Dealing With A Difficult Neighbour.

As I write this, both my beloved and I have to endure a noise coming from next door, at number 49.* It's hard to describe this noise accurately, but I can come as close as possible by saying it's a cross between a whine and a hum. The annoying sound can continue for a long time without interruption, before a relieving quiet break lasting anywhere between a couple of minutes to several hours.

Moreover, the noise can have an effect on my wife, being in her present state of health, the noise, which itself isn't very loud, can still generate a penetrating annoyance which leads to a headache. Then her resort to Paracetamol, Ibuprofen, or even Co-Codamol if the pain is unusually severe. I thank God that we have access to these painkillers. Because had this happened only two or three years earlier, her throbbing headache meant an ambulance ride to the nearest Accident & Emergency for blood-pressure tests and even an X-ray scan to ensure there is nothing serious going on, such as internal bleeding or even the possibility of a tumour.

In addition to those tests, she was given intravenous feeds of such drugs until she was well enough to be sent home, normally between four to five hours after admission. And to avoid another such experience, the Consultant ensured that she had access to these medicines at home, prescribed by our own General Practitioner. How wonderful is our National Health Service!

When going through such stresses, it is tempting to bang on the neighbour's front door and to let him know that the noise is driving us up the wall! It's not that the noise was confined to just one or two days. Rather, we had to endure such nuisance for over a week and there's no sign of it ending. Eventually, with my curiosity spilling over the source of such noise, I knocked on his door.

By asking whether his wife still needed the old toys once owned by our daughters, I made the issue of the noise more of a side issue than the main one, hence allowing him to fill me in with the facts without anger. Since the couple runs a school-term childcare business in their own home, the issue of unwanted toys is a good icebreaker, to start a conversation without the need to zero straight in on what's on my mind.

He's that type of working-class Englishman who loves DIY for its own sake, and whenever there is no school, as in this case due to the Coronavirus lockdown, he will always take his tools out of his shed and start work. Most of the time, what he does is well within toleration and any unwanted noise, such as using a handsaw on a piece or a sheet of wood, this can be easily drowned out by playing soft music on the laptop. Ah! Thanks to YouTube, despite those annoying ads slotted in between videos.

And it was only yesterday when a card dropped through our door. It was from the neighbour from #45, the house on the other side of ours. They had just moved out. On the card was written a thank you for being such a patient and a considerate neighbour. They thanked us for our patience with them when they played their loud and deep-sounding music centre which can be heard across several back yards. They also thanked us for our patience with them when their lively children often kicked their football and even their other toys into our garden when they fought among themselves. Either Alex or I tossed the items back into their garden without a fuss. And I will never forget the little girl say with some hesitation, "Thank you" and my response of, "it's a pleasure" in a reassuring tone.

I have always got on well with the family at #45. He was a black African married to a white Englishwoman. When their third child was born, a daughter, she had the pleasure to show the newborn to me, and I wished them all well.

That is until one day when their son's football flew over the high fence and landed in our garden, I gently tossed it back over. Suddenly there was this angry, vehement torrent pouring out at me. But it wasn't spewed out by the African. Instead, I was told off by the wife's brother who had called in to visit. It was he who upbraided me for letting the returned ball fall on their coffee table, on the other side of the high fence.

Sometimes I just can't win.

These set of events has made me think back to my domestic window cleaning business. Throughout the years I received hospitality from a few of my customers. Let's for argument's sake, at any one month I had a hundred clients (actually I had more than that, but to illustrate, this will do.) Of the one hundred, ten of them offered me a coffee. Also, five of the one hundred were from an ethnic minority. Of these, two of them offered me coffee. With a bit of number crunching, of all my clientele, 10% of them were generous. But the percentage of those of an ethnic minority, a staggering 40% of all non-white customers were generous, compared to the actual 8.4% of hospitable Caucasians.

Going back to my next-door neighbour at #49. My main reason for knocking at his door was to find out how long this noise is to continue. But I had to make the main point a side issue. If I hadn't, he could have answered with a frown. Instead, I was told with a level of apology that since there is more gloss paint to be stripped off, he needs to use that machine for "a couple more days". Well, so far, it was longer than that.

Never mind that old paint can be stripped off using a brush and Nitromors paint stripper. Or better still, to rub-down with wet-and-dry the old interior paintwork to a smooth, matt surface then repaint. A job I know can be done in one or two days without all that noise, effort and the use of power, taking up to two weeks to complete, as well as bringing unnecessary stress on the neighbours. 

But my fear of making enemies of my neighbours stem from past experiences, especially from working-class men. On one occasion, I was passing by when this customer up on a ladder looked to be in distress. He called me over. When I asked what was troubling him, he pointed to a bolt which held the old TV aerial in place, and he was trying to turn the bolt to remove the aerial, and he felt ill-at-ease up on the ladder. He gave me the wrench and with it, I turned the bolt with apparent ease. On the following month, when I approached to clean his windows, in no uncertain terms he angrily told me to take a hike and never come back.

Or at another time and place when I left my own ladders overnight concealed in a narrow alley near the back gate of this volatile fellow's garden. As I lowered them into place, it was the clanging of the metal against concrete which set his dog barking. He came to the gate and angrily challenged me for leaving my ladders on his property, causing all the dogs in the street to bark, along with a threat that if he saw the ladders there again, he would take them and throw them across the street and ensuring maximum damage to them. I replied that the ladders were not on his property but outside, they were concealed from view and their presence cannot cause the dogs to bark once I'm gone. I then thought better, picked up the ladders and carried them away, despite that it was that time in my life, nearing retirement when carrying such heavy equipment around became more tiring.

Then there was the time, more than fifteen years ago, when a loud birthday party in the apartment above ours was threatening to wake up our baby daughter at two in the morning. So for the second time, I knocked on their door with a request to tone the music down. A young blonde woman whose birthday it was, arrogant and partially intoxicated, answered and rudely told me to beat it. I answered back. Immediately a group of men whom I knew to be England football fans shot out of the door to beat me up, but I ran into my own apartment and closed the door. The angry mob, all partially drunk but all were aware of what they were doing, tried to beat the door down but the lock held well before retreating back upstairs, leaving a strange silence through which my daughter slept peacefully without waking up.

In point to note: If it looks as if I had a very turbulent life, then the reader must consider that all these events occurred over 35 years when I was self-employed. This means there were long periods in between when I enjoyed peace.

But as the whine from next door continued, Alex asked me to turn the music on, which was very helpful for both of us. Then as I pondered:

Why do many English working-class men have such volatile temperaments?

That, according to my experience, I once put to a good friend of mine, a fellow Christian who graduated at Loughborough University and held a successful career in computer programming. He agreed with me that a working-class man is subject to physical violence at a level greater than the middle-classes, and suggested that he has a greater need to reassert himself. Then today I was asking myself:

Instead of feeling angry, anxious or frustrated, how can I love this guy in the same way God loves me?

That is where I need the infilling of the Holy Spirit. For only he can work out within us the situation as a means to strengthen our faith and to enable us to persevere. And in this area, I'm not totally without experience, having learned from my previous mistakes.

I have discovered, especially with the family living on the opposite side, not to knock on their door when their music centre is playing loudly, which is usually during the day rather than in the evenings. Instead, I turn off my own music, whether from the HI-FI or from the laptop, and allow their music to entertain us. It's free and I don't have to contribute towards their energy bills!

When one of their children throws or kicks a ball over the fence, all I need to do is to gently toss it back over. No reprimanding. Rather, no matter how many times the ball may land in our garden, just toss it back without any ado. If I hear a "thank you" - then I should regard this as a bonus and not out of expectation.

The same applies to the neighbour living on the other side. Knocking on his door whilst busy at work would only aggravate the situation and could make an enemy out of him. Instead, if my curiosity throughout his project needs to be met, as already happened, to greet the fellow and to turn the main issue into a side issue seem to have brought more positive results.

Often I see him standing in his front yard smoking when I enter or leave our house. I found that greeting him a good day with a smile goes a long way, even if we don't have much in common. On one occasion, after Alex called the ambulance at my absence, the crew had to call the firemen to let the ambulance crew into the house. The door was repaired shortly afterwards while I was still out. When my DIY-loving neighbour saw everything that happened, he afterwards approached me with an offer to keep one of our spare keys. After agreeing with Alex, I allowed them to keep our back door key for the sole purpose of letting the ambulance crew into the house if I'm out. This building of trust will go well towards having a good relationship.

Then there is something which I consider to be the most difficult part - praying for them! This is due to experience challenging my faith that the adult working-class Briton is nigh impossible to bring to Christ for salvation. The sauna is one good example of where this attitude is found. I once asked a bulky, hard-boiled builder what he thought of Jesus Christ whilst alone with him inside the sauna cabin. He burst into a rage and told me how the Catholic Church, in which he grew up, had been a letdown. Another bather, at a different time and place, avoided my question by bringing up something altogether different, then walking out of the sauna. Yet, throughout my Christian life, I had never shied away from insisting that this Jesus of Nazareth is the risen Christ, especially in the workplace.

Now the African neighbour and his family have moved out. I have no idea where they now live. All I have from them is a card thanking me for being patient with them and showing consideration. Now the house stands empty, one in a line of suburban terraced homes which is very common here in the UK. Who will move in?

It is my hope that the new occupants will not be the typical English under-thirties couple, bringing into their lounge massive HI-FI speakers, each the size of a small cupboard, and having the habit of all-night parties. And hostile towards anyone who raises any issues with them.

Yes, with those sort of people I have had my fingers burnt already. 

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*For privacy, the addresses are changed.

Education. Intelligence or Vanity?

It was a typical weekday cleaning windows under dull, drizzly weather, giving the air a melancholic feel, when the turn came to call at one particular house on a street of privately owned homes. This particular elderly gentleman had recently lost his wife to illness, cancer, I believe. He answered my knock on his door.

I can't understand why you're out here in this atrocious weather! I'm not sure about allowing you to work on a day like this, he said.

Cleaning windows on a damp, dreary Autumn day was not exactly like spending a day at a carnival on a warm Summer's day, or the excitement felt while boarding a long-haul flight for a Round-the-World backpacking trip. Rather, it was either this or watching my wife and myself go hungry and into debt. Therefore there was no surprise on his part for my feeling of irritableness.

Atrocious weather? This? I replied. Remember what happened in New Orleans. If wind and rain can literally wipe a city off the map, then that is atrocious weather! Not this - as I waved my hand around the moist-ridden air. The client relented and allowed me to proceed with the task at hand.

I was referring to Hurricane Katrina, which formed over the Atlantic Ocean on August 23rd 2005, and passed over New Orleans nearly a week later on the 29th, taking with it up to 1,836 lives as it swirled over the city at 175 mph. The talk I had with this English gentleman was just a few weeks later, and therefore still fresh on our minds.

The effects of Hurricane Katrina, August 2005.

I believe that after 37 years of manual work, that is from the day I left school in 1968 to that dismal day in 2005, I have toughened up to the point of looking at adversity or even at danger with a smile. Maybe that was why such a negative attitude from this elderly gentleman took me by surprise, especially if he was around during the War or even having fought in it. Then, having lost his beloved so recently after decades of happy marriage would make him feel emotionally vulnerable, wouldn't it? Indeed, on that day I should have been more sensitive to his point of view rather than constantly worrying about home finances, even if I was always the sole breadwinner.

This mental toughening up against the knocks life throws at us, maybe that was why, while onboard the United Airlines flight to New York from London in 1995, one of the air stewardesses gasped, and said how brave I was, after I have spoken to her about the excitement lying ahead as I make my way to California with a backpack over my shoulders. Her reaction had indeed taken me by surprise. However, it was during a normal day at work, standing on a sloping roof while cleaning a window above it, which tested my mettle, yet was part and parcel of my job from which I received no praise at all.

As such, media stories of students committing suicide have always been a puzzlement to me! The majority of students who commit suicide is male. However, the latest case is of this British female from Milton Keynes, who so recently fallen out of a light aircraft while flying over the forests of Madagascar. At first, I thought that she was a victim of a terrible accident involving the plane door flying open mid-air and sucking her out. But it turned out that she opened the door herself and jumped out, despite the attempted restraint by both the pilot and another passenger.

The student, who attended Cambridge University, was out on a project examining a rare species of crab when she suffered a panic attack. She contacted her parents back in the UK, and they either advised her to return home just three or four days into her month-long trip. Or they might have tried to encourage her to stay and finish her project. Apparently, a heated argument developed, which on one hand may be an indication that either she wanted to cut short her trip and return home, or on the other hand, she was unwilling to return home so soon. But either way, she then leapt to her death whilst flying from her venue to the international airport.

The whole scenario beggars belief! Here she was, a student at Cambridge University, meant to enjoy one of the greatest privileges life can offer - to study and train to be a scientist, and to work in a laboratory, which would have been the envy of one such as myself who had to scrape a living outside in the cold, wind and rain. 

Yet she was not alone. Far from it. Rather, it follows other stories of undergraduates committing suicide as well as many more suffering from mental illness of some sort. And as I have already mentioned, the majority of such cases is male, which fits in with the overall majority of suicides across the nation. Our culture strongly encourages, if not actually demand, that the British man must keep his emotions bottled up, to keep up the image of stoicism, making self-harm an easier option than talking to someone who could help. But in the case of undergraduates, whom I perceive as very fortunate to enter further education in the first place, I have to admit and ask: What's going on?

This sort of thing was totally unknown in my day when I had to push a broom across the factory shop floor and endure smut, quite a bit of teasing, even verbal bullying. Yet I never considered suicide, but, as I realised later, as part of a process to toughen me up in readiness to face a challenging world.

The light aircraft in flight during the jump.

But here I had to be honest. When I found myself at work as a machinist in a precision engineering company in the 1970s, I did have an eye of envy towards the adjoining office staff. Their smart dress commanded far greater respect from society. They were the ones who did well at school and passed both GCE 'O' Level and 'A' Level exams while still at school, and landed good jobs as a result, even without having to graduate. A university graduate holding a degree was, back in those days, someone to be revered. Maybe this trend of "degree inflation" which affected more recent years might have coincided with the rise of mental health issues and eventually suicide. In other words, a degree nowadays is hardly worth the paper it's printed on, so the media tell us. Could that, along with the eye-watering tuition fees, be the reason why this lovely young woman ended her life so dramatically?

It is from this greater respect and a keener interest given by society to graduates and those who hold careers in the profession which at this point I would like to ask: What do you think of this blog? Is it well written? If by chance, you think this and all my other blogs are well written, then this is a result of constant practice, backed by my enjoyment of reading. Yes, I did attend evening class to study the English Language GCE 'O' Level at a local college some years after leaving school, and I managed to scrape through with a pass. Yet this was enough for a foundation to build my writing skills on afterwards. Mainly by reading other people's work and using them as examples to build my own experience.

This was not done with any reluctance. I recall as a young boy sitting at a table and writing letters to my relatives living overseas. How I thoroughly enjoyed it. And unlike many in my class, I did not find writing a necessary burden one must bear while wearing school uniform. I find the ability to string words together, a wonderful privilege given to me by God, and left with a responsibility to nourish this God-given ability.

And here is a sorry truth. If I was a graduate myself, I would have had a much larger number of page views than I presently have. Instead, I know of several graduates belonging to local churches who don't read these blogs. They give various reasons for this - they don't have the time, they are too busy, they are irrelevant to them, it's not their style. But none would give the honest truth, and the honest truth is this: Reading my blogs will rock their egos. That is to say, I pose some kind of threat. After all, someone with my background is not supposed to create anything to this standard. Instead, I should know my place on the social and academic ladder and stay there, perhaps with a daily swig in the pub and mixing among fellow working-class mates, yet remaining in lifelong ignorance and never to be taken seriously by the middle classes.

It was once a temptation to add Dr in front of my name on this page, but then I decided against the idea. Not only would I be deceitful, but chances that even among readers whom I have never met, they would see that my writing is considerably amateurish for a doctor. But working on what God has already given me is still the right thing to do.

And trusting in God, I think, is the real foundation for success. I could take Frank Sinatra's song My Way and look back at my life before retirement and say that I did it my way. But I much prefer to say that I did it God's way. Sure enough, I have never seen the inside of a university, the only time I saw the inside of an office was as a client, I worked manually with my hands, much of that in the realm of cleaning, for nearly half a century. Yet I have travelled the world, I have partaken in long-distance cycling and triathlons, I was even a pool lifeguard for several months when I was twenty, perhaps perceived by some as a "glamorous" job and maybe being as close to a paramedic as the job allowed.

I want to be seen at the Judgement Seat of Christ as one who did it God's way. And one of the greatest tools for going God's way is a thorough knowledge of the Bible, laced with the filling of the Holy Spirit. That is why I have always insisted that Bible reading increases intelligence. I can testify that this has happened to me, and I can assure anyone who wishes to read the Bible with faith in his heart that this will happen to him also.

And a heart-belief in the Gospel. The Good News. That is, God had created our first parents in God's own image. Unfortunately, their mistake brought sin into their lives, and we have lived with sin in our lives ever since, which means eternal separation from God. God gave the Law to Israel, showing all of us exactly what a pure holy life is all about. The trouble is, nobody was ever able to keep the Law perfectly. Even if someone did keep the Law perfectly until he stumbled at just one minor point - that was it. He had broken the Law, and must now face Judgement.

But God, in both his love for us and for his glory, sent his Son Jesus Christ, a man entirely without sin, to atone for us by dying on a cross, he was buried, and three days later he was resurrected from the dead. It was this third issue - his Resurrection - which makes Christianity stand out from all other religions. No other religious founder or leader was ever resurrected. Instead, their bones are with us to this day. The Resurrection of Jesus of Nazareth was proof that he is the Christ, the Jewish Messiah. Because of his Resurrection, he can give eternal life with God to all who believe, having atoned for sin on the cross.

Christ's own righteousness, his perfect life, is imputed to everyone who believes. That is, God sees each believer as he sees his only Son. That is why the concept of Eternal Security, or Once Saved Always Saved, is Biblical. No other religion teaches this. Only Biblical Christianity. 

Eternal Security of the Believer is a life-changing doctrine. While at Sainsbury's superstore, I was met by one female who attends our church at Ascot. When I related to her about my wife's breast cancer and the course of chemotherapy she is at present going through, she was rather surprised about our lion's share of bad things happening to us. I could have said something like, "yes I know, life is always bad, unfair. Woe is me, in my sorrow, I go to the grave."

But I didn't say that. Instead, I expressed my determination to keep going, to keep on looking after my beloved wife, and thanking God for the NHS. And I know as I take Alex into my arms and look lovingly into her eyes, everything will be okay, even in her illness, for God is with us and he will never leave or forsake us. Once saved Always Saved. This truth is a foundation stone for us to keep going, no matter how bad circumstances can get.

That poor, poor Cambridge student. She had an enviable life, with the ability to travel halfway around the world to Madagascar, she was studying in one of the world's top universities, in preparation to work in a laboratory or as a field scientist. It was a pair of shoes I would have jumped into with enthusiastic glee. Yet she is no longer with us. What a crying shame! Because she had never known the TRUE meaning of life, and a university degree gotten at Cambridge wasn't it.

Narcissism, the Cold, and the Tube.

To stand outside doing practically nothing on a chilly morning at the end of November isn't a pleasant experience, especially as a moderate strength breeze from the Arctic percolates the winter coat I'm wearing and begins to chill the skin and penetrate my arm muscles to my bones. Then to add to this, I hadn't had a hot coffee for the last two to three hours, and I was longing for one. Then I was made further uncomfortable by an ailment in my left foot, the malady recognised as Plantar Fasciitis by my GP. This rather painful impediment to walking and even merely standing made the overall discomfort more intense, to the point when I called out to Wesley that I'm feeling unwell, and I need to return home. So much for the gym workouts from where the sharp pain from the heel to the ankle, had first began.

Wesley is an aspiring window cleaner, to whom I sold my business during the process of retirement. As he himself is not only self-employed, but as a company director, he also assign jobs to other self-employed window cleaners, forming a team of workers who can complete a housing estate within a day, where formerly, it took me five working days to complete the same area. Much of this is also due to the advanced technology of the pole system replacing the ladder, hence saving much time and effort, unlike the traditional cloth, bucket and ladder which was my trademark during 35 years of domestic window cleaning.

And so, how did I come to know Wesley? Some years ago I met him with his father at Coral Reef Sauna World. Back then, Wesley was barely out of school, and rather than further his education, he decided to work for his cousin in the window cleaning trade covering mainly commercial properties, including school premises. When his cousin suddenly died prematurely, Wesley took over the helm and was able to expand his business, which was based in Aldershot, a Hampshire town some sixteen miles away from Coral Reef Waterworld and my nearby home street. In the meantime, after their successful visit to the Grand Canyon at my recommendation, both Wesley and I began to attend the sauna every Saturday morning where I was able to mentor him on the trade. I did this with the intention of selling him my business, even with retirement still more than ten years away, I could still see it coming, and when the time eventually arrived, I was able to pass on a thriving business to amalgamate into his own enterprise rather than to see it pass into oblivion.

Therefore I often arrive to "supervise" the team when they work at my former estates, as well as having a cheerful chat with my former clientele. Usually I stay for the full duration until they are ready to pack up and go home, (usually between one to two o'clock in the afternoon) but this time it was different. As the chilly wind bit into me, I remember an incident which occurred several months earlier. I was looking outside my kitchen window to see and hear a forty-something year old dustman shouting a rebuke at the teenage recruit who appeared not to be committed to his work. That was quite a while ago, and I never saw the lad since. I can fully imagine the senior refuse collector at the end of his shift, approaching the Council offices to protest, This lad is of no use to us. Assign him to someone else or get rid of him!

Or at another case a few years earlier, whilst I was cleaning the windows of one house, the owners of the property next door was having an extension built. Whilst all the contractor's equipment littered the back yard, suddenly the builder shouted to his younger recruit, a man in his early twenties, I'm not paying you to sit down! I doubt whether the younger man had kept his job after that, since afterwards I saw the builder working on his own.

Echoes of my adolescent years! But at least I had the comfort of working indoors, protected from the adverse weather outside, and just about avoiding dismissal. But the attitude was the same, like the two recruits, I was small fry in an adult, fully masculine world. And whilst this week I was standing outside, watching Wesley getting on with his job, I was wondering what it would have been like as a young recruit at a building site, or at a roadworks, or a railway engineering works, or anywhere else in an all-male environment involving heavy labour outdoors in a biting wind, rain, snow, or for that matter, even scorching sunshine. And subject to teasing or even bullying, with myself being an easy target for the older worker to vent his own frustration, if not merely to poke fun at. I then desperately would have wished to go home, to settle on the comfortable sofa in front of the fire with a mug of coffee. Instead, I would have had no option but to remain at the site at the foreman's discretion - or, having taken enough, to leg it, knowing full well that my post is automatically terminated, along with its source of income. 

And so such is the fate of leaving school without any qualifications, as I did in 1968.

I guess it's "the grass is always greener on the other side" ethic cannot be truer than if, for example, a road had to be dug up in the middle of Oxford for a new pipe or cable to be laid. As the cold wind blows and my knees are knocking together as I attempt to carry a heavy tool to an older colleague who has told me to fetch it with a level of impatience, I'll be glancing at the historic beauty of the colleges around me which makes up Oxford University, with a crushing feeling of envy for every undergraduate who was successful enough at school for admission. Fortunately, by God's grace, I have never found myself in such a situation. Yet the crushing unfairness of life prevails, as I stood watching my business successor at work. Because it was only on the day before, when I was considering a sauna at Coral Reef, that I remembered a visit by Sophie Rhys-Jones, Countess of Wessex, to attend the official opening of Coral Reef Waterworld after two years of closure. 

Sophie, Countess of Wessex, is greeted at Coral Reef

Sophie is the wife of Prince Edward, the youngest of the Queen's offspring. Although I would never had recognised her if I saw her in the street, nevertheless her marriage to a member of royalty had made her a celebrity. And that, being ninth in line to the throne, they would never sit on the throne. Especially with the birth of William and Harry from Prince Charles, the Queen's firstborn and his wife Diana, then later, William's wife Catherine popping out one baby after another, had demoted Edward's position to the throne from third place to ninth at present, and that will fall to tenth after Catherine's third child is born. Then not to mention Harry's new sweetheart Meghan. Any babies popping out of her womb in the future will demote Edward's place even further.

And so Sophie Countess of Wessex was treated as full royalty at the official re-opening of Coral Reef Waterworld. With her was the Mayor of Bracknell with her team of civil servants. And an album of photos was posted on Facebook to commemorate the event. And at one photo was that of an on-duty lifeguard about to slide down one of the newly-installed tubes, and getting paid too, for the pleasure of showing off to the Countess. I had to laugh. Because standing next to the start of the flume was one of the elderly civil servants who was watching with apparent envy!

The officer on the left looks on with envy...

As I wrote two weeks earlier in my blog, Gone Down the Tube, it's the boy in the man wanting to get out and have some fun. As he stood there alongside the Countess, I could almost see his shadow climbing on to the inflated raft and then yell out as he pushes himself to full speed down the flume!

Oh, how life may seem unfair, if my own experience as a school-leaver had anything to go by. I suppose it's the matter of birth combined with circumstance. Because along with the Countess of Wessex greeted with royalty at Coral Reef Waterworld, there has been an announcement of Prince Harry's engagement with American girlfriend, divorced actress Meghan Markle. Being multi-racial as well, and an immigrant to boot - I wonder why there is a deathly silence hanging over such groups as Britain First, an anti-Islamic group who wants all immigrants booted out of the country. But I guess it's because Prince Harry also will never make it to the throne either, being sixth in line at present and falling. And here is what I find so ironic. Just today (Saturday December 2nd) the Daily Mail national newspaper had devoted six full pages on Meghan Markle, her background and her parents. Of all such tributes, one stood out above all, and that is Meghan's father, Thomas Markle, who "has an aversion to wearing a collar and tie". At least this fellow has something in common with myself.

It would have been interesting indeed, on how these far-right groups would have responded had Meghan Markle had married Prince William instead, who is destined to be King. Believe me, I would have loved to have seen any response coming from them. And staying with our beloved Daily Mail newspaper, only the day before I read an article by journalist Tom Utley. He criticised the Millennial Generation, including his own children, for voting to remain in the EU during the June 2016 Referendum, with their assumption of national friendship and unity along with freedom of trade and movement. Utley's rebuke and his support for Brexit was to do with its future economy. Nothing about patriotism. Not that Utley is anti-patriotic. Rather, he is very patriotic, only he dares not bring that up in his article!

The right-wing, Conservative-supporting Daily Mail newspaper constantly has its journalists writing articles in defence of Brexit. It is as if leaving the EU has fallen out of favour with the public, especially with our Government's struggle with the divorce bill, the issue of international trading, and the question of the Northern Ireland/Irish Republic border. So the newspaper keeps on defending Brexit as if on a verge of panic. But there is one word conspicuously missing from all of the newspaper's articles on Brexit. And that word is Narcissism.

In context, it means an exaggerated viewpoint of Britain and its people, based on its rich history of world conquest and imperialism, along with winning both world wars, entwined with the idea that the English are God's special people, exalted higher than all the other nations on Earth, and therefore deserving of special privileges and unique blessings. It is this national feeling that exalts the Royal Family to divine status, in effect replacing Jesus Christ with the British monarch as a bridge-builder between the people and heaven, very much like Roman Emperor Constantine did around 312 AD. There are a large number among the English population who are narcissists, quite likely a very large percentage. But they won't admit it, at least not in public. The Daily Mail is certainly narcissist, but it won't bring itself to admit it. As such, it's little wonder that even a minor royal, such as Sophie, who will never sit on the throne, is perceived as worthy to take part in a local ceremony with all the pageantry to go with it  - whilst there are many workers, faceless men who toil outdoors in the chilly wind, all aware of the "like it or lump it" attitude from their employers.

Meghan Markle with Prince Harry

The Brits devotion to their monarch reminds me of a story in the Old Testament. Here we read about the seer Samuel who was approached by the sons of Israel, begging for a king to rule over them and to lead them into war, whenever it's necessary. Samuel was grieved by this, and so he took the petition to God himself (1 Samuel 8). God then answered Samuel,
It is not you they are rejecting. Rather they have rejected me from being king over them, just as they have rejected me since the day I took them out of Egypt - verses 6-9. So God allowed them to have their way, and instructed Samuel to anoint Saul the son of Kish, a horse rancher, to be their first king.

With the possible exception of David, history has shown that having a king proved Israel's downfall. After the death of David's son Solomon, who himself had apostatised in his later years, Israel was split into two nations, Ephraim and Judah, each with their own king, who often fought against each other. All the northern kings were evil, primarily leading the people to worship foreign gods which involved child sacrifice. There were some good kings reigning over Judah, including Asa, Hezekiah and Josiah, but the majority were evil, leading their people to idol worship too. Eventually, things got so bad that both nations went into captivity to Assyria and Babylon respectively.

There is only one King, the only true King, Jesus Christ. And his claim as King is well deserved, for being God, he was the only one to have ever defeated death. No one in the whole of human history had ever done that. And because of his victory over death, he is ready, willing and able to give eternal life to everyone who believes. Now that is something to celebrate.

Should I Be Angry At This?

It was a typical working day probably around February or March of 2006. It wasn't the ideal day for cleaning windows, but such was still within the realm of possibility. So as I carried the ladders past a cordoned off trench in the middle of a sidewalk at a quiet, predominantly middle class housing estate, to knock on the door of one particular small two-bedroom house, which was occupied by an elderly gentleman, perhaps old enough to be my father, and recently widowed.

Whether he fought in the War or not, I had never asked. But had he not been old enough for combat, then it was certain that he had to engage in Conscription, to partake in National Service until it was gradually abolished by 1963 under Tory Prime Minister Harold Macmillan's administration. 

So on that particular afternoon, as he unlocked the rear gate to allow me into his back garden, he then questioned whether it was worthy to have his windows cleaned on such "atrocious weather". This sort of talk always winds me up, thus expressing his reluctance to part with a few pounds sterling, a small payment compared with fees collected from larger properties, yet was still to play its role in keeping a roof over our heads, all utility bills paid, and keeping us fed and clothed. 

I held out my hands into the air directly in front of me, where there has been light drizzle, on and off, throughout this calm and mild Winter's day. I then responded:
Atrocious weather? This? Atrocious weather? When a storm was powerful enough to wipe a city off the map, then that is atrocious weather!

The elderly gentleman knew exactly what I was on about without the need to explain. I was referring to Hurricane Katrina, which did much damage to New Orleans just a few months earlier, towards the end of August of 2005. As news of such disaster was still fresh on our minds, the client relented without a word and I was left to clean his windows without further ado as he retreated into his house.

It was a month later, when I approached his house again. Although this time he left the subject of the weather well and truly alone, whilst he was with me in his back garden, he launched a tirade about the trench at the sidewalk nearby. It was still there, cordoned off and unattended, with rainwater accumulating until fairly flooded, and therefore giving an expression of a shoddy job left to neglect. When he asked for my opinion, I answered halfheartedly that this was the British for us. He did not say a word as he retreated into his house. Although often is truth hidden in jest, it became apparent that the answer I gave him had hit a nerve. Because at the following month, which by then the trench was refilled, he dismissed me as his window cleaner. And I'm convinced that by mocking the British culture may have played a major role in the termination.

I wonder how someone like him can be so thin-skinned and touchy. I would have thought that with such longevity, with military service thrown in, such a fellow would have been tough as old nails, with day-today living making his skin as thick as a rhino's, and as I expected, to laugh with me at the intended joke. Instead, he felt hurt. I had no other option than to see him as one of many Brits whose mode of transport would be paralysed by a half-inch (1 cm) layer of snow covering the road surface, and therefore gripped with nationwide panic. 

It was more recently that a report of a huge sinkhole at a main street of a Japanese city came to light. But what was so remarkable was that this huge sinkhole, which stretched right across the entire street, was completely repaired after just a week. The street was as if nothing had occurred at that spot, and traffic was flowing over it as easily as it always had. Perhaps the contrast in administration between this Japanese street and the trench at a nearby housing estate might have been the reason for the sense of inferior complex felt by the gentleman when it came to cultural comparison and patriotic matters.

Japanese sinkhole - repaired in a week.

A closer look at the street sinkhole.

He would have been the one desiring to see British efficiency, not only over the neglect and long delays in refilling a small trench, but in other matters such as repairing the many potholes peppering our roads and causing distress on car tyres and suspension systems alike, causing the owner to fork out expenses in nuisance but necessary repairs. And sticking with cars, it does look as though as a cyclist, I can be a threat to the egos of some car drivers. There are not a few times when a driver suddenly revs up his engine close by and roars off with his tyres screeching. If there is any truth in this, then how could the presence of a cyclist threaten the ego of a car owner to the extent of demonstrating his power? The only plausible theory I can think of is the rider's potential fitness, naturally gotten by regular riding, and without the need to pay road tax - despite the motorist being totally unaware that the Road Tax was abolished in 1937 and was replaced by Vehicle Excise Duty, which is a tax on motor vehicles which, like the Income Tax, goes into the General Treasury, and not just on the road. Could this also be the reason for the strong dislike for cyclists riding in skin-tight Lycra, and relying on muscle power to cover the distance instead of the self-propelling engine?

Then, staying on transport, there is a matter of the Eurotunnel, which passes under the English Channel (or La Manche if you are French). There has been calls by right-wing newspaper commentators to have the tunnels closed permanently, even to the extent of blasting them with dynamite. English commentators that is, since I have doubts whether the French would be that keen to have the tunnels shut down. With two return trips to Paris on the Eurostar train with my wife already completed, and a possibility of a third trip, this time to Marseilles, on the cards for next year, I have become an avid fan of Eurostar. As I see it, this magnificent service is the visible, tangible representation of the European Union. It also holds the solution to my partially disabled wife for international travel without the need to fly, which cabin air pressure and such, might pose a further threat to her health. That was after the return flight home from Malta in 2012, as well as on board a plane from Kos a year earlier, when on both occasions had suffered with backache.

A fan of the Eurostar, taken Oct 2016.

And it is the European Union which is the issue here, or rather a BBC Panorama programme broadcast earlier in the week. It was about English gang violence against immigrants, Poles in particular, which spiked soon after the 2016 Referendum. The sequence seems to be the same - five gang members against two Poles, or even a single victim. Very much like the right-wing, racist thugs who attacked and killed Stephen Lawrence in 1993. Back then there were also five of them. At first it was five against two, but one of the victims managed to run off to get help. So that leaves five against one. When they appeared in Court, all were dressed smartly in suit and tie. Yet this tells me a lot about them. Their suits might have accentuated their Englishness. But not their bravery or heroism. Instead, they were cowards. Just by looking at a snapshot of Stephen Lawrence tells me straightaway that he already had a high level of education. It showed in his facial expression. This was confirmed afterwards by reading an article saying that the victim's ambition was to be an architect. And his fate was to meet a premature death as a result of inferior complex shared between each gang member.

The Panorama programme showed groups of up to five strong chasing just two Poles and having caught up with them and then shouting at them,

Get the fuck out of our country! Go back to your own fucking country! You're not welcome here!

Then they proceeded to beat them up until hospitalisation was required for the victim.

But before I go any further, I need to ask: Were you shocked to see strong language here, O Christian reader? Were you tempted to click off this page after reading such unseemly words? If so, then I have hit the nail on the head. There lies the problem. For although had Jesus himself had been there, he would have mingled freely among them, even absorbing foul language thrown at him at least at first by them due to his Jewishness. Yet his love for them would have prevailed, with a result of changed hearts and spiritual rebirth. Then if a couple of middle-class Anglican churchgoers were to approach him with the question on what he was doing among scum, his reply would have been classic - I tell you the truth: those whom you call scum will enter the Kingdom of God before you! - Matthew 21:31-32.

But as my wife sat, smuggling up to me whilst watching the documentary, she began to become very concerned, and started to plead with me: Please, don't get worked up! Don't get angry! Remember your heart! That was when she felt my torso tremble with rage. Was it rage against those gangs who were giving the Poles a hard time, simply because they were immigrants, and not English? And was all this exacerbated by the Brexit win at the Referendum? Well, almost, but they weren't the bulls-eye of the intended target. For strangely enough, my anger was directed more towards middle-class churchgoers who voted Leave. Before writing this, I had to sit down and think things through. These gangs living in more deprived areas of any city had the same psychological problem as the thugs who killed Stephen Lawrence. And the same as the power-mad motorist over a Lycra-clad cyclist. And the elderly gent whose windows I had cleaned. They all suffered some form of inferior complex at one degree or another, or some threat to their own egos. Especially if the immigrants were far more successful in finding manual jobs and accepting low pay in such a graceful way no white, English working-class youth would tolerate. In addition, many of these immigrants were successful in setting up their own business, thus showing up the indigenous as incapable of entrepreneurial ability, with the possible exception of drug trafficking.  

As a result of such in-depth thinking, I could not be angry at those deprived city gangs. Rather, due to the reluctance of churches being where they are most needed - at those deprived districts where hatred breeds hatred. It is a well known fact that Anglican churches steer clear of such areas, in favour of wealthier districts with respectability, whilst carefully selecting their leaders from the gene pool at both Oxford and Cambridge Universities.

I don't believe that Jesus would have acted in the same way as the present churches. Instead, he would have mingled right in their midst, and tolerating the foul language, the swearing, the curses, and the obscenity which passed through the air on a daily basis. After all, are these present street gangs really worse than the fishermen who plied the Sea of Galilee each day to eke out a living? After all, had he not heard the invective and abusive language thrown by them at the tax collector, the latter seen as a traitor to the Romans. Yet Jesus called a tax collector along with fishermen to be his disciples. And all this is endorsed by Scripture itself, which records Peter cursing and swearing during his denial after the arrest of Jesus (Matthew 26:74) - which was a relapse into his natural self during unfavourable circumstances.

Then again, I believe that the reluctance of churches setting root at such deprived areas may be borne out of fear. Fear of verbal abuse. Fear of physical harm. If a Christian is fearful or wary, the gangster will see through this straightaway, and tend to be more threatening. Genuine love, borne out of faith in God is the only weapon against such hatred, including patriotic hatred. And not quoting a set of rules on morality, not even the Bible either, as this would probably rub salt into the wound and enhance hostility. Instead, the gangster must see genuine love, based on the believer's trust in God, the same way Jesus' faith in his Father allowed his love to flow unhindered to the very worst of sinners.

How I wish that the Holy Spirit would come upon us so powerfully that all fears, anxieties and wariness would be washed away, leaving nothing else but strong, agape love for these people. After all, God's love yearns for them, and I believe, his yearning for them is more important to him than our obsession with religion, patriotism, social class, higher education, and wealth.

I'm Coming Home.

Remembrance Sunday has come round again. Across the nation the BBC will broadcast the ceremony of our Queen laying a wreath of poppies at the Cenotaph at Whitehall, along with the rest of the Royals, Government ministers, war veterans and other noted personnel, together with the marching sound of the military band. The time will be 11.00 am, the exact time Armistice was signed, ending the Great War on the 11th November, 1918. Also at our church, at 11.00 am, I will be standing in silence with the rest of the congregation, showing my respect and thanking those who gave their lives for our freedom during those two world wars.

 

 

 

What would go through my mind? Possibly the mass deaths at sea, such as on board the ship HM Lancastria, when one afternoon on June 17th 1940, she was bombed three times by a German warplane, and sank with approximately 2,800 men on board who lost their lives. It was said that while the men stood on deck, they sang two songs while the ship went down: There'll Always Be An England, and Roll Out Red Barrel  - about the very English brew; Watneys Ale in its trademark barrel, most popular at the time in all British pubs and bars. Then there was the tragedy of the submarine HMS Thetis which went down during trials in the Irish Sea a year earlier in 1939, with 99 hands who died of asphyxiation. Not to mention many, many more deaths on the battlefield and among prisoners of war.

I think of how each mother must have felt when news came in of her son's death at war. Was she proud that her son died a war hero? Or did she break down in tears at his demise, remembering the day she gave birth and suckled him on her breasts, then watched him grow through all the stages of boyhood and adolescence? Then the men who went off to war. How did they really feel? Despite all this English bulldog bravado and stoicism, I heard through TV interviews with veterans that many had a longing to be at home under the loving care of their mothers. There were some who had only just married, and were called to war soon after their marriage was consummated. As they marched off, did they have the vivid image of their bride looking sadly into their eyes, as if pleading not to leave? I wonder how many cheeks were wet with tears as they marched on stoically? Never mind that the British constitution claimed to be Bible based, with the Law of Moses declaring that no groom should go to war for a year after their wedding, this was not considered by the British military. Grooms must have departed with broken hearts, realising the possibility of never to see their brides ever again.

And so it happens. Imagine, for example, being trapped inside a sinking submarine. The power shuts down, all the lights go out, and you are in this thick impenetrable darkness. You grope for the door locking wheel and unable to locate it, the icy sea water rises to your neck, you tread the water to keep your head above the surface, only to hit the solid metal ceiling. As the water covers your face, once again you are seeing yourself vividly comforted by Mum, running around in the garden, or you feel the kiss of your beautiful bride on your lips before passing away forever.

All for the freedom of England and the continuation of the British culture you gave your life for. You were a hero. So as I think about as I stand in silence for those two mere short minutes. For the continuance of British culture - a pecking order we call the class system, in which this week I felt myself once again at the sharp end during my normal window cleaning rounds.

Why such a hostile look from one daughter of a client whose windows I cleaned on a routine schedule? Or the curt answer from her sister, after knocking on the door, as she keeps her mouth as if glued to her mobile phone, while her parents were out? Why am I such a pariah to them? All I was doing was earning my own living in a honest manner. Then at another house in the same street the girlfriend of one of the residents recently moved in. Before then, I served a brother-and-sister residence owned by their father, whom I got to know reasonably well. For the past year or so, I got on well with the two offspring, even served with a cup of tea by the sister. When the brother's girlfriend moved in, it was she who terminated the agreement, therefore losing a customer, vital for the business.

Her rather bureaucratic explanation for the loss was because her landlord no longer wish to pay the fee, despite recalling his daughter digging into her own purse. Then again, I was wondering, could it be that difficult for three professional pen-pushers to pay a single-figure monthly fee? I have customers who willingly pay more than double that amount, and are grateful for my regularity in calling. It is also interesting to note that some of the most generous and kindhearted clientele have non-British origins. But with this house, it was not the money, nor the lack of it. Rather, the loss of it was due to social status - as if in this land of homeowners, there is something distinctively shameful about being tenants. I, for one, have been a tenant to the borough council since 1976, the year I flew the nest. I'm very happy to hold this status. Did you know that if the roof begins to leak, it would not be my responsibility to pay for a private contractor to repair it? It would be the responsibility of the landlord, the borough council, to fund the repairs, as long as I don't let the rent go into arrears, something which had never occurred in the past 37 years of tenancy. Furthermore, I have no shame whatsoever in being a tenant and bypass the many headaches involved in ownership, when in reality, the real ownership would be in the hands of the creditor whose mortgage I'll be paying.

What is it about the obsession with home ownership, the sense of low status as a tenant, the adoration of the celebrity, the respect due to the well-educated professional, and the contempt towards those with humble occupations? Not long ago, while I was sitting in the sauna, I heard a story of a female office worker say with a degree of contempt to a colleague; Oh, he's just a cleaner. This attitude has brought cleaners like myself to the brink of tears. Is this the Britain those men of war had sacrificed their lives for?

Much to my surprise, a pattern here is beginning to emerge. Going by experience, it looks to me that young women seem to be far less fair than men of approximately the same age. Over the years as a window cleaner, many a son was more amenable, even making an effort to pay me at his parent's absence. This had been quite a revelation to me! Then again, I grew up believing that the female is more emotional than the male, more compassionate, more sympathetic, more soothing to the hurt than the man, who would more likely say in effect to get a grip on yourself, and man up! Even religion backs this; for many centuries Roman Catholics worshipped and adored the Virgin Mary, asking her to be the motherly mediator between the worshipper and a rather distant, emotionless and disciplinarian male God. Far more shrines of Mary than those of Jesus are to be found in Catholic countries. Even in ancient Ephesius, there was the temple dedicated to Diana, whose threat to her deity by the apostle Paul led to a city riot.

All these things has made me ask what is really going on in the modern office, what kind of a culture is to be found therein. Are women office workers really feeling their self esteem to be under some kind of threat? Is there a gender contest of some kind in the office? Could there be some truth to an idea I had, that God calls Christians to work in the office environment mainly for their presence to keep evil in check? A bit like salt of the earth, perhaps. Having never seen the inside of an office, I realise that these are only speculations, but those based on what I have seen and heard.

To add to such humiliation I felt at work, this has been a dismal week. We had rain, which does not do the business any good, and I have returned home cold and drenched to the skin. Then having changed clothing, I head off to the station to catch a train to Reading, where my wife lies ill in hospital. Within 48 hours there were two signal failures on our line, resulting in delayed and cancelled trains, and frustrated waiting on cold, wind-blown platforms. As a result, much of the week was spoiled by disrupted journeys. It was when I was feeling so low that a thought touched my mind, causing me to look up. I am alive. Let's thank God for the breath of life!

This, for me, is a vital reality. We live in a country where education is king. I have one graduate friend in our church who goes to Africa two to three times a year, and one of our elders, also a graduate of course, had today flown out to India for ten days to help out setting up an Indian Bible festival, similar to Spring Harvest or Newday festivals we have here. Then there is a third member in our church who wishes to be a missionary in Turkey. So he is studying for a degree as a mature student in order to fulfill the post. It looks to me that holding a degree is the door to opportunities abroad. In turn, in the 1990s I once volunteered to teach a class on the Second Coming of Christ, and eschatology in general, after suggestions from others in the congregation. The elder at the time flatly refused to let me give a talk at least. As he said, let a better educated person teach. Since then, this particular elder was defrocked by the rest of the congregation for supporting an adulterer and concealing his sin, and has now moved across the Atlantic to Florida.

There were times in the past that living in snooty, class-ridden England had tempted me to suicide. But God, in his mercy, had shown me that England is not my real home. My real home is in Heaven, where Christ is seated on the throne, and one day I shall be like him, for I shall see him as he is. This is the glory to look forward to, and such a destiny is available to all who believes in his heart that Jesus is Lord and God has raised him from the dead.

This is the real secret and power behind why I don't mind spending the rest of my life as a tenant in a rented property. There is a rent-free, mortgage-free property awaiting me in Heaven. That makes life worth living for.

 

Self Pity? No Way!

One of the benefits of working as a self-employed domestic window cleaner is that I can turn mere customers into good friends, as a result of a long-standing contract between a householder and myself, which involves turning up when I say I'll turn up, and doing a job to the level of their satisfaction. Such is the case of one ageing couple whose house I called at this week. This time round, one of their sons had returned from Australia to stay with his parents for three weeks, and it was their last full day in England before take-off the next day. With him was his wife and his two children. The customer also has a daughter living in San Francisco, and she too is raising her family there. Sometimes I wonder what is it about Britain that makes people want to live abroad.

 

Although I wished them farewell and to enjoy a pleasant flight home, I could not help but sigh within. Living in Australia, with its fine beaches, coral reefs, diversity of wildlife, a slower pace of living, and a pleasant climate to match, makes me wonder, if I were to compare myself with this young father, why I have missed out on some of the good things in life.

 

I knew the customer's offspring for many years, when the boy arrived home from school dolled up in his uniform -  including white shirt and tie. But unlike with me years earlier, he excelled, gained his A Levels and attended university and successfully graduated. With his degree, he settled down to a life as an accountant. With such credentials, Australia welcomed him with open arms, even though his visa took a long while to come through, as the USA also welcomed the equally well-educated sister. While I cleaned their windows, I was able to watch their often-mischievous children run around the house, engage in play and watch their favourite children's programmes on their grandparent's telly. 

 

All this reminded me that there were times I wished I was able to emigrate. Given the choice, Australia would have been first, followed possibly by southern California, particularly San Diego. Back in 1994, I was even considering a long-stay spell in Israel, as a result of working as a volunteer at a Christian Conference Centre near Haifa, owned and operated by the Church of England. That didn't work out either, as I had to return home to England just after three months - a direct result of being booted out by the rest of the team, a diversity of English, a Scot, and three New Zealanders, including a married couple. But not a Jew among them, despite being in their country. Then again, I guess there is something about the English character which never appealed - an island culture of rabid nationalism, love of Royalty and the pageantry pomp that goes with it, social class, contempt for foreigners, Empire-oriented, power elitism, and the self-conceived divine right to police the rest of the world. Little wonder how relieved I always felt when England was knocked out of the World Cup international football tournament. I would dread the national arrogance arising from such a victory.

 

I consider myself fortunate when, at 46 years of age, I met Alex in church in 1998 and married less than a year later. Before then, as a bachelor, after I was dumped in 1972, no female took any interest in me at all. In fact, I found this rather mystifying, as I'm sure I wasn't that ugly. Rather, I was subject to teasing by any group of girls into their late teens or early twenties, whenever our paths crossed. I became aware that there was something wrong with my accent when talking, this particular area in my life I wasn't allowed to forget, as I was often mimicked by older men during my early days at work in the late 1960s. I believe it was this accent defect that had put many potential girlfriends off, made worse by a lack of proper education and no professional status. I would go as far to say that having had a professional career might have been enough to absolve my odd accent.

 

The wonderful feeling of love and acceptance my wife has always shown has made a massive impact in my life. From this I have come to discover and learn how to love a person so devoted to me. As a Christian believer, the answer to that was not elusive. I wanted to love her in the same way that Jesus Christ loves his church, an agape love which covers any faults or shortcomings. Now my wife lies ill in hospital, and according to the medical team, the cause might be from a spinal infection, however, this is yet to be proved. At the time of typing and posting of this blog, she is waiting to be transferred to a neurological ward at one of the country's top hospitals for proper diagnosis and, I hope, further and perhaps rapid treatment.

 

On one early morning this week I recall having a little cry as I sat alone in an otherwise empty house. In a way that has done me some good, as emotions are concerned, if I hit bottom, the only way is up. But adding further insult to injury, I had to cancel our holiday (vacation) in Crete that was meant to celebrate our wedding anniversary. Believe me, I feel gutted. This was something I never ever done before, and claiming on the insurance will be something new to me as well. The only panacea to help alleviate the horrible feeling is to take the week off work anyway, and try to occupy my spare time on a leisure activity such as gym, sauna, even a day trip to London, blogging and Internet browsing - and then making my way to the hospital to spend the late afternoon and evening at my wife's bedside.

 

Strange it seems, but lately I have seen far more dating couples in the street or in the train, petting or exchanging words of endearment, than when Alex was up and about. Also there seems to be a lot more 'planes hovering up in the sky, waiting in a stack to land at nearby London Heathrow Airport. Then, as I sat in the train on my way to visit Alex, at one of the stations is a huge advert board of a British Airways aeroplane, waiting to be taxied on to the runway. It is as if providence was deliberately teasing me, like a mischievous child holding up something he snatched from my hand, and yelling Nah! Nah! Nah-nah! Nah! -as he held it up high in full view and runs away. Then not to mention my good church friend away in Africa, and customers heading to the airport, even broadcasting over the radio - and scores of healthy, middle class folk enjoying life to the full, especially taking early Autumn breaks after the kids return to school. 

 

 

In the morning, the Sunday we were meant to head for the airport, I shall be heading to my church to thank and to praise God for his goodness, love and mercy. If the prophet Habakkuk can do it so can I. He wrote this:

Thou the fig tree does not bud and there are no grapes on the vines, though the olive crops fail and the fields produce no food, though there are no sheep in the pen and no cattle in the stalls, yet I will rejoice in the LORD, I will be joyful in God my Saviour, The Sovereign LORD is my strength; he makes my feet like the feet of a deer, he enables me to go on the heights.

Habakkuk 3:17-19.

 

It is interesting to note that the prophet's willingness to praise and thank God during adverse times was of his own choice. "I will be joyful in God" - he says, because of his knowledge of God's salvation. There is something about knowing the Lord which is above comprehension. Sure, this week I had a little cry one morning, yet just two days later, also early morning, I felt my heart rise as I read the 4th chapter of Romans, and I couldn't help but look up to the sky with a smile. Here Paul was using Abraham as an example of imputed righteousness from heaven given to all those who believe in their hearts that God rose Jesus from the dead. But there is more to this, I think. Habakkuk's secret was that he knew that the righteousness he had was imputed, and as a result, led to his belief in Eternal Security. Coming to think of it - Eternal Security, or OSAS if you prefer to think of it as such, is perhaps a major bulwark against adversity, allowing the sufferer to thank and praise the Lord, knowing about the eternal promise reserved for him in Heaven.

 

 

 

Dear brother or sister in Christ, if you are taught by your church, your literature, or from any other source that you cannot accept Eternal Security of the Believer as Biblical truth, then let me encourage you to read John chapter 10, Romans chapter 4 and chapter 8, and allow such beautiful words to nourish your spirit. Don't allow mere men, no matter how academic or well educated they may be, to block your assurance in the Lord.

 

While in hospital, Alex assured me of her "gut belief" in God raising Jesus Christ from the dead. She then referred to him as Lord. What more do I need for assurance that Alex my dear wife is eternally saved and secure in the Lord, whether she will go with me to church or not. Imputed righteousness - now that's something no trip to Crete, or even to Australia, can match! 

 

 

 



I Have Much To Thank God For.

Both in the church I used to attend in Bracknell and in the present one I now attend in Ascot, I have made friends with, have spoken and associated with graduates of both genders who hold down professional careers. Although I would never ask what their income would be, as such a question would go against the culture and etiquette of our nation, there is really no need for me to ask anyway. It's obvious that their incomes are, and has always been, much higher than mine.

They also have a greater degree of security. With both a high standard of education and work experience to go with it, if the business they are working for goes under, chances are high that they can walk into another job and continue as if nothing has happened. Ditto if the company they work for is bought and taken over by another. Such an employee is likely to keep his post.

A university graduate has, or used to have, much of the world open to him after leaving college, or at least that's how it was in previous generations, including my own post-war baby boom generation. One can choose where to live and work. If a guy fresh out of college wishes to pursue further education or profession Down Under, for example, or even in the States, there would have been opportunities open to him. Then there is, in addition, the Gap Year, where students spend several months gaining experience in a far-away land, often in teaching or engaged in further studies.

By contrast, I'm a self-employed domestic window cleaner. Meaning that I specialise in private homes rather than on commercial premises. There is nothing wrong with such a line of work, as this involves running my own business and offering a service to my clients, which I have done for the last 32 years. But, and yes, unfortunately, there is a "but" - in such a class-conscious country, such an occupation is often looked down upon, giving me a rather low evaluation as a person.

And that hurts. And if I was invited to a party, chances are, and yes, it has happened - that I would feel reserved, hoping that no posh sounding guest ask what I do for a living. Especially when I was single and some young female was eyeing me up. To this day, I am often looked down with disdain, believe it or not, more likely by the daughters of clients who were out when I called. Why teenage girls tend to feel this way towards a window cleaner, I find rather baffling. Maybe I have that gullible "I'm easy to be taken advantage of" kind of expression, or my unusual "foreign" accent whenever I say something. However, I can see a strong connection between this and the catastrophic experience I had in Israel in 1994, described in my last blog, Travels: Rotten Luck? - where one female volunteer led others to turn against me for being "just" a manual worker, Italian, and with a misunderstanding that I was against equality for women (which wasn't true - I have always believed in equality.) In the latter case, I should add, the misunderstanding may have arisen from her belief, false or not, that in Italy the male still dominate.

But to run a domestic window cleaning business involves loyalty and commitment on my part, and trust and loyalty on the client's side. The day-to-day British weather plays an important role. If it's wet, whether I can work or not depends on how it rains. A gentle to moderate rainfall without any wind, I can work and get away with it. But even in such a situation, there are clients who would look out over my shoulder while I'm at the door and say something like, Not today, thankyou. It's not worth having my windows done. Come back next month. If up to three clients answer in such a manner, in a week there is a significant drop of income. And weekly and monthly living expenses remain unchanged. A stormy day with blustery weather (wind driven rain) would cause me to remain at home, as with a layer of snow and ice. Days lost equal loss of earnings. Then there is the housing market. A client sell up and moves away, and the new occupants are not interested in having their windows cleaned. Many younger residents see a window cleaner as some kind of adversity, thanks to the likes of the Media, such as a series of BBC programmes bearing the title Rogue Traders. Also ditto with the death of a client, and in my area there are quite a number of senior citizens, one couple in their nineties, another in their late eighties, while several are already widowed.

Indeed, such a business is like living on a knife edge, or precariously on a cliff edge. I could be jobless within weeks. And the word precarious would not be out of place with a number of homes with which the architect had a seeming grudge against tradesmen. Some of these windows I clean are difficult to reach, and it takes only the ladder to move slightly and I would fall. This has happened a few times, each incident resulting in hospital treatment. One accident occurred in 1997 which not only put me in hospital for five days but also resulted in remaining incapacitated for the next two months. I was very fortunate that I wasn't paralysed from the neck down. It could have easily happened.

But despite these risks and customer setbacks, I press on, fully trusting in the Lord to sustain me. In fact, whenever I arrive home from a full day's work, there is that feeling of bliss when I see my wife Alex walk in from the kitchen with a sumptious meal while I put away the day's earnings. I am grateful to God for enabling me to steward over such responsibility. Just as important, being self-employed has been, and still is, a builder of character. It has helped me to develop politeness and courtesy, qualities I had lacked in my younger days. Trust has developed among clients and I have even provided a shoulder to cry on, in one case literally, in others as a listening board for their sorrows, especially when a couple splits. It is a learning curve, which can be tough at times, to bring to the realisation to see others as better than myself.

Trusting in the Lord is immensely important in a job like this. This dependency covers for protection when at a precarious situation, for an adequate income to cover all regular expenses, for good customer relations and for keeping the clientele numbers up to an acceptable level. It also covers the "silly season" during the summer when many head for the airport. Really, often I have sat down and thought hard. Would I swap all this for working in an office?

During the early days of the business, I would have uttered a resounding "YES!" I would picture myself dressed in suit and tie while taking my place at the desk, especially if the weather outside is awful. To be looked upon and treated as equal by both work colleagues and church members, to be invited to countless house parties, maybe given assignments abroad, with flights and hotel accommodation paid for by the company, and to be looked upon with respect by both men and women. Gosh, how I wished I had done much better at school!

The grass always looks greener on the other side. Newspapers have reported about the sheer ennui experienced by many office staff who, while driving to work in the morning and getting caught in traffic, having a crushing desire to head for the airport and buying a ticket for the next 'plane out. I read about cranky bosses, malicious gossip among colleagues, office affairs and unfaithfulness to one's own spouse, long hours, tediousness - and I have wondered if it would have been worth it all, as I lay down the tools and pull out the lunch pack and sit and watch the rays of sunshine filter through the tree tops. I don't have a boss to tell me when it's time to start, when to eat, whether he lets me go to the loo, and when I can go home. Instead, if I want to call it a day at three in the afternoon, I just pack my stuff away and go home. More common during the bitter-cold winter days. The same with holidays. True, any time not working means the loss of income. But neither do I need to jostle for priority when to take time off. Therefore I have concluded that I would not swap my window cleaning business for a desk job, even if one was offered.

- Unless it involves travel. Travel. One of my passions. I have written enough blogs already on this topic, so there is not much more to say here. But even in this area of my life, God has blessed me richly, and I'll give him the glory. One of the abilities God has given me is the will to travel solo. One striking example of this was way back in 1976, when I flew out alone to backpack Israel. In those days I was an employee at a precision engineering factory shop floor, making ball-bearing races (the two rings which in between the ball bearings roll). When I returned three weeks later, I was an icon, not just by my shop-floor colleagues, but also among the office staff upstairs as well. In 1978 I was called "brave" after backpacking the USA alone, and again in 1995 by an air stewardess on a flight to New York. But these people did not account for the mistakes made as a fledgling backpacker in the early 1970s, described in one of my earlier blogs, Travels: Failed First Time? Try Again - published November 25th, 2012. As with window cleaning, travel was also a huge learning curve.

 

Looking back at all these things, I realise that God has blessed me richly. Not only with eternal life through faith in Jesus Christ, but in "earthly" things as well. But it also looks to me that the true idea behind these blessings is to learn to depend on God, to trust him in his goodness, and to do good to one another, especially Christian believers. Romans chapter eight is probably one of my favourite passages in the Bible. Verse 28 reads:

And  we know that all things work together for those who love God, to them who are called according to his purpose...

And verses 38-39 concludes with:

For I am persuaded, that neither death, nor life, nor angels, nor principalities, nor powers, nor things present, nor things to come,
Nor height, nor depth, nor any other creature, shall be able to separate us from the love of God, which is in Christ Jesus, our Lord.

Now that is something to ponder over when I'm up on the ladders while a chilly breeze blows.