Bless me Father ...

The first time I lied to a priest I was just eight years old.  Possibly even seven.

It was a Wednesday - after Mass at school.  Perhaps they thought that our Sunday performances at church didn’t quite cut it.  So every pupil in the school was corralled into the assembly hall for an excruciatingly long Mass, which was followed by the ritual confession of every sinner in that god-fearing catholic institution – the youngest among us about six, the oldest barely eleven.   

My fellow sinners and I shuffled nervously along the corridor, nudged ever closer to the confessional by the painful jabs of Sister Josepha’s cane.

My turn next.  Only Declan O’Leary in front of me now.   Declan is naughty.  With luck, he should be in there for ages.

What shall I say?  I haven’t done anything wrong.  I know I haven’t because they tell us everyday about everything that’s wrong.  I’ve tried hard to be really good.  I don’t even know how to be bad.  I regularly stick all my pocket money in the spastic society doll’s head outside the paper shop.  I can’t say that though can I?  I can’t say, “Sorry Father, I’ve been good…”.  I’ll have to make something up.  I’ll have to lie.  But lying is a sin.  I can’t commit a sin!  I can’t!

And then I remember …  last week … in Sister Francine’s class …

I felt the swish of her habit as she floated past my chair.  I held my breath, hoping that she wouldn’t stop and look at my work.  The page, empty but for the stupid title, “Where I went on holiday”, staring back at me.  We hadn’t had a holiday this summer, so what was I supposed to say? 

Should I lie?  Should I pretend that I went to Filey with my friend Theresa and stayed in their caravan?  Will she know I’m lying and punish me by making me stand on the chair with my hands on my head like she does when I get my times-tables wrong?  Which is every week – every Friday, at the mental arithmetic test. Even worse, will she hit me across the hand with her ruler?  Or the cane?  I hope not.  That always makes me pee myself.

The busy scratching of pencils on paper was the only noise in the room.  Everybody in the whole class must have been on holiday except me.  How I hated my parents at that moment!

Sister Francine was shouting at Declan O’Leary.   He was holding his pencil wrong again.   Poor Declan was always in trouble. 

Oh no, she’s coming back!  I gripped my pencil, positioning my finger exactly half an inch from its point as we had been commanded and bowed my head low over the paper so she couldn’t see that I hadn’t written a single word. 

In that instant I decided to risk the wrath of God and lie my head off.  Filey it was.  A  far-off fairy-tale place.  I was fairly sure there was a beach so I could take it from there.  Bucket and spade; donkey-ride; ice cream.  Sorted.

I’ll confess on Wednesday and then everything will be all right again. 

But God knows I lied.  He will kill me.  He is vengeful, unforgiving and cruel.  He’s not like my protestant friend’s God who does nice things in bible stories - like helping people who have fallen by the side of the road.  My God doesn’t do that stuff.  My God talks about hell fire a lot, damnation, purgatory and endless punishment.

But even so, I can’t tell the truth about my lies.  I can’t!  The priest will tell on me!

Oh no!  Declan is out.  I’m in the confessional, which every other day but Wednesday is the sick room.  It stinks of Dettol.  I wonder fleetingly what happens to the kids who get sick on a Wednesday.  And then, suddenly, I’m on.

“Bless me Father, for I have sinned.  It is one week (yes, one week) since my last confession, and these are my sins…”

From behind a blue curtain, a soft, Irish lilt says, “Go on, my child.”

Oh well, here goes…

“I’ve had bad thoughts about my big sister.”  Stupid!  That’s so naff!  And then,

“I washed my baby brother’s face with the floor cloth!”  No I didn’t, my big sister did that!

I hold my breath.  I wait for the bolt of lightning and the question from God’s representative about the pretend holiday in Filey.  Maybe he’ll make me tell him the name of my imaginary donkey.

“Well, that’ll be two ‘Hail Marys’ and three ‘Our Fathers’ for you my child.  Now off you go.”

I flee to the praying pew in a panic.  If I get these prayers said quickly before God realises I’ve made up lies so I didn’t have to tell the truth about the genuine lies then I might be all right.  I did my penance, and threw in another three ‘Hail Marys’ for actually lying, and another two ‘Our Fathers’ because the lies themselves were really quite embarrassingly poor. 

And then, nothing happened. 

Nothing.

It was at this point that my devotion to Catholicism started to wane and my long held desire to become a Nun was gradually replaced by more devilish ambitions. 

By the time I was eleven I was free of my faith and had become an accomplished liar.   I was so well behaved in reality that I was obliged to inhabit an imaginary world of naughtiness.  I spent many entertaining hours conjuring up sins and practising bad thoughts so my confessions would sound plausible and interesting for the priest behind the curtain.    

Unlike many others, I never suffered abuse at the hands of the ‘Brothers’ and the ‘Sisters’.  But there was a point when my young mind was imprisoned so completely by doctrine and unquestioning devotion that, I am now uncomfortably aware of the profound and unjustifiable nature of destructive religious dogma and can understand, when in the hands of extremists, how people can be driven to strap bombs to their chests in the name of their Almighty God.

Now, it will take more than a few Hail Marys to sort that!

For the love of lists.

In recent months, I have come to realise, that my life, in all its simplicities and complexities, is held together by one thing, and one thing only –

- the list.

Yes, … the humble, unassuming, and yet, all-powerful ‘list.’

Whilst I am becoming increasingly worried about this phenomenon, this lowly prop at the same time, strangely comforts me.  And, I admit, it is exactly that - a prop that forms the scaffolding to support the otherwise fluffy and frankly flummoxed furore that resides unchallenged inside my head.    Unchallenged, that is, until along came the list.

So there we have it.  My weapon of choice - my armour against anarchy - the list! 

This, for me, ensures that order conquers chaos.

I am very fussy about my disorder.  It must be orderly.  I insist that my pandemonium is arranged in little boxes that are labelled and opened as determined by my list.   Then, hey presto, job done!  No chaos!

Some people can exist quite happily amongst the commotion that results from a world without lists – these people, who function without a framework of orderliness are to be admired, pitied, or, I have to say, even envied.    These people find themselves in Tesco four times a day because they don’t have a list.  And so it will take four trips to buy enough food to make the tea.  But incongruously, despite this ridiculous flirtation with supermarkets, these mysterious people believe that they don’t want or even need a list.   And, furthermore – they actually do not care!

You will have guessed by now that I am not one of the above.  However, I am not a total slave to the list.  Being a ‘with-it-woman-of-the-moment’ my day must obviously start with a quick scan of Facebook, seamlessly followed by the ritual consultation of ‘the list’.  And then my day can begin.

A number of you will by now be thinking that I really should seek some sort of therapy.  Perhaps you are right.  Indeed, perhaps there is no doubting it when my list starts with:  ‘Wake up’, ‘Get Up’, ‘Consult list’, or even worse:

“Make a list”

Yes, it’s a worry!

Having said that, the unpretentious list is one of life’s most effective coping mechanisms.  Not only does it give us order, it makes us question what’s important in our lives and forces us to prioritise.  It gives us purpose and direction and it can give us hope and determination.   You don’t have to read many bucket lists to see how powerful a list can be. 

Simply put, if you haven’t got a list of things to do then the chances are you will never actually do it.

And not only that, with a list, you can get all you need for tea in one trip to Tesco!

Lists, of course, take many forms.  There are the timeless scribbled lists on the kitchen board or calendar reminding you to get the bread, milk, butter, sugar … wine….

And there are now countless mind-boggling list-Apps for your devices to bring your list-making bang up to date.

But I am not a fan of the App. 

I like to write my list on paper – with a favourite pen.  I like to feel it, smell it, look at it far more often than is healthy, tuck it in my pocket or see it sticking tauntingly out of my handbag and then ….

… tick it off!

Oh the joy!

Deleting an item on an App just doesn’t have the same effect as that most satisfying ‘tick’! 

Done that.  Achieved.  I am a superstar!

So, I will continue to make my lists.  I will keep trying to impose order on my life and on those around me by having written something down that has to be done. 

Because it’s important.  It matters.

For me, when it comes to lists, the only thing sadder than not having a list is having nothing at all to write on it.    

The Manfreds .... Oh Mann! ....

Move over Cliff, the undisputed Peter Pan of Pop is definitely Paul Jones. 

At a mere 73 years old,  Paul Jones is touring non-stop with the Manfreds; the Blues Band and Dave Kelly. 

Added to that, he’s recording solo albums along the way and also hosts a show on Radio 2 on Monday nights, just in case he’s bored.

He quite possibly does lots more than this but, I’m sorry, this is all I’m aware of.

But more importantly – he looks fabulous!

Playing gooseberry – as, sadly, I now tend to do, – I recently accompanied Paula and Tom, and our hostess Andrea, to a Manfred’s gig in Burnley.

It was worth every penny of the twenty quid for the ticket.  It was worth the twenty quid just to hear their rendition of 5,4,3,2,1!

This was followed by many more hits from the 60s: Pretty Flamingo, Do Wah Diddy, Diddy; Hubble Bubble; If you Gotta Go, Go now; Sha La La; The Mighty Quinn… and so many many more….

And there was the amazing Tom McGuinness, looking every inch the grinning Capo-di-Monte-, not about to disappoint the audience with his fabulous and timeless ‘When I’m Dead and Gone….! 

So, the combined age of the band was quite possibly in the region of 230  or maybe 250 years old, and they have been singing these songs for at least 50 years and quite possibly much longer.

The audience, not surprisingly, was more than a little crinkly and made the band look positively juvenile.  Being a mere slip-of-a-lass in my late fifties I was compelled to get off my seat and dance in the aisles.  I was accompanied by my sister Paula and friend Andrea, but sadly, not another soul felt the compulsion to leap from their seat and prance about like a bit of a prat at the front of the house.  I wonder if this is because they had not consumed quite as much Pinot? 

Maybe….

But it seems rude to me to merely sit there tapping a lame foot.  I mean … these guys are trying….!  And they are old!

Anyway, after the show, the relatively young saxophonist thanked me for my dancing efforts as he signed my programme.  ‘Oh I hope I wasn’t embarrassing,” I said,  ‘nobody else got up.’

‘No,’ he said, ‘I don’t think they could.’

Oh dear!

Well, bit of a prat or not, we had a fabulous time! 

But this was not the end of it.   Our delightful hostess had surpassed herself in  her thoughtful preparation and planned a trip the following day to the quaint little town of Clitheroe.  A town where the residents are expected to have wealth, and whose shops and restaurants are designed to strip it from them.  Okay, the place makes room for the obligatory charity shops, but, as Tom said, even the vagabonds in Clitheroe are stylish!

The town hosts the most amazing wine shop in the world, but, and I know this is hard to believe, I didn’t buy a single bottle!.

Andrea, rather nervously took us to our designated lunch venue.  I say nervously, because she has heard how tetchy I can be when it comes to lunch venues. (See previous blog!)

We found ourselves in the Emporium, where, I am told, everything is for sale. -  even the table you are seated around and the seat you are sat upon.  I understand people have had their table removed before they have finished their soup in order to accommodate the whim of an impatient buyer!  Thankfully, we were spared this intrusion and we finished our lunch in peace.

              

So thank you Andrea for a fabulous weekend and, if I’m not mistaken, the next lucky fella to see us strutting our stuff will be in Scarborough and no other than the stupendous Sir Tom Jones!

Bring it on!

Is it me...?

I’m finally coming round to accepting that I must have a problem.  Not drink – that goes without saying – but another, irritating little personality flaw that is threatening to ruin all my social activities and render them fraught with frustration.

I believe I am not alone.   Many of us, to some degree, suffer from this condition.  Perhaps even you.

Nigel once bought a book in an airport entitled: “Is it me, or is everything shit?”  If that title conjures up a smile, or prompts an understanding nod, then, I’m sorry to say that there is every chance you are already amongst the afflicted.

 

I’d like to think, like all grumpy old men and women, that my particular malady is age-related, but, not so.  I’ve always been this way.  However, it would appear that my disorder surfaces primarily in environments where people gather to eat and drink.

I have long since abandoned the good old cafe as a potential mid-morning meeting spot.  A quick cuppa and a snack in a café never quite did it for me.  There was always something …

… tea too strong, or not strong enough; leaky tea pot; coffee too cold; cup too fat; too much butter on the teacake; not enough butter on the teacake; chairs too hard; too many pushchairs, too many kids; too many grown ups – in fact, too many people!   Yes, I realise that to go to public places and be perturbed the presence of the public might suggest a problem.  

Pubs are off the list too – for eating at least.  (They’re okay for drinking – strangely, I don’t find that at all annoying!)   Bad pictures of food on sticky plastic menus sporting a splodge of hard-baked tomato ketchup just don’t make me feel hungry.  Added to that, if you manage to find a table away from the mind-popping fruit machines, then you are likely to be seated in sight of one of a dozen TVs with god knows who blaring out god knows what.  Or, they could always have the football on!

Anyway, I now opt for the relative serenity of Scarborough’s hotels for my brunch and lunch meets.   But, not surprisingly, given my condition, these trips are not without tension.  Apart from the obligatory presence of a gigantic TV in even the best hotels, there is one particular hotel that has everything going for it:  luxurious and cosy settees arranged in friendly groupings; an inexpensive, leather-bound menu; welcoming and polite staff; easy-listening music that remains in the background unless you’re stupid enough to sit right under the speaker.  (Yes, I have.)  Perfect.  You would think.

But, for some reason, they house the lectern where they file their knives and forks right there in the cosy, quiet, relaxing lounge.  And once our order has been placed and we are trapped, one of those welcoming and polite members of staff feels compelled to inspect every forking knife, fork and spoon the hotel possesses, flinging them back in their receptacle with a flourish, from as far away as possible, pausing only to grab entire handfuls to give them a thoroughly noisy rattling.    Why?

Could it be to see how long it takes for my irritation to turn the milk in my latte sour?  Or, perhaps to encourage me to sod off home?

Well, their encouragement generally works.  And apart from that, the food is remarkably average.

Another hotel, with all the attributes of the former, has its very own Mrs Overall, whose particular compulsion is to bring out her beloved Henry as soon as we are seated, and, despite the extremely large and deserted lounge, focuses her energetic vacuuming entirely around our table.  Why?

It’s not that I actively pursue perfection.  Not at all.   I certainly don’t expect it.  But on the rare occasions when I do encounter it – my outpourings of gratitude border on the positively nauseous.

In spite of the countless imperfections I encounter, I rarely complain.  I’m English after all.  I just sit there, disappointed.

I have though, with age, become more confident in asserting my will.  So, when entering a restaurant and the waiter takes me to a table and says, ‘Is this table okay?’  I often find myself responding, ‘Well, actually, no, it’s not.’  The reasons for this are numerous.  It might be too near the door, or a draught, too close to the man with the very loud voice, too near the open kitchen, too near the loo … and so it goes on …

I have wondered that maybe I should do everybody a favour and stay at home, just give up on the whole thing.  But no.  That would be quitting. 

Still, accepting that it is utterly impossible for any establishment to get a tea or a coffee just right, I will be rescheduling my brunch meetings in favour of lunch, which means we can go straight for the wine.  I mean, you can’t get a glass of Pinot wrong can you?

Well …  I suppose the glass might have lipstick on it, or the wine not sufficiently chilled, or…

Oh dear ... I think it is me!