When Past Memories are Demolished

Here am I in the kitchen preparing breakfast for both of us whilst Alex lies sleeping upstairs. What appears to be some kind of scuffle going on outside, I turn towards the curtainless window to investigate, only to see five masked uniformed Police officers staring straight back at me, perhaps as long as ten seconds. They then went to the front door and banged on it.

OPEN UP! THIS IS THE POLICE!

Suddenly, two of the five officers retreated and then lurched forward, breaking the door lock as it crashed open onto the wall of the hallway, making a dent in it. Then the leading officer spoke:

You're under arrest for...

"Honey, what's happening?" came a female voice from upstairs.

Two of the five officers rushed upstairs whilst the others handcuffed me in my own kitchen, just as the kettle began to boil and automatically clicked off. Presently, the two officers escorted my panicking wife down the stairs, still in her nightdress and also handcuffed. Then one of the officers spoke:

You are both under arrest for not wearing a facemask in your own home.

"What's going to happen to us?" Alex asked, hysterically.

You'll be both be taken to the station to face charges.

"What charges?" I asked.

A hundred-pound fine for each of you. Maybe fifty pounds each if you can pay straight away. You should know by now it's illegal not to wear a mask at any time, including in the privacy of your bedroom.

"BUT WHY US?" Alex shouted with hysteria.

Another officer, who looked as if on the point of apologising for the ordeal, then answered,

A tip-off from a neighbour. Between you and me, we know her as a notorious curtain-twitcher. She loves to wag her tongue at both ends over the phone at the slightest opportunity. But we have to take each case seriously and see it through. I'm sorry about all this. Now please come with us to the station.

"Let me collect my wallet of bank cards," I said. "I'll pay the fine if you allow us back home immediately."

Yes, that may be possible.

                                                                      

Is this fiction? Well, I hope so! I dread it to be some prophetic incident of the future. Maybe it might be possible to pay the fine there and then without the need to arrest us, let alone damaging the door and adjoining wall. Indeed, I'm beginning to wonder whether this Coronavirus pandemic is getting out of hand, turning our national precautionary moves into something resembling panic to the level of universal hysteria and leading on to a social environment not unlike that in George Orwell's novel 1984.

Therefore, with an excuse that our grocery stock had to be topped up, on the first day after making facemasks compulsory in all shops and stores, I made my way to our nearby Sainsbury's superstore, with a facemask tucked away in my pocket and toting a wheeled bag. After a short wait in the queue, I slipped on my mask immediately before entering. A little way inside, this uniformed figure stood tall and imposing, no doubt ready to pounce on anyone who dares enter in without a facemask whilst at the same time creating a somewhat unpleasant atmosphere.

Has all this beginning to resemble Orwell's book, 1984? Everybody in the store, both customer and staff members alike wore a mask, and not a single mouth was exposed to public view throughout. Never in my 67 years of living had I ever seen such a phenomenon like this one before. Indeed, during the two World Wars, some fighters had to wear breathing apparatus, not unlike a diver's, and during the late 1950s, I do recall having to cover my nose and mouth with a scarf to keep out the effects of Winter thick fog hanging over the whole city of London, where I recall the exterior of both private and public buildings blackened with soot. Such a depressing sight brought in the Clean Air Act of 1956, but it was a further few years into the sixties when I began to notice London transformed. Indeed, Victoria Station had never looked so clean as newly-built.

But this at present? It's a phenomenon I had never come across before, a doomsday scenario which has, in the past, kept fiction and movie writers busy, but whoever would have thought that all this would become reality? It was while I was thinking about the future and what could happen therein when a video scrolled onto my Facebook wall. It was thirty-minute footage of my old school being demolished.

Rather shocked with sudden unexpectedness, the next morning, I cycled to the site. Fortunately, the closed main gate into the school was manned by a friendly security officer whose vocal accent had made me aware that he was an immigrant. We started talking, and I explained that I was a former pupil, one who attended that school more than half a century earlier. At my request, he explained that for me to enter the grounds with a camera, I need permission from the site superintendent, and the security officer attempted to contact him on my behalf.

He needn't have bothered, because as the gate opened to allow a car to exit, I was beckoned over, and through his window, I received permission to enter the grounds providing the security officer must accompany me. And as such, I took photographs such as this one from a vantage point not accessible to the public:

The demolition of my old school, taken July 23rd, 2020.

The building which is being torn down at the moment is the classroom block. In fact, more than half of it has already gone, including the upper floor classroom where I sat for the registration before morning assembly, as well as spending part of the schoolday gazing at the blackboard in front of all of us as the teacher wrote on it using a white stick of chalk, and each one of us copying what she wrote into our exercise books using a biro. No calculators, let alone computers, existed back then!

There was a stratum of five class levels according to learning ability. For example, in year one there was class 15 for the slowest learners, then class 14, 13, 12 and 11, the latter for the brightest pupils who fell short of passing the Eleven-plus only by a narrow margin. In year two, they were class 25, 24, 23, 22 and 21. Ditto in year three - class 35, 34, 33, 32, and 31. Pupils in class 31 often attained GCE 'A' levels and can (but not often) qualify for University. Classes in the 33 and 32 in the stratum usually leave with GCE 'O' Levels (two which I have from voluntary evening college.) Those in the lower two end up as apprentices and manual labourers. Such was school life in the 1960s.

It was a classroom where I felt that it was more for teasing and outright bullying rather than for learning. Even the school uniform - consisting of a black blazer with a gold shield sewn onto the breast pocket, along with a grey shirt and a striped tie - failed to turn us into juvenile gentlemen. Instead, at the first opportunity of staff absence the boys, in particular, would become mischievous, but with enough tact to avoid getting caught and to face punishment, which in those days was usually corporal, with detention for minor offences.

The tall building to the extreme left of the picture contained the art room on the lower floor and the old science laboratory on the upper floor (the new science laboratory was opened in 1967, one year before I left school in 1968, which is not in the photo.) Also out of the picture, the main hall where we had morning assembly and also served as the lunchtime canteen with two sittings - now stands derelict and awaits demolition. Behind the hall is the old gym, with the department for technical drawing (TD) further on, and the old woodwork dept, with the old metalwork dept behind it. Running parallel is a building which housed the needlework and the housecraft (cooking) classes for the girls. The new wood and metal workshops were opened in 1967 in the same building as the science laboratory, and the new gym opened at a separate building during the same year. All now stand derelict.

Indeed, it was a big school, but in those days a Secondary Modern (later changed to Comprehensive.) It was geared for everyone who failed the eleven-plus, and therefore unable to go to a Grammar school in preparation for University. Instead, the curriculum was generally non-academic and trained pupils in readiness for vocational apprenticeships in craft, mechanical engineering, and for occupations in industry and construction. This became more apparent during TD and with science experiments. These remained on a very simple level. For example, our TD lessons would never reach anywhere near building design. Instead, it centred on a small odd-shaped block of wood with no useful purpose. And then we did not start with TD until we were into our fourth year, which for me was in 1967.

With our science experiments, we became very familiar with the litmus paper, along with creating oxygen and hydrogen gas in the test-tube, as well as carbon dioxide. And the good old Bunsen burner which heated metal to expansion, along with elementary biology. With such simplicity, it became obvious that we would never become scientists, and they seemed to have made sure of that.

It was a kind of school where although uniform was compulsory, during warm weather, boys sometimes, actually quite often, wore their shirts open-neck and without a tie, and staff usually turned a blind eye to this, perhaps unlike the strict dress code characteristic of a Grammar school. And that despite that our physical education master singled me out one morning and demanded why I wasn't wearing a tie. An easy target? Perhaps bad luck of the draw, I think, as well as during a cooler spell outside.

Generally speaking, the school taught us how to be independent bread-winners without high qualifications, although among the top pupils, it was possible to attain a place at University. It has also trained us to be good at team sports, although I was a failure at this. But most of all, the school taught us to respect our and one another's freedoms.

But as I watch the demolition site in progress, I cannot help feel a sense of sadness. A passing of something, a passing of memories, a passing of something which linked to my youth, now seemingly long gone into the aeons of the past. However, what I haven't said so far is that a brand new classroom block had just opened, a large one, and that will be the new school. It has made me realise that the closure and demolition of the original school must directly be linked to the decline of the manufacturing industry along with all the craft and trade apprenticeships which were connected to it.

School lab classic, the Bunsen burner.

Nowadays, with the advance of high technology, the school must reflect this, and train its students accordingly. Gone are those woodwork and metalwork depts, along with housecraft and needlework. In comes high-tech which must meet our present society. I guess the demolition marked the end of one era and the beginning of the next, where 1984-style (temporary) surveillance of the facemask will take over our freedoms.

The Police arrest in our homes will never happen, at least not here in Britain or Europe. But as one who claims to know God and to read the Bible, to deliberately refuse to wear a facemask in disobedience to the Government's instructions to halt the spread of the virus, is to rebel against God. And that is something I don't want to do, not after what His Son Jesus Christ went through, out of his love for us.

Therefore I will continue to wear a facemask at all the venues where it's required. After all, society might be changing, but The Lord is the same yesterday as he is today, and will be the same forever. He'll never change.

To Forgive is Good For Your Health.

My PhD-holder friend of mine, Andrew Milnthorpe, and I went for a walk into the beautiful South Hill Park, located just outside our rear garden gate. As we walked along, I said,

If throughout the whole of my life I had never seen a Bible, let alone ever reading one, nor had I ever heard the Gospel, but the only contact I ever had in that direction would be by means a typical English church...

"You still wouldn't know God," Andrew replied, cutting in without letting me finish.

I'll end up as an atheist, I concluded, finishing the sentence. But before you click off after reading such a negative statement, please read on, for once the bottom is reached, the only way to go is up.

It all reminds me of a jigsaw puzzle which was lent to me by a former customer. She had a stack of different puzzles all stashed away neatly in her cupboard, and she lent me several of them to help me pass the time of convalescence following a major cardiac procedure.

Among all the pieces of one particular jigsaw, there was one piece which kept turning up as I stirred through the rest in the construction of the picture. Finally, the 1,000-piece puzzle was complete, with every piece fitting together perfectly to make the overall image - except for that one piece, left remaining all by itself in the box.

However, this puzzle was one of the same series the owner had collected. That means that each of the original pictures was cut by the same factory machine, making all the pieces of each puzzle identical to each other. As such, the foreign piece would have fitted perfectly in place - except that the overall picture would have been spoiled, an odd colour right in the middle, defined by the foreign piece. 

When she gave me another puzzle, I have used all the pieces in the box, except that a hole in the middle of the picture would have spoiled the whole image. Fortunately, I had the foresight to leave the foreign piece in a safe place, and after retrieving it - voila! A complete picture with no colour oddity. 

The opening statement, negative as it might look, isn't from a mere philosophical preponderance or anything like that. Rather, this is borne out from personal experience, with the most shattering event occurring during February of 2005. But I'll come back to that shortly. 

Like any normal human, by joining a church (or a club or any other social meet) my instincts would be drawn to people of my own age range. The only snag was that it does look as if my unskilled or semi-skilled vocation, together with a failure record at school, along with the "ugly" fact that I had never seen the inside of a university, topped with a voice tone which seemed to convey a slow-thinker, like that foreign jigsaw piece, I was never able to blend in as well as I should - even if on a spiritual level I fitted into the church perfectly. 

Like in 1978 when a group of unmarried young people, all within my age range, decided to hire a boat for a week at the Norfolk Broads, a part of Eastern England which is very flat and crossed with canals. When I asked whether I could join them along with paying my share, I was told a resounding NO. Crushed in spirit, I made my way to a travel agent and booked a month's return flight to New York instead (I already had the multiple-entry US visa stamped in my passport from the previous year.) But that was not the point.

Rather, the point is the feeling of rejection. Rejected not because I didn't fit into the church. I fitted in well. No, the rejection came for having the wrong colours. For me, this was a psychological disaster which changed my perception of English churches forever. Yet I remained. Especially after returning from America, I was able to forgive them.

What was it about me which compelled them to reject me? And so I kept asking myself. Surely it couldn't have been just my background. Indeed, they were all graduates, and I wasn't one. It must be something more, but at the time I couldn't put my finger on it.

Then there was 1994. That was the year I offered myself to be a volunteer at a Christian Conference Centre, owned by the organisation Israel Trust of Anglican Churches, which also serves as a hotel. I wanted to spend a year volunteering there (I wasn't allowed to use the word work - to mean earning a taxable income - to Israel Immigration.) Whilst there, there was the weekly meeting of all "vollies" with the full-time staff members which makes up the management team.

By then, I have already felt the pangs of rejection by other vollies, and even by a couple of staff members. But at that morning meeting, I made a suggestion that we men should do the heavier maintenance work whilst the women were better with the domestics. Actually, the Director knew that I was right, and began to put my idea into practice, at least partially, so not to be too obvious.

The hatred, especially from the females, became almost unbearable. At the same time, there was with us, one tall and exceptionally good-looking graduate who was adored by the same women as well as by the other men. And going by their daily chatter within earshot, graduation was high on their agenda. A person's worth, especially a male, was evaluated by his level of education. And they made that quite clear. After just two months out of the twelve, I was dismissed from Stella Carmel C.C.C. by management after a stream of protests and complaints from the other vollies, but instead of being escorted directly to the airport as with all offenders, I was free to board a bus at Haifa for Jerusalem where I spent a whole month holed up in a secular backpacker's hostel, where I was much happier!

It was just two days before boarding the flight back to England from Tel Aviv Airport when I was standing on the summit of the Mount of Olives, looking over the beautiful and historic city of Jerusalem, when quite clearly, I felt God speaking to me. There and then he opened a door for another trip to the USA to take place in 1995, take-off from London Heathrow to New York exactly a year to the day later. And so it happened. And the spiritual therapy behind the Transatlantic trip? To forgive all those back in Israel for what they had done to me.

Alex, 18 weeks pregnant, at Stella Carmel, taken Oct 2000.

But the biggest and the most challenging bid to forgive was to a social worker I'll just name Wendy, whose career was already under threat by her supervisor. By then, up to February 2005, we were a family of four - two daughters, my wife and me. It was true that I found communicating with my daughters difficult at times, but that didn't excuse Wendy for being a sadistic bully in our own home, especially to Alex. One lunchtime, after further criticising my wife, I ordered her out of the house with a steely tone of voice. Two days later, under Wendy's orders and endorsed by the County Court, at three in the morning, a couple of police officers entered our house, rushed upstairs and took away our sleeping daughters, leaving my wife screaming hysterically. Our daughters were to be eventually adopted, with their surname changed to that of the new parents and their address kept secret from us. At least news of Wendy's dismissal from her post gave a very small crumb of comfort.

But it took months and months for my rage against her to cool. Until then, to forgive such a self-confessed atheist was beyond my capability. And Alex's too. I'm convinced that this deep resentment against this highly educated graduate and professional was directly connected to Alex's poor state of health, both with a neurotic disorder which has confined her to a wheelchair and with cancer, together with my own need for heart surgery.

It's known in the medical world that non-invasive diseases such as Arthritis, Colitis, Ulcers, Arteriosclerosis, Coronary Thrombosis, Ceberal Apoplexy, Psyconeurosis, Obesity and Diabetes, Back Pain, Muscle Pain, Headache, Heart Attack, Cancer, Toxic Goiter, and many more, are caused by negative emotions including fear, anger and unforgiveness.*

As one sermon delivered during Band of Brothers Christian men's meeting held one Saturday morning at the Kerith Centre, you forgive someone for your sake, and not for the offender's sake. One prime example is Wendy. She left us in a very bad state with us fuming in rage. This lasted for months. My lust for vengeance just could not be quelled, harbouring murderous visions in my head, and that despite that after her dismissal, she disappeared, never to be seen again. Yet my anger refuses to go away, and that I think this was because she got away very lightly and knowing that her vast education will land her another office job straight away. And so my rage continued until I thought about forgiveness and asked God how I can go about it.

That's where the Band of Brothers preach comes in. It was there when I felt God speaking to me, clearing up a confusion that to forgive someone, the offender must be present to receive the forgiveness. How untrue that is! The offender may not want forgiveness nor care about it. Yet I must forgive her, even in her absence, for my health's sake. And so I have, no longer allowing her nastiness to get the better of me.

But this still leaves me one issue going back long before days of Wendy. Why such rejection at Stella Carmel C.C.C. and further back in time at the old Baptist church? It was during our Parental Assessment course which followed the loss of our daughters which brought what I believe was the answer. According to a psychologist we both have Asperger's Syndrome, a form of Autism. Nowadays the term Asperger's is no longer used in the medical field, but Autism Spectrum, with us being on the thin end which does not affect our IQ.

But it does cause difficulty in communication and often obsessive interest in one or two particular topics. And it can also cause a sufferer difficulty in finding friends. Or at least that what they say. Therefore it could be said that all the rejection felt among Christians was down to having Asperger's. It looks as if the round peg fits the round hole until I came across one problem.

That is Andrew Milnthorpe, my intelligent friend who holds a PhD and who also has Asperger's. Yet, when he announced his graduation as a doctor on Facebook, many congratulated him. These including congratulations from the very same people who sidestepped me, refusing me to go with them on the boat trip and also refusing to pair with me on the Facebook friendship panel. With less than 140 friends I have, Andrew currently has 611. In short, if all those who think lowly of me and even patronise at the first opportunity due to having Asperger's, then why is Andrew, who also has Asperger's, so far more popular among them? Could it be - heaven forbid - could it be that Andrew is far higher educated? Come on! Did Jesus and his apostles really endorse this form of favouritism?

Or another answer could be highlighted by a BBC documentary we both watched earlier in the week, Ian Hislop's Stiff Upper Lip. Suddenly everything seems to fall into place! Andrew is better at controlling his emotions than I am. It's all about being British.

And that is so tragic! Should favouritism be allowed to exist and to flourish as a means of promoting Britishness in a church environment? No wonder. Had it not been for the grace of God, or that I haven't gotten a Bible immediately after conversion and began to read it, had it not been the presence of the Holy Spirit within, who knows, I might have walked away from such an environment as an atheist.

But to finish off, I have a genuine love for all those at my home church, Ascot Life. And how I long for this lockdown to end so we can all meet together again. It's something to look forward to.

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*S. I. McMillen MD, None Of These Diseases, 1980, Lakeland Publishers (UK) 

Travel Does Have Its Underbellies...

At last! a lift of some of the restrictions of the Coronavirus lockdown. Pubs are re-opening, as with some shops selling non-essentials, which means a man can walk into the barbers for a trim or a shave but any woman who wishes to have her fingernails manicured, well - tough. Those nail bars remain shut. Did our medical scientists announce that the virus thrives under the female thumbnail? Who knows. No wonder we were told to constantly wash or sanitise our hands whenever we went out.

Alas! Our gyms and swimming pools remain stubbornly shut as well. Never mind that the chlorine in the pool actually kills the virus. And who knows. The rate of infection might have slowed down among swimmers or even grind to a halt altogether. As for sea bathing, I'm aware that bacteria are not particularly fond of the sea, but the virus? Well, despite a mass gathering of sunbathers to the beaches of Brighton and Bournemouth on a hot midweek day, so far, there has not been a nationwide rise in the rate of infection, unless, of course, that everyone who crowded those beaches happen to live in Leicester.

Bournemouth Beach during the lockdown, May 2020.

And among all those who can trade again, the tourist industry is, at last, trying to awake from its slumber. International agreements were made for "air bridges" to be established where our lot can visit countries which has a low infection rate and likewise allow visitors from these countries to land on UK soil without having to face quarantine at either end for two weeks after landing. As for the USA, President Donald Trump has closed all borders from both British and European visitors alike. That means if I wanted to take Alex to see the Grand Canyon for herself...er, nope. Sorry. Not that she's keen to visit the National Park anyway. Alex my beloved has a strong phobia of cliff edges.

Thus at present, the US international borders remain closed to all outsiders. It's a vast contrast to those wonderful days of the 1990s when all I had to do was walk into an agency to buy a return air ticket and hey presto, I was able to board a plane as easily as boarding a train without any ado - at least before the 9/11 disasters. Thanks to the Visa Waiver Scheme set up by an agreement made between Margaret Thatcher and Ronald Reagan during the eighties.

Since 9/11, to visit the USA as a tourist, in addition to a valid passport, I now need to get an Electronic System of Travel Authorisation (ESTA) - something I didn't require before that dreadful day in 2001, those glorious days when I backpacked the US during 1995, 1997 and in 1998 with such unrestricted freedom. An ESTA application has a charge - $14 or currently £9.00, but chances are that ESTA is far easier to get than those wretched visas which were a hindrance back in 1977 when preparing for my first ever trip to the States.

It was the era when the TV cop series Starsky & Hutch was all the rage in family entertainment. One evening during late 1976 or early 1977, some young single people in our church gathered together for a social at the home of one of our deacons. We all watched Starsky & Hutch and I saw how all the girls swooned at David Soul who played LA detective Ken Hutchingson, along with his partner David Starsky (Paul Glaser). Immediately I felt envious of Hutch in particular, not only for his casual dress which attracted the girls and sent them all swooning - but also for their location in Southern California. 

The city of Los Angeles is backed by the San Gabriel Mountains which can be seen from the city on a clear day, with Mt San Antonio peaking at 3,069 metres, more than three times higher than England's highest peak, Scafell Pike at 978 metres. Oh well, at least Scotland's Ben Nevis reaches 1,345 metres into the sky, therefore at least it can be called a proper mountain, the highest in the UK.  

Having travelled already to Israel in 1976, from that evening onwards I knew that I wanted to visit California and Los Angeles in particular. I had the money, I had the time, and I also had a valid passport. But with the USA, during the seventies, all visitors must carry a visa stamped in the passport. Although issued gratis, the extreme fussiness in applying for one had not only frustrated my plans, but it was actually a blessing in disguise.

Within applying, in addition to all personal information, I had to give details of my current employment, demonstrating to the US Embassy officials that I intend to return to my job here in the UK after my visit. Since my firm where I worked was due to close down and move to Plymouth later that year, the enclosed employer's letter sent with the application form and passport was unconvincing. About a week to ten days later, the package returned. The relevant page in the passport was still blank, and as for the application form, it returned to me with the whole page struck through, as if done with anger.

Starsky left, and Hutch - 1970s Television Icons.

Thus, with the USA out of my reach, instead, I settled for Canada, with Toronto being my first choice. To some whom I knew, Toronto was a lousy swop compared to Los Angeles, and they said so. My original intention in Canada was to spend the whole of my time in the region with a chance to explore the Great Lakes. As such, I bought a return air ticket for Toronto.

But the temptation to have another go with applying for a US visa couldn't be resisted. This time I asked my employer for an official, stamped letter saying that I am employed by them and my employment will continue after my return. Rather than posting the fresh app form as I did the first time, I took a day off work for a trip to London to visit the embassy itself.

After a long wait in the queue, I finally handed all relevant documents to the official at the desk. I was told to return several hours later that afternoon. When I did, I was happy when I walked out looking at the rather huge and colourful multiple-entry visa stamped inside my passport. Thus my plans changed entirely. When my original intention was to fly direct to LA from London, instead, I bought a Greyhound Bus Ameripass ticket, a book of vouchers which enabled me to travel freely and without limit across the whole of the North American Continent, both Canada and the USA alike. That meant a day spent at the powerful Niagara Falls, a treasured memory I would never have made if the visa was granted the first time around.

In fact, the outer urban LA area did not have much to boast about. Some of the Starsky & Hutch car-chasing action looks as if it might have been shot around the East 7th Street area, which isn't that touristy at all, although I walked through that particular area to get to the Greyhound Bus Terminal which, by 1995, had relocated there from Downtown, where it was in the seventies. Instead, in 1977, I concentrated on visiting Hollywood Universal Studios, Long Beach and Disneyland. And no, throughout my stay there I was unable to see any of the peaks of San Gabriel Mountains, thanks to the smog. Indeed, it turned out that Toronto and its environs can be a better place for visiting, especially being on the shores of Lake Ontario and nearby Niagara Falls.

Lone backpacking travel can leave me in a bit of a pickle and I recall a couple of scary experiences, both due to lack of proper planning or lack of foresight. One hair-raising experience happened in France in the early eighties. I was staying at a hotel in Rouen, a city between Dieppe/Le Havre on the north coast, and Paris. On one occasion, I decided to board a train for a day in Dieppe. I just took enough cash with me for a return ticket, leaving my wallet of credit and debit cards safely in the bedside cabinet drawer. I recall the train passing through a tunnel just before pulling into Dieppe terminus. That evening I boarded the train destined for Paris, as all trains stopping at Rouen then went on to Paris.

As the train gathered speed, shooting through one station after another, I suddenly realised that this train did not pass through the tunnel as before. I began to panic. What if I ended up in Paris via a different route? I'll be literally stranded with no fare money to retrace the journey and with nowhere to stay. Literally stuck in Paris completely penniless. And as the train shot through each station, this was becoming more of a reality.

A ticket inspector checked my ticket but he was clueless about what I should do as he walked away. Fortunately, I was not alone in the carriage. At the next seats were a group of boys, chatting happily and looking to be in their teens. I asked them in broken French if this train stopped at Rouen. One answered no, I must change at Serqueux. Even such an answer gave me a rush of relief as the train travelled full speed. One of the boys even gave me a sweet to help calm my nerves.

When the train eventually slowed down to stop at Serqueux, I was glad to alight, thanking the boys. Although I had to endure a ninety-minute wait before the connecting train from Amiens arrived, the very sight of the forecourt interior of Rouen Station made me want to dance with joy.

This was one very big lesson for me. Never again would I ever leave the house or hotel room without my wallet of banking cards. As for the Dieppe-Serqueux line, you won't find it anymore on Google Maps or Google Earth. That section of the line closed down in 2009, but Serqueux Station is still served by the route from Amiens.

Or what about the time when my 18-week pregnant wife and I were stranded along the highway on the summit ridge of Mount Carmel in Northern Israel, back in the year 2000? After alighting at Haifa Bus Station from Tiberias, we found the city deserted and like a ghost town. How lacking in foresight on my part had left us unprepared for the Jewish Rosh Hashannah which is a national holiday lasting several days? With not a single shop open, penniless despite having a thick book of Traveller's Cheques, and thinking that our final destination, Stella Carmel Christian Conference Centre in Ishfya, was just a climb up the mountain away, we made our way up the hill through a long series of steps separating each street.

By the time we reached the summit, we then realised that our destination was much further away than we thought. Laden with heavy backpacks, we were stranded in the middle of nowhere. That is until we were spotted by the driver of a passing car. He turned out to be the pastor of a church in Haifa and has offered us a lift to the centre. Furthermore, he gave us a ten shekel note to set us on our way.*

Indeed, I would love to think of myself as an experienced traveller, but poor planning or lacking foresight is just the weakness required for God to intervene, as he had done in those last three cases. To some reading this, how could I complain about my travel failures if millions around the world live in starvation-level poverty? Or even here in England, many just manage to scrape through on benefits? A day trip to Bognor may be considered a luxury treat to them. And here I am, unable to get a US visa, stuck inside a runaway train in France and stranded in the middle of nowhere in Israel.

At Niagara Falls, Summer 1977.

I'm pretty sure that I'm comparing myself to many a graduate, who tends to take a gap year to backpack or even work overseas. And many of such graduates fill our church pews. Therefore I tend to compare myself to them rather than to the poor.

And God sees my weaknesses and for such weaknesses, he sent his Son to die and atone for us. And no matter what situation any of us might be in, God is willing and able to rescue us from a dire situation. 

But best of all, by having faith in the death, burial and resurrection of Jesus of Nazareth and thus proving to be the Christ, the Son of God, indeed we are rescued from eternal death, have all our sins forgiven, imputed with the righteousness of Christ, and to become fellow heirs of glory along with Him, is the best journey anyone can take, which is free.

No tickets or visas required!

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*For a more thorough detail of our experience on the summit of Mount Carmel, plus the benefits of travelling with friends, click here.

A Scare Inside a Church Building...

We were celebrating our seventh wedding anniversary by taking a week's holiday to Sicily back in 2006. In the town of Siracusa, Alex and I stayed in this rather excellent hotel at Via Francesco Crispi for quite a modest price, after learning about a discount in the tariff if the stay is seven nights long, as in our case. We accepted their offer and our smart upstairs room with no further ado.

Not that that particular hotel was the one we had planned staying at. Rather it was the one directly opposite, across the street we arrived at, only to our horror, that it had closed down quite a while ago, and its street sign was still hanging derelict from the front face of the building.

Oh, the memories, memories! I recall 1982, the year I enjoyed backpacking the whole length of the Italian peninsula, and I found myself staying at this hotel, simply by walking through to reception and asking if there is a room. Facing almost directly at il Stazione Ferroviaria di Siracusa, from where I had just arrived after an overnight trip from Naples, my temporary home was very convenient for shorter train journeys to the dramatic clifftop resort of Taormina, and Catania, which is the second-largest city in Sicilia after Palermo, and from Catania, the bus accent to the slope of Mt. Etna, where at the summit I stood on the rim of an active crater with just one other person I met whilst onboard the bus. Then not to mention the ongoing walks into town, including the Old City which is on a separated island bearing the name Isola di Ortigia.

My heart dropped like a stone as Alex and I stood in front of the derelict hotel in disappointment, hopes of memories revived suddenly crushed. But not for long. Across the quiet street, a voice called out, asking in Italian if we're looking for accommodation.

We both crossed the road to meet this young man. I explained that yes, we as a married couple is looking for a room and we are disappointed in the closure of Hotel Arete. He then beckoned us in and offered us a room with a double bed. We checked in for the week. Oh! Those wonderful days before those wretched Internet pre-booking requirements! 

One feature which now stands tall in the heart of Siracuse is il Basilica Santuario Madonna Della Lacrima, a tall, grey fluted cone, meant to resemble a teardrop, reaching high towards the sky. Back in 1982, only what is now the crypt was completed, under a huge circle of flat and level platform forming the roof of the crypt, which within Mass and other services were held. But 24 years later, we both found ourselves gazing up this cone, and being a tourist attraction, the doors were open for free entry. What was once the huge, circular roof of the crypt is now the floor of the conical cathedral where all services take place, to commemorate a ceramic figurine of Our Lady which is fixed a little above the altar.

Church of the Tears, Siracusa.

The story goes that an ordinary family living in Siracusa was the owner of a ceramic figurine of the Virgin Mary, this piece if I remember, being somewhere between ten to twelve inches in height, 25-30 cm. It consisted of just the head and upper body, and it was fixed to a wall in the house. Although gotten in 1953, in 1957 the statuette began to shed tears. After a thorough examination by a bishop, the Church declared this to be a genuine miracle, and it was donated to Siracusa for public veneration.

Alex and I stood inside the basilica, the apex of the cone making a stunning view as it pointed heavenwards. Also within the church, there was another, more lifelike statue of the Virgin Mary. Whilst Alex wandered off to explore other parts of the church, I stood at a position directly in front of the lifesize statue. It looked directly at me, and all of a sudden, I felt a chill pass through my spine. Although it meant to appear holy and at the same time motherly, I couldn't help but feel a sudden unease as the figure stared straight at me, like some sort of evil.

I moved off, well out of its way, and rejoined Alex as we made our way downstairs into the crypt below. I remembered it as being exactly as it was when I first walked in, except that this time the whole subterranean chamber looked tired as if not used for some time.

It all about Mary, isn't it? This young Jewish woman, narrated by Luke, who was visited by an angel with the announcement that a boy was conceived in her by the Holy Spirit without a human father, and she will give birth to one who will be Christ the Lord. After the birth of Jesus, Mary and her husband Joseph went on to have other children who grew up eventually to be elders of the early church. It was while singing in the presence of Elizabeth she referred to God as her Saviour, Luke 1:46. That means she sees herself as a sinner and in need of a Saviour.

The Virgin Mary of the Catholic Church is a different entity altogether! Through the Immaculate Conception had taken place in her mother, St Anne, the Catholic Mary was born without any taint of sin. Not only is this unbiblical but such a church doctrine deifies her to "Mother of God" and a suitable mediatrix between sinful mankind and her biological son Jesus Christ. This, in a way, has exalted the female above the male, making her the direct link between sinful man and God, and one to be prayed to, adored and worshipped.

The ceramic statuette of the Virgin.

Detail of the tears miraculously shed from the statuette. 

History seems to endorse the supernatural appearances of Mary at certain locations. One example was at the French town of Lourdes, and a church was built at the precise site. The Lady of Fatima, Portugal, was said to be witnessed by up to 70,000 people, and a sanctuary in honour of her appearance now stands at the site. The Lady of Zeitoun in Egypt was also seen by hundreds of thousands. And there are many more Marian apparitions which have taken place throughout history.

One Catholic priest had a vision of the Virgin Mary, who instructed him to "Slay all the Babylonian hordes." This priest was none other than Ignatius Loyola, the 16th Century founder of the Jesuits. At first, Loyola thought that Mary was referring to the Muslims. He soon found out though that she was referring to the Protestant Reformers, who believed that salvation comes as a free gift to everyone who has faith in Jesus Christ as Saviour, without the need of any works to earn it. In other words, the vision ordered the slaughter of men, women and children who relied on God's grace alone to be saved.

Oh, such a need of a mother-goddess, the source of tender compassion and one who can successfully intercede with an irate God who needs to be continually pacified from the endless stream of transgressions thrown at Him from a sinful world. Perhaps all this comes from the perception of our human fathers. Like the time when I did something naughty as a small boy, and Mum used to say:

Just wait until Papa finds out!

That means that the father has always been the one to administer corporal punishment. To be led to the garden shed was always between father and son rather than the mother, the one parent the smarting boy would run to for soothing compassion after Dad had finished with him. Indeed, if the boy's misdemeanour was to anger Papa, then it's usually Mum who pleads her husband to withdraw the punishment or even to calm his rising temper.

Even with this very occasion mentioned in the Bible is a strong indication that this paternal discipline is as old as the hills. For example, the sparing of the rod by a father indicating a lack of love for his children appears in Proverbs 13:24, which is during the reign of King Solomon.

Perhaps it's no coincidence that there is a crying demand in the human heart for a queen of heaven to intercede on their behalf. I recall once, at the Notre Dame Cathedral in Paris, watching a couple of young men praying to an image of the Virgin erected within one of the side aisles. When one of them turned and saw me watching in apparent astonishment, they then beat a quick retreat.

With this exaltation of the female above the male, stretching from the dawn of time, it comes to no surprise that such a blasphemous movie is about to enter the Big Screen. With the name Habit, it features an actress, Paris Jackson the daughter of deceased singer Michael Jackson, playing the role of a female Jesus Christ. Indeed, if for the last 1,600 years the Virgin Mary had acted as mediatrix, or intercessor between sinful man and God, so the tempo beats on. From intercessor - to God himself, the Second Person of the Trinity, the female has reached the pinnacle of divinity, even if it's merely for entertainment, at least for now.

It as if the Edenic Curse has turned full circle. Ever since it was Eve who was tempted rather than Adam, I can't help but see the rise of women to prominence, especially to the point of reverence. Am I against feminism? That's quite a point! I once watched a documentary on TV about what was once a happy and thriving marriage between this ordinary husband-and-wife couple. He was the breadwinner. She stayed up home to bring up their children. Now that their kids have grown up and flown the nest, the couple was on the verge of a divorce. By a thorough investigation made for public viewing, the underlying cause of the looming separation was that recently she had been attending college and has gotten herself a degree, with which she would go and pursue a career.

Indeed, such a quest for independence at first looks commendable and solve the problem of latter-years boredom. But as sidespin to this is the rapid rise of abortions. Here in the UK, the number of elective abortions has reached an annual total of 200,000 unborn deaths. That is around 570 abortions carried out every working day. And all this for career or social convenience and in some cases, eugenics. Abortion can now be justified if the baby has a cleft palate or lip, a club foot, has Down's Syndrome or has Spinal Bifida. 

Another consequence of feminism seems to be domestic violence. According to the BBC through the information gotten from 43 police forces across the UK, in 2019 up to 173 people were killed by their partners as domestic abuse, the majority of these deaths were female victims. That is one death in just over two days. The rate of non-fatal violence in the home must be much higher.

With divorce made much easier and the honour bestowed on marriage now non-existent, I ask, what's the heck is going on? Perhaps I can look upon myself as an example of the male psyche. There has always been a level of personal satisfaction in being the breadwinner, whether I was single or married. I do recall our courting days when my wife-to-be suggested attending college and perhaps take on an office job. Immediately I felt threatened and quashed the idea!

Trailer image of the blasphemous Hollywood movie Habit.

Perhaps you as a reader is now considering me as a vile sexist and male chauvinist. If you're female, perhaps you click off this page and never read my blogs again. But before you do, please consider this: The biggest killer of all men here in the UK is suicide. And according to hearsay, these victims seem to be mainly from a non-academic background, and with little education, such a victim sees himself as a failure (whether that's really true or not) who will never see himself as a successful breadwinner raising up a family. (And I also accept that financial hardship can also be the cause of suicide.) As an example, in 2018 there were 4,903 male suicides in comparison with 1,604 female deaths. According to my own experience, it does look as if marrying and raising a family is the ultimate aim of the masculine psyche. 

Having faith in Jesus Christ will go a long way to finding life's fulfilment. God has always expressed himself in the masculine gender, and Jesus Christ was born male, not female. And the day will come when all humans - both male and female - will confess Jesus Christ as Lord (not Lady) to the glory of God the Father (and not Mother). A God who will give eternal life to everyone who believes in the risen Son, Jesus Christ for salvation, regardless of whether the Christian believer is a man or a woman.

A female Jesus? On yer bike!