Travel Biography - Week 84.

The first Attempt Ended in Failure - but it wasn't my fault.

Note: All photos, unless specified, are my own, taken in 1997.

I arrived At Arlie Beach around teatime the previous evening. After settling in an unoccupied dormitory, hence, a room for myself, I enquired about day trips to the Whitsunday Islands at the reception. Ben, the man at the desk whom I had already befriended, was accommodating to my requests and recommended Ocean Rafting, a speedboat that accommodated a small party around three islands of the archipelago - Hook Island, Whitsunday Island, and Border Island, where a fringe reef offered snorkelling opportunities.

Our speedboat to Whitsunday Islands.

Nara Inlet, Hook Island.

4,000-year-old cave paintings. Tennis Raquets?

Being one of a small group was better than being part of a large escorted group. As with the Low Isles, there were more family-like, closer interpersonal relations, including the boat's owner and his accomplice. However, since this was a small craft and there was no onboard cafe or shop selling single-use underwater cameras, this time there would be no underwater photography. Maybe just as well. By the time we reached Border Island for the snorkelling, there was a cloud cover, and the photos may not have come out too well.

For the independent traveller, whether alone, a couple, or a group of friends, there were boats for hire at the Marina. On board, I could have gone anywhere around the archipelago and spent as much of my time at the more scenic location. But I would never have ticked all the boxes. For a start, I would have needed a valid licence, then there was an insurance issue, and then the waiver fee added on top of the already extortionate rental fees, and a mountain of responsibilities. After all, if the boat sank, its owners wouldn't be happy!

It was far better for me to be part of a small party, leaving all responsibilities behind as I enjoyed the sights these islands offered. Furthermore, the tour offered an opportunity for some day hiking at Whitsunday Island, an opportunity that would have been too risky had I been in charge of a boat.

The following morning after my first night spent at Arlie Beach, the accomplice arrived to collect me from the resort entrance, and I followed him to where the speedboat was moored. The small group were all assembled and we boarded the boat. But as the owner attempted to start the motor, there was a splutter, followed by silence. Another attempt and the same happened. We were then ordered off the boat, and after the accomplice found the cause of the problem, the trip had to be cancelled. The craft needed some repairs. The owner offered us a choice. Either a refund or a day's postponement, that is, to set out the next day. Some in the group accepted a refund, as they were about to move on. I, and a few others, agreed to return the next day.

Ocean Rafting treated us as next-day priorities. That is, there was no further payment and our place would not be squeezed out by overbooking.

Instead, I spent the day exploring the area. This included the esplanade, lined with tropical vegetation as it backs the curve of Arlie Beach. At the tidal zone, some mangrove trees literally grew out of the sea. By the afternoon, I returned to the hostel and explained to Ben what happened that morning. He then reassured me that Ocean Rafting would keep its promise to collect me the following morning. Meanwhile, at his suggestion, I had a swim in the resort's open-air pool, as there were either no diving lessons that day or the morning session ended by lunchtime.

The pool was not rectangular as required for competitive swimming but rounded at both ends and waisted in the middle. Hence, it wasn't meant for real swimming, but for something to look at and to enhance the appearance of the yard it's in. Most holiday hotels have irregular-shaped pools purposely designed to discourage swimming and instead encourage sunbathing around them. And whilst sunbathing, a thirst develops, and it's off to the outdoor bar to buy drinks. And so, in many Mediterranean hotels, an early-morning contest between the English and the Germans on who will grab and reserve their sunbeds before breakfast has found its way into the Media, much to the delight of the hotel and the jingling of its tills. Such clever psychology lies in the pool design for the tourist to spend, spend, spend, hence an irregular-shaped pool is a deliberate moneyspinner!

Hence, my negative feelings towards package holidays in the days before I married in 1999. To me, package holidays on the Spanish costa aren't Travel, it's sun-seeking, to escape the miserable British summer for a week or two of Mediterranean sunshine. But Travel is something very different. And that difference was demonstrated between my last package trip to Spain in 1972 where I spent one night sleeping in a bathtub soaked in alcoholic vomit and backpacking Italy just a year later in 1973, which included hiking up to the crater of Mt Vesuvio and walking the streets of ancient Pompeii.

Our speedboat at Whitehaven Beach.

At Whitehaven Beach, Whitsunday Island.

A giant Lizard climbs a tree. 

The Second Attempt - A Success.

The following morning, after I made myself breakfast, I waited to be picked up by a member of Ocean Rafting. Presently, the same accomplice arrived and I followed him to the boat, where the owner was doing some final checks as the other passengers boarded.

But just boarding the speedboat wasn't quite enough. Rather, I wanted to chat with the owner and find out what the cause of the previous day's problem was. Perhaps impressed with my interest, he explained that the belt connecting the pulley driven by the motor to the propellor shaft had broken, and the boat spent the rest of the day in its hanger while a new drive belt was on order, and was also properly serviced. With a new belt fitted, we were all raring to go. Passengers who booked for today replaced those from the previous day who couldn't make it. Although the party was small, the boat was at full capacity.

The boat exited the marina, with me sitting in the aft of the speedboat for maximum views. With the speedboat moving fast towards Hook Island, its wake was thrown up into the air, giving me an occasional splash when the boat hit a wave. I had to make efforts to protect the camera.

As seen on a map, Hook Island, the first of the three stops, had a resemblance to an animal's claw, especially in the southern half, when the three "claws" or "toes" were separated by two long, narrow inlets, the Nara Inlet and the Macona Inlet. The boat pulled into Nara Inlet and we all climbed the hill of the middle toe. From an overlook, the Nara Inlet looked very much like the Amazon River passing through the Brazillian jungle, only that the inlet was a lot narrower, and the water had a shade of turquoise.

We then moved on to a cave which within were 4,000-year-old paintings of two ovals, each with straight lines crossing at 90-degree angles within the curve, forming a net, but our guide admitted that he wasn't able to identify what those images represented.

"Why, they're tennis racquets!" I exclaimed, and the whole group broke into peals of laughter, including our guide.

A Trail leads into the forest, Whitehaven Beach.

The Trail passes through tropical forest...

...until I get this view with Pentecost Island on the right.

After all that, we reboarded the boat for sailing to Whitehaven Beach, on Whitsunday Island itself. This beach has fine-grain sand of pure silicon, and it's said that this coastline was the result of a massive underwater volcanic explosion that occurred thousands of years ago. When I walked along this beach, there was a characteristic squeak with each footstep, making this beach not only a World Heritage Site but also one of the most beautiful beaches in Australia, if not the world.

On Whitsunday Island, we were not led on a guided tour like at Hook Island. Rather, we were given a couple of hours for us to wander off by ourselves. After spending some time on the beach, I saw what looked like a trailhead leading inland into the forest. Indeed it was, and I was alone as I began the mini-hike.

Like on Hook Island, the trail ascended a hill, but before I went any further, someone nearby pointed to a tree. On its trunk, a giant lizard, resembling a small crocodile, was climbing the trunk as it headed upward towards the branches. It looked as if it was fleeing from our presence, and indeed, I felt no danger as I looked up, watching it disappear into the upper foliage.

Alone, I pressed on with the hike. How far I went, I couldn't be sure, but the walk was relatively short compared to that of Magnetic Island. Soon, a wonderful panorama was revealed as I reached the summit. Looking south, what stood out was the dramatic Pentecost Island of the neighbouring Lindeman Group, south of the Whitsundays. Pentecost Island is the nearest of that group, around 10 km, or six miles from where I was standing. Since I was alone, I have wondered whether anyone else caught a glimpse of this fascinating scene.

I kept close watch of the time. As the two hours were drawing to a close, I made my way back to Whitehaven Beach. Just a little way into the sea, our speedboat was perched, waiting for all to board. One or two passengers were boarding whilst I was approaching, the sand beneath my feet squeaking at each footstep as I got nearer the craft. Although I was the last to board, other than the accomplice, I didn't delay their schedule.

The boat then sped towards Border Island, named that perhaps, as this was the last island before the open sea and the Great Barrier Reef. The island has a shape resembling a distorted Y and boasts a fringe reef on its north side, between the two rocky arms of the Y. It was here we were heading.

During this leg of the sailing, we were all handed snorkels. But this time, since there was no direct sunshine, as it was behind a cloud covering, I went into the water topless, having stripped off my shirt at Whitehaven Beach, and left it behind in the boat. And so, after the boat had moored at a safe distance from the beachless coast, we all slid in the seawater with our snorkels in place.

The corals were rich and diverse, even more so than at Low Isles. Since this is a continental island and not a cay, it plunges deeper into the ocean, hence with deeper water covering the shelf beneath, the coral here was indeed more vibrant and lush. There was one species of coral I knew about (having studied at the hostel) and that was the Brain Coral, so named for obvious reasons. I felt excitement as I drew close to it for a good look. It was then that I regretted not having a submersible camera. I think a snapshot of this particular coral would have developed well.

Arriving at Border Island.

An example of Brain Coral. Stock photo.

Eventually, after probably 30-45 minutes, we were all called back to the speedboat for a fast ride back to Arlie Beach. Once on board, I put on my shirt. I shouldn't have bothered. A wave was hit and I was soaked, much to the amusement of all the others on board. Oh well, what the heck? 

As I made my way to the kitchen, I knew that I had a splendid day.

Stern Reprimand or Gentle Love?

Last week I opened my weekly blog with a testimony of our trip to Eilat back in 2000 as a couple, together with a bunny in the oven, after recently watching this YouTube presenter dive-bomb from the pierhead into the coral-rich turquoise sea. But today I would like to go back even further, to the Summer of 1970, when I was a seventeen-year-old teenager. Back then I spent a couple of weeks at Butlin's Holiday Camp located on the Sussex coast, close by to the traditional-style Victorian seaside resort of Bognor Regis. It was my first ever away-break taken without my parents.

Butlins Holiday Camp around the 70s.

To every reader who doesn't live in the UK, maybe a little insight might help define a holiday camp. It's a typical British institution, the original idea dreamt up by a fairground lover and entrepreneur William Butlin, who established a holiday camp, I believe, near the Lincolnshire resort of Skegness, on the North Sea coast sometime in the 1930s. Overnight accommodation originally consisting of tents, along with a nearby fairground, the camp soon began to develop into a full resort with chalets replacing tents and many other facilities added to the fairground, including a roller-skating rink, swimming pool, a table tennis hall, other games facilities, several theatres, two ballrooms (one for Old Time dancing, the other for modern ballroom, and there was also a discotheque.) All these facilities were free to use by the holidaymaker once the booking and cover fee for chalet hire was paid for.

Back in 1970, each chalet was a small self-contained room with a bed, a table-and-chair and a small bathroom, but no kitchen, as it was required to eat at the resort restaurant at given set times. It was the home for the vacationer for the whole of his stay. Had I gone with a friend, then we would have had a separate chalet, one for each of us. Nowadays, the chalets are greatly improved with kitchens for self-catering guests and larger family accommodation, in other words, what we would call holiday homes. 

For all the residents, in 1970, there was a huge restaurant, accommodating several hundred people at a time, where three meals were served, free, each day throughout the stay. Also nowadays, there are a variety of cafes and coffee bars catering for all, but especially for day visitors.

Set in a time when dishwashing machines weren't yet installed and thus crockery was washed by hand, in the kitchen behind the service hatch and out of sight from all the guests, the staff was busy in both in the preparation of the food and the washing up during and after each mealtime. Looking back, I tend to believe that many of the kitchen workers were undergrads on Summer leave from their universities. The stress which goes into such seasonal work is often revealed by a sudden loud POFF! - followed by a cheer from the guests - "Hurrah!"

These accidents tended to be quite frequent, hardly a day passes without one plate, cup or saucer dropping to the floor and shattering. And so the wheels of the machine keeps on turning - the famous Redcoats kept us all entertained, especially in the evenings, other staff were lifeguards at the swimming pool, others supervised each ride on the fairground, and still others pushed brooms, mops, and the daily use of detergent keeping the Environmental Officer happy and everyone, staff members and guests alike, enjoying the minimal risk of picking up a bug on the campsite.

And not to forget back in 1970 when it was quite fashionable for a lounge to be sited in the same building as the swimming pool, and below the water level. Huge tough-glazed observation windows lined the pool, giving a fabulous sub-aquatic view of the swimmers as each thrashes his legs about at the deep end of the pool. It was just like looking into an aquarium. As the loungers relax in their comfortable armchairs watching all the goings-on underwater, so the continuous, almost melodic low hum of the pool chlorinators ensure that its hygiene safety was kept to the right level.  

What a pity it is for such sub-aquatic views not to exist anymore! Watching swimmers and bathers through a sub-aquatic window was so relaxing, indeed, even therapeutic, hence the presence of fish tanks in some public venues to this day. Could it be the case of underwater flatulence be the cause of many prudish spectators taking offence and complaining to the staff? And even causing others to snigger? Not to mention the embarrassment felt by the bather himself. Indeed, the 1960s and 70s was a very different era, an era of innocence, even naivety, perhaps. Our last visit to a Butlin's holiday camp was at Minehead in 2003, with Alex and our baby daughter. It was to attend a Spring Harvest Christian festival, and the upgraded swimming pool, complete with flumes and a space bowl, is housed in a building of its own, without any observation windows.

Camp Restaurant around the 1970s.

I suppose these days when huge dishwashing machines now line the kitchen walls and far fewer dishes break, all this make kitchen work considerably easier, as even now the large restaurant for overnight guests is still fully functional. But going back to 1970, it has never crossed my mind just how often a van arrives with new crockery to replace those constantly broken. And so, such a vehicle may arrive rather discreetly in the staff car park and out of sight from any guests.

I guess might be quite easy for someone in his own home, having accidentally dropped and broken a valuable plate, to be criticised and be called a clumsy fool, especially when the offender is a child. Of course, the one making the accusation had never dropped any breakable item, and he believes that he never will. But then again, there is a difference between a plain white plate, cup or saucer, one of many in a large restaurant, and a highly valued antique handed down over several generations of a family.

One more-recent incident occurred while I was at a leisure pool restaurant following a gym and sauna session. A family was seated at a table directly in front of my table. Suddenly, the young daughter of the family, a girl I guess to be three or four years old, accidentally dropped a white side plate and broke it. She immediately burst into tears, perhaps with the realisation of it happening before and receiving a telling-off from one of her relatives. One of the staff members then approached and calmly cleaned up the shrapnel, probably even smiling and reassuring the little girl that nothing was really amiss.

The result was it didn't take long for the girl to calm down and cease her weeping, and the rest of the family was able to finish their post-swim refreshments without any further ado.

The incident of the little girl directly in front of me was out of an unexpected and unintentional circumstance, as with the worker who accidentally drops a dish at the restaurant kitchen. There is quite a difference between this little girl and say, a rebellious son who deliberately smashes a plate out of anger and frustration from not getting his own way. In the boy's case, a firm reprimand is needed to teach him the difference between right and wrong and that the world doesn't revolve around him, maybe with further punishment in withholding treats or favours and even to be sent up to his bedroom for a while.

Therefore, I could ask, what has inspired me to write a blog such as this one? Earlier today, my beloved was cooking in the kitchen whilst I remained in the lounge, reading the paper. We have an agreed rule here about not having two people in the kitchen at the same time. Suddenly there was this almighty "POFF", and I was startled. Alarmed, I made a dash into the kitchen, expecting my wife to be in a neurological fit, something which can happen quick and unexpected. But instead, she looked up at me very apologetically, a smashed bowl of stew all over the floor. The vessel had slipped through her fingers as she took it out of the microwave oven.

But did I reprimand her? Not at all! Having been married to each other for more than two decades, I knew perfectly well that this was purely an accident. In fact, I can say for sure that this is the first time something like this has ever happened. All I did was to take her in my arms and reassured my love for her. The same attitude Jesus Christ has for His Church, which is seen as His bride.

I suppose this incident is a kind of picture. Just as I was able to feel no need to reprimand her for such a misdemeanour but instead reassured her of my love, I believe that is how God sees me whenever I slip up. And I slip up all the time. Even King David once wrote that if God was to take account of all his sins, how would he stand? (Psalm 130:3). And considering what James says in his letter, that if someone keeps the Law perfectly but stumbles at just one point, he is guilty of breaking the whole Law (James 2:10) - and such he must be taken to Court, just as any car driver who was unfortunate enough to be caught speeding. He might plead to the magistrate that he had never driven in excess speed before, but his plea would be of no use. He has broken the law and must face a penalty.

That is unless someone pays the penalty on the driver's behalf. Once paid, the driver is free to go. In judicial terms, the driver was forensically acquitted. Praise be to God, the penalty for my sins, and there are plenty of them, have all been paid for by the crucifixion of the One who had no sin, His death and burial, then His Resurrection to prove that the atonement was effective and anyone who believes can receive this forgiveness of all sin - past, present and future. Are all my future sins already forgiven? Well, how many of my sins were committed after the Crucifixion? All of them, for there were nearly two thousand years between His death and Resurrection, and my birth.

Camp chalets, around 1980.

But being what I am, I can, and do sin in the same way as that boy throwing a tantrum for not getting his own way. In my childhood day, I would have gotten a smack from Dad (and indeed, I was smacked!) Such discipline was well deserved. As the Bible says, we will all stand before God (Romans 14:10, 2 Corinthians 5:10.) But this will be a judgement of rewards, not salvation, as every saint have been forensically acquitted. Therefore, all will either be rewarded or suffer loss. And I believe there will be plenty of tears, but all will live. Because forensic acquittal got by the death and resurrection of Jesus Christ, not a single saint will lose his salvation, but instead, he will suffer the loss of heavenly rewards.

However, God the Father has promised that He will wipe every tear, according to Revelation 21:4. After giving my account to God at the Judgement seat, I can imagine some tears will be shed. But God Himself will produce His heavenly hanky and wipe the tears away in tender loving care. It would be like the little girl who accidentally broke a dish at the pool restaurant. The member of staff who swept up the shatterings gave her a smile of reassurance and she made a rapid recovery. Or in the case of my own beloved, who thought I would upbraid her for her clumsiness and the waste of a complete lunch, but all I felt was love and tenderness for her. She quickly pulled through, and I went out to our local superstore to buy two identical replacement bowls.

Oh, to pour out my heart to God, and to throw all my burdens, anxieties and worries on Jesus Christ, because He cares for me - 1 Peter 5:7.  

A Shock at a Leisure Centre Cafe.

Last Sunday I was rather shocked as I walked into our Ascot Life Church service, which had just begun. For there was a massive hole of empty seats at the main centre row. As I took my place near the front, as I usually do, any worship meant to be offered to God was obscured by thoughts, troubling thoughts. And as such, I'll add some details about our church as a build-up to what had occurred on the very next day.

I realised that schools up and down the country had just broken up for the Easter break. Therefore colleges have broken up as well. Which means that many of the students from Royal Holloway, at the nearby town of Egham, who attend our services during term time would have gone home. This meant that during these college breaks, about three or four rows of empty seats, usually at the central section, are considered normal. But not last Sunday.

For greater clarification, I'll give a brief description of the seating arrangement at Ascot Life Church and how so many absent that particular Sunday has made quite an impact. The building where we meet is actually a restaurant located in the paddock buildings at the famous Royal Racecourse, where its interior has been cleared of all tables to make room for the seating. Since the length of the building is roughly aligned to the North-to-South points of the compass, the congregation faces south while the preacher and the music band members face north. Therefore, using theatre terminology, to anyone standing at the front will see three stalls of seating rows: The wide centre stalls and two narrower side stalls, the West stalls and the East stalls, both of these half the width of the centre arrangement and each separated by an aisle. 

How the Racecourse restaurant looks during the week!

The huge hole of empty seats was among the middle rows, with most who did arrive taking occupancy among the East and West stalls. That meant that the few sitting at the back had a full view of me as I sat at the second row from the front, a view which is normally obscured by people in between. I would not be exaggerating if I was to say that somewhere between thirty-three to fifty per cent of all regular attendees were absent that particular morning.

After the service, over some coffee and doughnuts, I asked someone standing nearby why such a high level of absentees. His explanation was that many were at "the wedding of the year" which took place the day before, near the Sussex resort of Brighton, and many had chosen to stay for the night. When I asked further who could have participated in such high ranking nuptials, the answer came back: Martha Collison.

Martha is one of two daughters, the other being Hannah, of Chris Collison and his wife Louise. Chris is one of our four Elders of Ascot Life Church. This makes our style of church leadership rather unusual. We don't have a senior pastor, a reverend, priest or even a bishop. Instead, we have four Elders, each of equal standing and therefore a likelihood of equally accountable to the Baptist Union. Chris Collison is a successful businessman who joined our church relatively recently when compared to when I joined, along with those who were already present before my arrival in 1990.

When it became clear that more were attending each Sunday morning than our original church building could cope with, Chris negotiated with the management of Ascot Racecourse during the latter half of 2012, into 2013. An agreement with the officials for a reduced annual fee allowed the hire of an upstairs site restaurant which capacity could hold double to what our original building could accommodate. Eventually, an experimental contract was set up by the Racecourse officials with Chris Collison, and on Sunday 13th April 2013, which is exactly six years to the day this blog was written, we had our first ever service at the new venue. On the same day, Ascot Baptist Church became Ascot Life Church, a new name taken from John 10:10, with its iconic symbol of a bird's eye view of the racecourse itself next to the logo.

It looks to all us members that the reward for a successful contract with the Racecourse officials was a promotion into Eldership. However, it was a known fact that the other three Elders had asked Chris to join the leadership team sometime before any negotiations with the Racecourse officials had ever got underway, which seems to be a good indication of Collison's business prowess rather than a spiritual one. However, that's not for me to say.

On Saturday, April 6th 2019, his daughter Martha married a fellow graduate, Michael Haywood. Maybe you have heard of the name Martha Collison sometime in the past. Indeed, she was a contestant of the 2014 BBC's Great British Bake-off. At seventeen years at the time, she was the youngest ever to take part in a contest which was broadcast across the nation, and being so young, won the heart of the nation. She managed to reach the quarter-final, and it was then when she was eliminated. However, one of the finalists, London builder Richard Burr, coined up the nuptials as "the wedding of the year," after turning up as an honoured guest, among other former Bake-off contestants, to the wedding venue. Martha's status as a celebrity remains endorsed by her published articles in various magazines as well as writing a couple of books on her expertise in baking, which were successfully published.

Cakes donated to Martha's Wedding Reception.

But the road to fame was not always plain sailing. It was during the fifth episode, aired on Wednesday 3rd September 2014, when she hit a blunder while making an apricot flan. Unfortunately, the juice from the fruit had percolated into the sponge base whilst in the oven, making the sponge soggy, when it should have been firm. This earned a critical assessment from the judges, along with that of lacking flavour. Poor Martha! She was visibly close to tears when she was interviewed afterwards, protesting on how could the judges be so severe after two hours of grafting over the worktop.

However, step in Amanda Platell of The Daily Mail. A childless divorcee from Australia, this ardent Brexiteer had a sharp word to say to Martha in a filler which appeared in the newspaper on Saturday 6th September 2014. She laid it on thickly when she lambasted the teenage student for shedding tears after a mere correction from the judges. "If people like her cannot take a bit of criticism without shedding tears, heaven helps us for the future of Britain," she wrote.

It's the same columnist who also wrote, The working classes of the past, no matter how poor, had enormous self-respect. Men wore suits and ties. Women scrubbed the doorsteps.

This echoed her predecessor, self-confessed atheist and former Daily Mail columnist Simon Heffer, who also wrote in a filler that no man can be referred to as a gentleman unless he wears a tie at all times whilst out, even on a Saturday afternoon. Indeed, both must have been cast from the same mould, despite that unlike Heffer, Platell is a regular church-goer. 

It was the next day, Monday, April 8th 2019, when an ordinary day's schedule as a retiree calling for my weekly swim at the revamped Leisure Centre, about ten minutes from home on the bicycle. It was lane swimming at the Competition Pool, a weekly therapeutic session lasting between 75-80 minutes as part of the post-op cardiac rehabilitation program recommended by the GP. It was after the swim, when I was dressed and calling at the cafe outlet which displayed delicious calorie-inducing cakes and tempting Kit-Kat bars which takes a good dollop of will power for a hungry stomach to resist, where I ordered my usual cappuccino while complaining that these tempting food items will undo all my efforts in calorie burn. Her reply was that these items are purposely displayed in order to motivate me to return to the gym!

As I sat alone in a newly refurbished cafe, with nothing more than a paper cup of frothy coffee in front of me, my attention was caught by a group of individuals sitting around a nearby table. It was a small group of mentally handicapped adults along with their supervisors. One of them, a young and rather good-looking patient arose and sat at a nearby table by himself. He looked toward me. I cracked a smile. He got rather excited and grinned from ear to ear, holding up his thumb. As I could see, he was happy. 

Then I heard a slight wail uttered by another patient, a female with curly salt-and-pepper hair, giving me an impression that she was in her forties, possibly even in her fifties, but has a mental age of a two-year-old. Her head was stooped over a plate of salad she was slowly eating. Connecting her lips to the food were several strings of saliva.

I had to turn away with a feeling of revulsion, obliterating my appetite and shutting out any desire for the coffee, still mainly unconsumed. All the others who sat with her were immune from such feelings of revulsion, both supervisors and patients alike, but I was aware that at any restaurant I would have been put off my meal, let alone sharing the table. Yet I could not help turn and fix my eyes on her, the sense of disgust having an overwhelming power over me. She became a magnet for my attention.

Then I began to think of her eternal state. Where would she go after her death? To believe that healthy, well-to-do people such as Chris Collison and his daughter are heirs of Heaven while this poor, unfortunate soul would perish forever is anathema, a wickedly cruel theory! Then I remembered what Jesus once said concerning little children: 

Forbid them not for such is the Kingdom of Heaven - (Matthew 19:14).

This woman, adult as she may be, has a mental age of a two-year-old, probably even less. Therefore in God's eyes, hers is the Kingdom of Heaven. It makes sense. It makes perfect sense. There she is. Never having worn a wedding ring. Never knowing what it's like receiving a husband's intimacy. Having a womb which never, and will never, carry a developing fetus and giving birth. Having breasts which never and will never give suck. Never, and will never experience the joys and hardships of motherhood.

Yet she is happy. Happy in her own little world. Never having to worry where the next meal will come from. Never ever to worry about fuel bills, the taxman, nor a mortgage or rent arrears. As for travel, she most likely had never left the UK - and she couldn't care less! And she will never miss the experience of independent travel and backpacking, nor be aware of its existence. Nor even boarding a train, let alone sail on a ferry or board a flight. Yet she is happy, contented with her lot. Because in her little world, and among many other trials, she would never have to worry about nursing a physically disabled beloved or maintaining medical care in a way I need to. Yet I couldn't but help feel something of a love for her.

Bracknell Competition Pool - weekly therapeutic.

And a feeling of shame of myself. Ashamed of my feeling of repulsiveness, and of disgust at the sight of her drooling saliva. And yet I realise that sin is just as repulsive in God's eyes as the dear woman was to me. Yet God loves her, just as much as he loves Chris Collison, his daughter and her new husband, and all family members. The fact that she's middle class and a celebrity makes no difference. We are all sinners and in need of God's love and forgiveness. All of us. Status is absolutely irrelevant. God's grace fulfils the need for each and every one of us.

That was why I had a longing for her to rise up and make a dash for me, to receive a tight embrace. Even with her saliva dampening my shirt, I would have held her tight, and look joyfully into her eyes, smiling at her warmly. The same kind of love Christ has for us.

The kind of Christlike love such stoical, stiff-upper-lip, church-going Amanda Platell needs to show to Martha Collison, is a far better form of encouragement to get her flan right, instead of publicly criticising her and putting her down for the sake of being British.