A Day of Guns and Crabs

Yesterday we spent a day in London at one of our favourite venues, the Imperial War Museum. This splendid museum, stuffed with warplanes, tanks, cannons, uniforms, firearms and all the hideous panoply of war is located - very appropriately - in what was the former Bethlem Royal Hospital building, built about two hundred years ago. The hospital was the first to specialise in the mentally ill, and gave rise to the expression 'bedlam' describing chaos or madness. I rest my case!

The museum was closed for six months in 2014 to allow a £40 million renovation to proceed, including the creation of new galleries to tell the story of the First World War, which began 100 years ago.

Outside the entrance is a massive pair of 15 inch naval guns, each weighing about 100 tons and capable of firing a 2,000-pound shell more than 16 miles. The guns were originally mounted on battleships and were last fired in anger during the Second World War; one of them pounded enemy shore batteries near Normandy Beach on D-Day, 1944. 

Inside, and the first disappointment. After renovations, the once-splendid atrium has been reduced in size and the side walls seem to be hemming in the various planes and rockets hanging from the roof. The immediate impression is of a cramped space stuffed with inappropriately large objects.

Lurking in a corner was a Russian T34 tank, a simple but revolutionary design, with allegedly the best balance of firepower, mobility (32mph!), protection and ruggedness of any tank in the Second World War. Easy to manufacture, they were knocked out in their tens of thousands and are still being used in certain African countries.

I was fascinated by the crudeness of the steel detailing. It almost seems like a piece of clay from the junior school modelling class - still bearing the imprint of the clumsy tool marks!

Fortunately, the new First World War display galleries are well laid out and well illustrated. They are so popular that entry is by timed ticket; we had to wait from 2.00pm to 3.45pm before we could enter.

On the second and third floors there is a new layout and the number of items on display seems to have been significantly reduced. (Younger son asked if the museum had sold off much of its collection - good question!). There are no longer, for example, displays of post-1945 conflicts such as the Mau Mau rebellion (I remember the incredible display of home-made weapons, including 'zip' guns fashioned from car aerials, rubber tubing and cartridges).

Worse, the displays are now arranged in thematic zones, the parameters of which are not always clear. No longer can you go up to an object, read the description and move on. Now you must search for the information board, locate your item's illustration on the board and read the accompanying description. I searched for ages but could not find the description label of what looked like a metal operating theatre table from the Falklands Conflict.

The only saving grace is that the art gallery, medals room and the Holocaust exhibition have escaped the renovation vandals.

On leaving soon after 6.00pm I thought we could pop into the nearby St. George's R C Cathedral and say a prayer for all the fallen. Alas, it was shut. (Fortunately God is not confined to buildings or at the mercy of planners and designers).

Instead, we went to lunch in a small Taiwanese restaurant in Chinatown. This was elder son's pilgrimage. He wanted to sample - deep breath - typhoon shelter crab; xiao long bao; braised pig's trotter; crispy shredded turnip puff; Taiwanese oyster omelette and Taiwanese pork buns.

And that's what we got - except for the crab; they had run out of crabs...but, assessing his seriousness, they relented, offered to go and buy one from a nearby shop and then cook it specially for him. Now, that's service!

While the others waited, younger son and I headed off to Foyle's Bookshop, London's largest and most famous independent bookshop. It too has been remodelled a few months ago, moving into a new building (the former Central Saint Martin's Art School) just a few doors away from their old building. It's huge, eight levels, 37,000 square feet and holding more than 200,000 titles, reportedly the largest bookshop in the UK. (The only competitor that I can think of - Waterstones Piccadilly - has 150,000 titles in stock).

I bought a book on poetry and we returned to the restaurant to find a contented elder son and his mum surrounded by the debris of their crab dish; pieces of shell, empty claws, small chunks of garlic, chillies, bits of spring onions, and well-used crab crackers and metal picks.

Then it was out into the cool night of Gerrard Street to admire the lights and lantern decorations for Mid-Autumn Festival.

You have to smile!

An upmarket gentleman's barber in Hove:

...and the quite wonderful welcome mat at the front door!!!

Feast For Foodies: Brighton & Hove Food and Drink Festival

This weekend it was the Brighton & Hove Food and Drink Festival on Hove Lawns, at the sea front. On the water there were numerous boats enjoying the unseasonal warm slide into Autumn; a few  powerboats, the occasional lumbering yacht and the usual testosterone-fuelled jet skis.

It was a lovely warm day, 21 degrees (70F) with blue skies and a light onshore breeze. Hundreds of tourists and locals were already crowding the Festival's food and drink stalls - several dozen of them - or queuing outside the marquee where cooking displays are held. Elder son, a determined foodie, led the charge.

I've got a taste for sausages...I blame several winters spent working in Frankfurt, Germany, when, after work each day, I would enjoy a plate of currywurst and a glass of  apfelwein on the way home (or even a glass of gluhwein if it was bitterly cold). 

So, today's first stop for me was the bratwurst with a liberal dash of curry ketchup, helped down by a glass of Harvey's Olympia Golden Ale, a light summer drink only brewed between April and September.

Soon it was time to eat again. This time I chose a Jamaican curried goat meal with brown rice and beans, from a stall decked out in Jamaican flags and the national colours of black, gold and green, staffed by a couple of guys wearing  crocheted rastacaps. The goat was excellent; mildly flavourful, tender with a tasty sauce.

Elder son, who is rather adventurous in food, being both a gourmet and (whisper it) a gourmand, had by this time sampled Guinness W. Indian porter ale, an Indian paneer roll, a lamb samosa, surf & turf (grilled steak and prawns) and a glass of ale.

 

By this time the mixture of hot sun and full stomachs was beginning to tell. For me it was dessert time, an ice cream sundae with hot caramel - scrumptious (but the missus, who had been surprised by the heat of some chilli-flavoured food, scoffed much of it!). Elder son, not to be outdone, bought some baklava, a super-sweet Turkish dessert made of paper-thin layers of filo pastry filled with chopped nuts and saturated with syrup or honey...and two jars of hot chilli sauce.   

Quite a day - thanks to elder son for insisting we come and keep you company!

Working as Catechists or Being Cartechists?

Over twenty catechists from the Brighton Deanery met at the Sacred Heart Church in Hove today for a morning of prayer, instruction and reflection, led by David Wills, A&B’s Adult Formation Adviser.

Key to the session was Pope Francis’ challenge to us to ‘be’ catechists, not simply to’ work as’ catechists.

Catechesis should be much more than teaching, imparting knowledge. We are asked to lead people to Christ by our words and our lives, by giving joyful witness. We can do this by being close to Jesus and by going out of our comfort zone to encounter others - even by going to the margins where we are challenged and uncomfortable.

As Pope Francis put it ‘I would prefer...a catechist with the courage to risk going out, and not a catechist who is studious, knows everything but is always closed...’

We considered the five stages people typically go through in the process of full commitment to Jesus, took a hectic one-hour journey through an abbreviated Kerygma Bible Retreat course, and ended with a fascinating presentation on coaching parents to be the providers of their children’s religious education. 

 

Unspoken - but at the back of our minds - was the inspiring example of Pope Francis himself, a joyful and humble catechist who reaches out in love to prisoners, migrants, the ill, the poor and the wretched at society’s margins.  

We are all called to be catechists. A wise person once said: ‘faith is caught, rather than taught’. Does our faith infect others?

At Norwich in East Anglia for Graduations at the UEA

Still a bit of a palaver showering with a dicky arm: wrap bandaged arm in cling-film, put garbage bag over arm, sellotaping securely at either end, then tie cloth strips tightly at shoulder and wrist to mop up any encroaching water - then shower using one hand! Shaving is also a challenge, as is putting on socks...but the third task to completely defeat me was tying a Windsor knot in a tie. Solution: wife stands behind and does the tying. (The other two tasks that I’ve had to give up temporarily are driving and photography – grrrr!).

We were in Norwich yesterday, to attend younger son’s graduation from the University of East Anglia. The UEA is quite a contrast from Durham University, where elder son graduated three weeks ago. Durham University claims to be the third-oldest university in England and is located in a fairy-tale city of narrow cobbled streets, oak beamed buildings with a castle and a 920 year old cathedral set high on a hill in the centre of the city.

Norwich also has a Norman castle of similar vintage, but the university, founded about 50 years ago, is located in tranquil parkland four miles from the city centre. The surroundings are idyllic, green and pleasant with a small lake, but the buildings are mostly 1960s functional concrete.

It was very hot and, having struggled into a suit jacket, I gratefully escaped from it as soon as the studio photographs were over. ‘Our’ Congregation at 2.30pm was for the Norwich Business School of the university, with a high proportion of Chinese and African-origin candidates, business being a universal language. As usual, there were long queues for the temporary photo studios, and then queues to enter Congregation Hall.

temporary photo studios

The mace bearers led the procession of academic dignitaries and the presiding figure of the Vice Chancellor (resplendent in yellow and red robes) up to the stage where a highly decorative wooden chair was his temporary throne.

 

Then followed speeches and a procession of several hundred undergraduates, who crossed the stage momentarily grasped the Vice Chancellor’s and hand and disappeared off the other side instantaneously transformed from undergraduates into graduates, possessors of a parchment that conferred on them the title of Bachelor of Science in Business Management (or similar).

 

Afterwards, it was party time for the students, and a rush to dispose of jackets, neckties and high-heeled shoes. Amazingly, as we walked about I was hailed by a former work colleague who recognised me - although we had last met some 35+ years ago; he was attending his daughter’s graduation and left me with the slightly-worrying thought: did I look this decrepit 35+ years ago?

' O wad some Pow'r the giftie gie us

To see oursels as ithers see us!'

Dark Night of the Soul (and Arm)

It was exactly a week ago that it happened. It was 10pm and the house was full. My wife was in the kitchen, elder son on his computer, younger son entertaining six house guests, friends from university who were preparing to go out nightclubbing.

I was in the garage, and, as I turned to leave, I slipped on something, my feet shot out from under me and I fell backwards, unconsciously using my arms to break my fall. The resulting pain in my right elbow and arm was absolutely excruciating.

My immediate reaction was an urgent prayer; nothing profound, just a desperate "Lord help me!" that seemingly went unanswered. Then a much louder appeal that brought my wife running. She and elder son helped me to bed but, after 30 minutes of ice packs, the pain had hardly reduced so we crept out of the house, so as not to alarm the readying night-clubbers, and headed to the hospital’s Accident & Emergency Department.

There were about 15 patients waiting to be seen. Surprisingly for a Friday night, there were no argumentative drunks - yes, I’ve been to A&E on a weekend evening before. There was a group of six young girls in bathrobes - a hen party perhaps? – and they were all laughing uproariously, sharing  jokes and  miming being sick. For a moment, I wished that I could share whatever liquid or chemical had given them that intense and happy spirit.

For my part, the pain was coming in waves, it was a struggle not to moan or hunch over and I looked up hopefully each time a door opened or the tannoy announced the next patient. I felt down and, before I knew it, my occasional silent prayer had morphed into a bitter remonstration.  

‘I know you are here. So why aren’t You looking after me? Have I upset You? What have I done to deserve this? Is my daily prayer not long enough?  Or is regular weekly Mass and occasional daily ones insufficient? I thought there might be some credit for the regular confessions, the alms, pilgrimages, works of mercy....isn't that enough? What do I lack?’

After one hour and forty-five minutes I saw the duty doctor, who suspected that I had broken bones. In another hour I was being X-Rayed.

It was a very bad fracture; the two bones that go from the elbow to the wrist were both broken. Worse, the elbow bone itself was shattered into five or six pieces.

 

plastered and enjoying Dr. Morphine

Additional X-Rays, a scaffolding of plaster of Paris around the limb, medication courtesy of Dr Morphine – and suddenly I had recovered my usual good humour and was back to making small jokes. Then two porters pushed my bed along endless corridors, via lifts and even into the open air between buildings until we arrived at my destination, Grant's Ward in the main building of this 186-years-old hospital.

Next day, after lunch (for surgery staff only, obviously patients are on NBM – Nil By Mouth) came the three-hour operation with the insertion of a metal plate, screws and wires to try and repair the elbow. The anaesthetic was effective, and I woke to a completely numb arm. Another 24 hours later, I was discharged to recuperate at home.

This unfaithful God thing really upset me. For the first time in many years I’d missed my nightly Rosary while in A&E. At home, I was still in pain but the painkillers took the edge off. Although I had to sit (and try and sleep) propped up on cushions in bed, it was infinitely more comfortable than being in hospital; super service from the wife, kindly ribbing by the sons, Sky tv, old photography magazines, internet access...what more could one ask for?

Of course I resumed the Rosary and the other nightly prayers. Already I was regretting the momentary loss of trust, the sudden transformation of love and service into a commercial act.  I knew He would take His time. And He did. The answers when they came were very quiet, seeping into my (more-receptive) consciousness over several days.

‘I was always with you, even during the worst bits. There is no relationship between your actions and My father’s will, which is a mystery. Aim to be perfect, as My father is, that’s the only benchmark. And remember that I love you without qualification - especially when you fall. Trust Me, reflect My love and think on the lessons you have learned.’

True, there were so many examples of love in action...the kind manner of professional nurses like Jim on Grant Ward that went far beyond mere duty, the thoughtful and caring shepherding by the porters; the patients desperate for a little conversation – or even someone to listen to them – and the other patients who met that need, despite their own pain and worries; how one young patient helped an elderly one to the toilet, fussing over him despite being recently out of surgery himself; how time stands still when you desperately want it to move on, and the kindly enquiry from a neighbouring bed that suddenly unglues time...

He said more but when your memory is a little woozy and you are single-finger typing with the ‘wrong’ hand, well, there has to be a limit.

Even my nightly reading of extracts from Saint Theresa of Calcutta had something to say to me. Last night she didn’t pull any punches: ‘Bitterness and pride are twin sisters – moodiness goes with them...Do not go to the altar of God with them in your heart. Go with a pure heart. A pure heart will see God.’

Seven days later, things are much improved. I can wiggle the fingers of my damaged right arm but not hold or use a pen. Going to the bathroom, eating and drinking, shaving, showering, getting dressed are all a bit of a trial.

But things are slowly improving...and I'm talking to Him again, not at Him.

Durham

Well, it’s been a few weeks since the last post, the white coats have done their best but the mystery of my condition remains. I guess the best remedy for the unknown is to keep busy, fight the temptation to navel-gaze and trust in divine providence.

The last couple of weeks have been hectic with trips to Durham to collect elder student son at the end of his four-year modern languages programme at the university. He seems to have inherited the family gene that prevents us throwing things away; the car was groaning under the load as we headed south.

 

Then, last weekend it was the apt reward for his study efforts; the graduation ceremony took place in the spectacular eleventh-century Durham Cathedral.

Outside the Cathedral a massive white marquee was pitched on the lawns (close to where archaeologist discovered a medieval mass grave about six months ago).

 

Inside were bars, coffee stalls, merchandising, exhibitions and the photography studios where students and their proud parents were fussed over by about ten teams of photographers.

 

Next to the cathedral is Durham Castle, another building that is about one thousand years old, home to the Prince-Bishops of Durham. Its grand hall was used to process the students, to ready them for the formal procession into the cathedral.

We parents and guests queued patiently outside, sheltering under umbrellas for up to an hour before we were allowed into the cathedral. Inside, among the massive stone piers and soaring arches were large LCD screens, video photographers perched on commanding heights.   

Alas, photography was banned in the cathedral, apologetic but determined marshals pounced on anyone who produced a camera. I did, sort of accidentally, take my camera out and attempt a photograph...I shouldn’t have bothered.

Then, the procession entered, mace and sword bearers followed by academics in their colourful gowns and, bringing up the rear, the Chancellor, opera-star Sir Thomas Allen. After them came the students, hundreds of them, most in black gowns trimmed with white fur, some with purple or silk trimmings and hoods. Sprinkled among them, like peacocks among a flock of ducks, were the candidates for the Doctor of Philosophy degree, resplendent in their scarlet gowns, trimmed with purple silk.  

There followed a couple of hours of speeches and the traditional name-calling as each student was greeted by the Chancellor, congratulated and then moved on.

Afterwards, crowds milled outside, and when the rain arrived, the students used their hoods to protect themselves from the elements.

  

For us, an early dinner with newly-minted graduate son, followed by – for him - a riotous night’s celebration in the city’s many nightclubs.