I suppose it saves him having to write a thank you note!
January 1st
It’s early days but So far at least, Hector’s New Year’s resolution, to always wipe his paws thoroughly after coming in from the garden, seems to be going pretty well!
But don’t be fooled by his innocent looking face, he’s only gone and eaten the bloomin’ Christmas tree!
Ah well, it was time we bought some new decorations anyway!
This is just a month in the life of my notorious black Labrador. You can find out what he got up to both before and after what you’ve read here by reading ‘The Chronicles of Hector’, the ever expanding complete story of one who is becoming well known the world over. Read his story by clicking here
Maybe it’s because I’m rapidly becoming a sentimental old fool, but take my advice and never, ever, agree to watch ‘The Repair Shop’ with me – not, that is, if you’re likely to feel awkward sat next to a grown man who is struggling to hold back the tears.
As a result of how much I bang on about it, my family will all tell you how I absolutely love ‘The Repair Shop’. What is it though that keeps me tuning in to watch each new episode, all of which are, essentially, the same?
Maybe it’s the inherent pleasure that comes from watching a group of skilled craftsmen and craftswomen at work, and seeing the obvious affection that each one has for all the others. Maybe it’s the warm glow I get inside from witnessing, not only the smiles they put on the faces of those whose broken items they repair, but the joy they themselves so evidently experience from doing so. Or maybe it’s because I’m guaranteed, not just one, but four happy endings with each heart warming episode.
But whatever the reason, I always enjoy the show and not infrequently find myself coming over all emotional. And catching up last night with this years Christmas special was no exception.
Because as well as being fun to watch an amazingly complex mechanical Christmas cake being restored, I found it genuinely moving to look on as the much more simple repair of an old record player took place.
The broken turntable enclosed within a wooden box had huge sentimental value for the lady who brought it to ‘The Repair Shop’, as it had been bought for her as a present by her 11 year old son, and given to her on Christmas Day 2005, less than two weeks before he died of osteosarcoma, a particularly unpleasant form of bone cancer.
Understandably, his mother wanted it repaired so she could use it to play the records she and her son had enjoyed when he had been alive. With it functioning again, she would be able recall more vividly the happy times they had shared, a tangible reminder of her son that would somehow make him feel that he was back with her once more
It was a highly emotional story and I was not the only one moved by it. Mark Stuckey, the electronics wizard charged with restoring the device, was also visibly affected by it such that he too was close on tears, something that must only have strengthened his resolve to make good the repair.
I don’t doubt how comforting it must be for the Mum to now be able to use her son’s parting gift to her to play the records that she listened to all those years before, but I couldn’t help wondering how much more comforting it would be if it had been her son who had been repaired, if it had been he that had been given back to her in perfect working order.
And so I thought of another reason why I might enjoy ‘The Repair Shop’ so much, and why I find it so often causing me to shed a tear. Perhaps, I thought, it’s because, as well as reminding me how much in this world is broken, it points me forward to a time that that will surely one one day be, when a more masterful craftsmen than any in ‘The Repair Shop’, and a greater physician than any I have ever worked with, returns and makes all things well.
Because as a Christian that is what I genuinely believe I have good cause to look forward to. I wholeheartedly believe that Jesus really will return and when he does, for God’s people, every tear will be wiped away and sickness and death will be no more.
At the end of a year in which so many have suffered as a result of war or natural disaster, and the beginning of another, which many I know will start with them struggling with sickness and sadness, it is a comfort to me that, whilst for now I weep with those who weep, we none of us need mourn as those who have no hope.
Because irrespective of whether Jesus returns this year, or long after I have myself died, it is no less true that, though weeping may tarry for the nighttime, joy really will come with the morning.
There are most certainly better days ahead – ones when the repair shop will no longer be required.
Paddington woke up. He stretched out his arms and yawned the yawn of a bear that had grown accustomed to the comfort of sleeping in a soft bed in a warm house in Notting Hill rather than in a leafy tree in the rainforests of Peru. He emitted a contented growl as he slid his legs over the edge of the bed and made his way to the bathroom. Having washed his hairy face and attended to his impressive teeth, being a bear who was always careful to obey instructions, Paddington left the cotton buds in their packet and, as had become his custom, proceeded to clean his ears out with an electric toothbrush. Then, with a couple of puffs of Otomize, sprayed into each of his auditory canals to treat his unaccountably persistent otitis externa, he finally completed his morning ablutions.
Downstairs breakfast was almost over and Mrs Bird was already beginning to clear the table. Mr Brown however was still sat there reading the morning paper. Paddington noticed the headline on the front page. Once again it was being reported that GPs were irresponsibly refusing to see patients in their surgeries for face to face appointments.
‘I don’t know’, Mr Brown said to Paddington, noticing him as he clambered onto a chair and began to help himself to a bowl of cereal. ‘Who’d be a doctor these days, what with all the bad press they seem to be getting? Sometimes I worry about whether Judy has done the right thing by going to medical school. Surely there must be better ways for her to make a living’.
Paddington continued to eat his breakfast. He was making something of a mess of things and it wasn’t long before Mrs Bird was fussing around him, mopping up the milk that was dripping off the table and collecting in small pools on the floor.
‘I hope you’re not planning on spending the whole day at home’, she said to Paddington. ‘I’ve already got plenty enough to do today without you making more work for me.’
Paddington thanked Mrs Bird for the breakfast and assured her that he had other plans for the day.
‘I thought I might go and see my friend Mr Gruber’, he said to her. ‘There’s something rather important I’d like to talk to him about’.
Paddington made himself a packed lunch made up solely of marmalade sandwiches which he then proceeded to balance on his head before covering them with his hat. Then he put on his old blue duffel coat and bright red Wellington boots and stepped out of the front door of number 32 Windsor Gardens. As he began to make his way down the steps to the street below he heard an angry voice coming from his neighbour’s house. Mr Curry was leaning out of the front window holding a phone to his ear.
‘Oi bear’, he shouted at Paddington ‘I need you to make yourself useful for once and post a letter for me. It needs to be in the post box at the end of the road before 10 o’clock. I can’t do it as I’m stuck here on the phone trying to get through to the GP surgery. I’ve already been kept waiting for 15 minutes and apparently there are still 37 other callers in front of me in the queue. What kind of service do you call that?’
‘I’m sure they’re all doing their very best’, replied Paddington, ‘I hear they are exceptionally busy at the moment and are struggling to cope with…’
Mr Curry was having none of it and interrupted Paddington mid sentence. ‘Don’t you start with all that rubbish about GPs being busy. The truth is that GPs are overpaid and lazy. They’re just scared of a hard days work and are taking advantage of all this nonsense about Covid-19 to make excuses as to why they can’t do their jobs properly. It’s not good enough. Some of us have urgent medical problems that need sorting. I’ve had a nasty wart on my finger for nearly a week now and I’m going to absolutely insist that somebody sees me about today.’
With that Mr Curry threw an envelope out of the window which landed at Paddington feet. Paddington picked it up and waved it cheerfully at Mr Curry. He then carefully slipped it under his hat explaining that that was where he kept everything that was important. He assured Mr Curry that he’d be sure to post it promptly.
‘Just be sure that you do’ Mr Curry growled at Paddington before slamming his window shut with such force that the glass rattled in the frame and Paddington thought for a moment that it might break.
Paddington continued on his way and before too long he was stood on the Portobello Road, outside the antique shop owned by Mr Gruber. Paddington pushed open the door, and as he did so a small bell chimed to announce his arrival.
‘Ah Mr Brown!’ Mr Gruber exclaimed emerging from the room at the back of the shop, ‘How very lovely it is for me to see you. Come in, come in. You are just in time for elevenses. I was just making some tea. Please join me and tell me what it is that I have done to deserve the honour of your company’.
Paddington sat down on an old chair. Mr Gruber poured them both a small cup of a tea from an old China tea pot and then, noticing that Paddington had a troubled expression on his face, asked his dear friend if anything was the matter.
‘Well it’s like this, Mr Gruber. Everyone seems to be blaming GPs for everything. Almost every day the newspapers have something unpleasant to say about them. Are they really the cause of all the problems in the NHS? And what about Judy? She seems such a kind young lady. Will she become mean and uncaring too after she’s been studying medicine for a few years?’
Mr Gruber walked over to where Paddington was sitting and sat down next to him. He smiled to himself as he placed the cups of tea on the small table that was positioned between them.
‘GPs aren’t the problem’, Mr Gruber began in his strong Hungarian accident. ‘And most of the people know it. But there are those who like to have somebody to blame and though it’s only really a very small number who have it in for GPs at the moment, they are making such a lot of noise just now. So you see Paddington, you shouldn’t believe everything that you read in the papers. If there’s one I know for sure it’s that not everything that’s reported there is strictly true. And something else I know for sure is this. You absolutely needn’t worry about Judy. She’ll always be as lovely as she is today.’
‘But why would reporters not want to tell the truth?’ asked Paddington.
‘Why indeed, Mr Brown Why indeed? Now drink your tea and l’ll see if I can’t find us something nice to eat’.
Paddington and Mr Gruber sat and chatted about how busy the NHS was and discussed what, if anything, could be done to make things easier for those who worked in what was, they both agreed, an organisation that needed to be supported rather than constantly criticised. After a while, Paddington stood up.
‘I think, Mr Gruber, that I had better get going. I think I’ll pop along to the doctors surgery that the Brown’s are registered at and see for myself just how busy they really are. Perhaps I could even lend a helping paw.’
And with that Paddington said ‘Goodbye’. He left Mr Gruber’s shop and made his way to the medical centre. It was about a twenty minute walk away and when he arrived it was approaching midday. Outside the front door of the building was a long queue of people. Paddington made his way to the front where a man was shouting at a receptionist and insisting that he be allowed to speak to the practice manager.
Paddington didn’t like the way the man was speaking to the lady behind the desk who was clearly close to tears. He gave a couple of firm tugs on the man’s sleeve in order to gain the man’s attention. The man duly stopped his tirade towards the poor receptionist and turned to look at the furry faced figure that was standing by his side.
‘Excuse me, sir,’ Paddington began. ‘I’m sorry to interrupt what I am sure is a very important conversation but I thought you might like to hear something that my Great Aunt Lucy used to say. She lives in a home for retired bears in Lima now but she always told me that ‘If we are kind and polite, the world will be alright’.
And with that Paddington wandered on into the main body of the medical centre, the man looking incredulously on as he did so. Slowly the man turned back to the receptionist, seemingly lost for words.
‘Was there anything else’, the receptionist asked him, her mouth now breaking out into a broad smile.
‘No, No, Nothing at all. thank you’, said the man. ‘Other than…’ He paused turning to watch as Paddington slipped out of sight. ‘Are you aware that you have bear in your health centre?’
Paddington, meanwhile, was making his way along a quiet corridor. At the end was a door. He pushed it open and found himself in what appeared to be a small store room. In front of him was a cupboard labelled with the words ‘Blood Bottles’. Paddington was a little concerned as to what might lie within so it was with some relief that, when he eventually summoned up the courage to open the door, he found that the shelves were all empty.
To his right was a trolly on which lay a strange looking machine, the like of which Paddington had never seen before. He looked at it closely and saw written over what appeared to be two handles, the words ‘Lift here’. Doing only what he was instructed, Paddington took hold of the handles noticing as he did so their shiny undersides. As he picked them up a light appeared on the machine and a voice that seemed to come from within the machine announced that a shock was advised. Paddington wasn’t quite sure what that meant but as he was pondering what he should do next the voice in the machine spoke again helpfully suggesting that he should press the button that had now started flashing insistently. Paddington clasped the two paddles to his chest with one hand and in so doing freed up the other hand to press the button as he had been directed.
Paddington wasn’t entirely certain what happened to him at that point but the next thing he knew he was he was lying on the floor looking up at the ceiling. Amazingly his hat was still on his head but the fur on his chest was badly singed, his body was covered with a soot like material and he noticed that wisps of smoke were spiralling out of both his ears.
‘Well that was a shock’, Paddington said to himself getting to his feet and brushing himself down. ‘Perhaps it would be better if I moved on and see if I might be able to offer my help more fruitfully elsewhere.’
Paddington made his way back down the corridor passing the reception area again and continuing on until he eventually came to a large room in which were a number of chairs placed in pairs, each pair a couple of metres away from any others. Only one chair was occupied. A young woman sat with her head down staring at the ground. She was fidgeting with her hands and she was having difficulty keeping her feet still. Paddington thought she looked sad and he went over to her seating himself in the chair next to hers.
‘What’s the problem’, he said to the woman who looked up at him, seemingly not registering the fact that she was being talked to by a bear.
‘Oh just everything’, she answered and with that she began to cry and proceeded to tell Paddington so many things that she was concerned about that Paddington didn’t know what to say. He thought it would be best therefore if he said nothing at all and decided instead to gently place his paw on the woman’s hand.
‘I’m sorry you’re sad’ he said, and as he did so a tear began to trickle down his cheek. As he sat there he remembered something else his Aunt Lucy had once told him, something she’d once read about how a real friend, a friend who truly cares, is someone who knows how to share the pain of another, who can stay with that person in their hour of grief and can face with them the reality of their powerlessness.
After a few minutes of silence, the woman looked up and smiled at Paddington, ‘Thank you’, she said. ‘It’s been lovely having you sat with me for a while. You’re a very kind bear.’
Just then a man stumbled into the waiting room. He staggered around until eventually he collapsed onto one of the chairs on the other side of the room to where Paddington and the young woman were sitting. He looked unwell. Very unwell. His skin was sweaty and he appeared confused. Paddington walked over to man and tried to make conversation but Paddington couldn’t make any sense of what the man was saying.
Paddington looked at the clock on the waiting room wall and noticing that the time was a little after one o’clock, had an idea. Perhaps, he thought, the problem was simply that the man was hungry. And with that Paddington lifted his hat and took the marmalade sandwiches that he’d made earlier down from off his head.
“Would you like to share my lunch?’ Paddington asked the man, ‘I never feel my best if I go without something to eat around this time of the day.’
The man didn’t appear to understand what Paddington was saying. He only seemed to be getting more and more unwell. Paddington, confident now that he’d diagnosed the problem correctly, forced open the man’s lips and pushed a little of one of the sandwiches into the man’s mouth. At first nothing happened but slowly the man’s colour returned and his speech became more coherent. Within a minute or two he’d stopped sweating and was sat upright in the chair smiling.
At that moment a doctor rushed into the room having been called by a receptionist who had noticed the sick man when he had first lurched into the building a few minutes previously.
‘What’s up?’ gasped the doctor, catching his breath after running as fast he could from his room on the other side of the building. He’d been busy all morning seeing other folk who were unwell and had just been admitting a patient who was acutely short of breath with what he suspected was a pulmonary embolus.
‘Nothing now, doc!’ smiled the man. ‘thanks to this ‘ere bear! I’d given myself too much insulin this morning and I was having another one of my hypos. But this young bear’s marmalade sandwich has put me right good and proper so it has!’
Paddington didn’t really understand what the man was saying but was glad he was clearly feeling very much better. A number of other people were now gathering in the waiting room and every single one of them was looking at Paddington. Paddington smiled back at them, taking a mouthful of what was left of the half eaten sandwich. ‘Would anyone else like I bite?, he asked. ‘I find that most things seem better after eating a small amount of marmalade’.
It was then that another receptionist walked into the room. She was looking somewhat alarmed. ‘Dr Mungo’, she said nervously. ‘There are some people here to see you. They say they are from the CQC’.
The receptionist stepped to one side revealing the two men and one women who were stood there behind her. They were all wearing smarts suits and clutching clipboards. None of them were smiling. The woman, who seemed to be the leader of the group, stepped forward.
‘We’ve come as a result of reports we’ve received that there is a bear on your premises. As you’ll be aware this is entirely unacceptable and if true will undoubtedly lead to the practice being rated as inadequate and having to shut down immediately’.
The room fell deathly silent. But then the man who had until recently been so unwell, stood up and approached the group of officials. ‘I’ll have you know this young bear just about saved my life’.
‘That’s as maybe sir. But how well a bear may or may not have managed your particular condition doesn’t change anything. The presence of a bear within the walls of a GP practice is a clear contravention of the guidelines that have been laid down to ensure the safe running of medical centres and I am afraid that I therefore have no option but…’
At this point the CQC inspector stopped talking, her eyes drawn to Paddington who had also stood up and was now looking at the woman intently. In fact, so intently was he looking at her, he might even be said to have been staring, one of those hard stares that Aunt Lucy had taught him to give to those who were acting in ways of which they should be ashamed. The inspector flushed, obviously embarrassed by her behaviour.
‘…but perhaps’ the woman continued slowly, ‘we can make an exception in this case. In fact, it will be my recommendation that this practice be rated as ‘Outstanding’, and I will see to it that you won’t face any further inspection for at least three years’.
With that the team of inspectors turned and left the building and everybody started clapping in delight. Somebody shouted ‘Three cheers for Paddington’ and before long a song started up, the gist of which seemed to be that everyone was happy to agree that Paddington was ‘a jolly good fellow’. Paddington however was feeling uneasy and his ursine features could not conceal the fact. Dr Mungo, noticing something was up, stepped over to where Paddington was sat and asked him what the matter was.
‘It’s this letter’, said Paddington, holding out the envelope that Mr Curry had thrown at him earlier. ‘I promised my neighbour that I’d post it by 10 o’clock but I completely forgot. It was only when I went to get my sandwich out from under my hat and it fell on the floor that I remembered. And now it’s too late and I won’t be able to post it on time’.
Dr Mungo took the letter form Paddington and laughed. ‘It’s OK, Paddington’, he said. ‘look at the address. It’s a letter for here! And if I’m not very mistaken I recognise the handwriting. It’s that of somebody who is always writing letters of complaint to the practice. I’ll file it with the others!’
Paddington was delighted by the news that Mr Curry’s letter had safely arrived at it’s intended destination. ‘Oh I am glad’, he said, ‘because it is so important one keeps one’s promises’. He paused for a moment. ‘Dr Mungo, try not to be too hard on Mr Curry. I don’t think he means to be unpleasant, it’s just that he doesn’t seem to have much that makes him happy. I think perhaps his life may have been rather hard’.
‘Don’t worry Paddington‘ said Dr Mungo smiling, ‘I’ll do my best to follow the advice of an old Peruvian bear who I believe once said that, ‘If you look for the good in people, you’ll generally find it’.
Paddington smiled. ‘Oh that’s so true, Dr Mungo. Aunt Lucy certainly is a wise old bear. But before I leave you to get on with your work, here’s something else she used to say. ‘However busy you are – always stop for lunch’.
And with that Paddington removed his hat and held out to Dr Mungo what was left of his lunch. ‘How do you fancy a marmalade sandwich?’ he said.
*****
PADDINGTON AND THE AILING ELDERLY RELATIVE
It was Christmas Eve and Dr Mungo was writing up what he hoped would be the last consultation of the day. As he did so he reflected on what had been an eventful twelve months. A year previously he’d been a partner at Portside Medical Centre but when several doctors left and nobody could be found to replace them, the practice had eventually collapsed. And so, when Bob Cratchit had got in touch and asked whether he would like to join his practice, filling the vacancy created by the untimely death of Dr Ebenezer Scrooge exactly one year ago, Dr Mungo had jumped at the chance.
The last few weeks though had been incredibly difficult. The demand for appointments had never been so high with duty doctors regularly being asked to manage more than a hundred requests for urgent medical attention a day. No wonder he was looking forward to a few days off over Christmas.
But then the phone rang. Dr Mungo picked up the receiver and heard the familiar voice of one of his receptionist.
‘I’m sorry to bother you Dr Mungo but we’ve just had a ‘walk in’ who says he’s worried about his Aunt. He says he tried to phone but, what with us taking so many calls this afternoon, he couldn’t get through. I should add, Dr Mungo, that the person with me in reception…well…he’s not a person at all. He is in fact…a bear!’
‘A bear you say?’
‘That’s right. And he says he knows you’.
‘Does he now?’ said Dr Mungo beginning to smile. ‘Is he by chance wearing a blue duffel coat and sporting a red hat?’
‘As a matter of fact he is. How did you know that?’
‘Because one doesn’t get to meet too many bears, not, at least, in this part of the world. It can only be Paddington. And yes I do know him well. What’s more I will be forever indebted to him as a result of his coming to my rescue when the CQC paid a particularly stressful visit to my old practice. Please, show him through’.
And so a minute or two later Paddington was stood in the doorway of Dr Mungo’s room.
‘Good evening Dr Mungo’ he said, lifting his hat as he did so. ‘It’s very kind of you to see me so late in the day. And on Christmas Eve too’
‘Not at all Paddington, it’s my very great pleasure. Now, how can I help?’
‘It’s my Aunt Lucy, Dr Mungo. She’s not been in the best of health for a while and has been in residential care for some years, living in a home for retired bears in deepest, darkest Peru. But she’s always wanted to visit London and the Brown’s very kindly said she could come and stay for Christmas. But this week she become more unwell with her breathing getting steadily worse. She didn’t want me to bother anyone but today I’m very worried about her. Could you possibly come and see her?’
‘Of course Paddington’, said Dr Mungo noticing the clock was showing that it was now past six thirty. ‘I’ll come straight away. Have you got your car?’
‘Sadly not. I had to stop driving a couple of months ago following an episode when Mr Brown panicked and took me to casualty because he sought I’d had some kind of absence attack. It was eventually put down as an unprovoked syncopal episode though in reality it was merely that I was experiencing a moment of ecstasy after tasting Mrs Bird’s steamed marmalade pudding’.
‘Oh I am sorry Paddington. But never mind that now, we’ll go together in my car. Follow me’
Dr Mungo grabbed his medical bag and exited the building, pursued by a bear. Paddington’s home was a few minutes drive away and so Dr Mungo took the opportunity to ask Paddington what he’d been up to since last they’d met.
‘Oh nothing much’, Paddington said, ‘though, having said that, there was that one occasion when I had tea at Buckingham Palace. I met the Queen there, a lovely lady and, do you know Dr Mungo, she told me she once did a parachute jump?’
‘I did hear something about that’ replied Dr Mungo, pulling up outside 32 Windsor Gardens as he did so.
They got out of the car and headed into the house whereupon Paddington led the way to the downstairs room where his ailing aunt was lying in bed. The room was in darkness and the only sound that could be heard was the obviously laboured breathing of an elderly omnivore. It was immediately clear to Dr Mungo that Paddington’s Aunt Lucy was in urgent need of medical attention and wasted no time in pulling his phone from out of his pocket and dialling 999.
The phone rang…and rang…and rang. But nobody answered. Eventually, when nearly ten minutes had past, Dr Mungo, knew he could wait no longer. Lately he had had patients experience long delays for ambulances and he was, therefore, all too well aware of how stretched the emergency services were. And so he decided he and Paddington would have to try and get Aunt Lucy to the hospital themselves.
Kneeling down next to her bed, he asked if she thought she could try to make it to the car. Aunt Lucy indicated her willingness to try with an almost imperceptible nod of her head and so began the painful process of sitting her up in her bed, easing her legs over the edge of the bed and then, with all her weight supported upon Dr Mungo’s shoulders, slowly walking her out of the room, across the hall and out onto the street. Finally, having manoeuvred Aunt Lucy into the backseat of his car and strapped Paddington safely in beside her, Dr Mungo got into the driver’s seat and set off for the hospital. As they arrived it was beginning to snow. Dr Mungo found a wheelchair that they could make use of and before long he was wheeling his ever more breathless patient through the doors of the A&E department.
Inside, the waiting room was packed. Patients were sat on every available chair and many more were sitting on the floor. A television screen attached to the wall indicated that the average waiting time was seven hours. Dr Mungo said that he’d stay with Aunt Lucy and suggested that Paddington should join the queue to tell the receptionist of their arrival.
In front of him was a man he recognised as his perpetually complaining neighbour, Mr Curry. Eventually he made it to the front of the queue and glared at the young woman who was doing her very best to enter everybody’s details on the hospital computer system.
‘Call this the National Health?’ Mr Curry began. ‘More like the national disgrace. You should all be ashamed of yourselves’
The receptionist tried to ignore his unpleasantness and enquired how she might help.
‘I want to see a doctor and I want to see one now’
‘Well as you can see sir, we are very busy. But if you could tell me what the problem is we’ll do all we can to help you just as soon as we possibly can’
‘I’m not telling someone who isn’t medically trained my problems. Get me a doctor this minute’
As he said this he felt a tug on his sleeve and turned to see Paddington looking at him intently. Suddenly he felt somewhat hot about the collar.
‘Why are you looking at me like that…is it me or is it hot in here… why am I feeling so uncomfortable…so flushed…so queasy?’
‘It’s a hard stare Mr Curry’ replied Paddington. ‘My aunt taught me to do them when people had forgotten their manners’
Suddenly Mr Curry forgot what aspect of his health had been concerning him and he wandered away from the reception desk leaving Paddington at the front of the queue. The receptionist smiled at him and thanked him for his patience.
‘That’s totally OK’ Paddington said, ‘I can see that you are busy, it must be very hard for you’
‘It is a little – especially when not everyone is as understanding as you are’
‘Aunt Lucy always says that if you look for the good in people, you’ll find it.’
The receptionist, unaccustomed to being spoken to so kindly, looked for a moment that she might cry.
‘Your aunt sounds like a very wise and exceptionally kind lady’ she said. ‘Perhaps she should write a book containing all the beautiful things that life has taught her’
‘That’s a lovely idea’ said Paddington, ‘but first I think she might need to see a doctor. She’s over there in the wheelchair. She’s very weak and she can hardly breathe’.
The receptionist looked across to where Paddington was indicating and saw immediately that Aunt Lucy needed urgent attention. She promised Paddington that she would get her seen as soon as possible and hurried off to find a nurse. Moments later one appeared and Paddington and Dr Mungo watched as she wheeled Aunt Lucy off to a separate room, explaining as she did so, that she’d be back as soon as she had any news.
It was now nearly 8pm and Paddington told Dr Mungo to go home explaining that he’d be fine now by himself. He explained the Browns would all be home by now and they would be able to collect him when the time came. Dr Mungo conceded that there was no more that he could do at present and so said his goodbyes but not before making Paddington promise that he would call if there was anything he could do to help.
Once alone, Paddington realised he was thirsty and he noticed that there was a machine that dispensed hot drinks standing in the corner of the waiting room. He briefly considered making use of it but, with the memory of an encounter he once had with a defibrillator still fresh in his mind, he dismissed the notion, recognising how, whenever he tried to make use of any electrical appliance, disaster seemed to inevitably ensue. On this occasion however he needn’t have worried for the machine was out of order and had been for some while.
Paddington then went for a walk around the emergency department. Amongst those waiting for treatment it seemed to Paddington that there were a great many who didn’t really need to be there at all and he wondered how the doctors and nurses coped in the face of such demand. Wandering further he passed through some double doors and found himself in a room where a doctor was sat at a desk with his head in his hands. And Paddington suddenly realised that not all doctors and nurses were coping.
‘What’s the matter?’ he asked the doctor who looked like he might have been crying.
‘Oh nothing’ the medic replied. ‘It’s just that sometimes it all feels too much and that I’m just not good enough’
‘My Aunt Lucy says that we should never blame ourselves for what isn’t our fault.’ said Paddington. ‘She’d say that you were undoubtedly doing your best in sometimes impossible circumstances and that’s all anyone could ever ask of you’.
And with that Paddington lifted up his hat and pulled out a marmalade sandwich. ‘Before he died, my Uncle Pastuzo used to say ‘A wise bear always keeps a marmalade sandwich in his hat in case if emergency’. Well it seems to me that this is just such an emergency.’
Paddington held out the sandwich. ‘Take it’ he said. ‘It’ll do you good. You know, one marmalade sandwich contains all the minerals and vitamins a bear needs for a whole day!’
The doctor took a bite and as he did so he felt instantly better. It wasn’t that he was suffering from any nutritional deficiency, nor was it that he liked marmalade, on the contrary he found the taste particularly unpleasant. But the kindness with which the snack had been offered was sufficient to lift his spirits’.
‘Thank you’ the doctor said, putting what was left of the sandwich on the desk. ‘I guess I had better see another patient. It’s just such a shame that we sometimes have to see so many that don’t really need to be seen at all’.
And it was then that Paddington had an idea. He made his way back to the middle of the waiting room and then, having taken a big breath in, gave the biggest ursine growl of his young life. And then, as the sound of his exhalation rattled the windows of the waiting room, something remarkable happened as dozens and dozens of patients whose medical needs were not worthy of their attendance in an A&E department decided they would rather not wait any longer and simply left, leaving only those who were truly in need of medical attention.
The medical staff were delighted at the effect of Paddington’s intervention and set about their work with renewed vigour. But even as they did so, Paddington noticed that his efforts hadn’t been sufficient to encourage Mr Curry to leave.
‘Are you aware there’s a bear in your department’ he said to the receptionist before turning towards Paddington and approaching him with such a frown on his face that it was all too apparent that he’d found yet another thing he could complain about.
‘Well I wouldn’t exactly call that benevolent, roaring so loudly and scaring so many needy people away. I’d say it was rather hypocritical coming from bear who is always insisting that we should always be kind. What would your precious Aunt Lucy say about that I wonder!’
Paddington paused a moment to consider his response. ‘I think, Mr Curry, that she’d say that kindness isn’t simply a matter of being nice, that sometimes it’s also about being fair, and that what’s fair isn’t always what everyone wants’. And then Paddington gave another of his hard stares, one that was so hard that even Mr Curry couldn’t help but turn tail and head out of the casualty department and into the cold night air.
Exhausted by his endeavours, Paddington sat down in one of the now numerous empty seats. He watched as all around him the NHS did what it does best, namely providing care that is free at the point of need to those who required it. And he wondered how Aunt Lucy was getting on and whether or not she’d be all right.
Half an hour had passed when Paddington heard a familiar voice. Looking up he saw it was his good friend Mr Gruber, who, he remembered, had taken a job as a hospital porter to supplement his income now that, as a result of the economic downturn, his antique shop was no longer an establishment that made a profit sufficient to live on.
‘Master Brown’, he said ‘I have been twisting my knickers looking for you. Aunt Lucy has been moved to a side room in a ward elsewhere in the hospital. The doctors are saying you can see her now. Follow me’.
Mr Gruber led Paddington down a long empty corridor till they came to the ward where Aunt Lucy had been taken. On the left there was a side room, the door of which Mr Gruber opened and ushered Paddington in. Aunt Lucy was lying in a bed, her breathing less laboured. She appeared to be asleep
‘The doctors, they soon will be here’ said Mr Gruber quietly. ‘When they arrive be careful not to be forgetting your queues and peas’. He smiled at his friend and then slipped out of the room.
Paddington sat down on the chair next to the bed and waited. After a few minutes the door opened and in walked two women both with stethoscopes draped around their necks. The taller of the two approached Paddington and introduced herself.
‘Hello Paddington, my name is…’
‘The same as mine’. The voice was barely audible but unmistakably that of Aunt Lucy. ‘I can see it written on your badge’
‘That’s right’, said the woman, turning to Aunt Lucy. ‘I’m a consultant who specialises in elderly care. And this is a medical student who’s working with me this evening. Her name’s…’
‘Judy’, exclaimed Paddington excitedly, suddenly recognising Mr and Mrs Brown’s daughter who was, he remembered, nearing the end of her medical training. ‘It’s so good to see you!’ He slipped off the chair and gave her a big hug.
The consultant smiled at them as she watched them greet each other. She sat down on the edge of Aunt Lucy’s bed and waited for small bear as he climbed back onto his chair. As he did so, Paddington watched the consultant intently and wondered what it was that she would have to say.
‘How is she Doctor?’ he asked.
‘Well Paddington, I’m afraid your Aunt is very old now. As you know she’s been becoming frailer of late. And now she’s really quite poorly’ The consultant turned to Aunt Lucy and placed her hand on her paw. ‘We’ve done some tests, an X-ray and some scans, and we’ve found that there is a growth on her lungs. The kind of growth that is going to get bigger, the kind of growth that we can’t do a great deal about’. The consultant paused a moment, allowing Paddington to take in the enormity of her words. ‘Do you understand what I’m saying?’ she asked gently.
‘Are you saying, she’s got…’ Paddington paused, not wanting to add the word he knew he must. ‘Cancer?’
‘I’m afraid I do’
All was quiet for a few moments. Nobody spoke. Eventually Aunt Lucy broke the silence.
‘It’s all right Paddington’, she whispered. ‘It’s all right. It’s my time’.
Paddington slipped back down from his chair and climbed up onto Aunt Lucy bed and kissed her, a solitary tear rolling down his cheek. He looked back at the consultant.
‘Is there nothing you can do?’ he asked quietly.
‘Oh yes, there’s a lot we can do…but we can’t cure her.’
Again the consultant paused and Paddington looked down at Aunty Lucy again
‘We can’t cure her Paddington, but we can care for her’
Paddington looked up again as another tear began it’s long journey down his cheek and along his nose before falling silently to the floor. He wasn’t sure what to say.
The consultant turned again to her patient. ‘What’s important to you Aunt Lucy’ she asked.
‘Being with Paddington’, Lucy replied, taking her nephew’s paw in hers as she did so. ‘And marmalade of course!’ she added, managing a slight chuckle.
The consultant smiled again. ‘Would you like to go home?’
‘I rather think I would. You’ve been very kind, but I’m not sure I like being in a hospital.’
‘Then that’s what we’ll do. We’ll get everything organised for you to go home where you’ll be more comfortable. We’ll speak to Dr Mungo and make sure everything is properly in place. I’m sure that he and the district nurses will be able to provide all the support you’ll need’.
The consultant stood up and checking that nobody had anything else they wanted to ask made to leave. At the door she turned and asked Paddington whether perhaps she could ask him a question.
‘Of course!’, he replied
‘That time you met the Queen – did she really have a sandwich in her handbag?’
Paddington smiled. ‘Oh yes!’ he said earnestly. ‘And she used to make her own marmalade too. I’m sure that is the reason she lived to such a ripe old age. Is that a possibility?’
‘Well,’ replied the consultant, ‘I couldn’t say for sure, but I understand that marmalade is a good source of vitamins and minerals so it certainly won’t have done her any harm. Perhaps I should start carrying a marmalade sandwich in my medical bag – just in case of emergencies!’
And with that the consultant left the room, indicating to Judy as she did so that she should stay with Paddington and Aunt Lucy.
For a while none of them said anything, choosing instead to hold each other and share the preciousness of those few moments in each another’s company
‘Judy’ began Paddington eventually, ‘the consultant you’re working with, she is a good doctor isn’t she?’
‘Oh yes Paddington. She’s one of the very best. Like your Aunty Lucy she is very wise and exceptionally kind. She always knows what’s best – sometimes I think she must know everything that there is to know.’
‘Perhaps she should write a book’
‘Perhaps she already has!‘
Paddington’s eyes widened.
‘That’s right Paddington. And a very good book it is too. In fact it’s thebook about getting older. You should read it one day!’
‘Perhaps I will’ said Paddington, ‘but first I think we should ring your parents. They’ll be wondering where I am. It’ll soon be Christmas Day and I wouldn’t want them to worry about me! And besides, I have a question I need to ask them’, he added, looking at his dear Aunt Lucy. ‘Would they please look after this bear!’
*****
Far, far away, yet somewhere unimaginably close, Dr Ebenezer Scrooge is walking across beautifully green fields. Alongside him is Mrs Gray, his former patient, who had died only a year or two before the former GP. They are laughing together
Up ahead is a wood – a vast unexplored wilderness. There they meet a bear whose name is Pastuzo. He tells them how a new room has been built on the tree house where he lives and that recently a huge preserving pan has been delivered full to overflowing with perfectly ripe Seville oranges. He says that it’s almost as though a place is being prepared for a new arrival with everything that they could ever possibly want being made ready for them.
Pastuzo wonders who it might be. He says he thinks he knows. And now he can barely contain his delight.
THE END
‘Paddington and the Ailing Elderly Rekative’ serves to complete both ‘The Scrooge Chronicles’ and ‘The Dr Mungo Chronicles’, the latter being made up of ‘Mr Benn – the GP’, ‘A GP called Paddington’ and ‘Scooby Doo and the Deserted Medical Centre’. Links to all these stories can be found below together with a review of ‘The Book About Getting Older’ written by Dr Lucy Pollock. You’ll also find links to a number of other GP related tales and some attempts at Christmas Comic Verse.
‘And so this is Christmas’ began John Lennon in his Christmas song – and like him I hope you have fun today.
But rather than asking as he did, ‘What have you done?’, I’d rather ask ‘What have you heard?’
Because whilst the former Beatle was right to announce that ‘war is over’ if we want it to be, the reason we can know peace with God is not because of what we have done, but rather because of what He has done in and through Jesus Christ.
So lest you missed it in my previous posts, here again, in the words of the Bible, is the gospel so that you might have another chance to hear the good news of what Jesus Christ did after coming to Earth on that first Christmas Day.
And so ‘a very Merry Christmas, and a Happy New Year’ to you all – ‘I hope it’s a good one’ that, trusting in Christ, is ‘without any fear.’
*****
The Lord God said to the serpent…”I will put enmity between you and the woman, and between your offspring and her offspring; he shall bruise your head, and you shall bruise his heel.”
Genesis 3:15
Therefore the Lord himself will give you a sign: The virgin will conceive and give birth to a son, and will call him Immanuel
Isaiah 7:14
For to us a child is born, to us a son is given; and the government shall be upon his shoulder, and his name shall be called Wonderful Counselor, Mighty God, Everlasting Father, Prince of Peace.
Isaiah 9:6
In those days a decree went out from Caesar Augustus that all the world should be registered. This was the first registration before Quirinius was governor of Syria. And all went to be registered, each to his own town. And Joseph also went up from Galilee, from the town of Nazareth, to Judea, to the city of David, which is called Bethlehem, because he was of the house and lineage of David, to be registered with Mary, his betrothed, who was with child. And while they were there, the time came for her to give birth. And she gave birth to her firstborn son and wrapped him in swaddling cloths and laid him in a manger, because there was no place for them in the inn.
And in the same region there were shepherds out in the field, keeping watch over their flock by night. And an angel of the Lord appeared to them, and the glory of the Lord shone around them, and they were filled with great fear. And the angel said to them, “Fear not, for behold, I bring you good news of great joy that will be for all the people. For unto you is born this day in the city of David a Savior, who is Christ the Lord. And this will be a sign for you: you will find a baby wrapped in swaddling cloths and lying in a manger.” And suddenly there was with the angel a multitude of the heavenly host praising God and saying,
“Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace among those with whom he is pleased!”
When the angels went away from them into heaven, the shepherds said to one another, “Let us go over to Bethlehem and see this thing that has happened, which the Lord has made known to us.” And they went with haste and found Mary and Joseph, and the baby lying in a manger. And when they saw it, they made known the saying that had been told them concerning this child. And all who heard it wondered at what the shepherds told them. But Mary treasured up all these things, pondering them in her heart. And the shepherds returned, glorifying and praising God for all they had heard and seen, as it had been told them
Luke 2:1-20
Christ Jesus…though he was in the form of God, did not count equality with God a thing to be grasped, but emptied himself, by taking the form of a servant, being born in the likeness of men. And being found in human form, he humbled himself by becoming obedient to the point of death, even death on a cross.
Philippians 2:5-8
And when the sixth hour had come, there was darkness over the whole land until the ninth hour. And at the ninth hour Jesus cried with a loud voice, “Eloi, Eloi, lema sabachthani?” which means, “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?” And some of the bystanders hearing it said, “Behold, he is calling Elijah.” And someone ran and filled a sponge with sour wine, put it on a reed and gave it to him to drink, saying, “Wait, let us see whether Elijah will come to take him down.” And Jesus uttered a loud cry and breathed his last. And the curtain of the temple was torn in two, from top to bottom. And when the centurion, who stood facing him, saw that in this way he breathed his last, he said, “Truly this man was the Son of God!”
Mark 15:33-39
Surely he has borne our griefs and carried our sorrows; yet we esteemed him stricken, smitten by God, and afflicted. But he was pierced for our transgressions; he was crushed for our iniquities; upon him was the chastisement that brought us peace, and with his wounds we are healed. All we like sheep have gone astray; we have turned—every one—to his own way; and the Lord has laid on him the iniquity of us all.
Isaiah 53:4-6
For our sake he made him to be sin who knew no sin, so that in him we might become the righteousness of God.
2 Corinthians 5:21
God raised him up, loosing the pangs of death, because it was not possible for him to be held by it.
Acts 2:24
Therefore God has highly exalted him and bestowed on him the name that is above every name, so that at the name of Jesus every knee should bow, in heaven and on earth and under the earth, and every tongue confess that Jesus Christ is Lord, to the glory of God the Father.
Philippians 2:9-11
For I delivered to you as of first importance what I also received: that Christ died for our sins in accordance with the Scriptures, that he was buried, that he was raised on the third day in accordance with the Scriptures, and that he appeared to Cephas, then to the twelve. Then he appeared to more than five hundred brothers at one time, most of whom are still alive, though some have fallen asleep.
1 Corinthians 15:3-6
For the wages of sin is death, but the free gift of God is eternal life in Christ Jesus our Lord.
Romans 6:23
In this is love, not that we have loved God but that he loved us and sent his Son to be the propitiation for our sins.
1 John 4:10
But now the righteousness of God has been manifested apart from the law, although the Law and the Prophets bear witness to it— the righteousness of God through faith in Jesus Christ for all who believe. For there is no distinction: for all have sinned and fall short of the glory of God, and are justified by his grace as a gift, through the redemption that is in Christ Jesus, whom God put forward as a propitiation by his blood, to be received by faith. This was to show God’s righteousness, because in his divine forbearance he had passed over former sins. It was to show his righteousness at the present time, so that he might be just and the justifier of the one who has faith in Jesus.
Romans 3:21-26
All this is from God, who through Christ reconciled us to himself and gave us the ministry of reconciliation; that is, in Christ God was reconciling the world to himself, not counting their trespasses against them, and entrusting to us the message of reconciliation. Therefore, we are ambassadors for Christ, God making his appeal through us. We implore you on behalf of Christ, be reconciled to God.
2 Corinthians 5:18-20
For “everyone who calls on the name of the Lord will be saved.”
Romans 10:13
And you, who were dead in your trespasses …God made alive together with him, having forgiven us all our trespasses, by canceling the record of debt that stood against us with its legal demands. This he set aside, nailing it to the cross.
Colossians 2:13-14
There is therefore now no condemnation for those who are in Christ Jesus.
Romans 8:1
For I am sure that neither death nor life, nor angels nor rulers, nor things present nor things to come, nor powers, nor height nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus our Lord.
Romans 8:38-39
But when the fullness of time had come, God sent forth his Son, born of woman, born under the law, to redeem those who were under the law, so that we might receive adoption as sons.
Galatians 4:4-5
For you did not receive the spirit of slavery to fall back into fear, but you have received the Spirit of adoption as sons, by whom we cry, “Abba! Father!”
Romans 8:15
Then I saw a new heaven and a new earth, for the first heaven and the first earth had passed away, and the sea was no more. And I saw the holy city, new Jerusalem, coming down out of heaven from God, prepared as a bride adorned for her husband. And I heard a loud voice from the throne saying, “Behold, the dwelling place of God is with man. He will dwell with them, and they will be his people, and God himself will be with them as their God. He will wipe away every tear from their eyes, and death shall be no more, neither shall there be mourning, nor crying, nor pain anymore, for the former things have passed away.
Revelation 21:1-4
He who testifies to these things says, “Surely I am coming soon.” Amen. Come, Lord Jesus!.
Revelation 22:20
*****
Joy to the world, the Lord is come Let Earth receive her King Let every heart prepare Him room And Heaven and nature sing And Heaven and nature sing And Heaven, and Heaven, and nature sing
Joy to the Earth, the Savior reigns Let all their songs employ While fields and floods, rocks, hills, and plains Repeat the sounding joy Repeat the sounding joy Repeat, repeat the sounding joy
He rules the world with truth and grace And makes the nations prove The glories of His righteousness And wonders of His love (and wonders of His love) And wonders of His love (and wonders of His love) And wonders, wonders of His love
To read ‘A Christmas Countdown 2024: Complete’, click here
Or to revisit last years Advent Calendar…
To read ‘A Christmas Countdown 2023 – Part 24’, click here
To read ‘A Christmas Countdown 2023 – Part 23’, click here
To read ‘A Christmas Countdown 2023 – Part 22’, click here
To read ‘A Christmas Countdown 2023 – Part 21’, click here
To read ‘A Christmas Countdown 2023 – Part 20’, click here
To read ‘A Christmas Countdown 2023 – Part 19’, click here
To read ‘A Christmas Countdown 2023 – Part 18’, click here
To read ‘A Christmas Countdown 2023 – Part 17’, click here
To read ‘A Christmas Countdown 2023 – Part 16’, click here
To read ‘A Christmas Countdown 2023 – Part 15, click here
To read ‘A Christmas Countdown 2023 – Part 14’, click here
To read ‘A Christmas Countdown 2023 – Part 13’, click here
To read ‘A Christmas Countdown 2023 – Part 12’, click here
To read ‘A Christmas Countdown 2023 – Part 11’, click here
To read ‘A Christmas Countdown 2023 – Part 10’, click here
To read ‘A Christmas Countdown 2023 – Part 9’, click here
To read ‘A Christmas Countdown 2023 – Part 8’, click here
To read ‘A Christmas Countdown 2023 – Part 7’, click here
To read ‘A Christmas Countdown 2023 – Day 6’, click here
To read ‘A Christmas Countdown 2023 – Day 5’, click here
To read ‘A Christmas Countdown 2023 – Day 4’, click here
To read ‘A Christmas Countdown 2023 – Day 3’, click here
To read ‘A Christmas Countdown 2023 – Day 2’, click here
To read ‘A Christmas Countdown 2023 – Day 1’, click here
To read ‘An Advent Calendar – 2023 Complete’, click here
Some musings 