Looking at the Bright Side of Life

Today, I look out the window to see a cloudless sky. This is very rare in the UK, I might add. Indeed, it's that time when winter gives way to spring, the days get longer, the nights shorter, the weather warmer, and crocuses and daffodils colour the landscape with their blooms. And oh yes, the beginning of Daylight Saving Time when the clocks go forward in the early hours of Sunday morning, that somewhat crazy phenomenon when you wake up each morning as if from a hangover for days to come.

Spring blooms - Daffodils and Crocuses.

For us, the thoughts of the seaside or boarding the Eurostar comes to mind. Or had I remained single, perhaps another prospect of a long-haul flight. On the other hand, the library of photo albums that would have accumulated over the past two decades would have required enough shelving in a public library for storage!

Maybe that's was it? By the end of the twentieth century, I was wondering whether the sense of adventure gotten from intercontinental backpacking was beginning to wane, especially to the States, after five separate visits already. Who knows. However, at the start of the new millennium, my original plan was to fly from London to Cape Town, backpack to Johannesburg, then fly to Perth, Western Australia, then surface travel to Sydney before taking off again to California. In other words, another Round-the-World trip like the one accomplished in 1997. Back then, such an endeavour was financially possible, thanks to British Airways signing special deals with other airlines, such as the Australian Qantas, originally meant to repatriate Aussies temporary residing in the UK and wishing to return. Instead, in 1999, I courted and married Alex, thus putting an end to all long-haul travel.

Then again, what if...

What if I held a driving licence, valid around the world? Despite the paperwork involved - insurance, collision-waiver fees, taxes, etc, hiring a car would have opened vast areas of the USA not reached by public transport, especially west of the Mississippi River. Canyonlands in Utah is one example, where trails pass through narrow slot-canyons, barely wider than my shoulders, with high vertical cliffs of patterned sandstone towering high on each side of me. Or the fantastic majesty of Half-Dome Mountain dominating Yosemite National Park, a mass of granite challenging any hiker to climb to its summit. Or the strikingly beautiful Crater Lake in southern Oregon. At the visitor's Centre, I would have gasped at how fire, heat, and lava from the bowels of the Earth could have created such a huge caldera lake, further enhanced by the presence of a small volcanic cone rising from the surface as an island located near the edge.

Then considering the sandstone pinnacles of Bryce Canyon, also in Utah, it's worth pondering how someone like me without a driving licence can miss out on nature's rugged beauty. Getting tired of visiting America? With a car, I would have never been tired! There were so many places worth visiting.

Hence the frustration of using the Greyhound Bus, even with a month-long pass ticket, or the Greyhound Ameripass, as it was called then. The busses linked cities, not natural wonders, although I was fortunate to make use of public services to get to Grand Canyon South Rim in both 1978 and 1995 respectively. 

Indeed, despite missing out on these dramatic attractions due to my inability to drive, yet, I have much to be thankful for. When I was young and pushing a broom across the floor of a family-owned factory workshop, I had never dreamed that not many years later I would gasp at the thundering cascade of Niagara Falls, or look down into Grand Canyon, let alone the need to hike down to view the Colorado River from close up, along with the numerous buttes that make up the rugged skyline from below - that contrasts vividly to the straight line of the North Rim as seen from the Village. Or when I walked through the rainforest of the Blue Mountains National Park near Sydney and looked up at the waterfalls cascading down those high cliffs. 

And turning to aquatics, those highly treasured moments when I hovered just above the corals of the Great Barrier Reef and over the corals of the Red Sea just south of Eilat. Two very different kinds of coral with their variation of species. Last but certainly not least, to stand on the summit of the Mount of Olives, looking west across the panoramic view of Jerusalem, the City of the Great King, and a view not unfamiliar with Jesus and his disciples.

It's during these present times that evaluating what you've achieved can be very helpful both spiritual and psychological. Whether it to do with leisure travel as was with me or having a high level of education, the ability to hold down a respectable career, to be successful in the business world, or to excel in a sport, whether as a team member as in football or cricket, or solo as a track-and-field athlete, or achieving a marvel such as swimming across the Channel or writing a novel or set of novels that fill the shelves of a well-known bookshop chain, such as Waterstones.

Or to pursue hobbies such as photography, as in my case, closely linked with travel. The inner glow felt within by having achieved something, whatever it might be, to fulfil your dreams are all good therapies to combat the challenges of life, such as the war in Ukraine and the threat of the rise in the cost of living. 

Corals at the Red Sea, Eilat, taken Oct 2000.

I guess it's so easy to allow rage to simmer within over the evils of the Russian President, how through his selfish ambition to annexe this small, independent State back into the former Soviet Union has caused widespread misery to millions, even fear and death among Russian soldiers ordered to fight and take the land, after minimal training for many young conscripts. Yet, it can be so easy to refer to Vladimir Putin as the son of the Devil, evil, wicked, and yet find it nigh impossible to see him as also loved by God, who is sustaining every breath he takes, every heartbeat, every morsel of food digested, and the efficiency of his immune system. During our Zoom prayer meetings, requests were sent heavenwards for God to appear in a supernatural way to Putin, very much in the same way when God appeared to Isaiah the Jewish prophet:-

Isaiah then cried out, 

Woe is me! For I'm undone, a man of unclean lips who dwell among a people of unclean lips. Yet I have seen the King, the Lord of Hosts. Isaiah 6:5.

Isaiah already knew God before that particular moment, but the experience gave him that extra power to minister to the Israelites and to be forever changed. Using this Scripture verse as a yardstick, some of us prayed for Vladimir Putin to have a similar revelation of God, be converted, and the war coming to a rapid end.

I couldn't help but feel ill-at-ease. For Putin to become a trophy of grace whilst many die in his war without having faith in Christ seems to be the nadir of unfairness! However, no matter how uncomfortable it feels to know that God still loves him, yet, that's still true, for when Christ died on the cross, he atoned for him as much as to the most devoted Christian.

And then, news of the coming inflation, the rise in energy bills, higher taxes and National Insurance, no doubt would cause some, perhaps many, to shiver in his shoes and wonder how one will survive financially after the threefold crisis of the pandemic, the war in Ukraine, and runaway inflation still to come. But according to one journalist, many were around to remember the 1970s with industrial strikes every five minutes, the Winter of Discontent, power cuts, cancelled trains, disrupted flights, and the three-day working week. Yet, we got by.*

Not that I ever remember working a three-day week. During that era, I was working in a precision engineering firm making ball-bearing races (the two rings which in between the bearings rolled.) I fully remember the two diesel-powered generators installed to power the entire factory with all its machines and office equipment. As such, we all worked our full five-day shifts.

But whichever way things are likely to turn, especially on the financial side, I can thank God that we here in the UK are not involved in any war. My heart goes out when I see images and hear about how so many Ukrainians are fleeing from their homes to cross the international borders as refugees. And the courage and determination for all men between the ages of 18 and 60 to remain behind to fight the Russian forces. Indeed, they have already earned the respect of the rest of the world, especially from the west.

I find something so good in humanity, especially when based upon Christian principles. Countries of the European Union are showing wonderful hospitality to these Ukrainian refugees. Especially Poland, a member of the EU since May 1st, 2004 and a Schengen Area member, took in the greater majority of refugees. This seems to be in keeping with what Jesus himself once said, Come to me all who labour and are heavy laden and I will give you rest - Matthew 11:28.

And this couldn't be more appropriate. What greater burdens are there and what heavier laden than being a victim of war? Here in the UK, refugees are offered hospitality from ordinary citizens. Unfortunately, Brexit-voting Britain is the only country in Europe insisting on an entry visa, and a layer of bureaucracy makes everything more difficult for a household to take in a refugee. To me, this seems insane! During the referendum and for some time afterwards, the EU was seen by some educated Christians as a precursor for the coming Antichrist, and the EU consisted of his kingdom to rule the rest of the world.

The level of hospitality shown to the Ukrainian refugees proves this Antichrist theory as unmitigated rubbish! If anything, as already mentioned, the EU is acting more Christlike than bureaucratic Britain! Therefore, rather than preaching from an ivory tower, is there anything positive we (as a couple) can do? I wonder whether we would qualify to take in a refugee by the bureaucrats, even if we have a spare bedroom in which we have accommodated overnight guests without any hitches. For one, my wife is keen to take in a refugee. However, it's left for each householder to select and sponsor a refugee. The snag with that, in my view, is that the better looking young and intelligent-looking type would be selected in preference to the not-so-admirable-looking crowd.

Thus my prayer for financial security, especially after next month, the start of the new financial year when all essentials will go up in price. Such prayers are not merely to avoid poverty. Rather, my prayer is, Bless me, O God, so that I can bless others.

Many Christians pray for God to help the poor. But I feel God is saying, You do it. You bless the poor. And so, I thank God that there are good and reliable charities who transfer my donation to those in genuine need without too much deducted for admin costs. Christian-based charities such as Tear Fund, Compassion, Salvation Army, Red Cross, and Shelter are a few of many charities I can donate. But that comes from financial security, allowing me to give freely in love and without the fear or concern for our own welfare.

The spirit of generosity is a gift of God, even to an unbeliever. Indeed, I may indulge in great travel memories, and yes, those memories are uplifting to the spirit, and I enjoy writing about these experiences on this page (as you might have already guessed!) But, I think the greater source of personal wellbeing is generosity to those less fortunate. And that includes war refugees. Thus, instead of wallowing in misery over the fate of those less well off than us, I can look on the bright side of life and give generously towards those in real need.

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*Richard Littlejohn, The Daily Mail Online, March 17th, 2022.

Yes, So It's Winter - Yet Again...

Oh, the joys of Winter! I remember at one point before retirement, indeed, even before 2010, I sat on a low wall on a particularly cold day. The ladders lay on the sidewalk, the bucket of warm water also stood nearby. There I sat, shivering with cold, yet a strong sense of envy was eating me up and draining my energy from work. And it was only ten in the morning.

That's the advantage of having been a self-employed domestic window cleaner. Under my own steam, I can just sit there and indulge in my own despot of envy, allowing vivid images of the check-in desk at Heathrow Airport, and visualising four people preparing to board their flight to Singapore. As I sat there alone, at least for once I was grateful for not sitting in a busy office under the eye of a controlling bully of a boss. Instead, as it was, I was able to sit alone at a quiet housing estate, mulling at my thoughts and comparing the expectations of these four, consisting of two courting couples, with my own past experiences of world travel.

Window Cleaning, my former trade.

The two young men I knew personally. They were lifeguards of a local leisure pool in which features the spa suite, a facility I visited regularly every week, and my patronage there going as far back as 1992. One of them, Adam by name, was so proficient and so well skilled at his job, that he featured in our local newspaper, The Bracknell News. as the centre's best ever lifeguard. It was he, along with another mate and their girlfriends, who quit his job as a lifeguard to take a sabbatical Round-the-World backpacking trip featuring Singapore, Australia, New Zealand, and the USA.

Weeks of buildup led to that day, with Adam and I being friends on Facebook, I was able to post my own RTW experiences on the social site. But as I sat there mulling over my thoughts, I was wondering how sensitive some people could be. Here was a proficient lifeguard whose knowledge on lifesaving wasn't far below that of a paramedic, when he got offended with my jokey comment that the Sea Wasp is a jellyfish and not an insect. 

As a result, he quickly severed his ties with me, or "unfriended" me, and it has always remained a mystery to me how I had offended him. However, he did deliver some public posts informing us all that although he loved the Australian Pacific Coast, he wasn't impressed with New Zealand. As for the Great Barrier Reef, I can't recall any mention of it. Had his awareness of the Sea Wasp stung his usual confidence in the water? And to add to this, my realisation that Queensland during its summer months is subject to monsoons. Bah! No matter how hard I tried to shake off my envy of them by thinking about these things, I could still feel it.

Eventually, I got around the situation, got up and resumed work. Coming to think of it, the expenditure of physical energy cleaning windows is psychologically benefiting as well as keeping blood flowing through the muscles and creating body heat, a good combatant against cold weather. The Sea Wasp, better known as box jellyfish with their deadly sting, are in abundance at that time of the year. However, it's their inclusion of New Zealand basking in summer sunshine that has aroused my envy, with the salt of unfriending me just before take-off, adding to the wound.

On that particular day, I was working at an estate which has a high number of senior citizens. Throughout my business, I saw that pensioners made the best customers. I had found them to be more warm-hearted towards this lone itinerant tradesman, more generous with coffee and a biscuit, in addition, they were more trusting when allowing me into their kitchens to refill my pail, and they were never hesitant with payment or unnecessarily delaying to pay me. A few even got me to sit at their table after all their windows were cleaned, for coffee, a sandwich and a good chat. With such a friendly environment they gave me, it didn't take long for me to forget about those boys flying halfway around the world.

But working outdoors during winter was challenging. There was one street where nearly all its residents were at work, leaving each property empty of people, although an occasional dog barked. During the summer or when the air was mild, I was okay with that. But I recall one bitterly-cold Winter's day. With everyone out, I served one empty property after another. There was no source of fresh hot water. Indeed, I felt my hands turn blue with the cold as I kept on dipping them in cold, dirty water. I recall then packing everything away and going home early, during mid-afternoon. A refill with hot, clean water would have made all the difference!

And now, I read in a national newspaper that there is such thing as the most depressing day of the year, and it's either a Monday or a Tuesday in early January. I never heard of that before. I wonder where they got that from? However, perhaps the thought of the next quarter of long nights, short days, cold weather, the threat of a thin layer of snow bringing the country to a halt...

If that didn't have such an impact on our lives, I guess I would see the funny side. If the Council - heaven forbid - should forget to grit the roads beforehand or have not watched the Met Office forecast, then the chaos resulting when roads and their intersections turn into skid pans... hardly worth thinking about. Furthermore, trains were known to become marooned and even aeroplanes may not be able to take off. The fear or concern generated by the threat of a snowflake falling makes any anticipation for Spring more intense, along with catching flu or even a common cold, those dark days, long nights and the chilly wind from the Northeast - they all come around, year in, year out, but with the universal surprise it brings, I sometimes wonder whether it's the first time I realise that this cold season is annual.

Coral Reef Sauna Suite, my haunt since 1992.

Perhaps, it's since during Winter here in the UK, it's not every day that I open the bedroom curtains first thing in the morning to see a layer of falling snow covering our garden lawn, and lining the branches of the surrounding trees and bushes spectacularly. Yet, despite all the inconveniences posed upon modern transportation, such a wintry scene is so beautiful, so spectacular. The brilliance of the snow reflecting all the daylight back into the air makes even the contrast with the dull, overcast sky quite notable. Should the sky clear and the sun comes out, then how dazzling the scene is when romanticised into Christmas card fantasy.

And so I ponder at the mode of transport before the invention of the steam engine when horses ruled the day. These mammals were not afraid of the snow, they were able to pull the cart as easily as any Summer's day. No wheels were spinning on an icy patch while the vehicle remains stationary with the engine revving, filling the air behind it with a cloud of toxic fumes. There were no traffic queues stuck on the motorway with drivers phoning their bosses with an apology and a lame explanation why they will be late - if ever arriving at all. No, the guy sitting in a horsedrawn chariot overtakes them all as his beast trots happily along with the snow, leaving a trail of hoof-marks and cartwheel tracks behind.

Yet, from my bedroom window, I can admire the view of the snow-covered garden and ponder on why this stuff is so brilliantly white while any rainwater forming a puddle on concrete or on anything non-porous is as clear as crystal. Indeed, anyone who is good scientific knowledge can explain how water, when it freezes into accumulated snowflakes turns the whole scene brilliant white rather than remaining clear, yet even science can fail to explain why this happens, the beauty of each flake as it falls to the ground, each flake unique in itself, every one different - despite the vast numbers of them needed to cover a large field.

All this causes me to thank and glorify God for his creation rather than curse my fate at the steering wheel. Not that I can drive anyway - I have never owned a car driving licence, let alone a car itself. But as the snow on the road turns into dirty slush by a combination of partial melting and traffic pollution, I can't help but to wish away everything frozen, except ice cream of course, and long for Spring to arrive. After all, one of the positives to ponder on during this cold season is that the winter solstice is already behind us and the days are already becoming longer and the nights shorter. Furthermore, the Earth is at its perihelion, that is, it's closer to the sun in its orbit. No wonder Down Under, the Aussies has to apply a liberal amount of suncream on their bronzed torsos, else that dreaded mole will start burying into the skin, indicating Melanoma.

And so, another Winter's day arrives and with it, The Daily Mail national newspaper carries a story on two of its inside pages:

£44m Brexit success story to make Remoaners choke on their sea bass.*

The two-page article was written by journalist Robert Hardman in his How I see it series of articles. Checking on the text itself, Hardman himself does not use the word Remoaners, but Remainers. As far as the mechanics of the Press goes, the writer doesn't title his contribution. Rather, that's done by the editors. That is, by the newspaper itself. Indeed, I'm tempted to ask them, Is the Winter chill addling your brains?

As one who voted my support to remain in the European Union, the use of the word Remoaner in 2cm high lettering is an insult. I find it insulting because the word is purely detrimental. Furthermore, this isn't merely between two people talking in private. Rather, it's for the whole world to read.

And so, as the cold winter wind blows and blizzards are driven across the UK, those who voted to leave the EU will, sooner or later, find something to prove their point. And when one item is found, so the gloating begins. They look down on us Remainers with a condescending look as they turn up their noses, and if that's not enough, they then publicly insult us! Not a nice Christian attitude, is it? I wonder how Jesus would have reacted had he been around at present?

Earlier in the week, I emailed a message to two Christian people with a suggestion that an unclean spirit in the air has influenced Brexiteers with such subtlety, according to Ephesians 6:12, that even committed Christians who want to serve the Lord were also hoodwinked. With one of the recipients, that didn't go down well. But then, when I emailed those two, the headline hadn't yet appeared. 

Traffic slowed down by snow.

In an analogical sense, with the pandemic, lockdowns, hospitalisations, along with xenophobic, even racist attitudes, including physical and verbal violence, thus driving many Europeans back to their homelands, indeed, it's been a bleak winter - one that lasted for the past two years.

If we're about to go over the hill with the pandemic, at least there is, at last, hope that Spring is on its way.

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*Daily Mail Newspaper, Saturday, January 8th 2022, pages 50-51.

Theism v. Atheism in the Steam Room.

Funny, coming to think of it, only last week I wrote about how many things in life had changed over time, and the pandemic had speeded up various changes, especially the decline of the "club culture" at our local sauna facility.

Yet, only yesterday, I found myself sitting in the steam room with two other fellows, one looking to be a Brit in his forties, or even in his fifties, who I will refer to as Mick, the other was a Serbian immigrant in his late twenties or early thirties whose parents moved to Germany, and he then came over to live in the UK. As the Brit was quite inquisitive about how his parents had coped with the Croatian/Serbian wars that ended the State of Yugoslavia by 1992. Not that he had to cope with the break-up of the country back then, as he either wasn't yet born, or he must have been very young at the time. Yet, Mick still asked if the young man was able to cope whilst he was still in Serbia.

Inside a typical steam room.

That's was when I joined in their chat, reviving the nostalgia of days gone past of a better social life at the facility. The conversation between the three of us went something like this - my own speech quoted in italics:-

Me: Mick, can I share this true story? When I was at a hostel in the Holy Land, I found myself chatting to a couple of fellow backpackers. They were asking me where I was from.

When I said that I was from near London, they looked so flabbergasted! One of them then asked, "London? Isn't that where there's was a lot of bombings - from the IRA, I believe?"

I burst out laughing. "No, I was never fortunate enough to witness a bombing!" I replied to them. "It's amazing how one or two isolated incidents can so easily damage the reputation of any location. But be assured, London is just as safe a city to be in like any other."

Mick: "You've been to Israel? How long were you there for?"

Me: Well, I went quite a few times. But if I were to string these trips together to become one, it would total almost five months - or 20 weeks.

Mick: "Are you religious?"

Me: Well, put it this way, erm, I know Jesus Christ as my personal Saviour. I have known Him for the last fifty years or so.

Mick: "Well, I'm an atheist. As in Life of Brian, I don't have to follow anyone or anything, and I don't like religion forced down my throat. 

Me: What had made you an atheist?

Mick: As I was growing up, I saw a growing conflict between religion and science. As a boy, I had to attend Sunday School, even if my parents weren't churchgoers. But it was later in life I saw that these religious myths did not match scientific facts, like Evolution. Hence, I switched. However, where did you stay in Israel?"

Me: I stayed at a backpacker's hostel in Jerusalem Old City. Over there, you really experience a different culture. As an example, over here, our hostels have separate dorms for each gender. Over there, I slept in a room shared with and surrounded by couples, many sleeping arm-in-arm. 

On another occasion, at a private wedding reception, I watched a live sheep thrashing its legs after having its throat cut and skinned whilst still alive, with its blood flowing to a nearby drain. At least the meat was so fresh when cooked and served! We all sat in a circle and helped ourselves from a large central plate. There was no table or chairs. We all sat in a circle on the ground. That is what travel is all about. Not those Spanish Costa del Sunny or whatever, where you spend your time at an English-style pub!

Mick and the Serbian both laughed.

Me: But most intriguing of all is when I visited the site of the Cave of Machpelah in Hebron, the burying place of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob and their wives Sarah, Rebekah and Leah. It's within the Palestinian territory. If you click, "Cave of Machpelah" on Google, it will come up straight away. A fortress is built over it, and I actually went inside! To think that Herod the Great built it before the birth of Christ. Whilst the whole of Jerusalem was razed to the ground in AD 79 by Roman General Titus, this fortress remained intact throughout, its 2,100-year history, give or take, served as a church, a synagogue and a mosque. In one sense, it's a sentinel commemorating the origin of Israel as a nation. No other country in the world has a sentinel like this one to mark its origins! It certainly upholds the truthfulness of the Bible.

As one story goes, an atheist approached a farmer he knew to be a devoted Christian. The atheist then challenged the farmer by asking, "Can you show me one tangible proof that the Bible is true?"

"Aye sir, the Jew!"

Later, Mick and I found ourselves sitting in the sauna cabin, and we discussed our travels further. This time, I expanded worldwide, including hiking the Grand Canyon of the Colorado River, and snorkelling over the Great Barrier Reef and also in the Red Sea at Eilat. Mick became excited as he explained that he holds a PADI certificate for diving instructors. We exchanged our travel experiences further until it was almost time for me to leave. It was then when Mick suddenly asked,

"Do you attend church?" 

To which I replied, Yes, I attend Ascot Life Church. We meet in the Old Paddock Restaurant. So many of us are meeting together that we've outgrown our original building. So we had to hire a venue twice the size to meet in.

Finally, just as I was about to walk out of the cabin for the cool-down shower, I made this parting shot:

If the Resurrection of Jesus Christ had never occurred, then why are we still talking about it some two thousand years later?

Food for thought for Mick, maybe?

The Sentinel of Israel, the Cave of Machpelah.

The world of Travel. How I loved to travel, especially before I married Alex. Since I didn't marry until I was 47 years old, I had plenty of time for that on my hands. Whether it was standing solemnly in front of the Western Wall in Jerusalem, hiking a trail in the wilderness, or shaking hands with Micky Mouse at Disneyland, the purpose of travel was, and always will be, to explore our fantastic planet that surrounds my home town.

When I was converted to Christ as Saviour back in late 1972, immediately I developed an interest in the Bible as I began to read it. The one feature I come to discover by reading the Old Testament was that gradually, Jerusalem grew in prominence, especially after King David had captured the former Jebusite city, defeating its indigenous inhabitants and then setting up his throne there as King of Israel. As David was the ancestor of Jesus Christ himself, it was the Lord who openly declared to his audience that Jerusalem is the City of the Great King, that is, the Son of God himself (Matthew 5:35) who will return to reign on his father King David's throne.

Hence the inspiration to visit this particular city for the first time in 1976, then again in 1993, 1994 and finally, with my beloved in 2000. It was in 1976 when I attended the Arab wedding Reception. Also, in 1976 and in 1993 as well, I waded through a 2,700-year old tunnel which is a 530-metre long water chute dug through a solid limestone hill they call Mt Moriah. I also stood inside the Dome-of-the-Rock located on Temple Mount. Below its floor, there is a chamber where the summit of the original mountain remains intact, and it's where Abraham was ready to offer up his son Isaac, according to tradition. I stood by that rock with awe!

As I stood outside the golden Dome, admiring its beauty and holding a fascination over me for being on the very site of Solomon's Temple, and also an area Jesus was also familiar with, thoughts began to enter my mind on why this Islamic structure was allowed to be built at this precise spot. If this edifice was never built, then the Jews might have built their Third Temple, prompting the return of Jesus Christ to reign from Jerusalem and marking the end of the present age. The Dome quite literally blocked all this from happening, as it was not the time. In addition to this sobering truth was that - had the Temple rebuilding had occurred during the first millennium AD, we today would not even exist, let alone know God personally. Therefore, it can be said that the presence of the Dome-of-the-Rock blocking the rebuilding of the Temple will allow Heaven to be fully populated by those having faith who are still unborn.

Oh, how wonderful I felt when I thought about these things! These thoughts gave me a new perception of human history and Biblical revelation. And all this is contained in one word - Travel.

Looking back, I could discern a pattern, the putting together of a beautiful picture, like a jig-saw puzzle. By visiting Israel, especially in 1993, had opened the door for worldwide travel in the years that followed. And the combined reasons are a search for adventure and to appreciate our planet in both the natural and man-made structure - inspired by the God-created human brain. Hence, falling in love with the Grand Canyon, snorkelling over the corals of the Great Barrier Reef with its sandy cays held in place by tropical vegetation, hiking through the eucalyptus trees and the rainforest of the Blue Mountains National Park, gazing at the mangrove trees whose roots are submerged in the sea or river estuary, watching tiny shrimp happily thriving in Salt Lake of Utah, the rows of Traveller's Palms lining the theme park of Sentosa Island, standing by the majestic Niagara Falls...

Thus, I regard Travel as a privilege, a wonderful privilege indeed! And something that didn't come cheap at all, but I had to work hard for, the efforts to save up and economise with this for the goal to be reached, experienced, enjoyed, and to be treasured in both memory and photo albums for life.

Travel is one kettle of fish. But there is another - jet-setting - as I call it. With those who jet-set, they are not flying out to experience the natural beauty and the historical riches of this planet. Instead, they fly out to complete an errand, such as visiting a relative, attending a wedding, a baptism, or even a funeral.

Surely, all good in itself isn't it?

I may work hard to fly over a great distance to admire a particular location. Furthermore, throughout my travels, there was no viral pandemic in which I could pass a pathogen to others and infect them. When I arrived back in the UK, there is no thought of quarantine at a hotel, no need to take expensive tests to see whether I'm infected or not. No need for paperwork to prove that I'm fully vaccinated. There was no need for any of that. There was no pandemic. I was clean when I left the UK, I was clean when I arrived back. And I knew it. 

But jetting around the world to fulfil an errand is, to me, cheapens travel to mere convenience. To fly around the world to visit Mum or attend her daughter's baptism or her funeral sounds like a very noble idea. Pre-pandemic, I would have thought nothing of it. But now, a new variant of Covid, the Omicron virus was brought into this country from South Africa by infected people sitting in a jet plane after, say, attending a friend's wedding. And that has made me very cross; the forfeiture of our freedoms and the onset of restrictions due to flying during a pandemic.

As I'm now obliged to wear a wretched mask to cover my face whilst out and about, once again there is a possibility of another Christmas cancelled. In addition, Parliament had just announced that face-to-face consultation with a doctor has been put on hold to speed up the booster rollout. Thus, you better not feel a lump in your breast or suffer heart failure, nor hope for the long-anticipated procedure to end that agonising hip joint pain. All these are now put on hold, especially for senior citizens, so the younger set - who have stronger immune systems - can receive their boosters at a quicker pace.

And travel is cheapened to a mere errand. Instead of spending months, even years working hard to save up for that dream trip, instead, on the spur of the moment, money is easily drawn out of their vast savings to fly halfway around the world to watch a cricket match - as if nipping to the shops for a moment to buy a loaf of bread.

Although well-educated, due to their professional careers, there is plenty of money at their disposal and too much time on their hands, but far too little sense for considerate thinking. Still, that's how wonderful it is to be middle-class. A lifestyle very different to mine, where I was born with a wooden spoon in my mouth rather than a silver one. From my background, I had to learn to appreciate all good things gracefully, fully aware that I couldn't and never will, take anything for granted, especially the wonderful privilege to travel.

A "Neanderthal" Feeling Intimidated...

A typical weekday morning in August. For once, here in the UK, the usual circular area of low pressure that features the wind, the overcast sky, and the rain, which typifies an average British Summer, must have taken the day off and thus, allowed the sun to shine through the broken cloud. 

As I lay in bed beside my beloved, she made a suggestion. Why not go to Reading? The large town is now defined as a city but has little to show other than the view of the River Kennet as it passes through a modern shopping plaza before joining the River Thames, a little way north of the town. I thought, no, I was there only last week. A trip to London instead? Again, I felt little enthusiasm, but I decided to make a day out of it.

I guess that is what it's like, having retired from paid work due to both age and poor health combined. Not that I see myself as "old aged" - far from it - but being drugged to the hilt with prescribed medication to keep my heart beating at a regular pace... As for "Pensioner" - that's the name of the money I receive each week - a pension. Just as a professional receives a Salary and a manual worker receives his Wages, it's all the same thing, several names, but with equal spending power.

I picked up my camera immediately before leaving for the station. Knowing that I was carrying a camera suddenly inspired me to go to Oxford instead of London. At last, I had a specific purpose for the trip - to photograph some fossils at the University Museum of Natural History. The photos featured in this blog were all taken on this trip.

Oxford University Museum of Natural History

As far as I remember, I had visited this museum twice before. My first visit was with my beloved wife in her wheelchair, and my PhD friend, Andrew, who slowly wheeled her around the galleries while I was giving my full attention to the exhibits. My second visit was on my own a few months later. Both visits were made before the Coronavirus pandemic. On these occasions, I recall the museum having free admission. Therefore, I felt slightly alarmed when I saw what looked like a toll booth placed just outside its entrance.

While I paused, a pretty young female approached, holding a clipboard. She then asked me whether I had booked my timeslot on the Internet before arriving. I felt my skin crawl as I protested that I had come all this way and knew nothing about any online booking. Especially if I had merely walked straight in on my previous visits. Was I about to be turned away? Would I be looked upon as one refused admission by a nightclub doorman? Had I wasted thirty minutes of my life waiting at the station platform as I changed trains midway through the journey?

I think the young lady could see the shock on my face. Thankfully, she decided that I can be allowed in without any need to book. But first, I had to go to the kiosk, where a conversation was taking place between the assistant and another visitor, and I had to wait further until the visitor moved on.

The kiosk was not a toll booth but a "ping station" - where I had to give my name and home phone number. If I came into contact with an infected person, I would receive a phone call with the instruction to isolate myself for ten days. All written with a pencil on paper, as I don't even own a smartphone, let alone being a recipient of the hated "ping" app. At last, I was able to walk into the museum with a massive sigh of relief.

Petrified Crinoids, a soft body organism.

Oxford - a world-famous centre of advanced learning. The very city where young, fledgling medical doctors are in the making. Therefore, I assume that the precautions taken against the virus were more sensible at the museum than, say, all those crammed together in a sealed tube flying some 36,000 feet in the air, or even in a packed nightclub, restaurant, or bar. Indeed, the museum is probably the size of a cathedral. Or cavernous enough to have a high, vaulted roof and perhaps, an adequate ventilating system in operation, hence my freedom to question the need for advanced booking. Indeed, I'm grateful for her with the clipboard. She didn't stick to her formal protocol. Had she, I believe that I wouldn't have been alone in walking away feeling robbed, sad and dejected.

The shortest walking distance to the museum from the station was about a mile, 1.62 km, a twenty-minute trek for most people, according to Google Maps. But by having stiff leg muscles, the walk took me more than twenty minutes each way, probably up to thirty minutes. However, on the outgoing walk, I diverted into the city centre and once there, I had a lunch of tomato soup with a buttered roll, a side bowl of potato wedges and a cappuccino coffee at the Marks & Spencer cafe. Very refreshing and filling, too! But what I found most delightful was, after a fairly long wait for my meal to arrive, how my smile of relief has uplifted the waiter's spirits, enough for the two of us to hold a brief conversation.

The waiter was obviously an immigrant, although from exactly where I couldn't be certain, as I didn't ask. He looked Asian, quite likely Oriental. The incident had opened my eyes. In such a department store environment, there is usually a wait between ordering a meal and actually receiving it. This is even truer, I believe, during the busier lunch period when I chose to order. The tired expression on his face indicated that due to the waiting - complaints, moaning, and the flack thrown at him by customers constantly in a hurry had stressed him out.

Trilobites and Brittle Starfish all died at once.

For the waiter to see me grinning as I directed him to my table, and then receiving a hearty "Thank you" - out of relief that my appetite can now be satisfied - had indeed brought some spiritual refreshment into his otherwise dull existence. This, I find amazing. A smile, a word of appreciation, a gesture making him feel worthy, what an impact that can make! Sitting alone at that table made for one had brought more fulfilment than just a full stomach. After lunch, I continued my walk to the museum.

In the city centre, not a suit-and-tie was seen anywhere, especially in warm weather. But, as I walked through Parks Road towards the museum, a very different crowd passed by, walking in the opposite direction. They all looked incredibly smart. The men wore immaculate suits and ties. The women wore summer frocks or skirts. None of the females was wearing trousers. Some of the men even sported a white carnation in their breast pocket, giving me the impression that they were all attending a lavish wedding. Whatever venue they were heading to, it must have been very posh. Posh enough to arouse my curiosity.

Amazingly enough, after spending around two hours at the Museum, I saw the same posh crowd of young men and women I had seen earlier, heading in the opposite direction as I began my trek back to the station. As they walked past, my curiosity was again aroused, along with a feeling of frustration over my sense of curiosity remaining unfulfilled. One was on his own, a young man, perhaps young enough to be my grandson. As he approached, it was at the tip of my tongue to ask him what this was all about, where he had been and what he was doing. But I did not see any sign of an invitation for me to ask. Instead, he looked straight ahead as he walked past. This English-looking toff was a far cry from the Asian waiter I greeted earlier in the day.

Was I chicken? Perhaps. Or rather, compared to his tall height, slim physique, well-dressed Caucasian, I felt - and perhaps looked - more like a Neanderthal than a Cro-Magnon or simply a modern Homo-Sapien. My fear of being reproved by him was a deterrent from asking, and receiving this kind of answer:-

Where I've been or what I was doing, what business is that to you? 

Indeed, a rebuke I dreaded hearing coming from him. I have wondered whether this crowd were members of the notorious Bullington Club, a society made up from the cream of aristocracy, who attended public schools such as Eton, Harrow, Westminster, St Paul's, Winchester, and Rugby. Our former Prime Minister David Cameron and our present PM Boris Johnson were members of the Bullington Club - which was notorious for its drunken and lewd behaviour. Both leaders of our country were Etonians and former club members. Then I also remembered: the club is exclusively male, with no female members. The passing crowd of toffs at Parks Road, consisting of both men and women, doesn't fit the criteria.

My snap decision to come to Oxford instead of London, the meeting of the waiter at M&S, the sight of smartly dressed toffs marching past me and heading in the opposite direction - what is happening? The reason for visiting the museum was to take photos of some of the exhibits. It's perfectly legal. There are no notices posted anywhere within the building forbidding photography.

Close up view of petrified fish with scales intact.

This blog isn't about any attempts to disprove Evolution. There is enough Creationist's material available to do that. But here, I make a comparison between these smartly dressed Oxford University students (I assume that's who they were) and the likes of myself. Compared to them, I feel like a Neanderthal! Any idea that the Neanderthal was descended from Noah's family doesn't seem to sit well in either a physical, mental or cultural sense, at least, not with me, anyway. But here, the Bible can be reassuring. If the Cro-Magnon and the Neanderthal were both descendants of Noah, then there is nothing stopping them from interbreeding - and that is a theory supported by even the most secular of evolutionists. That means even these toffs, at the pinnacle of the most modern Homo Sapien species, are likely to have traces of the Neanderthal genome in the nucleus of each of their body cells.

The striking detail of petrified fish scales.

But had any of them were in the museum with me, he would laugh with scorn at any idea that these fossils were formed in a catastrophic flood a few thousand years ago. Can't I read the accompanying labels? They say these fossils are from the Jurassic Age, around 160,000,000 years old. That is why, although the details of the fish's scales remain intact, all these soft bodies had petrified. That is, the soft flesh had metamorphosed into stone by the infusing of minerals whilst buried beneath the seafloor.

I suppose here lies the contest between a well-educated toff and the common sense of the "Neanderthal". According to observations, most smaller fishes are eaten alive by larger predators. I would say that the vast majority of smaller fish are eaten alive. But those that die naturally very seldom settle on the seafloor, let alone buried in mud. They are either eaten by scavengers or decompose. The decomposition is normally caused by bacteria living in the water. The chance of a dead organism settling on the seafloor (or on the riverbed) is extremely rare. Yet, these fossils show multitudes of organisms that died suddenly at once and were instantly buried. A catastrophe such as the Flood, recorded in the Bible?

It was a great day out!

The Allegory of the Two Canteens.

It was one of those days when I had mixed feelings after returning to work after a month-long holiday. There I stood by my machine, a large precision metal-grinding lathe. As the front axle for a yet-to-be-built aeroplane was rotating on its spindle, my job was to transform the dull chrome coating of the exterior to a beautifully-polished mirror-like finish, yet keeping with the precise measurements specified in the drawing printed on the sheet dangling over the tool locker located next to the powerful machine.

The machine I worked on looked similar to this

It felt strange being back in such familiar surroundings once again. I looked up towards the ceiling, just to straighten my back a little. The roar of a crane passing overhead, running on railway lines fixed close to the inside of the roof, all the way from one end of the huge building to the other. The driver in the crane's cab stops his vehicle directly above a neighbouring machine and lowers the hook to be attached to a huge section of an aircraft to be lifted away from the milling machine, that particular stage of its construction completed.

Presently, two other workers, young men about my age, were passing through the workshop to go somewhere. One of them paused to take a good look at me as if thoroughly examining who I was. Then both approached, and asked,

Did you walk the streets of New Orleans French Quarter a few weeks ago?

I was stunned by their question and answered in the affirmative.

The two then explained that they too had taken a trip to the States at the same time as I did, and they too had travelled across the North American continent on the Greyhound bus in the same way as I did, using the same Go-As-You-Please Ameripass ticket, which was in those days in the form of a book of vouchers, each one valid for each stage of the journey. 

With some astonishment, the same one asked if I went all the way there on my own, which I answered that yes, I went on my own which was, for me, the normal manner of travel, whether near or far.

By heck, you're brave!

Brave? A rather unusual compliment, no doubt, but I felt exhilarated by their praise, nevertheless. But having already backpacked Italy, Israel, and lately, North America a year earlier in 1977, this second transatlantic trip completed in 1978 shouldn't, in my view, be classed as brave. Rather, I was just being myself.

Then again, perhaps to some, there may be a degree of bravery needed whilst stopping at New Orleans. After alighting from the Greyhound Bus at the end of a journey from San Antonio in Texas, I found a room at the YMCA in the new town area, a short walk from the French Quarter. At the communal showers, whilst freshening up after a long journey, an older man sat at a nearby bench, gazing lecherously at my groin. This sort of thing can be quite frequent during my 1970s travels, nevertheless, I still wouldn't classify such an experience as bravery, even if I felt uncomfortable in his presence.

But going back to the job at hand. There is something so satisfying in my role on the lathe. Especially on a part of an aeroplane, in this case, the front wheel axle. Such was a way to earn a living at British Aircraft Corporation, later changed to British Aerospace, due to its coupling up with the missile division of the same company, located in other areas of the UK. This was not long before I had to move on.

There was something about the shop-floor environment in which the unusual could happen. Like the time when a fellow worker, Martin by name, was transferred from the Apprentice Department, where small parts such as door handles and toilet seat hinges were made, to the adjoining milling department where much larger parts were worked on. He had a dislike for me, thinking that I might be gay. And he didn't keep quiet about that either. Therefore, a rumour about me was well known across the shop floor.

One afternoon, Martin had a huge, solid steel girder set up on his machine. Suddenly, the girder swung, flying off his machine and pinning him to the floor. The accompanying noise caught my attention. As I turned, I saw him gazing helplessly at me as he went down under the weight of the girder.

Others who watched the incident all burst out laughing. Nobody came to his assistance. Instead, they all kept on laughing at this lad's misfortune, perhaps seeing this as an entertaining distraction from the monotony of the day. But immediately, I went over and lifted one end of the long girder, allowing him to crawl out from underneath. Together, standing at each end, we lifted it back into place while he instructed me to hold it in place while he secured it. The laughter stopped. Martin restarted his rotary milling cutting blade while I returned to my own machine.

Whether it was the look of shock I had when I saw him go down or not, however, a new friendship was created. It was Martin who invited me into the firm's clubhouse and there he bought me a drink - in front of all his mates who held a bad reputation against me. They were all quiet, gazing at me as if feeling ashamed. This Biblical exhortation to "pour hot coals on the enemy's head" seems to have taken effect.

I saw Martin again sometime later. After several months, I could see the result of his prolonged unfulfillment in his life. His once-superb physique had ballooned out to a beer belly at still a young age.

New Orleans French Quarter. Visited 1978.

British Aerospace Works, at the Surrey town of Weybridge, was extensive during its heyday, with several buildings on the one site, which was a former motor racing track. That means, there were many office staff among us, housed in on-site office buildings. We all, in our department, had a locker assigned to each one of us, each containing a blue protective overall we had to wear during the working hours, hence the term, blue-collar workers. By contrast, the office staff came in dressed in a suit, shirt, and many (but not all) wearing a tie. As I have seen in the past, it was not difficult to tell those who excelled at school from those who didn't. 

What I had observed was that those at their desks were generally slimmer, more fitter and of athletic build than those who wore the blue overall. One office staff member, Trevor Thomas, was a Tug O' War champion whose image appeared in the 1979 edition of The Guinness Book of Records for winning three medals for England in the European Open Championships. When Thomas and I sat at the same dinner table one lunch hour, he asked me whether I recognised him from the famous book. When I answered that I didn't, his face dropped. Then, after pulling himself together, he explained to me the ins and outs of Tug O' War, and he also invited me to partake in the family tug to be held nearby, a few weeks later.

I didn't take part in the tug. By then, I already knew that from our chat at the dinner table, Thomas wanted the satisfaction to defeat me. A little unfair to say the least! A champion versus a first-time novice? However, on the day, his White-C team did win against our Blue-C team. Quite easily. From that day on, he seemed to have had a huff against me for not participating. 

By contrast, Martin was the symbolic representation of many who earned their keep on the shop floor. Here, there were several fatties around, especially from middle-age upwards. Moreover, Mr Thomas was ten years my senior. In turn, Martin was four or five years my junior. But the level of fitness between the two couldn't be more contrasting.

During its earlier days, there were two canteens, each exclusive from the other. One of them housed a series of vending machines and tables for the blue-collar to bring their own packed lunches. The other was for the office staff. It had a fully-equipped kitchen from where its staff dished out hot meals. There was a time when no blue-collar was allowed to enter white-collar territory!

Thanks to the trade unions, that had already changed shortly before my arrival. The result of this casual mixing was that I made friends with a few of the office staff members, with some easily intrigued by my sharing of the Gospel. I also picked up a hint that one or two of them became jealous of my venture across the Atlantic - and even showed hostility.

It was this class division - so symbolised by two separate canteens in one building - that I made every effort to cross and then bridge the social chasm. But then, if I rightly remember, I was the only employee of the entire company who had made an effort to bridge the two classes. None of my work colleagues did, and neither any from the other side made any conscious efforts either.

My strong conviction that the Bible is true stems from verses such a Galatians 3:28:

There is neither Jew nor Greek, there is neither slave nor free, there is neither male nor female; for you are one in Christ Jesus.

It's in this same letter where Paul writes about the sharp rebuke he had delivered to Peter, recorded in Galatians 2:11-14. Here, Peter - from a Jewish background - along with Barnabas, was eating with some Greek believers. Soon a group of Jewish Christians arrived. When Peter saw them coming, he and Barnabas immediately withdrew from the Greek company. It was then when Paul rebuked him in front of them all.

How much this reality is still needed in churches to this day! According to one newspaper article,* those without an adequate level of education tend to suffer greater distress and from greater uncertainty of the future. Alongside this, such favouritism given to those with higher education and higher social status, according to the article, not only makes those who failed at school feel inferior and maybe useless as well, leading to higher anxiety levels and subject to greater illnesses - but also does not demonstrate the power of God.

How I looked in 1978.

Most of my church life, all of 47 years of it, consist of middle-class culture. Unlike Peter, no Christian I have ever known had deliberately separated from me whenever I walked in. Rather, it's liable to occur in the subconscious - that classic lack of a greeting whenever I walk in, but with no hostility. And now, with the latest technology, there are some middle-class Christians of my generation who refuse to connect with me on Facebook. Also, on that same social website, if one grad posts a photo of himself or with his wife and family, he could collect as many as a hundred "Likes." But if I, a not-so-good-looking or insignificant person were to post a similar photo, we'll be lucky to reach into a double-figure number.

I guess here in the UK, the blue-collar and the white-collar canteens may both reside in the same building, but the wall separating them will never have a door in it.

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*The Guardian Online, 05/03/2021.

A Cure for Low Self-Esteem.

If you are a Christian believer reading this, then may I ask:

How would you feel if I admit to watching two naked lovers having sex on the BBC Iplayer?

Would you gasp in surprise? Or start praying desperately that I have not hit the road to apostasy? Or even click off this page and log on to another website if not slamming the lid of your laptop shut?

But please read on, the "how to..." will follow.

It is here that I want to make a point which I feel is very important, and therefore I don't want to put out a wrong message. As a Christian myself, I do not want to encourage anyone to watch porn, whether it's on the screen or on magazine paper. For many, indulging in porn to stimulate desire is sinful, and as such, I would not encourage it, neither would I play down the seriousness of sin.

Having said that, such close-ups don't bother me. I don't get sexually excited or stimulated by such scenes. Therefore, it was no different to me than if I watched an edition of Songs of Praise on a typical Sunday evening. After all, as a married man, both my wife and I can enjoy such naked intimacy whenever we want to, without a camera fixed upon our torsos and without a bloke behind the camera, operating it - and without the slightest guilt of sin. 

As a matter of fact, it was in 1994, whilst staying at a mixed dorm of a small backpacker's hostel in the heart of Jerusalem Old City during its peak season, that was when the dorm was crammed with young couples, predominantly from Scandinavia, Holland and perhaps Denmark, sleeping in each other's arms on mattresses laid out on the floor, whispering to each other loving endearments just as little as a few feet away.

Alone on a narrow single bunk bed, I slept well each night under the domed Medieval ceiling without any problems. Really, I couldn't give a toss about who was around me. I was far more interested in the Holy Land with its many archaeological sites, its ancestry, its Middle East culture, physical beauty and its links with Biblical history than I was in what was going on between the couples around me.

But I digress. The intimate scenes were not the reason why I wanted to watch the adult drama, Normal People, a twelve-part series with its first episode aired only earlier this week. Rather it was to watch the lives of two schoolmates, Connell Waldron (Paul Mescal) and Marianne Sheridan (Daisy Edger-Jones) - he from a working-class background and she from a middle-class one. Both lived with their single mothers who were both divorced. Furthermore, Connell's mother worked as a cleaner at the posh home of Marianne's mother who also has an older son, Alan Sheridan (Frank Blake) - Marianne's brother.

Normal People characters Connell and Marianne

What led me to watch the whole series over four evenings this week was the first episode, and I was keen to watch the climax, how the story ends. Connell was a popular boy, a hero among his mates. Not only was he getting ready for university life, but this very intelligent, bright youth was also brilliant on the school football pitch. Topless for a moment, he made sure that we saw his superb physique on the pitch after taking off his shirt after the game ended. He, with his teammates, played Gaelic Football against a rival school vying for the championship league cup. Having scored two or more winning goals, he was the hero of his team and of the whole school. Meanwhile, Marrianne was one of the many spectators, dressed in a drab grey uniform, sitting at the grandstand. 

In contrast to Connell, Marianne was unpopular at school. She was teased both by the boys and other girls alike for having a "stuck-up" attitude which included disrespect for the teacher's authority. Yet, like Connell, she too was very bright, something which earned the jealous wrath of her brother Alan.

This "Plain Jane" image of a timid, immature schoolgirl who feels worthless and neglected was not the first I have watched on TV. Around 34-31 years ago a family-viewing Australian soap, Neighbours, featured this new arrival who took on residence with her grandmother's after the death of either one or both parents. Feeling ashamed of herself, she kept herself to herself. It was not until after she left school for uni, and shed her uniform when her ravishing beauty and her extroversion came out, and it wasn't long before she had a boyfriend and enjoyed popularity with her peers.

The same happened with Marianne. When she started at Trinity College at Dublin, a 130-mile drive from her home town in Sligo County of the Republic of Ireland, her beauty shone and she gained instant popularity with her fellow students, and with Connell also attending the same college, a rather bumpy relationship developed between the two of them.

But it's Connell I really want to focus on here. Very bright, athletic and good looking, this guy knew how to socialise with his fellow students. He was a good contributor to his committee and he was very popular with female students as well as male. Literally, girls were queuing up to share his bed. Furthermore, even at a young age, he knew how to handle responsibility and look after himself in such a mature manner, so far away from home and without his Mum's interference. In addition to all this, he was studying for a degree in English, with the goal as a writer, whether as a novelist or journalist, I couldn't be too sure, but there was a hint of a novelist. Writing for a living was something I always had a wish for.

Jane Harris (Annie Jones) in Neighbours, 1984 onwards.

Connell's life as an undergraduate was a world away from my own experience in growing up. I was unpopular at school, in the slow learner's class, and feeling of little worth. And this feeling of worthlessness was enforced at home, at school and later, at work when having to push a broom across the workshop floor, I was teased and constantly reminded of my worthlessness. The psychological damage gotten from this lifelong experience, caused by having Asperger's Syndrome which was unknown to me at the time, wasn't fully eliminated until I married Alex decades later.

As such, had I watched this drama around 35-40 years ago, I would have turned off the TV the moment Marianne begged Connell to take off his clothes whilst both were still at school. But such an action would not be due to Christian convictions or piety! Instead, I would have turned off the telly through envy.

Like Jane in Neighbours and Marianne in Normal People, I too began to change for the better after leaving school. But it took a lot longer. During my first five years of employment in an all-male environment, its culture was centred upon the idea of picking up a girlfriend and enticing her to share his bed was the ultimate fulfilment of masculine virility. This attracts respect, even admiration. Thus, it came as no surprise that my supervisor often boasted of his army days when enticing women to share his bed was as easy as ABC, thus rubbing it in that having no girlfriend made me feel even more of a failure.

Indeed, as a result of this culture, I felt ashamed of being single. Whilst still living at home, the one thing I wanted to do, above all other things, was to marry and raise a family.

Had I watched such a drama as Normal People back then, would it have resulted in a very harmful mental outlook and shaky emotions? But here I would like how such a psychological state can be overcome, even to the point of immunity when surrounded by courting couples in a hostel dormitory. Even the title of the drama would have rubbed salt into the wound. Normal People? So that's how all undergraduates live and interact with others, isn't it? And that's normal? If so, doesn't that indicate that I'm not normal, but way below?

So what were the steps to free me from such psychological bondage?

First, faith in Jesus Christ as Saviour. This I believe to be the very foundation and first step towards freedom. This includes learning to pray, regular reading of the Bible and church attendance. I turned to Jesus Christ in December 1972, less than five years after leaving school. To develop a loving Father/son relationship with God is vital for any psychological healing.

Secondly, I found hobbies which delight me. They were several wholesome activities. I would go further to say that it was triune of interesting activities - Travel, Photography and Writing, and these three are interrelating. Various sports I have found enjoyable. And here I mean enjoyable. At school, I had to participate in team sports such as soccer and rugby, which was under compulsion. I have watched other boys receive corporal punishment for forgetting to bring their kit on the day. But Triathlon was one individual competitive sport I enjoyed participating in the years 1985-1992, which was purely voluntary.

Flying the nest was another brick in the building towards freedom from low self-esteem. Learning how to be responsible for making my own decisions and how to manage my own finances, and feeling free to go out for the evening without answering to Mum's question of Where have you been, is another liberating benefit, as well as constantly criticised by Dad over my faith in Christ. I moved into my bachelor's pad in May 1976, at a grand old age of 23 years. The saying of absence makes the heart grow fonder is indeed true here. By living alone, after a while, I began to feel a greater level of affection towards my parents.

This is a threefold building or bulwark against the feeling of worthlessness and low self-esteem. And that as a single person. I feel that participation in such interesting and wholesome activities is just as vital as faith in Christ itself. When I first believed, not only have I gained a friend in Jesus Christ, but I have also gained an enemy, an Adversary who will always remind me of my worthlessness and sins, making me feel that I'm no good for God. These bulwarks help guard against such lies.

Then there is my job. Going self-employed in 1980 was another brick in the wall against low self-esteem, as this involves responsibility which was once taken care of by my employer. But even then, my mistake of comparing my social standing with other Christians of my age bracket in the church, just about all graduates, has caused a relapse into a sense of worthlessness. Especially when I struggled with finances as one self-employed and therefore unable to travel. This was worse during the 1980s.

An "explosion" of travel occurred after receiving a vision from God on October 1992 to fly to Israel on the following year specifically to pray for Jerusalem. By August 1993, I found myself entering a small medieval building in the heart of the Old City of Jerusalem and climbed the stairs to the reception upstairs to ask whether a bed was available. Thus, the New Swedish Hostel on Souk David was going to mean a lot to me, especially afterwards in 1994, where I'm due to spend a whole month there as a resident.

New Swedish Hostel opened onto this street.

By then, since after eighteen years after flying the nest, I have grown immune to the want of marriage and I began to feel content for being single. This was justified, as a door has opened for worldwide travel. Combine this with my love of photography and later, writing, with each of the three well soaked in God's love and my faith in Him and an efficient bulwark against low self-esteem has been established within.

It was at the height of World Travel era in 1998 when Alex came along. 1998 was the year I flew out to New York for a short stop-gap break before planning to fly out to Cape Town in the year 2000 for another Round the World trip. But just when I was no longer looking for marriage, and I was content to remain a bachelor for life (as some of my friends still are to this day, most of them graduates) - instead, marriage found me, and Alex and I tied the knot in October 1999.

I am aware that any single person, man or woman, suffering loneliness may find this difficult to read and I apologise for that, but if If I'm likening the bulwark against low self-esteem as a building, then marriage is the final paintwork, or if likened to a cake, it's the cherry on the top.

Although I might get a wave of feeling worthless from time to time, my life's testimony, inspired by watching an adult play on television late in the evening after Alex had gone to bed is, I hope, a demonstration of God's power to everyone who believes.